“Look at him go,” I said turning toward her. “Why don’t we join our son?”
She turned and stared like I had just thrown acid in her face.
“Are you fucking crazy?”
I dropped my hand and realized we had become two separate people and even John Travolta couldn’t save us now.
OTHER MOVES
COACH
YEAH THE RUMORS HAD been swirling around for years. The Coach and the English teacher are having an affair. I kind of liked it because nothing had happened. But there was something about watching that crazy Clampet kid go out there in that Travolta suit and dancing in front of the whole school. It really took some balls or maybe a lobotomy. I don’t know. But in that moment I knew you just couldn’t keep letting things go without doing something.
So I turned to Linda and gestured out to the middle of the gym where the Clampet kid was doing splits and every other goddamned thing.
“You know I don’t think John Travolta could do any better. What do you say we join him?”
Linda had been watching the kid with that expression you see on parent’s faces at school plays or concerts; a mixture of awe and respect. She turned to me and I knew what she was thinking from the pained look in her eyes.
“I don’t know if that is such a good idea Ronald.”
“Yeah. It’s probably a really bad idea,” I said. “But I’m fifty-five years old Linda. I better man- up now or forget about it, and so I am asking you right here in the gymnasium of Sycamore High School—will you dance with me right now in front of God and everyone else? I don’t have a white suit, but I still have the moves.”
A slow smile spread across her face and I knew she was thinking the same thing. Fuck it. You have to go for it sooner or later. I mean there is Cake Boss and Jeopardy the gay wedding guy and Parenthood and Breaking Bad and Sons of Anarchy and Downton Abbey and Modern Family and Orange is the New Black but you know what? That’s fucking television! Your life is that thing going on while you are sitting there watching somebody else’s life. And worse, it is all made up. I mean sooner or later you have to decide if you are going to live or die. And I wanted to live.
That was how I saw it.
Linda looked out at the floor and then around the gym. She looked at me.
“I would love to dance with you Ronald Williams,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
And so I put out my hand and she took it. Then we walked across that gym floor like a couple of high school kids for all the world to see.
BAD ASS
TOBY
SO, THE ASSAILANTS HAD presented themselves and so after I finished my routine I ducked into the boys bathroom and put on my turtleneck and long leather coat and the Afro wig. I knew from watching Shaft many times that he did not turn from a fight even when the odds were against him. I went over several of the karate techniques I had perused in BASIC SELF DEFENSE. The dance routine had solved the romantic problems, but I was now confronted with the same type of individuals John Shaft had to confront as he encountered departmental corruption in the Philadelphia police force. My bitches, as John Shaft, called them, waited for me outside the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror and brought out the under eyeshade I had taken from the locker room.
When I was finished I did not look like exactly like an African-American because my hands were still white, but from my turtleneck up there was very little discernable differences between me and a ‘70s-era African-American. I put my white suit into the black plastic bag and emerged with the Isaac Hayes groundbreaking sound track on my phone. I hit play as I entered the hallway and Amy and Macy stared, as they did not recognize the funky 1970s black man who had broken the assumption that Hollywood movies with a central black character could not be financially successful when in fact Shaft spawned a host of black movies with hip urban central characters finding morality in the funky vice-laden world of inner city decay. Super Fly was a direct result of the groundbreaking success of Shaft with a conflicted central character ferreting out morality with anti-hero status.
“Don’t do it Toby,” Macy said as Isaac Hayes rhythm guitar began.
“Sorry bitches. I have to take care of business,” I said walking down the hallway to the gym locker doors.
Isaac Hayes was now talking about Shaft during the soundtrack with the chorus of African- Americans responding. This too had never been done and showed that an African-American film scored by an African-American could become a number on hit on the Billboard charts, staying there for several months in 1972.
Amy squeezed my hand as we swept down the hallway and I pushed through the doors where I found myself surrounded by Randy and three assailants on the loading dock where they drop off food and other material for Sycamore High. Randy was drinking a beer and he threw the can to the ground. I turned up Isaac Hayes as loud as it would go.
“What the fuck,” he said.
I stared him keeping both hands in my leather coat but ready for anything. The other assailants laughed while Macy and Amy told them to leave. He laughed.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“John Shaft,” I answered. “Hero of black cinema veritae of the early 1970s. Conflicted African- American detective who ferreted out departmental corruption while breaking the ceiling on the notion that black-centered movies about urban decay could not attract a white audience.”
Randy shook his head.
“What is that fucking weird music?”
“Isaac Hayes soundtrack for the movie Shaft that became a number one hit in 1972 and also allowed Hollywood to see that black composers could compete with other composers in writing successful million-selling soundtracks.”
Randy then walked up to me.
“Figures you dress like a nigger to get your ass kicked.”
I readied myself.
“That is a racial slur or a pejorative term no longer used to describe African-Americans, a term pioneered by Civil Rights leader Jesse Jackson to replace the term Negro or the more colloquial black.”
Randy sneered.
“Oh you mean like retard for guys like you,” he said, stepping so close I could smell the beer on his breath.
