Semi-Tough

by Dan Jenkins

  "Get her in here. Jesus, I'd rather spend my time with a good hooker than a goddamn football hero," said the

  guy-

  "Well, that's the sad part. She wanted to be here but she phoned up to say that her cattle are sick," Shake said.

  "You're full of shit," said the guy.

  "No, sir. That's the cattle. They're all full of it, so Martha Nell says we'll have to wait a while before we can kill 'em and eat 'em," Shake said.

  "Huh?"

  "That's what you do with cattle. You kill 'em and eat 'em. That's called good government," Shake said.

  "Jesus Christ," said the guy, turning up his drink.

  Shake looked around and said, "Does anybody know if I'm finished? Billy C., am I all done here? Barb?"

  Barbara Jane said she thought that about summed it all up. I agreed. I told the man that stud athletes like us had to get to bed pretty early. Cissy Walford just kept staring at Shake and frowning.

  "Well, hero," the nitwit said. "I just hope you can make more sense in the LA Coliseum on Sunday than you did here tonight."

  "Will you be there?" Shake asked.

  "Hell, I didn't come all the way out to California to stand around with this bunch of drunks from New York."

  "New York? Is there anybody here from New York?" Shake said.

  "Greatest goddamn city in the world, New York," the guy said.

  "That's sure what all the folks in London say," said Shake.

  "New York's where it's at," the drunk said.

  "I think you're right. That's where it was, anyhow. At least it was there the last time I saw it. We had it hidden pretty good. You don't have any with you, do you? No, I guess not."

  Shake raised his eyebrows at us.

  "Hell of a city, New York," the guy said.

  Shake said, "Nobody ever called it Wanatchapee, Wisconsin."

  "I'm from Noooo York City, hero. Home of the New York Jets," he said.

  "Dog-ass Jets," Shake said.

  "Goddamn live town, New York," said the guy.

  "They tell me the Bronx is up and the Battery's down. You know anything about that?" Shake giggled.

  "Center of every goddamn thing there is, almost," the drunk said.

  "There's a broken heart for every light, too, somebody said," Shake went on.

  "They give you this southern California bullshit. Hollywood, for Christ's sake. Bunch of goddamn weirdos in their swimming pools," said the nitwit.

  "I'll sure take New York over a bunch of weirdos," Shake said. "The thing about weirdos is, you don't know who their families are."

  "Listen, hero," the guy said, looking serious and squinting.

  "Yeah," Shake said.

  "Knock off the crap. You want to know something. You're a good-looking son of a bitch," he said.

  Shake laughed sort of clumsily.

  "You're a lippy son of a bitch but you're a good-looking son of a bitch," he said to Shake.

  "You got me then," Shake said. "Sure did."

  "No, it's all right. We're just talking a lot of crap here, right? You're O.K. You're an ass hole but you're O.K.," the drunk said.

  "That's, uh, that's really keen," said Shake.

  "You're going to get your cock knocked off Sunday but you're a good-looking son of a bitch," he said.

  And he weaved a little.

  "Good thing my wife's not here. She'd be after you like a goddamn starving hooker," he said.

  "Now I wouldn't talk like that about old Hazel," Shake said. "She's one of the finest ladies that ever played paddle tennis."

  "The wife's name is Dorothy, hero. And you're goddamn lucky you don't know her," said the guy.

  "I don't see how you can talk about Alice that way," Shake said.

  "Alice who?"

  "Hey, sir. Listen. We've really got to be going," Shake said.

  Shake took Barbara Jane's arm and started backing off. I did the same with Cissy Walford.

  "All the best, hero," the nitwit said. "Watch out for your cock on Sunday."

  "Been a real pleasure, sir," Shake winked.

  "Get out of here, football deal, ass-hole hero," the guy said.

  "You say hello to old Grace now," said Shake.

  "Dorothy, you prick," said the guy.

  "You say hello to old Dorothy, too," said Shake.

  "Fuck the New York Giants," the nitwit said.

  Shake laughed and said, "God love America."

  And we left.

  I'm afraid we made a bit of a spectacle of ourselves at Ugo's later on. We started making up stories about Martha Nell Burch in the middle of our lemon veal and fettucini.

