DGDB&D: a Texans blog.

That sound? Oh, that’s just Steinbeck rolling over in his grave.

Dec 31, 2008 Fire Richard Smith, Sometimes I worry myself

Rhodes pointed at the Season. Gary stared. “What’s the matter with it?” he asked. He stepped closer, and then he echoed Rhodes’ words. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” He was down on his knees beside her. He put his hand over her heart. And finally, when he stood up, slowly and stiffly, his face was as hard and tight as wood, and his eyes were hard.

Rhodes said, “What done it?”

Gary looked coldly at him. “Ain’t you got any idear?” he asked. And Rhodes was silent. “I should of knew,” Gary said hopelessly. “I guess maybe way back in my head I did.”

Rhodes asked, “What we gonna do now, Gary? What we gonna do now?”

Gary was a long time in answering. “Guess…we gotta tell the…guys. I guess we gotta get ‘im an’ get rid of ‘im. We can’t let ‘im get away. Why, the poor bastard’d starve.” And he tried to reassure himself. “Maybe they’ll find ‘im an’ jus’ ask him to step down.”

But Rhodes said excitedly, “We oughta let ‘im get away. You don’t know Mario. Mario gon’ta wanta get ‘im lynched. They’ll get ‘im killed.”

Gary watched Rhodes’ lips. “Yeah,” he said at last, “that’s right, they will. An’ Dunta will.” And he looked back at the Season.

Now Rhodes spoke his greatest fear. “You an’ me can get to the playoffs, can’t we, Gary? You an’ me can go there this year, can’t we, Gary? Can’t we?”

Before Gary answered, Rhodes dropped his head and looked down at the hay. He knew.

Gary said softly, “-I think I knowed from the very first. I think I know’d we’d never do her. He usta like to hear about it so much I got to thinking maybe we would.”

“Then-it’s all off?” Rhodes asked sulkily.

Gary didn’t answer his question. Gary said, “I’ll work my month an’ I’ll take my fifty bucks an’ I’ll stay all night in some lousy film room. Or I’ll set in my office till ever’body goes home. An’ then I’ll come back an’ work another month an’ I’ll have fifty bucks more.”

Rhodes said, “He’s such a nice fella. I didn’ think he’d do nothing like this.”

Gary still stared at the Season. “Richard never done it in meanness,” he said. “All the time he done bad things, but he never done one of ‘em mean.” He straightened up and looked back at Rhodes. “Now listen. We gotta tell the guys. They got to bring him in, I guess. They ain’t no way out. Maybe they won’t hurt ‘im.” He said sharply, “I ain’t gonna let ‘em hurt Richard. Now you listen. The guys might think I was in on it. I’m gonna go in the showers. Then in a minute you come out and tell the guys about it, and I’ll come along and make like I never seen her. Will you do that? So the guys won’t think I was in on it?”

Rhodes said, “Sure, Gary. Sure I’ll do that.”

“O.K. Give me a couple minutes then, and you come runnin’ out an’ tell like you jus’ found her. I’m going now.” Gary turned and went quickly out of the coaches’ offices.

Old Rhodes watched him go. He looked helplessly back at the Season, and gradually his sorrow and his anger grew into words. “You God damn tramp”, he said viciously. “You done it, di’n't you? I s’pose you’re glad. Ever’body knowed you’d mess things up. You wasn’t no good. You ain’t no good now, you lousy tart.”

He sniveled, and his voice shook. “I could of coached defensive backs and talked strategy with them guys.” He paused, and then went on in a singsong. And he repeated the old words: “If they was a playoff football game…we would of went to her…jus’ said ‘ta hell with losin’,’ an’ went out and won her. Never ast nobody’s say so. An’ they’d of been a Super Bowl and rings…an’ in the winter…the Pro Bowl…an’ the draft comin’…an’ us jes’ plannin’.” His eyes blinded with tears and he turned and went weakly out of the coaches’ offices, and he rubbed his bristly whiskers with his hand.

