Fourth and Long

by Chris Scully

  Fourth and Long

  TICK, tick, tick. The antique clock on the credenza counted out the seconds with perfect rhythm. Usually I found the steady march calming, but not today. Today I could not stop fidgeting; each precise beat seemed like a countdown, but to what, I didn’t know. It hit me suddenly that time, which can be measured down to the smallest standard unit—hours, minutes, seconds—is anything but standard and exact. In reality it’s fluid; years are gone in a flash, a few minutes can seem like a lifetime. I gave myself a mental shake. My thoughts weren’t usually so deep.

  Recrossing my legs for the umpteenth time, I turned my attention to something simpler, like the leafy maple tree outside the window, its limbs heavy with bundles of seeds about to drop and spin to the ground. A fluffy gray squirrel ran along the closest branch and came to perch on the ledge. He peered in at me with his beady little eyes as if I were some curious oddity behind glass.

  “So, how are you, Eric?”

  “Fine,” I replied automatically, then I caught the lie. “Well, obviously I’m not fine or I wouldn’t be here.”

  Dr. Evelyn Kessler regarded me stone-faced over the tops of her expensive Gucci glasses. I’d quickly learned she had no sense of humor. I also knew she’d beat me hands down in any staring contest so I looked away, back out the window at my new friend the squirrel.

  It was my mom who first suggested that I try therapy. We’d grown closer in the years since my dad died, although the relationship was still strained at times. At first I resisted—no way was I going to pay someone to listen to me talk for an hour—but after another miserable year, I figured if she could get her life back on track after the hell my dad put her through then I could at least give it a shot.

  “The last time we spoke you had just started seeing someone new. How is that going?”

  She knew perfectly well how it was going. “It didn’t work out.”

  “I see.” Dr. Kessler jotted down something in her notebook. I wondered how many identical entries detailing my love life she had made over the past six months.

  “And yes, I do know that it’s all part of a pattern,” I sighed. “I fall for beautiful young men who never stick around precisely because I’m neither beautiful nor young.”

  “I doubt that’s why your relationships fail.”

  She was probably right on that score but wouldn’t hear it from me. Since finally coming to terms with being gay more than a decade ago, I’d certainly had my share of lovers, but I’d never had a relationship that lasted more than two weeks. Usually they left long before that. I could never quite escape the feeling that I didn’t deserve to be happy.

  Dr. Kessler crossed her legs and rested her leather-bound notebook in her lap. “You seem even more hostile than usual, Eric. Is there something particular that has happened?”

  Reluctantly I pulled out the invitation that had arrived in the mail yesterday from my bag and handed it to her. She turned the old-fashioned, crisp cream paper over in her fingers and read. “Hmm, your high school reunion. Are you going?” she asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not? I thought you told me high school was the best time of your life.”

  “It was,” I said, although privately I admitted I might be lying a bit. “It’s been downhill ever since.” That part was entirely true.

  “I imagine your friends would like to see you. Do you keep in touch with any of them?”

  I hesitated and looked down at my hands. “No.”

  Dr. Kessler raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and jotted something in her book. “Why the aversion to going?”

  I gripped the arms of my chair until my knuckles turned white. “Because I’m a fucking cliché, that’s why.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I’m him, aren’t I? The washed-up prom king. The high school football star who bottoms out and winds up a miserable bastard. Jesus, I may as well be a used car salesman.”

  “I don’t think you’re washed up at all, Eric.”

  I disagreed with her on that point. I was nearly forty, painfully single with a dead-end job as manager of a local grocery store. That didn’t sound too upbeat to me. Then again, what did I know—I didn’t have a fancy college diploma, either.

  “Eric.” Dr. Kessler put aside her notebook and leaned forward in her leather chair. “It seems to me that everything leads back to your last year in high school. This is a pivotal period in your development—your sexual confusion, your father kicking you out of the house, the end of your football career….”

