The Rome of Fall

by Chad Alan Gibbs

Jackson and his wife made the short drive from their house in a golf cart, and when I walked inside a few minutes later to grab another beer, a small line had already formed to kiss his ass. I skipped the line but went back outside through the wrong door and found myself on a patio with Fletcher Morgan, who was smoking a joint.

  “Doctor subscribed this,” Fletcher said. “It’s metamucinal.”

  I held my hands up to show him I didn’t care then turned to go back inside and he said, “Hell of an article about you in yesterday’s paper.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You know, you probably ought to help him out, ’cause one way or another, Deacon always gets what he wants.”

  I stared at Fletcher for a moment then pointed to his state championship ring and said, “He didn’t get one of those,” before walking back inside.

  As the reunion wore on, the Class of 1994 slowly broke off into old cliques, and as the cliques drifted toward the edges of the room, we all realized we didn’t care much for each other’s company; otherwise, we wouldn’t have forgotten our twenty-year reunion. I sat poolside with Silas while the evening wound down, and as he concluded an exhaustive lecture on the history of the word “shorty” in hip-hop, Becca came outside and walked toward us.

  “Good luck, Brinks,” Silas said and nearly drove his wheelchair into the pool because he’d downed at least six beers that I’d seen, and then Becca and I were alone.

  We sat silent for a moment, then when she let out a long sigh, I blurted out, “It wasn’t that many women. David, the bartender, he’s the biggest liar on the island. He used to tell people he beat Usain Bolt in the 100-meter dash while wearing a pair of wingtips.”

  “I’m not mad about that,” Becca said.

  “Plus, I still owe David money, so he’s probably mad and just trying to ... oh, you’re not mad about that?”

  “No. You were in a rock band, Marcus. It sort of goes with the territory. I won’t lie and say I enjoyed reading it, but I don’t suppose you’d enjoy reading about the guys I slept with in college either.”

  “Not particularly,” I said and stuck my fingers in my ears in case she began listing them off. We were quiet for another moment, then I said, “If it’s the stuff about not talking to my mom, I can explain. She—”

  “She told me everything about that,” Becca said.

  “Wait, she did?”

  “She did. She called me after school yesterday and explained everything.”

  “Then what ... I don’t understand why—”

  “Marcus, I’m not mad at you. I’m disappointed because you’re a talented musician. That album you wrote ... it meant so much to so many people ... and even though your band broke up, and you hadn’t released a new song in decades, I always liked to think you were in the islands somewhere, slaving away on your next masterpiece, not drinking yourself numb in a hammock for nearly two decades.”

  “I stopped doing that when I turned twenty-eight,” I said.

  “Your mother told me that too.”

  “Did she tell you I took up paddle boarding? It’s not like I didn’t do anything.”

  “She told me, Marcus.”

  I suppose I could have confessed to her then why I hadn’t written anything in twenty years, but it seemed easier to apologize, so I said, “Becca, I’m sorry.”

  Becca sighed. “You don’t have to apologize to me.”

  We sat in silence, and after a long while, I asked, “What do I have to do then?”

  She stood up, kissed me on the head, and said, “You’re going to have to figure that out on your own.”

  Then she left me sitting by the pool alone.

  “After rocking the 41stst Annual Grammy Awards with an impromptu solo performance, Dear Brutus lead singer Marcus Brinks reportedly commandeered The Backstreet Boys tour bus, picked up two dozen fans waiting outside Shrine Auditorium, and went on an ill-fated joyride that caused over $100,000 in damage to the University of Southern California campus.

  —The Los Angeles Times, “Grammy News & Notes,” February 25, 1999

  Chapter Seventeen (1994)

  “It’s not like prom, Brinks. You don’t need a date to go.”

  It was Friday afternoon, homecoming week, and Silas was trying, and failing, to persuade me to attend the homecoming dance after that night’s game.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but you have a date.”

  “Look at me, Brinks. Of course I have a date. But I’m telling you, lots of people won’t. It’s no biggie.”

