American Outlaw Part 11

"BREWWWWW!" Peter Ososoppo bellowed. The curly-haired, Peter Ososoppo bellowed. The curly-haired, three-hundred-pound Samoan was the cornerstone of our offensive line. "BREWWWW!" three-hundred-pound Samoan was the cornerstone of our offensive line. "BREWWWW!"

"Line up, b.i.t.c.hes," cried Kevin Ososoppo, Peter's fraternal twin. "Get your mouth open, it's chuggin' time!"

"Yo, Jesse, what the f.u.c.k!" Peter yelled happily. "Get in in here, man. It's Miller time!" here, man. It's Miller time!"

"Hi," I said politely. "Look, I think I might try to get some sleep. Up early, you know?"

"Sleep? In this this place?" Kevin shouted. "Good LUCK!" place?" Kevin shouted. "Good LUCK!"

As if to further convince me of the futility of ever closing my eyes again, Kevin wrenched the volume k.n.o.b of his stereo violently forward. Def Leppard's Hysteria Hysteria exploded forth at top decibel. exploded forth at top decibel.

"Pour . . . some . . . sugar on meeeee on meeeee!" the giant lineman sang.

"In the name of love love!" added Peter. The twins shared a long, silent moment of fraternity, followed by a sweaty embrace.

"Love you, big dog," Kevin sniffed.

"Love you, too, baby bro."

I winced. f.u.c.k. This. f.u.c.k. This.

I hefted my book bag over my shoulder and scuttled down the hallway, toward any kinder fate. For example, swallowing a box of razor blades.

Outside, away from the chaos, I felt more sane. I tried to a.s.sess the situation with some calm: this was college, or close enough, so the library might be a relatively okay place to be. There would be books there, and comfortable chairs to lounge in. I hadn't started my cla.s.ses yet, but being in an environment where the smart kids hung out might make me feel like I hadn't deliberately stationed myself in a sea of degenerates for the remainder of my education.

I hoofed it to the library and made my way to the bottom floor, where I collapsed in an uninhabited corner. Feeling the strong need to rinse the last vestiges of Def Leppard from my eardrums, I pulled my Walkman out of my backpack and popped in one of my favorite alb.u.ms, Slayer's h.e.l.l Awaits. h.e.l.l Awaits. Pulling the plastic headphones over Pulling the plastic headphones over my ears, I settled back happily in my chair, where I closed my eyes and let the music flow over me. my ears, I settled back happily in my chair, where I closed my eyes and let the music flow over me.

My peace was short-lived.

"Motherf.u.c.ker, hey hey!" A brisk knocking on my desk interrupted the music. A huge black dude with a shaved head and a gold front tooth swayed over me. "Turn off that s.h.i.+t."

I slipped the headphones off my head, angrily. "Why should I?"

"Because this is a library, library," he said. "You have the volume up so high, I can hear every last G.o.dd.a.m.n drum solo."

"Oh," I said. "I didn't realize you could hear it."

"You should have, with those cheap-a.s.s headphones," the giant said, laughing. I realized this guy was a football player, too-I'd seen him at the meeting, but we'd never talked. "You got those for free, huh? Found 'em in the trash?"

"I bought them." I scowled.

"Well, you overpaid, tell you that much," he said and laughed cheerfully. "Man, that's not even Slayer's best alb.u.m. All that Satan s.h.i.+t? Corny as a motherf.u.c.ker motherf.u.c.ker!"

I inspected him more closely. "What do you know about Slayer?"

"Oh, because I'm black, black, I can't know metal?" His thick eyebrows knitted together, and suddenly, he looked annoyed. "Are you for real, man? Are you actually I can't know metal?" His thick eyebrows knitted together, and suddenly, he looked annoyed. "Are you for real, man? Are you actually saying saying this s.h.i.+t to me?" this s.h.i.+t to me?"

"Calm down," I told him. "I just didn't expect it. That's all."

"I guess we're all just some Run D.M.C. fans to you, huh?" His gargantuan head bobbed in front of my face, eliminating all other fields of vision. "Man, I know know Tom Araya. I Tom Araya. I feel feel his pain." his pain."

"Shut up already," I said. "You just caught me by surprise." I looked him over. "You play football, right?"

"Yes. And so do you, I believe." He grinned and extended his hand for me to shake. "My name's Josh Paxton."

"I'm Jesse James," I said, taking his ma.s.sive paw in my hand.

"Like the outlaw?"

"Just like," I said.

Josh made a finger gun and shot me with it. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, you weaka.s.s-headphone-wearing punk."

"Pleasure's all mine," I said.

We became instant friends. Josh was smart, funny as h.e.l.l, and best of all, he seemed to hate everyone on the football team even more than I did.

"Every motherf.u.c.ker's out for himself," he complained.

"I hate it," I agreed.

"These chumps all think they'll be suiting up in the Big Ten two years from now," Josh said. He looked at me. "What do you think?"

I said nothing for a moment. "I'm here to play football the way it's supposed to be played."

"Course you are," Josh said, laughing. "You wouldn't leave even if they begged you, would you, Outlaw Jesse?"