“Exactly. Retard, which refers to retarded is not to be used for special needs kids like me. Besides I am autistic.”
Randy then stepped up so close he was spitting on me.
“No. You are a retard.”
And then he punched me in the stomach and I fell back, not able to get my breath. I heard Macy and Amy screaming at him and I could not remember John Shaft ever getting punched in the stomach. So I concentrated on getting up and I saw that Randy had something on his right fist that I also recognized from Shaft as brass knuckles. These are very dangerous and can knock a person unconscious, so I knew then I had to use the defense techniques I had watched many times.
“Leave him the fuck alone Randy!”
I saw Randy then knock Macy and Amy down and I stood up just as Randy swung again. The pain was searing and I felt warm blood in my mouth. The brass knuckles had done their job and worse my Afro had become dislodged. Isaac Hayes was still playing and this helped somewhat with the pain. John Shaft only had one alternative at this point.
“Get up retard so I can kick your ass again,” he shouted.
I then employed the basic wrist grab and twist back maneuver to disarm an assailant who has either a knife or a gun. Since Randy had neither of these the maneuver did not work very well. I had grabbed his wrist with my left hand and was slipping my right arm under his when he punched me twice in the side of the head. I saw stars, which might indicate a mild concussion. I was down on the hard loading dock again.
“Get up your faggot,” he said.
“I am not a homosexual,” I informed him from the ground.
It was then I put my hand into my right pocket and stood with blood streaming from my mouth. I pulled out the blank gun I had drilled out through the barrel for a realistic look. I had eight blanks and so I t
hrust the gun directly into Randy’s face.
“He has a fucking gun!” one of the assailants screamed as they dove for cover.
This being the age of Columbine, with many schools instituting lockdown procedures when a shooter has been identified, I knew the gun would provoke panic and fear. I fired three rapid shots at Randy’s face, which were very loud and smoky and the muzzle flash was substantial. Then I turned and shot the remaining five blanks at his cohorts. His cohorts dove to the ground screaming.
“PLEASE! PLEASE! DON’T SHOOT PLEASE DON’T SHOOT! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”
Some began crying. Some cowered in the fetal position not unlike crash positions assumed when airliners have to make emergency landings. Randy screamed and fell back with the brass knuckles falling from his hands. I scooped these up and then used the kick I had been practicing in the back yard. It wasn’t exactly a karate kick and probably resembled more of a football punt. But I caught Randy in the stomach and he groaned. I had now disabled the main assailant and delivered the final line that was John Shaft’s signature.
“You don’t mess with John Shaft.”
Amy and Macy had their hands over their ears but then they realized my gun was not real and started laughing. I covered the assailants with my gun that was now empty but they did not know this.
“You look like such a fucking asshole, Randy,” Macy shouted, grabbing my arm.
“A douche bag is more like it,” Amy added, grabbing my other arm.
The assailants seemed to be dispersing, and Randy didn’t seem to have any aggression left. He stood up and looked at me. He seemed defeated but then his eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, well at least I don’t need my dad to hire a whole fucking school just so I can catch a fucking pass in a football game and not be the loser retard you are!”
This made no sense to me.
“I don’t understand what you are saying.”
“I mean this whole thing is a fucking setup douche bag! He’s paying Macy and probably the dyke bitch to go with you to the dance, retard. Same way he paid me to give you a ride in that stupid fucking parade and go parking in that fucking field!”
I frowned, still holding my gun. Randy then walked up to me and knocked it out of my hand. He stood so close his alcohol and cigarette-laden breath pelted me.
“Did you really think any of this would have happened without your dad’s money douche bag? You’re a fucking loser man! He even paid me! I really am the popular guy of the school. Your dad is paying me and the Coach and everyone so you can catch a fucking football and not be the fucking loser you’ve been at every other school.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
Randy scoffed.
“Think about it stupid. This whole thing is a charade. Why would your dad move back to this shithole town with a dying high school except to con you into thinking you are some kind of popular guy or some shit? From what I hear you got kicked out of your other school and they just needed some place to park your sorry ass so you can feel like your somebody.”
I shook my head with a strange panic in my stomach.
“I still don’t believe you.”
“Yeah. Well—” Randy walked over and put his arm around Macy. “This is my girlfriend, douche bag. Ask her how much your dad is paying her to act like she likes you and give you blow jobs?”
“Will you shut up you are going to fuck the whole thing up,” Macy said in low voice.
Randy stared at me in triumph. I had a nervous feeling in my stomach that Dad has referred to as butterflies.
“See. She just wants the money, retard. She even gave you head for money. If it wasn’t for your dad she wouldn’t fucking even look at someone like you.”
I paused then turned to her. There was a ring of truth to what Randy was saying and this was causing severe inner turmoil.
“How much?” I asked.
She shrugged and suddenly looked down,
“Like, I don’t know. Five grand,” she muttered.
Randy smiled again.
“See. I told you asshole! This whole thing is a fucking setup. And you know what, even after all this shit, you’re still just a fucking weirdo retard.”
