Mae Mordabito meets Doris Murphy in late September of 1942; years later, when she looks back, she won't remember the date, but will remember the time of year because the first thing she hears out of Doris's mouth is, "I'm telling you, the Dodgers aren't going to lose another game, a week from now we've got the pennant, and what will your New York Giants be doing?"
Mae hears a man sigh. "Come on, Doris. Can't you just let me in? Do we have to talk about baseball?"
"I can let you in, but I'm choosing not to," Doris says. "And to answer my own question, what the Giants will be doing next week is the same thing you'll be doing tonight: absolutely nothing."
Mae smiles into the darkness and takes a drag off her cigarette. She leans against the cool brick of the dance hall building and waits to hear what the guy has to say in response.
"They're not that bad, Doris, they've got a winning record and-"
"We're not talking winning records here Gerry, we're talking about how the last time you were here you had the nerve to tell me your Giants were going to be in the World Series and my Dodgers would be lucky to be third in their division. Can you tell me where the Giants are right now, by the way?"
There's another pause that makes Mae smile wider before Gerry says, "Third."
"That's right, third," Doris says.
"Come on, Doris, back then a lot of people thought they were going all the way," Gerry says. Mae closes her eyes and tries to picture him: stocky, middling-height, sloped shoulders. His voice reminds her of the math teacher she had in ninth grade who never stopped looking down her shirt.
"A lot of delusional people like yourself, you mean," Doris says. "Most of us saw them for what they turned out to be, a decent-enough team that can't close the deal – which makes me understand why you were drawn to them Ger, actually - while the team you called overrated-"
"I did not use those words, Doris," Gerry says. "I find it hard to believe I said that."
"You find that hard to believe? I find it hard to believe there's anyone around stupid enough to pick the New York Giants to root for when you've got the Dodgers right next door. Or even the Yankees. That I can understand, even if I can't respect it; they win a fair amount. They're going to get their pennant."
"Enough of this nonsense, Doris," Gerry says. "Are you really going to keep a paying customer from going in because he's a fan of another baseball team?"
"If he's a fan of something stupid, absolutely that's what I'm going to do," Doris says. "Also, one of the girls told me you got a little handsy the last time you were here, which is another strike against you."
"That's two strikes, what about my third?" Gerry asks. Mae rolls her eyes because she can hear in his voice exactly how charming he thinks he is. She peeks around the corner to get a look at him: tall, skinny, messy dark hair. Better looking than her old math teacher, but if the way he's crowding Doris on the porch is any indication, definitely handsy and just as inclined to look down a girl's blouse when she's not looking for it.
Doris's looks surprise her, which Mae realizes is because she'd kind of expected to see someone just like herself standing there. Instead the girl is wearing a dress too boring for Mae to wear it to church, and even though the light is dim, Mae can tell the girl hasn't curled her hair or put on a lick of makeup.
Doris folds her arms across her chest. "Your third is that you've got a dumb face and I'm sick of looking at it, so hit the road."
Gerry looks livid for a moment, and Mae shifts into a different posture, pushing off from the wall and taking a deep drag on her cigarette, eager to get the most out of it if she's going to have to toss it to the side to go help this girl out.
"Come on, Gerry, get out of here," Doris says. "There's another taxi dance hall on Fifteenth. If you haven't been there yet, your shitty reputation won't have preceded you, and you can become a whole new you. A you who doesn't grab asses. Consider this an opportunity to grow. If I hear good things from them, maybe next time you come back here I won't turn you away."
"Fuck you," Gerry says, but he turns to leave, which Mae is grateful for. She's still got at least half a cigarette left.
When he's gotten halfway down the block, Mae steps out of the shadows. "Never seen a girl working the door before."
Doris jumps a bit, but her voice sounds steady when she says, "Never been here before, cause this is where I sit every night."
Mae nods and walks over to Doris. "It is my first night."
"Didn't think I recognized you," Doris says. "Doris Murphy."
"Mae Mordabito," Mae says, taking another drag. "You a fan of the Dodgers?"
"You bet I am," Doris says.
"Me too," Mae says, but can see from Doris's expression that she's doubtful. Doris looks like the kind of girl who likes baseball: sturdy, strong, fresh-faced. Mae looks like the kind of girl baseball players like, which she is; most people don't realize she's the other girl, too. Mae taps some ash off the end of her cigarette and says, "I'm a little worried that those two games we dropped to the Cardinals a couple of weeks ago are gonna be an issue."
Doris looks at Mae in a considering way. "Yeah, you know, I couldn't say it to Gerry on account of him being such a raging asshole, but I feel the same way."
"Those fucking Cardinals," Mae says, shaking her head.
"What is up with them, right?" Doris says. "They're as bad as the Yankees!"
Mae gives Doris a look to communicate how absurd she finds that statement, and something in Doris changes that Mae can't quite identify: her shoulders relax, maybe, or she starts smiling a little bit. Maybe both of those things and some other things besides. All Mae knows is that she feels something similar deep inside, a settling in: like she's just found a friend.
.end.