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Michael
A.Clark |
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When
is a hole in the wall not a hole in the wall? When it is
The Whole in One Ball Field's Concession Stand. I wanted to publish this
story before I got to the bottom of the first page.
A picture formed in my mind of the Little League
field in winter, and I was hooked. I also like the
over-fifty point of view. Add
three finely drawn characters faced with an
unfathomable mystery, and you have a
compelling short story worth the read. Michael A.
Clark lives in Charlotte, NC, and works in industrial
automation while spending as much time as he can
outdoors. He grew up in Sharpsville, PA and graduated
with a BS in Geology from Edinboro State College. He has
worked as a butcher's assistant, radio newscaster, soils
engineer, and Regional Sales Manager. Clark likes
baseball and writes short stories and music because
that's what he does. Editor's Disclaimer In general we don't allow explicit language and sexual references in our publication because of our Young Adult audience, but frankly I think the story loses a lot of its flavor without it, so I am including this language/political correctness disclaimer. Use your own discretion.
-- 4 Star Stories Co-Editor
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The Hole in One Ball Field's Concession Stand By Michael A. Clark
The wolf-gray March wind whipped around the Little League concession stand, sending pebbles skittering over the gravel parking lot surrounding the concrete-block building. An ancient scoreboard tacked on two rusted pipes beyond the centerfield fence clacked in the stiff breeze. “Can’t believe we used to play baseball in weather like this,” I said. “Yeah,” Pat replied. “Bat stung like hell when you got jammed.” The naked trees between the field and the vacant houses facing Tamarack Road bent, then groaned erect. A line of snow flurries was approaching from the Ohio state line. “Well, guys.” Burt pointed. “There it is.” The Hole. “Polanski’s kid found it,” said Burt, as he kicked at the crushed stone across from the drinking fountain (shut off for the winter to save the pipes from freezing). A flight of geese honked overhead. “Said he came by here last night, and...” “What was Polanski’s kid doing here?” asked Pat. He’d been promoted to Chief of the Township’s three-man police squad when Norm Robinson retired after 30 years on the force. I remembered Old Norm busting our keg parties when we were teenagers. Never thought Pat would be filling his boots one day. “I dunno. Getting drunk, looking for chicks, playing video games,” replied Burt. “Whatever the hell kids do these days.” “YOU got a couple. What do they do?” asked Pat. “Whatever they wanna do,” said Burt. “Now will you two look at the damn Hole?” And that’s what it was, a damn Hole. Right on the side of the old, two-story building. Utter black, round edge perfectly delineated against the faded cinder blocks. It looked about a yard or so wide, and I got the impression that it tilted down at about a 30-degree angle from its … mouth. “Don’t get too close, Robbie,” said Burt, his voice tight. I put my hand out, a couple feet away from the Hole’s opening. “Robbie …” “It’s okay. I just wanted to see …” I was glad Burt didn’t want me to get any closer. Pat backed away a few feet and picked up a stone from the balding driveway. He flipped it towards the center of the Hole. Our eyes watched the chunk of gravel break the invisible plane at the Hole’s mouth. And disappear. Just like that. “Christ,” said Pat. “That’s what Polanski’s kid said.” Burt moved around the front of the Hole, a gust of wind ruffling his worn jacket. “Said he tossed a couple rocks and a beer can into it. Freaked him out.” “So where did that rock go?” asked Pat. “You’re asking me?” I stared at the Hole in the wall. A patch of soft light rubbed through the clouds above for a moment, and the wind died down. A sparrow chirped, and the world looked a bit brighter. A truck drove past the barren trees hunched around the entrance to the Township’s aging baseball complex. Faint shadows crept by, hugging us for warmth. “Well, you’re the fucking scientist.” The light ebbed, the shadows fled, but the Hole was still there. The wind picked up again. “Not exactly.” I said. Pat and I were pot-smoking acquaintances in high school. He was the best baseball player in town, not so good academically. A year or two after graduating, he wound up getting Kathy Susi pregnant and having a kid. Now Pat was the law around here. He still looked like he could throw 90 miles an hour. “Scientist, engineer ... Hell, whatever,” said Burt. “Ever seen anything like this?” The first flakes of winter’s last snowfall pirouetted towards us. “Nope.” I hadn’t felt this cold in years. And I wasn’t an engineer anymore, until I got a new job. Which at age 50-something might not be anytime soon. “Okay. Polanski’s kid comes by doing something last night, I don’t care what.” Pat whipped out a small notepad from his coat pocket and started writing. “The kid says he noticed … that,” Pat pointed his pen towards the Hole. “And tossed a few things into it. How long before you got here to take a look?” “Polanski called me this morning, and said his kid was pretty freaked out about something he saw at the ball field.” Burt shivered. “I came over and … kinda didn’t know what to do. You don’t see a fucking Hole in the side of a building every day. So, I got a cup of coffee at the Township building...” Pat nodded. “And Jan down at the Lock & Stock Barrel said Robbie was in town and she had his mom’s number, so I thought I’d …” “Call
Einstein in to figure it out?”