  I looked up, shocked. Was all that in her notebook? Had I really revealed so much? When I first decided to enter therapy, I was sure I wouldn’t give up my secrets, but without even realizing it, over the past six months I’d blabbed more than I thought. Apparently, we had covered a lot of ground.

  I supposed I had confessed how I left home the week after high school graduation, only to return a few months later with my tail between my legs when an injury in the third quarter of the season opener ended my football career. Without my football scholarship, college had been impossible. But I hadn’t told her everything about that time. I hadn’t told her about Jake. To my astonishment, I felt the unfamiliar sting of tears in my eyes. I hadn’t cried in ages.

  “Eric, what really happened your senior year?”

  There was a boy….

  The alarm on her watch chimed discreetly. She actually seemed disappointed. “I’m afraid our time is up for today, but I would really like to resume this discussion next time.”

  I grunted noncommittally as I gathered up my jacket and bag. She handed the invitation back. “You should go to the reunion,” she said simply. “It might be just what you need.”

  After our session ended, I sat in the car in the parking lot with the engine running for a long time. I withdrew the invitation from my jacket pocket and ran it through my fingers.

  Parkside High School

  Class of ’91

  Come have fun with us as we

  get caught up on the past 20 years

  It conjured up memories I’d spent half my life trying to forget. I couldn’t think about high school without thinking about Jake. I leaned back against the headrest. Jake.

  Heart’s “What About Love?” came on the radio, and my hand shot out to turn it off—that was definitely a reminder I didn’t need right now—but something made my finger hesitate on the button. “Something’s missing and you got to look back on your life. You know something here just ain’t right,” Ann Wilson sang. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was a message there somewhere. The thought made me laugh out loud as I punched in another station and pulled out of the lot. I really had to be messed up to look for meaning in eighties rock.

  PARKSIDE HIGH was a large brown brick two-story building with a massive stone front that would have been more appropriate on a castle than an inner-city school. As a junior it had seemed imposing; as a grown man dreading to enter it was no less intimidating but for entirely different reasons. It’s funny how everything seems bigger, more impressive when you’re younger. Back then, the school seemed huge—I remember getting lost in the maze of corridors on my first day—now it seemed laughably small and old-fashioned.

  A couple brushed past me as I lingered in the front entryway. I didn’t recognize them, but then I had tended to stay with my own crowd—jocks and cheerleaders, mostly. I suppose there was a whole other half of the population I hadn’t cared about then. Like Jake. Would he be here tonight?

  The last time I’d seen Jake Lockwood, he had been lying unconscious in a hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen monitors, with tubes running out his nose. It had been three months before he woke from his coma, and by that time, my own life was falling apart. A number of times over the pa
st twenty years, I had been tempted to search for him online; I even got as far as typing his name in the search engine but always stopped short of hitting the button. What difference would it make? What could I possibly say to make things better? My past mistakes were a constant crushing weight on my chest and that would never go away. Some things you just can’t change.

  I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck, a gesture that Dr. Kessler had pointed out I did often when I was nervous or overwhelmed, then caught myself and settled for fidgeting with my tie instead. Fuck it, I couldn’t very well hang around out here all night. Shit or get off the pot, as my dad used to say.

  It felt like the first day all over again as I stepped through the double doors and back into the place that had once meant so much to me. I followed the “Class of ’91” signs down the hallway toward the gymnasium. My feet knew the way even without the signage. It was comforting and frightening at the same time how nothing had changed. Okay, so the tall metal lockers now had a glossy coat of red enamel instead of blue, but otherwise time had stopped.

  A long registration desk staffed by two women had been erected outside the gymnasium. Beyond, the gym doors were open, and I could hear the sound of laughter and music. With a deep breath, I marched up to the desk and opened my mouth to say, “Hi,” but the buxom bottle blonde behind the table squealed when she saw me. “Oh my God, Eric?” She jiggled her way around the table and threw her arms around me. “It’s Melody, Melody Carmichael,” she gushed. I placed her now; one of Trish’s friends from the cheerleading squad. “Well, Jones, now,” she said almost reluctantly. “God, you look good.” Melody ran her hand down the front of my newly purchased department store suit. She hadn’t let go of me yet and pressed her breasts against my chest just in case I hadn’t gotten the message.

