{"id":3016,"date":"2022-02-08T10:19:14","date_gmt":"2022-02-08T18:19:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lossuelos.com\/?p=3016"},"modified":"2022-02-13T19:37:18","modified_gmt":"2022-02-14T03:37:18","slug":"code-switching","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lossuelos.com\/code-switching\/","title":{"rendered":"Code Switching"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I\u2019ve been to more Blue Dicks games than anyone else in town, I bet. I don\u2019t like baseball, but since Robert\u2019s gone I\u2019ve got time on my hands. Really, the ballpark is the nicest place. The seats are comfortable. A couple of the players are reasonably handsome. And where else can you still get a hotdog for a dollar? Nowhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The organ player is good too. In between innings she plays it all, from Skynyrd to the Stones, Miles Davis to Bobby Darin. You haven\u2019t lived until you\u2019ve heard \u201cSomewhere Beyond the Sea\u201d on a Hammond with a bunch of broken keys. If I sit by the first base line\u2014and you can sit pretty much anywhere at a Blue Dicks game\u2014I can make out her curly gray hair bobbing up and down as she plays in her little room above the left field bleachers. She gets into it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It took a while to notice she kind of kept playing while the game was going on. Nothing obtrusive. The Blue Dicks would be striking out, stealing bases, turning double plays and living out all the riveting drama of a minor league baseball team in the middle of nowhere, and the organ would chirp through it all. Single notes, no melody.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One night after a game, I woke sweaty, gasping for breath with that hollow, desperate feeling I\u2019ve grown used to. The night was too dark, the house too massive. I was all alone. I tried to focus my racing mind. I remembered the organist playing and after a while my breathing calmed, my body relaxed. The short and long notes. Dots and dashes? I learned Morse code in the Coast Guard. I fell back asleep huddled on my side of the big bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A few days later Bulkhead Fitzgerald was on the mound looking less hungover than usual. Her knuckleball was dancing. She scowled at the hitters, spat in the dirt, and actually did a little pitching once in a while. The organist started chirping. I wrote it down: dot, dot, dash, dot, dash, dash, and so forth. After the first inning she launched into \u201cLight My Fire\u201d and I decoded: I miss you, baby. I hope it\u2019s not too dark underground. I fucking miss you.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had to talk to her. Robert was always the outgoing one. He could talk to anyone about anything. I still spoke to him more than anyone else. I hadn\u2019t realized how much I depended on him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bulkhead pitched a beauty, a four-hit shutout for the Blue Dicks\u2019 first win in weeks. When the game was over I screwed up my courage and trudged up the left field bleachers. The organist’s door had a yellowing piece of paper tacked to it that said Employees Only<\/em>. I hesitated. What was I going to say? I turned to go and felt that hollow feeling, my night panic, but happening here, at the ballpark of all places. I breathed, steadied my hands. I knocked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The organist was short, wiry, had a pair of old Ray-Bans stuck in her hair. Her tattoos were so faded they were hard to make out. Maybe a skull wreathed in flames. She frowned and crossed her arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her eyes were dark, questioning. Behind her the organ sat beneath the window overlooking the field, smaller than I\u2019d imagined, just a keyboard encased in dark wood with a bunch of buttons and a bench padded in red felt. I smelled weed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI just wanted to say.\u201d My voice came out rough, unused. I cleared my throat. \u201cI like your playing. A lot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh.\u201d She cocked her head. \u201cThanks. You\u2019re the first person who ever came up here to tell me that.\u201d She smiled. \u201cI appreciate you saying so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another long pause. She stared at me expectantly and I felt myself flush. Robert would have jumped in, asked her something, got her talking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d she said. \u201cThanks again.\u201d She gave an awkward half-wave and went to the organ, started gathering up some sheet music.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI heard your messages,\u201d I blurted. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She turned. \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDuring the game. The code.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She gripped the sheet music tight, crumpling the pages, staring like she had no idea what I was saying. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry.\u201d I wanted to get the hell out of there but my feet were rooted to the floor. I looked down at my hands as the words rushed out. \u201cSorry. I thought it was Morse code. I thought you\u2019d lost someone like me and I wanted to let you know you\u2019re not alone. I lost my husband Robert. A year ago. He died and I\u2019m alone now. I thought maybe we had that in common, and I wanted to\u2026 I don\u2019t know what I wanted. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked up, hoping I hadn\u2019t scared her even more. Instead, her face was flushed and her teeth were bared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s none of your business,\u201d she hissed. \u201cMy Hector isn\u2019t dead. He\u2019s just underground. He\u2019s just digging. It\u2019s not the same thing as you, not at all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice was shrill, desperate. My hands trembled. I backed out of the room. \u201cOkay,\u201d I said. \u201cI made a mistake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019re not for you or anyone else. They\u2019re for Hector. Got it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, I got it.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I found my way to the parking lot, got in my car, and drove out of town into the hills, higher and higher until I pulled over on the side of the road atop a dusty bluff and got out. I looked out at the stretches of dirt, red rocks, and scrub brush. I closed my eyes against the wind and tried to conjure Robert, his presence. There was nothing. I miss you, baby. I hope it\u2019s not too dark.<\/em> It seemed he\u2019d truly left now, was finally nowhere to be found in this town. I sat on the hood of my car and thought about leaving too, about where I could go. I stared at the blue sky and the ground beneath my feet felt so far away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Featured image by Maria Pogosyan.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019ve been to more Blue Dicks games than anyone else in town, I bet. I don\u2019t like baseball, but since Robert\u2019s gone I\u2019ve got time on my hands.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":2986,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"inline_featured_image":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[86],"class_list":["post-3016","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-stories","tag-first"],"yoast_head":"\nCode Switching<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"I\u2019ve been to more Blue Dicks games than anyone else in town, I bet. 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