David Bischoff: The Blob

“I told you, man. She’s dating Polver!”

Scott shook his blond head and grinned. “I got the official word, pal. That relationship’s going nowhere. It’s zeros-ville.” His small blue eyes darted furtively, quickly searching to make certain Polver wasn’t within earshot. “Take a shot, for Chrissakes!”

Paul took the water bottle from Scott and splashed his face. God, he knew he must smell like a zoo by now; three and a half hard quarters of kissing dirt was no preparation for asking a stunner like Meg Penny out on a date.

Goodness knew he had thought about it long enough. He’d even rehearsed a number of lines, consisting mostly of clever quips and jaunty witticisms. He’d scrapped them, however, deciding they just made him sound as smart-alecky and horny as Scott. But as many times as he’d almost approached Meg, just as many times he’d chickened out. Oh, sure, he’d talked to her. All the guys joked and partied with the cheerleaders to some extent. But he’d never even taken her aside for a one-on-one chat, much less asked her to a movie or a dance or even for a harmless ice-cream soda.

Again Scott intruded on his reverie, his insinuating tone growing ever more irritating. “It grieves me to see you think so small,” Scott whined. “It really does, Paul. I’m seeing opportunity knocking, and you’re just not answering!”

“Gimme a break, will ya, Scott! I’ll ask her out! I’ll ask her out!” The words were spontaneous, unplanned, but as soon as they dropped from his lips, he knew that he’d made a decision. Yes, by God, he would ask Meg Penny out. People said that he was handsome, with his long face and his short nose, his straight short brown hair and his green eyes. Paul didn’t think of himself as handsome, and he’d always felt awkward around girls. But maybe, just possibly, Meg wouldn’t mind being around him for just a short date or something.

This pronouncement of intention, however, wasn’t enough to stifle an immediate-gratification man like Scott Jesky. “Bullshit! When?” he demanded to know.

“When the time is right,” countered Paul. “Timing is everything!”

Just then Phil Owens, a defensive linebacker, intercepted a wobbly pass and made a quick dash of a whole nine yards before getting yanked down. Whoops and cheers erupted from the bleachers, and Meg Penny and company started their leaping and cavorting again.

Coach Evans, constantly stalking the sidelines like a hungry tiger, stopped, watched his defensive boys pick themselves up and brush themselves off, then spun to his bench with an emphatic gesture. “Okay! Offensive line in!”

“Yeah, sure, bozo!” said Scott tauntingly as he and Paul jogged out together for the huddle. “When Ronald Reagan skies down Old Windy naked, that’s when you’ll ask her out!”

“You’ll see,” said Paul, pulling on his helmet and forming up with Ricky Tees, the quarterback.

“You sure can catch a pass. Too bad you can’t make one,” Scott taunted.

“Hey, shuddup, lard heads,” said Tees. “Listen up!”

The play was called; the lineup was formed. Every muscle in Paul’s body seemed to ache as he looked over the scrimmage line into the scowling faces of the Banning Raccoons. Somehow these clowns seemed lots bigger than the Hawks. Especially when you knew all they wanted was to dig a hole with your face guard, and then stuff your body in it.

“Hup!” cried the quarterback, grabbing the ball and then backpedaling.

Paul, despite his misgivings and occasional lack of confidence, was a natural athlete. Responding to the call, he went into action, heading hard to one side toward the sidelines, feinting one way to fool his cover, and then charging at breakneck speed to the targeted spot where he had a chance of being open to receive.

The Raccoons surged in toward the quarterback, who did a little skip, danced a little dance, then had about a third of a second to see if his boy was open.

Paul ran along the white chalked line, just where he was supposed to be. The quarterback’s arm cocked back, sprang. The football sailed up into a sweet, perfect arc. Paul put on the necessary speed to be in the right place at the right time, and as the football sailed down toward him, he was aware of a mighty huffing and chuffing behind him. His cover. Well, better behind him than in front of him!

He reached out, and almost as though by magic, the ball slapped down directly into his hands.

He caught it. He pulled it into his chest, but in doing so he had to slow down.

By the time he was ready to pick up steam again he realized that he wasn’t alone anymore. In fact there were five guys zooming in on him, looking as if they were ready to kill.

Paul tried to dodge, but it was too late. The surge hit him like an express train without brakes. He was flung to one side, over the boundary mark and out of bounds.

The sky seemed to spiral over Paul’s head as he clung obstinately to the ball while the Raccoons pulled him into his own team’s bench area.

The next thing Paul knew, he was being slammed into the team table. Gatorades spilled. Towels flew. Clipboards scattered.

Somewhere a whistle blew and the referees were suddenly yelling. Paul was aware of heavy weights slowly lifting from his body. The tacklers, having brought down their prey, were reluctant to leave it.

Dazed, Paul just lay there for a moment, staring up.

And then, like an angel peering over the edge of a heavenly cloud, Meg Penny stared down at him with a horrified expression.

“Say Peg,” said Paul, trying a wobbly smile, “do you have any plans this evening?”

From his perch atop his rebuilt 1958 Indian motorcycle, Brian Flagg stared glumly at the scene around him. How the hell did I ever end up in a dump like this? he wondered. Morgan City, USA.

He listened for a moment to the distant cheers rising from the high school football field. Then he leaned over and pulled the cold Coors from the Morgan High book bag. Popped it. Sipped it. Ah. Cold and clear. Hell of a lot better than the piss that Morgan City produced. Mountain Chill beer. Flagg hated Mountain Chill beer. Mountain Chill beer was what had brought him here, to Morgan City. Brought his old man, anyway, and along with the old man in need of work came Mom and little baby Brian. But that was a long time ago. The old man had left. Mom had stayed, however, to take care of her son, eking out a tenuous, seasonal existence, just as Morgan City, USA, did.

Morgan City was a small community, formed in the misty past before the Great Depression around some reasonably decent ski slopes. Unfortunately the initial investors ended up as Wall Street casualties in 1929, and Morgan City ski slopes never quite recovered, never gained the recognition and pizzazz or classiness of a Vale or a Sun Valley. Part of its economic-recovery hopes clung to the location of a new brewery in the surge of growth after World War II. But now, after the nineteen seventies, with the giant breweries such as Anheuser-Busch either swallowing or putting the independents out of business, Mountain Chill Brewery of Colorado was a dwindling proposition.

What they need to try, Brian Flagg reflected as he took a pull of his Coors, is to learn how to make some good brew. That would be a start, anyway.

It was really a pretty amazing town, when you thought about it, Brian mused. It was as if it were frozen in the fifties. Like this whole football business. Pure fifties. The buildings all had the square, boxy look of the fifties, and the people—well, they were just as square and boxy. The place even had an old-time diner and an old-time movie theater. Maybe what Morgan City should become, thought Brian Flagg, is a life-size museum, a tourist haven for all those children of the seventies who were nostalgic for their parents’ own youth.