by Tim Green
Even though everyone had gone home, Gavin Collins looked around nervously. He pushed open the locker room door and peered into the darkness. "Anyone here?" he called. It was not necessary.
He felt around blindly and found the lights. He'd felt better when it was dark, but he had to see. If someone came, he planned to just say he was working late and came down here to take a crap. But he knew even that didn't make sense. He would have used the bathroom upstairs.
He removed the lid from the large waste basket, and with one more look around, he began to carefully remove the waste one piece at a time. He almost gagged when he removed a bit of toilet paper gooey from snot, but he kept on. More paper towels. More unraveled lengths of white tape. Pre-wrap. Soda can. Junk mail. Ahhh, wrapped neatly in a large wad of toilet paper was a needle. He held it up to the light. A few drops of amber fluid still remained in the syringe. Gavin was careful not to prick himself. He opened his gym bag and carefully placed the needle inside. He continued to pick through the garbage. His heart raced now, and he thought about leaving with the needle. But it had taken him enough time to get up the balls to do this, so he'd do it all the way. There would be more.
More paper towels. Another soda can. An empty cup. More mail. Snotty Kleenex. He was almost to the bottom. There! In the bottom of the basket was a small brown vial. He reached in up to his elbow, and lifted it into the light. Jackpot!
The label on the bottle read: Thyall-D.
Clay duffed his drive and it dribbled out about a hundred yards. Max chortled. The man with the poorest drive on each hole had to shotgun a beer. Max stepped up to the tee.
Whack! He connected cleanly with the ball, and it went straight off the tee.
"Yes!" cried Max, only to watch the ball slice wildly to the right and out of play.
Clay broke out, roaring with laughter.
"Fuck!" cried Max, swinging his club violently at the earth and tearing up a huge divot.
"Jesus, Max," Clay said, his laughter over.
"Fuck," Max said and did the same thing again.
Clay stepped back warily. They were only having fun, but today was a Thursday, and in the past eight weeks Clay had learned that Max, after injecting himself with Thyall on Wednesdays, was particularly violent and unpredictable for the twenty-four-hour period that followed.
"Max," Clay said in a low voice, "come on. This is a nice club. They're not going to let us come back if one of the members sees you. Chill out, man."
"Fuck that!" Max yelled and threw his club through the air halfway to Clay's ball. They both watched as the club bounced off the fairway twice before landing. Clay walked over to the larger of the two divots and put it on top of his head. The sod actually hung over his ears. "I'm serious Max," he said sternly. "This is a fancy club."
They both broke out laughing together.
"I dare you to let one of these stiffs see you with that on your head," said Max, inserting his car key into the bottom of a beer can. Pfft! Max immediately put the can to his mouth and popped the tab. Beer shot down his throat. Max crushed the empty can and let out an enormous belch. Clay said nothing. He simply got into the cart, adjusted his hat, and took off the brake. Max got in and they were off. Clay drove over Max's club with a thud-thud, then backed up over it again before Max could retrieve it. They laughed some more.
"Here come some," Max said.
"Aww, if they even notice, I bet they don't have the balls to say anything," said Clay.
He got out and approached his ball. A foursome with shiny leather golf shoes, knickers, and tweed caps came up the other fairway in two carts. They gaped as they passed. Clay tipped his divot before taking a hurried, wild swing at his ball which sent another patch of sod into the air. Max laughed wildly as each of the four men turned their heads in sync and drove on.
Max rolled out of the cart and lay face up on the fairway, now screaming with laughter. "You are so fucked up, ha, ha, ha," Max cried. "So fucked up, ha, ha, ha . . ."
Clay smiled. "I'm glad to see you can lighten up and enjoy yourself," he said.
"Aw, you know how I get," Max said, getting back into the cart and popping each of them a beer. "Especially golfing, it can really piss you off. That's just another good reason for you to keep yourself clean," Max said, tacitly referring to his violent outburst.