  We decided that if she had gone to TCU, she would have come from Floydada with big lungs and skinny calves and a lot of chewing gum.

  She would have had Amelia Simcox for a friend, Barbara Jane said, and in their sophomore year they would have screwed the whole varsity three-deep chart.

  Shake said she probably would have fallen hopelessly in love with Bubba Littleton, who was our equivalent of T.J. Lambert.

  Bubba Littleton was a second-string tackle from Odessa who once went one whole semester without bathing, shaving, combing his hair or brushing his teeth. He did it to get back at Honey Jean Lester for breaking up with him. Shake said Bubba smelled like Albania.

  Bubba Littleton couldn't top T.J. Lambert for sheer, all-out filth but he had his moments.

  Shake brought up the time we all went out on a varsity picnic at Lake Worth and Bubba got caught by his date, Honey Jean Lester, while he was beating off underneath the dock.

  Honey had walked out on the dock looking to see if Bubba was among the water skiers. But when she accidentally glanced down between some cracks in the boards, there was Bubba in the shallow water and the shade staring at some lovelies on the beach for inspiration — and flogging away.

  At dinner Shake imitated Honey Jean Lester hollering at Bubba.

  "Bubba Littleton! You done grossed me out for the last time."

  When we got back to our palatial suite at the Beverly Stars Hotel, Shake and Barbara Jane were feeling romantic so they excused themselves.

  First, though, Barbara Jane gave me a kiss and explained to Cissy Walford that she and Shake had to go study Sunday's game plan.

  She said to Cissy, "Don't you and Billy C. do any foolin' around now."

  I turned on the TV and tried to look at a fag cowboy for a while with Cissy Walford's dandy lungs resting on my arm. I tried to look at the TV while she looked at me.

  It won't hurt anything, I guess, to say that old Billy Clyde finished off the evening by doing his manly duty.

  I've got to say, however, that I could have done it a little better if Cissy hadn't asked me a question in the middle of some serious goings-on.

  "I don't understand something," Cissy said. "Is Martha Nell Burch a real person or what?"

  I want to say that I got woke up this morning by Cissy Walford handing me the telephone through her long yellow hair. She stretched and blinked her mile-long eyelashes and seemed to be saying that there was a man on the phone who wanted to know if I had heard his imitation of a cricket.

  "Sumbitch." I smiled. "Elroy Blunt."

  That's who it was.

  When I first knew Elroy Blunt he was a semi-talented defensive back. In those days he certainly didn't have his handlebar mustache and his hair like Prince Valiant. Elroy had played ball when I first got to know him at Memphis State, and me and Shake met him at the East-West Shrine Game and the Hulu Bowl and the Coaches' All-America Game and the College All-Star Game, all of which is the post-season circuit that senior studs travel on.

  Elroy played one season with the Steelers after that. But then he quit. He was always jacking around with a guitar anyhow, trying to pick and sing and write country songs. And he had finally made it pretty big.

  Elroy, of course, was crazy. And he was no more predictable than what I hear about bad wives. Elroy Blunt was apt to call you up from Portugal or somewhere just to say he had set a ne
w headache record.

  On the telephone for a minute or two, of course, I didn't hear anything but cricket sounds.

  Then Elroy said, "Clyde, this here's your favorite cousin, Bernice Lovejowl, and I just been busted in Paraguay for going down on the mayor. I need two thousand to scoop up and bail out."

  I giggled a hello.

  "Clyde," Elroy said. "I'd first off like an explanation about that lovely sound of young wool that answered the electric telephone at this early hour."

  I explained that it was the utterly fantastic Cissy Walford.

  "Who might that be?" Elroy said.

  "That's the American name she chose," I said. "In reality, she's a gotch-eyed, hump-backed, clapped-up Cambodian hooker who stopped over to help me work a pornographic jigsaw puzzle."

  Cissy pinched my thigh until it almost bled.

  Elroy said, "Well, I'd like to sing that little jewel a tune."

  I gave Cissy the phone and leaned over so I could listen in. Elroy proceeded to sing a medley of his biggies. He sang "I'm Just a Bug on the Windshield of Life" and then he sang "Eight Killed at the Intersection" and then he sang "Slept All Day in the Lobby."