  Jackson shook his head to indicate my lack of a date was a biggie.

  “Fine,” Silas said. “Go with Crowder to Jesus Prom, but understand you don’t have a date to that either.”

  “He doesn’t need a date to the Fifth Quarter,” Jackson said.

  “But you have a date,” I said.

  Jackson, who was in the middle of one of his short-lived religious phases, was skipping the homecoming dance to attend a Fifth Quarter at Rome First Baptist, and though he claimed this was a better option for someone without a date, he was taking Meghan (of MeghanJennifer), and Silas asked Mandy Duke to the homecoming dance, but I didn’t find out any of this until Wednesday, at which point it was too late to secure a date of my own to either event.

  “It’s not a real date,” Jackson said. “Besides, there won’t be any music or dancing or anything.”

  “See,” Silas said, “Jesus Prom sucks.”

  “Stop calling it that,” Jackson snapped, and Silas grinned at me.

  “He’s right though,” I said to Jackson. “It doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “Oh, and watching other people dance does?” he said.

  “I’m not going to the homecoming dance either,” I said.

  “Yes, you are,” Silas said. “I’m telling you, Brinks, half the people there won’t have dates. There will be plenty of skirts there to dance with.”

  They argued back and forth for the better part of our lunch period until I finally snapped and said, “Oh my god, both of you shut up. Can’t I go to both for a little while?”

  “I guess so,” Silas said.

  “Yeah, I don’t see why not,” Jackson agreed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Silas was by himself when I arrived at the game that night, and when he motioned for me to join him, I asked, “Where’s Mandy? I don’t want to be the third wheel when she gets back.”

  “At home,” he said. “She’s meeting me at the dance. It might rain later, and apparently, she’s styled her hair in such a physics-defying way that a single drop of water will cause it and the rest of the universe to collapse into a black hole.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m glad she stayed home then.”

  Rome led 49-0 at halftime, and as the teams headed to their locker rooms, four trucks pulled the four class homecoming floats onto the field. Mr. Gaba, our world history teacher with the Barry White voice, handled public address duties, and he announced the places in the float contest. “In last place,” he said, “a float depicting a Roman gladiator disemboweling a Weepel Warthog, the senior class.” I’m not sure about first, second, or third place, because I couldn’t hear Mr. Gaba over the angry protests of the senior class, protests I joined in on, even though I’d contributed exactly 0.0 man-hours to the creation of our float.

  Next, the Marching Legion took the field for their homecoming show, featuring songs from the film Aladdin, and as they played “A Whole New World," golf carts made to look like flying carpets carried members of the homecoming court onto the field. Becca was up for homecoming queen, but I voted for Jennifer (of MeghanJennifer) to spite her. After a dramatic pause though, Mr. Gaba called out Becca’s name to loud cheers, and after they placed a crown on her head, her golf cart drove around the field so she could wave to the admiring crowd.

  “So, that Steve guy dating my mom is kind of the worst,” I said to Silas sometime during the fourth quarter, a quarter that saw Jackson make two tackles and give up a long touchdown pass.

  “
Yeah,” Silas said. “We didn’t want to say anything, but his son was in our class until he went to live with his mom in Hornby a few years ago. Steve helped coach our little league team in sixth grade, and dude is a world-class bag of dicks. He fought with parents, shoved kids at practice, and showed up to games drunk. Eventually, the league suspended him.”

  “Oh. Great,” I deadpanned.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Silas said. “Your mom won’t date that dude long.”

  “I hope not, because—” I started to say but fell silent as Queen Becca and her entourage passed by. She looked our way and flashed a sad smile, but I only managed a head nod in return.

  “I voted for Jennifer,” Silas said, “out of solidarity.”

  We bumped fists and I said, “Thanks.”

  “So you’re going to the dance, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But I don’t plan to enjoy it.”

  “That’s the spirit, Brinks.”

  Mercifully, the game ended with Rome only defeating Weepel 70-7, and Silas and I made the short walk from the Colosseum to the Ronald J. Pumphrey Gymnasium for the homecoming dance.