I turned to Macy.
“Is this true?’
She shrugged and turned red.
“Well … yeah … he’s paying everyone…”
“They set up the fucking dance, retardo man, so you could go,” Randy laughed. “Don’t you get it loser boy? You’re a fucking loser who needs his dad to make you feel like you are like me. I am popular, you retardo boy, you’re fucking nothing.
Isaac Hayes had ended by now and there was only silence.
“Let’s go back inside Toby,” Amy said, but I saw her eyes were wet.
“Why are you crying?” I asked her.
“Because she feels sorry for your ass,” Randy shouted.
“I still don’t believe you,” I said to Randy, but I felt a strange panic. “It is too fantastic to believe.”
“Why don’t you ask your dad, asshole?”
“Good idea,” I said, and left the loading dock.
THE MUSIC STOPPED
PAUL
I DO REMEMBER HEARING the Isaac Hayes soundtrack on a compilation of funk from the ‘70s in the basement of a friend of mine. I caught the movie on cable and it was not good. The writer has thrown in some half-ass statements on race relations and John Shaft, while conflicted, is a bit of cartoon cut out. But I was not ready for John Shaft to reappear at the Homecoming dance in the form of my son in a long leather trench coat and Afro wig. What really made me apprehensive was his bloody mouth. He looked extremely upset. Toby crossed the gym and stopped in front of me, and of course Julie zeroed in on us.
“What happened Toby?”
“Assailants…Dad, I have to ask you a direct question and I need a direct answer.”
“Okay,” I said.
Toby does not like eye contact, but he was staring at me like a dead man.
“Why did we move here?”
I paused and shrugged.
“We moved here so you could start over at a different high school.”
Toby blinked then started pacing back and forth. This was not a good sign.
“No. Why did you pick this school in the middle of Indiana when you could have put me in another school around Chicago?”
I had seen this moment. I had seen it in my worst nightmares. Toby was now rubbing his hands together. Several years ago he had become a glover, with light emitting from the tips of these gloves with batteries. He would glove in the darkness to music. It was the closest he had ever come to having an art form. He was beginning to glove now.
“I thought this school might offer some unique opportunities,” I replied.
“Such as?”
He was walking even faster and his hands were moving very quickly as if each finger had a mind of its own.
“Well, such as a football team we could get on. “
“They did not have a football team last year due to budgetary concerns,” he pointed out. “The school did not have a Homecoming dance or parade for the same reason. The school is slated to close in December. I confirmed this on the Internet in the bathroom after Randy Twain told me some disturbing things.”
I now felt my heart wrench because Toby looked like he was going to pull his hands off. He was sweating and his wig was askew, and there was blood leaking out of his mouth.
“What did Randy tell you Toby?” Julie asked.
“After I dispatched Randy and his assailants with my blank gun, he said that all of this is a setup. That Dad has paid people to allow me to make the football team and be in the parade and go to the Homecoming dance. He said that he paid Macy to go out with me. He said this was all done so I would no longer think I am a loser and that I am a winner, but in fact because this is all a charade financed by Dad I am a bigger loser than ever. And now everyone knows it.”
I couldn’t move, and Julie spoke then very
softly.
“What he said is true Toby. Your father and I wanted you to have a successful year of high school. We wanted you to have your best year and we have used some money–well a lot of money– to achieve it.”
Toby was now almost running in place
“So all of this is a fucking lie!” he shouted. “I am now the laughing retard of the school because everyone knows that none of this really happened!”
“Toby,” I said. “This isn’t a lie. People really like you. I just helped things along.”
He stared at some bunting and then tore it off the wall.
“NO! You have deceived me by capitalizing on my siloed thinking! You have now embarrassed me in front of an entire school and created hostility toward me!”
Julie tried to stop his running back and forth.
“Toby calm down! “
“NO NO NO NO NO!”
He threw his wig off then ripped off his leather trench.
“Toby stop!” I shouted, trying to grab him.
He then whipped around and karate chopped me across the neck and I went down.
“NO! YOU CALM DOWN. YOU HAVE LIED TO ME! YOU HAVE DECIEVED ME. YOU HAVE EMBARASSED ME!”
He tore off his turtleneck, revealing a skinny white sunken chest.
“Toby, stop it,” I gasped seeing flicking lights.
He was crying and sweating and running like a man on a treadmill.
“NO! YOU HAVE DONE THE WORST THING EVER! YOU HAVE CREATED A FALSEHOOD ABOUT WHO I AM BY PAYING OFF PEOPLE TO MAKE ME FEEL GOOD AND HAVE AN UNFAIR ADVANTAGE. YOU HAVE MADE ME LOOK LIKE A RETARD TO AN ENTIRE SCHOOL!
And that’s when he kicked off his patent leather shoes and tore off his pants and started running in the gym in his underwear and tearing down the balloons. He ran toward the DJ and knocked down his speakers and the music stopped, and Toby was back in the center of the gym. He shrieked like a wounded animal.
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