“Secret Identity” – Chapter Six

Chapter Six

 

            The afternoon passed with no word from Morgan Kent so Jerry was resigned to waiting until tomorrow for news regarding the strange DVD’s.  Occasionally as he worked he would think back to the previous evening and replay the events in his mind – watching his name in the credits, seeing himself get out of that car and continue on into the episode.  It was him, or rather somebody that looked like him, he knew it.  And he would be more comfortable thinking it was simply a dead ringer actor look-alike, except for the part about the opening credits.  That he just couldn’t logically puzzle out.

 

            When five o’clock finally came Jerry stood and stretched.  Packing his briefcase with a set of files he intended to glance over at home he turned off the fluorescent light and pushed the chair under the desk.  He glanced around the cubicle, noticing a few of his television and movie memorabilia for the first time in a while.  Ever since high school this had been his passion and his escape.  Books were fine, but they had never really captured his imagination like the work of a director, a cinematographer, and an actor.  A poster of the classic action film In the Balance  hung above his monitor and beside that was a signed photograph of Michael Hickson, star of the obscure British sci-fi import Out of Time, Out of Space with his arm around Jerry at a convention three years ago. 

 

            When he first started working there, he noticed quickly that many of his coworkers thought him a bit strange.   On the rare occasion he visited one of their cubicles, they were always either pristine and neat without a speck of color or variety – or they were jam-packed with knickknacks, figurines, carvings and assorted detritus made by their little offspring in nursery school.  There was rarely an example of creativity or appreciation of much besides entering figures, balancing ledgers, communicating with customers and examining claims.

 

            As he walked the short hallway to the front door, not for the first time he felt a bit sorry for the others still working.  Even some with families to go home to stayed here till seven or eight at night, sometimes later.  He pitied the children that would rarely see their working parent except for a few fleeting moments in the morning between gulps of orange juice and a bagel.  He also was saddened for those who were unwilling or unable to enjoy a simple, quiet evening at home immersed in a great movie or TV show.  Ah well, he thought, they made their choices.

 

            He reached the lobby and instinctively slowed, checking to see if Becky was still at work.  She wasn’t, having apparently left a few minutes early.  Good.  I can’t embarrass my self any further tonight.  

 

            The outside air was crisp as he crossed the parking lot to his car.  Standing next to his Spirit was Cal, who had apparently been waiting for him.  Jerry glanced at the man as he unlocked his car, putting his briefcase in the passenger seat.  He moved to the driver side and said, “Aren’t you going home?”

 

            Cal, who had been leaning on the car next to Jerry’s, shrugged.  “I just wanted to make sure you made it out ok.  I didn’t want you to hurt yourself tripping over your ego back there.”

 

            Jerry grimaced and slid into the car.  “Your concern is touching, pal.  Don’t you have some sheets to wash?”   He started the car and began to close the door.

 

            Cal reached out and put his hand on top of the open door.  “Listen, hey, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t make fun, but…well, I’m just looking out for you.”

 

            “I can look out for myself, ok?  I’m a big boy.  I actually have, like, a driver’s license and big boy underwear and everything.  I don’t need you to watch out for me and I don’t need you feeling sorry for me!”  Jerry had raised his voice at the end and regretted it a little.  But just a little.

 

            Cal backed away, raising his hands in a mock self-defense gesture.  “Sure, yeah.  Whatever.  Say, you watching another one of those DVD’s tonight?”

 

            Motor idling, Jerry said, “I hadn’t thought about it.  Yeah, probably.  Crime Doesn’t Pay is pre-empted tonight for the hockey game so I have some time.  Or I may just go to bed.  Who knows?  Maybe I have a date.  Later.”  He pulled the door shut, put the car in gear and backed out of the parking place.  He saw Cal watching him leave all the way out of the parking lot until he was out of sight.

 

 

 

 

            The Nightly News was playing as he prepared himself a bowl of spaghetti.  Usually a good-sized bowl would get him through almost a week of leftovers.   He enjoyed Italian food more than any other kind, and ate it frequently.  That and the fact that it was fairly easy to make was a definite plus.  He was stirring the sauce and watching the daily casualty totals from Syria when the phone rang.

