If Rock and Roll Were a Machine (14 page)

Bert's
mom has offered to buy him some workout clothes, but he's asked her to wait till he decides if he's going to join. The truth is that Bert would love some new clothes for the club, but he'd be embarrassed to wear them. What he would love even more, however—and what neither his mother nor anyone else can give him—is the body to wear that stuff. He likes the bright colors, particularly in the tank tops. But if a guy's going to expose that much flesh, it should be toned flesh, and Bert's flesh is not toned. Bert's flesh makes him think of pasta. He's a five-foot-nine-inch chunk of Bertolini cooked too long.

Bert's legs are okay. He might be able to get by in a pair of the skintight, knee-length shorts that both guys and girls wear. But he really can't see himself styled out like that. The image just won't form itself in his head.

The bike beeps to signal Bert that his twenty minutes are up. He keeps his eyes closed as he climbs off, and he doesn't open them until he has turned and can no longer see through the railing down into the aerobics room. He looks down into the racquetball courts and sees they're all filled. He won't be practicing racquetball this evening.

After Bert showers he stops at the desk to drop his towel in the bag and pick up his keys. On the counter he sees that the sign-up sheets for winter racquetball leagues are out. They can't have been out long because there's only one name. Bert bends to the B sheet.

For a second the sound is turned off in Bert's head.
There is only the pulsing clarity of this name printed in blue ink:
GARY LAWLER
.

Bert walks back through the glass doors into the workout area and the sound comes on in his head again. There are many sounds here: the thin swoosh of the stationary bike pedals, the clank of the plates in the weight machines, the whir of the chains that drive the StairMasters, the aluminum whisper of the seats sliding back and forth on the rowing machines, the music rising up from the aerobics classes.

But Bert doesn't hear these sounds. What Bert hears are the sounds created when racquets make contact with racquet balls, and then the subsequent sounds of those little blue balls contacting walls. He walks along the rail looking down into each court. And then he sees a short, dark guy hitting by himself. That's him, all right. Gary Lawler, Bert's old teacher. He hasn't changed. He looks in great shape. The asshole sonofabitch.

Scotty returned from the classic
bike show in Phoenix just in time to scratch Bert's name off the B league list and write him in on C. This saved Bert the embarrassment of playing men and women against whom he might not have scored a single point, and it saved those B players the wasted time of playing someone who wasn't experienced enough to give them a game.

Scotty's first thought had been to put Bert in with the novices where he belonged. But he figured the kid would ask for help and that he'd have him playing good C racquetball after a couple sessions on the court, so C is where he put him. He told Bert what he'd done the next evening in the locker room when he saw him ripping the clear plastic off the handle of a two-hundred-dollar racquet.

Bert looked up, and for the first time Scotty saw in his face the boy Donald Bowden might have been referring to when he said
a kid like Bert
. “I knew you wouldn't have any fun in B,” Scotty said.

“Thanks,” Bert replied. “I guess I got carried away.”

“I think C'll be plenty of challenge for you,” Scotty said.

Bert handed Scotty the racquet he'd borrowed. “Thanks very much for lending me this,” he said.

*  *  *

League racquetball started the first week in January, and it didn't take many matches for Bert to realize Scotty had been right. Bert wouldn't have had any fun in B. He wasn't having any fun in C. He would have to score no points at all to get beat worse than he was getting beat by the C players. It was humiliating.

Bert had bought a used copy of
Strategic Racquetball
by Steve Strandemo and Bill Bruns when he signed up to play league. The explanations were clear, and Bert read the book with care every night. He believed he'd learned a lot about the game in these few weeks. Every time he got out on the court, however, he demonstrated to himself that he couldn't play for shit. It was so humiliating.

*  *  *

Humiliation was the subject of Bert's thoughts as he pressed his forehead to the windows of Thompson's third-floor hall. Winter morning sunlight flowed through the windows in a warm current that bathed his bare arms and his face, but the glass was cold where his forehead touched it. He pressed his palms to the glass, closed his eyes, and side-stepped along the windows, his yellow hall pass fluttering between his fingers. He looked like someone out on a window ledge of a tall building, trying to find a way back inside before he lost his balance.

