Ironman

by Chris Crutcher

  Mr. Nak taught me a trick. He told me to think of fear as a person who’s going to be around whether he’s invited or not. He said, “Think of him like a big ol’ bully pain-in-the-butt cousin you cain’t get rid of, an’ the only way to get your binniss done is to allow him to tag along, because he’s goin’ to anyway. Then don’t take your eye off him a minute, so he don’t get the chance to make you look like a horse’s patoot.”

  So I took my big ol’ bully pain-in-the-butt cousin in with me to talk to Redmond, and guess what? It works! I’m standing there in front of him three separate times while he tries to get me to quit Mr. Nak’s group. First he suggests it, then he pushes it, then he demands it. Now as much as I sound like a smartass when I talk about him, he scares me. There’s no other way to say it: He scares me. I told Mr. Nak that earlier, and this is how he helped me out. He said, “So what is it exactly you’re scared of, Bo?” I said I’m scared of Redmond, and he says, “But what can he do? He cain’t send you to Anger Management; he already done that. He cain’t hurt you bodily because of the law. He cain’t say bad things to your dad, because he’s already said ’em. He cain’t throw you off the football team, because you’re done throwed off. Hell, that man’s done his worst damage already, an’ you’re still standin’. What’s scarin’ ya?”

  I said, “I’m not sure….”

  “Well, maybe it’s not him you’re afraid of. Who else is there?”

  “Me? Myself?”

  “That’d be a guess worth lookin’ at,” he said with a smile. “So what is it about you you’re afraid of?”

  “God, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t quit on me here.” Mr. Nak’s eyes narrowed. “What is it about you you’re afraid of?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, it’s the way I feel. It’s—”

  “Bingo!” he says before I can finish. “B-six and goddamn bingo! You’re afraid of how you feel. That’s the fear inside I been talkin’ about. It’s gonna be there because it’s about you, not Mr. Redmond. An’ it’ll be there for the next guy who acts like Mr. Redmond an’ the guy after that. Know why that is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Who does Mr. Redmond act like?”

  I nodded. “He acts like my dad.”

  “Okay. An’ when your dad looks down on you, or cuts you, or lashes you with words…”

  “I hate it.”

  “That the feelin’ you’re afraid of?”

  I nodded. I felt beaten. It reminded me of second grade when our teacher said each of us had a skeleton inside us; you know, to hold up your body. I’d been watching some horror flick with witches and werewolves and skeletons and stuff, and it absolutely terrorized me, Lar, because I couldn’t figure out how I was going to get away from a monster that lived inside me.

  But Mr. Nak kept at it. “So you have the answer. It ain’t about Redmond, it’s about you. When you come face-to-face with this here Jesse James of a football coach, you tell your pain-in-the-butt cousin, Fear, he can come along if he wants to, but you’re gonna take care of binniss once an’ for all, no matter what he does or says, because you’re by God fed up with gettin’ jerked around. His presence ain’t gonna change your actions one whit.”

  We were in group when he said this, and every person who was willing to speak up knew of a fear of their own just like mine. Shuja refused to call it that—he called it “rattly nerves”—but it was the same.

  So like I started to tell you, Lar, I hung back each time Redmond said he wanted to talk to me after class, and I just nodded and said I knew I could leave Anger Management anytime and refused to give a reason why I wouldn’t. I watched the temperature rise behind his eyes and counted the heartbeats in his temple and kept on shinin’ on. And you know what? Pain-in-the-butt Cousin Fear must have gotten bored, because when I looked up to walk out of the room, he was nowhere to be found, and I was feeling big.

  I don’t know exactly what Redmond’s agenda with me is, Lar. I don’t think I could have made a difference in the football team’s win-loss record this year, and I can’t imagine that he cares what I think of him. But he does have an agenda and I better not forget it, because I’ve gotten under his skin, and he feels good when I feel bad. Plus, I’ve heard my dad’s words coming out of his mouth, and vice versa, far more times than coincidence would allow, so I best keep in mind that they’re in cahoots. I’ve looked carefully at the damage he can do, and it’s not much, really; Mr. Nak was right. I have copies of all my assignments and test scores, so he can’t flunk me in English. When I know, you’ll know.

