People sometimes asked Donnie what was behind his famous painting of the IBM computer card.

“You mean you think there might be something written on the back of the card?” Donnie might answer. “A word? A word printed in lurid red lipstick? A word like blowjob?”

This response was usually met with awkward, embarrassed silence, or a perhaps a titter and then silence.

When Donnie was eight, his father, who worked in a science research lab as a janitor, came home with a long cardboard tray of used computer cards. “These are obsolete,” he told Donnie. “You can have them.”

Donnie wasn’t sure exactly what to do with the cards, but he knew they should be good for something. He spent hours studying the cards. The backs were plain, but the fronts had eighty columns printed with numbers. Some of the numbers had been punched out, leaving arrays of blank rectangles like little doors or windows.

Around this time, Donnie was interested in sports such as football and baseball, and he decided that the cards could be used as part of a game. He thought that by placing one card over another and sliding them back and forth, he could determine the outcome of a football play. He could watch the running back zigzag his way downfield, and he could watch the defenders trying to tackle the runner. Donnie experimented with the cards, but he was never able to make them work according to his desires or imagination.

Donnie’s sister Ellen, who was ten years older than Donnie, teased him sometimes about his card game. “Are you playing Donnie Perkins again. Do those cards tell your fortune? Here, let me see.”

While Donnie watched, Ellen spread some of the cards on the floor in the shape of a cross. She waved her hands over the cards and mumbled something.

“What are you saying?” Donnie asked.

“Mumbo Jumbo,” Ellen answered. “Now be quiet and close your eyes so I can hear what the cards have to say.”

Donnie closed his eyes.

“The cards say you’re going to meet a fuzzy bear,” Ellen said. “A big gray fuzzy bear with sharp claws and wicked teeth. This is a bear who loves to eat little boys, but you’re not afraid. You walk right up to the bear and give him a piece of your mind. The bear doesn’t know what to do, so he tickles you. He tickles you and licks you until you practically wet your pants.” As Ellen finished the story, she tickled Donnie. She tickled him until he was on the verge of wetting his pants. The cross of cards ended up scattered everywhere.

Late one Friday night a few weeks later, Ellen asked Donnie if he wanted another card reading. “Promise no tickling,” Donnie said.

“I thought you liked tickling.”

“Promise.”

“Okay.”

Ellen spread the cards on Donnie’s bed. “It’s the bottom of the ninth inning at Yankee Stadium with two outs, and the Yankees are trailing three to one, but they have runners on second and third base, and their best hitter, Donnie Perkins, is coming to the bat. The crowd is on their feet. A hush falls over the stadium.”

Ellen paused. Donnie savored the excitement.

“The other team, the Orioles, calls time out. The wily manager walks slowly to the pitcher’s mound. He is bringing in a relief pitcher. He is bringing in Garth Dubin. Dubin has a fast ball like a runaway freight train and a curve ball like Irish rainbows. Dubin hasn’t allowed a hit in his last umpty-nine innings. But Donnie Perkins is ready.”