EMIL DEANDREIS has three books, as well as short fiction in Michigan Quarterly Review, StoryQuarterly, DIAGRAM, and more. His recent novel Tell Us When To Go was described as “impossible to put down and heartbreaking in all the right places” by Junot Diaz, and the SF Chronicle said it “blossoms with genuine heart and pathos.” It was a finalist for SF Public Library's One City One Book in 2024. He teaches English at College of San Mateo and lives in the Bay Area with his wife and son.
“Time.”
The umpire holds up his hands. I jog out to the mound, not knowing what I'm about to say to my team. No one seems to care that we’re losing, and if I really think about it neither do I. When the boys have gathered at the mound, I'm like “Yo–” but right away I’m getting interrupted. It’s our third baseman of course. He is sixteen but can be hella childish like that. Sometimes in the middle of games I’ll see him over at third base making explosion sounds, make-believing Lego wars or whatever. He strikes me as one of those kids whose parents think he's a genius and never tell him no.
He’s all to our pitcher: “I’ve determined your underperformance is from being off balance cuz you're leaning forward like this. And then you're just like not getting here with your arm.”
He motions some random shit.
“You done?” I ask. “Listen guys, I don't know about all that imbalance little Petey is talking about.”
“My name's not Petey,” he says.
“Well,” I say, and shrug.
“Coach cooked you,” our catcher says.
The meeting ends without me saying anything of value and afterward the umpires huddle and decide the game is over cuz it’s taking too long. Kids don't line up and shake hands; it's a double header, the other game starts in thirty. I check my phone, open up my socials. Immediately some stranger is yelling at me through my phone. The founder of Bromosa canned cocktails paid his own money so that he could yell at me poolside. He goes, “Right now I’m making ten times more than you while working ten times less!” and I heart it so I can hate-watch the rest of his content later.
Kids eat their sandwiches, parents sit on their phones. I see Coach in the back of the field by himself pacing. He’s an OG. I played for him when I was a kid. That’s why even though I coach with him, I still call him Coach. Now that I’m kind of grown, it’s clear he’s broke, and I can’t help but see him as a cautionary tale, as in, if something doesn't change I might turn out like him, nice but not important. And then sometimes I get philosophical and push back against myself: what’s wrong with being nice but not important? When I get closer to Coach, I see he's breathing in and out through his teeth, like he’s in labor.
“You good Coach?” I ask.
“It's like the top of my chest,” he says, and then he hisses. “The top of my chest.” He bends over. “Look, I can't even stand up straight.”
“Oh shit, like a heart attack?”
“Fuck,” he says.
“Should I call 911?”
He clutches his tit meat. I’m stuck. I don't know why calling 911 feels like detonating a bomb, like there's no going back from it.
“All right I'm going to call 911 then,” I say, sounding more like a warning. I dial it and put the phone up to my ear.
“Hello,” a soft woman's voice answers. It’s some foreign accent.
“911?” I ask.
“Whaaaaaaaw.”
I look at my screen and I dialed 811. I hang up. This time I look at my screen and I hit nine and a 7 comes up. I delete it. I hit nine again and it's nine and I hit one twice but it comes up 912 and it's dialing.
“Fuck bro,” I say. Coach grunts. Finally I'm dialing actual 911, and I hold my phone delicately like it might still pull some shit.
“Yo,” the voice says from my phone. Sounds like a dude who was just asleep.
“This 911?”
“Guilty. Ha ha. For real though, what's the emergency?”
I check my surroundings for a camera crew, or any clue that I’m being pranked by some bitch ass Youtuber. Meanwhile, crucial seconds are passing.
“Ok, I'm at a baseball field right now with my coach. Not my coach. Like I'm coaching with him. And he's all grabbing his chest talking about he can't stand up. So I’m like are you having a heart attack? And he didn’t say yes, but I am just calling anyway.”
“Oh for real?”
I hear rustling, then typing on a computer.
“Where you at?”
The athletic complex in our town is pretty straight forward, one road cutting through it like the river at the Grand Canyon. Coach kayaked it once, that’s how I know anything about it. You would think it was like the only thing Coach ever did in his life from how much he always brings it up. What you do this weekend? Went swimming. Ah, funny you mention water. You know I kayaked the Colorado River. It can wear me out, but it’s his. At least he has that, a memory in his hand. Anyways, point being, this field will be hard to miss for the ambulance.
“Paramedics are on their way,” the dude says after I give him the name of the park.
“Thanks for your help,” I say and pull the phone away.
“Oh, sir?” he says. “Before you go, I wanted to mention. So with your call today, you actually unlock some dope promos.”
“What does that mean?”
