by Angel Colon
Tanner would later tell the other guys on the team that he'd been so certain that the cheerleaders' locker room was on the other side, that he smashed a hole in the plaster with a lineman's full-inch rain studs by whacking a cleat against the wall.
But really Tanner just heard female voices and found a hole.
He moved the hangers with his street clothes, leaned towards the criss-crossing metal of his crappy Veteran Stadium visitor's locker, and saw it. A hole filled in by putty, but…a hole. Tanner glanced around the locker room. Fifty guys pretended to pay attention to the old man's speech and didn't care what Tanner was up to—probably had forgotten already that he'd played that day. Tanner poked his finger into the putty, which instantly gave way.
Through the hole lay paradise. A naked sight-orgy of twelve of the world's most shapely, toned, and playful ladies that anyone could dare dream of.
Childhood fantasy come to life…
Tit central.
Tanner practically fell off his stool.
Tanner had never really understood why they called Philly the City of Brotherly Love, because as far as he could tell, the city was full of jerkoffs and bastards—but on that day, Tanner felt true love for the city, for its stadium, and for the stadium's lack of maintenance.
Damn, those girls were naked and they looked great. They bent over to pull off their green and white boots…they peeled off tan leggings…they slid out of sports bras…
"What are you looking at?"
The coach's speech was over and Purnak, the backup interior lineman who lived next to Tanner locker room-wise, had started struggling to pull his shoulder pads and jersey off when he noticed Tanner peeking through the hole. "You staring at the fucking wall, Tanner?"
Purnak leaned closer and Tanner realized he didn't have much of a choice. Purnak was one of the only people on the team Tanner considered a friend. They had dinner together with the wives every once in a while and occasionally sat next to each other on the bench during games—at least whenever Tanner wasn't supposed to stand by the sideline and pretend that he was invested in helping out with play calling.
"What is it?"
"Do you wanna see something?"
"Don't ask a dude in a locker room if he wants to 'see something' Tanner," Purnak said, laughing. "It sounds a bit jailhouse."
"Just, be quiet and look if you wanna look. Seriously."
Purnak leaned over and pressed his face against the crossed metal grating, getting his eye as close to the hole as possible.
"Don't stare…everyone's gonna notice…"
Purnak held his head there, frozen, until he finally started making a slow, wheezing sound that eventually formed into a full fledged word. "Holy…"
"I know!"
"Do you see the tan one?" he whispered. "She's—holy—holy—you're a fucking genius Tanner! Oh… My… God… They are all naked!"
"What?" someone nearby asked.
"Shut the fuck up Purnak!" Tanner hissed, but it was too late. The left tackle two lockers down heard. Then the backup running backs sitting across the aisle. Purnak didn't even try to keep the secret. He waved them over, and one of them actually picked Tanner up by the haunches and moved him aside.
One by one they pressed their faces to the hole—laughing, whispering, giggling. Purnak took charge, instituting rules. "Ten seconds, then switch. Stay silent—we don't want them to hear you. And no pushing," a rule that was flat-out ignored. Pretty soon half of the team had heard about it. When Tanner tried to argue his way back towards his locker, one of the D-linemen actually put both meaty paws directly into his chest and knocked him on his ass.
"Hey! Someone help Tanner up," Purnak barked. "And, Ferguson…no hole for you. Don't knock that motherfucker over. This was his idea!"
"No shit?"
"Tanner?"
"Nice move bro!"
"Those Philly girls are FINE."
"Check out that one's legs!"
"Lemme see!!!"
"Someone's buying Tanner beers tonight."
"He even drink?"
"Tanner, you drink? We're taking you out!"
Tanner got so many high fives, he had trouble throwing the ball in practice the next week.
Yeah, Raz knew about it, but everyone in the league knew about it. It was the kinda thing that was joked about on the bus, or late night after someone had a few too many.
"Didjoo hear about the Philly locker room? In the Vet? Some mutha on the Cowboys drilled himself a peephole and you can see the cheerleaders' titties."
