Once I’d stopped being a kid, summers were nothing more than a crap job to clock into. That or school, same difference. But living with Coach,
summers came back. I was a kid again, as far as somebody else taking care of the harder aspects, bill-paying, etc. I should have been thankful, and can’t say why I wasn’t, other than that growing up goes one direction only. You can’t stuff a baby back where he came from, and on from there.
Oh, I said thank you. All the time. To Mattie Kate for feeding me, to Angus for driving me places, to Coach for every freaking thing. Saying
thanks, but at the same time thinking, where can I hide my dope, how can I get out of doing all this homework, who is he to tell me I can’t go riding around with my friends on a Saturday night, I’m not a damn child.
That summer, I wanted a job and my own money. Coach said there was no need to fool with that, just tell him what I wanted and he’d get it taken
care of. Which was my whole problem, having to ask. He said to remember football camp started in July. That was two months away. I seldom pushed back on Coach, but this time I did. So he asked around, and found out Coach Briggs’s brother that was managing the Farm Supply in Pennington needed somebody over there pronto. Briggs said the job was mine if I wanted it because his brother was in total charge, due to the owner having a heart attack. They needed an extra pair of hands and muscle enough for loading bags of feed into people’s trucks. Muscle I had, plus I was fifteen, so having a job was legal now. Coach filled out some forms and I started
the day after school let out. Seven bucks an hour to save up for a car.
Because that’s the thing: until you have your wheels, you’re still a child.
Anyplace I went, I had to ask. Angus now had a ’99 Jeep Wrangler that
Coach gave her for the sole reason of turning sixteen. She drove me over to Pennington for my job. Or worst case, U-Haul would. If I wanted to go out someplace after work, I had to make that somebody else’s business. Fifteen is the hardest age. Emmy had told me in Knoxville they had these city buses that could take you all over. Not just to school, but for people of every age to ride to the movies, skate park, wherever. Or if in a hurry, you could call up a taxi. I’d seen those things on TV, but didn’t totally believe Emmy. That they would have all that for any regular person to use.
Farm Supply was the best job I’d had so far: decent customers, zero rats that I was aware of, nobody cooking meth. The whole store had this sweet- feed smell that’s a cross between fresh-cut grass and Cheerios. They sold all the regular type things: calf and sheep wormer, horse tack, lawn chemicals, chain saws. In May they had tomato plants and the like, for people to get their gardens put in. I’d set all those on a table outside the store in the mornings, and move them back inside for closing. Next came the chicks, also my job: unloading them from the cardboard shipping boxes into big
troughs in the store where people could see and buy them. Keeping up their feed and water, the heat lamps on at all times, changing out the newspapers under them because man could those little dudes poop. The life of a chick: eat, shit, peep such a ruckus inside those galvanized troughs, you could hear it from the parking lot. Hard to believe every old beady-eyed hen starts out that way, as a little fuzz ball, yellow or black or spotted. Mornings before
we opened, it was my job to scoop out the ones that had died overnight, cold and flattened out from being walked on. Each one I took out back to the dumpster was its own tiny sadness.
This girl Donnamarie that ran the register was the one to train me, nice as could be other than acting like she’s my mom, all honey-this and honey-that and “You think you can remember all that, sweetie?” Just three or four
years out of high school herself. But she did have three kids, so probably she’d wiped so many asses she got stuck that way. I didn’t hold it against her. Coach Briggs’s brother stayed upstairs in the office. Heart attack guy was a mystery. First they said he might come back by the end of summer. Then they all stopped talking about him.
As far as customers, every kind of person came in. Older guys would want to chew the fat outside in the dock after I loaded their grain bags or
headgates or what have you. I handled all the larger items. They complained about the weather or tobacco prices, but oftentimes somebody would
recognize me and want to talk football. What was my opinion on our being a passing versus running team, etc. So that was amazing. Being known.
It was the voice that hit my ear like a bell, the day he came in. I knew it instantly. And that laugh. It always made you wish that whoever made him laugh like that, it had been you. I was stocking inventory in the home goods aisle, and moved around the end to where I could see across the store. Over by the medications and vaccines that were kept in a refrigerator case, he
was standing with his back to me, but that wild head of hair was the giveaway. And the lit-up face of Donnamarie, flirting so hard her bangs
were standing on end. She was opening a case for him. Some of the pricier items were kept under lock and key. I debated whether to go over, but heard
him say he needed fifty pounds of Hi-Mag mineral and a hundred pounds of pelleted beef feed, so I knew I would see him outside. I signaled to
Donnamarie that I’d heard, and threw it all on the dolly to wheel out to the loading dock.
He pulled his truck around but didn’t really see me. Just leaned his elbow out the open window and handed me the register ticket. He’d kept the Lariat of course, because who wouldn’t.
“You’ve still got the Fastmobile, I see,” I said.
He froze in the middle of lighting a smoke, shifted his eyes at me, and shook his head fast, like a splash of cold water had hit him. “I’ll be goddamned. Diamond?”
“The one,” I said. “How you been hanging, Fast Man?”
