The Rome of Fall

by Chad Alan Gibbs

  I turned to face Deacon, and he shook his head with something resembling pity. “Look, Brinks, I don’t like this any more than you, but you needed to know the truth. The truth has set you free, my friend. You’re free to go now. You can get the hell out of Rome, and you can bring down Jackson while you’re at it. Hell, I would do it, but I’m stuck here, and you know how these people can get about their football. So what do you say, you ready to help me take care of Jackson once and for all?”

  I had a decision to make. I knew pain waited just below my rage. Pain that wanted to harden my heart and send me right back to where I was before I returned to Rome, before I fell in love again. The same sort of pain that cost me half my life, and cost my mom half hers. The pain I knew I was risking when I asked Becca to dance on the boardwalk behind Trevi’s, and when I wrote a new song and sang it for her at the homecoming dance, and when I moved my toothbrush to her house. I knew I’d hurt soon, the same way your hand starts to hurt hours after punching the dashboard or your mother’s boyfriend, but sitting in my car, I decided this time would be different. This time I would be stronger. I would be the man my mother thought I’d become. I would mend my broken heart, move on, and one day, I would risk it all for love again. But first ... I had to burn Rome to the ground.

  “Brinks,” Deacon repeated, “I asked if you were ready to help me take care of Jackson.”

  “You’re right,” I said, “about the truth, it will set you free. And the truth is, the night after Rome won the state semifinal in 1994, there was a party at my house. And at that party, Jackson Crowder spiked your drink with some drug his sister’s DJ friend at Jacksonville State sold him. Then he drove you to Carthage, poured a couple beers on your head, and left you for the cops to find.”

  Deacon stared at me for an eternity, and I thought perhaps he was about to shoot me, but instead, he shook my hand and said, “I appreciate you telling me, Brinks.” Then he got in his truck and drove away.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Mr. Brinks, are you okay?” asked the short blonde by the air conditioner ten minutes into first period.

  “Fine,” I said, without looking up from my phone.

  The last two days I’d at least made a show of trying to teach before letting the students spend the class period playing on their phones, but that morning, I hadn’t said a word, and at least a couple of them seemed genuinely worried about me, which was nice.

  “What are you doing?” asked the curly-haired girl by the door.

  I looked up and said, “Sending emails.”

  “To Miss Walsh?” asked the mousy-looking girl on the front row, and the room giggled until I glared at them and they stopped.

  “No,” I said and, turning back to my phone, added, “I’m sending an email to Darryl Loder at the Riverton Times with proof I changed Kyler’s grade to keep him eligible.” The rest of the class looked back at Kyler, but he was asleep at his desk, so they turned back to me, and I said, “And I’m sending an email to the ACLU to see if they’re interested in baptisms on public school property. And I’m sending an email to the Federal Bureau of Investigation office in Birmingham to let them know Rome Quarterback Club members sent pornography to underage students in an attempt to lure them to a party with alcohol. And I’m sending an email to Rubicon County Animal Control to let them know Deacon Cassburn keeps an adult wolf in his backyard as a pet. And I’m sending an email to the head coach of Newberry College to let him know Silas Carver is more than capable of serving as his offensive analyst. And I’m sending an email to that attorney from Hornby with all the billboards, Lucian Figg, to let him know about a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act and the opportunity for a huge cash settlement. And I’m sending an email to Harrell’s Diamonds in the mall to enquire about their refund policy. And finally, I’m sending an email to Amy Crowder to let her know that her husband and my girlfriend have been breaking the seventh commandment in the Pindarus Motel.

  I looked up from my phone, and the entire classroom was staring at me wide-eyed, so I stood up and said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to Coach Carver.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Silas was in his room, ignoring his students, and when I opened the door, he smiled until I said, “Silas, I’ve got something to tell you, and I want your students to hear so they’ll know what sort of asshole coaches their football team.”