But Raz had never bothered to look. He had a wife back in Atlanta, and looking through peep holes? That was boyhood bull. There's a place in France where the naked ladies dance. Raz didn't even get his swerve on with the hounds that came looking for meat after games, and he had more—way more—than his share of chances at those girls. Raz didn't like to cheat. He felt like, with all that God gave him, cheating would be punished more harshly. Maybe it was the church-type upbringing, or his father's voice ringing in his ears. Maybe it was dumb as hell missing out on ladies ninety-nine percent of the men in the world would jump off buildings for, but, Raz just never went for it.
But his head was ringing after Matthews paw-slapped the earholes on his helmet. He'd never swung at anyone on the field before, but Matthews was just nudging and picking and poking all game long…
Raz always hated dudes like that. Smug-ass white guys with that flip of hockey hair sticking out the back of their helmets. He went to college with those guys. "The only chocolate chip in a vanilla sundae" is what Raz's dad said when they dropped him off at Princeton.
In college he was the star player, the one-man sack machine, a surefire first-rounder. He made friends, but besides the kids who were in awe of him cuz he was on Sportscenter, or the five or six buddies he met freshman year, and the hardcore football fans and booster types that would have bought him a car if he'd asked… Besides those guys, there were still a hearty number of racist, white, hockey-haired pricks that plagued him through all three years of school.
Matthews was exactly like those pricks. And after Raz got called for his second roughing-the-passer as a result of an incredibly clever and annoying move Matthews pulled—where he actually managed to shove Raz into the QB after the whistle—Raz got in his face. Then Matthews clubbed his ears, making them pop and ring. Raz, looking like some kind of wounded animal, struck back.
Football 101: don't swing second, because that's the one the ref sees.
Matthews got to look like a hero and Raz got ejected from the game. He would have to run gassers all day in practice on Monday, then pay the league some crazy fine that would cost him like, ten-K. He headed back to the locker room, alone and embarrassed.
His head was still ringing when he sat down at his locker and heard the crying on the other side of the wall. At first he thought he was imagining it, but then he remembered the hole.
She was alone, sitting on a bench in a locker room that was much crappier than the players'—just a room with a bench and some hooks on the wall. She had her head in her hands and wasn't just crying, she was weeping and talking to herself. "Stop it, Carol! Stop it! Don't let that woman…don't let her make you feel like that!" Carol stomped her foot on the ground and sniffled back another sob.
Raz felt terrible watching her, but couldn't stop himself. He wanted to reach out and pat her shoulder, pull her in for a hug. He realized quickly that he hadn't hugged a woman besides his wife or mother in nearly ten years and suddenly that was all he wanted to do.
She took a few deep breaths, calming herself. She stood up, wiped her eyes, looked in the mirror. "You worked your ass off to get here and you're better than those girls, every one of them. You will get back out there and fix this, Carol."
She nodded at herself, fired up by her mini pep talk and started practicing her next steps—a complex move they called the Flying Eagle. Raz had seen them do it before. He liked watching the cheerleaders during the games. It calmed him. It wasn't calming hi
m now.
Carol finished practicing her routine and glanced at a wall clock. Then she got naked. It happened so quickly that Raz almost flinched. In two moves she dropped the shorts and pulled off the top. He held still, telling himself that if he moved she'd hear him, then everyone would know about the hole, find out that he'd been watching her, and she'd be even more humiliated. He was doing it for her, he tried to tell himself. He didn't turn away. He kept his head plastered against the hole, the metal grates from the locker digging into his cheek, maybe leaving a mark.
She was beautiful. Thin, with tiny shoulders, she looked a little like a bird, and Raz could see why she was the one who flew during the routines. Her skin was so smooth and perfect everywhere that it made the ringing in his ears stop and he felt calm for this first time since he'd balled his fist and swung at Matthews.
He wanted to stay like this forever. Him and her. Alone. It didn't last.
