SOBS: Fiction: Thunder Road by John Moss

The boy had been at baseball practice one Saturday. Damn, don't these kids ever play games? Emerson thought, crouched in a bush beyond the outfield."

From afar the kids did appear to like his boy, and what's this, a group of girls, more balanced and fuller-framed than Markus and most of the other boys for that matter, just arrived on bikes and waved at Markus. Oh, no more bikes, he thought. Markus ran over and gave the girl not wearing stripes something; a dirt jewel most likely, or his travel tube of acne goo. It was the temperature and suit turning Emerson's face red, certainly not the secretive exchange between his boy and the young girl, as he ducked and waited for practice to start. He was to streak across the outfield in his rat suit, run to the bag of barbeque chips planted earlier by Markus, eat a few and run off. It would give one glimpse of Ratso, unable to control his love of barbeque chips, not cheese as requested by Markus and Ginger or more accurately feces. He couldn't do it. He was allergic to dairy, thankfully not asked to eat shit, and that was that.

Fifteen minutes later, the last scraps of juvenile horseplay cleaned up and Markus separated from the girl not wearing stripes, the practice commenced with Mr. Phillips hitting grounders off of his fungo bat. The children took turns fielding balls hopping crookedly toward them from striking stones and pocks in the dirt. While most of the other kids performed the drill deftly without too much an accusatory touch of adolescent awkwardness, Markus still proved stony and stiff. Ratso may have made him more popular, but boosting anything above that was an exercise in impossibility. The girls didn't appear to mind, their calls and cheers after each play making Emerson blush way out beyond the field although he knew no one could see him out there. This was bad. He had gone from an artist to a prankster in the bush. Still went by Mr. Fixit during those lighting rolls in the hay, but other than that his false conceptions had vanished, it being Markus who was unrecognizable now. Dammit, he grunted, and scurried out of the bush burping a high-pitched squeal, like a rat, and jogged out to center field where the chips were stationed.

"Ratso! You're out of the sewer!" Markus yelled. Ratso, Emerson, was supposed to wave to Markus, grab the bag of barbeque potato chips, eat a few and run off behind the old schoolhouse where Ginger was waiting, in an Oprah mask also purchased at the Halloween store, in a rental car.

"thank God he didn't let Markus and Ginger talk him out of wearing the shoes for he would be one bloody rat if he had.

He hummed

"Thunder Road"

like the good old days."

"Markus," he yelled, waving to the boy, the field and benches on the side full of dumbstruck parents and children. The boy yelled something back about barbeque chips but was cut off by Mr. Phillips, apparently not versed in Ratso lore, who began hollering to get the hell off the field you jerk. Although performing this part for his son, Emerson, unrefined as ever, felt insulted and stepping out of character stopped, brought his left arm across his hairy chest, and jerked his right arm toward the heavens, that whole-hearted one finger salute. Markus began screaming at Ratso to go back to the sewer. Emerson, reminded of his duties by the squeaky sound of Markus's voice, began jogging again to the chips, which he picked up and began eating, crumbs bouncing off of and missing his mouth like those puppets on television who have no esophagus. He looked over to the team to make sure his act was well-received and heard droves of hands clapping, which was nice, but then saw a child from the team running after him with a bat.

"Ratso, run!" a boy, not Markus yelled. Soon the whole team was screaming, some close to tears, for the giant manrat to get out of there back to the sewer. Damn, Emerson stuffed the bag of chips into a side pocket of the costume and began running for the school. Now everyone was running after him, the boys calling for his swift escape, the girls crying and leaving their bikes unattended, the parents running to claim their children in this dangerous pursuit. Mr. Phillips had remained behind to make a call on his cell phone to the police.

"Go Ratso, run!" The suit was heavy and logged with sweat, and the boy was a mad lunatic, but Emerson managed to nimbly trek through the dirty, rocky outfield in his white high-tops, feeling fresher with each step. Dents in the earth did little to slow his escape, and the ankle support through that boisterous terrain was plentiful, thank God he didn't let Markus and Ginger talk him out of wearing the shoes for he would be one bloody rat if he had. He hummed " Thunder Road " like the good old days.

Behind the schoolhouse Ginger waited, and once his hairy shape appeared, scrambling, she flipped down the Oprah mask and started the car. It was a rental car and worked brilliantly. The door opened without jamming and inside the air-conditioning dried his sweat as he pulled the mask off his face that resembled a wet seal. Ginger did not speak, and Emerson didn't care to talk about what had just happened. Funny how he had felt more comfortable thirty seconds earlier as a raging child chased him than now driving away safely. In the silence, bothered by something, Emerson took the bag of chips from his pocket and offered them to Ginger, to which she took several handfuls and began eating, the crumbs bouncing off her mask onto her lap.