Strike Three, You're Out

“No..no…sir…please…please don’t do that…”
The strange man sitting on the subway disregarded the standing Marvin and continued to wipe his nose with his hand, and then wipe his hand on Marvin’s briefcase.
After many failed attempts at trying to shoo away the man, a middle-aged woman looked up from the newspaper she was reading and chuckled at Marvin.
Still standing and holding onto the subway’s metal pole with a handkerchief Marvin clumsily turned around and looked at the woman. “What?” he said defensively, “wha….what….why are you laughing at me?”
The woman raised her brow and continued looking at her newspaper.
Marvin became frustrated and looked over at his hand on the pole. “Is it…is it because I’m holding onto the pole with my handkerchief? Cuz’…if it is…I don’t care if you make fun of me for that. I just don’t want to get sick.” He said as he straightened his tie.
The woman chuckled again and then stood up. “You must stay up all night. Scared…in your bed…freaked that the germ monsters will…” the woman made an abrupt movement as she said, “attack!”
Marvin jumped. The woman chuckled again and moved to a different seat. Just then, the train reached its destination and made a quick stop. Marvin tripped over his own feet, his head colliding with the pole in front of him. He hurriedly wiped his brow with the handkerchief, and got off of the train with everyone else. Getting out his map of Boston, Marvin walked clumsily through the dark night streets of Massachusetts, despite the fact that he’d lived there for six years, sometimes turning the map upside down so as he could better envision where he was on the map.
Soon enough he reached the ticket gate to Ironwood Golf and Batting Cages, and entered through the first gates he saw.
“Excuse me sir!”
Marvin stopped and turned around obliviously. “Uh..uh..yeah..?”
“Sir…you can’t enter without purchasing a ticket.”
Marvin put his face right up to the glass, and squinted in the new light now in his eyes. “Oh..um…I…I don’t need a ticket.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, I’m Marvin Rosche, Attorney at Law.”
“..and?”
“Oh! And I’m here to meet with the manager.”
“For…what?”
“Oh yeah! Um, Dr. and Mrs. Roswell are suing the company on the grounds that their son was hit in the head while practicing at this batting cage, resulting in the breaking of his nose.”
The ticket manager picked up the phone, mumbled something about security, and mentioned Marvin Rosche. “Okay sir. You can go on in.”
Marvin went in and took an immediate left towards the administration office. Here he asked the secretary for the nearest bathroom and hurriedly washed his hands, again. When he returned, the receptionist notified him that the manager and the Roswells were waiting in the main conference room. Marvin took a deep breath, and used the sleeve of his suit to touch the knob of the shiny door handle. When he entered the first thing he saw was the young Roswell boy, with a large white bandage on his nose, his parents standing protectively above their son. An elder man with glasses greeted Mr. Rosche and said they were expecting the manager any second now.
Marvin looked around confused. “Oh, he’s not here yet?”
The man opened a folder on the desk; “Actually the manager’s a she—a Mrs. Agnes Rosche to be more precise.”
Suddenly an elder woman came into the room laughing on her cell phone, hung up, and closed the door as she said, “Okay! Who’s suing me this week?”
Marvin gawked at the woman in the doorway. “Grandma?!”