Bburke used to, whenever he went to the city to catch a Yankees game, throw his money around to every homeless man on the street, feeling it was the right thing to do; except one time he did that and he got to the stadium and realized he didn’t have enough money for the Bud Light tall boy he always got during the third inning. And in him he felt an unyielding rise of contempt for the himself of only hours ago, that he was something and now is something and that they aren’t the same somethings. But that the change was Barmecidal and it was just him, this moneyless and beerless man in the bleachers. Man made in God’s image, yet some men are homeless and some are beerless, and there must be this big bearded guy miles and miles in the sky who doesn’t have a home and can’t even catch a buzz.
Who’s winning?”“I don’t have a f*cking clue nor do I f*cking care.”Echo’s head ticks back.“Back off, Beth.” I cross the room, drop a kiss on the curve of Echo’s neck and whisper in her ear, “She’d rip me to pieces, too, right now. She’s a b*tch when the Yankees play.”Her eyebrows rise. “Is she a Red Sox fan?”Isaiah chuckles and we both throw him a glare, but he doesn’t notice as he’s absorbed in a car manual.“Beth hates baseball.”Echo’s eyes dart from Beth to the television to me then she waves her hand in the air for an explanation.“She watches,” I explain. “Yankees only. It’s what she does and there are some things we don’t question about each other.”“Just the Yankees?” Echo whispers.“Just the Yankees,” I repeat.“And she hates baseball?”“With a passion.”“That’s...” Echo says in a hushed tone. “That’s messed up.