North Dallas Forty (38 page)

“I don’t have to take this from you or anybody else,” Johnson yelled and turned to leave.

“Oh, yes you do, you cocksucker,” Meadows bellowed, grabbing the front of the coach’s short-sleeved shirt. There was a loud rip and the front of Johnson’s shirt split open. His clip-on tie came away in Meadows’s hand as the coach quickly fled to the first-class section to tell B.A. about the episode. Johnson had lost two shirts and most of his self-respect in a few short days. It was a tough business.

“Chickenshit cocksuckers,” Meadows screamed at the retreating figure. “Coaches are chickenshit cocksuckers... .”

Waving Johnson’s tie around the cabin, he screamed at his teammates, “You’re all chickenshit cocksuckers!!”

I knew I was. I couldn’t speak for the others.

I closed my eyes and sang a few lines from a Dylan song. The jet engines drowned the words from all ears but mine.

“... Some speak of the future

My love she speaks softly

She knows there’s no success like failure

And failure’s no success at all ...”

The big 727 banked sharply and brought me out of my alcohol-and-codeine fog. I straightened up in my seat. I could see the lights of Dallas through the window. I shook Maxwell’s shoulder gently.

We started losing altitude as we approached Love Field from the south, flying directly over downtown. I could see the flying red horse that someone had told me used to be the tallest point in town. Now it was dwarfed by bank buildings and insurance towers and, of course, the CRH Building, which tonight spelled out a reminder that Christmas wasn’t too far off.

The pilot sighted down Lemmon Avenue and we skimmed the tops of franchised pizza parlors, hamburger stands, sandwich shops, beauty parlors, and car lots.

A large crowd of fans and friends was waiting when the plane pulled to the gate at the end of the Braniff terminal. As we filed down the ramp and across the concrete apron, Maxwell and I split off to avoid the crowd. Moving along the outside of the building, we made it to the baggage-claim area. We had finished off the remaining six bottles in the seatback pouches and were very drunk. Brushing past the baggage handlers, we climbed through an open bay into the terminal buildings, arriving simultaneously with the luggage off Continental 917 from Lubbock.

“How ya’ll doin’?” Maxwell hollered, waving and smiling at the startled people as we climbed over their bags and jumped to the floor. Shaking hands on the way, the quarterback walked, with some difficulty, to Valet Parking to claim his car. I followed several feet behind, striding stiffly and frowning, trying my best to look like an FBI agent.

“You played a fine game out there today, Seth,” the Valet attendant was saying as I stepped up with my stub in my hand. “Too bad that boy couldn’t hold onto the ball.”

“Jest wasn’t in the cards,” Maxwell explained.

“Well, when I played ...” the attendant continued, stamping Maxwell’s parking ticket and scribbling on it with a ballpoint pen. “That’ll be seven fifty. When I played, if a boy fumbled like that he had to take five laps right then, during the game. You know what I mean?”

The attendant picked up his phone and called down to the lot.

“Number five four six eight. Blue Cadillac convertible, I think. That right, Seth?”

Maxwell nodded.

By now a line of people were behind us waiting to retrieve their machines. I handed my stub to the attendant as soon as he set down the receiver. A well-dressed man, who appeared in the middle forties or fifties, grabbed Seth on the shoulder.

“Seth?” the man said, smiling and shoving his hand into Seth’s. “Harlen Quaid. From Tyler. We’ve got a couple of friends in common.” His eyes twinkled with excitement.

“Oh yeah.” Maxwell struggled to be courteous. His smile showed signs of strain.

“Yep.” The man beamed. “Bibby and Gordon Mercer. I saw ’em just yesterday before I left Tyler. I had to come down here for a board meeting. I’m in the oil business.”

Bibby and Gordon Mercer were the parents of Francie Mercer, Seth’s first wife.

“Why that’s real fine,” Maxwell said, slipping more and more into his Texas twang as he tried to figure out what this man wanted, if anything. “How’s ol’ Bibby and Gordon doin’?”

“Jes’ fine.” The man was beside himself with excitement. His smile split his face open. “Saw Francie, too. An’ the little boy. Looks jest like you.” The man’s smile widened, which seemed physically impossible.

Seth’s eyes clouded with pain. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. His smile collapsed. His eyes flicked around the people assembled watching him and waiting for their cars.