Outside the noise of the postgame stopped. There was a rise of voices in question, a drum of running feet and the men burst into the lockerroom. DeMeco and Dunta and young Xavier and Mario, and Travis keeping back out of attention range. Rhodes came after them, and last of all came Gary. Gary had put on his blue denim coat and buttoned it, and his black hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The men raced around the coach’s desk.

Their eyes found the Season in the gloom, they stopped and stood still and looked.

Then DeMeco went quietly over to her, and he felt her wrist. One lean finger touched her cheek, and then his hand went under her slightly twisted neck and his fingers explored her neck. When he stood up the men crowded near and the spell was broken.

Mario came suddenly to life. “I know who done it,” he cried. “That big son-of-a-bitch done it. I know he done it. Why-ever’body else was out there playin’ football.” He worked himself into a fury. “I’m gonna get him. I’m going for my shotgun. I’ll kill the big son-of-a-bitch myself. I’ll shoot ‘im in the guts. Come on, you guys.” He ran furiously out of the barn. Dunta said, “I’ll get my Luger,” and he ran out too.

DeMeco turned quietly to Gary. “I guess Richard done it, all right,” he said. “Her neck’s bust. Richard coulda did that.”

Gary didn’t answer, but he nodded slowly. His hat was so far down on his forehead that his eyes were covered.

DeMeco went on, “Maybe like that time in Miami you was tellin’ about.”

Again Gary nodded.

Demeco sighed. “Well, I guess we got to get him. Where you think he might of went?”

It seemed to take Gary some time to free his words. “He-would of went north,” he said. “He comes from south so he would of went north.”

“I guess we gotta get ‘im,” DeMeco repeated.

Gary stepped close. “Couldn’ we maybe bring him in an’ they’ll just demote him? He’s nuts, DeMeco. He never done this to be mean.”

DeMeco nodded. “We might,” he said. “If we could keep Mario in, we might. But Mario’s gonna want to shoot ‘im. Mario’s still mad about being dropped into zone coverage so damn much. An’ s’pose they just move him to linebackers coach. That ain’t no good, Gary.”

“I know,” said Gary, “I know.”

Dunta came running in. “The bastard’s stole my Luger,” he shouted. “It ain’t in my bag.” Mario followed him, and Mario carried a shotgun in his good hand. Mario was cold now.

“All right, you guys,” he said. “Kasey’s got a shotgun. You take it, Dunta. When you see ‘um, don’t give ‘im no chance. Shoot for his guts. That’ll double ‘im over.”

Xavier said excitedly, “I ain’t got a gun.”

Mario said, “You go in the lockerroom an’ get some help. Get Frank Okam, he’s been shit on by Richard. Le’s go now.”

He turned suspiciously on Gary. “You’re comin’ with us, fella.”

“Yeah,” said Gary. “I’ll come. But listen, Mario. The poor bastard’s nuts. Don’t shoot ‘im. He di’n't know what he was doin’.”

“Don’t shoot ‘im?” Mario cried. “He got Dunta’s Luger. ‘Course we’ll shoot ‘im.”

Gary said weakly, “Maybe Dunta lost his gun.”

“I seen it this morning,” said Dunta. “No, it’s been took.”

DeMeco stood looking down at the Season. He said, “Mario-maybe you better stay here with the Season.”

Mario’s face reddened. “I’m goin’,” he said. “I’m gonna shoot the guts outa that big bastard myself, even if I did make the Pro Bowl. I’m gonna get ‘im.”

Dunta turned to Rhodes. “You stay here with her then, Rhodes. The rest of us better get goin’.”

They moved away. Gary stopped a moment beside Rhodes and they both looked down at the dead Season until Mario called, “You Gary! You stick with us so we don’t think you had nothin’ to do with this.”

Gary moved slowly after them, and his feet dragged heavily. And when they were gone, Rhodes squatted down in the hay and watched the face of the Season. “Poor bastard,” he said softly.