“Cannot complain,” he said. But it seemed like he wasn’t a hundred percent on it really being me loading his pickup. He watched me in the side mirror. The truck bounced a little each time I hefted a mineral block or bag into the bed. Awesome leaf springs on that beauty. I came around to give him back his ticket, and he seemed more sure.
“I’d have taken you for a stranger,” he said. “You’re twice the man you used to be.”
Weightwise, possibly true, and at least a foot taller since fifth grade. “Doing my best,” I said. “You taking all this to Creaky’s cattle?”
“Hell no. That shithole ran itself into the ground some while ago.
Tempting as it was to stay and watch the old man cry, I did not.”
“So is he dead now?” The last time Angus and I were out there to steal another Christmas tree, we’d seen bank auction signs stapled on the gate.
Fast Forward took a drag on his cigarette, eyes sliding sideways. “Maybe. For all the shit I give.” I just stood there burning it all to my brain. Dragging like that, not giving a shit like that.
“So, where you living at now, man?”
“Got my own place. Close to fifty acres up by Cedar Hill.” “Sweet, your own farm. Is it over by where they have the bison?” “A few miles shy of that. North side of 58.”
“Sweet,” I said. Again. Just struck dumb, because holy crap. A foster kid going that far in life, not even all that old yet. “You got a tobacco bottom?”
“Two-and-a-half-acre allotment, so it’s just about right. Manageable.” “Well, if you ever need help cutting or anything. You know I’m there.” “I appreciate it. But what I need to know is, can the boy keep the damn
gloves on.”
He smiled, I laughed. The times we’d had. I mean, yes, this was getting poisoned that we were laughing about. Every minute of those days had sucked. But with another person knowing it was hell, you had something. I wanted to ask if he ever saw Tommy or Swap-Out, but really I wanted to be the only one that mattered to him. I saluted him, as in times of old. I needed to get back to work, but my feet were glued to the ramp. Fast Forward, human magnet. And his F-100.
He threw the butt of his cigarette onto the cement pad. “Like I said, I almost didn’t know you up close. But I have seen you on the field.”
“You’ve seen me play?”
“What do you think, Eighty-Eight? I’m a General. It’s not something you get over.”
The engine engaged, the Lariat pulled out, and I waited to see if my heart would settle down. He’d seen me play.
He made a point after that of speaking to me any time he came in. Often he was just picking up Ivermec or syringes, small things, not needing me to load his truck, but he’d find me and ask how was it hanging. I’d look up from tagging cultivator handles with the price gun, and here would be that movie-star smile coming my way. Almost like a friend thing. Even still, it surprised the heck out of me the day he asked if I wanted to hang out that evening. On a Saturday, which meant cruising. This being the Saturday- night enterprise of every human person in Lee County between age sixteen and married. Dragging Main. Right away I’m thinking, does he know I’m
only fifteen, no vehicle, how will I meet up with him and all such as that. But he was chill, saying he’d pick me up here at five and we’d go see what kind of action we could scare up. He said some guys that were Generals from his day wanted to talk to me about the new direction we were taking on the field. I said sure. I was nervous to call Coach’s house and tell them not to come pick me up because I was going out on my own. The hard part I mentioned of feeling like a child. But it was U-Haul that answered, so I just told him. I owed nothing to U-Haul. The rest of the day dragged, due to not having my head in the feed store game. Bored with filling chick waterers, ready for action.
Pennington Gap is where we went, naturally. Because let’s face it, cruising Jonesville is small-time, the whole of Main being a mile and a half, tops. Federal Street in Norton has its pros and cons. But in Pennington you cruise all the way through town on Morgan, then swing around and come
the whole way back on Joslyn, a giant circle with the vehicles moving so slow it might take a full hour for a circuit. You could walk it faster. Car
windows are down, bodies are hanging out, conversations are had. People flirting between vehicles, or between the cars and bystanders. A lot of girls hung out in front of Lee Theater or at the turnaround by the dry cleaners, staked out in one locale to see the show go by. Some brought lawn chairs. Wanting to get the bigger picture, plus your outfit will not be seen all that much if you’re inside a vehicle, if that’s your main selling point. Not just
the clothes but, you know. How they fit.
It was my first cruise from the vantage point of a vehicle, and we were
the star attraction. Like the convertible in the parade with the homecoming queen in her fluffy dress, waving. In our case there was no waving, and really no “we,” it was all about Fast Forward. Hands resting loose on the wheel, head tilted back, eyes half closed, that smile. Ladies, come and get it if you dare. The girls came alive in a wave whenever that Lariat came into view. Up and down like fishing bobbers. Skintight jeans and halter tops and bare midrifts that hurt your crotch to look at.
