If Rock and Roll Were a Machine (11 page)

When order was finally restored the ball went to the Rats back at the Explorer twenty-eight. For spite they tried to score, but two passes went incomplete and the gun sounded before they could get off another snap.

There was a great exhalation of coffee- and popcorn-breath out of the Thompson section and then everybody began packing up. Generally spirits were high. People were
talking about the potential of this new offensive lineup.

Camille walked up to the concrete wall where the seats began. His hair was matted down and a mixture of field chalk and sod was stuck above one eye. Scotty walked down to meet him. Bert saw this and he saw the Hmongster a few feet away sighting in with the school's Pentax.

“I didn't get control till I was out,” Camille said.

“That's what it looked like to me,” Scotty said. “Great catch, anyway. Great game.'

Camille beamed. He spotted Zimster up in the crowd and yelled. “Jim! You want to meet us back at school and go cruise for a dog?”

Zimster gave him a thumbs-up.

Bert watched Scotty watch Camille walk down the sideline and then up the asphalt walkway toward the bus.

*  *  *

The mood back at school was such that if Bert hadn't been to the game, he would have thought they'd won. Everybody—guys, girls, the few parents waiting to have a word with their sons before the boys went off into the postgame night where they had a lot better chance of getting hurt in their cars than on the football field—everybody was full of smiles, good cheer, and high hopes for the next game, which would be the last. Band kids, a subspecies defying the usual human classifications, were singing “Twist and Shout” and dancing like the parade crowd in
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
. Some parents carped about Coach Christman not moving Jackson to receiver
earlier in the year, but they carped good-naturedly.

It was a beautiful night. A little cool, a little moist. Just right for wearing your hooded sweatshirt under your coat. The players coming out of the locker room didn't seem to want to leave either. They hung around, sitting on the steps or leaning against car fenders.

Bert was looking over at Jim, wondering what had happened to all his nastiness. Jim was sitting in his chair at the rear of Camille's 1949 Chevy station wagon talking with Scotty and Rita. Thinking of Zimster made Bert think about grade school, and thinking about his grade school years could bring Bert down real fast.

Mike Jackson hustled out the locker room door in his shirtsleeves and said something to Scotty. All Bert heard was the word “Camille.” They both hustled back, and Bert followed.

Scotty stood at the little tiled curb that keeps the water from running out of the shower entrance onto the concrete floor. All the showers were going full blast. Bert was standing on his tiptoes beside Jackson looking into the shower area over the tiled wall. Camille sat on the floor in the blast from one of the showers, his chin on his chest.

Bert saw Scotty say something to Camille, but he was too far away to hear through all the shower noise. Scotty picked up two towels from the pile on the table by the entrance and stepped in. He turned off the shower in his path and the one spraying down on Camille. Scotty wiped his face with one of the towels and said something else,
but Bert still couldn't hear. Camille said something. Scotty tossed the towel down onto Camille's shoulder. Camille looked up and said something, then he started crying again.

Bert's calves were hurting and he settled back down off his toes.

Scotty leaned forward and extended his arm. Bert didn't have to strain to see because Scotty was so tall. In a second Camille appeared. He put his arms around his father's neck and cried hard. Loud enough for anyone in the locker room to hear.

*  *  *

Bert sat on the north end of the 7-Eleven sidewalk eating slowly the first of what would be a number of hot dogs. The Sportster sat a few feet farther north in the big dirt lot between the 7-Eleven and the yogurt store. The 7-Eleven hadn't become a Thompson hangout at this point. Tonight would be the night that made it one.

Bert was savoring his dog, capturing with his tongue each errant slice of jalapeño pepper and onion chunk that clung to the napkin. Bert was surprised to see Camille's station wagon roll past the gas pumps and into the dirt lot. Public Enemy continued pounding out of the stereo after Shepard shut down. Bert could see the sides and top of the old rig vibrating. Zimster could add hearing loss to his list of handicaps. Shepard and Jackson climbed out slowly. They walked as though various parts of their bodies would have preferred to be home in bed. Bert had assumed Camille wouldn't feel like going out on the town after the incident
in the shower. But then Bert didn't really know Camille.

