North Dallas Forty (29 page)

“Phillip Elliott,” I reported. “Lanky member of the receiving corps.” I saluted stiffly while he ran his thumb down the side of his clipboard.

“Okay, fella,” he said, opening the door and gesturing me inside with his head. I held the back of my hand beside my mouth and leaned toward the man so grandly bedecked in brass buttons, epaulets, braids, and chevrons.

“If I’m not out by midnight,” I whispered loudly, “take the rest of the men and report back to Colonel Bowie.” I darted quickly through the door.

Joanne was waiting at the elevator. She was wearing a mesh net minidress and thigh-length boots. I got closer and could see, as could anybody who cared to look, the pointed nipples of her unencumbered breasts; the only thing between her and the New York City autumn were flesh-colored bikini panties. The minidress was just a grid, a mere illusion. The woman was nude. A brown leather coat trimmed in chinchilla was thrown over her shoulder. She looked astoundingly beautiful and outrageously illegal.

I had reached her as the elevator arrived; we stepped on and started our ascent before we spoke.

“You look great,” I complimented, “if a little obscene.”

“Thanks. You do too. Only maybe not obscene enough.”

“I’m trying to cut down.”

“Where’d you get the coat?” she asked, rubbing a small hand on the sleeve of the leather trench coat and toying with its myriad buckles and belts. “Very fashionable.”

“Neiman’s gave it to Maxwell and he gave it to me. He’s a cashmere man, you know.” I held my arms out and did a full turn.

“Actually, I feel somewhat like a member of the KGB.”

She didn’t understand the reference but her confidence in my sense of humor triggered a short giggle. It irritated me that a shithead like Emmett Hunter was getting such a good deal. But I remained thankful for the timely appearance of Charlotte Caulder into my life and vowed not to meddle.

“Where the hell are we going anyway?” I asked. The lighted numbers flashing on and off above the door were already well into the twenties.

“To the top,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “All the way to the top. They’re friends of Gary’s.”

“Gary being your writer friend from Cowtown?”

“Yes.”

We rode in silence for about ten floors. I looked around the empty stainless-steel cubicle.

“Ahhhh,” I said, opening my arms to embrace the elevator, “I’m sure gonna miss all this.”

“What?”

“All this.” I swept my hand around the elevator. “When you chose to marry, I took an oath of poverty. From now on I run pass patterns only for the good of mankind. Humanity’s first flankerback. No, my good man, no, I won’t contribute any money to the United Fund, I gave at the office. Two zig outs and a deep sideline. Ten percent of my deep routes are pledged to UNICEF.”

Joanne laughed more at my elaborate gestures than at my dialogue; it pleased me. I like to make people laugh.

The elevator stopped and the doors glided back with a hiss, revealing a small foyer and carved wooden double doors. It resembled the entrance to the men’s room of the Royal Knight Club back in Dallas.

I pulled on a gargoyle’s head attached to a gold chain; I assumed it would summon somebody. If it didn’t, I wasn’t going to set foot inside the apartment. A gargoyle’s head hanging from the ceiling with no utilitarian function was just too decadent; it reeked of ritual killers and liberal Republicans.

“Hello.” A pleasant-looking gray-haired woman opened the door and greeted us. “I’m Margaret McKnight.” She wore an orchid floor-length sleeveless gown; the neckline continued past her small breasts, revealing a large expanse of mottled tan skin.

The apartment was two stories high and had a wrought-iron spiral staircase that descended into the living room from a huge round hole in the ceiling. Groups of people clambered awkwardly up and down the stairs every now and then, seeming more awkward on the descent.

A tall, thin man, his shaggy hair gray-streaked, approached us. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a tweed pinched-back coat.

“The sort of man who reads
Playboy
,” I whispered to Joanne, “and doesn’t look at the pictures.” She stiffled a laugh, making a sound like someone had stepped on a chicken. We were both smiling broadly when the man reached our corner.

“Hello, Joanne,” he said. “It’s so good to see you.” He grabbed her shoulders and leaned forward rather clumsily to kiss her on the cheek; it landed just under her eye with his nose brushing up against her eyelid.

“Gary,” Joanne said, reaching up to wipe a hint of blue eye shadow from the end of his nose, “this is Phillip Elliott.”

