Quivering and sniffling, she said, “Last night I found myself, alone, with Eric.” She paused, again, staring into her cup to avoid eye contact.
I never realized she was so twisted. She was going to make me listen to all the sordid details, to ease her guilty conscience. I figured I might as well hear it from her. The way Eric was bragging it up, I was sure half the campus already knew.
Bursting into tears, she said, “He must have thought I owed him something because he was not a gentleman!”
Wiping the tears from her eyes, she also wiped away the makeup that was concealing the beginnings of a black eye.
Her face wasn’t puffy, it was swollen! What the hell was that all about? How could he do that to her? Unable to respond when she finished talking, I just stared.
She took a sip of her tea and tried to compose herself. “The night we met, you were going to make sure I got home safely even if it killed you. It might have if that policeman hadn’t found you on the sidewalk. You didn’t expect anything in return. You walked me home and then just walked away.”
She laughed a little, as if she remembered a funny story. “I was terrified that first morning I woke up in your apartment. I didn’t know who I was with or what I had done. When I saw you sitting on your sofa, I knew everything was alright. I was half naked all night, and all you did was make me breakfast.”
Finally making eye contact, she said, “At least one person in Central Valley cares about me.”
She looked away and stared at the wall for a time.
Turning back to me, she said, “I’m going to ask you one last favor. Take some time and let things settle. Maybe later we can get together. Maybe we can talk about getting back to where we were before football.”
Starting to cry, again, she said, “I really need you. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this alone.”
Meghan choked back a tear and said, “You can find me in the library any night this week. I have to catch up on a lot of work.”
With a half-hearted smile, she walked away. Long after she was gone, I was still staring at the spot where her face had been. I was struggling to comprehend what I had just seen and heard. What the hell happened to her? Did she really say she needed me? How many stupid things did I say?
If it was possible for a human brain to spontaneously combust, booth six would have been a raging inferno. I had spent weeks trying to obliterate every brain cell that contained her memory. I had very nearly succeeded. I really need you, was the last thing I expected her to say that morning. Getting up to leave, I was completely in awe of her ability to create havoc in my head.
Chet saw me walking out and hollered, “You know you’re working this afternoon?”
Unable to speak, I nodded my head and continued out the door. I needed to go home and clean up before work. My mind was in a complete state of chaos as I walked. I stepped in front of a moving car while crossing one of the alleys. The driver blew his horn and called me an idiot.
I looked at him and said, “You don’t know the half of it, sir.”
The first coherent thought to emerge from the maelstrom was that Eric should be in jail. She should go to the police, file charges, and have him locked up. That black eye would be all the evidence necessary. Then again, Eric would present thirty Sigma Delta witnesses who would swear to his innocence and good character. I doubted Meghan would even report it. She would suffer in silence rather than be involved in a scandal.
Could I turn my back on her when she was in so much pain? Despite my best efforts, I still had feelings for her. I just didn’t know what her feelings were for me. She left me twisting in the wind all semester. She gave me just enough attention to keep me simmering, just in case things with Eric didn’t work out. Could she really be that manipulative? Is it possible she’s that evil?
Or was it all my fault? I’m the one who didn’t want to show emotion. We both knew time was going to be a precious commodity during football season. She did make the effort to walk down to Chet’s and talk to me. She never talked about us doing anything together, but neither did I. I just assumed she would say no. I really should have gone to a game or two. Someone who looks like an angel couldn’t lie. Could she?
A battle was raging for control of my mind. There would be no prisoners taken. Either she was a demon or an angel. No one could be both at the same time. The thought of her partying at the Sigma house was at war with the memory of her spellbinding smile.
I took great pride in earning my paycheck. Chet never had to show me how to do a job more than once. He never had to tell me to do a job twice. This was the one day I did not earn my pay. I dropped half a dozen plates. I cleared, cleaned, and reset clean tables. I rewashed clean dishes over and over again. The look on Chet’s face spoke louder than words.
The battle in my head went on unabated. Other guys were always after Meghan. Could I live with that? When we were out, I couldn’t leave her alone for a minute. If I got up to use the bathroom, some guy would jump in my seat and buy her a drink. She’s a beautiful girl and probably always would be. When I met her mother, I thought they were sisters.
I laughed out loud when it occurred to me that I was thinking of breaking up with a girl because she was too good looking. I was more screwed up than I realized. During my break I walked out back and banged my head against the brick wall. I was hoping to knock one of the images out of my head or maybe knock myself out. My shift finally ended and I was no closer to a decision. I was walking out the front door when Chet stopped me.
With more than a hint of sarcasm, he asked, “Hey, Randy, are you forgetting something?”
I had no idea what he meant until he said, “It’s chilly out tonight.”
I was walking out into a cold November night without my coat. Retracing my steps back to the kitchen, I threw on my jacket, and then found Chet blocking my way to the door. He put one hand on my shoulder and handed me a cup of tea with the other.
In a fatherly voice, he said, “Don’t be a fool, son, go talk to her.”