  Silas was right when he told me homecoming wasn’t a big deal. Unlike prom, all students from the high school and middle school could attend. You just needed two bucks to enter and a desire to hear “Tootsee Roll,” “Whoomp! (There It Is),” and the lesser known “Whoot, There It Is,” on repeat until your ears bled. Once inside, we tossed our shoes into an ever-growing pile, lest we scuff the basketball court with our gyrations, then we sat on the bleachers with everyone else except a handful of idiot sixth graders who hadn’t reached the age of self-awareness and could therefore dance like no one was watching.

  “Where’s Mandy?” I asked Silas as the DJ played a Lisa Loeb song.

  “On her way, I guess.”

  “Wait, is that the homecoming song?” I asked, pointing toward the stage curtain behind the far basketball goal, where someone had spelled out in three-foot glittery letters, “Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone)”.

  “I guess,” Silas said.

  “Holy shit, man. It’s 1994, and our homecoming song is a glam-metal power ballad?”

  Silas shrugged and said, “I didn’t choose it. Besides, all guitar music sounds the same.”

  I glared at him until he finally smiled, and I said, “You can go to hell. And when you get there, I hope the DJ only plays Cinderella.”

  Mandy arrived a few minutes later, wearing a short dress, and with her hair, as promised, defying the laws of physics. Silas was in jeans and a Michael Jordan jersey, and as they said hello, I suspect they both realized they’d misread each other’s intentions entirely.

  “Marcus, who is your date?” Mandy asked, and when I told her I did not have one, she just said, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Silas told me homecoming dates aren’t a big deal,” I said, because I was mad at him for talking me into coming. He looked at me with wide eyes then said to Mandy, who was on the verge of tears, “Let’s dance,” even though the DJ was spinning a Tori Amos song no one in human history had ever attempted to dance to.

  Then I was alone, watching the handful of Romans who’d managed to shake off their inhibitions dance, while most watched from the bleachers with me. During the next undanceable song, this one by the Cranberries, I heard some commotion by the door and saw the group of girls Becca usually hung out with entering the gym. They tossed their shoes into the pile then performed a Navy Seal-esque surgical strike on the homecoming dance. A few girls began dancing immediately, others pulled shy guys from the bleachers, and three more approached the DJ, pleading with him until a record scratch brought the dance to a halt, and Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” pulled everyone except me onto the dance floor.

  The DJ followed up with “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang, “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC, “I Want You Back” by The Jackson Five, and a dozen more songs that no one can resist.

  Confession time: I hate dancing. Not slow dancing so much, even though I’m terrible at it and spend most of my energy avoiding my partner’s toes. But regular, fast dancing, I just can’t. Within seconds of hitting the dance floor, I convince myself the people around me dancing and having fun are in fact watching me, and laughing at me in their heads, and wishing I’d go away so they could mock me with their competent dancing friends. Laugh if you want, but chorophobia (fear of dancing) is a real thing, and I’d appreciate your sympathy.

  I wanted Silas to tire out and come back and keep me company, but he was still going strong on the dance floor, likely out of guilt, so I stood to leave just as Becca Walsh sat next to me.

  “This DJ works at the Ford dealership in Riverton,” Becca said. “He calls himself DJ Push-a-Button, and he’s the undisputed worst DJ in history, yet for some reason, Rome hires him every year.”

  “It’s like he brought a mix-tape of the least danceable songs of the last decade,” I said, “but I hate dancing, so I can’t really complain.”

  Becca smiled and said, “Yeah, I hate dancing too.”

  “No shit? I didn’t think girls could hate dancing.”

  “It’s 1994, Marcus. Girls can do whatever they want.”

  I smiled and apologized and after a moment said, “I read that book you let me borrow.”

  “And?” she asked.

  “It was good,” I said. “I liked how they live in a place where you can never be hurt.”

  “Marcus, I think you missed the point entirely,” Becca said through laughter.