  "That's incredibly marvelous," said Cissy.

  She listened to Elroy for a moment and squealed and handed me the phone.

  "He wanted to know whether I liked Hershey bars, running water or vibrators the best," she said.

  I told Elroy it was good to know he hadn't changed.

  "Clyde," he said. "Son, I have called you up on a matter of important business."

  I said yeah.

  "Clyde," he said, "I would like to know if you studs are gonna win that big old sports event on Sunday."

  I said, "We are if the Pope ain't a nigger."

  Elroy said, "Now, Clyde, you know what I mean. I want to know for sure if you folks think you can handle them other folks. Hell, you've seen all them old films and all. Son, I just know you must have seen something in them films that'll help my confidence. I got to have my confidence helped before I go runnin' off to bet Mamma and Papa and Sister Marvene and the kids and the trailer rent and all."

  "They're a good team," I said.

  "Aw, shit, Clyde. That don't tell me nothing. I know they're a good team. Hell, everybody's a good team," he said.

  I asked him what the price was now, just out of curiosity.

  Elroy said, "They come three and a half but it's down to pick because one of their niggers got hurt or something."

  I said, "Those dog-asses don't have anybody hurt."

  "Well, then, the New York Jews done bet it down to pick," Elroy said.

  "They did open three and a half, didn't they?" I said, mostly to myself.

  "Just as if it was Texas playin' Oklahoma," he said.

  "Looks to me like a Super Bowl ought to be considered even," I said.

  "It's even now. Them Jews done bet it down," he said.

  "But they opened up on top," I said.

  "Well, hell yeah," Elroy said. "Clyde, they been in this old Super Bowl before. Two or three times. But you ain't. That's why I got to know something."

  "We haven't found out much," I said.

  Elroy said, "Clyde, that's a lot of cheap shit and you and me both know it. All I want to know, son, is which one of them old defensive backs of theirs is a fag or has the clap or can't cover the outs. You know what I mean."

  I said, "Gambling is sinful."

  "Clyde, I got to know somethin'," Elroy said. "Now looky here. I want to bet my chest and lungs and kidneys and my future heart transplant on this thing. I got me some old Jet fans that want to give me three, four, five and six and I'm just about to lap it up. But I got to know a thing or two. You gonna get 'em?"

  "I want to hear some more singing," I said.

  Elroy whooped and said, "Clyde, I'm gonna let you be the first to listen to my new golden record."

  I tilted the phone over toward Cissy, who was getting tangled up on my body. We heard Elroy sing "I'd Give a Dollar for a Dime to Put in This Machine and Play the Song That Brings You Back to Me."

  It was pretty good.

  "Don't that mother knock your dicks in the dirt?" Elroy said.

  I laughed a yes.

  Then I asked Elroy where on Earth he was calling from, and he said he thought he was in Atlanta but then it might be Seattle.

  "Why don't you look out the window and find out?" I said.

  "There ain't nothin' out the window but a cruel world, Clyde. There's ambulances and fire engines and insurance salesmen and data computers and all kinds of things out there," he said.

  "Probably some police, too," I said.

  "Naw," said Elroy. "There ain't none of them. Didn't you hear? The niggers got 'em all fired."

  I said, "The police might be wearing plain clothes."

  "Hell, no," Elroy said. "If there was any cops around they'd be wearin' their blue. You know how they like that blue. I'm gonna write me a song about the cops one of these days. I'm gonna call it 'Blue.' "

  I told Elroy I had to get up and go to a squad meeting pretty soon.

  "Clyde, listen," he said. "There's one other thing. Old Elroy Blunt is gonna be out there day after tomorrow."

  "Oh, shit," I said.

  "Sure enough gonna be there," he said. "Got me a big old house rented for the weekend in Bel Air. I'm bringin' in more pounds of barbecue and Scotch and them funny little old cigarettes than you have ever dreamed about, and I am also bringin' me an ensemble of horny little old debutantes that I'm sure you and your pals will want to say hello to."

  I said, "Elroy, this isn't exactly a party weekend for us."

  Elroy said, "You tell old Shake and T.J. about it. Saturday night's gonna be the night."

  "That's the night before the game," I said. "No way you'll see any of us that night."

