(Roy Halladay at work. Photo by  Chris Trotman, copyright 2010 Getty Image)

We were at Willow, the usual suspects, and we were clustered down at the low-rent end of the bar.
 
Jake commented that it was getting too popular and there was no place to sit down for the regulars. He was talking to Don about some scheme that might involve a chance to excel, which is Navy-speak for something in between unpleasant and impossible.
 
“Should we start bad-mouthing the place?” I asked. “It’s like that Yogi Berra quote. You know, the one about people not going to a place anymore because it is too crowded?”
 
Jake smiled. Doc seemed to be handling unemployment pretty well, which can be a challenge if you have made a pay-day every two weeks for thirty or more years and suddenly find yourself retired while still only a little north of the prime of life. In deference to reduced circumstances, we drank the Happy Hour white wine, which I would have done anyway.
 
“Funny you mention Yogi. Did you hear what happened in the Phillies playoff game?” asked Doc, getting off the topic of what he- and we- were going to do the rest of our lives. “Roy Halladay threw the second no-hitter in postseason history. First time since Don Larsen did it in 1956, against the Brooklyn Dodgers. It is his second perfect game of the season, too, and that has only been done five times, never mind in the playoffs. The Reds only got one guy on base,”
 
“I heard he has an un-hittable sharp fastball and a devastating slow curve.”
 
“Yeah,” said Doc, taking a sip of the dry crisp white. “He is this year’s Mr. October.”
 
My arm was itching like crazy under my Brooks Brothers shirt, which happened to be blue, and included a blue collar, though not in the usual way. The new ink was still healing in my skin and I consciously avoided touching it. Kevin had warned me about that.
 
“Halladay may be Mr. October, but for me, that has got to be Kevin at Lucky’s. He performed under pressure for me.”
 
“What on earth possessed you to do that? Reading what you wrote made it seem like you and your son got tattoos before he went in the Navy.”
 
I sighed. “No, Officers don’t get tattoos. You know that. But this has been gestating a long time. I saw Kevin’s work on my Associate’s skin, really intricate, and finally said, “Screw it, this is the guy.””
 
“Did it hurt?”
 
I looked pensively at the tulip-shaped glass and the clear golden liquid within. “No, not so much. I think I could have gone to sleep when he was doing the back of my arm. What surprised me was how much blood was involved, and how long it took. The whole thing was Kismet. I drove up and there was exactly one parking place on the main drag in Northampton, and it was right in front of the tattoo parlor. Eerie.”
 
“Do you want something to eat?”
 
“You should try the fish and chips or the spring rolls. Or both.” I glanced at my watch. “Rufus is supposed to show up at 6:30 and if we order now we won’t have to share.”
 
Peter ambled by and took the order with a smile. He is growing his sideburns down to his jawline, and that appears to be a new trend, like ink on skin.
 
“So I walk into the place. The gal at the counter has diamond studs in her cheeks and big plugs in her ears. I tell her I have a two o’clock with Kevin, and she calls out for him and this tall dude with blue spider webs all down his arms comes out of the back room. He looks at me like I am a walking canvas. I hand him a copy of the design I want and he says: “Man, I am getting a migraine. I gotta take some medicine.” Then he goes upstairs.”
 
“That must have been a confidence builder.”
 
“Yeah, I thought about turning around right then. That and the paperwork is kinda intimidating. The legal releases and disclaimers are pretty thorough.”
 
“Like at the hospital,” sadi Doc thoughtfully. “We need to protect ourselves. Almost anything can result in death, even if unlikely.”
 
“I was just afraid he would start drifting off with me on the table. As t turned out, whatever drugs he took worked just fine. He turned on some strange music and got on with it. Ninety minutes with one break. He is my Mr. October this year.”
 
“So how did it turn out?”
 
I looked around. Down in the low-rent end of the bar we were fairly inconspicuous. I unbuttoned my blue shirt and pulled it down to expose the ink on my arm. “I dunno. What do you think?
 

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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