  Tower of Power,

  Bo

  Bo finishes cleaning the offices at the newspaper early and jogs down Main Street, hoping to catch his father before the store closes. It has been weeks since Elvis delivered the information about the freebie special-order bike supposedly destined for Wyrack’s relay team, and he has avoided bringing it up, partly because he doesn’t want to believe it and partly because he does believe it and can’t find words for the confrontation.

  He stands outside Brewster’s Sporting Goods, waiting for the last customer to leave. As Curt, the salesman, moves toward the door to lock it, he steps in.

  “Hey, Bo, how you doin’?”

  “Doin’ good. My dad around?”

  Curt points to the rear of the store. “In his office.”

  “He alone?”

  “I think so. Mr. Redmond, you guy’s football coach, was back there with him earlier, but I think I saw him leave about fifteen minutes ago. Hey, how’s the training going? Heard you’re getting serious about Yukon Jack’s this year.”

  Bo smiles. “Goin’ good. Yeah, pretty serious.” It’s difficult for Bo to discern what’s been said about him around the store, whether Curt is playing dumb or whether his father is keeping his plans to himself. He decides to play it as it lays. “Hey, Curt, you know a guy named Lonnie Gerback? A swimmer from CFU? And a cyclist?”

  “Yeah, I know him,” Curt says. “Tall guy, sandy hair. Got some thighs on ’im.”

  “That’s him,” Bo says. “He do business here?”

  “Yeah, that’s how I know him. In fact we ordered him a monster racer; one of those Merlin Ultra-Lites like you were trying to deal with your dad for. Kid must be a serious racer. Must have some bucks, too. That sweet thing runs about five grand.”

  Thanks, Curt. That’s what I wanted to know.

  “Think Dad could get a better deal if he ordered two?” Bo asks jokingly.

  Curt laughs, and Bo follows the aisle toward his father’s office.

  “Tell your dad I’m outta here,” Curt hollers after him, and Bo raises a hand to indicate he heard.

  Bo pulls the office door shut behind him. “Hey, Dad.”

  Lucas looks up from the paperwork on his desk, removing his glasses. “Hey, son. How are you?”

  “Fine,” Bo says. “Just got off and thought I’d stop and say hi.”

  “Caught me trying to catch up,” Lucas says, pushing the papers to the side, “but I’m never caught up anyway. Want to grab some dinner?”

  “You buyin’?”

  “I’m buyin’ mine,” Lucas says.

  “Sad to say, that’s the best offer I’ve had all day.” Bo stands, glimpsing the half-hidden order form for the Ultra-Lite he believes his father is bankrolling for Lonnie Gerback. (His ability to read upside down has served him well in the past when he needed to snag a test answer from a teacher’s guide lying open on the teacher’s desk.) He catches NIE GERB and some measurements. “Somebody buying a Merlin?” he asks, giving away nothing of his suspicions.

  “Yeah,” his father says. “A young kid up at the university. A pretty good cyclist, I understand.”

  “Must be a hell of a cyclist, or at least think he is. That’s an expensive bike.”

  “That it is. I understand his parents are quite wealthy.”

  Bo reaches across and picks up the Merlin ad from the top of the pile. “Man, you know how I’d like to get my hands on one of these.
”

  “Salt a couple more thousand away, and it’s yours,” Lucas says. “A piece of machinery like this has to be earned.”

  Bo smiles. “Yeah, I guess so. No chance of somebody just plopping one of these babies in your lap.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so,” Lucas says.

  MARCH 3

  Dear Larry,

  Hey, Lar, it’s getting close. Wyrack and the rest of the CFU team go to NAIA Nationals at the end of this week, and Yukon Jack’s is exactly six weeks from the day they get back. I won’t have the CFU team to push me anymore, so I’ll have to learn to push myself. I can’t back off now. They’ve been tapering in practice, but Mr. S has altered my workout so I get in extra laps during their rest periods. And I think the webbed hand weights are helping. When I take them off, I feel propeller-driven. Mr. S also said he’d take me out to Williams Lake as soon as the ice is off, to get in some good open-water distance. I’m grateful, but I gotta tell you, Williams Lake is cold this time of year. I have no idea whether I can take these guys, I really don’t, but I’ll tell you what: They’re gonna by God know they’ve been in a race, because I’m pissed.