Pat was really milking this cop gig.
“Did you throw anything into it?” I asked Burt. “Well, yeah. I picked up a stone, just like Pat did, and tossed it in. Same thing happened. Then I took an old golf club out of my trunk and -” “You were going to stick it in there,” said Pat. “Pat, this thing’s freaking me out,” Burt said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets hard. “I mean what the fuck! A goddamn Hole in the side of a building, like some weird-ass cartoon. But it’s fucking there, and when you throw something in it just disappears. That doesn’t freak you out?” “I’m trying not to get freaked out, Burt.” said Pat. “Maybe if you try shooting it …” “Burt, I’m not going to shoot it.” “You’re a cop! You got a gun …” “Let’s not shoot the Hole, guys,” I said, edging closer to the side of the concession stand. The Hole looked stable – it didn’t seem to have grown or shrunk since we’d arrived. Its pure black was mesmerizing. Like looking over the side of a narrow bridge crossing a deep canyon. Perspective seemed to fade, and there was just the Hole and me and the chilly world outside. “Robbie. Don’t stare in the Hole.” “It’s okay.” If Burt had stuck his golf club into that thing, what would have happened? “Alright,” said Pat. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on here. And I don’t know who to ask about it. I call Frank Mistretta at the State Police and he’s gonna say ‘There’s a what in the side of the what?’” He stuffed his notepad into the inside pocket of his coat. “No shitting around, Robbie. You got any idea what this is?” “I don’t,” I said, watching carefully as light snow floated down. The flakes closest to the perfect blackness of the Hole’s yawning mouth were almost imperceptibly curving into that empty space, and vanishing. “But I think when we find out, it’s not going to be good.” ### “Pretty fucking weird, ain’t it?” said Burt. I stared at the blocky old monitor atop the phone book on his office desk. It looked like it belonged in Dr. McCoy’s sick bay on the original Starship Enterprise. Funny how the future looked to people back then. All gleaming plastic, clean and efficient. “Yeah,” I said. The real future hadn’t turned out that way. I had an odd feeling in my stomach. A Hole appearing in the side of a building ... What time was it in Zurich now? I typed on the grimy keyboard. “I thought about googling it, but what would I ask for?” said Burt. I’d gone to college to be a scientist, but came out an engineer. So, I went to work for a company that built stuff instead of doing research in a laboratory. Classified work on satellite-ground targeting systems for Harris Systems in Melbourne, Florida, then to NASA at Cape Canaveral supporting the Hubble Project. “I mean, if I typed in ‘Hole’, what would I get?” Burt lit a cigarette. After funding for that non-warfare-related program dried up, I went back to Harris. Three months ago, the company’s new CEO ordered a round of layoffs, and the gray ceiling came crashing down on me. And now I was back home in Sharpsville, Pennsylvania. “‘Hole in the side of a building’?” Burt was halfway through his crumbled pack of Marlboros. “Some kind of home-repair video?” “When’d you start smoking?” I asked, frowning at the dusty screen. “Since I got divorced. Google ‘Hole’. What the hell would you get?” “I don’t know. A link to Courtney Love’s website?” “Is that some porn star?” The Township building’s internet connection didn’t rate as “high-speed”, but I finally got to Ferran’s MySpace page. I clicked Update Status and typed from memory the access password he’d given me into the toolbar. We’d been grad students at Georgia Tech together and crossed paths again while I was at NASA. Ferran’s career had gone far better than mine. He was a big player at the CERN Hadron supercollider project. Surprisingly, he’d said this was the most secure way to contact him. “She was married to the dead guy from Nirvana.” “Oh, yeah.” Burt took another drag. A portal, simple and direct, opened on screen. I typed in a brief description of what I’d seen at the ball field. “Would you say the Hole was about the same size as when you first saw it?” I asked Burt. “Damn thing looks about the same,” he said. “But I didn’t feel like putting a tape measure to it.” Event horizon dimensions appear stable I typed. Why didn’t I take some pictures of it? Burt’s archaic computer didn’t have a USB port to upload the shots. I will send photos when possible. Quality will probably be poor. I could hear Burt pouring another cup of the battery acid he brewed into his Steelers coffee mug. Ferran, what are the chances of this being related to the artificially generated quantum singularity you discussed in that paper you presented at the International Physics conference in Stockholm last year? Have you continued working on how an event could occur? And how could we deal with such an event if it DID?’ I hit Send and then wondered if he still had my phone number. “We need to go back and take some pictures of the Hole,” I said. “I’ll call Pat and tell him to meet us back there,” said Burt. He sipped his coffee and looked at me. “Maybe he ought to set up a barricade or something, to keep people away from it ...” “That’s not a bad idea.” Ferran was researching the possibility of sub-quantum particle experiments (like CERN’s) generating tears in the space/time fabric. If that’s what was happening here … Burt pulled his old hunting jacket on. “You getting any ideas on what it is?” “Maybe,” I said. “Don’t forget to bring a tape measure this time.”
