Hometown Favorite: A Novel

by BILL BARTON

  "You never treated me this way when I was a kid;' Dewayne said after he had witnessed more doting than he could stand-a "yes" to every request, never a "no" to anything the kids wanted or wanted to do. "You're gonna spoil them."

  "Stop acting like an old coot;" Cherie said, throwing an elbow into his ribs for emphasis. Then she added for everyone to hear, "That's because you were more trouble than these kids ever thought about being."

  Dewayne shook his head in dismay at being the victim of Cherie's exaggeration of how life was growing up under the maternal rule of Cherie Jobe, just to impress Bruce and Sabrina.

  Even though it was all for fun, deep down the kids loved how someone was standing up for them, believing in them, honoring them, stating to the world they had value. This collective effort by the whole family to allow Sabrina and Bruce the opportunity to start over-not on a clean slate, but on a brand-new one-was creating a new belief system in their hearts. When Cherie talked them through her house, pointing out the special objects-Dewayne's trophies, the picture of her husband, the hand-painted and autographed apron hanging in a place of honor in the kitchen unsoiled because of lack of use, endowing each with a mystical power by its supporting stories and her enchantment as the teller of the tale-it was as though she was offering Bruce and Sabrina a brand-new history. She was giving them a picture of life as it could or should be and not how it had been.

  Except for the trip from Los Angeles, Bruce and Sabrina had little exposure to the outside world beyond the sprawl of city dwelling. Experiencing rural, small-town life was like stepping into a foreign country. The morning devoted to sightseeing in Springdale did not take long. The highlight of the tour was the walk onto the Tigers' football field and Dewayne and Rosella's reenactment of his proposal.

  While Rosella, Cherie, and the kids ate vanilla ice-cream cones dipped in chocolate at the Dairy Freeze on the town square, Dewayne signed autographs and chatted with local residents about this new phase in his life. Winston Garfield, a bow-tied, buttoned-downed, first-class small-town editor and reporter for the Springdale Leader, spotted Dewayne as he came out of the paper's offices. Winston had been covering Dewayne since his first days as a Tiger, through his college career, and now to his current status as first-round draft pick for the Houston Stars. Dewayne always appreciated his support-Cherie was faithful to send her son Winston's articles while he was away.

  Dewayne talked with Winston like the old friends they were. He had not really sat for an interview since signing with the Stars, and Dewayne gave Winston a sports story worthy of a journalism scoop. Dewayne had to purchase another round of ice-cream cones before the interview was over.

  Rosella drove them around the town square, and when Dewayne saw the bank where Cherie had her accounts, he asked her to stop. He said he needed to cash a traveler's check for the trip home tomorrow, and he instructed Rosella to circle the square while he did this quick bit of business. It would have been a waste of time to talk to Cherie about the other reason for the stop. Within ten minutes, Dewayne paid the balance of his mother's mortgage and was back in the car. Cherie was none the wiser, but did comment on how long it had taken to cash a traveler's check. Dewayne covered his subterfuge by commenting on how busy the tellers were for this time of day. He knew soon enough the truth would be discovered when the bank sent her the "paid in full" notice, and he would receive the scolding phone call. Houston would be a much safer distance to handle Cherie's brief but grateful anger.

  "Don't cook tonight, Mama," Dewayne said as they pulled in front of Cherie's house. "I want to see Coach Hopper, and I'll buy us some barbecue for dinner tonight"

  A little bell rang when Dewayne opened the door into Hopper's Barbecue. The store was empty. Dewayne looked over the counter in the back but saw no one. He stepped back outside, ringing the bell once again, and looked at the hand-painted sign to make sure he had gone into the right place. The wire holding one side of the sign had rusted out, and it tilted to one side. He glanced up and down the street ... few cars, fewer pedestrians ... and he stepped back inside. Once more, the bell rang.

  "Coming! I'm coming, for Pete's sake," a voice grumbled.

