|
Sack
the Quarterback “We’re getting married!”
I spin around on my bar stool. Debby
beams at me, holding the arm of a guy I’ve never seen before.
“I thought tonight was your night
off,” Artie says to her with a confused look.
I’m sitting between Artie and Carl in My Mother’s Place
where Debby
works as a waitress.
“Congratulations,” I say, elbowing
Artie as I extend my hand toward Debby’s fiancé. “Joe, these are my friends Curt,
Artie and Carl,” Debby rises
up on her toes and shakes her auburn curls out of her soft brown eyes. Joe is about my height but heavier.
His unkempt dark hair
frames a rugged, sagging face, blue eyes, and a dimpled jaw with a
loose grin.
He looks familiar. When he dips his head and says hello I make the
connection.
He looks like Joe Namath, the football star. Artie sees it too. Joe tightens his grip, squeezing my
hand until it hurts. I
return his grin and clench my fist until his eyes glaze with pain and
he lets
go. Debby doesn’t notice our contest.
“We met last night at
Pearl’s. We were pretty drunk, but we were still engaged when we woke
up this
morning!” “Congratulations,” Artie and Carl
stammer. Joe nods his head. I don’t like him
and I tell myself it’s
not because he squeezed my hand or because he met Debby at Pearl’s like
I did,
dancing on peanut shells, and holding her tight body through the slow
dances to
close out the night. He studies Artie and Carl but avoids my eyes.
Maybe she
told him about our weeklong drunken romance. Debby pivots toward the door.
“We’re going out to dinner to
celebrate.” We watch them leave, their gray
silhouettes framed in the
dirty window as they pass by on the sidewalk. “Our Debby’s going to marry Joe
Namath” Artie shakes his
head and smiles. “She always had a soft spot for him.” Carl chuckles. “Joltin’ Joe.” “Broadway Joe.” I laugh. “Same difference.” Carl flicks his
lighter over his pipe. “Those
athletes are all mutants anyway.” ### Sunday night I’m back at Mother’s
with Artie and Carl, waiting
for Hee Haw on the bar TV. Joe sits at a side table where Debby can
drop him free
beers and winks. But her shift hasn’t started yet. Artie elbows me. “You should buy a
TV.” “You just want to come over and
drink my beer.” “You have a phone now.” “That’s for work.” Artie winks. He knows I’m trying to
learn computer skills so
I don’t spend the rest of my life driving a forklift at Crowley’s
Dairy. My
boss lets me enter shipping jobs on the computer, but he insists I have
a phone
in case the night computer operator has to call me. But Artie doesn’t
believe
in computers. Carl clears his throat, staring at
the old RCA hanging from
the sooty ceiling. President Reagan’s sincere image flickers in and
out. Carl
holds his hands together and claps them like a duck beak. “Ronald
Reagan is an
ideologue without any ideas.” Artie twists his head as the bar
door opens from the
sidewalk. “I didn’t know Mark was out of jail.” “Trouble,” Carl mumbles. We watch Mark, another of Debby’s
old boyfriends, stride
toward Joe’s table with a tall, dark-haired woman. She walks with
perfect
posture, her head erect like a model with red lipstick and short hair
done in
curls. She pulls her full length black fur coat tight around her. Mike the bartender drops his towel
and sidles over to me. He
raises his head and tips his chin. I follow him to Joe’s table. Debby
races out
of the kitchen and slides into a chair next to Joe. Mark and the woman
look
down at Joe for a long second. “Hi Honey,” the woman says. She
slaps Joe in the face. Her
coat falls open, her hands resting on the hem of a pink sweater
circling her thin
hips. “I was wondering when you were coming home.” She doubles her
fists,
keeping her eyes focused on Joe. He flinches and gazes at Mark, who
smiles. “I was planning to call you, dear,”
Joe grins. Mark roars with laughter, his voice
exploding in the silent
room. The woman’s face glows red. She
takes several deep breaths
and spins around. She raises her chin and walks slowly toward the door,
her
heels clicking. She waits for Mark to open it for her and steps out
with Mark
chuckling behind her. He pauses and blows a kiss to Debby as he pulls
the door
shut. Debby frowns. “Who was that?” “Some crazy woman I knew in
Pittsburg.” Joe’s hand quivers
as he reaches for his beer glass. “We should call the cops.” Debby
snarls. Joe shakes his head. “She belongs
in an institution, not
jail.” Debby rests her hand on his forearm
and pecks him on the
cheek. She’s still wearing her jacket, wet from the drizzle outside.