###
Pat was waiting for us at the ball field. His police cruiser’s trunk was open, and he was digging out a thick roll of celluloid tape when we pulled in. “Thought I should close off the field for the time being until we figure out what we’re dealing with here,” he said, as he loosened the “Caution Do Not Cross” tape’s end. “We were thinking the same thing.” “I’ll say a water main broke or something, and that’ll be good for a day or two,” said Burt. The snow flurries had passed. Off to the north, the Brookfield Dairy grain silos loomed, and the gnarled crabapple trees behind the Senior Division outfield fence hunkered like goblins awaiting prey. “They already had Little League tryouts this week,” said Pat. “But Girls Softball is supposed to start Monday, right? I got to know something before I can let anybody in here.” He looked around the three rundown ball fields that made up the complex, then back at the Hole. “You come up with anything yet, Robbie?” “Not quite,” I said, walking towards the Hole in the concession stand. Gravel crunched under our feet. “Who was that guy you emailed?” asked Burt. He had a Stanley FatMax in hand, but I figured I’d be the one doing the measuring. “An old friend from when I worked at NASA,” I said, immediately feeling guilty about namedropping. We were all old enough to remember the moon shots from when we were kids. “Does he know any astronauts?” asked Burt. “Yeah, I’ll bet he does.” “Do you know any astronauts?” “I’ve met a couple. They all look like accountants.” We stopped before the Hole. I took a couple quick, futile shots with my aged flip Nokia. Pat had a camera, which he used in an efficient, workmanlike way. Burt pulled the end of the measuring tape out of its housing. His hands were shaking. “I’ll do it,” I said. “You don’t happen to have a magnifying glass or anything, do you Pat?” “I got this,” he said, producing a small lens in a retractable housing from his coat pocket. “Five-X power. Will that help?” “You came prepared,” I said. “Always do.” Pat rolled his thick shoulders. I knelt to the right of the Hole, focusing the lens on the curved perimeter around the gaping blackness. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. A dog barked, far off in the cold wind. “Heard you busted Lonsinger for DUI,” said Burt, lighting another cigarette. The paint was gently flaking off the concrete wall, near as I could tell. Tiny pink and gray specks were slowly rolling into the yawning Hole and disappearing. “Yeah, I had to. Christ, was he fucked up,” Pat snorted. “Ran up over the curb on Ridge by St. Bart’s and almost hit a fire hydrant. Old Norm would’ve chewed Daryl out and driven him home. These days you gotta arrest ‘em, or the MADDs and the D.A.’s office will give you hell.” If the paint was being sucked off the wall into the Hole, wouldn’t the next logical step be for the wall to be sucked in? “You know he’s been banging Augie Delfratte’s daughter,” said Pat. “Augie’s daughter?” said Burt. “Is she outta high school?” “A couple years, yeah.” And after the wall got sucked in, what then? “Lonsinger always was good with chicks,” said Burt. “Wish I was banging some twenty-something right now.” “You and me both,” said Pat. “What are you seeing there, Robbie?” “Not sure,” I said. “How long ago was this painted?” “Probably in the last five years,” said Burt. Another flight of geese honked on by. After tucking Pat’s magnifying lens into my pocket, I pulled open the tape measure. Gingerly, I extended it across the mouth of the Hole. I half expected the thin metal to start twitching in my hands. “It’s bigger, Robbie,” said Burt. “Huh?” “It looks … bigger than it did yesterday.” I glanced back at him. An old man in a worn jacket staring at something bizarre that he couldn’t understand. Worrying about his job, his alimony payments, and his mortgage. Like a million other guys our age. But Burt was standing in front of a Hole to nowhere. And so was I. How did I look to him? “Pat, can you take this down?” I asked, steadying the tape in front of the Hole. Pat whipped out his notepad. “Yeah.” “Thirty-nine & 2/10ths inches across horizontally.” I shifted the tape, reorienting it up and down. Did the thin metal bow a little in the middle? “Thirty-nine & 2/10ths inches across vertically.” I held the tape measure right before the gapping maw. “Looks like a perfect circle to me.” “Yeah. It does,” said Pat. I saw Burt nod out of the corner of my eye. And I felt something, just a tiny twinge in the tape measure. I snapped the tape back