The Easy Way

THE EASY WAY A written creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of The Requirements for The Degree As 5G Master of Fine Arts In Creative Writing by Corey Michael Gruber San Francisco, California May 2016 Copyright by Corey Michael Gruber 2016 THE EASY WAY Corey Michael Gruber San Francisco, California 2016 Set in the sleepy backdrop of San Francisco’s Presidio, The Easy Way tells the story of young Denny Hammerschmit, an adolescent boy with a fond appreciation for baseball and a special adoration for Otis Hunt, the star right-fielder for the San Francisco Giants who is battling depression and recovering from a devastating knee injury. Standing between Denny and his hopes of playing professional baseball someday is an abusive and self- destructive father, whom, upon returning from a stint in the state penitentiary, wants custody of his son and control over the boy’s development as a baseball player. At odds with this idea is Denny’s mother, Lydia, who finds herself caught up in a blooming romance with her son’s coach while at the same time realizing her hopes to see Denny make the right decisions in life are challenged by the unavoidable fact that boys gravitate towards their fathers no matter who they are. I certify that the Annotation is a correct representation of the content of this written creative work. CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL I certify that I have read The Easy Way by Corey Michael Gruber, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a written creative work submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree: Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. Chanan Tigay Professor of English Creative Writing Chair ACKNOWLEDGMENT All the acknowledgement in the world belongs to Christina, whose selflessness, focus under pressure, and diligence is the inspiration for my life and the basis behind the character Lydia in this novel and the reason why I began writing it in the first place. If it was not for her, I might never have tried to sit down and tackle such a long work nor been inclined to try to engage the emotional arcs of parents and their children in writing. It applies to life as it does the work presented here that this angel, the love of my life, deserves all the credit. I’d also like to thank all of the writers whose brains I picked in workshop and beyond while drafting these pages. Your contributions have helped make this project move forward. I’d also like to acknowledge my mentor, Chanan Tigay, who has offered so many useful strategies and suggested readings for me to find my strengths as a writer and who over these past years has challenged me to improve as a writer in whatever genres I am working in. Thank you, everyone. 1 Ch. 1 Early on a Tuesday afternoon, the eighth of April, some fourteen years before his dreams of playing professional baseball would soften and dissolve into occasional anecdotes in an otherwise pitiable life of mediocrity, Denny Hammerschmit hooked the baseball glove his father had given him over the grip of his handlebars and pedaled off up the hill towards Fort Scott Field. The glove wasn’t new, by any means. Its leather was rough and worn. Creases had formed in the palm of the glove so deep no amount of glove oil could dissolve them completely. In no way did it measure up to the latest Louisville Slugger or Easton gloves his friends owned. It hadn’t ever belonged to his father either, in any real sense of the word, or his father’s father, or been signed by some great ball player, or been the glove that caught the out that sent the Giants to the postseason that time everyone remembers. It was none of those things. But the glove was the last gift his father had given Denny before his arrest. It was the very next day that Denny watched the police tackle his father in the street, handcuff him forcibly, and shove him sweaty and bloody in to the back of a squad car. Home by dark, he heard his mother yell after him, her words calling from the kitchen window of their tiny Presidio apartment before Denny had the chance to get out of earshot. He didn't reply. He did not turn to look at her or even so much as indicate that he’d heard her. He was hoping she hadn’t noticed him leave, but he still might be able to pretend he never heard her call once he did come home after dark. His mother had been 2 getting wise to this trick lately, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Denny knew that if his father were here, things would be different. His father always stood up for him. He sprung his bike off the asphalt curb at the comer and sailed down Washington towards the baseball field at the other end of the Presidio, through the Eucalyptus shadows, dodging a clunky blue sedan that ran the stop sign at Kobbe and turned quickly, down the steep hill, legs extended on his pedals, coasting the sweeping curves, gaining speed, racing his own imagination. Near the cemetery overlook he could see the bay. It was a clear and calm afternoon. A large cargo tanker was coasting in to port. He imagined it was an alien space craft, and he a fighter defending his galaxy from invaders. He fired laser cannons from his handlebars. The excitement of the day was the Giants’ home opener, and Fort Scott Field was the gathering spot. The depression of the winter months had been agonizing for Denny, filled with eager anticipation after the previous Fall’s World Series Championship win over the Tigers. It had been this day he'd been waiting for all winter. To add to that, the Giants had re-signed Otis Hunt to a new contract. Denny had been collecting Otis Hunt memorabilia since the third grade, when the Giants acquired the energetic outfielder from the Phillies in a deadline trade. But even before then he had considered Otis Hunt his favorite non-Giants player in the bigs. This fascination began after he got an Otis Hunt rookie card in a Top Flight pack his father had bought him from the comic book store for his tenth birthday. Denny had kept the card in a protective cover and paid attention to the quirky left-fielder’s career with superstitious interest. He had always hoped the Giants 3 might sign Hunt, thought maybe he had somehow willed it to happen when they did. For Christmas the year after the Giants won their first title, Denny’s father sent him a throw back Otis Hunt uniform, the orange mesh eighties pullover style. Denny had the chance to get Hunt to sign the jersey, but asked instead for Hunt’s signature on his mitt because his mother had said she would not buy him another jersey if Denny ended up framing the signed one. So there it was—Otis Hunt’s signature on the thumb of his mitt. Stately and prim, the east side of the Presidio was a world apart from the boxy cutout complexes of the western side where Denny lived and he liked to ride his bike through the neighborhoods where UCSF doctors and downtown lawyers drove the latest model Benzs and Beemers. They had their lawns cut by the Presidio Land Trust’s landscaping company that came daily if not every other. From time to time the residents there threw parties where they decorated their yards with long strings of globe lanterns, scrutinized the saturation of the market in the post-collapse recovery, insured everything through the Heffeman group, drank Martinis after work in the Marina district. They shopped for groceries from the comforting aisles of Mollie Stones, or the produce markets in the Inner Richmond district if the fruit was in season; for shoes in Little Italy; for clothes, drapery and linens at Satin Moon Fabrics. These were the parents of Denny’s teammates. Construction on the Golden Gate Bridge expansion had rerouted a portion of traffic each day by Fort Scott Field and the East Side neighborhoods, and while the residents did not much appreciate the added pressure on their otherwise sanctimonious 4 lives, it gave the place an undeniable excitement, a fury whipped up out of the chaos of growth and change that seemed undoubtedly to emphasize the nostalgia of it all. Nobody got old in the Presidio, those who lived their said, yet the place felt old to Denny. The houses, all made of brick with porch columns painted white, stood with the sensibilities of a past century. The towering eucalyptus trees kept the streets shady and when the fog came it rushed over the forest canopy and darkened the sky, giving the community a ghostly quality. He plopped his bike up against the fence at the ball field. A few others were already fielding pop flies, and he ran out to join them. * Lydia Hammerschmidt was a short, smooth-skinned woman with long dark hair curled softly and hanging over her shoulders. Her square framed eyeglasses slipped loosely down her nose as she scrubbed at the dishes in the sink. With a soapy thumb and forefinger, she pulled the sleeve of her sweater up and reached into the water to unplug the drain. She had twenty minutes to get back to work and given that the road crews had been moving up California Street this week she feared the bus would be late again.

Load more