“Hey, man,” I said to the oil tycoon from Tyler, “why don’t you fuck off before they send you back to Texas in a sponge.”

An ambivalence crept into the man’s expression but the grin remained stubbornly on his face as he tried to decide who I was and what I meant

“I ain’t joking, motherfucker.” I was almost yelling. “Get the fuck out of here.” I pointed aimlessly back up toward the main section of the terminal building. “Now!” I screamed.

The man looked at me and then at Seth, who had leaned against the Valet Parking counter and didn’t look at all well.

“There’s no need to get violent,” the man protested, nervously fingering the knot of his tie. His smile remained strangely intact, although the glitter had left his eyes. “Seth and I were just ...” His eyes suddenly became angry and he tightened his lips into a scowl. “Who are you anyway?” he demanded.

Maxwell’s car pulled up in front. Seth was still leaning against the counter, his face white. I pointed to the car and gave him a slight push in its direction. He stumbled toward it, bending perceptibly in the middle. I turned around and kicked the man, Harlen Quaid, as hard as I could in the shins. I followed Seth outside.

As my car pulled behind the Cadillac, I walked to the driver’s side of Maxwell’s blue convertible. Seth was sitting on the seat, his head and feet still outside. He was doubled up with stomach cramps and trying to throw up.

With the help of the parking attendants, I got Maxwell into my car, returned the Cadillac to the lot, and drove him home. The ride to his house was punctuated by several stops for his stomach to disgorge itself of what seemed like gallons of a reddish-brown whiskey-smelling foam. By the time we had reached the rows of thirty-five-thousand-dollar boxes in far north Dallas, he was feeling much better and invited me to stop by his apartment for a joint.

When it seemed as though I had gone so far north that the next hill would fall away to reveal the Red River, Maxwell told me to turn right, and we were immediately lost in a jungle of apartments. The architecture ranged from Spanish to Swedish, with one set of units that might be described as early Maginot Line. Seth had just moved to these apartments and wasn’t too familiar with the layout, but he soon recognized a yellow MG that belonged to one of his neighbors (“She only likes to suck cocks—and she swallows it.”), and I pulled in next to it. I wanted to go see the neighbor but he insisted on just smoking a joint.

We were met at the door by Seth’s friend, roommate, and constant companion, a black unclipped standard poodle named Billy Wayne. The dog’s size and friendliness made entering the apartment a constant problem. He would leap joyfully at any visitor, driving his forepaws into their genitals. Billy Wayne was the only thing Maxwell retained from his now-defunct marriage to Judith Ann.

“Goddammit, Billy Wayne,” Maxwell yelled, “giddown.”

The dog danced around us with his tongue out, wagging his whole body, his nails clicking noisily on the tile floor.

While Maxwell changed his clothes I pulled off my coat, readjusted my shoulder, and moved around the apartment poking into cupboards and closets. It was a typical north Dallas $175-a-month one-bedroom furnished apartment. The furniture was early orthodontist and already showed signs of wear, although the whole complex was less than six months old. There were large stains on the red deep-pile living room carpeting and a couple of heaps of dried poodle shit scattered around.

The drawers and shelves in the kitchen were practically bare. Three monogrammed glasses from a service station giveaway sat dirty and molding in the sink. A Budweiser can opener lay on the drainboard. I couldn’t find any glasses or plates. The refrigerator held nine cans of Coors and a half-empty bottle of apple wine. The whole place reeked of rotting food, stale cigarettes, and beer.

A cardboard box that had once held a dishwasher lay wedged in the corner of the breakfast nook. It was filled with trophies, plaques, government citations, autographed footballs, loving cups, and game balls. I rummaged through the results of a lifetime of hard work and dedication; two All American awards, a College All Star Game autographed ball, no fewer than five game balls awarded by his teammates in Dallas, three awards for Professional Athlete of the Year (two cups and a wall plaque), three Pro-Bowl and All-Pro selections, and innumerable citations and rewards for jobs done outstandingly well. For all this metal, plastic, and rubber millions of Americans would give their right arm and both testicles (if we are to believe recent surveys about football and sexual sublimation).

“How ’bout that dope?” Maxwell walked into the kitchen, holding a foil package of antacid tablets. He tore the package open, popped the tablets into his mouth and crunched them up noisily, impatient for their promised relief.

