Running Loose

by Chris Crutcher

  I said I didn’t know what he meant.

  “Well,” he said, “take this whole football deal and you gettin’ kicked out of school an’ all.”

  “What about it?”

  “Up to a few days ago they had you thinkin’ the most important damn thing in the world was playin’ football. Told me so yourself. Now they got you thinkin’ the most important thing in the world is goin’ back to school—on their terms—an’ graduatin’. All that’s goin’ on there is them tellin’ you what’s important. Sounds to me like they don’t know their butt from what’s important.”

  I started to interrupt.

  “Hold on a minute,” he said. “From what you’ve told me, Lednecky gave that colored kid a raw deal an’ you took a righteous stand. Now to my way of thinkin’ it’s a damn shame to back off a righteous stand, which you almost did the other day in the office, or you wouldn’t have been there. A man has to plant his feet somewhere an’ say, ‘This is as far as I go an’ anyone tries to push me any farther’s gonna have his hands full.’”

  I just looked at him. Not too much to argue with there. Finally I said, “Yeah, well, what now?”

  “Hell,” he said, “I don’t know.” He raised his hook. “I’m just a dern fool pirate never got outta the third grade. What’s next is up to you. But damn it, there’s other places you can go to school. Clear Lake’s only a half hour up the road. Or you could go down to the big city and graduate outta Boise or Borah. Hell, I’d grubstake that, an’ so would your ol’ man, I bet. I’m sayin’ you don’t have to go up there on your knees to get back in school.”

  I promised I wouldn’t get on my knees to get back in. The idea of driving to Clear Lake wasn’t a bad one. It might be tougher in the winter, but certainly possible. I didn’t want to go to Boise or Borah, though, because that would mean I’d have to live down there and I didn’t want to leave Becky.

  While I was racking up the balls and thinking about that, there was a knock at the back door, so I went to open it. It was Mrs. Esau in her black skirt and her black blouse and her black hat and her Bible, which was also black.

  She said, “Why, Louie Banks, why in heaven’s name aren’t you in school?” but didn’t stop for an answer. She brushed right past me to the bar, where Dakota was sitting.

  “I don’t suppose you have time to talk with me today either, Dakota,” she said.

  Dakota let out kind of a long sigh, like he’d been trapped, and said, “Sure, Marionette. Got all the time in the world.”

  Mrs. Esau’s a widow, and she spends about eight hours a day going around to people’s houses and businesses to see if they’ve been saved. Norm says she’s on a pension and doesn’t have anything better to do with her time. The best way to get rid of her is to say yes, you have been saved and Lord praise her for her good work; but most people don’t think of that, and they try all kinds of things to shake her. Trying to shake her is the best way to keep her around.

  “You know I don’t take to churchgoin’, Marionette,” Dakota said, “so don’t start with me. As to whether I’ve been saved or not, well, I’m not sure I’m drownin’.”

  “Well, you are, son,” she said. “Drowning in a sea of your own sins.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon there’s plenty of them, but first off I’m three years older than you, so don’t go callin’ me son. An’ second, I got a couple a questions.”

  She smiled. “I’ll answer them if I can.”

  “Okay. Now you say God perty much knows everything. He knows what you done an’ what you’re gonna do.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “An’ He’s runnin’ things, right? I mean if He wants to, He can make things go His way.”

  “Things do go His way.”

  You could see he was setting her up, but she couldn’t.

  “So I guess He’s pretty hot stuff. Nobody gets over on Him. ‘Shapes the destinies of nations,’ I think is how you put it last time.”

  “Yes, I did say that.” She seemed pleased. “What’s your question, Dakota?”

  “Well,” Dakota said, “He knows everything, He goes where He wants, probably eats out at the finest restaurants, rubs shoulders with presidents and kings. Why do ya s’pose He needs a crippled ol’ duff like me kissin’ His butt? I’m here doin’ my best; why does He keep siccin’ you on me? I like to think He has a little more class than that.”

  The conversation went on from there, but I was about to crack up, so I excused myself and headed for the station.

  The next day I was cleaning up the bar—Dakota was still upstairs in bed—when I heard another knock at the back door. I thought about not answering it because I didn’t want to be stuck in the bar with Mrs. Esau and no Dakota to protect me, but then I heard a man’s voice calling through it to me, so I opened it. It was Coach Madison.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

  “What’re you doing here?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

  He walked over and racked up the balls. “It’s my prep period,” he said. “I told ’em I had to go to the bank.”

  I nodded. No way I could figure why he was there.

  “You play?” he said, nodding at the table.

  “There’s a running debate about it,” I said.

  “Break.”

  I broke, and nothing went in. Coach started picking off the solids while he talked. “Louie, I can’t say this publicly—I don’t have that much clout around here—but I have to say I support what you did last Friday and I respect you for doing it. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get back in school.”

  I have to admit I was pretty shocked. I mean, I always thought Madison was a pretty square guy, but he was a coach.

  “Really,” I said. “Geez, thanks. I mean, that’s really nice to know.” I think I was a little embarrassed. So was he.

