Sewer Cap Johnnie spotted her leaning against the front door of the Rosicrucian center. He watched as she flipped a cigarette onto the sidewalk and stomped it. Such a waste of fire, thought Sewer Cap Johnnie. If she would have let the damn cherry fade on its own, he would have scooped it up and smoked like it was the first cigarette of his life. The lady looked down at her red Chuck Taylor high tops and marched towards Boomer’s saloon, on a mission, a drinking one, a parched damsel in need of a glass of beer many drunk, thought Sewer Cap Johnnie, still under the influence of reading a western romance novel.
Sewer Cap Johnnie never lacked the desire to duck into Boomer’s, to drink and be at ease for some rib and ridicule, to share a little human misery, but he couldn’t enter. His armpits let loose a waterfall of sweat just thinking about it. Drinkers would stare at his hands as he struggled to find a place to hide them.
Sewer Cap Johnnie felt more alone in groups than he did at home, drinking a 12 pack of Pabst reading some science fiction book, but lately he’d switch to these western romances and began to daydream of endless rivers and mountain peaks and big skies and gangs of cowboys on horses and that thought once again creeped into his mind, of being part of a community, a tribe, something, anything outside his own mind and there were many choices, from vegetarian Buddhist brunches to bowling and softball teams, Catholic dance club, AA meetings, volleyball/karaoke bar nights and in a best case scenario – being part of a band and communicating without words, and now this Rosicrucian lady. He suddenly needed to know her like some lit-up mystic stripped down to his tightie whities on the church steps insisting to speak with Jesus so he made his way across the street.
The doors were just as Johnnie imagined, flapping wild west saloon doors, the way they couldn’t be back east because of the cold to the bone breezes. Sewer cap Johnnie sat down at the rail and looked at the booth behind him. There was a lady with lipstick and an older man wearing a cowboy hat. They were discussing the war in Gaza and climate change. Sewer Cap Johnnie took a deep breath, turned his head, and stared at the big booze bottles in the mirrored space behind the rail. It was quiet, only the hum of cool air pouring in from the vent. Shadows and sunlight were on the rail. The Rosicrucian lady was at the other end singing in whispers with her head back, eyes up at the ceiling like Valenzuela and beside her was a man with his hand on the rail shaking. She moved from chair to chair, getting closer and closer to Sewer Cap Johnnie who felt his hands shaking and speedy heart beats beginning. She was wearing large rings on many fingers and Sewer Cap Johnnie liked them because he liked gold and silver and aluminum. He collected cans, aluminum cans, all kinds of cans, from Blatz beer cans to Fresca soda cans.
“You one of them Rosicrucians, ain’t you?” mocked the bartender, his finger pointing at the lady, a half smile on his face. “I see it in your rings, see it in your face like some ancient symbols flashing there, right? A magic women with spells? Alright then bring out the incantations and miracles and let’s get this shindig seance rolling. I know I could use some good luck …we all could in here. Our Brewers have never won a World Series, more than 50 years and counting.”
“Well, aren’t you the greedy one,” snorted the lady, “asking for favors before ever finding out my name? And what’s this about Brewers? I’m no baseball maven, but don’t they play a million miles away in Milwaukee?”
“One point for you missy,” said the bartender. “We’re a bunch of Milwaukee expats that drink and commiserate here. So what’s your poison?”
“Jameson’s, no ice and why Boomers?”
“On the house,” said the bartender. “We call it Boomers after George C. Scott, not the actor though he does share the same middle initial C, but this is about the late great baseball player George Charles Scott, also known as “Boomer,” first baseman, played for the Brewers and Red Sox, a big man, a decent home run man and he could also field with the best of them.
“So do you wanna know my name or not?” she asked.
Sewer Cap Johnnie raised his hand, not too familiar with the custom of how to order a drink.
“This ain’t no classroom son,” said the bartender. “Speak up. What do you want?”
“A Pabst if you got one?” he asked and then shoved his hands under the rail.
“Well, if no one is gonna ask,” said the lady. “I’ll tell you. My name is Sally Roundtree.
Sewer Cap Johnnie knew the name, had heard the rumors, that she could talk to strangers she’d been introduced to or who she introduced herself to and she was always looking to get beyond awkward introductions, for the conversation to go on forever extra innings. And it wasn’t a sex thing. She was just out for connection and didn’t care if the guy was married or the girl was married. Some called her harlot, jezebel or abraxas and those not prone to ancient definitions called her bitch, slut, or goddess, and they said it to her face and that made her even more certain of her uncertainty over who she was and what she was becoming.
“And you?” she said while putting her arm on Sewer Cap Johnnie’s shoulder causing both his legs to shake. “What song would you like to hear on the jukebox?”
Sewer cap Johnnie looked down and wondered if she had magic words to make him happy. He still hadn’t looked at her eyes, only at her fingers and the rings. He considered leaving his Pabst and fleeing, but it was too late, he had already smelled her perfume and it reminded him of nothing so no memory prison. He was free to think whatever he wanted.
“Donavan’s Sssssss…Season of the Witch,” stuttered Sewer Cap Johnnie, surprised by his certainty and disgusted and embarrassed by the predictability of his choice, asking a lady with rings on her fingers to play a song about witches, but he said it again, “Donavan’s Sssssss…Season of the Witch,” and then he looked at her naked arm and there was a tattoo of some kind of flying dinosaur.
“My sister did the tattoo. Do you like it? I have two brothers and three sisters and a cutlery set heirloom handed down by my grandmother.”
Sewer Cap Johnnie took a swig from his glass of Pabst and suddenly, unexpectedly, realized that a heart attack, stroke, or choking on a shard of broken beer glass was always imminent so he cleared his throat.
“Yes, I like the tattoo. I like dinosaurs and see no problem with creation and evolution existing side by side.
The bartender filled a shot of Jameson’s and slid it towards Sewer Cap Johnnie.
Sally Roundtree put her hand back on Sewer Cap Johnnie’s shoulder and told him about the house she bought, how she knocked down the walls and how people lived there and did whatever they wanted, each paying what they could for rent and what a carnival it became with painters, plumbers, insurance salesman, married couples, writers, newspaper delivery men….
“you should come join us…”
and with that she raised her arms, waved them back and forth like a Pentecostal devotee and then slipped Sewer Cap Johnnie a card with her address. She downed her glass of Jamesons and danced her way out the western saloon doors.
Sewer Cap Johnnie stood up straight in his chair and knew he was there, in the bar, doing it, drinking with the fellas and a bartender and surviving, shipwrecked on a new land. He ripped up Sally Roundtree’s card and let the pieces fall to the floor. He then reached into his coat pocket, removed three cards and slid them across the rail.
The bartender watched as each one came into focus and his head moved slowly, from one card to the other – a Jackson Chourio, Tyler Black and Robert Gasser, three minor league Brewer’s that could crack the 2024 major league roster. The bartender knew about Chourio’s power speed potential and Black’s incredible OB%, his walk totals for such a young player and he knew about Gasser’s hits + walks/innings pitched ratio and strikeout totals.
The bartender poured a pitcher of Pabst, set up two glasses and walked around the rail and asked,
“What’s your name son?”
“Sewer Cap Johnnie.”
brewers baseball and things 