The Workhorse, Chapter 2, Part 3

Joseph had his problems and all, but I had mine and I liked it.

Now I don't have any problems at all.

Sometimes, I speak a little too positively, but that's it. And my mind is off again, on again in an instant. I love playing baseball, and for the major league baseball fans, and also my own lovely wife, my gunner's establishmentarianism, my grand father and my grand parents both used to love to watch baseball on their old black and white television. I hope they're burning in Hell. Because I love the place. If you follow me on the news, I'm the Devil. I'm in black and white with the Dugout Orioles logo stretched, stitched and skedaddled, skebibbed if you were inclined, on that topical incline. I was inclinated to be non-synchronated. I also play t-ball and also softball with my little girlies. I love to play it twice as nice and ever so finely choppin' off at a half of a tinder less than most other pretty bellows and fine joe schmoes who play it better than I. So I'm a team player and also a cool dude with a pie to handle when I get home, pot style. I love my rice kebabs and iced cold milk and my jersey with #27 on it and also my own moms wife and kid when I get home in the morning and it's half past ten or whatever and I need to be lace up boots tied tight to the dugouts I chimney sweep every wholesome Goddamn day of my life, kidlets. Kid, let's say you're batting a million. Can you dig it? All right! Let's play a game! I've got 12 days of my life scheduled for this damn tournament style ring around the nosebud kind of tournament I'm playing in! It's tonight, and tonight, I also got to feel the gold on my wrist, as that kind of thing makes me feel alive! I know a growler would hit the spot so nice and tight that my wristwatch ain't cleaving me in twain to say it's not all I need but an acre and a poor spot and a nice tree coach, but I got a nicer playing field than that to ruination and tarn down over, nine times, six times, whatever! And here I come, world major leagues! It's the time of the century!

I vote for the Orioles!

That was ten years ago. I played a mean game, but now, I'm out of the major leagues and racing to complete my college degree. Albert, I says to myself, why become a psychologist, or a psychiatrist or whatever? Well, I just want to be another of the messy gazeebo pillers, I guess. I want to tell people they're all that and a bag of muffin' stuff. I want the pills to be gone, but damn it, I also want you to be well, you hear me? I also know it well from other people. If I become big and famous, then I'll cut and run, so I gotta be near the equator, you hear? They tell me I'm ice in the aces of the dugout theater. I gotta play again. But I can't. Right now, I need to know people are feeling it, you know? And they need me to be Dr. Simpleton. Explain it to them real simple like. Dr. Death, he was a mean fellow, but the Angel of Death knew it best, and well, he was a real killer. He had no attitude about death at all. He played a mean game. But he soured it with wrecking balls. Stand up, and count to ten, then walk it off. His playing style was bad, it was just that hardcore. He couldn't stop. He was shooting kids in the face with rocket globs of hair in his mouth and tears on the grass. He was stylish, and an angry old muzzler, but he also knew his fans needed to know the truth about the grass and the pudding stains on his mess couch. Oh, he had a home life. But he was mean inside. Real mean. We never met. I'm newer, older if you prefer, and meaner as well. By about ten muscular dudes less burusque than the old damn shame he was, tell you right there. But now I am also the doctor in charge of this whole mess of twins and half a can of beans simpler for my times. I am times ten sure you're not being honest with me. Now out with the truth. Who's the better pitcher, me? Yeah, man. It's only me for sure. But I had a softer side to me as well. I mean, who loves ice cream and cake more than me, man? I love the sweet tooth I've lived with for like forever and a half a year ago! I love my mother and father as well, and my old notes in the quibbitz, like my old doctor, Dr. Who, Seuss, whatever, whoever, whenever. I'll never tell it like it ain't, isn't, the endzo's, bud.

And not to talk tenders around the whizbats, but I might just be the best doctor alive.

And I also want to know what love is.

Sure, that works.

I also want to know where the ends meet the needs, you know what I mean?

And these men and women need to be told the truth.

Aren't you here for me, man?

And my man! What gives?

Can't you ask me for an autograph, just once or twice, so I feel a little shameful?

To my face, please, but killer! You're killing me, my man! And have a little mercy, my fellow!

You're grinning ear to ear and making me not at home!

Oh, well then!

Let's play ball!

I was tired of that whole mess. Now I sit in an office and talk to scared patients about their troubles, and worry them off worrying about it later.

So what if it doesn't pay the bills?

I'm the best pitcher there is, son.

I don't need bills. I need to get some sense and a doorbell. And the poor old doorbell ain't ringing yet, is it? Sad to say, sorry if you worry, but that just ain't how the old game of dollars and spiciness is played, old man. Gumbo Charles and the malarkey bits, they know how it is. It's the same with me. I need to let the truth be told. And just playing a fun game of bats and showbiz isn't helping one bit.