  “Really? Me?” I almost asked her as I tried to politely escape from her clutches. Sure, I had a full head of hair and most of it the same shade of sandy blond it had been twenty years ago, but physically time had started creeping up on me. Fortunately I’d inherited my dad’s tall and lean build—the only good thing he’d ever passed on—but at a certain age everything starts getting softer no matter how hard you work out, especially around the middle. Eventually you learn to accept it. You learn to accept a lot.

  Melody pinned a name tag on my lapel. Beneath my name and yearbook photo, it read in curly script, “Prom King 1991.”

  “Trish is here. She’ll be so happy to see you,” she chirped.

  “Great,” I said with false cheer. Somehow I doubted that, after the way things had ended between us, but I forced a smile anyway. Then I asked the question I’d been both dreading and anticipating. “Um, do you know if Jake Lockwood is registered?”

  “Lockwood? I don’t remember him.” She scanned the badges left on the table. I saw her hand pause as the name finally registered. “Oh, you mean that guy. Um, he’s on the list but hasn’t checked in yet.”

  The breath seized in my chest. Jake was coming. He would be here tonight. “Thanks, Melody,” I mumbled. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  I stood frozen just inside the doorway to the gymnasium. It had been decorated with streamers and blue and gold balloons, and someone had had the bright idea to hang a sparkling disco ball from the ceiling, but it was still unmistakably a gym. Tables and chairs had been set up around the perimeter, and people milled around, talking. I looked through them, taken back to the last time I had been here: Prom Night 1991. I felt a wave of panic as the events of that night played through my mind.

  Suddenly I was roughly pulled into a headlock and my face pushed against someone’s sport-coat-clad armpit. The combined smell of mothballs and BO made me want to gag. “Tro-jans, Tro-jans,” chanted a deep familiar voice.

  I gave a halfhearted punch to the flabby stomach of my attacker. “Okay, asswipe, you can let me up now.”

  “Just like old times, eh, bro?”

  With a painful noogie to the head, I was released and could safely breathe. Reflexively, I smoothed my crew cut and then found myself gaping at the sight of my former best friend and teammate. “Brad?” I think I struggled to find words.

  Brad Davis had always leaned toward the heavy side—he played defense, after all—but the years had not been kind. He had the red face of a drinker and the beer gut to prove it. Somewhere along the line, he had lost most of his hair. He ran a hand self-consciously over his balding head as I stared. “Yeah, I know. My second wife got the car, the house and my hair. But you look great, man. Haven’t changed a bit.” He grinned and punched me in the arm. “How you been?”

  I resisted the urge to punch him back—this time for real. How could he stand there and smile like nothing had happened? He had ruined two lives that night. Twenty years of fury boiled up inside me. Brad must have seen the rage on my face because he took a step back and held his hands up. “Hey, I’m sorry for how it all ended. No hard feelings, right?”

  “No hard feelings? Are you fucking kidding me?” My hands clenched into fists, and I had to force myself not to take a swing. I breathed deeply, like Dr. Kessler had shown me, and tried to regain control. I hadn’t come here to accuse Brad. I knew he didn’t deserve all the blame; I bore my own guilt and shame for those events in June of 1991.

  Shaken by how close I had come to losing it, I spun on my heel and hoofed it out of the gym. I had to get out of this place. It had been a mistake to do this, to come here. Melody gave me a curious look as I brushed past the registration table, but I really didn’t give a shit.

  Walking blindly through the halls, in short order I found myself in front of the school’s trophy case and not the exit, as I had intended. I approached the display with some curiosity. Behind the glass, the trophies were front and center, with photos of the teams over the years, some black and white, some color, stapled to the backdrop. In big blue hand-cut letters were the words “Trojan Football Through the Years.” I had to smile at that. The school’s team name had always been a source of embarrassment and amusement to us players. We’d gotten into more than one scrap over stupid condom jokes. Only the cheerleaders had it worse since they actually had to work the team name into their cheers.

