The Outlaw: No Heroes

by Alan Janney

  “The newspaper,” he replied, his mouth full of cake.

  “I can see that,” she said drolly. “Which part?”

  “Los Angeles gossip blog.”

  “Oh, let me see it when you’re finished. Anything juicy?” she asked.

  “Did you know the Outlaw is dating Natalie North?” he replied.

  The last bite of cupcake lodged in my throat and I started coughing. Katie pounded me on the back and asked, “Are you serious?? Since when?”

  “I don’t know,” Lee shrugged. “Natalie hasn’t admitted it yet. She told one of her friends, and that friend told someone else who…Chase, dude, are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I gasped and Katie whacked me between my shoulder blades one more time. My eyes were streaming with the effort of choking.

  “So,” Katie said, looking abnormally worried about Lee’s words, “It’s just a rumor? Not really true that the Outlaw is dating her?”

  “It’s legit,” Cory grunted sagely as if he knew for certain. How could he possibly know? “He’s a badass and she’s fly.”

  Lee agreed, “Yeah, it’s legit, dude. Natalie North is being interviewed tonight by…someone,” he scanned the article. “Someone national. On television.”

  “National?” I asked, my words coming out in a rasp. I coughed again and drank some water.

  Katie asked, “Who’s being interviewed? Natalie North or her friend who blabbed?”

  “Natalie.”

  “National?” I asked again. “Not just local LA? Like Teresa Triplett?”

  “No, like Barbara Walters or something,” he said.

  I groaned, “Oh crap.”

  “Why do you care?” Katie asked me.

  “I just didn’t know the Outlaw was national news,” I said weakly.

  “He was national as soon as he started dating Natalie North,” Lee pointed out. “That dude’s got style. He and I would be best friends.”

  I protested, “But he’s gone. He disappeared. No sign of him in weeks.”

  “So? He’s still big news.”

  “No he’s not!” I almost shouted.

  They all stared at me blankly.

  Natalie North was interviewed during the national broadcast of the NBC evening news. I turned the television on late, so I missed the first forty-five seconds. I’d never watched the news and so I didn’t recognize the lady summarizing the Outlaw’s backstory. The interview had been filmed on Natalie’s rooftop. My throat tightened in memory of that romantic night. Natalie looked as resplendent as always, somehow appearing more mature on camera than in real life. Despite acting relaxed and happy I could tell she was on edge. She answered the questions politely and laughed, but her nerves were obvious.

  “I wouldn’t say we’re dating,” she told the NBC interviewer. “We communicate infrequently, and he has only visited me once.”

  “And you have no knowledge of his true identity?”

  “Absolutely none. He’s revealed nothing,” Natalie replied. “I have no idea who he is, where he lives, why he saved me, what he does around LA at night, what he looks like…nothing. I secretly took two photos of him with my phone, but the pictures are worthless. The night was too dark.”

  I frowned. She took pictures? She’s sneakier than I realized.

  “Can I ask? How do you communicate with him?”

  “That’s my little secret,” Natalie beamed. She could charm theaters across the globe with that billion-kilowatt smile.

  “You told your co-star that you two had an impromptu rendezvous right here on this roof. How did that transpire?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember. He just appeared, like magic. I didn’t even have a chance to fix my hair or put on make-up,” she laughed. “That’s the only time we’ve been together, since the ATM incident.”

  “Would you characterize your relationship with him as…romantic?”

  “Well, I have an enormous crush on him,” she blushed. “That’s no secret. But that’s all it is, a crush. I asked him to be my date to the movie premiere! He didn’t even respond to that silly request, if I recall.”

  “Do you plan on continuing the relationship?”

  “I’d like to,” she nodded. “But we’ll see. He’s a complete mystery, an enigma. He’s very hard to predict. Or prepare for.”

  “So this is one of the questions we all want to know; is he a superhero? Does he have powers and abilities that the rest of us don’t have?”

  “I asked him that! He said he didn’t, but I’m not convinced. For example, I have no idea how he got onto the roof. Or how he left. He just jumped off! And he’s really strong. I pestered him into letting me feel his muscles, and it’s like he’s not human. It’s insane.”

  I shook my head, confused. That’s not true. I poked my stomach to confirm. I had the body of a typical high school football player, nothing more.

  “One last question, Natalie.”

  “Certainly! I enjoy discussing the Outlaw.”

  “There is a warrant out for his arrest. He’s wanted for questioning by both the police and the FBI. Do you have an opinion on that? And if asked, will you cooperate with the authorities?”

  The FBI? I didn’t know that! Gulp.

  “Well,” she stammered. “I…Of course I am a law abiding citizen of this great city. And I will help as far as I am able. But I don’t think I could be of much assistance to them. Nor do I think he’s a criminal. I think he’s just a really good man in a disguise.”

  I switched off the television. Wonder how long Dad would ground me if he knew the FBI was on my tail?

  Just then the pink phone received a new text message.