Bert had more than his share of things to be thankful for, and most of the time he recognized this. Right now, however, he was too frustrated with his life to see it. As he navigated the hallway in this unusual fashion Bert was thankful for three things only: He was thankful for the icy glass against his skin; he was thankful that the hallway was deserted; and he was profoundly thankful that he'd told no one about his futile commitment to get good enough at racquetball to stomp Gary Lawler, to send him home crying, to shove the desk of his soul across the floor of his life into a dark corner and nail it down forever.

It felt good to let out his hatred for Lawler after all these years. It was like breathing again after having held his breath since fifth grade.

It made Bert feel lousy to know he'd probably never get good enough to be in Lawler's league as a racquetball player, let alone beat the guy. But being able to hate the fucker felt sweet. Like the pane of ice against his skin on the tropical third floor of Thompson High.

The fingers of Bert's right hand touched the aluminum molding that framed the glass, then the brick wall. His trip along the windows had ended. He rubbed his left hand over the glass and his right over the bricks of the wall. The tactile distinctions brought a smile to his face. He stepped away from the wall and opened his eyes. Bert had asked for a pass to go to the bathroom, but he didn't need to
go to the bathroom. He just needed to get out of Social Problems for a few minutes. Now he would go back.

*  *  *

Bert warmed up on the left side of the court, the backhand side for right-handers like him. Bert wasn't hitting backhands though. He was hitting forehands so he could watch his opponent, who was warming up on the right side.

They'd introduced themselves when they entered the court, but Bert had already forgotten the man's name. He hit neither smoothly nor hard. He hit worse than Bert. He was three times Bert's age, uncoordinated, fat, and slow.

Bert turned and hit a backhand into the floor, then another and another. He wasn't watching the racquet meet the ball. What Bert was doing was saying to himself, I can beat this guy. I can win my first match.

Bert was thinking how friendly his opponent was and hoping that losing wouldn't make him feel too bad when the man's first serve arced off the wall. It hit on the receiving line and bounced high into the side wall above Bert's head. Bert swung his backhand, but all he hit was wall.

“One serves zero,” his opponent said.

He hit three more excellent lob serves, and Bert couldn't get a decent return on any of them. One made it to the front wall, but the guy was right there to kill it. Like a fat, hungry bird after a little blueberry.

“Four serving zero.”

Bert told himself to settle down. He made sure he was positioned correctly: middle of the court, three feet from the back wall, legs bent. Bert knew that if he could just keep the ball in play, he could beat this guy.

But the serve was perfect. High, slow, bouncing at the receiving line, then high into the back corner. Bert was there, poised, patient. But the ball dropped so tight into the corner that it was unhittable. At least for Bert Bowden. He didn't even swing.

“Five serves zero.”

How the fuck are we supposed to play racquetball if I don't get to hit the serve? Bert said to himself. He considered serves this accurate as a form of cheating. He was concentrating on how small he felt for thinking this as the ball bounced by him. He turned and watched it die in the corner.

“Sorry,” his opponent said. “You weren't ready.”

“No,” Bert said. “I was. I mean I wasn't, but I should have been. Your point.”

“Six serving zero.”

Bert got his strings on this serve and took it to the ceiling. But he hit it too hard. It bounced high off the front wall, then high off the back. It was a bad shot, but it hugged the side wall. The fat guy followed it down the wall, his backhand poised. Bert turned to the front wall and waited for the return. But he didn't hear a hit. He looked back.

“Whiffed it,” the fat guy said. He was smiling as he rubbed his arm.
“About pulled my shoulder out of the socket.”

I wish, Bert thought.

Bert didn't announce the score. He didn't want it to ring out in the court. He did look back to see that the guy was ready to receive, though. Then he hit a hard drive. It came off low and bounced a couple of inches behind the short line. It bounced again before the guy could take a step.

“Ace!” the guy said. “Great serve.”

“One serving six,” was Bert's response.

