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Chances for a Home Run

Javier wiped the sweat from his eyes and cinched his lifting belt a bit tighter. Only two more deliveries, and he’d be done for the day. Collect his pay, stop by to share a drink or two with his amigos down at the corner, and then home for a shower before he picked up Luisa for the Red Sox game.

He had a good feeling about tonight. She’d been playing hard to get, but this was their fifth or six date, and even though she was a good girl—marriage material, maybe—he knew his chances of hitting a home run were good tonight. If the Sox won, who knew? It was early enough in the season for them to still have a chance. With all the fans behind them in their own ballpark, they might have a shot against the Yankees. Luisa loved her baseball. That’s why he’d gone to all the trouble to get really good seats for the game, those new seats they just built over the Green Monster. Luisa had jumped up and down like a little girl when he’d shown her.

Things were looking up. He hoisted the dolly up into the back of the truck, dodged passing cars to get to the cab door, and rolled on down Magazine Street. Twelve cases of Deep Swamp to O’Leary’s across over the river, and then back to the loading docks in East Cambridge. He couldn't wait.

Pulling out onto Mass Ave in Central Square, he passed a U-Haul sitting in the middle of the intersection with its hood up. Those poor bastards who don't have friends in trucking, he thought. They must spend money like it was water.

Traffic was good going over the bridge, but there was a snarl over by Copley, and then, when he finally got to the green light˜after sitting through three red lights—some dumb shit ran right in front of his truck.

"Carrajo! he yelled, sticking his middle finger out the window. Boston pedestrians were worse than the drivers.

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