 

            He reached over for the phone, checked the Caller ID.   He clicked the button, “Hey mom.”  In one smooth motion he also muted the TV.

 

            “Jerry, how are you this evening?”  The voice on the phone seemed faint, as if coming from long distance. 

 

            “I’m good, mom, just fixing some spaghetti.  Hey, are you on the upstairs extension?”

 

            “No, I’m actually in the garage – I just finished changing my oil.  Why do you ask?”

 

            “Maybe that’s it.  You just sound kind of faint.  Maybe it’s on my end.  Anyway, what’s up?”

 

            “I just wondered if you’d remembered your father’s birthday is next Wednesday.  I’d like to do something special this year, since it would’ve been his 75^th.”

 

            Jerry paused with the stirring spoon halfway to his mouth, preparing for a taste.  He paused briefly, the years passing as if in an instant.  His father had passed away suddenly eight years ago from a massive stroke.  Jerry hadn’t seen him at that time for almost two years, having moved from home across country soon out of college.  It was still somewhat of a sensitive subject between himself and his mother, but he believed they had come to somewhat of an understanding lately.

 

            “Sure – what did you have in mind?”  He hoped it didn’t entail him driving all the way out to Indianapolis, where she still lived after all these years.  

 

            “Well, you know how your father loved baseball and loved the Cubs – thought maybe you could meet me in Chicago next week and we could watch a game.  The Astros are in town…”  While his father’s death still evoked mixed feelings in Jerry, his mother had taken it a much different way.  She had loved him very much, she had decided several months after the funeral to not play the poor widow role for the rest of her life and had taken the opportunity to better herself in a number of ways.  She’d taken up woodworking and painting, and taught herself several home improvement skills including auto maintenance and carpentry.  Their home looked better than it ever had – brighter, more airy, lived in…happier.  His father had been a stern and quiet man, though fair, and tended to keep his distance from his family at times.  Jerry’s mother missed him terribly in her own way, but took advantage of the moment to stretch out on her own.

 

            Jerry finished tasting the sample, nodded appreciatively and piled spaghetti and sauce onto his plate.  “I think that sounds great, mom.  I can take a couple days off next week and meet you Tuesday night – how does that sound?”  He picked up the plate and moved to the dining room table.

 

            “Oh, I’m so glad, Jerry – they’ve picked themselves up pretty well even after losing the World Series last year.  I think it’ll be a good game.”  Baseball in the late summer as playoffs approached, especially at Wrigley Field, was always something special.  “I’ll call you later this weekend to set up the details.  Well, I’m a mess – I need to clean up and get in to dinner.  Enjoy your evening dear – I love you.”

 

            “I love you too, mom.  Bye.”  Jerry terminated the call and sat down to his dinner.  He picked up his fork and paused for moment.  Laying it back down he rose and moved to the TV where his stack of newly acquired DVD’s from Apollo Cable lay strewn haphazardly on the top.  He moved the copy of Killer Instinct to the side and picked up the World Series disk.  Opening the box and popping out the tape, he switched it for the crime drama disk still residing in the player.  Returning to his seat at the table, he began to watch the recap of last year’s dramatic World Series between the Chicago Cubs and the Boston Red Sox.

 

            The spaghetti was hot and delicious, and he enjoyed his dinner.  While he kept half his mind on the TV, the other half was thinking about his father.  For all the times his father was there for him – taking him to movies, quizzing him about his schoolwork and progress in grades – the other half of the time he was mostly left alone.  His job at a local factory in Indianapolis kept him away from home sometimes twelve to fourteen hours a day, and there were weeks where Jerry hardly even saw his father.

 

            “And the Cubs take the field in Game 1 of the World Series here in Boston…”

 

            Years later after he’d gone to college and left home for good he’d lost reasons to even speak to his father.  There was no fight, no heated discussion, no particular reasons to ignore each other – they simply had nothing really left in common to discuss anymore.  Jerry had earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Accounting and a Masters in Business, while his father continued to work at the plant until his weary legs earned him an early disability retirement at 62.

