down from some high and is falling into a stupor. The kids have quieted down. Eddie sits there smelling the wrapper. He’d bet it was Juicy Fruit — wrong, it was spearmint. Slight smile in the corner of Eddie’s mouth. Sentence inside his head — “Just not my day.” The man stands next to the big guys with the guns, nodding his head in some social bond. Eddie looks at Honey, who is smug with the knowledge that she has, probably for the thousandth time, gotten Dear his balls back.
But as the black-and-white pulls away with a silent Eddie in the back seat, it’s because Eddie wants the kids to see the police take the bad guy away.
BUCEPHALUS
I was fifteen. I’d just gotten out of Juvy, and my parents were pretty upset. I was starting my first year in high school and I was hoping to do something right. My father told me I was trying out for the school football team. As usual, I wasn’t in a position to argue with him. I knew I’d never make the team anyway. So there I was on September 5, 1964, at nine-thirty a.m., sitting in the locker room of Wilson High School, the pride of interscholastic sports in San Diego, California.
I had a helmet that didn’t fit right, way too loose. It looked stupid. My neck was too thin, my eyes too big, my face too narrow. The idea of intimidating anyone in the locker room was laughable. I sat in front of my locker with tunnel vision. Putting on the gear I was having an anxiety attack, before I ever got near the football field. I sat there surrounded by last year’s championship players, thinking, “Dad would just love this.” The linemen were acting big and brutish, defensive linemen especially. The linebackers were the characteristic psychopaths everyone imagines linebackers to be. There was a cluster of pretty-boy stars, undoubtedly the quarterbacks, running backs and receivers. They were all smiling, telling jokes, happy to have another year of glory, admiration, and sex beginning again.
I sat there in my underwear and socks with the huge helmet wobbling on my head, a ridiculous stranger. These other guys looked like giants; thick cords ran up and down their wide brown necks. Whiskers collected beads of sweat. They looked at me kind of funny. Each pair of eyes would dart at me; each pair assessed me as nothing — that bugged me. I lifted the helmet off my head and put it on the floor as nonchalantly as possible — I had noticed that no one else was wearing his. I reached down for one of my cleated football shoes. At that instant, a huge foot sent it spinning along the concrete floor. I got so nervous I nearly fainted. My brain struggled frantically to determine if this was intentional or accidental. What challenge or warning should I declare? How could I get out of this without looking more absurd than I felt, which was very absurd? Without looking up, I crouched down, staring at the floor, and stretched a few small steps, reaching for my shoe. I could see a thousand tails on a thousand dogs tucked under a thousand chicken-shit dog butts.
A thick-wristed hand intercepted the shoe and handed it back, saying, “Sorry, Red, here ya go.” “Thanks,” I peeped without looking up. Red. I hated to be called Red. This guy didn’t know my name, sees my red hair, red freckles, red nose, and assumes my fucking name is Red. Plus, I knew that if he had intentionally kicked my shoe again, I would have chickened out.
I hid my burning face and pretended to need something in my locker. I dove way in, smelling at least eight years of athletic tradition at Wilson High School. My thoughts echoed, “This is not a good start.”
My father never taught me a thing. He hardly ever said anything to me. He never put his hand on my shoulder, never extended it in a handshake, never even slapped me with it. He saved that for my mother. It was clear that he thought I didn’t exist, wasn’t even worth the bother.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