We shook hands. His grip had a practiced firmness and I considered dropping to my knees and screaming in agony. I decided against it.

“Gary Cassady, Phillip,” he said, his face drawing into thought. “Phillip Elliott? ... Oh yes, the football player. I’ve seen you play.”

“That’s strange,” I replied. “I’ve always considered myself a very esoteric ball player.”

He smiled politely and then described several instances when he had seen me perform on television. It quickly became apparent to me that he was talking about Willie Ellison of the Los Angeles Rams. Joanne didn’t seem to notice, so I just kept smiling and nodding with great satisfaction at his recollections of superhuman effort and imperishable glory as if they were my own.

A short, stocky curly-haired man about fifty walked in from the foyer. Gary excused himself and joined several others to greet the man at the door.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” Joanne shrugged. “A writer, I think.”

“I just hope it’s not Willie Ellison.”

“Willie Ellison?”

“Just someone I used to be,” I explained.

“Oh.”

We stood silently for a time, watching the evening unfold. It was a leisurely cocktail party with people circulating from one group to another and people still ascending the spiral stairs and, after pauses of increasing duration, stumbling back down again, trying to look unruffled and in complete command of their faculties.

During the evening’s course, I met a free-lance writer from Cleveland who had spent some time in a training camp with an NFL team. He was pleasant and knowledgeable about football and knew more players and statistics than I did. But it was apparent that he had not experienced the one thing that makes a professional football player—intense and constant fear. But how many people, aside from combat soldiers, advertising executives and actors, experience that kind of fear? Football players aren’t people, who leave home to try and play football. They are football players, who come home to try and play people.

The writer had never sat on a dormitory bed in training camp listening to those footsteps coming closer and realizing they could be for him, and would change his whole life. He had never spent nights wondering what his reaction would be to the inevitable end—surprise? Anger? relief? Resignation? He didn’t understand the total futility. One impossible situation leading only to another, the difficult succeeded by the more difficult. The past was worthless, the present anxious, and the future impossible. Experience his only commodity, all the player was doing was getting older.

While we talked I noticed the diminutive curly-haired writer circulating around the room. He glared at us constantly. It was becoming disconcerting.

Shortly, the football writer drifted away and Joanne and I were by ourselves. “Did you see that guy staring at us?” Joanne asked.

“Yes. He thinks we’re too tall. I say ... fuck him... . Let’s go smoke this here marijuana cigarette I brought specifically to ease tension created by situations like these.”

The doors to the foyer were open and we quietly slipped into the elevator, pushing all the buttons and sitting in a corner. I lit the joint and passed it to Joanne, who was sitting cross-legged in front of me—not a mean feat considering the minidress.

“Quit looking at my crotch, for God’s sake.”

“Just checking for signs of a hernia,” I explained.

“Phillip, do you love me?” Joanne reached over and took my hand and gripped it tightly.

“Sorta, I guess.”

“Sorta, I guess. What kind of answer is that?”

“The only kind I know how to give—when people I like seem to need the truth.” I closed my other hand over hers and rubbed the back of her wrist with my thumb. “You gonna marry Emmett?”

“Are you offering an alternative?”

I shook my head.

“What can I offer? The best I had to give is already gone. On Sunday forty million will be glued to their television to escape themselves and their wretched lives. But where do I go to escape? They can believe the fantasy that fills the screen. I can’t. I’ve seen this movie before and I know how it ends. And there’s no future in it.”

“I guess not,” she sighed, squeezing my hand. “We have had some times, though, haven’t we?”

I nodded, smiling, my eyes watering slightly. I lost partial control of my facial muscles and had to concentrate to keep my grin from becoming aberrant.

“I guess I’ll marry Emmett for a while,” she said, gazing blankly above my head. “You’ll still come see me, won’t you?”

“If I can.”

We glided silently from floor to floor, sliding up and down the shaft, finishing the joint.

“Cheer up, Phillip,” Joanne said, as we returned to the party. “Everybody gets married now and then.”

It was past midnight when I heard Maxwell’s unmistakable twang ricocheting in from the apartment foyer.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whined. “I’m just an ol’ country boy in the big city.”

