"Up & Comers," promised the headline in the magazine.
Brant Brown tossed his long, white whiskers to one side, and took in the picture from an arm’s-length view. Among the many problems that had befallen him since that photo was taken, farsightedness was creeping up on him. It was must have been taken in the summer of ’97. Brant was batting .320 and playing a solid centerfield for the Iowa Cubs. He had his entire major-league career before him then.
That day in the spring of 1998, when Jim Riggleman told him he’d be flying back to Chicago to start the season with the big club, that was the proudest day of his life. But there were other days too: days that neither his conscience nor the fans would ever let him escape. September 23, 1998. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?
But there were lots of days to reflect on since that picture was taken, lots of days...
October 20, 2001. Brant looked at his date watch, as he rode the el, to make sure his appointment was today. This afternoon, he was seeing one of his specialists, this time the urologist. He usually saw the doctor at his office, but today Dr. Klein was the attending physician at the hospital. Since St. Elizabeth’s handled all of Dr. Klein’s lab work anyway, the nurse called to tell Brant he could come to the hospital instead.
A Cub fan standing next to Brant on the train jostled into him as the train pulled into Belmont. Shouting and high-fiving with his buddy, the guy was annoying at best. Mark Kotsay this and Mark Kotsay that, Brant had heard more than enough about the Cubs’ spectacular new centerfielder. Sometimes his frustration spilled over. Mark Giangreco, doing a human interest story on Brant’s battle with cancer, had asked him in a television interview if he felt bittersweet about his old team’s appearance in the World Series. Brant replied, "No, just bitter," and Giangreco aired the comment that night at ten o'clock. Giangreco, the pussy, Brant thought to himself on the train. The guy rode me harder than anyone, after that ball in Milwaukee.
The car lurched forward again as it pulled out of Belmont, and Brant’s elbow jerked into motion with it. He caught the tall guy in the Cubbie-blue pinstripes just below the ribs. The man had his back turned, so the blow most likely nailed his kidney. Brant read the name on the back of the uniform top: "Mr. Erection."
Brant readied himself for what the tall man might do, and was screwing his face up into his best what-the-fuck look. But Mr. Erection didn’t even notice the solid body blow he had sustained. The train continued on downtown, with more Cub revelry, more talk of the Stairs-for-Kotsay deal, and for Brant, a deepening sense of gloom.
His spirits rose slightly as he got off the train and walked up Michigan Avenue. His first stop would be Nordstrom’s for his fitting. It was a fine October day, unseasonably warm, with a splash of fall colors and a liberal dose of pretty women—all prettier than Gyp.
Gyp wasn’t beautiful, but she was the only person in Chicago who hadn’t seen the replay of his dropped ball in Milwaukee. Besides, she shared his latest passion. Drugs.
In this regard, Gyp was a godsend. She always had drugs and usually didn’t care if Brant paid her back for what he snorted. Brant warned her that she might get into financial trouble if she didn’t stop giving him cocaine, but she said she had this really cool friend, Tsang, who was always doing her favors. Brant didn’t know what her relationship with Tsang entailed, and he didn’t care. If it weren’t for Gyp, Brant would be even further in debt than he was now. All of his baseball money was gone, as drugs, cancer and unemployment took their toll on his bank account.
Brant pushed his way through the revolving door, and entered Nordstrom’s. The smell of perfume enveloped him immediately, and he was eyed up and down by the young sales lady behind the glass table. She was prim, starched, stuffed, and manicured. She looked like someone who would fold her panties neatly inside her dresser drawer and then give them a shot of eau de toilette before she pushed the drawer shut. She was no Gyp, and she was oh so erotic.
Brant flashed her a barely perceptible wink as he passed by. Apparently it was not perceptible at all to the sales lady, as she stared straight ahead and Brant felt foolish. Brant wondered whether he had the ability to perform the love act for her anyway. The lump on his testicle had been removed, but his equipment still worked only in fits and starts.
The incident with the sales lady dampened Brant’s mood once again. His life-after-baseball had come suddenly, and in his darkest hours, Brant had to admit his new life was deplorable. But he made every attempt to retain the swagger he exuded as an "up-and-comer" in the major leagues. And today, of all days, he would need that swagger when dealing with the Nordstrom’s manager. He needed the money.
"Yes, Mr. Brown, I’m Mr. Pink...How can I help you?"
"Mr. Pink? Like in the movie?" Brant said.
The man was tall, formal, well-dressed, polite, and he’d heard all the Mr. Pink jokes before, though from the looks of this man, Brant wondered whether he’d seen any Tarantino pictures. Mr. Pink pursed his lips and nodded curtly.
Brant was thrown off momentarily but he put his airs back on.
"Yes, I’m Brant Brown, the baseball player. You might recall that Kerry Wood and I played Santa Claus for the children at your store last year. You know Kerry Wood, don’t you?"