She looks
back toward the kitchen and her brother Daryl hovering by the door, and
she
gives him a quick shake of her head. Feeling like an eavesdropper, I tap
Mike on the shoulder.
Back at the bar he pours me a free beer for backing him up. The beer turns into a pitcher as we
watch Hee Haw actors
dressed like corn stalks repeat jokes from Saturday morning cartoons
while Carl
describes the decline and fall of the American Empire. He writes a
column for
the Binghamton Press. Artie says they print his mug shot black and
white to
disguise his permanent pink flush. When the show ends I slide my
change across the bar and
stand up. Artie elbows me. “Watch this.” He
tips his forehead toward
Carl. Carl sways back on his stool, his
eyes closed. He
leans forward and sways back again. He
reaches his hand up to his black horn-rimmed glasses, and in one motion
he
pulls the glasses away from his bushy white eyebrows as his forehead
clomps
down on the bar. “He always takes off his glasses
when he passes out,” Artie
chuckles. I nudge Carl and raise him up,
fixing his glasses on his drooping
head. “I’ll walk him home; it’s on my way.” When we get to his apartment, Carl
fishes out his key and
turns the lock, muttering about Reaganomics.
I take a long way home, passing by
Mark’s building on Henry
Street. His lights are on. My
one-week romance with Debby came when Mark was in jail, though I didn’t
know it
at the time. Debby forgot me once he came home and then she dumped him
a couple
weeks later. He swings open the door on my first
knock. “My old friend
Curt.” I lift the steel toe of my work
boot up on the threshold to
block the door in case he tries to slam it in my face. We were never
friends. “Hey
Mark, it’s been awhile.” He looks down at my foot and
grimaces, waving me in. “I wanted
to talk to you.” I tighten my lips and stare at him. “You think I want to talk about
Debby.” He laughs. “You
can’t let her go, can you?” “She made her choice.” He shakes his head but his eyes
lock mine. He flips his hand
toward two old stuffed chairs. We sit down, still eyeing each other. “What do you want?” I ask. “You work with Freddy, right?” “I helped him a couple times.” When
Freddy was sick I
collected his weekly football bets and paid off winners. “I heard he runs the construction
unions.” I crack a smile. “Can you help me get a job? Talk to
Freddy for me?” No one’s ever asked me about a job
before. Mark looks sober
and I haven’t seen him at Mother’s lately. “I’m serious,” Mark persists. “Freddy would want something.” “Is that why you don’t ask him for
a job?” Mark scans the
white tee shirt under my unbuttoned jean jacket. “You look like you
could work
construction.” “I got a job.” “The dairy doesn’t pay much.” “I want to learn computers.” Mark snickers. “What does Freddy
want?” “He’ll want you to work hard and
not fuck up. Not make him
look bad.” I pause. “That’s if he decides to help you.” “Sounds like you talking.” “You asked me.” “So you’ll talk to him?” I catch Mark’s eyes. “Maybe I’ll
see Freddy this week.” He grins. “Who was the woman you brought to
Mother’s tonight?” “Is she married to Joe?” Mark fumes. “How could Debby hook
up with someone like him? I
can understand a loser like you or me. But we wouldn’t rip her off.” I study his dark expression. “What
do you mean?” “I met him in the joint. He’s a
pro.” Mark shifts forward in
his chair. “He told me about Mary. She was smarter than most and caught
him
draining her account before they were married. She got him busted.” I stare at the scuffed wooden
floor. “Aren’t you worried
about Joe?” Mark sneers. “Joe’s soft.