Hoot was with him and when they entered the room the party for the first time had a focal point. They stood on the steps surveying the room and exchanged waves with people they apparently knew. Standing behind them, just inside the door, was a fat, dumpy-looking girl wearing Maxwell’s cowboy hat. Several people approached to shake hands and exchange greetings. They remained on the steps for several minutes holding court.

The stubby curly-headed writer pushed his way through the crowd, extended his hand to Hoot, who in turn introduced him to Maxwell. The three immediately fell into an extended conversation and the crowd began to disperse. Maxwell and Hoot stepped down into the living room and the fat girl followed suit, staying a few feet to the rear. The short man guided them off to the side and shortly he and Maxwell were in deep discussion.

The stocky fellow suddenly stepped back from the group, bent slightly at the waist and extended his hands in front of him as if he were going to receive a snap from center. His head and shoulders jerked forward convulsively as he barked out silent signals. Then leaping into the air, he went through the exceedingly awkward motions of an imaginary jump pass. The move had all the grace and elegance of the death throes of a decapitated chicken. Maxwell and Hoot looked at each other quizzically, then at the man, and then back to each other. Hoot shrugged.

Maxwell noticed Joanne and me in the corner.

“Phillip ... haa ... haaaaaa ...” he bellowed, his voice deep and grating from the enormous quantities of alcohol he certainly had swallowed to get as drunk as he seemed. He pushed past the man who had just done the Johnny Lujack imitation and took long strides toward us. The man was furious at Maxwell’s affront to his advice. He clenched his fists and leaned into a crouch. Before he could run and leap on Maxwell from behind, Hoot grabbed his arm and engaged him in talk.

Maxwell smiled and laughed as he ambled the length of the room. The brown suit he was wearing, another gift from Neiman-Marcus, fit perfectly, the pant legs stuffed into his alligator cowboy boots. The fat girl followed, wearing Seth’s brown cowboy hat that was studded with turquoise and silver conchos.

“Phillip ... ah ... haa ... haaaaaa ...” Maxwell roared. “Me and Hoot come to see ya ... we was invited to the same party ... haa ... haaaa.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his antics: I reached out and we shook hands, smiling, laughing, and slapping each other on the back.

“Hey, man,” I reminded him, “I thought you said money was dangerous.”

“I did. I did,” he admitted. “But that’s fer you—as America’s guest that don’t apply to this ol’ boy.

“All I have to say,” he whispered, leaning close, “in this town is I’m an ol’ country boy, and the wimmin all wants ta fuck an’ the men shits all over themselves ... ahhh ... haaaaa.” He laughed like a goat.

“This here’s my darlin’,” Maxwell said, looking back over his shoulder trying to locate the girl in his hat. “Where are ya, darlin’?” The girl moved up beside him. “Here she is ... ahh ... haa ... haaa. Darlin’, say hello to these folks.” The girl nodded.

Maxwell snatched his hat and put it on his head, setting it way to the back. “There a bathroom around here?”

“I think back there,” I said.

“Come on, darlin’,” he smiled at the fat girl, “le’s see if you live up to yer reputation.” He winked at me and ushered the girl back toward the hallway.

Hoot was still talking to the curly-haired writer, who glared at Maxwell as he walked across the room to the hall. Hoot finished the conversation and joined us; he was as drunk as Maxwell but more in control, or maybe more at ease.

“Hi, Hoot,” I said.

Hoot was smoking a large cigar and wearing a gray Stetson Western hat with no crease. He was a tall, thick man topping six foot seven and weighing in excess of two hundred forty pounds. According to Maxwell, Hoot was good friends with Clinton Foote, our general manager, and on first-name basis with the league commissioner. Maxwell said that Hoot arranged girls and miscellaneous entertainment for the league brass and for top draft choices during the league wars.

“Mr. Elliott ... how yew?” he said, removing his cigar as we shook hands. I turned and held my hand out toward Joanne.

“This is Joanne.”

“Hidy, Miss Joanne,” he greeted, tipping his hat to reveal a thick mop of straw-colored hair that easily covered his ears and collar.

Maxwell reentered the living room, his arm wrapped around his chubby companion. She was again wearing his hat. Their faces were sliced into teethy grins.

“It shore is a straaange life, but I loves it,” Maxwell said as he approached. The girl laughed and then coughed and then cleared her throat. Maxwell gave her a sideways glance and grimaced at the sound.