We were four of us: Fast and me, a girl by name of Rose Dartell, and Big Bear Howe that played all four years with him as left tackle, so you know what that means. No tighter pair than a QB and the defender of his blind side. The girl, another story. Not to be mean, but this Rose person was not in Fast Forward’s league. Sharp elbows and eyes, sharp snaggled teeth, dirt- color hair teased out to the breaking point. She had this whole look about
her like: Go ahead and try, pal. Can of whoop-ass at the ready. She sat in
the middle and Big Bear shotgun, so after they picked me up, it was me and the door handle trying not to get too acquainted and fall out. We talked football, Big Bear wanting to know my thinking on our defensive lineup
this year. Then we got to Joslyn and pulled into the string of cars, and Big Bear stamped shoe prints on the knees of my jeans on his way to squeezing out the window and swinging his big self onto the hood of the Lariat. He’s our damn hood ornament. With ants in his pants, whooping at girls, pounding the metal really fast on both sides of him. Monkey drummer. It’s a credit to Ford engineering and the support struts in that hood, because Big Bear is 250, easy. It was a time-tested arrangement evidently, and Big Bear a spectacle in his own right, about like the Hulk would look in Carhartt
overalls and no shirt and a buzz cut with an epic rattail. They say Big Bear used to coil up that rattail in his helmet during games, for safety reasons. In this fashion we made our way around the town, clockwise I guess you would say if looking down at us from the standpoint of God. And let’s hope God wasn’t, this being open season on shady transactions, PDA, and language. “Where the fuck you been at lately asshole” being the usual hello.
It was all eyes on Fast Forward, but second to that, who was with him. I saw girls elbowing each other and pointing. The second time we rounded
the corner by Lee Theater, Fast Forward surprised me by getting out of the truck. Middle of the street, engine running, door standing open. He’s saying, Get the hell out here, Demon, so I do. He’s got people for me to meet. Guys he played with and their girlfriends or wives or whatever, some with babies, Fast Forward being a few years out of high school now and
some of these guys even older. The names went around too fast and loud to remember, this one guy Duck or Buck had a praying hands tattoo on his shoulder, his girlfriend wearing a Miss Thing T-shirt, another guy missing his pointer finger, I noticed. All retired Generals, here a tight end, there a cornerback. Fast Forward told them I was his prodigy that he’d discovered as a diamond in the raw. It happened more than once, him throwing the door open with the truck still rolling in some cases, me trying to keep up.
Sometimes the younger people knew of me already, more really than they knew Fast Forward. He said you have to keep the legacy connected, old with the new, and I could see that. People come and go through school, there’s a danger of them forgetting the greatness of Generals of old. It was awesome plus terrifying. Would all these people expect me now to be that
cool, or make touchdowns on every pass, or loan them money? Jesus. Fame is a lot to handle.
This girl Rose meanwhile was mystery cargo. I recognized the name, recalling the dope cookies some girl had made for our long-ago Squad parties. If this was the same one, we were looking at the longest girlfriend audition of history. What I’m saying is, she still didn’t have the job. They were more like brother and sister, having this fight the entire evening where she says, “I’m stupid obviously, but Jaylene Glass says it’s not how you
said,” and he’s like “What isn’t,” and she’s like “You know what, the mouse deal,” and he’s like “Cry me a river,” and she’s like “You talk to her then,” and he’s like “I don’t think so.”
At a certain point he finished his Marlboros, crumpled the pack in his fist, and dropped it in her hand. Rose told me to let her out, and off she marches up the sidewalk, stick-thin girl with big farm-girl strides in her tight jeans and high-heel sandals. One block and two minutes later, she’s
back in the Lariat with a fresh pack and he’s lighting up without word one of thanks. And I’m wishing I’d been quick enough to jump out and get them myself. That’s how it was with Fast Forward, you wanted to be his foot soldier. I was proud to be a General of the present day, but would have given anything to be as old as Big Bear, and the one to have been his left tackle.
It wasn’t till Rose got back in the cab, giving me a full front view, that I saw the scar running up the left side of her mouth. It dragged through both lips, leaving them out of whack in a kind of snarl. She was one of those
heavy-makeup girls, majorly covered up, with the color boundary where the face meets the neck. Due to the scar, you have to think, but really it was not hideable. I wondered what that was like. For guys, it’s just war wounds. We had this defensive tackle Davy with a serious scar on his forehead from
where he was playing in the driveway as a tiny tot, and his dad ran over him partway with the car. And Davy was A-okay girlwise, a babe magnet to be honest. But for a girl like Rose, did this scar put her out of the running? Or middle-tier girlfriend level, so she could try all her life with Fast Forward but still remain doomed? I didn’t know the rules. Something was going on between these two, but love was not it.
Not my problem. I was living the life I’d been waiting for. From time to time Big Bear would step from the Lariat hood onto another vehicle and lie
on the roof, leaning over the window to talk to the driver. From time to time
somebody would give him a joint, he’d take a couple of drags, then walk back over onto our hood and pass it inside to Fast Forward. We’d pass it across, and I’d hand it back out the window to Big Bear. The sun hung low over the mountains like a big red tit, the lights blazed green and red off the glass store windows, the girls bent their beautiful faces together keeping their secrets, their bodies of sweetness, Fords and Chevies, the river flowed. This is how it’s done, I thought, and I am doing it. Dragging Main.