  Leaning in closer, I found a photo of myself right away: Eric Somers—Player of the Year ’90-91. God, I looked so happy. If only I could get that back. In the glass, I caught sight of a reflection beside me and spun around. A large man in blue shorts, white knee socks, and a headband stood in front of me. I almost couldn’t believe the sight for a minute. “Coach Carter?” I laughed. “Wow, you haven’t aged a bit.”

  Coach slapped me on the back. “This place keeps me young. Brings back some memories, doesn’t it?” He waved toward the display case.

  “Sure does.” Coach joined me at my side, and I couldn’t help but grin to see him again. He reminded me that not everything had been bad. I’d always liked and admired Coach. In many ways, he was the father I wished I had had.

  “You were always one of my favorites, Somers. You could have done great things.”

  “I’m sorry I disappointed you, sir.”

  “You didn’t disappoint me, son. But I think you may have disappointed yourself.”

  I snorted. “Ever hear that old line about youth being wasted on the young? Back then all I wanted was that stupid football scholarship and to get the hell out of here.”

  “And now? If you could go back and do it all again, would you? Change the way your life turned out?”

  I felt the start of tears and pinched the bridge of my nose to make them stop. “What does it matter? You can’t change the past.”

  “What did I always tell you boys?”

  “Um, to get off our lazy assess and win a game?”

  “Not that, wise guy.” He turned to me and stared into my eyes. It seemed to me as though he had something incredibly important to convey. “There are hundreds of plays in the book, kid. Sometimes you call it wrong, sometimes you call it right. The thing to remember is even when you think you’ve got the pe
rfect play, it’s never too late to go back and add a new one to the playbook.”

  Coach clapped a meaty hand on my shoulder, and a shock ran down my arm and through my body. It felt like getting electrocuted. I blacked out. The last thing I heard before I hit the ground was Coach’s voice in my head saying, “Get back in the game, Somers.”

  WHAT the hell was that? I thought as I slowly regained consciousness. I tried to sit up and groaned. My head felt as though someone had used it for football practice.

  “Eric?” A concerned face loomed over me, a hand gently touched my cheek. As my blurry vision slowly sharpened, I could make out a narrow, boyish face and a pair of brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. I blinked in surprise. It couldn’t be.

  “Jake?” I croaked.

  “Hey, faggot. Get away from my boy.” Jake—if it had been Jake—jerked away and disappeared. Even as I opened my mouth to beg him not to go, a bulky presence thundered to my side. “Dude, you okay?”

  I slowly sat up and felt the back of my head. A nice-sized lump was forming, but no blood, thankfully. “Good thing you got a hard head,” my companion joked. I turned to look at him and scrambled to my feet in shock. Brad Davis—twenty years younger and a good fifty pounds lighter than I had just seen him—was crouched at my side.

  Holy shit. I was standing in the middle of the same hallway where Coach and I had been talking moments before, only now it was bustling with students. I spun around in a slow circle, heart pounding in panic. I think I earned more than a few odd looks, but I hardly noticed. A hand-painted banner overhead advertised “Spring Fling 1991. Get Your Tickets Now.” My jaw dropped. “Aw shit, I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

  I reached out and touched Brad’s face, just to see if he was real. He certainly felt real as he leaped away from me. “Okay, buddy, I think ya need to see the nurse?”

  I shook my head and immediately regretted it when blinding pain struck me behind the eyes. “No nurse. I just need a minute.” Bending over, I put my hands on my knees to steady myself. The last thing I remembered was being at the reunion and talking to Coach Carter. Then he touched me and… and what? I looked down and frowned; I wore my letterman jacket, faded jeans, and red Converse sneakers—my costume of choice twenty years ago; definitely not the clothes I’d been wearing earlier.