Ironman

by Chris Crutcher

  Dad arrived at the store about six-thirty that Saturday morning, just as we finished setting up the displays, and handed me a hundred-dollar bill from the cash register as I was leaving. The sun was just coming up over the wheat fields, and I thought I’d take Cooper and Deuce—Mom’s dogs—for a short spin before passing out for the rest of the morning. Dad said to go straight home and put the money someplace safe, which is exactly what I intended, except I stuck it in the pocket of my windbreaker and forgot. At home I changed into my sweats, strapped on my weighted belt and wrist and ankle weights—which I always wore in an attempt to even the odds with those damn dogs—pulled the windbreaker over my sweatshirt and harnessed them up. Then I headed for the tracks, screaming at them to slow the hell down, which they translated into “Mush!”

  About half a mile down the tracks I spotted a dark lump off to the side, and as I got closer, saw it was a person wrapped in blankets under a bush. You couldn’t find a friendlier dog than Cooper, but you also couldn’t find a more imposing one, at a lean, mean-looking eighty-five to ninety pounds, those eerie light blue snow eyes staring at you as if you were dinner. The guy saw us coming and shrank up under the bush, and I dug in my heels, because sure as guppies eat their young, these unruly beasts would want to go over and at least taste him. I reeled in the leash so I could get hold of the harnesses; sometimes I could get Cooper’s front feet off the ground to equalize things. We were about three feet away when I accomplished that, and this poor guy stared out from his blankets in terror at what must have appeared to be a man-eating canine, standing almost five feet tall on his hind legs.

  I said, “Sorry. They’re friendly. They wouldn’t hurt you. I know what he looks like,” but he didn’t say anything back, and I jerked the dogs on down the tracks.

  The return trip was always easier because my little Deuce-Cooper was worn down from dragging me, so I had them under pretty good control when we came upon the man again, now awake and packed and walking slowly toward us. His hair was long and gray, his face brown and wrinkled as old leather. What appeared to be all he owned was wrapped in two blankets slung over his shoulder. I saw his socks through the toes of his boots, and his toes through the socks, another pair of which he wore on his hands. As we approached, he avoided my gaze and moved toward the ditch next to the road. The dogs were less interested now—though the man put off plenty of exotic smells—and as we jogged past, he caught me with a sideways glance that felt like a blow to my gut. It was the first time I recognized desperation, and though I couldn’t put words to how I felt, I suddenly remembered the money in my pocket. Before I could even think I stopped, turned the dogs around, and went back. I placed the hundred-dollar bill in the sock on his hand and closed his fist around it; he never took his eyes off mine. I said, “You should get something to eat, and maybe some shoes or gloves or something.” He said nothing and the look in his eye never changed, and I backed away. When I was maybe twenty-five yards away I heard a long, anguished moan, and I looked back over my shoulder to see him standing, staring at the money in his hand.

  I imagine that sound is heard sometimes when a mother finally gets food for her starving child, or when a dying AIDS victim is gathered in loving arms to let him or her feel the warmth of human touch that has so long been absent. I guess I’m saying that, even at eleven, when I hadn’t seen fifty dollars in one place outside my dad’s cash register, that sound was easily worth a hundred.

  So, Lar, guess who didn’t have a lot of time for my explanation of why my crisp new Ben Franklin hadn’t found its way into my bank account at First Interstate. Tough guess, huh? Ol Lucas Brewster was one pissed sporting-goods salesman.

  “You did what?”

  “I gave it to a guy, Dad.”

  “Well what did you get from this guy?”

  I wanted to tell him, but I thought better. The cold and hungry man’s cry rang clearly in my ears. “Nothing.” I told him who I gave it to.

  “You gave it to a tramp?”

  “He was cold, Dad. All his stuff had holes in it. Cooper scared him real bad, and I couldn’t see if he had any food or anything.”

  My dad palmed the back of his neck—his trademark gesture for times when his bonehead firstborn son tops himself in the startingly stupid move department—and walked to the other side of the living room. I thought about making a break for my room, but when L. Brewster palms the back of his neck and walks away, the only thing you know for sure is, he’s coming back.

