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Things Are Going to Be Different Around Here, You'll See!
by Cesca Janece Waterfield That's what he always said after he came to sometime early afternoon and surveyed the squalor of his second floor apartment. He flitted timorously about, stealing glances at Vi as she moved between the bathroom and bedroom getting ready for yoga class. He tried to catch sight of her arms, cheeks, and eyes, to note if they'd been scratched, bruised, or blacked. Digby hadn't always been a late riser. Years ago he'd been a top seed minor leaguer. Every spring the papers mused about where he'd land, which lucky team would scoop him up, how far they'd carry the jolly good fellow. City skylines drifted across our imaginations, images back then we had only gathered from ESPN, lying on our bellies, propped up on elbows, telling tales about the hometown hero. He cut an exotic profile back then, mane of black hair jutting out like a blade as he leaned into his fate of fame, and fired the ball straight into his future. It was our future, too, for any accolade Digby earned flattered us by proxy. We watched the ball as if we were along for the ride. Look at it go! we seemed to cry. Digby's performances at the baseball diamond hazed with pollen, and in the sexual smog of Shockoe Bottom dance bars garnered the rookie a fan base whose loyalty was not diluted by its disparity. And he always took time to meet the fans. You could sure say that about Digby. You from Richmond, chief? he asked, squint-smiling down into a young face. Whatever the answer, this is where Digby bit the wad of chewing gum decisively between his front teeth and pronounced: Well, I'll putchya on the map. His fan's glow of admiration outshone the athlete's post-game sweat. Digby winked, a rising star, and moved to greet the line of faces to whom he already was. These days he spent moving through his apartment, drifting the path he'd cleared, searching for something. A map, a destination. Some young thing with either to take him home. Or better yet, he strategized, somebody without map or goal. Then, what could she say about it? Round and round, he reminded himself: The Phillies, Orioles, even the 'lanta Braves had courted him. And they weren't the only ones, he reminisced at night, cutting a thin wedge from a yellowing lime. Leaning over the cutting board, his shoulders were bent in such a way that someone looking in might think he were crying. This would not disappoint him if they did, he considered. Did think he was crying, that is. Pity often inspires people to lean in, lend a hand, he acknowledged. He should know. In his life, geez. He told Vi at the barbeque restaurant, Even my mother says, she says I've had a hard time of it. He chewed with gusto. I've gone without, I've seen dreams die, Vi. To her silence, he waved dismissively, How old are you, anyway, a pinch of chicken meat between his thumb and forefinger. I've seen em go. After Vi signed the credit card slip, Digby wadded his napkin onto the stack of plates, leaned back and pledged: But things are going to be different around here, you'll see.
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