  >> Hey! It’s Natalie. This phone number is brand new. I just bought a prepaid phone, because I imagine my phone records might be compromised soon by police/ other interested parties. Don’t text my old number anymore, okay? I’ll keep the old phone for personal use, but this new number will be my ‘Outlaw’ phone. =P

  I smiled and replied, You took pictures of me?

  >> Definitely. And I’m going to try again, next time.

  Next time?

  >> It’s already been too long!

  “And it’s going to be even longer,” I sighed. “The Outlaw is grounded.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thursday, October 11. 2017

  The team was divided. This reality solidified itself in a hundred small ways at practice on Thursday. Jesse Salt, our running back, openly scorned me; I had to call his name three times before he’d deign the appropriate moment had arrived to acknowledge me. The offensive line looked uncertain, and the wide receivers kept shooting glances to the sidelines, where stood the most powerful and divisive figure at practice: the injured quarterback, Andy Babington.

  Andy’s hand was healing better than the doctor’s prediction. He was almost pain free, and he was chomping at the bit to play despite still being in a soft cast. The doctor had forbidden it but his senior buddies were grumbling that he be allowed to try. To further complicate matters, I was playing really well.

  This was all set in motion thirteen years ago, at Pop Warner football try-outs across the nation. Thousands of little boys went out for peewee football, and all of them predetermined themselves to be the supreme choice to play quarterback. This conviction had been fortified by the not-so-secret desires of their parents. To be fair and to avoid heated parent/coach conferences after every game, the handful of players with the most promise rotated in at the coveted position. Sooner or later the cream would rise to the top and certain boys were designated as worthy of the title ‘quarterback,’ and this title bestowed permanent rights. They were quarterback until proven otherwise. The title stuck as they graduated up through the age-group tiers, and they would always have the right to compete for the position while the rest of the team could only watch. The QBs would attend special camps and get extra attention from the coaches, and, before long, even their peers recognized this group’s otherness. This was an elite club whose
entrance was granted at an early age and not after.

  So had it been with Andy Babington. He played nothing but quarterback for eleven years, starting for Hidden Spring Middle’s eighth-grade team, Hidden Spring High’s JV team, and last year for Varsity. Now he was a senior and this should have been his coronation, his ascendancy to high school deity and college stardom.

  But then I showed up, this gymnast who didn’t even participate last year, and somehow I could play the position well. It was unnatural. To make matters worse for Andy and the rest of the team, Hidden Spring High’s head coach had been open-minded enough to make me the backup, and attentive enough to notice that I might be able to outplay the Senior. Unfortunately for Andy I hit a growth spurt recently. I’d grown bigger, and stronger, and faster, and had apparently been born with the God-given gift of putting a football anywhere I wanted at fifty miles an hour, an unheard of speed for a high school student. Again, it was unnatural. I didn’t have an explanation for it.

  Just like that, thirteen years of destiny was usurped, and the team was considering an uprising against Coach Garrett. Not only had Andy’s parents been outraged but their indignation spread like an epidemic to the other parents. I knew about the meetings, to which I hadn’t been invited for my own sake. It had taken a while but the mutinous looks faded when I’d won them over with the passing drills and the media attention and the victories. That had changed, however, in the last few weeks; I played less than brilliantly against the Bears, and then I got a concussion and sat on the bench while Andy’s brother routed the enemy when I couldn’t. To top it all, Andy was now proclaiming that he was fully healthy.

  Now he stood there holding a clipboard, like a sympathetic martyr. I didn’t blame Andy for being disappointed at my quick recovery from a concussion, but that didn’t make Thursday’s practice less frustrating and lonely.

  After practice, I went to Lee’s for homework help. He demonstrated his toy car-mounted stun gun, which, to his credit, had grown impressively accurate. His other invention, a palm Taser as he called it, was functional but I didn’t want to be a test subject. I hadn’t eaten lunch or dinner, and I lost the ability to concentrate halfway through our work. I left early and would have gone to get fast food except I had no money in my wallet. Ugh! Even worse, all thoughts of food vanished when I noticed my gas gauge had fallen below the quarter-tank mark. Ordinarily I would ask Dad for gas money but he wasn’t exactly speaking to me recently. I couldn’t get a job, though, because of school, practice, games, and homework. Plus, Dad still needed more therapy. What was I going to do?

  My hands were shaking. I had too many things to worry about, too many responsibilities. The stress came out in my hands, it appeared. I gripped the steering wheel until the tremors stopped. I parked at the church I visited a few weeks ago, Holy Angels Catholic. I enjoyed my previous visit, so I went in again, leaving my backpack in the car. Last time, I’d sat in the very back but on this second visit I ventured farther in, perhaps halfway, and sat down. The same soothing sounds and pleasant smells greeted me.

  “I wondered if you’d turn up again,” a voice said behind me. I turned around and saw our offensive coordinator, Coach Todd Keith, approaching. He and I always got along.

  “Coach Keith,” I smiled. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here,” he said and he sat next to me.

  “You work here?” I wondered. “I didn’t know that.”

  He smiled and said, “You think being an assistant high school football coach pays all the bills?”

  “You’re the one who put the blanket over me a few weeks ago,” I realized.

