Wired Man and Other Freaks of Nature

by Sashi Kaufman

  In the middle of one of the drills, one of the underclassmen sent a sloppy pass to Tyler, who missed the ball. Coach blew his whistle and pointed at Tyler, an indication that he should run for the mistake. Tyler threw up his hands in frustration and then booted the ball over the goal into the parking lot. Coach blew his whistle again; this time it flew from his mouth with the force of air. He waved his clipboard at Tyler and jabbed in the air toward the ball rolling slowly between parked cars. “Everyone take a lap, full sprint, while Nuson goes and gets that ball.” They hesitated. A couple guys groaned. Coach blew his whistle again, and they all began to run for the far side of the field. Ben watched Tyler jog to retrieve the ball. He didn’t seem to care that he was pissing off Coach and making the team run more.

  In the second half of practice Coach seemed to loosen up a bit after the offense successfully executed a number of complicated set plays. He even let them scrimmage for the last twenty minutes. But Ben was still on edge, watching Tyler for any other flares of anger. Then, as everyone else was running for the locker room, Coach called his name and beckoned him over with the back of his clipboard.

  The sun was already setting behind the high school, and half the field was cast in a long shadow. He could feel the sweat cooling on his back as he jogged back over to where Coach stood. He came to a standstill and rocked back and forth toes to heels, something he often did in goal to keep himself moving and warm.

  “I know about the party last weekend,” Coach said. “Josh Miller’s father called me. Apparently their house was a mess afterwards. He was pretty pissed when I got on the phone with him, but I managed to calm him down.”

  “Josh is a freshman,” Ben said.

  “There were a lot of kids there Saturday night,” Coach said. “I don’t believe for a second that all of them were freshmen.” Ben said nothing. “And Mr. Miller said he managed to get it out of Josh that it was some of our guys on the varsity team who convinced Josh to have a party.”

  Ben fought the urge to roll his eyes to keep his face impassive. Josh was such a tool! How lame did you have to be to blame your screwup on a whole team? Coach continued, “But he wouldn’t give names. Frankly, I think Mr. Miller was glad. Not about the party but the fact that he couldn’t give me any names. He’s a big supporter of our program. He doesn’t want to see anyone get benched or worse because of this.” Ben started to bounce up and down lightly. He could feel the hair on his legs lifting up in protest at the brisk November breeze that was blowing across the field.

  “Ben, I’m telling you this because you’re a senior and I know you’re levelheaded. I expect you to be a leader on this team.” Ben looked down so Coach couldn’t see the skepticism on his face. Why wasn’t he having this little chat with one of the other guys? Brandon maybe, or Tyler? “I talked to Tyler too, but lately it seems like he doesn’t hear a thing I say. I’ll bench him if I have to, but I sure as hell don’t want to. Is something going on with him? I mean at home?”

  Ben shook his head. Tyler had been blowing Coach off lately, little things that Ben had hoped Coach wouldn’t notice, like cutting short the last half of a run or slacking off on some of the drills. “I don’t think so,” he said without lying. He was pretty sure whatever was making Tyler act differently lately didn’t have anything to do with his family.

  “Well, you let me know if there’s anything you think I should know.”

  “Yeah, awright.”

  “All right then,” Coach said. He seemed satisfied with their chat. “You ready for Wednesday?” he asked. He kicked the ball up with his toe and drove it at Ben’s shoulder. Ben quickly brought his fists up and punched it away. “Good man,” Coach said. “Now run that ball down and go clean up.” Ben started to jog after the ball, which had skittered its way down the side of the field and stopped in some tall grass. “Ben,” Coach called after him, “where’s the team dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Uh, I think it’s at the Rosettis’.”

  Coach grimaced. Brandon Rosetti’s mom made incredible lasagna, but she always served it with a side of her tits in your face. She really liked Coach and was oblivious that for a number of reasons he would never reciprocate her interest or attention.

  By the time he got to the locker room, there were only a few guys still packing up. Someone had written on Coach’s whiteboard “Coach Sausage” with a picture of the aforementioned meat product looking suspiciously phallic surrounded by its bun. Ben studied the handwriting. The block letters could have been anyone, but Ben had a feeling. He took his arm and brushed it across the board so the drawing became obscured and only the word “Coach” was left. He looked around to see if anyone had seen him doing it, but the corner where Tyler usually stashed his soccer bag was empty.