  “Beauregard,” he said in that low, even tone that means you have offended his sensibilities in a criminal way, “do you know how many tramps there are in the world?”

  The smartass part of me wanted to give him a number, but the survivor part of me pushed the smartass part of me on its smart ass. I said, “Probably a lot.”

  “What kind of job do you think you’ll have to get if you want to give them each a hundred dollars?”

  “Probably a pretty good one,” I said. The hungry man’s cry faded a bit, and I began to feel ashamed for being so stupid. Dad was right—a lot of people out there needed things. Still, if he had seen this guy…

  He was quiet a minute more, then he said, “I guess you know you’re going to have to repay that money.”

  He might have won me over if he hadn’t said that. “What? To who?”

  “To me. I didn’t give you a hundred dollars to hand over to the first hobo that came down the pike.”

  “It was mine,” I said. “I worked for it.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re right,” he said. “It was yours. So you’ll repay yourself. That money was to go into your savings. You will repay yourself by earning a hundred dollars and putting it into your savings account.”

  Even at eleven, Larry, I had learned out of necessity how my dad argued—or at least thought I had—so I tried to help him make sense of it in that no-bullshit Lucas Brewster kind of way. I said, “Wait a minute. I lost the time and I lost the sleep and I lost the money. Even the way you think, that ought to be enough of a punishment.”

  He stood staring at me, slowly shaking his head. “Beauregard, that was a hundred dollars. If I thought you were capable of learning your lesson from what you lost, I’d let it go, but you have to learn the value of a dollar. What kind of father would I be if I turned you out into the world with your screwed-up sense of money?”

  I retreated to the original passion of my argument. “But this guy didn’t have—”

  “This conversation is over, Bo. You show up at the store Monday after school, and I’ll start you working to repay your debt.”

  “I have a flag football game Monday.”

  “Not anymore you don’t. This is too important. You’re going to learn to be responsible if it kills me.”

  “It’s not fair! That man was—”

  “This conversation is about the value of a dollar, son, and it’s over.”

  I turned for the stairs leading to my room, knowing full well I was frustrated and angry enough to end up spending another seven months there if I didn’t shut up, but I couldn’t stop myself. Halfway up I turned around and screamed at the top of my lungs, “WHAT ABOUT THE VALUE OF PAIN?”

  Dad’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll teach you the value of pain, too,” he said. “You just doubled it, friend. You’ll earn two hundred dollars.”

  Better break if off here, Lar. That happened more than six years ago, and I’m sweating all over this paper telling it to you now. If I keep it up, I may have to run over to my dad’s house and spray-paint peace signs all over his garage door. Catch up with you later.

  Ever your loyal fan,

  The King of Brews

  CHAPTER 6

  Ian Wyrack shouts across the parking lot outside Doc’s Drive-Inn, located along Clark Fork’s main drag. “Brewster! I wanna talk with you!”

  “Talk to me from there!” Bo yells back. “I can hear you fine!”

  “Your shit is in the street!”

  “Tell me something new!” Bo feels
relatively safe. It’s Friday night, the lot is packed, and he’s close enough to his mother’s Blazer that if Wyrack makes a move, he’ll have time to jump in and squash him flatter than a Monsters of the Universe trading card.

  A soft voice in Bo’s ear whispers, “Tell him to eat shit and die.”

  “Eat shit and die!”

  Heads turn as Wyrack starts across the parking lot. The night is unseasonably warm for late October, and people who would normally huddle around the few tables inside Doc’s are milling around their cars, their sound systems blasting rap and country and heavy metal and old-time rock ’n’ roll with equal, and deafening, passion. Bo reaches for the Blazer’s door handle, but slender fingers firmly grip his wrist. “Run now, and you’ll run forever.”

  “I’m an Ironman. I can do that.” He turns, Adam’s apple to nose with Shelly, of anger management and weight-room fame, and his heart leaps.

  “You can do it, but do you want to?”

  Bo says, “What are my choices?”

  She puts her mouth to his ear and whispers, “We can stand right here and kick his ass.”

  Bo pulls back. “We?”

  “We.”

