The Essay A Novel (14 page)

Edgel grabbed him under the shoulders and with surprising ease hoisted him upon the only remaining chair in the kitchen. “Dad, you need to settle down. Look what you're doing to the house.”

“Fuck it,” he slurred. “Who cares?”

“You will when you sober up and have to fix all this stuff. You've already done a couple hundred dollars damage.” Dad looked around the kitchen for a few minutes, then waved a hand at the mess. “What happened at the mill? Mom said Mr. Morgan fired you.”

“Fuck that, he didn't fire me. I quit.”

“You quit your job. Why?”

His head rolled around on his shoulders and he seemed close to passing out. He leaned toward me and said, “Mister football star.” His breath was heavy with the stale stench of beer and cigarettes.

Edgel's left hand shot out and grabbed my dad by the chin, twisting his head around. “This ain't about Jimmy Lee. You leave him out of it.” My dad made a fist and started to rear back to deliver a blow. “Go ahead. Try to hit me. It'll be the last thing you remember when you wake up Sunday afternoon.” My dad relaxed his hand and his shoulders slouched. “Now, why'd you quit?”

“He took me off my job,” Dad said.

Dad had been an off-bearer at the mill for years. After the logs were cut into planks, they were sent down a conveyor belt where Dad pulled, sorted, and stacked the lumber. It was heavy, but relatively clean work.

“Why'd he take you off the job? You've always done good work for him.”

“He called a meeting today and said he was making some changes in work shifts and responsibilities. He posted the new work schedule and said if any of us had any issues, we should come talk to him after the meeting. I checked the work schedule and he had me working in the pit on the midnight shift. I've been there twenty-two years and that's how I get rewarded—greasing machines and shoveling sawdust from midnight to eight in the morning. Nigger work, that's what it is.”

“Did you go talk to him?”

“Hell, yes. I went right to his office and asked him, ‘What's this shit?' You know what he said? He said, ‘I understand you take great pleasure in talkin' about my personal life over at the Double Eagle Bar.'”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no clue. I asked him what the hell that was supposed to mean and all he said was it means I'm working the pit on the midnight shift, that lousy sumbitch.”

“You don't know what he was talking about?”

Dad shook his head. “No idea.”

It was classic behavior for Dad. It was never his fault. “Maybe he heard you were telling people that he's getting head from his secretary every afternoon,” I interjected. “You told Mom and me that a bunch of times.”

His eyes turned venomous and the muscles in his jaw tightened. He was getting ready to lash out at me when Edgel said, “So what happened next?”

“I told him he could kiss my rosy red ass. I quit. I told him I wasn't going to eat another of his shit sandwiches, so I knocked all the papers off his desk and left.”

Edgel rubbed his face. “You need the work, Dad. Maybe you should talk to Mr. Morgan on Monday and see about getting your job back.”

“Fuck him. I'll shovel shit before I go crawlin' back. And I don't need a little peckerhead convict like you telling me how to run my life.”

“I told you not to call me that again.”

Dad threw a fisted right hand toward Edgel's jaw, but it never came near his mark. Edgel blocked it with his left forearm, then fired a right jab that hit my dad on the bridge of his nose. Dad and the chair went over backwards; his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he was unconscious before he slammed into the oven door and slid to the floor, drool running over his chin and down his neck.

As we stood amid the trashed kitchen, Mom crept up the back steps and peeked inside. She strained her neck to see around Edgel. “Did he pass out?” she asked.

“More or less,” Edgel answered. He motioned me across the room with a nod of his head. “Help me carry him up to bed. Maybe we can talk some sense into him in the morning after he sobers up.”

Chapter Ten

“J

immy Lee, you smell bad.”

We had finished our daily writing lesson and Miss Singletary said, “Jimmy Lee, I need to talk to you for a minute.” She massaged her temples for a moment, then said, “Jimmy Lee, you . . .” She stared into space for a moment, then said, “Jimmy Lee, I . . .” She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, then said, “Jimmy Lee, this is difficult . . .”

It was becoming more frustrating for me than her. I said, “Just spit out it, Miss Singletary.”

And, she did. “Jimmy Lee, you smell bad.”

It was a knife to the heart. They were not the words I wanted to hear from anyone, let alone my favorite teacher.

“What do you mean?”

She swallowed. “Just what I said. You smell bad. You have body odor—very bad body odor. Your clothes are dirty. And, frankly, your breath needs some work, too.”

“Christ, are you kidding me?”

“No, I'm not, and this is not an easy thing for me to talk about with you. If you're uncomfortable having this conversation with me, just say so and I'll drop it right now.”

I wanted to run and hide, but I said, “No. Go ahead. I want to hear what you have to say.”

“You're going to go into that county competition and it's important that you make a good impression. If you win, you're going to have to give a presentation at the Alpha & Omega Literary Society annual banquet. We need to work on your hygiene before you go to the competition. Well, we need to work on it for a number of reasons, but it would be good if we could get things under control before the competition. Has your mother or father ever talked to you about the importance of personal hygiene?”

“You mean like washing and . . .”

“Like soap, shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste? Wearing clean clothes?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“I overheard some of the football players talking about you. They said you wear your underwear to school, then to practice, then you wear the same shorts home?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Jimmy Lee, no wonder you smell bad. You've got to change your sweaty shorts.”

“How often?”

Her chin dropped and her eyes widened. “Are you serious?” I could feel tears of humiliation welling up in my eyes. At that moment, all I could think about was that I was glad I hadn't asked Ruth Ann Shellabarger to the homecoming dance. “As often as necessary, Jimmy Lee. At least once a day, twice if you're playing football, three times if you've got gym class.” She reached into a bottom drawer and produced a paper bag from the Abel's Drug Store in McArthur. She held up a can of aerosol antiperspirant and deodorant. “Every time you get out of the shower, you use this. Do you know what it's for?”