Chet was right I had to talk to her. I wasn’t going to leave her hanging like she had done to me. The problem was that I didn’t know what I wanted to say. I climbed the hill and took my time meandering through campus. The entire time I was praying for an answer or a lightning bolt. Either one would put me out of my misery.
I knew where she would be studying when I arrived at the library. The third-floor reference section was the quietest place on campus. That was her usual hideaway. I took the steps, instead of the elevator, to delay the inevitable. Sure enough, she was sitting right where I had expected. Her books sat unopened while she stared, teary eyed, into space. No amount of makeup could cover her swollen eye.
The right words were still elusive as I reached over her shoulder to place the cup on the table.
Meekly, I said, “Chet thought this might help you study.”
My timid approach startled her, and she spun around in her seat to face me. As fate would have it, she smiled.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
Weary and weepy, she hugged me as if the contents of that cup were an answer to a prayer.
“It’s just a cup of tea,” I said.
“Cup?” she asked.
Bottom of the Third Inning
The answer I was praying for was not found at the bottom of a beer glass. There was no need for a lightning bolt. Everything I needed to know was in that smile. It didn’t take much talking to work things out between us. That said, we each made concessions.
There were still two football games remaining, and I would make sure I was in the stadium. Chet would have to give me the time off from work. For her part, she was, obviously, finished with Sigma parties. All the girls on campus were finished with Sigma parties after the punch fiasco. Meghan still wanted to cheer at basketball games, but she wasn’t going to be on the traveling squad.
&nb
sp; The next night, Monday, I had to work until closing. My two-month-long anxiety attack had ended. It was a great feeling to finally be able to relax. It had been a slow night, and we were almost finished for the evening. I was about to punch out when Eric strolled into the restaurant, looking very pleased with himself.
With a menacing grin, he asked, “Hey, buddy, how’s your girlfriend doing? She was pretty upset yesterday when I kicked her out of bed.”
Chet took a step toward Eric, but I stopped him. I pointed to the door and invited Eric to step out onto Main Street. He quickly took me up on my invitation.
Eric laughed and spoke first. “She likes it when you get rough with her.” Once again, he reeked of alcohol.
“How would you like to take a swing at someone who could hit back?” I asked.
He smiled and said, “That’s why I’m here.”
He threw a quick punch at my stomach. He had no way of knowing I’d done a couple hundred sit-ups every day since seventh grade. I wanted to look athletic even if I wasn’t an athlete. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt, but I didn’t double over like he expected.
The sucker punch was followed by a couple of jabs to my face. He must not have thought much of my ability because he didn’t even bother taking a boxer’s stance. When he confirmed I was no threat, he let loose with a flurry of punches.
I managed to block one and duck a couple of others. He soon found the range, and my head snapped back, repeatedly, as each punch landed. He never hit me in the same spot twice. It was as if he wanted me to hurt in as many places as possible.
That stupid grin never left his face the entire time he was hitting me. He must have been looking forward to the opportunity. Strange thoughts dart through your consciousness when you’re under stress. I actually remember feeling jealous of his ability to throw a punch. I wondered if he had taken boxing lessons or was just more coordinated than I was.
Not being an experienced fighter, I kept blundering into his punches trying to get close enough to throw one of my own. Anger and adrenalin were all that kept me on my feet. I was determined to land at least one punch on his smug face before he knocked me down. He knew I was on the ropes and paused to gloat.
He laughed at me before asking, “Hey, buddy, how does it feel to . . .”
Eric didn’t get the opportunity to finish his question. His mistake was to laugh at me. A lifetime of pent-up anger was released in one swing of my right fist that crushed his nose. I don’t even like taking credit for the punch; it’s not like I consciously made the decision to throw it. My reflexes were faster than my thought processes. It was as if a tightly coiled spring was suddenly loosed.
Blood splattered, his legs buckled, and he staggered backward. The grin was gone from his face. Eric was about to experience karma. I would make sure his left eye looked worse than Meghan’s. I grabbed his football jacket with my left hand and took aim at that eye.
I was taught that a baseball was thrown with the entire body, not just the arm. You need momentum moving toward your target when you field the ball. Take a step as you throw, and bend at the waist on your follow through. This ensures that the combined force of your legs, torso, and arm are behind the throw.
I threw my punches the same way. Each right hand was launched with the same force I would have put behind a throw from the outfield to home plate. I’m not going to lie, it felt good watching his head snap back as each of my punches landed. It felt even better when cuts opened, and blood started to flow. There was no concern for the Marquess of Queensberry boxing rules. Hitting him when he was defenseless did not present a moral dilemma. Meghan was defenseless when she was pummeled.
My exuberance got the better of me, and I put too much into a punch. My fist connected with his face, and an electric jolt raced from my hand to my brain. For an instant, my right hand hurt worse than my head. I switched hands and started to hit him with my left. I knew I had done damage with my right hand. Hitting him with my left felt like trying to bat left handed. It was awkward, and I just didn’t feel like I was hurting him.
