To my surprise, the Birds are also not playing in Veterans Stadium, but at Lincoln Financial Field, just like Jake had said. Somehow they have built an entire stadium since last season, and I must have missed all the hype because I was stuck in the bad place. Still, something does not really seem right to me.
“Where is Lincoln Financial Field?” I try to ask nonchalantly when the commercials come on after the first series.
My father turns his head and stares at me but does not answer my question. He hates me. He looks repulsed, like it is a chore to sit in the family room watching the game with his mentally messed-up son.
“It’s in South Philadelphia, just like all the other stadiums,” my brother says too quickly. “Good crabby snacks, Mom.”
“Can you see Lincoln Financial Field from the Vet?” I ask.
“The Vet’s gone,” Jake says.
“Gone?” I ask. “What do you mean, gone?”
“March 21, 2004. Seven a.m. It fell like a house of cards,” my father says without looking at me, just before sucking an orange piece of meat from a chicken bone. “Over two years ago.”
“What? I was at the Vet just last …” I pause because I start to feel a little dizzy and nauseous. “What year did you just say?”
My father opens his mouth to speak, but my mother cuts him off, saying, “A lot has changed since you were away.”
Still, I refuse to believe the Vet is gone, even after Jake retrieves his laptop from his car and shows me a downloaded video of the Vet being imploded. Veterans Stadium—which we used to call the concrete doughnut—falls like a circle of dominoes, gray dust fills the screen, and it breaks my heart to see that place crumble, even though I suspect that what I am viewing is a computergenerated trick.
When I was a boy, my father took me to many Phillies games at the Vet, and of course there were all of the Eagles games with Jake, so it is hard to believe such a big monument to my childhood could be destroyed while I was in the bad place. The video ends, and I ask my mother if I can talk to her in the other room.
“What’s wrong?” she says when we reach the kitchen.
“Dr. Patel said that my new medication might make me hallucinate.”
“Okay.”
“I think I just saw Veterans Stadium demolished on Jake’s computer.”
“Honey, you did. It was demolished over two years ago.”
“What year is it?”
She hesitates, and then says, “Two thousand and six.”
That would make me thirty-four. Apart time would have been in progress for four years. Impossible, I think. “How do I know I am not hallucinating right now? How do I know you’re not a hallucination? You’re all hallucinations! All of you!” I realize I am screaming, but I can’t help it.
Mom shakes her head, tries to touch my cheek, but I swat her hand away and she starts crying again.
“How long was I in the bad place? How long? Tell me!”
“What’s going on in there?” my father yells. “We’re trying to watch the game!”
“Shhhh!” my mother says through tears.
“How long?” I yell.
“Tell him, Jeanie! Go ahead! He’s going to find out sooner or later!” my father yells from the family room. “Tell him!”
I grab my mother’s shoulders, shake her so her head wobbles all over, and yell, “How long?”
“Almost four years,” Jake says. I look back over my shoulder, and my brother is in the kitchen doorway. “Now let go of Mom.”
“Four years?” I laugh and let go of my mother’s shoulders. She covers her mouth with her hands, and her eyes are full of pity and tears. “Why are you guys playing jokes on—”
I hear my mother scream, I feel the back of my head hit the refrigerator, and then my mind goes blank.
I Fear Him More Than Any Other Human Being
After I returned to New Jersey, I thought I was safe, because I did not think Kenny G could leave the bad place, which I realize is silly now—because Kenny G is extremely talented and resourceful and a powerful force to be reckoned with.
I have been sleeping in the attic because it is so ferociously hot up here. After my parents go to bed, I climb the stairs, turn off the ventilation fan, slip into my old winter sleeping bag, zipper it up so only my face is exposed, and then sweat away the pounds. Without the ventilation fan running, the temperature climbs quickly, and soon my sleeping bag is drenched with perspiration and I can feel myself getting thinner. I had done this for several nights, and nothing strange or unusual happened at all.
But in the attic tonight I’m sweating and sweating and sweating, and through the darkness, suddenly I hear the sexy synthesizer chords. I keep my eyes closed, hum a single note, and silently count to ten, knowing that I am only hallucinating like Dr. Patel said I might, but Kenny slaps me across the face, and when I open my eyes, there he is in my parents’ attic, his curly mane of hair haloed like Jesus. The perfectly tanned forehead, that nose, that eternal five o’clock shadow and sharp jawline. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone so that you can see a little chest hair. Mr. G might not seem evil, but I fear him more than any other human being.
“How? How did you find me?” I ask him.
Kenny G winks at me and then puts his gleaming soprano sax to his lips.
I shiver, even though I am drenched in sweat. “Please,” I beg him, “just leave me alone!”
But he takes a deep breath and his soprano sax starts to sing the bright notes of “Songbird”—and immediately I’m upright in my sleeping bag, repetitively slamming the heel of my right hand into the little white scar above my right eyebrow, trying to make the music stop—Kenny G’s hips are swaying right before my eyes—with every brain jolt I’m yelling, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!”—the end of his instrument is in my face, pounding me with smooth jazz—I feel the blood rushing up into my forehead—Kenny G’s solo has reached a climax—bang, bang, bang, bang—