Oooh! Aaaaah!! Lyndsey Pattison had no idea an Astros-Padres game could be so exciting. Maybe that cute, hunky Mr. Street may have been a factor, but what the hey. Loomis loomed large in her thoughts, and perhaps her breathless demeanor was a combination of fatigue, confusion and euphoric recall–
Hadn’t Lyndsey been an outstanding softballer on the Northwood High girls’ squad, back when?
“Loomis, Oh dear God, where art thou, Loomie…” If only Lyndsey knew, but an odd quirk was about to glean a better idea was to where this dude was. A seagull from the Ship Channel dive-bombed her, and snatched the cheap straw sun hat from her frazzled honey- ponytailed head.
Lyndsey stumbled out the overpass from Minute Maid Park, muttering like the pert, pixelated mad woman she had become– “Aughh! Like that execrable SQUAWKING CHICKEN in Buras, now it’s a Dog-gone GULL! Aaaughh- I DETEST these dirty BIRDS!”
Behind the stadium on Yarborough Lane, were a pair of sagging, tar paper covered lean-to shacks that had apparently evaded the massive slum clearance so prevalent in Houston.
“Gosh, it is HOT,”Lyndsey moaned, and nearly flung herself into the smaller, teepee-like structure she nearest her wobbling gait. An odd rush of cool air caught her full, and now she sank without too much effort into a squishy gold sofa. A tinkling, wind-chime sound caught her attention, and without warning a tanned, dainty lady in heavy makeup and sporting a lavender bejeweled towel/turban stood over her.
“Velcome. I am Madam Brazoa, and I knew youm be heah,or should I say–”
Here, Madam flashed a cell phone whose screen was now alit with strange characters– yet fully
familiar to our squirrelly social worker in distress–”Ah, should I say the RECORDS showed me you vere coming by..for a veesit, my deah..”
“Omigosh,” sputtered Miss Pattison, quite nonplussed. “The AKASHIC RECORDS! Those damnable THINGS foretold that–”
“Yas. Dis is right,” purred the turbaned soothsayer. “The camp Town Races, Dooh-Dah… Do you know, vat diss meanss, my deah.”
“Well I probably should, but I do not-”
“In New York City, there is another baseball man player. By de nime of Doo-Dah. “Luks Du-Dah!”
Lyndsey’s eyes got pie-plate wide. “Another Ball player? But what about Loomis.My LOOMIS!”
“Yass,” Madam Brazoa’s eyes got misty and faraway in their focus. “He is there. You were meant to Rass-cure Heem!”
Lyndsey fumbled through her bag frantically. “I must SAVE him, but these cards(she flung them about carelessly)are maxed out. What’ll I do?”
“Here, my take this gold coin. Go down to Schlegel’s Pawn, you vill haff enughh to–”
Lyndsey wailed pathetically, “B-but, I can’t do THAT–”
“No,” the old woman droned on insistently, “De Great God, Mithra, he say so–So You MUST..”
Next we see Lyndsey stumbling down Broadway, as if in a trance, examining the strange lumpy gold disk of ancient vintage. At Schlegel’s we leve her, as…
On Mott Street, in New York’s Chinatown, Chang, Ovetta Rheems’ saturnine driver parts the arras, to reveal Loomis, cradled in Ovetta’s velvet-clad lap. They are taking turns, slurping Won Tons and kissing wildly. Ovetta purrs, “So Loomy. Whaddya think, eh?”
“Mmf, good! But I need to find Lyndsey and git back to N’awlins where I belong!”
Miss Rheems glared icily at Chang. “He’s still delirious, See? So what do we do now.”
Chang replied drily, “Only one thing to do at this time…”
(to be continued)