into its rugged housing. Pausing a moment, I pulled back out about a foot of tape and tentatively pointed its angled end towards the Hole. “Robbie…” The burnished-steel lip of the tape measure wobbled towards the opening of the Hole. I held the FatMax’s housing firmly with one hand while keeping a light touch on the thin tape itself, right around the 13-inch mark. The front of the tape nosed into the Hole, and I let it. In a flash, the tape slid out of its cast-metal housing, sizzling into the hypnotic well of the Hole. I grabbed the FatMax with both hands as Burt shouted, “ROBBIE! Let it go!” I fought the urge, wanting to know how much force was sucking this down. The tape wound out way too fast. “Damn it, Robbie! Let it go!” Thin metal spun, burnt steel sizzling in the air. The FaxMax bucked in my hand. But I held on. “Drop it, Robbie!” shouted Pat, in his most authoritative voice. And then I did, but the FaxMax’s body never hit the ground. Without a sound the tape measure’s case went into the void. That dog howled again, right on cue. “Goddamn,” said Pat. “This is fucked up,” Burt muttered. “This is just fucked up …” I rubbed my fingers together. Yeah, it was. “Where the hell did it GO?” asked Burt. He looked about to cry. “It’s okay, Burt,” Pat said. We all knew it wasn’t. A candy bar wrapper faded by the elements drifted on the wind towards the Hole. It rolled over and up … and was gone. “Robbie …” “Easy, Burt,” said Pat, not sounding that much more stable. You didn’t need a physics degree to figure out that if tape measures and candy wrappers got sucked into the Hole, bigger stuff could follow. “Okay.” I needed to think but didn’t know about what. “Let’s try figuring out what we’ve got here so far.” “A fucking Hole that’s gonna suck us all to Hell!” “Burt! We’re not gonna get sucked to Hell!” Pat fingered his radio mike and then dropped his fingers to his holster. “We’re going to stabilize the situation. We’re going to report to the proper authorities. And we’re going to keep our heads on straight!” Burt swallowed weakly. “Okay … right, Pat.” My cellphone rang. We all jumped at the tinny buzzing. With numb hands, I flipped open the screen. An international number … I put it to my ear. “Robbie! It is Ferran! How are you?” His voice was surprisingly clear. “Ah, okay, Ferran,” I replied. “You got my message?” “What kinda name is ‘Ferran’?” whispered Pat. “Something foreign?” Burt whispered back. “Yes, my friend, I did.” Ferran sounded like he was standing right next to me. I guessed he was using a better carrier than Verizon. “I am very needing some specific details on the phenomena you did described. What is the possibility you can view this event soon?” “Well, I’m about six feet in front of it right now,” I said. “What do you need me to tell you?” A moment of silence, then Ferran’s voice dropped. “Please back your distance from the event by a factor of at least three.” “Okay.” I eased back from the black circle, Burt and Pat moving with me. “We’re about 20 feet from the aperture, Ferran,” I said. “About six meters ... We?” “I’m here with two old friends from high school. Pat’s the local police chief and Burt is the township supervisor.” I wondered why I’d introduced them. Because if something bad happened, there would be a record of their names? “There are no others present?” “We’re on a baseball field in Western Pennsylvania. It’s been snowing, and no one’s here but us.” “Baseball … a sports complex? Please to describe the appearance and any unusual occurrences you’ve observed recently.” I went through a short rundown of what I’d witnessed, as Pat and Burt nervously looked on. The wind ebbed around us. “Thank you, Robbie. There is only so much I can talk of over this … line.” Even through my cellphone I could tell he was in a large room. And not alone. “Understood, Ferran. Is this a phenomenon like I asked about earlier?” “No. It is not a quantum singularity. You can trust the men by your side?” A direct and not entirely unexpected question. “Yes.” I said. “What can you tell me about what we’re looking at?” “This not a minute black hole or rip in space/time continuum. You are looking at a communications portal. Any material through its aperture transmits information. Robbie, please be very careful about what does flow into the opening.” “Why?” “Your close proximity to the portal means you are a determinator of what The Others learn about us.” “’The Others’?” My voice rose. “I am sorry, but I cannot elaborate further details now. About which you are doubtlessly