  Chapter 4

  On Wednesday Tyler was late. Ben tugged on the collar of his collared shirt, a requirement for team dinners. Before every big game he trotted out the same slightly small dark blue polo with the little red horse over his chest. Then he threw his soccer jacket over it. He stared out into the driveway, willing the lights of the Saab to appear. He texted Tyler again, but there was no response. Being rude and being late were Coach’s two least favorite attributes in his players. Playing sloppy was the third, but at this rate he and Tyler were going to be riding the bench anyway.

  It would kill Coach to bench them. Ben knew he was a solid goalie. He put up good stats last year, good enough to get some interest from Division Three schools looking to round out their roster with a backup goalie. But Tyler was the real talent. Tyler had a fluidity to his play and an incredible sense of the field, knowing where to be and where to pass before his opponents—and often his own team—did. There were a lot of schools interested in Tyler, but the only place Tyler talked about applying to was BU, where his father was a professor. As a faculty brat, he was pretty much guaranteed a spot and a full ride. He actually seemed less interested in the school itself than in the path of least resistance. Ben was glad they both seemed to harbor the same ambivalence about life after high school. It made him feel more normal.

  Sometimes soccer coaches called Tyler’s house while Ben was there, and he watched as Tyler put them off with loose commitments to visit the school or come to a game. “You want to go?” he’d ask Ben. And if Ben said yes, sometimes they’d take a ride and watch whatever team was playing, enjoying some hot dogs and chips courtesy of the school. But if Ben was busy or simply didn’t feel like watching a game, Tyler would never go on his own. Ben didn’t really get it—some of the other schools that had shown interest in Tyler were pretty nice, with lots of brick and ivy and green courtyards. After a visit to Amherst College to watch them take on their archrival, Williams, Ben even pushed him on it a little. The Amherst campus was really nice, and every girl they met was incredibly hot. On the car ride home, Ben asked him if he was going to apply. “Probably not” was Tyler’s response. “I’d rather be somewhere where I can exceed expectations, not fall short. Even if I screw everything else up, with soccer at BU, they can’t kick me out unless I’m failing.”

  Ben secretly imagined that Tyler couldn’t really envision a future of which he, Ben, was not a part. This had certainly occurred to him. He had gone so far as to check out the acceptance stats for BU and figured he had a decent shot at getting in on his academic merit. But something had stopped him from mentioning the possibility to Tyler: he needed Tyler to ask him first. Not in any big marriage proposal way, but some sign that would indicate that a future in which the two of them were together was all right with him.

  But by the time the lights of the Saab turned into Ben’s driveway at twenty past seven, he was fuming—and imagining a future without Tyler because he was going to strangle him with his bare hands. They still had to drive ten minutes to Brandon’s house, but Ben waited until eight minutes passed in complete silence before he spoke.

  “What the hell, Tyler? Coach is going to kill us!”

  Tyler looked over at him, and Ben realized that what he had mistaken
for a tense silence had just been inattentiveness on Tyler’s part. He looked confused. “We’re not that late,” he said lamely.

  “We’re half an hour late,” Ben corrected.

  Tyler made a face that was somewhere between amused and impressed with himself. “We’re fine.”

  “No, we’re not fine. We’re late and you’re going to take the blame for it, because I’m sure as shit not getting benched because you can’t show up to a team dinner on time.”

  “He’s not going to bench us,” Tyler said, but he sounded less sure.

  “That’s not what he was saying on Monday.”

  “He said something to you too? About Josh Miller?”

  “Yeah, that, and other things.”

  “Other things like what?” Tyler drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “He wanted to know if something was wrong with you. He asked if something was going on at home. He thought you seemed off. You know, different.” The last part was not anything Coach had said, but Ben added it on because it seemed like as good a way as any to voice his own concerns.

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “Not much,” Ben said. Because I don’t know, because you are acting weird but you won’t tell me anything, he thought. He took a deep breath and said, “Is this about what happened with Lindsay?”

