Athletic Shorts (11 page)

“No,” I said. “I’d probably just get off the road.”

“Well then, don’t be goin’ askin’ Him to get ya out of the way of all the other crap that’s comin’ at ya.” He held up his hook and looked at it. “You go on an’ take care of it yourself.”

Dakota lives in my soul. To my credit, I didn’t try to lie to him about Darren. “Yeah, I guess I am keeping clear of him. You know why?”

“Tell me.”

“Do you know about him, Dakota?”

“Tell me.”

“He’s sick.”

“Bet he told you not to tell me that.”

“He did, but—”

“Did you tell him you’d keep quiet?”

“Yeah, but—Dakota, I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, if you said you’d keep quiet, you should keep quiet.”

“But—”

He nodded slowly, scratching the end of his nose
with the hook. Someday he’s going to slip. “It’s a test, Louie. He asked ya not to tell. Ain’t many places that boy is safe. You must know that.”

“So you know?”

His eyes said yes, but he didn’t nod or speak.

“Can you tell me how—”

Dakota shook his head. “Nope. I said I’d keep quiet.”

Frustration clogged my throat. One of the worst things ever would be losing Dakota. “Dakota, I don’t know what to
do
!”

“Ain’t much precedent for it,” he said. “Leastways not around here. Guess you do what you want.”

“But—”

“Louie. Anything you wanna know you got to ask him. I got no better ideas than you ’cept to tell the truth.”

“Jesus, why me?”

“Same reason your girlfriend died,” he said.

Just because
. An accident of time and space.

I entered the back door of the Buckhorn at 8:00
A.M.
, back on my normal schedule, and punched up some Waylon and Willie, turning the volume up so Darren couldn’t help but know I was alone. He’d
already heard Carter tell me he’d take wire snips to the cord if I played that shit in
his
presence. My palms sweated so bad the broom kept slipping from my grasp, but I danced it across the floor behind broken glass and chicken bones and peanut shells and pickled pepper stems like it was just another normal day.

“Hey, friend, how’ve you been?” He stood in the doorway to the stairs leading up to his room.

I looked up. “Okay. How ’bout you?”

“Some up, some down, I guess,” he said. “This disease doesn’t give you much warning.” He looked to the Wurlitzer and smiled. “Your heroes really always been cowboys?”

“Not always,” I said, wondering what Roy Rogers would think of me being alone in a semidark bar with a man of questionable sexual preference. “For a while there some of them were fighter pilots.” I paused a minute, staring at my broom, then said, “Look man, I’m sorry. You told me you have AIDS and I ran away. I should have stayed and at least talked about it.”

He said, “It was a pretty normal response. I’m dying. And I’m dying in an ugly way. Not many people want to have anything to do with that.”

I said, “Yeah, well, that ain’t all. It would help to know…”

“How I got it?”

I took a deep breath. “How you got it.”

His eyes leveled on mine. “I’m gay. I got it having anal intercourse with another gay man who was infected.”

Dakota would call that a “sludge hammer to the chest.” I’d promised myself to be cool, but I hadn’t expected anything about anal. I know I stood there looking about as stupid as is possible for a human being to look, and I know it was only shock that kept me from hightailing it again.

He said, “I don’t have time for anything but the truth, Louie. Would you rather I were an intravenous drug user?”

I hated to admit it, but
yes
.

“Can’t help you,” he said. “I’ve always taken good care of my body. Didn’t want any bad stuff in it.” He shook his head and smiled. “Nice try, huh?”

I leaned the broom against the bar. By now Waylon and Willie were headed for Luckenbock, Texas, and I wished I were with them.

He smiled again, but his lip quivered. “I’m pretty scared, Louie.”

“Why’d you come here?”

He hesitated. “I’d like to talk about this with you, I really would. But this is a small town, and my uncle
would lose this place in a flash if anyone knew about me—about the AIDS. I wasn’t going to tell anyone but Uncle Gene, but after he told me how special you were—everything you’d gone through—and I met you, well, I had to try. There’s something about you…. Your girlfriend died, and I thought that gave us—I thought it made you like me in some way, you know, closer to death. I was involved in a support network back in Pennsylvania, and that helped a lot; but things got so bad with my folks I just couldn’t stay. It was as if I got sick just to shame them. I couldn’t stand them looking at me like I was—like I was so
dirty
.” He took a breath, began to go on, but stopped. “I have to know you’re not going to tell anyone. If you are, give me a week, and I’ll get out of here. I have to know. People around me have just been in too much pain—”

“I won’t tell,” I said, and I knew this time I wouldn’t.