  “That was me,” he nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You looked like a young man that could use some privacy at the time,” he said. “Sometimes we all need some personal space to work things out.”

  “I didn’t know you were a priest,” I said.

  “I’m not the Priest of this diocese,” he said. “You could call me the head Deacon.”

  “I’m not really sure what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m not Catholic. Is that okay?”

  “Sure it’s okay,” he smiled. “I’m not really Catholic either. I just love God, and this is how I serve. I love it here, and I love helping people.”

  “So this is your true identity,” I smiled. “And being a football coach is your alter ego?”

  “You could put it that way. I love them both. A lot of us have more than one role or identity.”

  “I’m both a quarterback and a…kid trying to survive, I guess,” I sighed. “It’s weird, but this place is peaceful. Almost like a garden.”

  “That’s not weird at all,” he said. “You’re human. And you’re too busy. This is a slow, quiet place where you can remember who you are and what you were made for. You’re an adolescent, and like everyone your age you’re probably struggling with identity and purpose. It’s part of life.”

  “I am struggling with my identity,” I admitted. “Do you ever feel like you’re trying to be something you’re not? Or people expect you to be something you aren’t?”

  “Sure.”

  “Or you feel like no one knows the real you?”

  “Absolutely,” he chuckled. “But I bet I know you better than you realize. Let me make a few guesses.”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly.

  “You feel guilty about the team’s unrest. You think it’s your fault. Even though you shouldn’t. And you really dislike Andy, even though you don’t show it.”

  “It’s that obvious, huh,” I sighed.

  “One more guess.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your family is broke,” he said simply.

  “Oh…well…broke is a strong word. We’re okay…I guess…”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Chase I attended your mother’s funeral. I also visited your father in the hospital after his car accident. And I know you don’t have a job.”

  “Yeah…well…we’re broke.”

  “Good! Honesty is good. And I know that was tough to admit,” he smiled. He pulled out a checkbook and started filling out a check.

  I laughed and said, “Coach you can’t give me money.”

  “I’m not. The church is. We have a fund just for folks who need a helping hand.”

  “No…I’m sure there are others who need it more,” I stammered.

  “Yes, we’ll give to them too.” He folded the check in half and pushed it into my pocket when I wouldn’t take it. “Please accept the gift. That’s why I do this job. To help. You are very very loved by God and this church.”

  I couldn’t respond. I was speechless. Plus if I tried to talk I’d start to cry. Tears began to well in my eyes so I cleared my throat and stared at the ceiling. This would help so much.

  He gave me time and said, “The money is our secret.”

  “Thanks,” I managed to say. “I really…really appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like God remembers I’m here,” I said. My voice was still shaky.

  “I believe He brought you here tonight. Remember, you should always let your friends and family know when you’re struggling. That’s one way we stay connected.”

  “Ugh. That’s hard to admit, though,” I sniffed and wiped my nose.

  “It is. We all have secrets,” he nodded. “And we all feel pressured to be better, to make everyone happy. I imagine you feel it more than most, with your high-profile position, and all the responsibility that comes with it. But acting like someone we aren’t usually isn’t a good idea. It means we don’t feel complete, or that we’re insecure.”

  “Aren’t we all insecure and incomplete?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “We are. Very good. Most kids your age don’t know that. It’s part of our fallen condition. It stretches all the way back to Adam and Eve.”

  “I feel a lot like Adam,” I grunted. “I feel like I’ve been real
ly blessed, but I keep screwing up. Like I can’t do anything right.”

  “If I remember correctly, you’ve struggled with anger issues. Correct?”

  I nodded and said, “Since Mom died.”

  “Then I’d say your anger issues are very understandable,” he said. “Our prisons are full of men that grew up without fathers. You have to face the anger,” he said, and tapped me on my chest. “Lean into the pain. Embrace forgiveness as often as possible. You’re already becoming a man, so it’s very important to watch the responsible men you respect, if you want to fully arrive at adulthood.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to prison,” I said. “But I also don’t feel like my life is going to have a happy ending.”

  “Wow.”

  “Or maybe I’m just feeling dramatic,” I conceded.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he grinned.

  “But still. My life is just out of control.”

  “Don’t put too much stock into America’s version of a happy ending. America’s version has been manufactured to sell movies. The American dream was invented to sell houses and cars. Los Angeles is where dreams come true, but just look at how deeply unhappy it is. Our Upper Middle Class is bored, and they’ve forgotten that hard work is good for us.”

  “It is? Hard work is good?”

  “Yes,” he smiled. “Forgive me my soap box, but hard work is not a bad thing. That’s part of what the race riots are about. These people want a chance to work and provide. Now that would be a happy ending: a chance to work and provide, given to people who don’t have a chance right now.”

  “So, the race riots? I take it you side with the immigrants?”

  “God wants his Kingdom to expand,” he said. “Seems to me that making life harder on poor people isn’t exactly doing that. However, I realize it’s a complicated issue. There is no right answer.”

  We talked for another half hour and then I left. Before I got into my car, I glanced at the check. It was for two thousand dollars.