42

Butch carried his latte to the front patio of Starbucks, trying carefully not to spill a drop but still managing to get a dark smudge on his brown loafer. He settled into the hard iron chair at the glass table next to Conrad.

“See the game last night?” Conrad stared wistfully into the traffic whisking by on Wilshire Boulevard.

“Dodgers, 11-2. Saw it. I got confused a few times though.”

Conrad sipped his bitter coffee. He had been trying to cut back on sugar. “What confused you?”

“It was Jackie Robinson Day, so everyone on the field was wearing number 42.”

“Couldn’t tell the players apart.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence for several moments, ingesting their jolts of caffeine and meditating on the chariots of chromium and steel roaring up and down the boulevard, ferrying warriors to mundane jobs and day care and the grocery store, the mall and the chiropractors office, the gym and the golf course. Humans on the move like swarming ants.

“You know what would be freaky?” Butch lazily said. “To be like a major league ball player and forced this one day of the year to wear a number other than your own number, which also happened to be your lucky number.”

Butch had Conrad’s full attention now. “And he gives in and wears the number and then goes on a losing streak after that –”

“– a star player, cursed.”

“And only love can break the spell!” Conrad jumped out of his seat.

Butch beamed. “Brother, I think we got a screenplay here.”