"Yeah," Clay said, "I have to wonder sometimes. White's been such an asshole--"
"Ah, he'll forget about all his hard-ass shit once camp starts. Camp'll be hard, don't get me wrong. In fact, he'll probably treat us all like shit in camp, but he won't keep singling you out, not once you start kicking people's asses on the field. White's crazy, but he's not stupid," Max said.
Clay nodded and said under his breath, "I hope you're right, buddy." Aloud, he asked, "How was training camp here last year?"
"Cake," Max said, "no running, not much hitting, it was easy ... and we got our ass kicked. Not with White. Guy's a psycho. That's good, though, if it makes us win."
Clay thought about what Max said. Max was right, he should be confident. He was in good shape, he'd had enough time in Birmingham to acclimate to the hot, humid weather of the deep South. And he was a good player. He always had been. But if White's training camp was going to be brutal, he had a suspicion that it would be twice as bad for him. If White was going to break him, then his best opportunity was yet to come. In camp, the coaching staff had players for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for six weeks. No one could leave. If he missed even one practice session, he'd be fined thousands of dollars and probably suspended without pay well into the season.
"Make sure you get your rest when you go up there in those mountains of yours," Max said, " 'cause you're gonna need it. By the way, the way you and I've been hitting the town? I'd cut back on all this shit if I were you. I'm going to. You can't be going into White's camp with all this shit in your system," Max added, raising his beer can to his lips.
Clay thought how good it was going to be to go home. Not only would he be glad to see Katie, but he couldn't wait to spend a week at the lake.
"Since tonight will be our last night on the town before camp," Max said, "I think it's only right we find two bitches and bring them back to my place for a rooftop Jacuzzi."
"I don't know, Max . . ." Clay said, "I'll be seeing Katie tomorrow. I don't think I'd feel right going home with some girl tonight."
"Oh, bullshit," Max said. "Stop talking like such a pussy. Two more beers and you'll be trying to fuck the girl at the snack bar.
"I know just the place to go too," Max continued, "the Acapulco Club."
"Uhh, can't you think of another place, Max?"
"Since when is it a problem going to the Acapulco Club?"
"Well," Clay pulled up to where Max's ball had gone out and took a swig of beer, "I kind of already said good-bye to Denise. I told her my flight left tonight . . . you know, she's apt to be there."
"Holy shit," Max exclaimed. "You're not only whipped by the girl back home, you got a bitch runnin' the show down here!"
"Come on, Max," Clay said remorsefully. "I just don't want to see her tonight, otherwise I'll never get rid of her."
Although Clay had made a point of not letting himself spend too much time with Denise, he had inevitably found himself out with her about twice a week. To her, this constituted some kind of relationship. Not wanting to alienate her, Clay had never come right out and told her otherwise.
Max laughed. "O. K., I guess you're right. If she latched on to you tonight it would mean no hot tub with two unknown bitches. I've had all I can take of Denise and that Ginger bitch. Hey, by the way, doesn't it make you laugh the way Denise talks around me, like we were friends or something? Do me a favor, when you cut that bitch loose, be sure to tell her that you know I boned her too, just so she doesn't think she got away with anything."
After a pause Max said, "When did you say good-bye anyway?"
"Today, I took her to lunch."
"Sure," Max said, "then you fuck
ed her, and that's why you were late getting me. What an asshole. You're sitting here telling me you don't want to score tonight 'cause you'll feel bad, but you already got laid this afternoon. Now you want me to sacrifice my chances to get laid because you got yours already, and you're probably running that guilt trip again. Some friend."
"Oh, come on, Max. There's other places we can go. Tell you what, as a penalty, I'll talk to the ugly friend tonight."
"Ha," Max guffawed, "you always end up talking to the ugly friend. The hot ones always go for me. They can see you're scared right away. Unless you're good and tanked you're like a cold fish. You've got a habit of scaring them off. . . not to mention my superior looks."
"Yeah, right," said Clay sarcastically.