“I know what deodorant is. We just don't have any at my house. My dad says it's a waste of money.”

Her eyes squinted. “It's not a waste of money, Jimmy Lee. Civilized people use deodorant.” She shoved the aerosol can back in the bag and produced a bottle of shampoo. “Wash your hair every time you take a shower. Every time! There's soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a hair brush and a tube of face wash. Use them. If you run out and can't afford to buy more, tell me.”

“This is pretty embarrassing.”

“Don't be embarrassed.”

“When someone tells you that you stink, it's embarrassing, Miss Singletary.”

“If no one told you, how could you be expected to know?” She folded down the top of the bag and shoved it across the desk to me. “Now, as long as we're on this subject. Let's talk about your clothes. Make sure you change your socks every day. And, you need to get some clothes besides those old T-shirts and blue jeans and work boots.”

“Like what?”

She smiled. “Some nice khakis or navy pants and dress shirts. I've got someone who can help us with that. Will your parents buy you some new clothes?”

I shook my head. “No, but I've got some money saved from working at the truck stop this summer. How much will I need?”

“We could probably get you set up for about a hundred dollars.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“It's an investment in your future. It will make a big difference in how you look at yourself, Jimmy Lee. Now, let's talk about your hair.”

“What about my hair?”

“Jimmy Lee, it's a half-inch long all around your head. Where do you get your hair cut?”

“My mom cuts it with a pair of clippers. She's cut it for years. She got upset when I was in the first grade and Margaret Burrell said I had lice.”

Miss Singletary rubbed at her eyes and said, “Oh, Jimmy Lee, you poor thing.”

“I don't want your pity, Miss Singletary. Just show me how to do things right. I'll listen.”

Chapter Eleven

I

tried to hurt my opponents.

I particularly liked it when a running back came out of the backfield on a screen or flare pass and had his back to me while he waited for the quarterback to deliver the ball. He would never see me coming. I would run as hard as I could and use my helmet like a battering ram, trying to put my helmet between his shoulder blades or go for a helmet-to-helmet collision just as his hands touched the ball. I wanted to hear the breath rush from his lungs and see the look of fear in his eyes. On more than one occasion, I had given up the chance to intercept the ball in order to put a hard lick on a kid. The crack of the helmets always brought the crowd to its feet. If I could horse collar a running back trying to turn the corner, I would spin him off his feet and try to slam him hard on his shoulder and give him a stinger. Done successfully, this would send a volt of searing pain down his spine and cause his arm and side to go numb. I was good at filling the hole and meeting running backs at the line of scrimmage. As I was making the tackle, I tried to get my helmet under their chin and drive them hard to the ground.

The East Vinton fans loved it. They cheered my name. When Mr. Evans on the public address system announced my name on a tackle, it would echo through the narrow valley that encased our field. Coach Battershell and the assistants would slap my helmet and say, “Hell of a hit, Hickam.” I loved the game, and football provided an outlet for my anger, a chance to dish out revenge for years of being scorned. I didn't crave the spotlight; I craved acceptance. Football gave me a degree of acceptance. The booster club president would never invite me to his house or allow me to date his daughter, but he was quick to put a hand on my shoulder after a game and praise my effort. The harder I hit my opponents, the louder they cheered, and the more I liked it.

Miss Singletary's talk about my hygiene left me angry and ashamed. Mostly, it made me feel ignorant and inferior. I was angry with her, with my parents for not having talked to me years ago, but mostly with myself for being just another stupid dogger. At the end of the day, that's all I was, just another hick from Red Dog Road who didn't have the good sense to bathe and change his shorts on a regular basis. Jesus Christ, I thought, no wonder people didn't want to be around me.

Merle Smith was a freshman halfback who probably should have gone out for the golf team. He might have weighed a hundred pounds with his equipment. That day, while I was brooding over my conversation with Miss Singletary, the scout team offense ran a pitch to the left side and I hit Merle with a shoulder and forearm an instant before he took the pitch. The impact lifted him a foot off the ground and separated his chinstrap from his helmet. He flailed through the air like a man falling backwards over a cliff, his arms whirling in tiny circles. I scooped up the ball and ran ten yards until the coach blew the whistle. When I turned around, Merle was limping to the sideline, tears in his eyes and gasping for air. The defensive players smacked my shoulder pads for the hit, but I knew it had been unnecessary.

While the scout team huddled, Coach Battershell walked across the line of scrimmage, hooked my facemask with an index finger, pulled my face close to his, and asked, in a calm tone barely above a whisper, “You having a bad day, Jimmy Lee?”

“No, sir.”

“You sure?”

“I'm alright.”

“Maybe you've got a burr up your ass about something, but don't take it out on a little guy like Merle Smith. Got it?”

I lower my eyes and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I was deliberately slow to strip off my practice uniform and get into the shower. My pants were crusty with salt and stained with grass and soil. The white, numberless jersey was heavy with sweat. For the first time I noticed how badly they reeked. They went into a cloth duffel bag with my socks, T-shirt and underwear. The shower was clearing out when I entered. I took a corner shower, turned the water up as hot as I could stand it, and let it pour down over me.

There was a cake of pink soap in the holder near the shower handles. I held it like a scrub brush and raked it through my bristled hair until suds ran down my forehead and into my ears and dripped on my shoulders. At first, I thought she was being helpful, but as I stood in the shower her attitude seemed so demeaning. I lathered up my chest and arms, scrubbed hard on my pits and rolled the soap over my package until my pubes were full of bubbles. They probably had a big laugh about it in the teachers' lounge. It was just like the Valentine I had sent Rebecca McGonagle or the morning erection that Lindsey Morgan found so humorous. Everyone was having a laugh at Jimmy Lee's expense.