I ain’t worried about Debby either. She can take care of
herself.” He
stares at me. “But you still care about her.” “Maybe I never liked Joe Namath.” “Maybe he’s changed and this one’s
for real.” ### The next night I stop by Mother’s
for Monday Night Football.
Carl remembers me taking him home and stands me a beer, and Artie
offers to
drink it if I’m not thirsty enough. Joe stops by our stools during half
time, wearing a sheepish
grin, avoiding my eyes. I wonder if he wants to apologize for Mary’s
outburst,
but his thoughts are elsewhere. Debby saunters over with her tray.
She nods toward me and
winks at Joe. I stare into my beer to give them space but I hear her
say, “Did
you get a chance to talk to the bank?” “They said they would investigate.” “I know I had more money in my
checking account, our
checking account.” “Must be a bank mistake. I’ll make
sure they get it right.” I glance back as Debby leans around
Joe’s shoulder and
kisses him on his chin dimple. She catches my eye and gives me a
troubled look.
Our brief romance is long over, but her brown eyes draw me like an SOS
signal. She
breaks the spell and sways off to a table. Joe looks at me and shrugs his
shoulders. I drop a tip on
the bar and head home. The next day when I spear pallets
with my forklift, I
imagine them with chin dimples and lazy blue eyes. When I’m not sacking
the
quarterback I wonder what I will say to Freddy. No one ever outsmarts
him. He
acts like a poor man, wearing a tattered gray jacket, straining to
carry his
large gut when he collects his bets on Wednesday nights, rasping as he
inhales
his cigars. Each step is a struggle. But I’ve seen him in his silk robe
gliding
across the pegged oak floor of his mansion on Front Street. I stop my forklift and gaze at a
pallet stacked with crates
of sour cream. What would Freddy do about Joe Namath? After my shift I head down to the
computer room, also known
as the morgue, to drop my punch cards in the mailbox. The door opens
with a
gush of cold air, and a small woman in black emerges. The vampire. “I was about to message you.” Angie
the computer operator squints
up at me, tilting her head to the side, her black lipstick reflecting
the
fluorescent light of the hallway. The cold never bothers her. She wears
a tight
black tee shirt with a deep neckline stretched over her ample breasts. “My shipping job ran okay last
night,” I stammer, trying not
to stare at her cleavage. She smiles. “You’d hear from me if
it didn’t.” We go out together sometimes, but
she’s made it clear she’s
not looking for a boyfriend. I told her she’s safe with me. She says, “I’m taking the rest of
the night off and I feel
like dancing. Why don’t you take me to Pearl’s?” I haven’t been inside Pearl’s since
I met Debby there. The
country western bar is a favorite of the college crowd. Scanning
Angie’s
macabre outfit, I grin. She makes a horse riding motion,
one hand on her hip and the
other circling her head as she leers up at me. “I can transform into a
country
girl.” My cheeks grow warm. “You can go
the way you are, keep them
off balance.” She laughs. “You remembered.” “How can I forget your plan for
world domination?” I nod my
head. “But I have to do something first.” I make one stop before pulling into
the gravel parking lot
behind Swat Sullivan’s. The Irish bar is more of a dive than Mother’s
but it’s
another college hot spot. The students and professors like the dark
wood and
dim light for Guinness pints and poetry readings. Their map of
Binghamton has
two destinations, Pearl’s and Swat’s. I thought the second floor rooms
were abandoned until I gave
Joe a ride home in a rainstorm Saturday night. A black wooden staircase
leads
upstairs from the bar, but I take the rickety back stairway, stepping
over the
rotted planks. I rap and rap louder. I’m about to
give up when Joe cracks
open the door. He smirks at me and glances back
into the room. “I brought you an engagement gift.”
