Lex Thomas: Quarantine: The Loners

“I didn’t change, David, you did! What happened to the guy who gave a shit?”

“I’m right here.”

“Yeah? ’Cause I only see the quarterback who quit the team in the middle of the play-offs, the one who stopped hanging out with all our friends. I honestly thought you’d pull your

shit together and try to be happy again.” Hilary leaned forward, pointing at him.

“But then I realized you want to be miserable,” she said.

“You don’t ever want us to hang out with anyone, you spend all day alone, you work extra night shifts at the supermarket, all so you never have to move on.”

“You’re too good to date someone who works at a supermarket?” David said.

“I’m too good to date a loser.”

Her words were a kick to the balls. At first it was pure shock, then the shock gave way to a terrible, clenching ache that hurt worse and worse with every second.

Hilary’s venom seemed to drain out of her. Her posture became awkward, and she backed toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” Hilary said.

She opened the door and left.

David emerged from the bathroom with his chest out and his shoulders pulled back. He pushed through the crowd in the hall, ignoring the watchful eyes around him.

He stepped into the living room. It was large with reddish wooden walls, like a cabin in the woods. The high ceiling had two large skylights, blacked out by the dark night above them.

The wood floor was scuffed and brown and tilted to the east.

There were two couches and two recliners, all pointed toward an obscenely large big-screen television, not a flat screen, an old six-foot-tall black box that dominated the room and played a muted NFL game on its burned-out screen. The music was fast and harsh but was nearly drowned out by everyone talking over each other. He saw guys using thin excuses to touch girls, and he saw girls flawlessly acting like they didn’t know what the guys were up to. People were clustered into separate groups all across the room. There were almost as many new kids as familiar faces, transplants from all across Colorado, thanks to the job boom in Pale Ridge. David watched as a new kid orbited the different groups like a party satellite, hoping to penetrate one of the circles. All the kid was looking for was a little approval, just a slight parting of a circle or a nod of acceptance. He hovered around one group after another until the message sank in. They all knew he was there, and they weren’t going to let him in. The kid shuffled out of the room, straining to look casual, red keg cup clutched in hand, in search of other circles that might be less selective.

There was a time when David had ruled parties like this.

Back when he was team captain, when his mom was alive and Hilary was his girl. David hadn’t come to a party in nine months. In late November, his mother had been hit by a care-less driver. It felt unreal to David. She’d left for a two-day business trip to Cincinnati and then blinked out of existence.

After that, almost everything in his life seemed unimportant.

Especially parties like this. David ignored the urge to walk to his car and drive home. That would only prove Hilary right.

And she was wrong, he was no loser. Maybe he had let things slip a bit. But he was the same guy. He could face this party, no problem; he just needed a drink.

David slogged to the kitchen. It was stuffed with people and hot from all the bodies. The floor was covered in a slippery grit of beer and grime off the bottom of people’s shoes. He weaved through the mass of tipsy kids, toward the collection of open liquor bottles clustered on the kitchen counter.

David had his eye on a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka.

As he reached for it, a pudgy hand got to it first and gripped the plastic bottle with a crunch. He looked left to see who had grabbed the bottle. He locked eyes with Alan Woodward, one of his former teammates, a fat-faced kid who was built like a brick chimney. Alan’s cheeks were flushed red. They were always that way, whether he was making a tackle or sleeping in class.

“Dave-o,” he said with a raspy, halfhearted laugh. “You’re the last guy I expected to see here.”

“I’m turning over a new leaf,” David said.

“Uh… how’s it going?” Alan said, still holding on to the vodka bottle. He leaned on it like a crutch.

How’s it going? That was a loaded question. Where did he start? Did he go with “Hilary just dumped my ass in the bathroom”? Or did he go all the way back to when he and Alan stopped hanging out? When he stood in front of the whole team in the locker room after winning regionals and told them that his heart just wasn’t in it anymore and he couldn’t lead them to state. Alan had been the most devoted of his teammates, bringing guys by the house to try to change David’s mind, saying that they believed in him and that Coach Barter said they had a real chance of winning their first state cham-pionship. He remembered Alan telling him that focusing on the team might be just the thing David needed, and David remembered thinking that Alan didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, none of them did.

“It’s going pretty good,” David said, still eyeing the vodka.

“Yeah?” Alan said.

“Sure,” David lied. “Ready to drink you under the table.” Alan stared back at David with a smile.

“You serious?”

David grabbed two wet shot glasses from the sink and plunked them down in front of the vodka bottle.

“Let’s go shot for shot, we’ll see who’s serious,” David said.

Alan clamped down on David with a bear hug. He held it for too long, but David didn’t mind. A hug was exactly what he needed.

“You’re not gonna grab my ass, are you, buddy?” David whispered.

Alan burst out with a laugh. David smiled. Alan had a great quality of laughing at almost everything. He’d laugh so hard, it looked painful. Alan let go, still smiling.

“Man, look at ya,” Alan said. “You look great. I can’t believe you’re here!”

Alan poured out two shots in a hurry. He gave a glass to David, and David took it gladly.

The booze burned his throat, then spread warmly into his stomach. He wanted more.

“WHOO!” Alan said, and slammed his glass down on the counter at the same time as David.

“Again,” David said, giving his cheeks a shake and loosen-ing up his shoulders.

“You’re out of your mind if you think you can outdrink me,” Alan said. “This shit’s in my blood. My grandfather was Sibe-rian.”

“You know how many times I’ve heard this bullshit?” David laughed. “You’re gonna end up puking in the bushes, just like always.”

“Oh, now you’re talking war, Cappy!”

Alan poured two more shots.

David hadn’t heard anyone call him Cappy in forever. Just hearing the name brightened his mood. As he downed that vodka shot, and the next, and the next, David laughed with Alan over little things. Inside jokes he’d forgotten, awesome games they’d had, epic touchdowns he’d thrown. He’d turned his back on all of those memories when he walked away from the team. Back then he was a leader. He knew how to win.

He wasn’t a weird guy restocking yogurt with sad graveyard-shift coworkers at Safeway. He was captain of a team of guys who would fight for him. They’d been like family to him, and he’d shut them out.

Vodka soaked David’s brain. A fuzzy warmth dulled his senses. He made a grab for the vodka bottle. It bounced out of his hand and skittered across the counter. Alan brought his fist down hard and crushed the bottle.

“Killed it!” he said. “C’mon. There’s a keg outside. The rest of the team’s out there too… in case you’re planning on any big announcements.”