Then Darren told me what it was like to have AIDS, to wake up every morning wondering whether this would be the day you’d start sliding for the last time into that pitch-black pit that sucks all your energy dry and leaves you with nothing but open sores your body has no power to heal, or to walk around in a world knowing if the people on the street could look one millimeter under your skin and see your disease—or just
your pain and fear—they’d whirl away in disgust. And he told me about keeping hope going, how sometimes he could do it merely by feeling an evening breeze brush his face or putting his feet in the cool water up at the lake or watching Dakota tend bar as if he had three hands instead of one. “Any little thing that seems magic,” he said. “That’ll do it sometimes. I’ve never been so scared, Louie, but I’ve never soared like this either.”

But the worst thing he told me, at least the worst in my book, is that no one ever
touched
him anymore. No one who knew—who cared about him—ran his fingers through Darren’s hair or patted him on the back or shook his hand. “Most people know you can’t get it that way,” he said, “but it’s far too ugly for them to take a chance.” He was quiet a moment, looking into my eyes, and I got nervous. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t ask you to touch me. I know why people don’t do that. I know about fear.”

There’s something about you….
I wished I could have just listened to his story, but what was the
something
? Something that made gay people like me? I took health class. I knew about latent homosexuality and all that. God, you try to be nice to somebody…. The last thing I needed to think about was
something
about me.

“Look at this,” Darren said, carefully removing a long blanket from the top shelf in his closet. I stood next to the window in his tiny room above the Buckhorn, as far from him as I could get and still be in the room. I mean, what would happen when people finally figured out he was gay and then somebody found out I’d been in his room?

He unrolled the blanket to reveal what appeared to be an immaculately cared-for deer rifle. The hardwood stock was oiled and finished with such care the grain actually seemed to have depth, and the light through the tiny window facing Main Street glinted off the dark blue steel of the barrel like a laser point.

I said, “
That
is a good-looking gun.”

“Would you like to go try her out?” he asked. “I haven’t had it out of the closet since I got here.”

I looked away.

“Oh, hey,” he said. “I understand. You have your friends. You’ve been spending too much time with me…. Louie, are you afraid I’m going to make a move on you?”

“What? No, of course not,” I lied.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“
No
. I mean, maybe I thought—”

He shook his head. “Jesus, Louie, I have AIDS. If I had sexual relations with anyone, it could
kill
them. I would never do that.”

I stared at him, silently, and felt foolish.

“Besides,” he said, smiling, “you’re ugly. Give me some credit for taste.”

“Actually,” I said, “that’s only part of it.” I looked again to the rifle. It was beautiful. “See, I’m not much one for guns. I was born in the wrong part of the country. I just can’t shoot things. I tried it once, but there was this chipmunk—” I laughed. “I just don’t have the stomach for it, that’s all. Coach said that was what I was missing in football.”

“Then you’ll love this,” he said. “Here.” And he handed it carefully to me. “Look down the scope.”

I did, aiming out the window, above the buildings across the street, and out onto the North Fork of the Payette. A flock of greenheads skied to a stop on the glassy expanse of the river, more than a mile away. They appeared to be landing on the end of the barrel. I said, “Jesus, that’s a powerful scope. Where’d you get that?”

“Pull the trigger,” he said.

I looked up at him, then back down the scope. “No, thanks. My daddy told me don’t play with guns.”

“Go ahead,” he said, “pull it.”

I looked up again, and the crazy idea jumped into my mind that he might be grooming me to shoot him. Like when the time came and he couldn’t stand it anymore. Jesus, being around this guy just kept offering up more and more shitty possibilities.

He smiled. “I’m not messing with you, Louie. Go ahead, pull the trigger. You won’t hurt anything.”

I squeezed. Click! whrrrrr.

“Pull it again,” he said.