  Tyler looked startled. “I told you. She freaked out, I laughed at her, she got pissed and made up that whole bullshit story.” He was so casual. It was easier to believe him this time. “I told you that already.”

  “No,” Ben said, “you told the team.”

  “Yeah, and you were there,” Tyler said, starting to sound annoyed.

  “Yeah, right, whatever.” How could he not see the difference? Ben fell silent. He had gambled and been shut out. Whatever was going on with Tyler, he couldn’t or wouldn’t share.

  “Anyway, Coach needs to mind his own business,” Tyler said sharply.

  “What’s your problem?” Ben asked, pissed and a little bruised. “The guy’s worried about you.”

  “Maybe he has his own reasons,” Tyler said. They were turning down Brandon’s street.

  “Like what?”

  “Like trying to get into my pants,” Tyler said as he parked near the house. He pulled the key from the ignition, and the dome light came on. Ben noticed the dark circles under Tyler’s eyes.

  “You’re not serious. Give me a break. Coach is about as interested in you as he is in Mrs. Rosetti. Besides, he has a—” Ben stumbled a bit with the term. “—boyfriend or whatever. That guy in the suit who comes to all our games.”

  “Haven’t seen him in a couple weeks though, have you?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “I don’t really pay attention to which of his friends come to our games. What makes you think he’s interested in you as a replacement anyway?”

  Tyler shrugged. “Why’s he care so much about how I’m doing? I’m just saying.”

  “Because he’s our coach, numbnuts! Remember when Mike’s dad drove into that telephone pole? Coach drove Mike to the hospital. He helped his mom figure out their health insurance and shit. That’s just stuff he does. You should be careful what you’re saying,” Ben said. “Shit like that could get Coach in a lot of trouble if it’s not true.” He wanted Tyler to take it back, shake his head, and start laughing, something so they would both know how ridiculous the accusations were.

  Instead Tyler opened the door. When he reached back for his jacket, Ben saw that his hand was shaking. But then he said, “You’re right. I’m being a dick. Forget about it, okay?”

  Ben nodded. “All right, but you’re making excuses to Coach—and make them good. And stop being such an asshole to him.”

  “No more asshole,” Tyler said, stepping out of the car. “Are you still pissed at me for being late?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t want to let Tyler off the hook so easily.

  “Okay, but I’m going to make you love me again.”

  “Homo,” Ben muttered.

  “Fag,” Tyler retorted.

  But the exchange didn’t feel as light as it should have. It seemed that, without meaning to, he had let Tyler off the hook anyway.

  Inside the Rossettis’ house, most of the guys were on their second helping of lasagna, sitting around the living room and den, balancing paper plates on their knees while a few parents milled around in the background. They were able to slip in and grab a plate of food before anyone noticed they’d been missing. By the time Coach found them, they were eating and looking like they’d been there the whole time.

  Coach eyed their full plates suspiciously. “Running late?”

  “My fault, Coach. Left it on empty and had to stop for gas,” Tyler said.

  Coach grunted, but he didn’t chew them out like Ben thought he would. After dessert, a sheet cake decorated with soccer balls and topped with vanilla ice cream, Coach thanked Mrs. Rosetti and gave them a little pep talk about the game. This was mostly for the benefit of the parents who were there. The real talk would come tomorrow in the locker room. So Ben only half listened as Coach talked about the importance of focusing on the game and not giving in to the temptation to start thinking about a bid for the state title. The other team was Chelmsford. They had beaten them twice in regular season play, but both games had been tough one-goal wins with one going into overtime.

  Secretly Ben loved overtime. All the pressure was on him to be perfect. It filled him with a psychotic feeling, the adrenaline pumping through him, threatening to burst his blood vessels. Everything he did in practice was turned up to a mind-splitting level. Ben tuned back into the conversation just as Coach was done with his little speech and everyone was finishing up their food, talking about the game.

  “Dude, we’re all going to Mohawk it if we make it to States!” Anthony Kapstein said loudly. “Bzzzzz.” He made the noise of the clippers as he drew his hand up the side of his head. Ben stiffened.

  “My dad’s got clippers,” Kapstein added.