"Yes, of course, the young man who’s pitching in the Super Bowl." The store manager’s expression brightened only slighty.
Brant groaned inwardly but plunged forward, just as he had rehearsed in Gyp’s apartment. "As you might imagine, Kerry is quite busy this year with the World Series, and hasn’t even thought about Christmas. However, I will be available to work with the children again this year."
"Splendid." Mr. Pink looked at his watch.
"In addition, I’ve decided I’d like to work with the children for the entire Christmas season. Last year it was just a one-day event."
"How generous. Here’s what you should do: Call Mr. Perkins in Public Relations..."
Brant broke him off.
"Yes, I’ve spoken to Mr. Perkins, and he sent me to you. I’m to be fitted for the costume."
Mr. Pink motioned with his hand and Brant followed him through a swinging, wooden door marked Employees Only. Mr. Pink collected the red garments up off a shelf and looked for a private area for Brant to change clothes.
"Behind that door, you’ll find a mirror." The man pointed in the general direction of several doors. "Try on this prototype, and I’ll measure you for the alterations."
Brant took the red suit into a small room, but found no mirror. There were cans of paint stacked against the wall, and a light bulb on the ceiling. He pulled off his shirt, jeans, and sneakers and pulled on the white long-john’s that Santa apparently wears under his suit. The red trousers, red coat, and black belt all looked like North Pole standard issue. He even had black boots to match the belt.
"It’s too big," Brant told the store manager.
Mr. Pink gave Brant an impatient look. "Mr. Brown, this is an oversized suit. After all, Santa Claus is fat!"
Brant looked sheepish, as Mr. Pink started measuring.
"We’ll supply the pillows," the store manager added.
Brant cleared his throat and tried to rally some of the confidence that was threatening to leak out into his red trousers.
"Now, I believe we should discuss my rate, Mr. Pink. Last year, my agent and I waived my $2,500 per day appearance fee, because it’s such an outstanding cause. This year, we’ll do the same…for the first day. And we’ll cut my fee in half for each day of the remaining four weeks."
Mr. Pink clucked his tongue and said, "The rate is ten dollars per hour, Mr. Brown. It’s Nordstrom’s policy." He continued measuring around the waist.
"Yes, but I’m a major-league baseball player."
"Then you must have plenty of money and can afford to donate your time."
"You don’t understand. My drawing power will bring revenue into your store."
"Perhaps. But if you want to start talking about revenue, maybe you should persuade your friend Mr. Wood into taking part. Or this Mr. Kotsay, whom I’ve been hearing so much about."
Brant knew he was losing the battle; besides, he was getting hot in the Santa suit. "I’ll work for twenty dollars an hour."
Mr. Pink gave him a long look and said, "I’ll put it to Mr. Harrison, head of Human Resources, that you’re a celebrity" (Mr. Pink coughed gently into his hand) "and that you should be paid fifteen dollars per hour. Now, if you’ll step back into the changing room."
Mr. Pink stopped abruptly. "Oh, Mr. Brown, you shouldn’t have changed clothes in that room. We’ve been keeping that door ajar because the key has been lost. I’m afraid your clothes are locked inside."
Brant boarded the bus to St. Elizabeth’s wearing his red coat, red pants, and black belt and boots. He caught a few looks from strangers and decided it was because he wasn’t wearing the entire Santa suit. After he put on the fake beard and red hat, he for the most part went unnoticed. Brant surmised that it’s simply not that unusual to see Santa Claus walking the streets of America anymore. Or Elvis, or Darth Vader, or Batman, for that matter. People are so self-absorbed they don’t even blink.
He decided to keep his doctor’s appointment. Lymph node surgery had been performed three weeks after the testicular lump was removed, then Brant moved on to radiation therapy. His last treatment was in February and the cancer had been in remission ever since. Most of his doctor’s visits in recent months had been to give samples. His general practitioner, his oncologist, and his urologist all seemed intensely interested in siphoning his blood, urine, saliva, etc., and studying it under the microscope. Brant wondered whether the increasing levels of cocaine were showing up in his fluids; he hoped he wouldn’t have to explain his growing addiction one of these days.
Dr. Klein shared an office at the hospital with another urologist and a gastroenterologist. Brant sat down in the waiting area and picked up the newspaper. The door opened and in from the hallway came an old man, huffing and wheezing, "Oh, my Gawd! It’s Santa Claus…Oh, my GAWD! It’s Santee!"
Brant sunk down in his chair and held the newspaper in front of his face. It was the first time all afternoon that someone had called attention to his appearance. Unfortunately, it was a demented, old man who couldn’t stop cackling. "First the Cubs, now Santee!…First the Cubs, now Santee!...First the Cubs, now Santee!"
"Right on, old man! You tell ‘em. You tell it like it is!" Some jerk in a Cubs uniform top had stood up in the waiting room and was goading the old man on.
"Whaddya think, mister. Cubs in five?"
"First the Cubs, now Santee!...First the Cubs, now Santee!" The man was screaming.