 

            He died five years later, and in all that time Jerry had spoken frequently with his mother, he never had a reason to talk to his father.  And his father had never seemed to have a reason to talk to him.

 

            Throughout all that time, however, there was baseball.  His father had grown up near the lakeshore in the Windy City and was a diehard Cubs fan.  Although it was a lifelong dream of his to watch his Cubs finally make it to the World Series, he’d died before they finally achieved that goal last year.  It was probably a good thing he hadn’t seen them blow that 3 game lead in Boston…

 

            “…and while the Red Sox had recaptured hope for the city of Boston after taking two out of three in Chicago, their return home was met with a fevered frenzy…”

 

            Jerry had hoped one day to understand more about his father, but that time was most likely gone.  Some mysteries would likely never be solved.  He picked up his finished plate and moved to the kitchen.  He decided he was still hungry enough for another helping so he reached for the pot on the stove…

 

            “…and here come the Cubs in the bottom of the first in Game 7 – once again hurling their ace from the mound, veteran Jerry Saifer…”

 

            Jerry dropped the spoon on the floor, his head jerking back to the TV.

 

            “…Saifer pitched a one-hit shutout here in Game 3 last week – can he repeat the magic here tonight and propel the Cubs to their first World Series win in 80 years?”

 

            He ran from the kitchen and fell to his knees in front of the TV.  Running from the warm-up area was a familiar face – it was himself, Jerry Saifer from Indianapolis, data entry operator at Gibraltar Insurance, in an actual Cubs uniform standing on the mound at Fenway Park.

 

            This can’t be… he thought to himself.  This can’t be happening…it’s not real.  He moaned softly to himself and rubbed his eyes.  There he was, and there were his overall stats: 175 wins, 92 losses.  Lifetime ERA of 3.64.  He – Jerry – whoever had gone 22-6 over the season with an ERA of an amazing 2.96.   In his whole life, the Jerry sitting in the floor in front of his TV had never picked up a baseball in competition.  He’d passed with his dad in the backyard on occasion, but that was the extent of his diamond career.

 

            “..Saifer’s first pitch is low and in the dirt, ball one.  If there were any indication of the pitching disaster to come, that may have been a sign.  Saifer would give up two runs that first inning, and one more the second…”

 

            Jerry closed his eyes and wished it away.  It didn’t go away – “Saifer” was in a jam in the bottom of the third, two men on and no outs.  The Cubs had fallen to three runs down, and the deficit looked to grow even larger.

 

            “…and there’s a shot deep to center – Perkins is way back…back…and it’s gone!!  A three-run homer for Miguel Sanchez and the Red Sox open up a six to nothing lead.  The Boston Fans are going berserk!”

 

            Jerry watched.  He barely noticed his cell phone ringing behind him.

 

            “..and it finally looks like the Cubs skipper has had enough of his veteran and Saifer leaves the field after a horrible outing.  He gave up six earned runs off of five hits and a hit batter…”

 

            Jerry stood and backed slowly to the phone as the camera on the TV zoomed into “Saifer’s” face, dejected and beaten, walking back to the bullpen.  Every line on his face, every pore, every strand of hair peeking from under the Cubs hat – it was his.  They were his.  That was him.  But it couldn’t be…

 

            He pushed the button on the cell phone and said softly, “Hello?”

 

            “Jerry?  Hi – Morgan Kent here from Apollo Cable.  Hey, sorry to call you on your cell, but it was listed on your work voice mail.  Anyway, I’ve got some news for you about those DVD’s…”

 

            His eyes were still planted on the TV as the announcers posted the history of Saifer’s long and storied career in Chicago.  “Yes?”

 

            “Well, I talked to both our mailroom people and the chick in programming who handles the disks.  Both of them said that they didn’t remember any penguin documentaries or baseball videos, and they were sure there wasn’t a disk of Killer Instinct – like I said, CBS never releases those.  If they were in the batch, they didn’t come from us….”

 

            Jerry said nothing. 

 

            “Hello?  Hello?”  The line disconnected.

 

            And the Cubbies lost Game 7, 12-5.