by John Oakes
Cody drank slowly, set down his glass and then took a deep breath.
Ricky adjusted his glasses. "What? She didn't like your numbers?"
"She didn't like how I got them. Thinks I'm a prize fool."
"And you care what she thinks?"
"No. I don't. Turns out she's just another one of them."
"One of who?"
"One of them," Cody said, waving a hand at an imaginary crowd. "Those perfect people. Got it all together on the outside. Got their suits and their important jobs, and them little signs on their desk that say their name. But they're a bunch of rotten assholes."
Ricky put out his cigarette and put his hands in his pants pockets. They both watched TR and Jason hard at work on the pool table, arranging colored balls into groups of performers and moving them about the table like generals in war time.
"Cody, lemme ask you something. If you had a million-dollar business right now, how would you feel?"
The simple question took Cody aback. He shifted from side-to-side in his seat and straightened his posture. "I guess I'd feel good. I'd feel fuckin' amazing."
Ricky nodded. "And if you had that and then won Bruce's challenge, how would that feel?"
"I mean...I'd feel...I'd be on the moon."
"Live in that moment for a sec. Now we are popping that bubbly, celebrating, perhaps on a boat somewhere."
Cody closed his eyes and took a deep, soothing breath.
"Now, Cody, in that moment and every one after, how much do you care what so-and-so said about such-and-such? Does any of it matter?"
Cody cracked a smile. "No," he said opening his eyes slowly. "I can honestly say I wouldn't give a shit."
"And not that you would care or anything. But how do you think all them haters would feel? All them rotten assholes?"
"Well," Cody said. "If I cared to ponder it..."
Cody imagined Tagg in a dark room somewhere looking worn and grumbling to himself. "They'd probably be right pissed off. They might feel like the fools."
Cody started a third beer. With that fermented nectar and Ricky's wise words, he was able to willfully disregard his troubles and just think about the Alamo Bowl. He even let Jason and TR's excitement buoy him, rather than annoy him. Elation at the progress they had all made slowly crept back in to replace the grey clouds. What a wonderful way this was to launch into a new phase of Grampa's challenge.
Cody had seen Ricky dealing with his own quiet and awkward grief in the weeks since Grampa died, but now even he seemed more chipper. He stood by the pool table, occasionally making a smoke-trailed gesture over the green felt at one or another weakness in the plan. Despite Cody's lack of interest in the sport, a love of football was something Ricky and Grampa had shared. When Cody would show up at the ranch on a weekend, he usually found one or both of them in the living room with the game on.
Cody leaned to Ricky's ear and said, "Grampa woulda loved this wouldn't he?"
Ricky gave a short nod and adjusted his yellow shooting glasses.
"Every goddam bit of it."
The bartender, a small, quiet man named Gus, yelled over from the bar.
"Hey there, fellas, I think they're talking about you."
Gus pointed to the TV screen above the shelves of bottles. Puzzled, the boys made their way to the bar and Gus turned up the volume. M.A.S.H. was over and a lady behind a news desk was talking into the camera with a solemn countenance.
"Bringing more on this issue in this evening's special coverage, News 12's Melissa St. James."
A pre-recorded segment began playing.
"The cymbals clash and the horns blare. The fanfare of a football halftime show is celebrated far and wide, especially in Texas." The voice spoke over b-roll clips of high school football games and marching bands.
"But in the past few weeks, reports have been popping up that these shows are taking a sinister turn." The footage stopped, and the freeze-framed image of a high school flag dancer faded to black and white. Then the marching band music morphed into an eerie wail.
"Exploitation. On numerous occasions in recent weeks, local booster associations paid for a group of handicapped people to play football in front of crowds of hundreds and even thousands of onlookers. I asked Wendy Cooper of the Central High booster association about these allegations."
Video of a middle-aged lady appeared onscreen and she spoke. "It was fun. People really loved it. We might like to have them back next year, even."