  My dad is lying to me straight out. I had dinner with him the other night and gave him every opportunity to tell me about the bike he’s fronting for Wyrack’s biker, but he acted like he couldn’t even remember the kid’s name. I know he swore those guys to secrecy, and he’ll probably even write up paperwork to make it look like a righteous sale. Then when I confront him, he’ll say he did it so I wouldn’t get too big for my britches. He’ll say he did it for my own good, to let me know how tough the world is. And he’s gonna hear from me then, Lar, because having your old man line up with a stranger behind your back is not for your own good, and he’d better hire Abraham Lincoln to deliver that address if he wants me to believe it.

  See, I blasted awake out of a dream the same night I had dinner with him, and though I couldn’t remember what I’d dreamed, I was sweating like a pig, and in a big-time rage, and it was a Lucas Brewster dream for sure. I knew I wouldn’t get any more sleep, because there’s only one way to blow one of those out of your system, and that’s with vigorous exercise, so I pulled on two sets of sweats and my running shoes and hit the two A.M. streets. I’ve said before that the rhythm of my feet on the road frees my mind, but I couldn’t get it loose. All I could see was my dad sitting across the table being relatively nice to me (he actually did pick up the tab for dinner) and even asking about my training—at the same time he was trying to sabotage my big moment. And all I could do was hate him.

  Approximately eight miles and an hour later, I found myself cruising by Mr. S’s place, and though it was really late (or really early, depending on your perspective), a light shone in his living-room window, and I took a chance that it was Mr. S and not his roommate. Hey, if there’s anyone in the world to ask about dads, Lar, it has to be Mr. S, who struggles daily to come to terms with a father who will never answer even one question.

  “There’s no answer to this,” Mr. S said, after I told him why I was logging training miles at a time of night when only vampires and werewolves should be on the streets. I’d been lucky; caught him pulling an all-nighter making lesson plans for his sub for the week he’s at Nationals with the university team. “I think it doesn’t help you to try to make sense of your dad’s motives. I mean, you guys are locked in a power struggle, and nothing is going to make sense until one of you releases.”

  I said, “I suppose it has to be me, right? God, Mr. S, how can I do that?”

  “You probably can’t,” he said. “You’re probably going to play it out.”

  “So what would you do if you were me?”

  “If I were you,” he said, “I’d probably run marathons in the middle of the night and push weights until my arms fell off and tie a bowling ball around my waist to swim the English Channel. If I were me in your position, I’d focus on my goal, train hard but sensibly, and tell myself twelve times a day that it’s not helping me to let my behavior match my inner craziness, or to let my outer craziness match my father’s.”

  “So what would you do if you were you in my position, but also my age?”

  “I’d do the same thing you’re doing,” he said. “But it wouldn’t help me.” He leaned forward. “Listen, Bo, you and your dad aren’t going to iron out your differences in this triathlon. This triathlon is about you, not him. This is your challenge. If you let him take it away from you, you’ll hate him—and yourself—even more. Now go home and go to bed.”

  I gotta tell you, Lar, if there’s a heaven, and I lead a decent enough life from here on in to get a shot at entry, my challenge will be explaining how I ever turned my back on that guy.

  Ever forward,

  The Midnight Racer

  CHAPTER 14

  “I think I got us a project,” Shuja says to start the anger management session.

  “An’ what kinda project would that be, Mr. Shu?” Nak says.

  “This a filthy project.”

  Nak shakes his head. “Seems like we got enough hard times around here without takin’ on somethin’ filthy.”

  Shuja laughs, remembering to whom he is speaking. “Filthy mean good to you, Mr. Nak. It’s a good project.”

  “In that case, I’m chompin’ at the bit.”

  Shu glances at the faces in the circle. “I think we gotta get behind the Ironman.”

  Faces stare blankly.

  “See,” Shuja continues, “way I see it, Rock ’n’ Roll right about Ironman. He different from us, but not for the reason Rock ’n’ Roll think. Ironman different ’cause he can do somethin’ about what ails him.”