  Wyrack accelerates his pace across the parking lot. The decision must be made quickly.

  “Okay,” Bo says in a low voice, turning to face the oncoming rain of blows, “I’ll kneel down behind him, and you push him over.”

  “Cute.”

  Sensing impending drama, a crowd begins to gather. Bo can almost feel the flat, hot palm of Wyrack’s hand against the side of his face as Wyrack draws within feet.

  “You want to say that again?” Wyrack sneers.

  Shelly stands in Bo’s peripheral vision, arms folded. Nothing like taking things too far to impress a woman. He glances at her in a fleet final effort to see if it’s worth it. She’s of medium height, with brown eyes and a short blond haircut that falls into place regardless of head movements. She isn’t glamorous, but intriguing, with full lips, a petite, sharp nose, and a long, muscular neck. Her leanness is enormously sensual. So appearancewise, she’s worth it, but what is she doing in Nak’s Pack? Too late to find out now. “Eat shit and die,” Bo says softly to Wyrack.

  With the speed of lightning Wyrack’s hand flicks out for Bo’s face. With the speed of greased lightning Shelly’s right arm blocks it as her foot sweeps his legs, caving them in at the knees. The side of her left hand catches him in the throat before he can hit the pavement, and she immediately stomps her cross-trainer Nikes onto his wrist.

  “Bitch!” rasps from his throat as if his esophagus were coated with sandpaper.

  “A bitch like you wouldn’t believe,” Shelly says, shifting more weight onto his wrist.

  Bo stands astonished and paralyzed.

  “Get off my arm, you bitch!” Wyrack yells. “You’re breaking it! I gotta swim!”

  “Apologize.”

  “You—”

  She increases the pressure on his wrist. “Apologize,” Shelly says again, almost matter-of-factly.

  Wyrack grimaces, but his pride and the gathering crowd render him stoic. “Okay,” he says without change of expression, “you’re not a bitch.”

  “I know that,” Shelly says. “Apologize.”

  “I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”

  “You made my day,” she says. “Apologize to my friend.”

  Bo squirms. “No, hey, that’s all right. I—”

  “Apologize,” Shelly says again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Shelly says, “For what?”

  “Whatever I did, for chrissake!” Wyrack yells. “Get off my goddamn arm!”

  “Not acceptable.” Shelly stands down harder.

  “I’m sorry for threatening you, Brewster, and for taking a poke.”

  Shelly stands off Wyrack’s arm. “You didn’t have to apologize for taking a poke,” she says. “You never had a chance.”

  “Will you marry me?” Bo asks as he and Shelly slowly cruise Clark Fork’s main drag.

  Shelly smiles, and in the thick accent of a Georgia debutante, says, “Now why would I want to go and do a thing like that, Beauregard? What have you to offer for my hand?”

  “You name it,” Bo says. “I’m gonna need you by my side full time from now on. You’re going to have to get up hours before daylight to escort me to swimming workouts, follow me endlessly on runs and bike rides, taste my food…. God, where did you get those Bruce Lee moves?”

  “I’m going to be a Gladiator,” Shelly says, staring straight ahead. “I don’t have time to be your bodyguard.”

  “You’re going to kill Christians?”

  OCTOBER 29

  Dear Larry,

  You have lots of interesting and far-out people on your show, Lar; ever have a Gladiator? There’s a television show called “American Gladiators” that I’ve been watching recently because I think it will help me land a girlfriend: Shelly from Mr. Nak’s anger management group, who has a fake student ID card just like mine for use at the CFU athletic facility. I didn’t know this before, Lar, because she’s pretty quiet in group and she doesn’t dress to impress, but this girl is tougher than boiled owl. Now, a big-time talk-show personality such as yourself might question the efficacy of a human spear such as myself taking romantic interest in a young lady who could dismember me without breaking a sweat. She took out the CFU swimmer who’s been dogging me so quick I would need slow-motion instant replay to describe it to you.