Click! whrrrrrr.

“Isn’t that great?” he said. His smile ran ear to ear. “It’s a
camera
.”

I lowered the rifle from my cheek and examined it carefully, then brought it again to my shoulder and pulled the trigger. “You’re getting a lot of pictures of the top of that building,” Darren said, pointing to the Chief Café across the street.

I said, “Jesus Christ, it
is
a camera. Why—”

“Because there are parts of Pennsylvania where hunting is as big as it is here. I got tired of people using the fact I don’t like to kill things to prove I was a faggot. So I cut my losses. Cost me a bundle, but it was worth it. It would have cost far less, but I had to buy a pickup so I could mount a gun rack. Then I bought a red and black plaid jacket and a baseball cap that said, ‘God,
Guns, and Guts Made America Great’ and by golly, I was one of the guys.” He looked over the rifle with pride. “And I’m getting to be a pretty darn good wildlife photographer, too.” He looked down. “At least I was. Let’s go. If you like it, maybe I’ll leave it to you.”

“No, I couldn’t—”

Darren put up his hand and smiled. “Don’t hurt my feelings, man. I’m dying, remember?”

I crouched forward, leaning into my wide receiver’s stance as Carter Sampson stood beside me with the ball, taking a make-believe snap. “Hut one, hut two, hut three…” and I drove down five steps, hard, and cut across the middle. The ball touched my fingertips, and I cut again instantly upfield. “Nice one,” I said. “You’re gonna be too good to believe, Cart. The U. doesn’t know what a deal they got.” I flipped the ball back to him.

I loved working out with Carter. We had spent all of last summer—the summer before our senior year—running laps and wind sprints, lifting weights, and running countless pass patterns. It was to be my year, two years of bench time about to pay off. By the end of the summer Carter knew my every move, could float the ball into my hands with his eyes closed. And he was my best friend, the kind of friend who could and would
have taken me right to the top with him.

Then, in the second game of the year, Coach Lednecky ordered a chickenshit hit on Salmon River’s black big-city-transfer superstar, and I got moral. So much for Louie Banks’s run at the N.F.L.

But when it was all said and done, and I looked back, the games were never it anyway. It was those summer workouts with Carter. Out on the field under the hot summer sun in my shorts and cleats with my best friend, who
was
a bona fide superstar, running pass routes and dropping for push-ups and sit-ups and planning our lives. That’s what it was really all about for me. Later, when I became accustomed to my role as Louie Banks, the Guy Without the Stomach for It, I looked back, and the best part was still there. And here we were again, getting Cart ready for the U. I think I’ll do just fine in the world never being great if I can just
touch
greatness once in a while.

“Sideline,” Carter said. “All the marbles.” He crouched into the position, “Hut one…hut two…hut three…” and I angled for the sideline, meeting it about ten yards out, then sprinting for the goal line. Carter dropped back—danced a little for show—patiently waiting for me to cover the distance, and unloaded. The ball dropped perfectly into my out
stretched fingertips as I crossed the goal line. What a magical arm on that guy.

“Where you been the past couple of weeks?” he asked as I flipped him the ball.

“Right here. Remember me? Louie Banks, slowest wide receiver to ever stop a Carter Sampson bullet with his bare hands?”

“I meant nights.”

“Just around, I guess.” I felt embarrassed. “Been hanging out with Dakota’s nephew some. Till he goes to work. Why? You been getting off early? Wanna do something?”

“Naw, I’m still working late. I just heard you been hanging out with that guy.”

“Darren?”

“You just better be careful, buddy.”

“Careful of what?” When in doubt, play stupid.

“Banks, I don’t know whether you’ve figured it out or not, but Dakota’s nephew is a faggot.”

“What? You really think so?” It’s hard for me to lie to Carter; he’s my best friend, but I promised. At least he didn’t know the other part. Yet.

“Come on, Louie. Look at the way he moves. Look at the way he talks. You ever see him with anyone? A girl, I mean?”

“Sampson, this is Trout, Idaho. I haven’t seen you with a girl all summer either, but that doesn’t mean you’re a faggot. It just means there aren’t many girls here. The guy’s twenty-five years old. Who’s he going to go out with?”