Both boys crawled into the back of the Chevy. They emerged hoisting an old easy chair to which Jim Zimster was secured by a series of bungee cords. They placed the chair on the blacktop a few inches from Bert's Big Gulp cup. Zimster unhooked the cords and took a breath. Everybody spoke a greeting, including Jackson, with whom Bert had never spoken. Shepard adjusted the watch cap he was wearing over his wet head. “We mean to rid this place of some hot dogs,” he said.

It made Bert smile. Shepard sounded like his dad. There was just that little accent.

More Thompson kids began pulling in. Lauren Haskell parked her Karmann-Ghia beside Camille's Chevy. Then a bunch of sophomore boys showed up, then Clara Davis and Sharon Jackson, Mike's sister, then Darby and Sean Christman in Darby's Tracker with the top down. All the stereos gave way to Public Enemy.

People gravitated around Zimster's chair. Bert sort of knew these people, but he didn't feel particularly comfortable around any of them, and that included Darby and Camille. He wasn't sure about Zimster. Bert was a little peeved. All he'd wanted to do was eat a peaceful two or three hot dogs.

Bert heard footsteps and looked up to see Krista James. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt that said
THOMPSON VOLLEYBALL
. Krista always looked good, but she looked particularly good tonight with her cheeks flushed in
the cool air. It hurt to look at Krista because she was so beautiful. What hurt was that Bert knew he would never touch this beauty, would never have Krista or any girl like her. Bert also knew that beauty wasn't a quality that needed to be touched to be appreciated, and he knew that human beings didn't exist to be possessed. But this knowledge didn't prevent Krista James's beauty from tearing at Bert's heart.

Bert took a peek over at Darby. The Darb was by no means eclipsed by Krista. Darby had a look and she had a way. She also had a Sean Christman. Lauren Haskell was sleek and cute as an otter and seemed just as playful with Kelly-Mac. And Bert had never noticed until tonight how good-looking Sharon Jackson was. Even his childhood friend Clara Davis was looking good to Bert, and she was big and tough enough to beat him up.

Bert wanted to scream. Goddammit! I came here for a hot dog not a hard-on! But he contained himself.

Camille asked Jim what he wanted on his dog, then he and Mike ambled inside. In less than a minute everybody was inside lined up for dogs or nosing around in the aisles, and Bert and Jim were alone.

Bert wanted to say something, so he asked how Jim knew Camille. Jim said they had European History together. “Can I ask you a favor, Bert?” Jim said.

Bert said sure.

“Tell me if you don't want to,” Jim said.

“Come on,” Bert said.

“Would you mind getting my chair out of Camille's car and helping me into the bathroom?”

“I wouldn't mind,” Bert replied.

As Bert hauled the wheelchair out of the car and set it up he was remembering back to fifth grade when every kid in class but Zimster had been happy to tell Mr. Lawler when Bert was acting like he thought he was more important than anybody else. Every kid but Zimster. They hadn't done it out of meanness, most of them. They were just little kids happy to please their teacher. They didn't know much about being people. But Zimster knew. Bert was grateful to have the chance to repay some of this debt.

Camille and Mike set Jim back in the big chair and Bert returned the wheelchair to the Chevy. It was a lot more pleasant messing around in there with no music going. More pleasant, that is, until Bert realized why there was no music going: Krista James was sitting in the driver's seat looking through the tapes. She looked up in the dim yellow glow of the old dome light. If girls get more beautiful than this, Bert thought, one look at them would stop your heart.

“It was good of you to help Jim,” Krista said.

“I've know him since grade school,” Bert said.

“I know him from European History,” Krista said. “He's smart and he's got a wicked sense of humor.”

In that moment Bert was stricken by a thought: What do you do for a love life if you're among the Zimsters of the world? Can you masturbate? Pray to all the powers of the
universe that you can. Please let there be a Zimsterland.

Krista was talking to him. She repeated herself. “Any requests, I said.”

“Well,” Bert replied. “I like ZZ Top.”

“You're not going to believe it,” Krista said. She waved a tape box.