Her locker room door swung open and the girls rushed in, getting ready for their big halftime performance. Carol covered herself up and started pulling on a full-body leotard. He watched her until the last possible moment, then pulled his head away from the hole.
Had he cheated? Had anyone seen him? He was pretty sure she hadn't, but he wasn't one hundred percent, bet-his-life-on-it sure. It was probably his church background, but Raz always thought he needed to act in a way that wouldn't upset his grandparents because there was a chance they could see him from up above. Maybe it was stupid, but it'd be just as stupid to say with certainty that they couldn't. If they were looking down on him, they wouldn't have liked what they saw that day.
He felt a cool shiver run over his body and he was glad that he'd stopped looking when he did. He was glad he didn't wait to watch all the girls get naked. Carol was enough. He sat on the edge of whatever scrub's locker had the hole in it and closed his eyes, looking at her all over again. Then he heard the voices.
First, her coach, yelling at her for missing a move during one of the first quarter changeovers, then a few of the other girls giving her a hard time. Locker rooms were the same everywhere. Most of it was just childish, poking fun at her for tripping, for having bad rhythm, for trying too hard…but one voice cut through the rest. Sharp and pointed and flying so fast across the room that it made its way through the hole and dove right into Raz's brain.
"Did you come in here and cry again, Carol?" the cheerleader asked. "Did you cry to yourself and talk to yourself and promise yourself everything would be better? Are you ready to go out there again, Carol, with everyone watching? Do you think you can do it this time, Carol?"
Every time she said the name, Raz winced and a room full of women laughed. He heard the girls finish changing and head out. His own teammates would be coming back to the locker room in a minute or two. He'd probably get a word of encouragement from some of the dudes on the line who always had his back. Probably get the silent treatment from Coach, who knew that Raz and his twelve sacks gave him the leeway to do way dumber things than getting himself ejected from a game. They'd already clinched. Raz wasn't afraid of the reactions of the team, but he wasn't proud of losing his cool and he wasn't exactly excited to face the music.
Silence took over the cheerleaders' locker room, but Raz had a feeling that Carol was still in there. He waited and eventually heard a kind of small, whimpering sound. Not crying, more like a struggle.
Raz put his face back to the hole for the last time.
She was lying on the floor, trying to pull two sides of her leotard together. She'd been ripped in half—her outfit, at least. She twisted and turned and desperately tried to stuff herself back into it, but there was no way to bind it, no zipper or tape or anything on hand to mend lycra. She cursed under her breath and finally gave up.
But she wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to let them have that. The bitches ripped her outfit open and she wouldn't be in the halftime show. There'd be no Flying Eagle. Raz could see all of that in her face. She wasn't giving herself another pep talk, but she might as well have been. Raz also realized she was probably gonna get fired. He'd heard once that the cheerleaders made less than minimum wage once you factored in all their rehearsal time.
"Bitches." Raz thought.
Or…said.
Out loud.
Accidentally.
Carol spun and seemed to look directly at the hole. How could she? There was no way. He jerked his head back and hid from her, holding still. He could hear her getting closer…leaning forward. Breathing.
She had her face up to the hole, from the other side, staring into the visitor's locker room—which to her, looked empty.
She gasped when she saw the hole from her end.
"Who's there?!" Her voice wavered back and forth, crackly and scared. "You pervert! You disgusting pervert!"
Raz gritted his teeth. He knew she was right, but wanted to talk to her, tell her that it wasn't a big deal at all. He didn't mean to look, it's just that once he did, he couldn't stop. He wanted to reach through the wall and hold her, hug her, is all. But she kept screaming, louder and louder. He had a picture in his mind of her screaming on the sidelines and all the fans joining her, yelling at Raz. Throwing batteries at him.
"I'm calling the cops, you disgusting bastard. You coward mother…"
She reached her finger through the hole. It clawed around, like a bloodsucking worm, looking for his face. He inched away from the hole, his cheek grinding on the grates of the locker. Raz didn't breathe until the finger slid back into the hole. He heard the sounds of cleats on concrete and realized it was halftime. The team was on the way back and would hear her screaming and yelling. He prayed she'd quiet down, and she did, but only for a moment.