  “Coach and I have had some conversations about it,” he said, “some of them pretty hot. The bottom line is, if I raise hell, I’m out just like you are. That’s not real good on a rookie coach’s record.”

  I started to say that’s okay, but he kept going. “I won’t coach under him again; I’ll leave if I have to. Football’s a good sport. There really are some good things to learn from it, but not that way.”

  I got a couple of turns before he sank all the solids and went after the eight ball, which he dropped on the first shot. He laid the cue on the table. “Gotta get back. You hang in there.”

  “Listen,” I said, “it’s enough just knowing there’s someone up there besides Becky and Carter who doesn’t want my butt nailed to the goalposts. Thanks.”

  He left out the back way.

  I’m such a rotten pool player.

  Actually the meeting with Jasper and Norm and Brenda was pretty uneventful, but it was interesting. It was Friday afternoon, and the team was playing at Bear Creek. Unless you can get a ride to the game with somebody responsible, you have to stay in school for away games and have regular classes if you’re not a player or a cheerleader. Bear Creek’s quite a ways, and they’re not very good, so not many people went. We walked into school just as the bell rang between sixth and seventh periods, so I ran into a lot of kids. Nobody said much.

  Norm and Brenda and I had decided they should do the talking. We’d talked the whole thing right into the ground and were solid in our position. Norm thought Jasper could hear it better from them. That was fine with me; I’d said all I had to say.

  We walked in and everyone shook hands and it was all kind of formal and uncomfortable. Jasper looked as uncomfortable as anyone, and that made me feel good.

  Norm got right down to it. “Well, Tony,” he said, “what has to be done here?”

  “I’m not sure, Norm. Louie’s gotten himself into some pretty hot water.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well,” Jasper said, “you saw him at the game Friday. And he was pretty insolent with Coach Lednecky and me earlier this w
eek. We both agreed we can’t have Louie running loose in our school with that kind of attitude.”

  Norm nodded and scratched his chin. “Tell you what, Tony. I’ve listened to Louie’s story, and whether or not he was right in what he did, he thought he was. Now we could argue all afternoon about what was said, and perspectives and all that, but it wouldn’t do any good, so here’s my proposal. If you’re prepared to take him back, Brenda and I have his assurance that his intent is to follow the rules and graduate. Louie’s never been a problem, and we feel we can trust his word.”

  Boy, my dad’s an articulate bastard when he wants to be.

  “If you’re not prepared to take him back,” he went on, “then Brenda and I will have to act on that. I’m not sure what that means. We’ll cross that one if we come to it.”

  I wasn’t sure, but I thought it sounded a little like a threat.

  Jasper leaned back in his chair. “Norm, don’t you think an apology is in order here?”

  “An apology for what?”

  “For his behavior out there on the field last week,” Jasper said, “and for his little display here in the office.”

  Norm was quiet again. He looked at Brenda, then at me. Finally he said, “Quite honestly, no, I don’t.”

  Jasper looked a little shocked, but you had to be quick to catch it. “Would you mind telling me why you feel that way?” he said.

  “Because he isn’t sorry. Asking him to apologize would be asking him to lie, and that’s not my way.”

  Silence again. And Norm was in complete control of it.

  Finally Jasper said, “There’s one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “Louie can’t participate in any interscholastic activities as long as he’s at Trout.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Norm said.

  For the first time I spoke up. “That’s okay, Norm. I’m not going out for any more sports. All I want to do is do my work and get out.”

  Norm nodded, but he turned back to Jasper. “I understand that, but I’m still not sure I’m willing to make that concession.”

  They talked about it for another half hour or so, with Jasper saying he thought there had to be some public show of punishment—that my kind of attitude could be damaging to the whole school—and Norm defending my right to stand on principle. They didn’t make a final decision but agreed to deal with it if it came up. I was sure it wouldn’t.

  When we walked out, Norm said, “Louie, never give anyone anything you don’t have to in these kinds of negotiations.”

  “It didn’t seem like a big deal,” I said. “I’m not going out for anything.”

  “Then don’t give it up on principle,” he said. “It’s like an admission. Beside, you don’t know what you’ll want to do come spring. You may want to run track. And if you do, you have the right. Always leave your options open. Whatever you do, leave your options.”

  The point was well taken, but I couldn’t see myself closing out my high school career running around in circles and then throwing up.

  CHAPTER 10

  That night after dinner I was pretty much at loose ends. Norm didn’t need me down at the station; he had bookwork to do down there, and there wouldn’t be enough business to keep both of us busy. The team wouldn’t be getting back from Bear Creek until late, so I couldn’t see Becky until Saturday.

  I decided to take the pickup out for a little spin and try out the new cassette deck I’d installed during my suspension from school. I got a Waylon Jennings tape out of the glove compartment, cranked her up real loud, and headed west out of town. The pickup was running smooth, the tape deck worked like standard equipment, and I was feelin’ good, bouncing around in the seat, singing “Good Hearted Woman,” and thinking about my life.

  Before I knew it, I passed a sign that said “Salmon River—31 miles” and decided why not. In a little more than half an hour I pulled up in front of the Seven Devils’ Café.