  It was almost a minute before Jake stumbled out of what looked to be an office off the work area behind the counter. He was trying to tie the strings of his grimy apron behind his back. There was a shared moment of wonder when the two men looked at each other.

  Dewayne couldn't believe that this dissipated, droop-eyed man was the same one who had shaped his talent in those critical formative years of high school and had treated him with the kindness of a loving father. As Dewayne's eyes swept over the dingy interior-the place needed a good scrub-Jake quit trying to tie the apron strings and let them dangle.

  "How's business?" Dewayne asked, and he regretted this question the second he said it. Why couldn't he have just said hello?

  "Ain't it obvious?" Jake spoke much louder than was necessary as he threw his arms wide open, taking in the expanse of emptiness. Immediately, he too regretted his strident response. Why couldn't he have just said hello? Why couldn't either of them act as if this unexpected reunion was a pleasant surprise?

  Dewayne looked tentative about moving closer, but after an uncomfortable pause, he stepped forward and extended his long arm over the counter.

  "Can't shake your hand. I just washed up;" Jake said, nervously rubbing his hands across the smudged apron.

  "I understand" Dewayne snapped back his hand like a cop directing oncoming traffic.

  "Wouldn't want you reporting me to the health department now." Jake tried his best to make light of the rebuff by holding up his hands to prove their cleanliness.

  "We're in for a quick trip to see Mama, and I wanted to see you and get dinner for everyone tonight. Just wanted to see how you're doing"

  "That's good. That's good. I'm good" Jake struggled with his emotions. There was no sense in telling him the truth, no sense in opening old wounds, was there? "So what's your pleasure?"

  When Dewayne placed his order, Jake stood there as if he had not heard it correctly. Dewayne explained the increase in the size of his family and said that it would be good to have leftovers for the trip home tomorrow.

  Jake seemed disoriented by Dewayne's order, and he looked about the work area as if it were unfamiliar territory. Finally, he spotted a side of meat in the stainless steel meat slicer and moved toward it as if deciding it was the best place to start work. Jake slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and went to work.

  The two men did not speak throughout the process of preparing the order. Dewayne could see the progress of Jake's life since the last time he had seen him. Jake had kept up with Dewayne's success through the media. So what was there to talk about?

  When Jake had sacked up everything, he laid the food on the counter and shuffled over to the register.

  "That's, ah.. " Jake paused and rubbed his moist forehead with a plastic-gloved hand as though scratching an intense itch. He sighed, redoubled his efforts to focus on the key pad, and then punched in some numbers. "That's thirty-seven dollars and forty-five cents"

  Dewayne pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and apologized for not having a smaller denomination.

  "That can happen. That can happen ... when things change ... overnight," Jake said. He looked at the bill but did not take it from Dewayne. "You know, you're a little late"

  Dewayne looked at his watch as if somehow Jake was privy to his schedule. He shrugged, waiting to be enlightened.

  "My grand opening of Hopper's Barbecue," Jake said. "Half the town came to see you and Sylvester pitch and catch in front of my shop and you were a no-show. I expected something like that from Sylvester, but not from you"

  "I'm sorry. I don't even remember it" The sweat glands on Dewayne's back began to push the pores open.

  "So insult me some more ... don't even remember it."

  "I'm really sorry. Really. I'll try and make it up to you. Whatever it takes."

  "Forget about it."


  Jake pushed the order toward Dewayne, who kept waving the bill at him.

  "Look, just keep the change. It's okay. I don't need-"

  "I'm sure you don't need it. What you need is character, character I remember you having when you were a kid, character your mother has.'

  "Yeah ... yeah;' Dewayne said and laid the bill on the counter. He scooted the sack into his hands and enfolded it over his chest like a protective covering.

  Just before Dewayne's exit, they stood looking at each other once again, just like they did after he had entered the shop, yet both more informed from the heart's revelations.

  Regret filled them on multiple levels, but neither could express it: regret for old wounds, regret for surprise entrances, regret for promises broken, regret for spoken words coated with bitterness, regret for flustered apologies.