“6 months Hulu. 6 months Apple Music. One year Wall Street Journal. Fully unlocked.”
“Cuz I phoned an emergency?”
“You like that? Additionally,” he lowers his voice like if someone hears he might get in trouble. “15% off custom wood tables.”
“No way,” I say, which: what else do you say to someone whose idea you’re not as hyped on as they are?
“It's called Epoxy River Tables,” he says all scripty, and seems to wait for me to say I’ve heard of them before, but I say nothing. “I make them myself. What I do is get driftwood pieces and place them near each other and then fill in the spaces with these bright paints, and when it dries it binds everything together. I put on this glass finish, and voila, your table is lookin like a Skittles river running through Afghani dryland. I was in Afghanistan actually, sir, wherein I seen some seriously damaging shit. When I came home, I couldn’t leave my house cuz places like libraries, or store aisles, or basically any place where I couldn’t see the other side of a corner—I tweaked out. On more than one occasion I leveled a potato chips shelf sir. And right around this time my therapist straight dipped on me, just stopped showing up. Long story short, I learned how to make these tables cuz I found the process soothing. That’s been my therapy, on God. If I'm being real it saved my life.”
“Hey bro who are you?” I ask.
“Whatchu mean?”
“Like, is this real 911? Cuz I’m a little speechless right now.“
Not only cuz of how all this is going down, but also the fact that he mentioned rivers right after I was just thinking about them.
“I’mma keep it 100, sir,” he says. “This is mostly 911. But they been lacking. Recently, they were about to go bankrupt.”
“911?”
“Deadass. All the healthcares, matter of fact. You hadn’t heard about this?”
“Nah.”
“Damn.”
Being 23 years old and getting exposed like this for not knowing current events feels low-key pathetic. I can hear my mom right now: This is what happens when you drop out of college.
“Well,” he continues, “what happened was doctors, therapists, first responders. They all started mass quitting. My therapist being one of thousands. All those jobs had to be replaced, right? So they had to be... yo I can never remember this word. Outsourcing. All those jobs got outsourced. Hence, ya boy landed this side hustle. It’s fire. Choose my hours, work from home. And? The agency that hired me said if I push like 20 more subscriptions, they’ll promote me from 911 dispatcher to therapist.”
“That’s ballin,” I say. “But can you check to see if the ambulance is actually coming? Cuz I just looked at Coach and he is not his regular skin color.”
Sure enough the red lights appear in the distance. The ambulance forgot to turn on the siren, but when it’s closer I hear Three 6 Mafia coming from it, their early stuff that was all about starting shit. It doesn’t seem like the right vibe for picking up a man who is mid-heart attack. But yet, it’s got me missing the old days cuz that’s what we used to bump in the Tercel on the way to school.
“So what do you say sir? Can I put you down for 6 months free Hulu? You can always opt out before they start charging you. You didn't hear that from me though.”
“I think I'm straight off some subscriptions, but you know what? You got me thinking about that river table. My coach here, he’s actually into rivers. How much would that set me back?”
“Small to mid size? Call it a clean G.”
“Oh never mind then. I’m not even close to having that much money.”
I can go see Coach in the hospital to show him love. More of a real friend thing to do anyways. There’s a silence for a minute, so I hear what’s happening around me. Small chirps from machines inside the open ambulance, some low grumbles of Coach responding to the paramedic’s questions. He watches us watch him get strapped in. My players blink dumb like deer. They are the age where mortality doesn’t register. I have an impulse to slap them, which, if boiled down, I think is envy.
“Tell you what,” the dude on the phone says. “In addition to the 15%, I could tack on a Friends and Family discount.”
“Whoa no way. Question though: can I return it if Coach ultimately dies?
“Nah.”
“No worries.”
“But if that is how it goes down, God forbid?” he says. “Just keep the table for yourself bruh. For its healing properties.”
“Yeah?”
“When you look at the table, it looks like the river is still, cuz it is, but if you look at it long enough, the river is moving. Feel me?”
Dude asks if I wanna pay him with Cash App or Zelle and I say I don’t have either of those, but I do have Venmo, which he does not have. I think I hear him mention Etsy but by his tone I can tell he thinks it’s futile to try anymore. I won’t be getting one of these tables, we both seem to understand.
Someone just announced that the second game today is cancelled on account of what happened with Coach. Metal cleats crunch across pavement toward the parking lot. From there families will go to lunch I imagine, cuz life is nonsensical. Out of respect I try not to think about lunch. Petey’s dad puts his arm around Petey and together they watch the ambulance shrink in the distance. They look like a photo they might wish to have later in life, like what’s happening in commercials during the long list of side effects.
Volume 16.1 ✧ winter 26
Emil DeAndreis
