As you cross a street, your eyes suddenly focus on the bright orange hand indicating either that you're walking against the light, or soon will be...So why haven't you ever seen that hand in that way before? Its outline is so clear, its digits so well articulated.
Aha! That is what's wrong with it! It is a perfect hand, in the sense that proportionality represents perfection.
Who has a perfect hand?
Not me. I bear genetically determined hands that are arranged with a slight but noticeable curvature of the pointer and pinky. To a lesser degree my middle finger just slightly lists, thus should I flip somebody off, I do so ever so slightly crookedly.
Maybe that means that I don't really mean it? I have to admit that I've uttered the phrase "Fuck you!" very few times in my life, and I suspect I meant it very sincerely in the moment.
But, with me, at least, anger almost always passes quickly, to be replaced by a desire to reconnect, to stay connected no matter what. I try to listen to friends, but often when they give me advice, I tune it out for a while. Searing my memory tonight are several occasions when friends told me someone was taking advantage of me, and that I had to learn how to "stand up" for myself.
Who knows why, but that is what sparked my obsession with the perfect hand tonight, I think.
There were plenty of distractions. I was hustling home to catch the end of the Giants' game (they lost, but Barry Bonds hit HR #735. At this rate, he'll catch Hank Aaron's major league record (755) before the All Star break.
I truly think the drama surrounding Bonds, Aaron, and Ruth -- the three greatest power hitters in mainstream American baseball history -- is Shakespearean in complexity. (I refer here to his popular and gaudy plays, not his literature -- the sonnets).
In the old and only partially documented Negro Leagues, an equally great home run hitter lives on in old people's memory. His name was Josh Gibson. No one knows how many round-trippers Gibson hit; according to legend it was "nearly" 800, but lack of firm statistical records and the informality of the Negro League seasons defies comparison with the anally retentive National Pastime.
Gibson, like Ruth, was the kind of person whose exploits inspired legends.
Many variations of the following story have circulated since the 1930s:
In the last of the ninth at Pittsburgh, down a run, with a runner on base and two outs, Gibson hit one so high and deep, so far into the twilight sky that it disappeared from sight, apparently winning the game.
The next day, the same two teams were playing again, now in Philly. Just as the teams have positioned themselves on the field, a ball came falling out of the sky and a Philadelphia outfielder grabbed it. The umpire yelled to Gibson, "You're out! In Pittsburgh, yesterday!"
According to Wikipedia, In early 1943, Josh Gibson fell into a coma and was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He refused the option of surgical removal, and lived the next four years with recurring headaches. Gibson died of a stroke in 1947, at age 35, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, just three months before Jackie Robinson became the first black player in modern major league history. The stroke is generally believed to be linked to drug problems that plagued his later years.
Like I said, all of this came to me as I found myself gazing at that perfect orange hand, blazing in a spring night, along a street seldom traveled after dark. I had just left the old Herbst Theatre, since tonight, naturally, was "Spring Festival."
I went to it, and returned from it, quite alone. But, while there, I blew kisses to my three little performers, and stared at the chandeliers overhead, recalling other visits, a long time ago, to writers talking about writing, in a time both more idealistic and therefore less realistic than the present era.
The older me is more vigilant, apparently, better able to avoid being "taken advantage of." His heart is lined with scar tissue, his face bears the signs of a life filled with more ups and downs than a trampoline.
Only my hands remain almost magically vital (in my eyes). They may be wrinkling, splotching, and their veins stand out as never happens to youthful hands. But these hands know what they are doing, whether tapping this keyboard, emphasizing a point in conversation or stroking the body of a lover.
They grip the wheel of my car, guiding us to our destination safely. They can throw a ball true to its destination, wrench open any bottle cap, and grasp the hands of another if she or he is in pain. They send signals across a crowded auditorium or a sports field.
Me and my kids all know the language they speak.
It's the language of true love.
-30-
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