A private conversation between the feuding men of the Yankees franchise.
Editor's Note: One of my goals for the next few months is to try and produce one humorous short scene per week. I will be submitting all of these to the "Shouts and Murmurs" blog on The New Yorker Website and all the entries that don't make it (whether funny or not) will land here from time to time.[The scene opens on a private restaurant hidden on an unmarked floor in a Tribeca Building that is “under construction.” Tables are dotted across the entire floor at intervals of exactly ten feet. At a far corner table, separated by a candle, sit Brian Cashman and A-Rod. The table is stained with drops of wine and blobs of faded red sauce. A waiter removes the empty plates in front of the men.]
A-Rod: Don’t worry, Brian. I told you: no one will see you here.
Cashman: Your record isn’t exactly perfect.
A-Rod: It’s the girls—they always talk.
Cashman: We have to settle this, Alex.
A-Rod: I know. This is a bad look for us.
Cashman: We can’t pay you all that money.
A-Rod: But I have to get some of it.
[Their waiter returns, setting down two neat, full glasses of scotch and a plate of cronuts.]
Cashman: I’m exhausted, Alex. I’ve been begging Bernie all day to unretire so that he can hit at the bottom of the lineup. You tell me what we should do.
A-Rod: Here, have a cronut.
[Cashman takes a cronut.]
A-Rod: Look, I know I’m going down with this steroid thing. I’m willing to throw the case and take the suspension this year.
Cashman: Yes, but that’s only 15 million dollars we save. I’m going to need more than that.
A-Rod: You know the saying, “wait until next year”?
A-Rod: Who’s to say that I don’t get injured next February?
Cashman: So we’ll get the insurance money?
A-Rod: That’s right.
[The two men sit, sipping on their drinks and biting on cronuts.]
Cashman: Why are you doing this? You’ve always had so much pride.
A-Rod: I realized something recently. Over the Fourth of July Weekend, I realized that this is America. I’ll pay for my mistakes now, and then I’ll disappear. I won’t embarrass myself like Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens. Time will pass. In the meantime, people can question the Chris Davises of the world for using steroids. Then, in a few years, people will start remembering how great I once was back in Seattle or even Texas. I know I won’t get into the Hall of Fame anymore, but if I shut up and disappear…there’s always a chance people will remember the good things right?
Cashman: Alex, I don’t know what to say.
A-Rod: You don’t have to say anything, Brian. I happened to get some good advice from a guy who knows about these things. And, hey, the Angels are just as bad. Now Pujols’ contract looks even worse than mine!
Cashman: You can say that again! Why don’t you have the last one?
[A-Rod throws the last cronut in his mouth. The two men cheers the watery tail of their scotches and rise from the table. While walking to the exit elevator, A-Rod stops, looking at someone who is seated at another far corner table.]
A-Rod: You go ahead.
Cashman: Why’s that?
A-Rod: I just want to go and say hello to a friend.
A-Rod: Oh, just former governor Spitzer.
[Brian Cashman nods and smiles knowingly. He walks to the elevator and turns back for a moment. He sees A-Rod and Eliot Spitzer eagerly shaking hands. Brian Cashman shakes his head.]
Cashman: Now, how am I going to get rid of Teixeira?
[Brian Cashman walks into the elevator, whistling. The doors close.]