  The students, who’d been talking and playing on their phones, now all looked my way, and I said, “Newberry College wanted to hire you two years ago, but Jackson told them not to. Not because he thinks you couldn’t do it, but because he wants to keep you here, at Rome. That selfish son of a bitch knows he can’t win without you, so he lied to keep you here. Silas, I was in his office last month when Newberry’s coach called again. They still want to hire you, but Jackson told them you weren’t up to it, physically, even though he knows you are more than capable. I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ve been a shitty friend, and I hope you’ll forgive me for waiting this long to say anything.”

  Silas nodded in a way that let me know we were cool, so I apologized to his class for the interruption then went back to my room and waited until the morning’s pep rally when fan and shit were destined to meet.

  “The Beige Album was somehow both before and after its time. A masterpiece demanding our undivided attention, misfortune paired its arrival with the internet boom of the late nineties and the onset of our collective ADD. Drop it five years earlier and we’d talk about it the way we still talk about Nevermind or Slanted & Enchanted, but, alas, few heard it through the noise. And yet, listening to this album again twenty years later, sonically, it remains a glimpse into the future. The genius of Dear Brutus is still there for those who find it, and as Marcus Brinks’s voice cracks and fades on the final note of the coda “Release (No One Can Hurt Me),” a new generation of fans are left to wonder—what could have been?”

  —Pitchfork, 10.0 review of Dear Brutus: 20thth Anniversary Reissue by Dear Brutus, November 23, 2017

  Chapter Twenty-Seven (1994)

  What does it mean to be a fan—of a team, or a band, or anything? To be a fan is to latch on to something bigger than yourself and to attach personal meaning to that thing’s performance and, if you want to get scientific about it, to receive a mind-altering rush of dopamine when that thing succeeds. Our brains remember the euphoria of celebrating a game-winning field goal or singing along with ten thousand others as our favorite band belts out their greatest hit. We chase that feeling, we anticipate it, and that’s why we’re physically ill when our team loses in the final seconds or our favorite band breaks up and the lead singer punches a horse. But on the flip side, there is bliss beyond all measure when our team comes through in an unexpected way. An otherwise unknowable ecstasy when, say, a third-string quarterback, who only seconds before lay helpless on the ground, leaps and makes a diving catch in the back of the end zone to win a school its first state championship.

  In all the commotion, I didn’t even think to look for Becca until sometime during the trophy presentation, which took place on Gaul’s field amid the horde of celebrating Romans. By then, I’d lost Silas and was still looking for him when Coach Pumphrey, sitting atop Marshall Ford’s shoulders, raised the trophy over his head and the crowd chanted, “Victory or death!” Then Coach P passed the trophy to Jackson, who was still on the shoulders of his teammates, and the crowd roared as he too raised the trophy in triumph.

  After singing the fight song, then the alma mater, then the fight song twice more, the Roman crowd began to disperse, and I found Silas talking to the players involved in that final, magical play. Well, all but Jackson, who was giving an interview to WBRC Fox 6 from Birmingham. I stood back as the players hugged Silas in turn, Brent Holdbrooks tousling his hair and telling him repeatedly, “You da man, Carver! You da mother effin’ man!” And after they’d all made their way toward the locker room, I walked up to Silas and said, “Nice call, coach.”

  Silas smiled, a
nd I hugged him and said, “I still can’t believe Jackson caught it.”

  He shook his head and said, “I know. I think the bad throw helped. He didn’t have any time to think. If all he’d had to do was stand there and catch a perfect pass, the ball would have bounced off his face mask.”

  We stood there for a moment, soaking it all in, then he said, “Everyone in Rome is staying at the same hotel in downtown Montgomery tonight. You’re coming, right? It’s going to be the party of the millennium.”

  I told Silas I’d see him there, but after walking the mile back to my car, I realized I didn’t know the name of the hotel where everyone was staying. So I drove toward Montgomery and spent an hour lost downtown before finally passing a tall building where roman candles shot from a tenth-story window. I knew then I’d found the place.