“Aaahh,” he moaned happily, rolling his eyes. “With Rolaids and cigarettes, I’m indestructible.” He boosted himself onto the countertop and waited nervously while I fished a joint out of my shirt pocket.

Lighting the joint and inhaling deeply, I was almost struck unconscious by the stabbing throbs of an alcohol headache. Holding my breath increased the pounding to the point where I expected a loud pop inside my skull and everything to go black. I endured and passed to Maxwell. From somewhere in the recesses of my ravaged brain, I recalled an early doping maxim bequeathed to me by a friend now doing two to life in Huntsville for possession: no matter what happens, he had said, always pass the joint first. Unlike most of the rules by which I have tried somewhat unsuccessfully to get my ship safely into port, that rule given to me by a man who must now be enduring unspeakable assaults on his integrity has held up against time and the Texas sun. What else can I say?

As Maxwell snatched the joint from my outstretched fingers he noticed the rather large red blotches that spotted my forearm.

“What’s that?” he asked.

I didn’t know and held up both arms for further inspection. They were covered with them. I unbuttoned my shirt and found my stomach and chest covered also.

“Looks like I O.D.’d on the codeine and booze,” I decided.

Maxwell had changed clothes and was wearing an old pair of faded Levi’s and a red silk Western shirt coated with sequin wagon wheels and cactus plants. The front of the shirt, the two flap pockets, and the cuffs were riveted with white mother-of-pearl snaps. He was barefoot and looked like Porter Wagoner at the beach.

I considered driving out to Charlotte’s; I was anxious to see her, but the headache and my overall physical condition dissuaded me. I would get a good sleep and drive out in the morning.

While we smoked the joint, I reflected on the day’s work. I was pleased by my performance. Although we had lost, I had a total of five passes for two touchdowns, had not missed an assignment that I could recall, and had made several key blocks. It had been hard and frustrating, but things were looking up. I made a mental note to be more agreeable with the staff and my teammates. It couldn’t hurt to bend a little.

“You played a helluva game today,” I said, offering Maxwell the joint. He waved it away, inserted a Winston between his lips, lit it, and dragged deeply, throwing his head back as he exhaled.

“Not good enough,” he said. He looked emptily at his bare feet. He stuck the tip of his tongue out and picked a piece of tobacco off the end. “Not good enough.” He accented the
E
heavily.

“You can’t take the blame, man,” I argued. “There were a lotta mistakes out there. Christ, look at Claridge and Huddle. Besides, you and I both know we’ll win the division. Shit, nobody can touch us—”

“That don’t matter,” Maxwell retorted. “My job is to win. Nothin’ else is good enough.”

“You and that Vince Lombardi no-second-place shit,” I harangued. “You sound like Art Hartman.” Maxwell’s head came up at the mention of his competitor’s name.

“You know,” he said, “I used to think that that kid had it all.” He shook his head and looked at the floor. “But he don’t. He’s got the size and the arm. He’s conscientious and he works hard.” Seth brought his eyes up to meet mine. “But he’s simple, too simple. I’ll get him. He just don’t understand what it’s all about.” Maxwell paused and a smile trickled from cheek to cheek. “You know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“He thinks that he is destined to be number one,” Maxwell said. A note of amazement edged his voice. “When I win he really seems pleased. He never seems to worry about it.”

“He’s a team man.”

“I’m a team man,” Maxwell said. “He just ain’t on my team. Besides, a man that don’t worry, don’t win. And as long as I win for them they need me.”

“Well, you can believe all that sport shit if you want to,” I said. “But we’re not the team, man, they are. B.A. and Conrad Hunter and Clinton Foote, and all those front office cocksuckers, they’re the team. We’re just the fucking equipment to be listed along with the shoulder pads and headgear and jockstraps. This is first and foremost a business, with antitrust exemptions, tax breaks, and depreciations. And all the first and tens, all the last-second touchdowns, and ninety-five-yard passes, are just items on a ledger to be weighed along with the cost of precooked steak and green eggs. People don’t talk about football teams anymore, they talk about football systems, and the control long ago moved off the field. Tell me who looks more pathetic against our defense than Johnny Unitas.”

“He looked pretty bad,” Maxwell admitted grudgingly. “But—”

“But nothing. He looked bad because B.A. had got old Johnny U. and Johnny U.’s system logged in those computer banks downtown and he knows what old high-tops is gonna do before old high-tops knows it.”