The nurse came around the reception desk and said to the Cub fan, "Mr. Runnells, the doctor will see you now."
"You take care, old dude. Cubs in five!" The man turned and Brant peered out from his paper long enough to see "Mr. Erection" printed across the guy’s back.
Him again. Hmm, Mr. Erection is seeing the urologist. Brant shook his head.
The old man was either crazy or out of his mind on morphine, and the nurse couldn’t make him leave. Brant had the paper up in front of his face hoping the guy would forget about Santa Claus when he heard a female voice that sounded very familiar come from the hallway. "Grandpa, come back to your room. That’s not the real Santa Claus."
"Not Santee?" The man looked chagrined.
"No, not Santee."
The young woman took his hand, and the nurse helped escort the old man out of the room. When the nurse returned, she said to Brant, "Saint Nicholas, I presume."
Her name tag said Charlotte. She was dressed in the standard white issue: nurse’s cap, skirt past the knee, and white hose and shoes. She seemed young, and was definitely busty behind the friendly confines of her buttondown blouse.
"Listen," he said leaning forward. "This is very embarrassing for me. I’m Brant Brown…here for my four o’clock appointment. I lost my regular clothes today. If we could speed this along, maybe all these people in here would stop looking at me."
"I know who you are, Mr. Brown. Follow me into the examination room." Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked down the hallway.
Brant stepped into the room, and Charlotte shut the door.
"I’ve taken you early because Dr. Klein is unavailable today. Unfortunately, he’s been called into an emergency. That happens a lot when he’s on duty here at the hospital."
"Then I wasted my time coming down here?"
"No, I’ve been instructed to take a sample from you before you go."
"More urine. How much more do you need?"
"Not urine. As Dr. Klein discussed with you, we need to evaluate the damage that the cancer has done to your body. That’s why your physician keeps taking x-rays, for example."
Brant started to have an inkling of where this line of discussion was going.
"That’s also why your oncologist takes so many blood specimens."
Brant’s throat started going dry.
"And that’s why, we—or Dr. Klein, rather—needs to know whether you can still make babies."
Charlotte held Brant’s gaze for a moment before stepping to the window. She found the cord behind the blinds and pulled the slats halfway shut. Then she walked slowly in front of her patient toward the shelf along the opposite wall. As she squeezed by the examination table, Brant felt the smooth fabric of her skirt press up against his thigh.
Charlotte searched through the cabinet full of medical instruments and supplies before finding what she was looking for. She took the long plastic container and turned around with it, standing very close to Brant, as she showed it to him. His heart was palpitating.
"They didn’t design these things very well, I’m afraid," she said, looking Brant in the eye. "As you can see, the opening isn’t very large in diameter." She twisted off the cap. "Some men have had trouble collecting their semen. It doesn’t make sense that they’d shape it like a penis." Charlotte laughed lightly, and Brant could feel her breath. "They should have shaped it like a vagina."
Brant took the plastic vial from her, and Charlotte stepped back and stood still.
Brant stood staring at her, breathing heavily in the silent room. Her brown eyes told him yes, so he reached for his belt. It was big and black and heavy. Oh God, I’m dressed like Santa Claus!
Charlotte smiled mischievously and turned on her heel. "Call me when you’re finished."
The door shut behind Charlotte and Brant let out a sigh. He took off his coat and removed the belt buckle, which fell to the floor with a loud clank. The oversized pants had been held up by the belt, so they fell down around his ankles. He sat down and tried to imagine he was anywhere but the doctor’s office. Suddenly the door was thrust open, just wide enough that he could see Charlotte’s hand reach in through the door. She dropped two magazines on the floor and called out, "There’s kleenex on the shelf."
When Brant’s heart stopped racing for the second time, he reached down to see what the nurse had left him. People Weekly, with Britney Spears and her bare bellybutton on the cover. Brant opened it to the middle. "Queen Mum recovering after bowel resection," read the caption. The photo showed the royal matriarch in visible discomfort seated at a banquet table. He tossed the People down and picked up the other choice. Sport, March 1998—the swimsuit issue. He thumbed through the magazine, and its pages upon pages of bikini babes. Here they’re frollicking in the surf, there they’re riding stallions bareback along the water’s edge. Boring stuff.
Brant made it past the swimsuit pictures and found the baseball pages. "Up & Comers," the headline read. He tossed his long, white whiskers to one side, held the magazine at arm’s length and found the picture of himself at the bottom of the page. I sure did look good in that Cubs uniform, he thought, and he began administering the procedure upon himself.
At that moment, the door was thrown open again. And this time it didn’t stop halfway. That old man stood crazy as a loon in the doorway, pointing directly at Brant. "Santee’s doin’ his bidness in here! Somebody, come quick...Santee’s doin’ his bidddddneeesssss!!!!"
Yes, there were lots of days to reflect on since that picture was taken, and today was one of them.