From the story, When Murray Met Helen

Monday had been muggy. Tuesday had been wet. But Wednesday a front had come through in the morning and left in its wake a clean window of blue sky, with mares tail clouds reaching beyond Wisconsin, out toward Michigan’s upper peninsula. It can be cold in Miller Field’s right field seats, as they catch the shade earlier, and so Murray wore a leather bomber jacket, an ancient Milwaukee Braves emblem on the back, a still working zipper on the front, and a wool cap rolled up like a beret in the shoulder strap.

Helen wore her Gorman Thomas souvenir jersey. She’d put her hair in a ponytail so that it extruded through the hole in the back of her ball cap, and she wore Jackie O style sunglasses.

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From the story, When Murray Met Helen

A week from Wednesday was approaching and, as it did, the snippets of banter between Murray and Helen escalated over the fence and through the foliage.

“I’m seeing myself in right field,” Murray ventured, “a Schlitz in one hand, fightin’ the fellas off of ya with my other.”

“Wow,” she said, “that’s chivalry, that I’d get the service of your good arm.”

“Naw,” he teased back. “The Schlitz gets my good arm. They’re four bucks at the park ya know.”

“Do they still even make Schlitz?” she goaded him.

“Now don’t you be insulting my beer in the form of a question. Schlitz is back, honey. I made them fix it. l can show you my letter.”

And it went on like that until Monday, when the small matter of Murray not actually having a ride to the stadium began to press on him. He knew she could make this miserable for him. So he opted for the no eye-contact direct approach, over the phone.

“Helen?”

“Yo. Murray.”

“I have a little problem,” he confessed

“Oh this ought to be good.”

“You remember Biv?”

“Help me,” she said.

“Eddie Bivers, Biv, I’m sure I introduced you.”

“Right,” Helen acknowledged. “Biv. I thought he died.”

“Yeah, and the thing was, um, Biv was my ride. When I’d go to the game.”

Helen had to let that sink in.

“Oh. Oh!” she finally said. “I get it. You want me to drive to the game.”

“Well, that’s…”

“You want me to drive to the game,” she said, adjusting her needle.
“You want me. To drive you. To the game.”

“That would be one way to frame it,” he said, just wanting the skit to be over.

“Murray the Man,” she kept going, now with a rhythm in her voice. “Wants a dame. To drive, The Man, to the game.”

She could barely contain her delight.

“Look,” he said. “It’s not like I’m asking you to buy the bratwurst.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she giggled as she released him, and placed him back in the water, so to speak. “I gotta go now. You’re making me really hungry.”

photo courtesy Wikimedia images.