  I parked in the deck across the street and walked into the hotel, and though time and occasional recreational drug use has perhaps distorted and exaggerated my memory of that night’s events, the first thing I remember seeing was Mr. Galba, our straighter than straight-laced history teacher, with what appeared to be a very fresh and crudely done SPQR tattoo on his chest, splashing shirtless in the lobby fountain. Kool & the Gang blared from a boom box someone had set on the front desk, and the parents, teachers, and coaches of Rome danced with an inhibition rarely seen in anyone over the age of four. Coach P was at the bar, surrounded by cheering fans and a dozen empty shot glasses. I watched him down another shot to loud cheers then fall off his stool. Some of the adults had removed the sheets from their hotel beds and constructed togas that did not even remotely cover all their body parts that needed covering. Try as I might to forget, I can still see Mrs. Nerva, her breasts bared, climbing the lobby ficus tree for no apparent reason. I even saw Steve, slumped in the corner, with two black eyes and an empty whiskey bottle at his feet. Rumor was, he cleaned up, found Jesus, and now manages a McDonald’s in Hornby, but I never cared enough to investigate.

  By now, the hotel staff had given up and were either hiding in the manager’s office or had abandoned ship entirely, and as I stood at the front desk, ringing the bell and looking for someone to ask what room the students were in, Mrs. Nero stumbled into me.

  “Marcus, it’s you,” she said and kissed me on the lips.

  I backed away, wide-eyed, and said, “Uh ... hi, Mrs. Nero.”

  “You call me Tonya,” she said and hiccupped.

  “Okay, Tonya,” I said. “Hey, do you know where the students are?”

  “Yes. I. Do,” Mrs. Nero said slowly, touching her finger to her temple after each word.

  “Can you ... uh ... tell me?”

  “Sure, Marcus,” she said, putting an arm around me and pointing toward the elevators. “The top two floors are reserved for students, but you are more than welcome to stay down here.”

  I told Mrs. Nero thanks, but no thanks, and she slapped my ass as I walked away toward the elevators. I punched the button for the ninth floor, and as the elevator rose, the sound from the lobby party faded but was soon replaced by the sound of an even louder party above. Seconds later, the elevator dinged, and the doors to Sodom and Gomorrah slid open.

  I stepped onto the landing where someone had busted the glass to the snack machine, and Mark Porter and a few of his freshman friends sat gorging themselves on an endless supply of free candy bars.

  “Brinks!” they yelled in unison when they saw me, my newfound popularity from hosting what was now the second greatest party in Rome history, apparently not yet faded.

  “Hey guys,” I said, and one of the freshmen, his face covered in chocolate, said, “Brinks, a girl at your party showed me her boobs.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “Hey, have y’all seen Becca Walsh?”

  They shook their heads no, and one of them offered me a Twix. “No thanks,” I said and walked down the hallway in search of Becca.

  The door was open to the first room I came to, and inside, kids danced under a strobe light. I pushed my way inside but didn’t see any familiar faces then pushed my way back out, stumbling into the room across the hall, where the drum major, Chase Malone, sat wearing nothing but boxer shorts and his band helmet. Chase said he’d seen Becca in room 920; of course, he also said he’d seen Mahatma Gandhi in room 920, but I felt obliged to follow any and all leads.

  Water was pouring out from under the door of the next room I passed, and out of curiosity, I peeked inside to see a mini horse, ankle-deep in water, because someone had left the tub faucet running full blast. I turned it off and left the door open in case the horse wanted to leave then walked down to room 920, which was a large, two-bedroom suite and apparently home base for the senior class. Inside, MeghanJennifer line danced on the kitchenette bar, and below them, Mandy Duke and Rita Bell, both wearing Rome football helmets, violently head-butted each other. Darryl the atheist was passed out on the couch, and Maggie Duncan was writing Bible verses all over his body with a permanent marker while her friend Rachel watched and giggled. A line of people holding Solo cups stood outside the bathroom, and when I looked inside, I saw Brent Holdbrooks mixing hunch punch in the bathtub. “Brinks,” he yelled when he saw me, dipping a cup into the tub, “you’ve got to try this shit. It’s nasty!”

  “No thanks,” I said and walked into one of the bedrooms where Marshall Ford was standing on the balcony rail, naked from the waist down and holding a cup of punch in each hand, while screaming the words to “God Bless the U.S.A.”