"I got the phone," she said. "I'm calling them right now." Something about how close she was, something about the way that she said it in a soft, almost pleading voice, like she just wanted him to apologize made him think she'd realize he hadn't drilled the hole.
He'd just been curious, and once he saw her, it was about more than that—it was about the way she looked like a bird who needed help. He was on her side. The pervs on the Cowboys made the hole and told everyone about it. The bullies on her own cheerleading squad were the ones who'd ripped her uniform. He was the one on her side.
"Do you hear the dial tone? You'd better run."
She started to dial, and at the exact same moment, Bennett Twibbs kicked open the visitor's locker room door and the secondary burst in. Always the first dudes back anywhere, they were high-fiving each other and calling for Raz, laughing about how he'd been thrown out of the game.
When she dialed the third button, the last 1 in the 9-1-1, he shouted, "Wait!" and looked through the hole.
The last thing he saw was her chest, spilling out of the ripped open lycra body suit. She shrieked and swung something at him.
Four years after Tanner found the hole, Travis Razner, the first-rounder, All-Pro, monstrously fast DE from Washington, got killed by a stiletto to the eye that was so deeply embedded in his skull, they had to saw off the heel in order to free his head from the wall.
By Tanner's count, no less than a thousand guys had stared through that hole at the cheerleaders. Tanner was retired by the time Razner was killed. Though he hadn't actually drilled the hole in the first place, he knew he was the one who'd inadvertently helped it spread like swine flu until it took its first victim. First and second, really.
Tanner always felt bad when he'd hear someone mention the hole. Carol Wagner wasn't the first cheerleader who'd found out about it, apparently. A few had covered it with tape, or moved furniture in front of it, but cheerleader turnover was high and there were always new ladies who didn't know about the hole. One crafty player fitted a small, sheetrock cap into the hole, attached to a string so you could pop it out for staring purposes. Tanner heard all the stories. Players kept him updated at NFLPA events, at the QB coaching clinic—his legacy was the hole in the wall.
During the investigation, Tanner's name had come
up and he'd been forced to meet with the cops a few times. He told them that he hadn't been the one to drill the original hole; that it was all a big misunderstanding. They couldn't really charge him with anything no matter how much they wanted to.
The reverse was true for Carol. They didn't want to charge her, but they had to. The jury didn't want to convict her, but they had to.
Watching her on the news, in the brief clips that played every night during the ordeal, Tanner felt like he was falling for her. A sad angel…a woman who was only standing up for herself. She didn't deserve to be locked up, didn't deserve to have everything taken from her. She was as much of a victim as Razner. He needed to see her. To apologize.
Getting into the prison was a lot more of a pain than he thought it would be. Forms. Scheduling. But when he sat across from her, he knew it was worth it. He felt better just looking at her. Throughout the hearings, he'd wondered if she was one of the ones he saw in the dressing room. She was on the squad that year as an alternate, so he wasn't sure if she was in the locker room when he first looked through the hole. But seeing her in person, he knew that she wasn't. He would have remembered her.
She asked him why he was there and he spilled it all out: the story of the hole, how terrible he felt throughout this whole thing, how terrible he felt for her, and most importantly…that he was sorry.
She stared at him silently the entire time, much like she'd looked in court.
"I wasn't the guy who drilled the hole," he explained. "I was just one of the ones who looked."
It seemed like she was nodding for a second. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders. She leaned towards the glass and he leaned in closer as well…
She spat on the glass partition and left the room.
Pigs Get Fat, Hogs Get Slaughtered
by Timothy Friend
When the job was first described to me, there was no mention of the pig. Way it was supposed to work, Grady and I would make the rounds and collect payments owed to his uncle. Grady's former partner had recently been caught with his hand in the till and taken an abrupt leave of absence that I suspected was both permanent and involuntary, which is why Grady asked me to go along.