temporarily free from mental disturbance

March 16, 2024 by Steve Myers 10 Comments

Harry Stagginovitz took a long look in his sister’s eyes and despised the mascara so he turned away, turned away from the world, but then he turned back because it was the day their grandfather was to be buried and he needed to be there according to his mom even though he didn’t know his grandpa too well, just the legend, that during his last three years when delirium and depression and paranoia ruined his logical explanations of things, he still knew that old baseball games could bring him back to some semblance of himself – to Leonard Stagginovitz and he had hundreds and hundreds of baseball games, radio broadcasts, tapes and no one knew where he got them, but they were like medicine in that each one cured a different ailment and he knew which one to play to tackle the specific problem…
A 10-0 shutout with no homeruns stopped a depression episode.
A pitcher’s duel with plenty of errors mellowed his paranoia.
A game that ended in a walk-off resulted in him calling his wife “honey bee” again and she was already dead.

Harry wasn’t like his grandfather. He didn’t like baseball….didn’t know it….didn’t have a father so there was no catch, no baseball card gifts, no pilgrimage to the local stadium. He did however have a falcon hook of a nose, thick lips, long straight black hair and piercing blue eyes. And people took notice of him and Harry handled the attention quite well. He developed a strut and a provocative lean against a wall or tree that accentuated his features and melted a girl’s vows.

Father Three Springs knew Harry’s mother quite well and he told her to sedate Harry and have a vasectomy performed, an outrageous suggestion to make for an 18-year old boy especially for a mother who longed for grandchildren, but she agreed.

“We aren’t out of the woods yet,” he told Mrs. Stagginovitz. “His good looks might still ruin him.

And Father Three Springs was right. By the time Harry turned 19, he had already enjoyed a dozen lovers and showed no signs of letting up, fully embracing the notion to “accept loss forever” and so it was with a Julia one month followed by a Vanessa the next and so on, a new Trail of Tears as Harry’s lovers became tailpipe Annies as he zoomed away and Harry didn’t care. He made his intentions clear right from the git-go, to know as many people as possible and after the initial rush of intimacy, he lowered the temperature to platonic, but the world didn’t want that, couldn’t tolerate it, too light and free. Harry became an enemy of the people and this weighed on his wellbeing.

He began to hunch over and talk out loud when no one was around. He rejected Father Three Spring’s offer of a God who would listen, instead choosing to talk to strangers on the 2nd floor of the new McDonalds on 6th and Clem. It was there with his head down, he fell asleep and was in and out of dreams and one stayed with him, about shortening his family name from Stagginovitz to Stagg. He didn’t decipher dream symbols and their meanings too well, but that name Stagg had potential; it was American, canned food American, chili, a hint of the wild west and red granite peaks and saguaro cacti and big skies. Snakes. Sun. Starting over.

Harry bought a tent, sleeping bag, and butane-fueled hot plate and escaped to Moonshine Park and like Wade Boggs did with chicken; he enjoyed a can of Stagg Chili every day and as satisfying as it was, he began to look at everyone with suspicion.

One early spring day, a man in a long beige rain jacket and oversized dress pants walked up to the bench where Harry was sitting and skipped all “nice weather, how do you do” formalities, took a look at Harry from head to foot and said the word “potential,” and then excitedly continued to speak….”The Mariners are the only team that has never been in a World Series, not a one in their entire existence, but that doesn’t stop them and their fans and so a butterfly flaps its wings, a turtle takes another step and we best be moving onward too.”

“Where?” asked Harry.

“A surprise. You like surprises, don’t you? My name is Stanislaus but I’m no patron saint so just call me Stan. I’ll tell you this…when I watched Hoyt Wilhem and Wilbur Wood and Phil Niekro throw the knuckleball, I discovered what was happening right in front of me.”

“And what was that?”

“A butterfly in flight.”

Harry had never heard the names, but he liked the idea of a ball moving like a butterfly. He reached into his bag and removed a can of Stagg.

“You want to share a can,” he asked. “It’s Carolina Hot.”

And they shared a first supper of chili and Stan didn’t need a nap after eating.

“Now about that surprise,” said Stan. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To my car.”

It was a red fleetwood cadillac. Old. Big. Welcoming. Harry slipped into the passenger seat and off they went, in no particular direction.

“Roll down your window,” encouraged Stan. “I’ll turn on the radio. The game oughta be starting soon.”

Harry thought about his grandfather. The radio. The games. The tapes. The cure.