I lean on the door but
he holds it firm. His chin drops into the loose grin
that makes him look like
the real Joe Namath. He takes a step back. I push through the door. The dim
aluminum lamp casts a
yellow tint on the worn white bedspread. Dusty gray curtains block most
of the
late afternoon sunlight. The brown carpet is matted and pressed flat
like
compost. “Nice place. Do you pay by the hour?” “Very funny, you should go on
tour.” “I thought you were moving in with
Debby.” “Why do you care?” His eyes shift
to the side table by the
bed. A shopping bag from Ritz Camera and a scattering of money lie next
to the
lamp. He recovers his grin. “You want her back.” “Everyone says that but me.” I
glare at him. “How do you
know Mark?” “You and Mark,” he laughs. “Debby’s
exes.” “Yeah, she likes to pick up strays.
Like you.” He stands up straight. “I’ve had
enough. Get out of here.” “Don’t you want your gift?” “Mark and I used to work together.” “He told me about Mary.” “She’s crazy. We dated twice and
she’s been trying to get
money out of me ever since.” “What happened to Debby’s bank
account?” “Bank error.” He scowls. “That’s
none of your business.” “She never had much.” He sneers. “She brags about buying
the bar with her brother
and turning it into a restaurant.” He shakes his head. “She had to borrow money
from me to make the
deposit on her apartment.” “Did Mary have a bank error, too?” “I told you to get out of here,” he
fumes. “We’re finished.” “Maybe I should talk to Mary’s
lawyer.” He steps back and doubles his
fists, his face flaring red.
His eyes dart toward the side table, but they avoid contact with me. I walk over to the table, my soles
slipping on the carpet. I
throw an envelope next to the lamp. “Here’s your engagement gift.” His eyes shift between the table
and me, and back again. I turn to face him. “It’s a
Greyhound ticket to Pittsburg.” “I ain’t going nowhere.” “You should use it. Go see Mary.” He heaves with anger. I keep my eye
on him as my hand hovers
over the envelope. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back. Maybe I’ll
go see
Mary.” Joe sucks in a deep breath and
stares at the cracked
ceiling. He leans forward and snatches the envelope. “I’m through with
this
shit town anyway.” I pick up the Ritz bag. Inside are
a brand new Nikon camera
and the receipt. I shift it to my left hand and take a twenty from the
pile of
money. “This should cover the ticket,” I smile as I shove it in my
pocket. “The camera’s a gift for Debby,” he
yells. “You can’t just
steal it.” “I’ll give it to her and say it’s
from you.” I head toward
the door. He spews, “Who the Hell do you
think you are?” “I’m Curt.” I shove him away and
reach for the door handle. Joe grabs my shoulder from behind
and I whip around,
knocking his hand off. But he swings his right fist in a wide arc,
catching my
jaw hard. My head snaps back and I fall, bouncing off the end of the
bed and
landing on the floor, dazed. I should have expected his sucker
punch. I take a deep
breath. The carpet smells worse than it looks. The scent of mildew and
ammonia
mask the sour odor of dried beer and puke. I want to stand up more than
anything, but I can’t. Joe leans over me, his triumphant
grin burning through my
fuzzy eyesight. If he was smart he would kick me now and end it. Roll
me into
the hallway, shove me down the stairs. But he reaches for the Ritz
Camera bag
lying where it fell next to my right hand, cushioned by my thigh. I clutch his wrist, focusing all my
strength on that one spot.
His arm stops cold, his hand grabbing air. I raise my head and tighten
my
fingers, my grip tempered by wrestling thousands of milk crates. I
never
dropped one. My head clears as I twist his wrist and use it to lever
myself up.
He takes a wild swing with his left hand but I lean back and his fist
grazes my
shoulder. Still holding his wrist, I gather
myself in a low stance. He
starts another swing, leaving himself off balance. I pull him down and
knee him
in the stomach. He grunts and launches his himself toward me like a
linebacker.