"Listen, Clay, the next time we see each other," Max said, referring to the six-week stint of isolation in training camp, "we're gonna go for a long time with no bitches. I just want to make sure that you've had enough action to hold you through camp, get you something wild to make sure you leave me alone."
"Very funny," Clay said, "but like I told you, I'll be spending a full week with my girl, alone."
"And like I told you," Max snickered, "I need to get you something wild. I don't want you hopping into my bed during training camp."
"Don't worry," Clay said, "you're not my type. I don't like guys with hairy asses."
"Faggot," Max said.
The bright sunlight streaming through the window finally woke Clay. He was lying naked in the middle of Max's living room. His head ached and his mouth was cotton dry. He knew immediately from the intensity of the light that it was late and that he was in danger of missing his plane. He hurried through Max's bedroom to the bathroom, careful not to make any noise that would awaken the two lumps under the covers. Clay found four aspirin in Max's medicine chest and washed them down with several big gulps of water straight from the spigot. He took a quick shower and as he dried off, he searched for a clean sweatsuit in the closet. He took one that he thought Max wouldn't miss. There was no time to go back to his own place, and his clothes from last night were damp from spilled beer and heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke.
Fortunately, he had packed his bags and left them in the trunk of his car, which was parked outside. He raced to the airport and dashed through the terminal, just making the last call for his flight back to New York. He had to change planes in Atlanta, and it wasn't until he got onto his connecting flight that he was able to get back to sleep.
Clay had closed on the house at Loon Lake right after signing with the Ruffians. Katie bought and supervised the delivery of some essential supplies. She also spent the entire week prior to Clay's arrival at the lake getting everything ready so that he could just relax.
Clay thought it would be fun to start off the week of vacation with Lever. Just like old times. So he asked his friend to come up to the lake for the weekend. He knew he'd made a mistake the moment Lever pulled up in his rusty green Impala. The car smoked and coughed all the way down the drive. Clay's neighbor, the banker, who had been planting flowers in his lawn, eyed Clay suspiciously when Lever's car door opened and an empty beer bottle rolled out. Lever heaved his sloppy bulk from behind the wheel and emerged from the car with an enormous fart.
"That one's been buildin' up," he exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear.
"Damn, this place is in the boonies," he cried. "How ya doin', buddy?
Long time . .
Lever grasped Clay's hand and pumped it enthusiastically. "Holy shit! What a place! It musta cost a fuckin' million. Check it out..."
Lever waddled up to the house and in the door with Clay close behind, glancing furtively at the banker.
"What do you mean, you won't have a chug with me?" Lever complained that evening.
"Really, Lev, I hit it hard last night. Besides, I gotta dry out for camp. I need to take it easy this weekend," Clay said. "It's not like college. Camp goes for six weeks and it's supposed to be a bitch."
Lever only frowned. "Well," he said, brightening with an idea, "I guess I'll have to drink enough for the both of us, ha, ha . . ."
Lever pestered Clay about drinking the whole weekend. When Clay did have a few, just to be sociable, Lever tried to induce him to drink more. But Clay wanted to follow Max's advice. He was an NFL player now, and he had serious work ahead of him.
Katie was glad to see Lever, and, as always, she enjoyed his buffoonery. When they headed out to the lake for a swim and Lever got stuck in an inner tube, Katie laughed. When Lever picked up the ice cream cone he'd dropped in town and ate it, she also laughed.
"Hey, Clay," Lever said, licking the sticky ice cream from his fingers, "what's up? You in a bad mood or something?"
"No, why?" Clay asked.
"I dunno. You just seem like you're not having as much fun as normal. You didn't even laugh at that. Did I do something?"
"No, Lev, I'm fine. Really, it's probably just camp coming up. I'm a little uptight, I guess."
Lever nodded happily.
That night Clay and Katie took Lever out for dinner to the Wild Duck. After dinner Clay ordered two cigars for himself and Lever.