The sound of the men grew fainter. The coaches’ offices were darkening gradually and, in their lockers, the offensive players shifted their feet and said little. Old Rhodes lay down on the carpet and covered his eyes with his arm.

****

The deep green pool of the Colorado River was still in the late afternoon. Already the sun had left the valley to go climbing up the slope Mount Bonnell, and the hilltops were rosy in the sun. But by the pool among the mottled sycamores, a pleasant shade had fallen. A water snake glided smoothly up the pool, twisting its periscope head from side to side; and it swam the length of the pool and came to the legs of a motionless heron that stood in the shallows. A silent head and beak lanced down and plucked it out by the head, and the beak swallowed the little snake while its tail waved frantically.

A far rush of wind sounded and a gust drove through the tops of the trees like a wave. The sycamore leaves turned up their silver sides, the brown, dry leaves on the ground scudded a few feet. And row on row of tiny wind waves flowed up the pool’s green surface.

As quickly as it had come, the wind died, and the clearing was quiet again. The heron stood in the shallows, motionless and waiting. Another little water snake swam up the pool, turning its periscope head from side to side.

Suddenly Richard appeared out of the brush, and he came as silently as a creeping bear moves. The heron pounded the air with its wings, jacked itself clear of the water and flew off down river. The little snake slid in among the reeds at the pool’s side.

Richard came quietly to the pool’s edge. He knelt down and drank, barely touching his lips to the water. When a little bird skittered over the dry leaves behind him, his head jerked up and he strained toward the sound with eyes and ears until he saw the bird, and then he dropped his head and drank again.

When he was finished, he sat down on the bank, with his side to the pool, so that he could watch the trail’s entrance. He embraced his knees and laid his chin down on his knees.

The light climbed on out of the valley, and as it went, the tops of the mountains seemed to blaze with increasing brightness.

Richard said softly, “I di’n't forget, you bet, God damn. Hide in the brush an’ wait for Gary.” He pulled his hat down low over his eyes. “Gary’s gonna give me hell,” he said. “Gary gonna wish he was alone an’ not have me botherin’ him.” He turned his head and looked at the bright mountain tops. “I can go right off there an’ find a new team,” he said. And he continued sadly, “-an’ maybe take a paycut-but I won’t care. If Gary don’t want me…I’ll go away. I’ll go away.”

And then from out of Richard’s head there came a man in his 50s. He wore finely combed hair and a polo with a script A on the breat, and he was starched and clean. He stood in front of Richard and put his hands on his hips, and he frowned disapprovingly at him.

And when he spoke, it was in Richard’s voice. “I tol’ you an’ tol’ you,” he said. “I tol’ you, ‘Min’ Gary because he’s such a nice fella an’ good to you.’ But you don’t never take no care. You do bad things.”

And Richard answered her, “I tried, Coach Saban, sir. I tried and tried. I couldn’t help it.”

“You never give a thought to Gary,” he went on in Richard’s voice. “He been doin’ nice things for you alla time. When he got to draft you always got half or more’n half the players. An’ if they was any extra practice time, why he’d give it all to your guys.”

“I know,” said Richard miserably. “I tried, Coach Saban, sir. I tried and tried.”

He interrupted him. “All the time he coulda had such a good time if it wasn’t for you. He woulda took his pay an’ raised hell in the AFC South, and he coulda easily gotten the six seed. But he got to take care of you.”

Richard moaned with grief. “I know, Coach Saban, sir. I’ll go right off an’ I’ll fin’ a new team an’ I’ll coach there so I won’t be no more trouble to Gary.”

“You jus’ say that,” he said sharply. “You’re always sayin’ that, an’ you know sonofabitching well you ain’t never gonna do it. You’ll jus’ stick around an’ stew the b’Jesus outa Gary all the time.”

Richard said, “I might jus’ as well go away. Gary ain’t gonna let me coach no defense now.”

