The Shining Girls

Dan ^{9 MAY 1992}

He’s gotten used to her already. It’s not just the easy access to the irritating bits of research that he’d otherwise have to look up himself while on the road, or being able to delegate phone calls for soundbite quotes. It’s having her around in general.

He takes her for lunch at the Billy Goat on Saturday, so she can ‘acclimatize to the culture’ before he takes her into the press box at an actual live game. There are big-screen TVs and sports memorabilia, green and orange vinyl chairs and old-time regulars, including journalists. The booze is reasonable and the food is good, even if it’s becoming more touristy. Ever since the cheezborger Saturday Night Live skit with John Belushi, which it turns out she’s seen.

‘Yes, but it was infamous long before that,’ he says. ‘This was Cubs history. 1945, the owner of this tavern tried to take a real live billy goat to the game at Wrigley Field. Bought the goat a ticket and everything, but he got turfed out because Mr Wrigley decided the animal was too smelly. He was so mad about it that he made a solemn promise on the spot that the Cubs would never win the World Series. And they never have.’

‘So it’s not just because they suck?’

‘See, that’s exactly the kind of thing you can’t say in the press box.’

‘I feel like the Eliza Doolittle of baseball.’

‘Who?’

‘My Fair Lady? You’re giving me the makeover so that I can be presentable in public.’

‘And I have so much work to do.’

‘You could do with some finessing yourself, you know.’

‘Oh really?’

‘The whole scruffy-almost-handsome thing is a good look for you, but you need better clothes.’

‘Wait, I’m confused. Are you flirting with me or insulting me? And you’re one to talk, kiddo. Your entire wardrobe consists of T-shirts of bands no one has ever heard of.’

‘You’ve never heard of. You should let me school you sometime. Take you to a gig.’

‘That is not going to happen.’

‘Oh, and talking about school, do you think you could proof-read these assignments for me before the game starts and I have to pay attention?’

‘You want me to do your homework for you? Here?’

‘It’s already done. I just want you to play copy-editor. Besides, you try interning and studying and trying to hunt down a serial killer.’

‘How’s that going?’

‘Slowly. No replies to the ad, yet. Although I have a meeting with the defendants’ lawyer in the Madrigal case.’

‘You were supposed to talk to the prosecutor.’

‘He hung up on me. I think he thinks I’m trying to get the case reopened.’

‘Well, you are. On some half-baked theory you’ve got.’

‘Give it more time in the oven. So, can you read these essays while I get us drinks?’

‘You’re taking advantage,’ he grumbles, half-heartedly, but takes out his glasses anyway.

The essays veer wildly from whether free will exists (apparently it doesn’t, he’s disappointed to discover) to the history of erotica in popular culture. Kirby plops back down in the chair with a Diet Coke for him and a beer for her, and sees him raising his eyebrows at the content.

‘It was that or “propaganda war films of the twentieth century” and I’ve already seen Bugs Bunny vs. the Nazis, which is the masterwork of its time.’

‘You don’t have to explain your choices to me, but it’s obvious that whoever is teaching this stuff is just using it as an excuse to get his students into bed.’

‘Actually, it’s a female lecturer and, no, she’s not a lesbian. Although, come to think of it, she did mention a sideline in catering for orgies.’

He hates how easily she can make him blush.

‘All right, shut up. We need to talk about your enthusiasm for commas. You can’t stick them anywhere you like.’

‘That’s what my gender studies professor said.’

‘I’m ignoring that. You need to get to grips with the mysteries of punctuation. And lose the formal academic style. All this “one must contextualize this within the strictures of the postmodern framework” crap.’

‘You know, academic kinda comes with the territory.’

‘Sure, but it’s going to kill you when you have to write journalism. Keep it simple. Say what you mean. Otherwise, it’s fine. Some of the ideas are stale, but you’ll grow into original thinking.’ He looks at her over his glasses. ‘And I’m just saying, as much fun as it is for me to read about stag films from the 1920s through to blaxploitation pornos, you might want to consider doing this in a study group with other actual students.’

‘Yeah, no,’ she dismisses him. ‘It’s bad enough going to class.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m sure you could—’

She interrupts. ‘If you’re about to say “make friends if you tried”, fucking don’t, okay? It’s like being the trainwreck celebrity without the limo rides or free designer clothes. Every single day, everyone stares. Everyone knows. Everyone’s talking about it.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true, kiddo.’

‘There’s this amazing thing I can do, which is condense clouds of silence around me. It’s like magic. I’ll walk through a conversation and it’ll stop, dead. And resume again the moment I’m gone. In slightly lower tones.’

‘It’ll wear off. They’re young and stupid. You’re a fad.’

‘I’m a grotesque. There’s a difference. I shouldn’t have survived. And if I absolutely had to, I should have been different. Like the tragic damsels my fucking mother’s always painting.’

‘You’re no shrinking Ophelia, that’s for sure.’ And in response to her raised eyebrow, ‘Hey, I had a college education too, you know. But I didn’t waste mine sitting around drinking Diet Coke with sports hacks.’

‘It’s not a waste. It’s an invaluable part of my internship, which is worth a college credit.’

‘And you forgot to add that I’m not a hack.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well,’ Dan says cheerily, ‘now that our afternoon’s off to a miserable start, you want to watch some ball?’

The bar is well and truly packed out, the fans wearing rival colors, ‘like gangs’, Kirby whispers during the anthem. ‘Crips and Bloods.’

‘Shhh,’ he says.

He finds that he enjoys explaining the game to her, not only the blow-by-blow, but the nuances.

‘Thanks. My personal commentator.’ She snarks.

The whole bar leaps to its feet in a roar, half elation, half disappointment. Someone spills their beer, the splash barely missing Kirby’s shoes.

‘And that’s a home run.’ Dan nudges her, pointing at the screen. ‘Not a goal.’

She punches him playfully in the arm, but hard, with her knuckle out, and he retaliates without really thinking about it, punching her back with about the same amount of force. Give as good as you get, his sisters taught him. They threw some mean punches. Also wrist burns. Wrestling him to the ground and pulling his hair. Affectionate violence. For when a hug just won’t do. That’s a Hallmark card for you.

‘Ow, you ass!’ Her eyes widen. ‘That hurt.’

‘Oh shit, I’m sorry, Kirby,’ he panics. ‘I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t thinking.’ Nice fucking work, Velasquez, hitting the girl who survived the most horrific assault he’s ever heard of. Next up: beating old ladies and kicking puppies.

‘Yeah, right. Give me some credit.’ She snorts, but she’s staring intently at the screen mounted above the bar – at the MilkBoy commercial, which has already aired twice during the game. He realizes it’s not the play-fighting that has upset her, but his reaction.

And it’s that easy. He reaches out and taps her knee softly with his knuckle. ‘Tough cookie, huh?’

She gives him a side-eyed smile, pure mischief. ‘So hardcore even girl scouts can’t sell me.’

‘Wow. Your jokes are feeble,’ he says, grinning, leaving himself wide open.

‘Not as feeble as your punches,’ she retorts.

‘Almost handsome?’ He shakes his head.