  I shrugged and we sat there, watching our classmates bust moves to Young MC’s aptly titled, “Bust a Move," and Becca finally said, “Marcus, I really am sorry about the night at the Raceway. I was drunk and didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay,” I said, cutting her off. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and more silence followed until DJ Push-a-Button, having danced our classmates to near exhaustion, slowed things down by saying, “And now let’s slow things down.” Boyz II Men came through the speakers, and on the dance floor couples paired up, while those left alone walked sullenly back to the bleachers. I glanced over at Becca, looking at her for the first time since she’d sat down. She was still wearing her homecoming crown and her green dress, and she saw me looking and smiled, and I cursed in my head because she was so pretty I couldn’t help myself. My mouth, in complete violation of the peace treaty between my brain and my bruised ribs, asked Becca, “Would you like to dance?”

  “Of course,” she said, and I took her hand and led her onto the dance floor.

  “I’m not very good at this,” I said as she wrapped her arms around my neck, and I placed mine around her waist. “There’s a significant chance I’ll crush your pretty toenails.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Becca said, and she put her head on my shoulder, and we swayed to the music.

  “Congratulations,” I said after a moment, “on your crown and all.”

  “Yeah, Rome homecoming queen,” Becca said, “just like my sister. Not that my parents even care. They’re in Birmingham tonight, celebrating some lame promotion she got at work.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, and she held me tighter. As the song ended, I remember praying that DJ Push-a-Button would find it in his heart to play another slow song because I wanted to stand there holding her forever, and he followed up Boyz II Men with a slow Bon Jovi song I usually couldn’t turn off fast enough, but hearing it was a small price to pay for six more minutes with Becca’s head on my shoulder.

  At some point during that second song, I realized the football team had arrived. Most wore jeans and white T-shirts, and their hair was still wet from post-game showers. I didn’t care about them though, because Becca was running her fingers through the back of my hair. I closed my eyes and held her tighter until the record scratched to a halt again, and Deacon Cassburn’s voice echoed through DJ Push-a-Button’s microphone.

  “Is Becca still here?” Deacon said, and she let
go of me as a few classmates pointed our way.

  “Babe,” Deacon said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and it’ll never happen again. I swear. Just give me another chance. I love you, babe.”

  There was an audible, “Awwww” from the crowd, and Deacon turned to the DJ who played All-4-One’s “I Swear," which was apparently Deacon and Becca’s song, and Becca turned to me and said, “I’m...I’m sorry, Marcus,” and she went to Deacon, leaving me alone on the dance floor.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time I arrived at the Fifth Quarter, all the girls had gone home, and Jackson and a few other guys were dunking on the nine-foot basketball goal.

  “Nice dunk, Baby Jordan,” I said, walking over to Jackson.

  “In middle school, Silas and I used to record ourselves dunking on this goal so we could watch the replays in slow motion. Remind me and I’ll show you the video one day.”

  “No thanks,” I said, and he tossed a mini basketball my way.

  “How was homecoming?” he asked.

  I shot an airball, gave him a thumbs down, and asked, “How was Fifth Quarter?”

  “You’re looking at it,” he said. “The girls went home once we broke out the basketballs.”

  I poured myself a glass of punch and sat on one of the nasty couches, and soon Jackson joined me while the rest of the guys continued to dunk.

  “Shit. I’m sorry, man,” Jackson said after I told him about Becca and Deacon. “Why the hell were you dancing with her anyway? I thought you were done with her?”

  “I am ... I mean, I was ... I mean, I don’t know. She does weird things to me, man. I can’t explain it.”

  “So do you know if they got back together?” Jackson asked.

  “I’m not sure, but she left me to go talk to him. It doesn’t matter though. I don’t care what they do. That’s all over, for real this time.”

  “Good call,” Jackson said.

  “But I do want to help you bring Deacon’s ass down,” I whispered, and Jackson nodded. “I want him to pay for what he did at the raceway and for every other shitty thing he’s ever done. I want him off the team and kicked out of school and deported.”