The Insides
(Box Scores)
The night of November the 21st delivered nearly all of upstate New York its first of-the-season-to stick/ Merry Christmas will be here and gone before you know it type-variety snowflakes. When it was all said and done, at some ungodly hour the following morning, there was nearly a foot of snow on the ground, though the streets were almost entirely clear thanks to a newly unionized fleet of snowplows. Broadly speaking, in a strictly annual sense, this should have been Mickey's favorite day of the year. However, on this particular instance of the first meaningful snow falling, Mickey Berkovich-Fusco, a student at a well respected, if not entirely well known, university was anxiously pacing on the small, cement porch that led to the front door of the house that he had been living in for the past six months. The porch itself, which was really quite small, afforded only a handful of steps in either direction.
To the left was a small playground, and to the right, past two blocks of houses and a parking lot the size of Eastern Michigan, were the least desirable dorms at the University (which at one point had housed the most desirable young lady at the University). Somewhere, coming from the directions of those dorms, Mickey hoped, reluctantly, to see a figure approaching.
After waiting for a handful of excruciating minutes with no sign of the young lady that he was waiting for, he removed a handwritten letter from his father—the most recent in a one-sided exchange that had begun three years prior, during Mickey's freshman year of college. This most recent letter was not particularly remarkable if all the letters were considered as a whole, but it continued to weigh heavily in Mickey's rear, right pocket—thanks to the timing. Begrudgingly, Mickey removed the letter and pulled it out of the envelope with an uncharacteristic gingerness, and unfolded it for the third time that hour. Mickey read the letter absently, having memorized it by now,
9/24
Dear Mickey-
I hope you are doing well and school is good. You sounded so tired when we last spoke—make sure you get your rest and eat well.
I miss you so much when you are gone. You are my joy, and I am so proud of you.
I am enclosing the box scores for the past week of games. There are eight—Monday was a double header in Toronto because the game was rained out a few weeks ago and the roof was broken.
Remember that you are in my heart each day and never forget how much I love you.
Dad
P.S. There's a few bucks in there to do something nice and get some food. Please let me know if you need anything else.
Mickey reluctantly returned the letter to its envelope, and tucked it in his back pocket.
Mickey looked up the street one more time as the door behind him opened, and a young woman stepped out onto the porch. Catherine was not unprepared to be outside, she had on tall boots, a thick, down coat, knit gloves, and a hat that clung tight to her head. All in all, it seemed that Catherine was not dressed for the weather, necessarily, but for the idea of the weather that she assumed that she would encounter.
With Catherine on the porch, Mickey could no longer pace. He was trapped in a corner, such that if the door were to be swung open he would be caught behind it.
"What the hell are you doing out here? There's no room for you."
"Coming to find out what you are doing out here. It's freezing-"
"It's not. It's really not. It's really not that cold at all."
"It's snowing, isn't it? Don't be so stubborn, for Christ's sake."
"Would you give it a rest? Christ! I don't need a coat, I'll be in soon."
"I didn't mean about that, I meant about T. She's not coming." No one said T's name out loud.
"Christ, would you give that a rest? That's not what I'm doing out here. I just needed some air. That whole damn house smells like shit when Alex cooks in there. Christ. Can't even sit in my own house without one of you making the place smell like shit."
With an amused tone in her voice, "It's falafel. You've never even tried it."
"No, I guess not. Can you get off the porch, it's too small for the both of us."
"I will," after a silence, "Have you noticed that guy across the street? The fat one with the really long hair? I swear to god, it must be longer than mine. Anyways, whenever it gets above let's say 40 or so, he's out there on the front lawn, no shirt on, smoking cigarettes. Four or five at least."
"Of course I've noticed him. Can you sit on the railing at least?"
"Christ, I'm going back inside in a minute."