Bert had aces on his mind as he dropped the ball and stepped into it. He hit it solidly, but too low on the wall. It shot past him, and he thought he saw it bounce before the line.

“Short!” the guy said. He caught the ball and flipped it to Bert. “Looked short to me,” he said. “Take two if you think it was good.”

“No,” Bert said. “It was short.” These guys are all such good sports, he thought. It made him want to barf. Every person Bert had played since he joined the club acted as though sportsmanship were part of the game. They'd tell him good shot even if it was lucky, they'd play the rally over if one player even came close to hindering the other, and if they hit him with the ball, they'd apologize even if it had been his fault for standing in the way. Such graceful behavior under the pressure of competition didn't come easy to Bert. “Second serve,” he announced.

Bert didn't have
enough confidence in the accuracy of his hard drive to use it as a second serve, so he hit a lob. Bert's lob was lousy, but he could usually drop it over the short line. Which he did.

The fat guy returned a cripple, and Bert tapped it into the corner.

“Two serves six.”

Bert got his first serve in this time. The fat guy returned a bad ceiling shot. Bert returned a bad ceiling shot. The fat guy returned it high off the front wall. Bert let it bounce off the back wall and returned it high off the front. That little blue ball ricocheted around the court in an orthography that said
Out of control!
Not one shot hit the front wall lower than five feet from the floor.

The fat guy hit another blast that bounced off the back wall and carried nearly to the front again. Bert hustled after it and tapped it into the corner.

“Great rally,” the fat guy gasped from the backcourt, where he stood panting and dripping sweat onto the floor. He shook his head. “Great hustle. You get to everything.”

“Thanks,” Bert said.

Bert took three more points and tied it. He served no aces, hit no good shots of any kind. He was able to keep the ball in play and put away the cripples, however, and his opponent wasn't.

The guy kept serving that good lob, and Bert kept hitting bad returns when he was able to return it at all. He knew that if he could just keep the ball in play he'd run the guy into cardiac arrest. But the racquet handle kept turning in his hand. Even with a dry glove he couldn't get a decent grip. He lost the first game 15–9.

Bert served first in game two and double-faulted. He couldn't keep the racquet from turning in his hand. He was down 6–zip before he got his head into the game. He was thinking how much he admired this guy for the grace he showed in competition, and he wondered how people develop such self-control.

Bert broke service only four times in game two. When he did win the serve he faulted on every drive, and his lobs floated into backcourt like masochistic balloons.
Give me a nice whack, please
, they said.
Am I in good enough position? Not too high for you? Not too low? Oooh! Ouch! Those strings are so taut. Pound me into a little blue waffle
. And, even though he was a poor player, Bert's opponent did pound them.

It was game-point serving three as Bert watched the ball arc toward him. When it bounced within centimeters of the receiving line and rose high into the side wall yet again, he turned for the door. “Fuck this,” he said. He was on his way to the drinking fountain when the ball died in the corner.

“My lob's got eyes today,” the fat guy said after Bert banged the court door closed. A self-deprecating smile accompanied his self-deprecating tone.

“Your serve,” Bert said.

Bert lunged and leaped and swatted at the serves and got a few back to the wall. He stormed into forecourt and dove for balls the fat guy would try to pinch into the corners. When the guy went to the ceiling, Bert dashed back and took it off the wall, then he'd scramble into forecourt again. He was literally all over the court, on his stomach as often as on his feet. He was only down 7–4 when the fat guy called time to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

Bert was walking in circles at midcourt, letting his racquet dangle from the safety cord around his wrist, when he looked up and saw Scott Shepard at the railing.

“Jerry's got that lob serve wired,” Scotty said. “But you're makin' him work for everything else.”

Bert gave a feeble smile and shrugged his shoulders. He lowered his head. The feeling was like a flock of waterfowl winging up through his chest from off the gastric lake of his stomach. He felt the pressure of their wings against his throat. He thought he might throw up. He wondered how long Scotty had been watching. Bert would rather lose every game in his life 15–0 than have Scott Shepard see what a worthless player he is.