Strange Encounter

[SATIRE] - The sun beat down on the dusty country road, making the hand-painted sign for "Mookie's Marvelous Lemonade" wobble slightly. Six-year-old Mookie Betts, already possessing the preternatural focus that would define his future, sat on an overturned crate, meticulously polishing a lemon. Business was slow. He'd sold three cups all morning, but his price was firm: 26 cents, no exceptions, and correct change only.

A low rumble interrupted the quiet chirp of crickets. A vehicle approached—not the usual pickup or SUV, but a long, gleaming black 1930s Cord. It was polished like patent leather. It slid silently to a stop right beside Mookie’s tiny stand.

The back door opened with a sigh of hydraulics. Out stepped a figure who seemed to have materialized from a black-and-white movie. He wore a rumpled pork pie hat perched over a wild halo of hair, a pair of dark sunglasses, and, most startlingly, a sweeping, velvet cape. He was tossing a well-worn baseball into a floppy leather mitt—a game of catch with himself.

The man, who was none other than the legendary Bob Dylan, squinted at Mookie.

"How much for the liquid sunshine, son?" he rasped, his voice gravelly and ancient, like a forgotten blues record.

"Twenty-six cents, please, Bob," Mookie replied, holding up a glass pitcher.

Dylan reached into the pocket of his cape and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills, searching. He extracted a five-dollar bill, frayed at the edges.

"Best I can do," Dylan said, extending the five. "Keep the change. I hear you got a future, kid, and five bucks buys a lot of futures."

Mookie, however, shook his head, his small face serious. "I'm sorry, Lonesome Traveller. Correct change only. They stopped making pennies in Fort Knox."

Dylan paused, the baseball resting still in his mitt. A faint, almost mischievous smile touched his lips.

"A stickler for the rules, eh? I can respect that," he murmured. He leaned against the long hood of the limo. "Well, if I can’t buy your elixir, maybe I can trade you something rarer than a quarter. A story. About a man who played by his own rules—the great pitcher, Rube Waddell."

Mookie's eyes, drawn by the word "pitcher," widened just a fraction. He thought:' Kool Aid or Warren Spahn?'

Bob Dylan adjusted his hat, flipped the baseball high into the air, caught it with a soft thwump, and began to speak, his voice falling into a mesmerizing, rambling rhyme:

"Rube Waddell was a lefty, with a talent so fine,

But butterflies and fire trucks would occupy his mind.

He’d leave the mound mid-inning, a wild, strange sight,

To chase a passing engine or a kite that took flight.

"The umpire would be yelling, the fans would stand and boo,

But Rube was down the street, waving to a man he knew.

He’d wrestle an alligator for a nickel and a dime,

He’d fish off the grandstand—he was never on time.

"But when the ball was in his hand, it sang a fierce tune,

He’d strike out the side, beneath the high afternoon moon.

A beautiful wild soul, he did not fit the mold,

The stories that they tell of Rube are worth their weight in gold."

Dylan stopped, the rhyme fading into the heat. Mookie was transfixed, the polished lemon forgotten. He’d never heard a story like that—so musical, so strange.

The old minstrel reached into his cape again, this time pulling out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and laid it gently on the wooden stand next to the empty lemonade glasses.

"That, kid, is for a brand-new glove," Dylan said, his voice softer now. "A beautiful piece of leather. And maybe a baseball to go with it. You’re going to be famous. You'll be a Red Sox, and then a Dodger."

He tipped his pork pie hat. Without another word, he slid back into the cool darkness of the Cord. It was time for his bootheels to be wondering.

Mookie Betts stood there for a long time, the hundred-dollar bill pristine beneath the afternoon sun, the sound of the rhyming story echoing in his ears. He had the money, and vision. He would learn to hit an inside curve ball.