  “One game at a time,” Chris O’Toole cautioned. Chris played midfield as cautiously as he did everything else. Ben rolled his eyes, even though the Mohawk thing presented its own set of problems for him.

  Ben looked around the living room for Tyler. Tyler would get what Ben was feeling. But Tyler was gone. He took his plate into the kitchen and stuffed it in the oversized trash bag hanging by yellow plastic handles on the back of the basement door. As the food slid down into the bag, Ben noticed a light coming through the crack under the door. He twisted the handle, and the door creaked as he opened it.

  “Oh shit,” he heard someone say as he looked down the basement stairs.

  “Jesus, Wireman, you scared the shit out of us,” Tyler said from the bottom of the stairs. “Come down, and shut it behind you.”

  Tyler and two other seniors were gathered around Brandon Rosetti, who was holding a bottle of what looked like some pretty expensive liquor.

  “My dad’s eighteen-year-old scotch,” Brandon said. “Want a snort? It’s like what the Scottish lords used to do before they went into battle.” Ben shrugged in a way that could be taken as yes or no. Brandon poured a half inch of the golden concoction into a clear plastic cup. He held it up to the light before passing it to Ben.

  “To victory,” he said. “To States,” he added more daringly. It was clear he’d already had more than a few snorts—they all had.

  “States,” everyone echoed as they tipped back their cups. It didn’t burn like some other hard alcohol Ben had tried. It warmed his throat all the way down to his belly. He was doubtful about the historical accuracy of Brandon’s comment, but he could imagine having a few of these before heading into battle. He felt bolder just walking up Mrs. Rosetti’s basement steps with the other guys. And when Mrs. Rosetti rubbed his shoulders with her long red nails as he thanked her for dinner, he stared right down the front of her shirt. He didn’t even try and pretend he was looking anywhere else.

  But as he and Tyler walke
d down the Rosettis’ front walk, the alcohol thing started to gnaw at him. It wasn’t just Tyler drinking, he tried to reassure himself as they got into the car. Drinking with some other guys in the basement wasn’t like drinking alone or one of those other “warning signs” they talked about in health class.

  “We’re still in season, you know,” he said.

  “Yeah, so? I didn’t see you turn down a drink.”

  “One drink,” Ben said.

  Tyler stiffened. His shoulders pulled up toward his ears. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “You’re just worried about the game. Dude, did you see O’Toole? I thought he was going to take notes while Coach was talking tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. One syllable and he was letting Tyler turn the conversation away again. Why? He wanted badly for things to be okay between them.

  They pulled up to a light, and Tyler said, “Goalies are different.”

  “What?”

  “You wear different shirts and gloves. You use your hands. It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t shave your head like everyone else. No one would care,” he added.

  “Uh huh,” Ben said, because he had to say something. He felt warm. His hands and feet and belly felt warm. It could have been the scotch. Or that Tyler got it.

  Chapter 5

  Growing his hair out had been Tyler’s idea. They were a couple of weeks into middle school, and it was brutal. Hundreds of new kids to stare and point and whisper about Ben and the plastic pieces attached to his head. New kids in his class to roll their eyes when he was assigned to work in their group.

  Lunch was the worst. Supposedly there were adults responsible for monitoring lunchtime, but it never seemed like it. For twenty minutes every day, the cafeteria belonged to a hundred or so adolescents and the gray-haired ladies in hairnets tucked safely behind the Plexiglas divider. It was so loud, not like in elementary school where you ate in your classroom and the lunch monitor kept you in for recess if things got too noisy. The lunchroom was a constant din of crashing trays, screamed conversation, and whispered gossip. For Ben it blended together into a wall of white noise, a sea of sound where he could never get his head above water. The staring, which was minimized around teachers, was in full force. There was even pointing, and in the din he was left to imagine that everyone who was whispering was talking about him. Tyler seemed oblivious to all of it. He happily ate his cardboard crust pizza as though they were sitting at a table with all the popular kids instead of crammed beside the quiet boys and a few members of the Lego Robotics club. For a few weeks Ben stopped eating entirely during lunch. Starving by the time he got off the bus, he would stuff his sandwich into his mouth while walking up the driveway to avoid questions from his parents.