  Dewayne just nodded his head, and Jake returned to irritating the itch on his forehead. If Dewayne could have kept the bell from ringing at his exit, he would have. If Jake had never paid attention to a meddlesome customer's suggestion to hang the bell in the first place, neither one of them would have had to endure the sound of this departure ... a last mutual regret of both men.

  "My man, Dewayne Jobe, needs a big credit limit because he signed such a small contract;" Sly whispered and then winked into the camera. "But don't tell him that."

  The camera widened out from a close-up of Sly's face to reveal a football field under a blazing hot sun. Sly took a few steps back and hurled the football downfield. The ball flew high just in front of Dewayne, requiring him to leap into the air to catch it. He caught it with one hand, went into a forward roll, and came back onto his feet. The director shouted, "Cut!" and the entire film crew began to cheer.

  "That's the money shot;" the director said as he waved for Dewayne and Sly to come to the monitor bank under the tent to watch the replay from the different camera angles. The pass from Sly to Dewayne had been a multicamera master shot.

  Dewayne was shooting his last commercial before training camp began, and the largesse coming from this endorsement would be the most lucrative to date. It was Sly's first time in front of the camera, but he took to it like the star he knew he was and would always be. It was a perfect combination of people and events: high school friends who had played for the same team, college superstars, rivals for the Heisman, first and second overall draft picks. And now the national attention each one had gotten over his contract-Dewayne's for its low figures, Sly's for his not having signed yet with New York because he and his agent were still haggling over the dollar amount. He could not attend training camp until his deal was done.

  The national credit card company loved this convergence of player and circumstance and intended to play it for all its worth. They would get at least three commercials out of this two-day shoot, and Dewayne would prove his point to Sly that the quickest way into the winner's circle was doing this dogand-pony show for the highest bidder.

  "That's cold, bro;" Sly said as they sat side by side in their makeup chairs.

  "That's cold hard cash, bro," Dewayne said. "You remember how hard your life was before you left for Miami? You want to go back to that?"

  "I don't want to go back to nothing except your mama and her cooking. Case closed" Sly slid off his chair. "Now let's go warm up for the camera"

  Once they were on the field, throwing the football, and out of earshot of the director and the crew who were setting up for the shot, Sly started ragging his friend.

  "You know the press has cut loose on me because I'm holding out. My agent says I can't get the deal I deserve because of your lowball contract. I should be getting Heisman Trophy money, but you screwed everything up"

  "It's a system failure ... been going on for years," Dewayne said. "I just thought I might see what I could do to correct the problem."

  "Don't sell your crap to me," Sly said, adding extra muscle to his throw. "You Mr. White Knight? You saying you can be greedy for endorsements but not in football?"

  "The way I see it, they are all making money off us, but it's different with the team. We all need each other to win. Just like back in the day."

  "Back in the day ... you and me." Sly held on to the ball. "D-man, we're not the same, you and me. We're difference makers. We need us a team, but we're leaders, and we should be paid for it"

  "I agree, but not when you have to cut the pay of good players that have been on the field longer, or cut them altogether just so you can buy your bling"

  After the director and cinematographer had analyzed the master shot from every camera angle, Dewayne slung his arm over Sly's shoulder and took the football out of his friend's hand as they slipped out of the tent where they had been watching the replays.

  "These guys talk way too long;" he whispered. "Guess that's how they earn their money. It's a whole lot of hurry up and wait.

  "You guys make it look so easy;" the vice president for marketing from the credit card company said as he burst out of the small canvas tent, elated with what he had seen. The top of the VP's perfectly coifed and frosted hair came up to about Dewayne's middle, which made him look like a little boy running to his daddy as he jogged toward Sly and Dewayne. He was all designer made, down to the embossed two-tone sunglasses.

  "We're the pros from Springdale, Mississippi, remember?" Sly said.

  "Serendipity shots like that one-handed catch with the forward roll could get you a fat multiyear deal with the company;' the VP said, taking the football from Dewayne and tossing it from hand to hand as if he were trying to be a player.