Bert went in for another dog. He squirted a thick line of melted cheese up both sides, then over the cheese a thicker layer of chili, then over the chili just the thinnest line of mustard. He wrapped the dog in extra napkins to catch the spillage, then heaped on the jalapeño slices and onion chunks. There are some desires that transcend a concern for fresh breath.

Krista was sitting in Bert's place dipping into a giant bag of Cheetos when he returned. She and Shepard, Jim and Mike, Darby and Sean, Lauren and Kelly-Mac, and Clara and Sharon were absorbed in something.

Bert sat on the sidewalk a few feet behind the rest of the kids. He leaned against the store wall. He took a big, messy, luscious bite of dog. This was all right. He would watch and he would listen. It was what he did best.

Krista told Camille she'd heard he was crying in the locker room, and she asked why. Everybody but Krista and Camille—and Bert—looked away in embarrassment.

But Camille wasn't embarrassed. He said he hadn't seen his dad for four years and hadn't been to the States since he was eight. He'd put in all those years dreaming about coming to the States and doing the stuff his dad had
done growing up. He was in the shower feeling good about having caught a few balls, and the realization all at once came upon him that he was finally getting to do the things he'd dreamed of for so long.

Sharon asked why Camille didn't get to visit his dad all those years. Her brother glared at her. Bert had the feeling Mike knew Camille's story. She asked if it was because his mother wouldn't let him.

“She wouldn't let me,” Camille said. “But it wasn't because she and my dad don't get along. My dad was an agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and he got shot.”

Bert sat up straighter. He remembered what Scotty'd said about his knees:
One knee went in football and the other in an accident in my job.

“I had my plane ticket and was all set to go see him in Tucson,” Camille said. “I'd flown by myself before. But then he called and said I'd better not come, that he'd been shot while he was undercover and that they hadn't rounded up all the guys he'd been investigating. My mom about shit.

“That was ten years ago,” Camille said, “and she only let me come this year because my uncle Steve convinced her those guys weren't still looking for Dad. Steve's an agent—”

Kelly-Mac interrupted. “The biker who tried to pick a fight with Coach is a cop?” he said.

Bert and Zimster spoke at the same time. “He's really a nice guy,” they said.

People laughed at how perfectly synchronized they were.

Well, that explains a few things, Bert thought.

“Steve's with ATF,” Camille said. “He's on leave now. He just hates to dress up.”

Bert could see that Camille had talked about himself all he wanted to. And he saw that Krista saw it too. She turned to Zimster, held up a Cheeto and asked what he thought it resembled. It didn't resemble anything Bert could think of. Maybe a white radish. Except that it was orange.

Jim blushed. The addition of color to his pasty cheeks looked good, but he was not pleased with the attention. He glared at Jackson and Shepard, then back at Krista. “I didn't make it up,” he said. “In spite of what these two probably told you.”

“Make what up?” asked Kelly-Mac.

“It's a known fact,” Zimster said. “Granted, it's not widely known. But nevertheless it's a fact.”

“What is?” Steve Thonski asked.

Krista gobbled down the Cheeto upon which all eyes were focused, dug into the bag for another, then held it up. “According to Jim Zimster,” she said, “one bag out of every lot of Cheetos bags produced contains—” Krista interrupted herself. “How many bags in a lot, Jim?”

“A lotta bags in a lot,” snarled Pat Sweat through clenched teeth. “A lotta goddamn bags in a lot. Now what are you guys talking about?”

“About ten thousand, I think,” Zimster said.

“One out of every ten thousand or so Cheetos bags,” Krista continued, “contains an exact replica of a penis.”

“Awesome!” shouted Kevin Robideaux. “Radical!” shouted one of his sophomore friends. The whole bunch of them laughed and pummeled one another in typical sophomore fashion as they raced to the door.

“Not an exact replica,” Jim said. “It's exactly proportioned, but scaled down. I'm not sure what the ratio is.”

“Exact?” said Darby. “How could it be exact? They're all different.”

“Since when are you a penis expert, Granger?” Lauren Haskell asked.

“She's got four brothers,” Christman said.

The first of the sophomores had returned and was distributing handfuls of Cheetos around the group. People were holding Cheetos at arm's length, tilting their heads, squinting, consulting their neighbors' perspective.