  Salmon River had played at home that day, so the place was humming. A lot of kids were in the Seven Devils, and the drive-in down the block was packed. It had been almost an hour since dinner, so I decided to go in and have a burger. A few guys looked up when I came in, but if anyone recognized me, they didn’t come over. I sat at the counter and ordered. In the back at a long table a bunch of Salmon River players sat eating burgers and shakes and screwing around. Washington was with them; in fact, he seemed to be the center of attention, telling stories and, at one point, twirling his hamburger around on one finger like a basketball. He couldn’t be that great an athlete; he lost the meat.

  I wanted to go over and ask how he was doing, but to tell the truth, I was a little afraid to. I’m not sure why; I mean, I didn’t think they’d jump me or anything. Once, when Washington got up to go to the can, I could see that his ribs were bound tightly and he moved real slow and carefully. But he still moved like a jock.

  Just as I was getting ready to leave, Sally Larson, who used to live in Trout, came through the door with a couple of girlfriends. The Larsons moved to Salmon River when it became clear that Trout wasn’t going to spend much serious energy on girls’ sports. Mr. Larson just applied for the same job he had in our mill in theirs. Sally’s probably one of the best athletes we ever had in that town, right up there with Carter and Boomer. Played Little League up through Ponies and went to all kinds of girls’ sports camps in the summers. She’s tall and lean and eats like a horse and is really pretty. I had a horrible crush on her in fourth grade. She beat me up about once a week that year. We got to be pretty good friends in junior high, and we still made it a point to say hi anytime our schools played each other.

  She ran over and gave me a big hug. “What’re you doing over here?” she said. “I thought you guys played Creek today.”

  I told her I was out of the violent world of football.

  “How come?” she said. “Was it over Kevin getting hurt? We couldn’t tell what was going on from the sideline last week, but you looked pretty crazy out there.”

  I smiled and nodded. “I guess I was pretty crazy out there.”

  We sat down in a booth, and she introduced me to her friends, and they all ordered burgers. I figured I could do with another chocolate milk shake, so I ordered again.

  “So did you quit or get thrown off?” she asked.

  “I have a feeling that depends on who’s telling the story,” I said. “I quit. Listen, that black kid over there is Washington, isn’t he?”

  She nodded. “Want to meet him?”

  “No, that’s okay. Good to see he’s still alive, though.”

  “He’s supposed to be back out in a couple of weeks,” she said, “soon as his bruised ribs heal.”

  I almost felt let-down. My sacrifice had been for a couple of bruised ribs. Washington wasn’t dead or anything. In a couple of weeks he’d be back playing ball like nothing happened. “So what did everyone up here think about how he got hurt?” I asked.

  The burgers came, and Sally took a big bite out of hers and said, “They were pretty ticked off, but everybody knows Boomer Cowans. You don’t want to let him get a shot at you.”

  I said, “Boy, don’t I know that.” I started to tell her how Lednecky had set it all up, but then I thought of how Becky said I’d want to keep hashing and rehashing it, so I let it go.

  “How’s he get along here?” I asked.

  Sally took another bite—about half the burger—and said, “Great. Everybody loves him. He’s funny and smart, and you’ve seen what kind of athlete he is. He came up last summer from Oakland, California, because his parents thought he was getting in with a bad crowd. Drugs and stuff.”

  “What’s he say about that?”

  “That he was getting in with a bad crowd. Drugs and stuff. Started ripping folks off; all that big-city crap. Says he’s glad he’s here.”

  “Does he take any crap for being black?” It was hard to figure how we’d gotten up so much hate for him at Trout when Sally made it sound lik
e he was getting the key to the city in Salmon River.

  “He doesn’t take much crap for anything.” She stuffed the rest of the burger in her mouth. “You hear some things behind his back, but never to his face. I don’t even think he knows it’s going on. If he does, it doesn’t seem to bother him.”

  I sat there quietly for a minute, watching the guys at the back table and wondering how Sally had perfected the art of stuffing her mouth to capacity and still articulating like she was in a debate tournament. I mean, she could take that act on the road.

  I stayed a little longer; we asked about each other’s folks and talked about our plans after school. Then I said I ought to be getting back to Trout. Sally gave me another big hug and said she’d get my shake. I thanked her and headed for the pickup.

  Driving home, I wished I’d have let her introduce me to those guys, especially Washington. I felt like I had some kind of special connection to him. Besides that, I just wanted to sit at the table, be part of what I’d worked all summer and fall for. That was a part of my life that was gone before I even had a good taste of it.

  What the hell, I had Becky.

  CHAPTER 11

  Most people around Trout who drive pickups—which is most people around Trout—have gun racks behind the seat, and the bulk of those racks have loaded guns in them. I guess a lot of people around here like to kill things. You get a lot of “accidents” due to that. You’d be surprised at the number of times, just in my lifetime, that two guys who didn’t particularly care for each other went out deer hunting and only one came back. Pleading “I thought he was a deer” around here is a lot like pleading “temporary insanity” in other places. And every once in a while one of those guns will “accidentally” go off during cleaning and kill some guy who’s been sleeping with the gun cleaner’s wife. Guys clean their guns in the strangest places.