My right hand throbbed with pain, and I couldn’t keep hold of his jacket. He was thrashing about and finally broke free. He cursed me out as I looked around and realized that passersby were watching us. I’m not sure if shock or disgust best described their expressions.
If Eric came at me again, I was in trouble. There was no way I could throw another punch with my right hand. It was all but useless for three or four weeks after the fight. To this day, I still can’t make a tight fist with it.
I needed him to believe I was eager for more. I spit a mouthful of blood on his shoes and said, “I’m not your buddy!”
This could not have gone as he had planned. I would love to know what strange thoughts darted through his consciousness at that moment. He looked conflicted as to whether he should go another round or cut his losses. He flipped me the bird, turned, and walked toward his frat house. Maybe he wasn’t as tough as he wanted people to believe.
In order to land my first punch, I had taken an awful beating. I was woozy and wobbling when I walked back into the restaurant. There was so much blood on my shirt I knew it was more than a nosebleed. My head felt like it was immersed in a pool of pain, and passing out seemed an attractive option. That could not be how it felt to win a fight. After watching Eric walk away, dripping blood on the sidewalk, I knew I didn’t lose. Chet was waiting with a towel and a bag of ice.
“Chet, I won’t argue if you want to take me to the hospital,” I said.
“If you’re going to keep seeing this girl, you need a better medical plan,” he replied.
He handed me the towel and walked back into the kitchen. I held the towel against my face, so I didn’t bleed on the floor I had just mopped. I pressed the ice pack against the towel to numb the pain.
While blood quickly soaked through the towel, I pondered what had just taken place. The fight lasted no more than two minutes from start to finish. It was the most intense two minutes I had ever lived. I stood toe to toe, in a street fight, with someone who should have cleaned my clock. Maybe I was better in a fight than I knew. Watching blood drip from the towel and pool on the floor, I knew I wanted no part of another one.
Chet was making a phone call in the kitchen. He finished his call and told me to get in his car.
“I’m glad I have a charge account at the hospital,” I said.
“We’re not going to the hospital,” he replied. “They’ll ask too many questions. Besides, your sparring partner is probably already there.”
We drove across town and stopped at a doctor’s office. The doctor was getting out of his car as we arrived.
Chet said, “My doctor owes me a favor. He won’t ask any questions.”
The thought of more medical bills was disheartening. “Does he take my insurance?” I asked.
“This one is on me,” Chet replied. “I owe you a favor for getting to Eric before me. I was going to kill him.”
It took a dozen stitches to close the cut under my left eye. Chet’s doctor was good with a needle and thread. The stitches were tiny, and I didn’t think they’d leave much of a scar. That was good because I was running out of room on my face.
On Tuesday the Athletic Department issued a press release. Central Valley Police were investigating an off-campus incident involving Quarterback Eric Stultz. An altercation with an unknown individual occurred Monday night on Main Street. Emergency surgery to repair facial injuries would cause him to miss the remainder of the season.
I knew I didn’t have to worry about Eric identifying his assailant. No frat boy would admit he couldn’t do better than a draw against a busboy. Tuesday evening, I was back at work. My swollen, bruised, and bandaged face drew plenty of stares from customers. I was counting the minutes to quitting time when my old friend Sergeant Kelly arrived for a visit.
“Mr. Duffy, what time did you finish
work last night?” he asked.
I knew this was not a social call and answered with some apprehension, “About eight o’clock, as usual,”
“Perhaps you witnessed an altercation that occurred on Main Street at about that same time.”
I replied as innocently as I could, “Gee, I don’t remember seeing anything. Can you tell me what happened?”
“The College Athletic Director reported that a Mr. Eric Stultz was assaulted. When I took a statement from Mr. Stultz, he claimed the attack was unprovoked. He also claimed he did not recognize his attacker.” Sergeant Kelly had been reading the details from a small notepad. He put the notepad back in his pocket and looked, accusingly, at me.
“I’m not entirely sure that’s the whole story as I hear the two of you have a history. Maybe it has something to do with a girl?”
For some reason I thought it would help my cause to sound stupid and confused. Both come naturally to me. I told him, “I haven’t had any history classes with Eric.”
Not amused with my response, he said, “A witness reported an individual bearing a striking resemblance to you engaged in a verbal confrontation with Mr. Stultz. The confrontation became physical, and Mr. Stultz suffered some significant injuries.”
Defensively, I replied, “You say it occurred at about eight o’clock last night? I must have just missed it because I don’t remember seeing anything. Then again, my short-term memory is a little sketchy since I had that concussion last year.”
I added, “Statistically, my height and weight are remarkably average. I’m sure there are plenty of people around town with similar features.”
“Mr. Duffy, you have two black eyes and a fat lip, not to mention whatever is under that gauze pad. You look as bad as the alleged victim. Do you really expect me to believe you were not involved in a fight?”
“Sergeant Kelly, I have a documented history of walking into doors. You can check my medical records at the hospital,” was my smug reply.
A Life On College Hill Page 9