Coach Saban was gone, and from out of Richard’s head there came a gigantic young man. He sat on his haunches in front of Richard, and it waggled his finger and crinkled its nose at Richard. And he spoke in Amobi’s voice.

“Coach defense,” it said scornfully. “You crazy bastard. You ain’t fit to lick the cleats of no defensive players. You forget what they are good at and you’d fail to adjust to a single thing at halftime. That’s what you do. An’ what does Gary think?”

“I do not forget,” Richard said loudly.

“The hell you don’,” said the young man. “You ain’t worth a greased jack-pin to ram you into hell. Christ knows Gary done ever’thing he could to jack you outa the sewer, but it don’t do no good. If you think Gary’s gonna let you coach the defense, you’re even crazier’n usual. He ain’t. He’s gonna beat hell outa you with a stick, that’s what he’s gonna do.”

Now Richard retorted belligerently, “He ain’t neither. Gary won’t do nothing like that. I’ve knew Gary since-I forget when-and he ain’t never raised his han’ to me with a stick. He’s nice to me. He ain’t gonna be mean.”

“Well, he’s sick of you,” said the young man. “He’s gonna beat hell outa you an’ then fire you.”

“He won’t,” Richard cried frantically. “He won’t do nothing like that. I know Gary. Me an’ him coaches together.”

But the young man repeated softly over and over, “He gonna fire you, ya crazy bastard. He gonna fire ya. He gonna fire ya, crazy bastard.”

Richard put his hands over his ears. “He ain’t, I tell ya he ain’t.” And he cried, “Oh! Gary-Gary-Gary!”

Gary came quietly out of the brush and the young man retreated back into Richard’s brain.

Gary said quietly, “What the hell you yellin’ about?”

Richard got up on his knees. “You ain’t gonna fire me, are ya, Gary? I know you ain’t.”

Gary came stiffly near and sat down beside him. “No.”

“I knowed it,” Richard cried. “You ain’t that kind.”

Gary was silent.

Richard said, “Gary.”

“Yeah?”

“I done another bad thing.”

“It don’t make no difference,” Gary said, and he fell silent again.

Only the topmost ridges were in the sun now. The shadow in the valley was blue and soft. From the distance came the sound of men shouting to one another. Gary turned his head and listened to the shouts.

Richard said, “Gary.”

“Yeah?”

“Ain’t you gonna give me hell?”

“Give ya hell?”

“Sure, like you always done before. Like, ‘If I di’n't have you I’d go t’ the playoffs-’”

“Jesus Christ, Richard! You can’t remember nothing ’bout defensive philosophy, but you remember ever’ word I say.”

“Well, ain’t you gonna say it?”

Gary shook himself. He said woodenly, “If I was alone I could live so easy.” His voice was monotonous, had no emphasis. “I could win games easily and not have no mess.” He stopped.

“Go on,” said Richard. “An’ when the enda the season come-”

“An’ when the end of the season came I could take my team and go to the . . . . playoffs-” He stopped again.

Richard looked eagerly at him. “Go on, Gary. Ain’t you gonna give me no more hell?”

“No,” said Gary.

“Well, I can coach something else,” said Richard. “I’ll go right off and coaches the secondary if you don’t want me to be coordinator.”

Gary shook himself again. “No,” he said. “I want you to stay with me here.”

Richard said craftily-”Tell me like you done before.”

“Tell you what?”

“‘Bout the other guys an’ about us.”

Gary said, “Guys like us got no fam’ly. They win a few games an’ then they blow it and get fired. They ain’t got nobody in the league that gives a hoot in hell about ‘em-”

“But not us,” Richard cried happily. “Tell about us now.”

Gary was quiet for a moment. “But not us,” he said.

“Because-”

“Because I got you an’-”

“An’ I got you. We got each other, that’s what, that gives a hoot in hell about us,” Richard cried in triumph.

The little evening breeze blew over the clearing and the leaves rustled and the wind waves flowed up the green pool. And the shouts of men sounded again, this time much closer than before.