"When I asked Mrs. Cooper how much Central paid for this demeaning display, she was hesitant to tell me, but when questioned more firmly, she confirmed that it was thousands of dollars. I asked Carl Wilson of the Annandale Boosters if he thought the display was funny or entertaining. He said he thought it was, quote, "hilarious to no end", concluding, "They were a great show."
"It seems there is no shortage of folks," Melissa St. James continued, "who take pleasure in mocking the handicapped and are even willing to pay for the privilege. I spoke to Professor Blake Lawson at Coral Forest Community College to seek his perspective on the psychology at work in these sickening displays of mob elitism."
Dr. Lawson appeared on the screen and spoke. "There is the urge in human psychology to want to laugh at the weakness of others. This bullying mentality is pervasive in many societies including ours."
"The roots of our modern bullying epidemic in our schools go very deep," the reporter continued, "even into these booster associations and school administrations. While Texas tries to shrug off decades of intolerance, these events are being designed to diminish the sacred mission of society to protect its least capable members. After conducting a thorough investigation, I learned that these shows were being run by this man."
Cody's picture flashed up on the screen.
It was a mug shot.
Cody shuffled closer to the TV screen.
It was from the only time Cody had ever actually been arrested for his hijinks. But if dancing drunkenly on a cop car with your shirt off on Independence Day wasn't protected in the Bill of Rights, then it ought to be.
"Cody Latour, seen here in a 2005 arrest photo, is the man behind these events. Reports are that he's only been organizing this exploitation syndicate for a short time, but by our calculations, he has reaped thousands of dollars from these atrocities. Now, Mr. Latour is no stranger to exploitive practices, as he is the son of multi-millionaire oil mogul, Leroy Latour, the CEO of Latour Mining and Oil."
Images of drilling rigs were overlain with unrelated images of oil-covered birds and starving children in Africa.
"Profiteering seems to run in the family. And whether you call it a half-time show or human trafficking, as some do, what's certain is that business is booming."
News footage of the BSU/Texas Tech game rolled as the reporter spoke. It stopped on a still frame of the very moment the camera lights were turned on in Cody's face. He had winced in reaction and looked as if he had just swallowed a rotting lemon.
"Cody Latour recently took his show on the road to the BSU/Texas Tech rivalry game at Cowboy's Stadium. We now have word that he has even managed to worm his way into the production of the Alamo Bowl. It's unclear just how far Cody Latour is willing to take this farce. But this reporter will stop at nothing to see him stopped."
The video ended with a creeping close up of his mug shot. The view went back to the live feed of the female news anchor now sitting next to Melissa St. James.
"Wow, Melissa. That is some incisive coverage."
"Yes Lana, I feel the people need to be made aware of what's happening in their community."
"So, these disabled people, are they being paid for these...displays?"
"I caught up with Latour at the game in Arlington and confronted him about his business. It was a tense affair, as I'm sure you can imagine. He wasn't physically violent with me, but..." Melissa St. James trailed off, sucking air through her perfect white teeth. "And no, he wouldn't confirm that he pays them anything actually."
"Oh m
y, how brave of you to confront him," Lana said. "Is it legal to do this? It sounds terrible."
"Well, I'll leave that for law enforcement to decide, Lana. Apart from local or federal criminal law, it's also not yet clear whether this would also constitute crimes against humanity that could be prosecuted at the International Criminal Court at The Hague."
"Indeed. Indeed. I see that this story has hit a personal chord for you."
"Yes, Lana, I care very much for the plight of all disabled people. My brother suffers from a debilitating handicap called 'atopic dermatitis'."
"Well, thank you again for your courage and for shining the light on this depraved abuse of the innocent."
Lana turned back to the camera.
"In sadly similar news, another puppy mill has been found and a local prostitution ring with links to the methamphetamine trade was busted. We will have these stories and more after the break."
Stunned silence gripped the small crowd huddled around the bar. Gus raised an eyebrow at Cody.
"That cow!" Jason's voice sounded out behind Cody.
"Eczema?" Ricky asked.