"Well, I didn't say that," I admitted. "If a scout comes up to me and wants to talk, then we'll talk."

But the scouts were precisely the problem. There was always a murmur going around our locker room: Scouts are coming to the next game! Scouts'll be at practice on Thursday! Scouts are coming to the next game! Scouts'll be at practice on Thursday! Talent snoops for big colleges became these mythical figures who could deliver us from our drab lives. Talent snoops for big colleges became these mythical figures who could deliver us from our drab lives.

Discontent isn't necessarily a bad thing when it comes to football. A talented coach would have harnessed our resentment at being outsiders, hitched it to our physical brutality, and made us into a fearsome squadron. But our head coach was trying to get out, too. He'd had offers at UNLV and UTEP, and by G.o.d, he was going to sniff them out. Everyone wanted to get out of Riverside and the bush leagues once and for all. That's the universal dream of junior college, after all: to leave leave junior college. junior college.

And I was as guilty of entertaining those fantasies as the rest of them. Each morning I got up thinking I should should be at Pitt, or Hawaii, or Iowa, or U of Colorado-any of those teams that recruited me. I be at Pitt, or Hawaii, or Iowa, or U of Colorado-any of those teams that recruited me. I was a talented athlete and a leader, but due to my own idiotic lack of foresight, I had ended up going to junior college in the same d.a.m.n town where I'd gone to high school. We even played our games on the same was a talented athlete and a leader, but due to my own idiotic lack of foresight, I had ended up going to junior college in the same d.a.m.n town where I'd gone to high school. We even played our games on the same field field I'd played on in high school. I felt like I was on the hamster wheel, running faster now, but in the exact same spot. I'd played on in high school. I felt like I was on the hamster wheel, running faster now, but in the exact same spot.

It felt even more like that when I found out that Rhonda had enrolled as a student at Riverside Community. She and I ran into each other several times, shared several awkward glances, until one day, she finally approached me.

"Jesse," she said, "I just want to let you know how sorry I am about the way things turned out."

"Doesn't matter," I mumbled. "I'm over it."

She looked down. "No, I'm serious. I really . . . I really loved you." Rhonda touched my arm. "I've never felt the same about anyone."

I fell for it, of course. Soon, we were dating again. On Sunday nights, I'd drive us downtown, to get a pizza and a couple of c.o.kes. But I was ridiculously poor.

"Hey," I said, "I hate to ask, but . . ."

"It's no problem," said Rhonda, smiling, taking out her pocketbook. "You can get us next time, okay?"

I felt embarra.s.sed, but the constant practices and cla.s.ses kept me so busy that I didn't have any time to work a job. Stealing was kind of out of the equation nowadays, so pocket cash became hard to come by. I had a beat-up car, but I lacked the money to drive it very often. More than once, I found myself scrounging around in the backseat, digging for seventy-five cents so I could put enough gas in my car to go home.

All the players seemed to be poor. The locker room was falling apart. Only two out of the four showers worked. Our quarterback's shoes were covered in duct tape. One day, after a particularly grueling practice, I dragged myself up the steps to the parking lot, only to find one of my teammates breaking into my car.

"What the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k are you doing?" I said, stunned. are you doing?" I said, stunned.

He looked up at me sheepishly. "Oh, is this your car, Jesse?"

"Yes, a.s.shole. a.s.shole." Immediately, my jaw clenched.

Sensing impending harm, he extricated himself with a quickness. "Look, guy, I'm leaving, okay?"

"See ya!" I said, fake-smiling.

The whole thing made me tired. Being broke and without allies could wear the strongest guy down. One evening, after another interminable practice, I pumped the last three dimes I had in the world into the candy machine in our dorm. I was tired as h.e.l.l. My stomach was growling. All I wanted was a candy bar. I was going to eat it in two bites and collapse into bed.

My money in the machine, I stood in front of the window, sizing up the selection carefully. My eyes fell on a Whatchamacallit, and suddenly, I grinned. Whatchamacallits reminded me of being a kid: when I was nine or ten, my dad had gone to one of his auctions and returned home with a truckload of them.

"What's that that?" I asked, my young eyes bugging out.

"f.u.c.kin' candy bars," he said.

"Who . . . who are they for?" I asked, breathless, hoping against hope.

He looked at me as if I were stupid. "You. Me. Have as many as you want. h.e.l.l, eat 'em all, get 'em out of my life."

There was something fishy about the boxes upon boxes of candy bars, of course: they were probably stolen from some cargo truck years earlier, then bought for pennies on the dollar by my dad, who didn't know what the h.e.l.l to do with them. But for his giant, hungry, ten-year-old son? Absolute heaven. I ate Whatchamacallits that summer until I couldn't stand them. Until I was straight p.o.o.ping Whatchamacallits.

I had not tasted a Whatchamacallit in almost a decade. But locked in this dorm of loud, delinquent football drunks, broke beyond belief, suddenly, I desperately needed one. I needed something that reminded me of home. I put my change in, pressed the b.u.t.ton on the machine, and waited. Nothing happened. reminded me of home. I put my change in, pressed the b.u.t.ton on the machine, and waited. Nothing happened.

"G.o.ddammit," I growled.

