Smokes and Heat

by Matthew Lewis Foster

The kids gathered for the afternoon’s tape-ball game. The driveway’s pavement boiled, cooking an egg-in-a-basket could’ve been possible. Ruby fidgeted with the ball, constructed from one-part shredded newspaper and two rolls of electrical tape. “Ripken,” she blurted, sweating from the intense southern day burning. As the leader of this motor scooter gang, proving worth was gauged in homeruns and loogie size.

“Have to bat righty,” Aaron yelled, atop the driveway’s speed bump, installed to prevent runoff from damaging the manicured lawn. 

Tossing the ball, Ruby headed for home plate. The strike zone was drawn onto the garage door with sidewalk chalk. 

  Aaron rubbed dirt between his fingers. With his chin tucked into his shoulder, he readied his windup, spying back at second base.

“Rickey Henderson isn’t standing there,” Ruby said, extending her wiffle-ball bat, wrapped an inch thick with duct tape. “Play ball.”

The submariner delivered the sinking screwball. 

Newspaper shards floated to the pavement. Ruby darted to first base, tagging the basketball pole. 

The triscuit-shaped ball wobbled up Mr. Morris’s driveway. Lounging in a lawn-chair and watching the boy’s afternoon tradition, he sprung from his seat. Since Mr. Morris and his adult son had moved in last spring, rumors swirled. The old man supposedly missed the big leagues because his 102 mph fastball killed a man. The league forced him out, fearing perceptions of bad publicity. The kids, naive to anyone different, never corroborated the made-up half-truth. 

Ruby, with cap tucked under her armpit, meandered up the drive. “Can we get our ball back?” 

“I done told you kids. Keep that ball outta my yard.” 

“We ain’t mean no harm,” she said.

“That son of mine took my smokes. Saying they ain’t good for me. Go over yonder to that there mini-mart, get me some smokes. Then y’all can have this ball back.” Mr. Morris reached into his pocket and pulled out a $10 bill. “Benson & Hedges Gold.” He waved the folded bill. “Better see some change.”

The kids huddled. “Remember what your mom did when you dropped the f-bomb.”

“My fingers are still raw from wa-r-shing dishes, clothes, cars, the vinyl siding, the shed, the driveway, my grandma’s cat, my sister’s doll house, —”  

“We got no more tape. I don’t get allowance until Friday,” Aaron said. 

“I ain’t doing it,” Ruby demanded. Her mom’s disappointment after the f-word incident would be nothing compared to cigarettes. She cried for hours after that slipped.

“You yellower?” Aaron asked.

Ruby started middle school at the end of summer. Reputations weighed in the balance. If 8th graders heard of this cowardliness, her fate would be crushed. Maybe she could use that. Getting the cigarettes cemented a new status. If the eighth-grader heard about it, maybe they let her hang. “Lets go,” Ruby said, mentally preparing for the short scooter ride. 

Arriving at the mini-mart’s front window, they strategized. “Tracy is working today. She’ll never believe us,” Aaron said. 

Entering the store, Ruby, gathering her courage, bee-lined for the baseball cards at the register. “This old man across the street asked us to buy him cigarettes. He gave us this,” Ruby said, revealing the $10 bill. 

“No way little one.”

“Please, I ain’t telling no story. Benson and Hedges Gold.” 

Tracy looked around the empty store. “Those are old man cigarettes. But NO.”

 Ruby’s plan clearly had holes. She conjured tears. Tracy was so rad. She shared her tales of cruising from the movie theater to the Dog’n Suds in her boyfriend’s Firebird. “Please. We’re play’n ball —“ 

“Sell you cigarettes? A week ago, you put mine out. I listened to your 11-year-old rant about the perils of smoking.” 

Tears fell onto the counter’s ‘Must be 18 years old’ placemat.

“Geeez. Stop.” Reaching up, she pulled the pack from the bins and plopped it down. “For the rest of the summer, you take out the overnight trash. 6 a.m. every day or I tell your mom.”

The fried bologna smell invoked dry heaves. “Fine.” Stealing her sister’s nose clips was easier than leaving without the cigarettes. 

“I better not find out you smoked these.” 

Sprinting out the door, they stumbled back onto their scooters and zoomed to finish the game. 

Mr. Morris was tapping his cane as Ruby pulled into the driveway. The gold pack poked out of her cut-off jean shorts. “Damn, you got ’em.” The garage door lifted. A Cadillac rolled passed. 

Ruby searched for the Aaron, no doubt hiding in her garage. 

“Son, you’re home early. I caught this girl smoking. Give ’n her a talking at.” 

The son, Tony, inspected the unopened pack and pointed at the front door. “Inside, you-old-geezer.” The six-foot frame knelt to Ruby’s level. “Did you buy these cigarettes?” 

“Yes, sir.” Ruby pulled the $8.25 out of her pocket, the bills extending beyond her clenched palm. 

Tony looked back at Mr. Morris, cursing low-volume obscenities. He turned his attention back to Ruby. “I shouldn’t have to tell you smoking is bad. You’re mom says your smart. Get good grades.” 

“I’ve never smoked. Ever.”

“Do I need to talk with your folks?” 

“Please, we … we just wanted our ball back,” Ruby said, pointing at the lawn chair. She started to release the dirty money.  

“Buy yourself some baseball cards.”