I lean back and hook the side of his head with my left fist as he
caroms
sideways off the wall. He coughs and rolls to his side,
shaking his head. I stare
at him, waiting for him to stand up, breathing hard and stretching my
jaw where
he caught me by surprise. He wipes the back of his hand on his mouth,
sees a
smear of blood and drops his head down on the floor. I wait a long moment while my pulse
slows, watching Joe
breathe. His eyes simmer with anger, but he shows no sign of getting
up. I hold
his eyes as I walk toward the door, retrieving the shopping bag. “You’re an asshole, Curt,” he says
to my back. I glance back. “You’re just being
nice.” I slam the door and
stride down the stairway, inhaling the fresh air. Back home, the weak shower drains
off my day of wrestling
milk crates and quarterbacks. I stand in the water longer than usual,
the hot
steam soothing my jaw and shoulder. After Joe’s room at Sullivan’s, my
sparse apartment
feels like the Waldorf Astoria. When I pick up Angie I don’t tell
her about my errand,
preferring to forget about it. By her soapy scent I know she also
washed off
her day at the dairy. She replaced her black lipstick with deep red for
our
trip to Pearl’s, but otherwise she retains her dark vampire appearance.
At the honky-tonk bar I stomp on
peanut shells with my steel-soled
work boots as Angie glides across the dance floor, shocking the college
crowd
with her steps and her deathly pallor. They give us plenty of space. “I want to ride that horse.” I
point toward the full-sized plaster
cast of a bronco bucking up from the top of the bar, the tips of its
hooves inches
from the hanging lights. “You’re too heavy.” She pokes me in
the arm. “You want me to toss you up there?” She laughs. “You know the legend?” “That says the horse will fly away
when a virgin graduates
from the university?” “No, the one that says a vampire
doesn’t any need help,
especially from her prey.” “I never heard that one.” She leans into me. “I just made it
up.” We leave Pearl’s soon after, but we
don’t stop at Mother’s.
Angie won’t go near the bar. She takes me back to her apartment where
I’m a
willing victim. ### The next night is Wednesday, and I
know I’ll see Freddy
picking up bets and paying off winners at Mother’s. I take my stool
between
Artie and Carl. They don’t notice the Ritz Camera bag when I set it
down at my
feet. “You missed the action last night,”
Artie says. “I had to work.” “Ha. I heard you were out hunting
with the vampire.” He smiles,
a wad of tobacco bulging in his cheek. “Glad you’re still alive.” “Not
like Joe
Namath.” Carl peers at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Debby released
him and
now he’s a free agent.” Artie chuckles into his beer glass.
I turn away when he
takes a swig without spitting out his plug. “She came in crying and she
said Joe
left her. But by the end of the night her story changed. Now she says
she threw
him out.” I shake my head. “She has to
maintain her perfect record.” Artie gazes at me for a second.
“She says he stole her
money.” “Those athletes always need cash,”
Carl grumbles. “That big
contract and now he’s broke.” Debby emerges from the kitchen. She
doesn’t look like a
woman in mourning. Her eyes gleam in a special way when she’s ready for
a new boyfriend.
I wave her over, hoping Angie’s bite has given me immunity, but I
shiver when she
touches my shoulder. “You had Joe figured from the
beginning,” she says. “You know I never liked the Jets.”
I lift up the shopping
bag and hand it to her. She smiles with surprise. “Thank
you, but what do I want
with a camera?” “It’s a gift from Joe. The
receipt’s in the bag.” “You can get your money back,” Carl
says in his professional
tone. “Ritz is good about that. The Press buys all their camera
equipment
there.” She reads the amount and her face
reddens. “How did
you get this?” I study the bag, avoiding her glare. She darkens into a scowl. “I don’t
want to know.” She takes the bag and strides back
to the kitchen, the door
gaping and swinging in her wake. “You’re welcome,” I say. Artie
slaps me on the back. Terry Tierney writes stories and poems while rewriting a sixties novel. “Sack the Quarterback” is one of his Beer River stories, which include a story coming in Fictive Dreams and one previously appearing in Big Bridge. He also published a story recently in Literally Stories, and he has poems coming or appearing in Third Wednesday and Cold Creek Review and other publications.
|
This author has enabled feedback from readers. Please feel free to contact him or her and provide comments. Scroll to the bottom of the page to do so.
|
