Magic Time. W. Kinsella P.
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‘What do you figure he does?’ whispered Byron.
When I didn’t answer quickly enough he went on. ‘A banker, I bet – or an undertaker, maybe.’
‘He’s suntanned,’ I said, ‘and bankers have short hair.’ The big brother pointing out the obvious to the little brother. ‘And look at his hands.’
The knuckles were scarred, the fingers callused.
‘What then?’
‘Howdy, boys,’ the stranger said, and raised his glass to us. His voice was deep and soft.
‘Hi,’ we said.
‘I see you’re ballplayers.’ He nodded toward our gloves, which rested on the floor by the chair legs. ‘Is there much baseball played in these parts?’
The question was like opening a floodgate. We told him about everything from Little League to the high-school team I played for, to the commercial leagues where the little towns, subdivisions, and bedroom communities competed, to the Cubs and White Sox in nearby Chicago.
1 ended the baseball lecture saying, ‘My brother doesn’t play much baseball, at least not the way I do. I’m gonna play pro some day.’
‘How did your team do this year?’ he asked me, not in the patronizing way most adults have, but speaking with a genuine interest.
‘Well,’ I said, a little embarrassed, ‘last year we went to the State Championships, but this season we were two and nineteen. But we’re really a lot better ball club than that,’ I rushed on before he could interrupt – or laugh, as most adults did when I announced our dismal record.
‘I keep statistics,’ I said. ‘We scored more runs than any team in the league. We’re good hitters and average fielders, but we didn’t have anyone who could pitch. A bad team gets beat seventeen to two. We’d get beat seventeen to fourteen, nineteen to twelve, eighteen to sixteen.’
‘They’re really good hitters, especially Mike here,’ Byron broke in. ‘Mike’s gonna make it to the Bigs.’
‘I practice three hours a day all year round,’ I said. ‘I’m a singles hitter. A second-base man. I walk a lot and steal a lot.’
‘If you’re good you’ll make it,’ the stranger said.
‘You look like you might be a player yourself,’ I said.
‘I’ve pitched a few innings in my day,’ he said, with what I recognized as understatement, and he made his way, in two long strides, to our table.
‘The thought struck me that you boys might like another dish of ice cream. Since you’re sharing I assume your budget is tight.’
‘You’ve had a good thought,’ said Byron.
‘I notice my lemonade cost seventy-five cents, as does a dish of ice cream. I might be willing to make a small wager.’
‘What kind?’ we both asked, staring up at him.
‘Well now, I’m willing to bet I can tell you the exact distance in miles between any two major American cities.’
‘How far is it from Algonquin to Peoria?’ Byron asked quickly.
‘Algonquin, at least, is not a major American city,’ said the stranger gently, ‘but I did notice as I was driving that the distance from DeKalb to Peoria was 118 miles, so you just add the distance from DeKalb to Algonquin.’ Byron looked disappointed.
‘What I had in mind, though, were large cities. Chicago, of course, would qualify, so would Des Moines, St. Louis, Kansas City, New Orleans, Los Angeles, Seattle, Dallas, and, if you insist,’ and he smiled in a quick and disarming manner at Byron, ‘I’ll throw in Peoria.’
‘How far from New York to Chicago?’ I asked.
‘Exactly 809 miles,’ said the stranger.
‘How do we know you’re not making that up?’ I said.
‘A good question. Out in my car I have a road atlas, and inside it is a United States mileage chart. If one of you boys would like to get it …’
As he spoke he reached a large hand into a side pocket and withdrew his keys. I had grabbed them and was halfway across the room before Byron could untangle his feet from the chair legs.
The interior of the car was still cool from the air conditioning. It smelled of leather and of lime after-shave. There was nothing in sight except a State Farm road atlas on the front seat. The very neatness of the car told a lot about its owner, I thought: methodical, the type of man who would care about distances.
I carried the atlas into the café, where the stranger was now seated across the table from Byron.
‘Let’s just check out New York to Chicago,’ he said. ‘There’s always a chance I’m wrong.’
He turned to the United States mileage chart, and all three of us studied it. There were eighty cities listed down the side of the chart, and sixty names across the top. Where the two names intersected on the chart was the mileage between them.
‘Yes, sir, 809 miles, just as I said.’
The stranger put a big, square fingertip down on the chart at the point where New York and Chicago intersected.
I noticed the stranger had a lantern jaw. He was also more muscular than I would have guessed, his shoulders square as a robot’s. His eyes were golden.
I quickly calculated that there were nearly five thousand squares on the mileage chart. He can’t know them all, I thought.
‘Would either of you care to test me?’ he asked, as if reading my mind. He smiled. ‘By the way, my name’s Roger Cash.’
‘Mike Houle,’ I said. ‘And this is my kid brother, Byron.’
We were sharing the ice cream because we were saving for a Cubs’ home stand. Dad had promised to take us into the city every night as long as we could afford to buy our own tickets.
‘Well …’
‘No bets, then. Just name some places. Distances are my hobby.’
‘Omaha and New Orleans,’ I said.
‘Approximately 1,026,’ Roger Cash replied, after an appropriate pause.
We checked it, and he was right.
‘St. Louis to Los Angeles,’ said Byron.
‘Exactly 1,838 miles,’ said Roger.
Again he was right.
‘Milwaukee to Kansas City,’ I said.
‘One thousand, seven hundred and seventy-nine,’ he replied quickly.
We checked the chart.
‘Wrong!’ we chorused together. ‘It’s 1,797.’
‘Doggone,’ said Roger, grinning sheepishly, ‘sometimes I tend to reverse numbers. Seeing as how I couldn’t do it three times in a row, I’ll buy each of you men a dish of ice cream, or something larger if you want. A banana split? You choose.’
It wasn’t often we could afford top-of-the-line treats. I ordered a banana split with chopped almonds and chocolate sauce on all three scoops. Byron ordered a tall chocolate malt, thick as cement. Roger had another pink lemonade.
‘What made you memorize the mileage chart?’ I asked between mouthfuls of banana split.
‘Nothing made me,’ said Roger, leaning back and straightening out his legs. ‘I spend a lot of time traveling, a lot of nights alone in hotel and motel rooms. It passes the time, beats drinking or reading the Gideon Bible.
‘I’ve