Authors: David Marlow
“What do you say to your father now?” Dora smiled.
Corky’s green eyes never strayed from the bright blue empty box under the tree as he whispered, “Feu-baw.”
After a fitting steak dinner with a proud father and quiet mother, Corky picked up Ro-Anne.
They drove to their favorite dark spot near the reservoir and rapidly made love, as prescribed, in the back seat.
Corky was keeping his promise to Coach Petrillo.
No sex during training … except as release after a victory, and then only once … and then home and to bed by ten-thirty.
“That
was ridiculous,” protested Ro-Anne, climbing over to the front of the Chevy.
“Why?” Corky tucked in his shirt.
“You finished before I started.”
“You know the rules, lady.” Corky got behind the wheel.
“Oh, come off it. When did you become Mister Goody-Goody Cub Scout?”
“Don’t bug me, okay? I hardly slept last night.”
Ro-Anne placed a soft, well-manicured hand on his shoulder. “Those nightmares?”
Corky rested his forehead against the steering column. “No sweat.”
Ro-Anne stroked his hair. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s because you don’t relax. We don’t even have music when we park—”
“Battery’s low.”
“It’s also freezing. You could keep the heat on.”
“Listen!” Corky raised his head from the steering wheel. “When
you re
paying twenty-three cents a gallon for gas, you can let the engine idle all you want. But not on my allowance.”
Ro-Anne removed a five-dollar bill from her purse. “Here, sport. This is so we can at least be warm next time.”
Corky stared at her. “Men don’t accept money from women.”
“Ridiculous.” Ro-Anne winked. “Don’t think of it as money. Think of it as fuel.”
“Anything to please you, my fair beauty.” Corky pocketed the five dollars, kissed Ro-Anne’s nose and drove off.
Guy’s week was miserable. He didn’t hear a thing from Corky about the photos. Not one word. Not that he really believed he would. After all, Corky had never asked him to take any pictures in the first place. Still, a simple thank you, maybe a short note, a casual offer to become best friends. Something. Nothing.
Guy told himself he had no cause to feel slighted. But inside, where fantasies flourished …
He channeled his energies elsewhere—the piano.
Rose soon got fed up and told him to leave the damn thing alone. His growing skill with the instrument merely underlined her inadequacy.
Nathan reminded Rose for the third time that the piano had come leased from Montgomery-Ward at a costly ten bucks a month. Not too many people were buying Oldsmobiles in these recession days, his dealership was hurting. … So if she didn’t start practicing right away, back the damn thing would go… .
On Thursday, Guy found a note pinned to his locker:
Would you come to the
Eagler
office this afternoon at half past three? We’re in the basement, next to the cafeteria.
Leonard Hauser Editor-in-Chief
Curious about the mysterious message, Guy entered the busy newspaper office fifteen minutes early and asked one of the girls at a typewriter where he could find the editor-in-chief. She nodded vaguely that-a-way, while her fingers pounded noisy keys. Guy walked to where the typist had indicated and stopped again at a desk stacked high with old newspapers, yellow pads and crumpled pages. Behind this disorder, chewing on an unlit pipe, sat a butterball of a fellow with enormous glasses. A small sign on his desk read: DON’T KID YOURSELF IGNORANCE IS BLISS.
“Leonard Hauser?” Guy asked of him.
The fellow glanced up from a page on which he was scribbling and nibbled his pipe. “Who’re you?”
“I’m looking for Leonard Hauser. “
“How come?” the fellow inquired, striking a long blue line down an entire page of would-be copy. “Marge!” he called out. “Come here and see this!” He looked at Guy. “Do you realize that in the hands of the wrong person a simple typewriter can be a dangerous weapon?”
“Marge’s interviewing the principal,” came a girl’s voice from the other side of the crowded room.
“Well, soon as she returns from the Perils of Potter, tell her to see me,” he said with deadpan authority, chomping on his unlit pipe.
“Tell her yourself, creep,” came the instant reply.
Taking the pipe from his mouth, he looked at Guy. “Savages. Have you any idea what it’s like to work with savages? It’s no picnic.”
“Could you tell me where I could find Leonard Hauser?”