I tried again: nothing. The Whatchamacallit, encased in its tan and brown wrapper, hung on its hook, smugly.

"Come on, on," I groaned. I shook the machine, then kicked it. The candy bar wobbled, but remained in place. Where was my G.o.dd.a.m.n Whatchamacallit?!! Where was my G.o.dd.a.m.n Whatchamacallit?!!

"Yo, yo, Outlaw, what's the problem?" said Josh Paxton, approaching on deceptively quiet, graceful fat-man feet.

"This machine, man!" I pointed at it, outraged, near tears. "It stole my money!"

"Calm down, calm down." Josh patted me on the back. "Go to sleep, Jesse. You'll have a candy bar in the morning. I promise."

I looked at him and nodded. He was right. I was having an episode. It was, after all, only a candy bar. The next morning, I awoke early. Opening my door to the hallway, I was surprised to discover a small pile of a.s.sorted sweets scattered right outside my room. Whatchamacallits, Twix, Bonkers, Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum, about ten or fifteen packages of candy in all. Slowly, I walked down the hallway to investigate. The candy machine's plastic casing was completely shattered and open to the public. I laughed and patted the ruined machine softly. Some punk must have murdered it for me. Now, that's a real friend.

Football remained my princ.i.p.al reason for being alive. Yet for the first time, I was beginning to entertain tiny shreds of doubt in my own ability. In high school, I'd always been the most physically gifted guy on the field at any point in time. Being six foot three and 225 pounds means quite a lot in high school. At RCC, every single player was big. To a man, we were lean, healthy young animals.

My biggest problems arose when we began running the slant, a defensive lineup designed to help more agile players like myself use raw speed to combat the strength of giant offensive linemen. When you run the slant, instead of hitting the opposing players straight up when they snap the ball, everybody on your line all lunges in one direction. I thought it was a great strategy: if I tried to b.u.t.t heads with big, fat, tub-of-lard linemen, I'd lose every time, but if we ran the slant, often I'd be past them before they even got their hands off the ground. defensive lineup designed to help more agile players like myself use raw speed to combat the strength of giant offensive linemen. When you run the slant, instead of hitting the opposing players straight up when they snap the ball, everybody on your line all lunges in one direction. I thought it was a great strategy: if I tried to b.u.t.t heads with big, fat, tub-of-lard linemen, I'd lose every time, but if we ran the slant, often I'd be past them before they even got their hands off the ground.

The only catch was, I had to be really fast off the line. And for one reason or another, that wasn't happening.

"What's up, James?" Coach Meyer asked me after one game.

"What do you mean?"

He stared at me. "Zero sacks tonight. Only a couple tackles. That's not your typical performance, is it?" He frowned and pointed to my knees. "Are you having issues, son?"

"No," I said, surprised. I wore a knee brace in every game, but only as a preventative. I'd worn them all throughout high school, to the point that it felt totally natural to me. "I'm fine."

"Then why aren't you coming off the line coming off the line?" he snapped.

After staring me down for a few more seconds, Meyer put up his hands in frustration, turned on his heel, and left.

I couldn't figure out why, but all that week in practice, I was slow off the line. I just couldn't dig in the way I used to. The other guys had an edge on me. I felt useless.

"d.a.m.n, Jesse, you suck," Anton Jackson said. He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Time to quit, man, don't you think?"

I racked my brain for reasons for my demise. Maybe it was was the knee brace? It was technically possible. Maybe it was slowing me down, impeding my natural first step. Perhaps my only recourse was to play without it. It was risky, certainly, but it might be worth it. My head reeling, I walked all over campus. Finally, I headed back to the dorms to change for dinner. the knee brace? It was technically possible. Maybe it was slowing me down, impeding my natural first step. Perhaps my only recourse was to play without it. It was risky, certainly, but it might be worth it. My head reeling, I walked all over campus. Finally, I headed back to the dorms to change for dinner.

As I returned to my room, I found Josh Paxton slipping a note under my door.

"What the h.e.l.l are you up to?" I demanded.

"Oh," Josh said, whirling around to face me. "This ain't nothing."

"Bulls.h.i.+t," I said, annoyed. "What's on the note?" I pushed past him to pick it up. "To whom it may concern?" "To whom it may concern?"

"I was gonna leave it anonymously," Josh explained.

"Yeah, I can see that," I snapped. I read aloud: "To whom it may concern. Your girlfriend is seeing Dan Konte behind your back."

I stared at the big man. The two of us were alone in the hallway.

"Man, I wish wish you hadn't come around," said Josh sadly. "I was trying to leave that anonymously." you hadn't come around," said Josh sadly. "I was trying to leave that anonymously."

I felt numb. Dan Konte was a teammate of ours, a huge lineman who had a stereotypical lineman dumbness to him. "Should I take this seriously?"

Josh nodded mutely. "Konte told me," he said, finally.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Josh said, looking down at the floor. "He said . . . well, he said she's real s.e.xy."

I stood there, trying to get a hold on the emotions that were running over me.

Finally, I managed to nod. "Yeah," I said. "I guess that's true."

That next Sat.u.r.day, for the first time in five years, I played a game without a knee brace.