curious. I am with our team of specialists here.” There was crosstalk I couldn’t make out. Pat and Burt were shivering, pawing the cold gravel. Afraid. So was I. “There are planning’s for a rapid response to your location … but diplomatic matters need arrangement. Carefully please listen, my friend.” “Okay, Ferran.” “If your friends are in positions of authority there, please inform this is a potential dangerous event. No one else should be allowed near to the Portal. If there a way to …” There was more cross talk across the airwaves behind Ferran’s voice. “If there be a way to … restrict the Portal from random materials entering, please make it so.” “You want us to keep anything else from going into the Hole?” “We wish the Others to have a limited knowledge of our environment before we can understand how best to engage in interactive communication. I am sorry for the nebulous discussing, Robbie. But you may have a stronger grasp of the issues involved here then … how do you say? The average bear?” “Ferran, what can you tell me about what we’re dealing with here?” “Not enough to satisfy you I am afraid, my friend. But I can say other similar events have been recently reported. You are in a location with good cellular access, and relatively stable politics. This is beneficial.” Relatively stable politics … More cross talk in the background, as frigid air folded towards The Hole. I shook my head. Air doesn’t fold. “What if something comes out of It?” Burt asked. “Damn good question,” said Pat, his hand on his pistol. “Maybe we can put a tarp over it …?” “I don’t think a tarp will do the trick, Burt.” “There’s an 8 x 8 tarp at the Township Building,” Burt said. “It’s pretty thick. That might cover...” “Burt …” Slush-colored sky flowed slowly above us. “Is this Portal a one-way opening, Ferran?” “The situation is difficult for all of us to understand, Robbie. Many things may go wrong if mistakes will be made.” He hadn’t answered my question. My cellphone shook in my frozen hand. “Ferran,” I asked. “What if those “Others” try to send something through our way?” “I mean, if we tether it with some lag bolts and …” “Burt! We’re not gonna try tarping over the Hole!” “Guys,” I said, pulling the cellphone from my frostbitten ear. “I don’t know what is going on here. I don’t know if my friend I’m talking to does either. But I do know this is serious shit. And we gotta keep ours together.” Pat looked at me and nodded. Burt shivered again. “Right, Robbie. Christ, this is fucked up.” “Yeah,” said Pat. “But, we gotta keep our shit together.” He stared at the Hole like a boxer steeling for a punch. “Robbie!” Ferran’s voice croaked from the phone pressed in my waist. “Yeah, Ferran?” I replied. “We have some diplomatic arrangement for a team to arrive at your locale. But it will be a quarantine situation, and very problematic.” High-pressure murmurings, half a world away. How different that world was, only a day ago. My personal problems were so important ... “What do you need us to do?” I asked Ferran. “We need to be calm, and … accepting the changing situations as best you can.” “Okay,” I said, unrelieved. “We’ll do the best we can.” There was a deep rumble from The Hole. Then it bulged out from the concession stand. The building trembled; and then The Hole returned to its flat, gaping position. Bert and Pat backed away; Pat drawing his Glock. I thought how useless that display of human force would be to … The Hole rumbled out again, longer and firmer … “Pat! No!” A shot rang out. The Hole paused, air swirling around its intrusion into our planet. Then the alien disturbance spit the bullet out, falling with a thin ‘tink’ on the crushed stone ground. The Hole retracted again, not as far. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…” “Shut up, Burt!” Pat looked up at me from his semi-squatting firing pose. “So what the hell do we do now?” “Robbie, is there a disturbance happening?” “You could say that, Ferran,” I replied. The Holes appeared across the globe, and much fell into them before The Others came out. And things changed very quickly. Whether or not The Others meant to disrupt our way of life, They did. Holes sucked out Lake Erie and the Eiffel Tower. The Mississippi River dried to a trickle, and the Sinai Peninsula turned into a mangrove swamp. And so Burt, Pat and I found that our Little League complex had become the epicenter of a decidedly one-way conversation between us subjects, and our new masters.
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