“Only Built for Foolish Hijinks (Brunch Fin)”

“You have got to get out of here, Sabrina – fuck!”

“Lamar,” she looks at me, as if puppy eyes and a nice set of breasts was enough at the moment. I gagged.

“You fucking stink, yo.”

“It’s not my fault,” she squealed through tears, stomping with both feet and balling her tiny hands into a fist. It was cute, the whole scene – but she threw my baseball at me – the one I caught off of Barry Bonds' bat, and had switched with him. I got lucky. The umpire switched balls right before that fateful pitch. He hit number 500, and I caught it like O’Dell Beckham caught that touchdown against Dallas. I’d meet Barry at The Cove on a trip out west when he was chasing seventy-three, and he signed it. And now, a kid was standing downstairs, in the street, tossing a quarter-mil up in the air and, to his credit at least, watching the ball right into his glove.

“Hey, kid, I’m coming down for that.” he looked up at me, picked up his bike, and hopped on.

“I need help, Lamar! Don’t you see me?”

“Sabrina,” I held my nostrils as hard as I could. “Tomato juice.”

“What?”

“Tomato juice. A tub of tomato juice. Pour it in your hair and everything. Soak in it.” suddenly, it made sense that she was cursing out the driver, who was steering his car, head…