"Sweet stogie," Lever said, chomping off the end and spitting it onto his coffee cup saucer.
Clay grimaced at his friend as he expertly clipped the end of the cigar with the silver clippers the waiter had left on the table.
"Hey, hoooo . . ." Lever exclaimed, "where'd you learn that trick?"
"Max showed me this in a place down in Birmingham called Nikkos. It's an unbelievable place . . . You should taste the clams casino," Clay said.
"You been talking about this Max guy all weekend," Lever said. "If I hadn't lived with you for the three best goddamned years of your life, I might think my best-friend status was in jeopardy."
Lever laughed at his own humor. Clay smiled wanly.
After Clay paid the check, the three friends said good-bye.
"Kate, I'll be seeing you around campus," Lever said as Katie hugged him and kissed his cheek.
"Clay," Lever said, holding out his hand. When Clay reached for it, Lever pulled him close and gave him a hug. "Kick some ass, buddy. I know you will."
"You too, Lev," Clay said. "Kick some ass."
Lever turned quickly and waved over his shoulder as he made his way across the parking lot to his beat-up car. He didn't look back.
"How come you're so quiet?" Clay finally asked. They were halfway back to Loon Lake, and Katie hadn't said more than three words.
"I just can't believe the way you acted to Lever," she said. "Did you see him when he left?"
"Well, shit, I didn't say anything to make the guy feel bad. I don't know what the hell you're talking about. If he was sad to say good-bye, it doesn't mean I did anything."
"Clay," she said in a firm voice, "I like Lever, but he's your friend. If you want to treat your friends like that, it's your business, but don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. All weekend, Max this and Max that--my God, Clay, even I noticed it."
"Yeah, well, did you notice the way every time I told some story about Max or Birmingham how Lever would come up with some damn story about back at school? Are you gonna tell me that wasn't annoying? What the hell, I'm not mad about it, though, so I can't see how Lever could be mad at me."
"He's not mad at you, Clay," Katie said. "You just weren't yourself."
"Well, shit." Clay said, then sat silently for a few moments before he said, "I'll give Lev a call tonight when he gets back. I'll just tell him that I'm uptight."
Max crammed an old pair of blue sneakers into the bag. The heels of the sneakers were crushed down so they could be slipped easily on and off. "Every bit of energy you can save counts," he said to himself.
He fished around his closet looking for an old brown box that he had somehow managed to hold on to since his college days. The box held things that he wanted to save, but that really had no place to keep. He found it. Inside were the two things he wanted. He never went to a traini
ng camp without them. The first was a picture of his family.
He had been fifteen when the picture was taken. His sister had been about to enter the state university. His father felt it would be the last vacation they might ever take as a family. He was right. Max stood between his mother and father, and his sister was tucked under his father's other arm. Behind them was the peeling yellow cottage on Lake Erie. Max could remember his father telling whoever'd taken the shot, "Make sure you get the lake." It was the only vacation Max could remember going on as a kid.
His mother and father had been killed that fall in an auto accident, and Max had suddenly found himself on his own. With his sister away at school and acting as his legal guardian, he was able to stay on in the house until he finished high school. The two of them then sold the house, and Max used what money was his to pay his way through Southeastern Ohio State, a Division 3 football school. He excelled in football, and although no one had ever gone on from SOS to the play pro ball, Max intended to be the first.
The picture was for good luck. Max kept it with him and he'd made it to the NFL. Now maybe it would make him a starter, his ultimate dream. The second thing Max needed was a laminated news clipping from Saskatchewan. It wasn't the headline that Max had saved the clipping for. It read: "ROUGH RIDERS LOSE FOURTH STRAIGHT." What he saved it for was about three inches into the article. He'd highlighted it in yellow before it had been laminated.
". . . If there could be a bright spot in such a dismal organization it would be Max Dresden. The unknown American from Southeastern Ohio State led the team with seventeen tackles, two quarterback sacks, and one interception.