  "We'll start early," Elroy said. "Now, Clyde, I know you well enough to know that you don't sit around and draw circles and X's the night before a game."

  "I don't intentionally destroy myself either," I said.

  "Ain't no destroy, Clyde. Just some barbecue and a couple of drinks, and some little old debutantes. It'll help you relax. You'll still grab your ten or twelve hours. You tell old Shake and T.J. now, you hear?" he said.

  "Yeah, O.K.," I said. "Now I got to get moving."

  "Clyde," said Elroy. "Just tell me what you think about all them old Jet linebackers and corners. Can you run on 'em at all?"

  "We'll run," I said.

  "Serious? Can you?" he said.

  "I think we'll get outside, away from Dreamer," I said.

  "Can you really?" he said.

  I said, "Yeah, that dog-ass Buford on the other side don't show me a lot of want-to."

  "And what about old Dream Street his own self?" he said.

  "He cheats," I said.

  "Goddamn holy fornicate Christmas bundle of fried chicken!" Elroy hollered. "I just done won me a new air-o-plane. You lure them sumbitches up tight with the sweep and the slant, and then you go wide at Dreamer and option his black ass with the halfback pass to old Marvin Tiller! Shithouse mouse, we'll have their dog-asses on Sunday!"

  "Say good-bye to my little old Cambodian friend," I said.

  Elroy Blunt sang something semi-filthy to Cissy Walford and we hung up.

  She said, "Was that important what you told him about the game? About being able to run away from the Dog-Asses?"

  I pulled Cissy over on top of me and spoke into her long, yellow hair.

  "Could be," I said. "Except for one thing. The danged old football's just not round. That sumbitch'll bounce funny on you."

  Your special delivery letter arrived today, Jim Tom, and I just can't resist sharing it with the general population.

  It says:

  I-Slot, Fake Sweep, on two:

  Any time you want to start sending me some tapes, I'm ready to try to make you sound like you got out of a sixth-grade spelling test with a D-. Remember to keep an eye out for detail. Try to recall the color of t
he wool you're chewing.

  The Fort Worth Light & Shopper, a newspaper noted for its relentless crusades, found City Councilman C.T. Badger double-parked yesterday in front of the Mutual Savings & Loan building and ran sequence pictures of the automobile on Page One.

  Earlene the Blimp wants to know if our book is going to make us rich enough to buy a Volks camper so we can take some wonderful trips to Benbrook Lake.

  After the first edition closed this morning, I went to breakfast at the Picadilly Cafeteria and watched Big-un pour cream gravy on his cantaloupe.

  I hope your book has a lot of dirty words in it, a couple of rapes on the first few pages, some pirates, dope smugglers, Indians, a revolution, a gaggle of orgies, and a heroine who's oversexed, deaf and dumb, and whose father owns a liquor store.

  By the way, I have a title if you haven't thought of one. I think you ought to call it If Niggers Are Tough, How Come You Never See One on a Motorcycle?

  Earlene wants me home early tonight because she plans to fix her famous pinto bean pie. I hope so. It's a whole lot better than her famous can of salmon, jar of salad dressing and box of Premium crackers.

  We thank thee, Lord, for this food for the nourishment of our bodies.

  I can face it if I stop by Reba's first and feel around on Crazy Iris or Earth Mother Fudge.

  Crazy Iris is a nasty little bubble-gummer who works for Mid-Plains Oil Supply and makes a man want to run away with her and rob filling stations. Earth Mother Fudge knows quite a bit about journalism from the point of view of a spade hooker with lungs like shoulder pads on a lineman.

  Enclosed is a copy of a recent "Palaver" in which you seem to turn out being greater than Bronko Grange or Doak Rockne.

  Stay with the tape recorder. Fuck the game. Games have a way of ruining a perfectly good week.

  Tryin' one, Astronaut Jones

  We all giggled at your letter, Jim Tom. But we talked about what a shame it was that your columns aren't ever as funny as you talk or write letters. Shake said it was the paper's fault.

  "Football is serious," he said. "If you let a man start getting funny about football, the next thing you know he'll start getting funny about your department stores and your tire dealers, and then where would your newspaper be?"

  Puddin Patterson stopped by our palatial suite a while ago to sit down and laugh.