Gary took off his hat. He said shakily, “Take off your hat, Richard. The air feels fine.”

Richard removed his hat dutifully and laid it on the ground in front of him. The shadow in the valley was bluer, and the evening came fast. On the wind the sound of crashing in the brush came to them.

Richard said, “Tell how it’s gonna be.”

Gary had been listening to the distant sounds. For a moment he was businesslike. “Look acrost the river, Richard, an’ I’ll tell you so you can almost see it.”

Richard turned his head and looked off across the pool and up the darkening slopes of the Hill Country. “We gonna get a little place,” Gary began. He reached in his side pocket and brought out Dunta’s Luger; he snapped off the safety, and the hand and gun lay on the ground behind Richard’s back. He looked at the back of Richard’s head, at the place where the spine and skull were joined.

A man’s voice called from up the river, and another man answered.

“Go on,” said Richard.

Gary raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped his hand to the ground again.

“Go on,” said Richard. “How’s it gonna be. We gonna get a little team.”

“We’ll have a team,” said Gary. “An’ we’ll have maybe four or five All Pros on defense…an’ ev’ry year we’ll…play in the postseason-”

“Because of the defense,” Richard shouted.

“Because of the defense,” Gary repeated.

“And I get to coach the defense.”

“An’ you get to coach the defense.”

Richard giggled with happiness. “An’ play a 4-6 like Buddy did.”

“Yes.”

Richard turned his head.

“No, Richard. Look down there acrost the river, like you can almost see the team.”

Richard obeyed him. Gary looked down at the gun.

There were crashing footsteps in the brush now. Gary turned and looked toward them.

“Go on, Gary. When we gonna do it?”

“Gonna do it soon.”

“Me an’ you.”

“You…an’ me. The media gonna be nice to you. Ain’t gonna be no more trouble. Nobody gonna write mean things about nobody or blog ugly stuff about them.”

Richard said, “I thought you was mad at me, Gary.”

“No,” said Gary. “No, Richard. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.”

The voices came close now. Gary raised the gun and listened to the voices.

Richard begged, “Le’s do it now. Le’s build that team right now.”

“Sure, right now. I gotta. We gotta.”

And Gary raised the gun and steadied it, and he brought the muzzle of it close to the back of Richard’s head.

The hand shook violently, but his face set and his hand steadied. He pulled the trigger. The crash of the shot rolled up the hills and rolled down again. Richard jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.

Gary shivered and looked at the gun, and then he threw it from him, back up on the bank, near the pile of old ashes.

The brush seemed filled with cries and with the sound of running feet. DeMeco’s voice shouted. “Gary. Where you at, Gary?”

But Gary sat stiffly on the bank and looked at his right hand that had thrown the gun away. The group burst into the clearing, and Mario was ahead. He saw Richard lying on the sand. “Got him, by God.” He went over and looked down at Richard, and then he looked back at Gary. “Right in the back of the head,” he said softly.

DeMeco came directly to Gary and sat down beside him, sat very close to him. “Never you mind,” said DeMeco. “A guy got to sometimes.”

But Dunta was standing over Gary. “How’d you do it?” he asked.

“I just done it,” Gary said tiredly.

“Did he have my gun?”

“Yeah. He had your gun.”

“An’ you got it away from him and you took it an’ you killed him?”

“Yeah. Tha’s how.” Gary’s voice was almost a whisper. He looked steadily at his right hand that had held the gun.

DeMeco twitched Gary’s elbow. “Come on, Gary. Me an’ you’ll go in an’ get a drink.”

Gary let himself be helped to his feet. “Yeah, a drink.”

DeMeco said, “You hadda, Gary. I swear you hadda. Come on with me.” He led Garyinto the entrance of the trail and up toward the highway.

Mario and Dunta looked after them. And Dunta said, “Now what the hell ya suppose is eatin’ them two guys?”