  Anyway, whoever dreamed up “American Gladiators” hires these buffed-out men and women as full-time warriors to take on new contestants each week in highly physical games invented solely for this program. They have obstacle courses and bungee-bouncing madness and various other tests of strength and speed. The contestants are big and strong and in top shape, so the Gladiators have to be in bigger and stronger and topper shape, with names like Flame and Laser and Star and such, depending on whether one is a male or a female Gladiator. That’s what Shelly is pumping up to be. And she’s getting there, Lar. She’s getting there.

  So tell me what you think, Lar, of a guy whose masculinity quotient hovers just under triple digits, going out with a girl who can out-bench-press him by twenty pounds and fears no man? Kind of a nineties thing to do, don’t you think?

  Our first outing will be this weekend, to a Halloween party. Great. She can go as Arnold Schwarzenegger, and I can go as his pet snake.

  By the way, I heard you take on that caller this morning who said all homosexuals should be turned to pillars of salt. I had a strange reaction; I hate pompous buttwipes like that who are better than anyone who isn’t like them, but I found myself divided. He kept saying homosexuality was a choice, and you kept asking exactly when he decided he would be heterosexual. (Of course, when he wound himself up so tight he was laying the radio waves flat, you said your customary “Rest well, sir” and left him stranded in Radio Neverland.) That’s a disturbing question, Lar, because I’ve never thought of it like that. I don’t know anyone who’s gay, so I guess I don’t know what I think.

  Rest well,

  The Brewski

  “So how did you like visiting with my parents?” Joey asks smugly.

  “I’ve rode happier trails,” Nak says back.

  “Told you you shouldn’t have tried to make me kiss up to a goddamn skunk,” Joey says. “Told you you didn’t want to be around when my old man gets hot.”

  Nak smiles. “Actually, your daddy was downright tame compared to your mother.”

  “Yeah, well, my mother was home when the skunk blew. Dad was spending the night with his girlfriend.”

  Hudgie looks up in delight. “Skunk blew in your house? No kiddin’? Blew right in your house?”

  “No kiddin”, Hudge,” Joey says. “My whole family’s living in a motel right now. My folks are thinking about suing the school for damages.”

  “Sue ’em big time,” Hudgie says. “Get millions. Bring the place to ’er knees. Close ’er down. Skunk blew. Right in the h
ouse.”

  Elvis snorts. “Man, this is bogus. I’m draggin’ my ass out of bed in the dark every morning to listen to this shit? I thought we were supposed to be learning about our anger. This is turning into some kind of Bambi soap opera, guys invitin’ skunks to dinner. I got no time for this.”

  Nak says, “So why do you show up?”

  “’Cause I’m outta this bogus piece-of-shit school if I don’t,” Elvis says.

  “Seems like that would be to your benefit,” Nak says back. “Hard to see why you don’t jus’ hop off this miserable bronc.”

  “And have my old man turn loose on me? No thanks, Chinaman.”

  “I’m Japanese,” Nak says, “and I’ve seen your old man. He ain’t half your size soakin’ wet. Unless he’s packin’ a shootin’ iron, I don’t reckon he’d have much chance of takin’ you out.”

  “You don’t know my old man.”

  “Maybe not,” Nak says, “but this don’t add up. There’s more to this than you bein’ scared your daddy’s gonna hurt you. I’m bettin’ he’s got a bigger hold on you than that.”

  Elvis’s entire body tenses. “Hey, maybe you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Nak says, “but that don’t usually stop me from talkin’.” He expands his attention to include the rest of the group. “Tell you folks what. I call this here gatherin’ Anger Management because that’s what the powers that be want me to call it. But what it’s really about is dealin’ with whatever comes up, in a way that don’t break you. If it’s skunks, then it’s skunks. If it’s dads turnin’ loose on you, then it’s dads turnin’ loose on you. But it all boils down to you. I’m not a man who’s gonna tell you to go home and obey your parents or”—and he nods toward Bo Brewster—“your English teacher. I’m here to help you do what you do, then stand up an’ own it in a way you can be proud of. Believe it or not, that’ll give you a lot less to be angry about.” He turns back to Elvis. “You can fight bein’ here all you want, pardner, but when all the horses are in the corral, you gotta live with yourself an’ how you respond to the people you think are makin’ your life hell.”