  “Brinks!” Marshall shouted, falling off the rail and back into the bedroom. “The flag still stands for freedom, Brinks!”

  “He knows that,” Fletcher Morgan said, walking out of the bathroom smoking a joint. “You know the flag still stands for freedom, don’t you, Brinks?”

  “Uh ... yeah,” I said and passed on the joint before asking if they’d seen Becca.

  “Try the tenth floor,” Fletcher said then, holding back laughter, added, “but knock first.”

  The tenth floor was quiet, most doors were closed, and apart from two sophomore girls spraying each other with fire extinguishers, the students in the hallway had passed out. I knocked on the first door I came to, and after a minute, Silas answered wrapped in a sheet.

  “Brinks,” he said, bumping my fist, “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “I got lost,” I said then asked, “Have you seen Becca?”

  “In the lobby earlier but not since,” he said then looked back over his shoulder into the room and said, “Hey man, Tabatha is waiting on me.”

  “Jake Norton’s girlfriend?”

  “Yeah,” Silas said with a shrug, “he’s in the hospital getting his concussion checked out and—”

  “—And all’s fair in love and football?”

  “You know it, homie,” Silas said, and with another fist bump, he was gone.

  I continued down the hall until I came to an open door and found Deacon Cassburn inside, drunk out of his mind, sitting on the bed watching SportsCenter alone. I tried to leave before he saw me, but I wasn’t quick enough, and he said, “Brinks, have a seat. They’re about to show Plays of the Week.”

  “Sorry, man, I can’t stay. I was looking for ...”

  “Becca?” he asked.

  “Uh ... yeah. Becca. Have you seen her?”

  “Yeah, she’s next door,” he said then turned back to the television without another word.

  I walked next door to room 1049 and knocked on the slightly ajar door, but there was no answer, so I let myself in. I heard a girl’s voice and muffled laughter, and I was about to call out to Becca as I rounded the corner, when in the lamplight, I saw Jackson lying in bed, half-covered by a sheet.

  Next to him, wearing only his Rome jersey, was Becca Walsh.

  Stumbling backward, I left before they saw me and collapsed into the hallway. “No, no, no,” I muttered to myself over and over then briefly considered storming back into the room and kicking Jackson’s ass and/or confessing my love to Becca. I still had one good hand to
break his face with, and on the drive to Gaul, I’d basically written a sonnet for Becca, most of which would later appear in our song, “Pale Eyed Girl, Pt. 1.” But Jackson thought I was over Becca. I’d told him as much. And Becca wasn’t going to leave the new king of Rome. Not for me. I’d missed my chance. It was over, and I couldn’t breathe, and I needed out of that hotel immediately.

  Deacon looked up as I passed his door, and when I shook my head in disbelief, he shrugged and returned the gesture. I stumbled to the elevator landing, where Mark Porter and friends were now raiding the tenth-floor snack machine, and while they asked about my next party, I beat on the down button with my splint. An elevator rose slowly from the basement—second floor, third floor—but I couldn’t wait for it. I was suffocating. So, I found the stairwell and ran down ten flights, pushed my way through the lobby full of drunk adults, and burst into the cold December night where I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  High above, roman candles exploded, and as I staggered across the street to my car, the tears came. I was still crying when I hit the Louisiana border four hours later. I’d only just stopped when I banged on my father’s door at ten the next morning. He let me in, and I crawled into my old bed, praying when I woke up my fall in Rome would have all been a bad dream.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight (2017)

  Keeping with tradition, Rome scheduled a special candlelit pep rally at ten Friday morning, leaving the team and town ample time to make the journey to Tuscaloosa for the championship game late that afternoon. They even used real candles again, not wanting to jinx anything. I’d already sent Principal Trajan an email informing him of my resignation, effective immediately, but out of morbid curiosity hung around for one last pep rally. Becca caught me outside the gymnasium, her eyes puffy from crying all morning.

  “Marcus,” she said, reaching for my hand, but I pulled it away. “I’ve been calling and texting all morning. You have to let me explain. Marcus, this morning—”