“What’s it for?” asked the pipe non-smoker. He picked up another piece of paper and immediately disfigured it with his blue pencil. “ ‘Guess which football team can’t be beat?’ “ He quoted the opening line at the same time he crossed it out. Pointing his smokeless pipe at Guy, he instructed, “Never open a story with a rhetorical question. It’s a waste of column space, is sloppy syntax and what’d you say your name was?”
“Didn’t. It’s Guy. Guy Fowler. Found this note in my locker.”
Grabbing the note, the fellow with the pipe looked at him suspiciously.
“You?”
“What?” asked Guy, feeling accused.
‘
Y
ou
took those photos of Corky?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re Guy Fowler?”
“Correct.”
“Amazing!” he said, dumbstruck.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. I just thought you’d be much more … I don’t know…
different.”
“Yeah? In what way?”
“I don’t know.
Bigger
, for one thing.”
“Oh,” said Guy, slighted.
“Don t get the wrong idea. I mean … Corky … and … you know…”
“No. [don’tknow.”
“Well …”—a search for words—”it’s just that Corky praised your work and was so insistent I have you cover tomorrow’s game against Mineola instead of old standby Tom Dilliard, I just thought,
hell I don’t know what I
thought…
I guess that you’d be more like
them.”
“Them
who?”
“You know … those Kappa Phi mentalities. That bunch of gorilla jocks.”
“Oh …
them!”
“Yeah. But you’re fine. I mean I think it’s terrific getting a short photographer. Gives the staff a touch of character. So … are you interested?”
“Interested in what?”
“In covering the Mineola game tomorrow. What the hell have we been talking about?”
“Who could tell?”
“Well now you know. You buy the film. Don’t take more than two rolls. Submit a receipt; we’ll reimburse. Corky says you do your own printing.”
“True.”
“Terrific. We’ll pay costs. Can we see contacts by Tuesday?”
“I’ll have them Monday.”
“Even better!” He handed Guy a small blue card. “Here’s a pass to get you onto the field. Our hall patrol gets rather Fascistic if your papers aren’t in order.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t thank
me.
Tom Dilliard’s been drinking since he was twelve. His pictures are always blurry. We’ve been looking for a decent photographer for a year. You just may be the one. “
“I’ll do my best!” Guy got enthusiastic, and squeaky. “Really I will. I’ll give it everything I’ve got!”
“Please. Don’t get dramatic on me, kid. I puke easy. Just do the job.”
“I will! I will!”
“Okay. Okay. Now, if you don’t mind … I’ve got a paper to put out. They don’t call me the young Hearst for nix!”
“Sure thing. Thanks again!”
As Guy turned to leave, the young Hearst called out, “By the way,
Fowler…”
“Yes?”
Putting out his hand to shake Guy’s, he said, almost warmly,
“I’m
Leonard Hauser. “
“I had a hunch.” Guy smiled.
Guy wandered down the hall and through the cafeteria in a daze of euphoria. He’d finally gotten a response from Corky—a humdinger—and couldn’t have been more excited.
Sneers and snide remarks directed his way over the past fifteen years became at once meaningless trifles. Now that his photography had been recognized, what matter the height of the cameraman? What difference the squeal of the voice? Who cared if he looked twelve?
Guy was going to be
there
tomorrow—
Guy Fowler
—the Water-field midget, smack in the thick of it. There—with the Senior Varsity Eagles, the school big shots. There—amid all the color and pageantry, the power, the glory, the yellow and red.
And Butch, Guy gloated. Poor Butch, that asshole, will have to sit way up back in the bleachers along with everyone else.
Everyone but him, for he was going to be right down on the field. Right there!
In the space of an afternoon, the ugly duckling emerging a swan, Guy had suddenly become a star. Even if only a tiny one.
SATURDAY ARRIVED, chilly and gray.
Not knowing how much time he would need to prepare, Guy got to the field hours early. He was the first one there.
By two o’clock the area had come alive with activity. Rose and Jonathan Leeds joined the spirited booster section. Birdie and Nathan sat beneath them. Butch stood in a cluster of fraternity brothers at the top of the bleachers. A full house.
