"Ya know, these people ain't goin' nowhere," the idiot laughed. "I work for the 'T' ya know, huh. Ya know they tried to take somethin' from our contract, huh. But we striked. We said, 'No money, no work.' Huh. One guy chickened out -- he drove a bus in Brighton. If we ever find out his name, tousands of workers a gonna get a piece of his body. Huh. My old man, he's one of the big guys in the 'T,' ONE OF THE BIG GUYS..."

Another irritating poke in the arm. More life story.

"He-he-he fixed for me to get this job drivin' the bus -- you know, he's one of the big guys, whadda you call 'em..."

The bile was rising in Bobby Sullivan, his neck was turning red. This idiot couldn't speak in anything but a shout, and people were starting to notice. Private nightmare turning into public spectacle. The heat of the day was mounting, eye pressure was pressing, and as the idiot drooled on, Bobby got up and headed back up to the street. He bought a six-pack and hitch-hiked home to watch the ball game.

Bullshit about reality, drooling obnoxious idiots -- reality's bottomless-pit Nirvana was in his living room, the truth in a six-pack and a color television.

But he was so tired and frustrated at his hopeless America as he watched Rick Burleson strike out. The bottom of the ninth was coming up after another beer commercial, and the commercial was so boring (another "Schlitz Light" jobber -- only this time they decided to change the Coburn character a little, mellow him out; they took all of the "tough" out of him) that Bobby just nodded out in front of the tube, his hand falling limp, spilling beer all over the synthetic carpet.

The piping screams and whistles of the Fenway fans brought Bobby's consciousness back, but he couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing with a rosin bag in his hand. Don Zimmer was walking out of the dugout towards him, and Carlton Fisk trotted up to the mound.

"C'mon Bobby, whatsa matter?" Carlton asked. "Just keep it on the inside corners. Jam'im. Foster can't hit inside." By this time Zimmer had made it out to the mound, and he slapped a fatherly hand on Bobby's shoulder. Bobby looked at the hand distrustfully.

"S'okay Sully, it's okay. You got 'em 3-and-2, but he's gonna be goin' for it. You know it and he knows it. There's two down and they ain't gonna send Morgan home from third on a walk. One sharp pitch and they'll go home 'til next spring. Go get 'em." Another slap on the back and Zimmer and Fisk silently turned their backs and departed.

Bobby pounded the ball into his glove. "What's goin' on?" he barely uttered. As he stood frozen on the rubber like a petrified rabbit, Fisk was flashing finger codes at him, and Bobby didn't know what any of them meant. Out of fear he just nodded neurotically. And then he stood there, not knowing what to do. The crowd had worked itself into pent-up silence, awaiting the pitch of the season. The sweat was pouring down from Bobby's brow, flooding his eyes and blurring his vision. He stepped off the mound to wipe his forehead; George Foster rolled his eyes with impatience and disgust, stepping out of the batter's box and shaking his bat about like a mean club. The fans were vibrating with tension.

Fisk spat a chaw of tobacco in front of home plate and trotted up to Bobby. Al Jackson came out of the dugout, looking more than a bit distraught.

"What's goin' on, Bobby?" Fisk asked in his driest, most professional tone of voice.

That's okay, Bobby," Jackson said compassionately. "Let 'em wait until you're ready. Take your time. Just make sure you're ready." Fisk slapped him on the butt and retreated to the plate.

The scene was madness. The Cincinnati Reds. The LAST pitch. Zimmer stood fixed, staring stonily from the dugout, a Grand Teutonic field marshal in double-knits. Bill Lee was doing some yoga stretches in the bullpen, singing Hindu chants from the Bhagavad Gita. The lights from downtown Boston flickered off past right field in the glare of ballpark floodlights, the green monster stood impassive.

It was real, too. Bobby certainly hadn't ingested any LSD-25, and as far as anyone knows, beer isn't known to have any hallucinogenic properties. He wasn't dreaming, pipe or otherwise, and he knew he was too conscious as he scratched the compelling itch under his jock strap.