  Nak says, “Interestin’ thought. Keep talkin’.”

  “Well,” Shuja says, nodding toward Hudgie, present for the first time since his hospitalization, “take Hudge here. Cain’t do nothin’ ’bout what’s goin’ on in his life but get some miles between him an’ it. Rock ’n’ Roll stuck takin’ care of his family: Daddy’s split, little brother and sister hammerin’ at him all the time, got a full-time job keepin’ his head above water. Wonder Woman done los’ her childhood, if you wanna know. Got it robbed right from her. All kinda different foster parents an’ shit; John Wayne Redmond cheatin’ her outta her rightful high-school glory, an’ who knows what all else. Resta these guys, who knows what boogeymen after them, they never speak up. Me, I got all of history to take on; no way I can fix that ’fore the end-of-the-year picnic.”

  Shuja nods toward Bo, who listens intently. “But Ironman, he know the enemy. He got Tweedledumb an’ Tweedledumber for a daddy an’ a coach, an’ a buncha smartass college boys with a bad attitude an’ a rocket bicycle his own daddy give ’em to help ’em kick his boy’s ass. I think it might help this group manage a whole buncha anger to see at least one enemy get—” and he pushes his thumb hard against his knee, as if squashing a bug.

  “Whaddaya want us to do?” Elvis says. “Start runnin’ an’ ridin’ our bikes an’ headin’ for the old swimmin’ hole with our buddy Bo?”

  “Don’ worry, Rock ’n’ Roll, this won’t require much BTU output by you. I’m talkin’ support team here.”

  “Support team?” Elvis says. “Whaddaya mean, support team? Hey, man, I ain’t gonna be nobody’s ni—”

  “Nigger?” Shuja says with a smile. “Hey, say it, man. I can respect a man who shows hisself. Besides, the day you somebody’s nigger’ll be the best day of your life. Now, here’s what I think….”

  MARCH 23

  Dear Larry,

  Sorry I haven’t kept up, Lar, but it’s a little more than a month until Yukon Jack’s, and there’s been almost no time for anything but training, sleep, and schoolwork, where I’m hanging in at a low C in most of my classes, with the exception of English, where I have about ten points more than I need for an A plus. I figure I’ll need that to pull a D out of Redmond. Yukon Jack’s is taking on greater and greater significance as zero hour draws nearer, which is both scary and exciting. S
ome kids in the Home Ec. class made me a jersey with my name and CLARK FORK BLACKHAWKS on the back, and a picture of a stiff eagle stuck beakfirst into the ground on the front. The CFU mascot is an eagle. Rumor has it Redmond attempted to get any school recognition of my performance officially blocked, because it could provide fertile ground for my kind of moral attitude to grow. Rumor also has it that Dr. Stevens told him to grow up and get with the program. If that conversation actually took place, I would offer up a small, round vital organ lodged very close to my left leg to have been witness to it.

  Wyrack’s team is training full bore these days, but I think I may have been right when I said he’d have a hard time getting back into it after Nationals. He didn’t get back into the water for at least a week and a half after they returned, and he had already cut his workout distances in half tapering for that meet. I haven’t worked out at the CFU pool when he’s around. Good as I’m feeling, he still intimidates me, and if he’s getting back into peak condition, I don’t want to know it. I see Gerback hammering out miles on the road now and then, and I don’t like what I see. Man, I don’t know why my dad thinks he needs the Ultra-Lite. The bike he’s got now is turbocharged, and the guy’s got thighs like oil drums. And Gerback’s got the passion; he’s a serious racer.

  I finally found out who their runner is, and that’s the good news. His name is Kenny Joseph. Pretty good individual medley man—placed in the consolation finals at Nationals—but swimmers are notoriously slow on land, so I doubt he’s some web-footed Herb Elliot. Shelly saw him working out at the university track a few days ago, and she said there was no smoke coming out of the cinders behind him. So Yukon Jack McCoy’s biases are turning out in my favor. Cyclists go first, so all the damage will be done in the beginning. However much distance Gerback gets on me will be what I have to make up in the run and the swim.