  Dewayne's face brightened as though electrified. "Just pleasing the man," he said with false humility.

  Sly bent over as though he was about to be sick. The VP pretended he caught the joke.

  "Now, let's get set up for Dewayne's close-up coming out of the forward roll and trotting to the camera," he said, and the crew went to work.

  "Hey, there wouldn't have been a forward roll had I not led him with my pass," Sly said, taking the ball out of the VP's hands and reenacting the throw onto an empty field. "I put it right where it needed to be ... pinpoint precision ... Sly's laser beam'

  "I expected no less from a Heisman Trophy winner;' he said. "You are the man"

  "So I get that fat multiyear deal too?"

  The VP had already turned his back and was heading onto the field to have his confab with the director.

  When the shot was set up and Dewayne had gone through rehearsals for sound and camera, the director called for quiet. Sly took a fresh cold bottle of water from an assistant and sat in his actor's chair to watch the action in the monitor. This shot was just a one-camera setup. When the director shouted, "Action!" Dewayne did another forward roll-he had to stay in character, he told Sly later-and stepped to the camera, looked right into the lens, and delivered his line flawlessly.

  "That was perfect;' the director said. "One more for safety."

  Dewayne repeated the action again without error, and the cinematographer nodded his pleasure.

  "That's a wrap;' the director cried, which the crew greeted with surprise and elation.

  Sly shook his head in amazement as he watched the replay of his friend's work on the monitor. He had to admit, it was perfect. Sly's close-up had required eight takes, half of them for flubbing his line, but Dewayne had nailed his in two. He watched the replay once more: forward roll, step to camera, lean into frame, big smile, and "My man, Sylvester Adams, needs a big credit limit because he hasn't signed his contract yet;" Dewayne said, winking to the camera. "But don't tell him that."

  Dewayne lobe is right out of a fairy tale, Sly thought and poured the rest of his water over his head as the film crew began to break down the set.

  Like a scene out of an old western, defensive linebacker Colby Stewart marched into the locker room. He wore flip-flops and baggy gray sweatpants cut off six inches above his knee, nothing else. The fluorescent lighting burning through the mist in the locker room reflected off Colby's bald head, giving him
an aura of a Byzantine saint. A chiseled, muscled landscape covered his six-foot frame with identical medieval beasts in attack mode tattooed on each forearm and given a name: "Death" for the right arm and "Mayhem" for the left, twin companions in the fight against touchdowns. The tour de force was upon his Vshaped back: the god of the underworld driving a four-horse chariot in the viewer's direction with fire and brimstone raging in the background, the colors of the conflagration scintillating off his white skin. An arched caption written in monkish script above the masterpiece read "And Hell Followed After Him."

  Colby's modus operandi was high-octane rage-all the better to wreak havoc upon his opponents-but too often his fury did not remain on the field. He was a usual suspect in any Houston barroom brawl, and once a season Colby made the headlines with a domestic violence arrest for doing some harm to a current girlfriend. This reputation had not hurt the jersey sales with his name and number or kept him off the cover of several football video games, Smash/Cut being his number one bestseller.

  He had been the Stars' first draft pick five seasons ago, and despite his being the leading defensive player in the league, the Stars had not had the success they had hoped for with such a high-rated player. This fact only fueled his anger and a determination to leave the team after this season, but the Stars had made him a restricted free agent and stuck a "franchise" tag on him, underpaying him, in Colby's mind, at $8.8 million a year.

  The salary was well above average for a player at his position, but way below the stature with which he esteemed himself. Lifestyle and attorney's fees ate up most of what he had collected each year, and he was looking to hit the jackpot of free agency. The franchise sticker kept him from his end of the rainbow gold for another year, and instead of holding out, he was smart enough to stick it out, proving to potential buyers he was a team player and a constant terror on the field. A few players called out to Colby as he strutted toward his locker, head bobbing from the heavy metal pumping into his brain from his iPod, but his only acknowledgment to the courtesies was to grunt.