A woman Cody didn't know looked up at him from his right. She wore a tight yellow shirt and a look of utter horror on her face.
Chapter Twenty-One
Two Foot Shorter
Cody had arrived at Darla's to lay prostrate before his friends and receive whatever rebuke awaited him. Instead he'd been welcomed into an epic gripe session with Jonathan, Kevin and Winton, in which Cody appeared to be a couple drinks behind.
"Are you a Christian, Cody?" Winton asked.
"Well...I guess s—
"Did you know that the word 'Christian' started out as an insult in ancient Rome? Way back when they were getting thrown to the lions and getting burned alive and tortured for their faith. There were times throughout history where it wasn't a bad word anymore, where it was a compliment even. And there are places today where it's both."
Winton was in a heated state. He reached into a coat pocket for his pills.
"Point is, if someone started mistreating Christians again in a widespread manner, and using the word 'Christian' as a slur in certain contexts, would you try primarily to change the designation of your identity or try to end the mistreatment? Where would it be smart to spend your political energy? Semantics? Or not becoming lion bait?"
"Well, I suppose I'd want people to, you know, not torture me to death."
"And that is my beef with political correctness. It doesn't make the world better on its own, but people seem to think it does, and often it serves to mask the fact that nothing has really changed. We call janitors 'sanitation engineers' now, but I'm guessing that vomit they're cleaning off the carpet still smells the same."
"True." Jonathan said. "But I mean, I grew up calling my friends 'faggots'. And it had nothing to do with sexuality in our minds. You could get called it for wearing a dumb shirt, or if you stole your friend's gum. They'd say, 'Give it back, faggot!' But I stopped when I got older because I learned what it might sound like. And I didn't want to sound like a douche bag."
"But Jon, that's my point. You didn't stop saying that for gay people as much as yourself. And the reason you altered your behavior was social pressure and the fear of reprisal, the same pressure that told you to do it in the first place. Most people don't erase these words from their vocabulary after a reasoned analysis of historical injustice. People usually capitulate to the nearest, strongest social pressure and just trade one kind of ignorance for another. I'm not saying we're sheep exactly, but this country is absolutely one charismatic leader away from some pretty scary shit."
"That's pretty bleak, Winton." Jonathan said. "So what, we're just supposed to keep saying foul words?"
"I'm saying, change your labels if you must, but if that's all we do, then we have just as much injustice in the world and far more smug assholes."
"No, no, Jonathan, I see what he's saying," Kevin interjected. "It's sounds like the church I grew up in. They get obsessed about rules and lose sight of Jesus. Pastor gets up and goes on about a sin, smoking, drinking, tattoos. Then a year later, after he's harped on it so long, people have either stopped or have hidden it."
"Then the cycle repeats," Winton added.
"Sure, for some, giving up those cigarettes made them more reliant on faith, not nicotine. But it also made some of them more judgmental of those who didn't quit. Others quit and just find another crutch. But we also know most people never really quit. They just do that shit in secret now. And for most, no part of this the cycle is really about focusing on spreading God's love. It's just focused on feeling saintly and superior."
Winton clapped his hand together. "Thank you brother Kevin for that testimony. That's just it. Kevin isn't saying this makes it a healthy thing to go and smoke anymore than it's a healthy thing to go and proliferate hateful attitudes with our speech. But just like in religion, our civil society is growing stale and empty because we confuse the form for the substance."
"You switched your team jerseys," Kevin said. "But the game's the same. Your life really doesn't change. You don't think there are folks who still think 80% of what their grandparents thought about black people, even though they haven't thrown down the n-bomb once in their life?" Kevin shook his head.
"Well, that's certainly true for the Jews as well," Jonathan said.
Winton nodded over his beer. "If simply changing my labels for different groups to what's in fashion is all that's required of me to be considered an upstanding member of society, then nothing is really required of me when it comes to the hard work of creating a just world. That may not be as bad as ignorant hate, but it sure as hell is a long sight away from civilized."