A loudspeaker announced the players as they ran out, one by one. Corky’s name, announced last, blared forth, and Waterfield roared.
All business, Corky trotted straight to the middle of the field.
Carl Henderson placed a proud and weighty arm around Dora’s frail shoulder.
Guy stood with the Eagles on the forty-yard line as everyone rose for the singing of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Moments later, the Mineola Mustangs kicked the ball to the good guys. An Eagle wide receiver caught it and ran. Everyone cheered.
Plays, downs and touchdowns passed. Guy clicked his camera in the brisk afternoon.
The half-time gun went off and the scoreboard told the story:
Eagles 20—Mineola 6.
Guy thought about drifting up into the bleachers during the recess, say hello to the folks, chat with the fans, find out if Butch could see all right. But the air down there with the action was far too intoxicating to leave.
Half-time entertainment consisted of the school band forming the loyal letter
W
on the field while marching in step to “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.”
Ro-Anne and her sister cheerleaders kicked high in time to the music, a chorus line offuture Rockettes.
Minutes later, both teams reentered; Eagles’ red and yellow to the left, Mustangs’ maroon and gray to the right. The fans were stirred anew.
As the gun ushered in the second half, it began to rain. Heavily.
Guy packed his gear, preparing to leave, until the assistant equipment manager informed him that nothing short of a major earthquake could cancel Waterfield competition.
So Guy put the hood up on his poncho and stood there in the downpour, teeth chattering like a typewriter.
Most of the spectators called it quits. Guy saw that Rose and Jonathan, Birdie and Nathan had left. Butch and his buddies, the rocks of Gibraltar, hadn’t budged.
The playing field became muddy and slippery. Players sloshed about like Keystone Cops in a mud-pie fight.
Both sides lost their color to the clinging mud. Where all was red, yellow, maroon and gray, there soon appeared a blur of browns.
Corky scored another running touchdown in the glop and kicked an additional point before the last gun went off, ending the mud-fest.
The final score:
Eagles 21—Mineola 13
Leonard Hauser wasn’t in the busy
Eagler
office Monday afternoon, so Guy left the contact sheets he’d developed over the weekend on the editor’s messy desk and left.
That night at the dinner table, Rose interrupted a silence of communal chewing to reiterate how very much she hated the piano, great big bore that it was. She asked her father if she could finally stop taking those awful lessons.
Guy looked up from his half-eaten meal.
“If that’s what you want, young lady,” Nathan allowed, glad to be rid of the costly nuisance. “Birdie, call the piano people and tell them to pick it up at the end of the week.”
“Wait, Dad!” Guy put in. “I play the piano too, you know.”
“You’ve got too many hobbies as it is,” Nathan stated. “One this week, one the next. You’re a little too expensive for me, young fella. You’ve got enough to do now with the camera. Finally got you to a football game. So if Rose is finished with the piano, back it goes. You don’t need it. Birdie, darling, what’s for dessert?”
“But, Daddy . . !” Guy squeezed his fingers and bit his lower lip, fighting back a sudden threat of tears.
“Dad!”
Nathan corrected.
No time to cry. Guy took a deep breath and feigned cool sobriety. “Please,
Dad.
Don’t send back the piano.”
To no avail. Nathan noticed the tears mounting in his younger boy’s eyes and that did it. His face flushed red as he pounded the table. “Now you listen to me, young man! You’ve been spending too much time with that damn thing, anyway. It’s unhealthy. Look at you, the color of marble. Outdoors is where boys should be, playing ball, clean and good. Not cooped up like some sick prisoner. A piano? Christ, Guy… that’s for girls!”
Subject closed.
Guy pushed his plate toward the middle of the table, folded his arms.
Butch concealed his joy by beating his meat loaf to death with a fork.
Guy was about to ask to be excused when the telephone rang.
Rose abandoned her appetite for the moment and dashed to the receiver.
“Tell whoever it is to call back!” Nathan demanded. “We’re not finished eating!”
After forced coquettish chatter, Rose cupped the receiver and told the entire table, “It’s
Corky Henderson
for heaven’s sake! He wants to talk to Guy.”