Cody had watched the debate roll on for some time now. Winton's critical firebrand was red hot, but it didn't appear to be pointed at him.
"So, you aren't mad at me?" Cody asked finally, a little surprised.
"Mad at you? I paid off a credit card because of you!" Winton opened his pill bottle. "Listen, Cody, as long as there is a subset of society that's set out to shame others for their outward adherence to political correctness, we'll continue to see people like Lana and Melissa at News 12 overreaching so far that they're actually trying to protect the different from their differences."
"Some pretty white lady on TV tells me I can't screw around on a football field for cash!" Kevin said. "Oh hell no!" Kevin slammed a fist down on the table. "I want my boat!"
"Easy Kevin," Jonathan said. "Easy does it my friend."
A few heads turned their direction, but none lingered on the four of them sitting in one of Darla's large booths.
"And White Elephant over here is rich as fuck!" Kevin was pointing at Cody. "I bet he's got boats coming out his ass!"
"Yeah," Winton started. "Someone left out a small detail about himself."
"Yeah ok, I come from a rich family. I mean, shit, can't you understand why I keep that under my hat? I hate that life. I'm a Texan in an oil family, I don't have a job and I party too much. I'm a lame stereotype."
Winton made a placating gesture. "Don't worry, Cody. A man has a right to his secrets. I see your dilemma, however, I wouldn't mind sharing in that particular pain."
Winton went to pop a pill into his mouth.
"You can take those with drinks?" Kevin asked.
Winton just shrugged and threw it in his mouth. "Tonight I can."
"To tell the truth I'm a little disappointed," Jonathan said, wearing his slump-shouldered pose over his beer. "I barely got in on this before it ended."
"We made ESPN," Winton laughed. "I never thought I'd see that day."
"ESPN?" Cody asked. "For real?"
"An athletic director stepping down amidst controversy right before a major bowl game?" Winton asked. "That's news."
"Bitch blamed it all on drugs. Said he was going to rehab." Kevin shook his head.
"Well, that might be the only good thing to come out of this mess," Cody said.
"But the same reason that this all blew up, Cody, is the same reason it will probably die away," Winton explained. Cody looked at him, clearly puzzled.
Winton took a pull from his beer. "It's the Penn State thing," he said.
"Some fucked up shit," Kevin said shaking his head.
"Seriously," Jonathan added.
"This is all just people covering their asses, because they don't want any of the blowback from the Jerry Sandusky thing," Winton said. "It's really about the NCAA schools' fears, not about you, not about us. No one is thinking straight."
"Thanks to some high quality journalism," Cody said.
"Yeah, but everyone knows that local news is one notch above grocery store checkout lane tabloids," Jonathan said. "Right?"
"I dunno man," Cody said. "People still watch it. My friend Jason thinks this lady is trying to make a career off me."
"Maybe so," Winton said. "But that's the nature of media today. It's all flash and no bang. But because of that, she has to start making a fuss about something new soon or people will get bored."
"She'll be accusing a nun of being catholic next week, you watch," Jonathan said.
"Did you see Jerome Petifoot on the news?" Kevin asked.
Blank faces looked back at him.
"He was on CNN talking about exploitation and shit. Actually had the nerve to say that what we were doing was wrong." Kevin did his best impression of Jerome Petifoot. "...Robbing little people everywhere of their dignity."
"Hypocrite!" Jonathan exclaimed.
"So, who is Jerome Petifoot?" Cody asked.
"He's an actor. He plays King Bailiwick in Shores of Palium," Jonathan said.
"I love that show!" Cody said. "King Bailiwick kicks ass!"
"Can you believe that guy though?" Winton said sardonically. "Makes millions of dollars playing a character that is popular in large part because of his small stature. No one claims that is exploitation."
"No," Kevin cried out. He sat tall on the bench seat, with an overly dramatic posture, holding one hand up before him. "Because he is an artiste!"
"But we are whores," Winton sighed. "Just because no one gives out Emmys for performing for football fans."