Brock Clarke - Exley

“I just wanted to save you the trip,” the white guy said to the woman.

“Some trip,” the woman said. But she was smiling at him. She swatted at his hand. “Yow!” he said, and pulled it back and shook it like he’d slammed it in the car door. The woman laughed at that. She leaned over. When she straightened up, she wasn’t holding the milk carton anymore, but she was holding two Bud Lights. She put them on the bar, and the white guy took one and handed the other one to the black guy, who was back standing at the bar, next to the white guy, who was standing next to my dad. Only then did the white guy notice my dad. My dad hadn’t noticed him, I don’t think. He was staring nervously at the TV. I say “nervously” because his legs were bouncing up and down on the bottom part of the stool. “Yo,” the white guy said to my dad. My dad nodded, but barely. The white guy mimicked the nod and then turned to the black guy and kept mimicking it. The black guy said, “Heh-heh-heh.” I wanted to leave, right then. I didn’t even care about the strawberry milk anymore.

“Dad,” I said.

“It isn’t even the Giants game,” my dad said. He got up, walked behind the two guys with ski hats, looked at their TV, and then came back to his stool. “For Christ’s sake,” he said, “where’s the Giants game?”

“Huh?” I said. I looked at the TV closest to us. There was football on it: a bunch of guys in silver uniforms hitting a bunch of guys in green. I knew football games were on Sunday, because the kids in my class talked on Monday about the games they’d seen on TV the day before. But we almost never watched the games at home. Mother let me and my dad go to the Crystal first thing on Sunday morning. After breakfast he walked me home; then he went back to the Crystal to watch football. I knew that, because every time my dad went back out again, Mother told him, “Enjoy your game .” But Mother usually didn’t let me watch football at home. She kept me busy. We went to the movies, we went to the mall, we played board games, we raked or shoveled, until my dad came home, sometime after seven, and Mother asked, “Did you enjoy your game ?” and then never listened to the answer as he told me whether he had or hadn’t enjoyed it.

“You wanna watch the Giants, Tom, you should go to the Crystal,” said the other ski-hatted guy.

“Jesus H. Keeriiisst, R., normally I’d like that,” my dad said. “But if someone came looking for me today, they’d look in the Crystal. And today, I’ve got my son with me. And we don’t want to be found, do we, Miller?”

I knew then why we weren’t at the Crystal and I also knew who the “someone” my dad didn’t want to find us was. But still, I wasn’t happy, maybe because my dad didn’t seem happy. He was drumming his fingers on the bar now and looking at the bartender, who was talking to the soldiers.

“Can we go?” I said.

“Not yet,” my dad said.

“Laura,” the white guy said.

“Laurel,” she said. She put her hands on her hips and pouted.

“Laurel ,” he said. He looked at her. Then he looked at the black guy. Then back at Laurel. “Me and Mario here have a bet,” he said. “How much do you weigh?”

“How much do you think?”

“Mario here says one fifty.”

“One fifty!” Laurel howled. I didn’t blame her. Even I knew that she didn’t weigh that much. But Mario didn’t seem to care. He just shrugged and started watching the TV that didn’t have the Giants on.

“I know,” the white guy said. “He’s a retard. I say one ten.”

“One twenty-five,” Laurel said.

“Get the fuck out of here,” the white guy said. “You don’t weigh that much.”

“And I lost ten pounds since my kid was born,” Laurel said.

“You hear that?” the white guy asked Mario. Mario turned away from the TV and back to the white guy. “You know who we should call. ” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the white guy nodded. “Laurel,” he said, “can we possibly, please, if you’d be so kind, take a look at your phone book?” He pointed his beer bottle in the direction of the phone book, which was leaning against the mirror behind Laurel. She picked it up and threw it at him. “Oof,” he said, and then he made a big deal of holding and then dropping it and holding and dropping it, before he finally put the phone book on the bar, opened it, and started flipping pages.

“Excuse me,” my dad said to Laurel. She came over to us, shaking her head and smiling. “Could you turn this TV to the Giants game?”

“Sure thing,” she said. She grabbed a big remote control off the bar and pointed it at the TV and a different game came on. This one had a bunch of guys in blue uniforms hitting a bunch of guys in red. “That the one?” Laurel said. My dad nodded. “You want another Genny?” she said. She pronounced it “Jinny.” My dad nodded. She opened another can and handed it to him. My dad drank the beer down in one gulp. He slid the can across the bar; Laurel took it, chucked it in the garbage, opened another one, and handed it to my dad. He drank that beer in one gulp, too. I was about to ask him again if we could go, but Laurel said, “I forgot your milk! We don’t have no syrup, though.”

“That’s OK,” I said. I meant that I didn’t want any milk after all. But Laurel didn’t get that and poured me a glass of plain milk. I thanked her, then turned to talk to my dad again, but he wasn’t on his stool. I turned even further and saw that he was standing in the middle of the room. He was hunched over a little and his hands were on his thighs and he was watching the TV with that happy, crazed look you get on your face when you know something really good is going to happen. My dad’s right leg started bouncing, like he needed to go to the bathroom or was about to start dancing. But he didn’t do either of those things. Instead, he stood up straight, turned, and jogged a few steps to his right. The music had stopped; there was no noise in the bar except for the people on the TV and the two soldiers arguing about the phone book. My dad jogged a few more steps, his eyes on the TV the entire time. “B. is going in motion,” my dad yelled — barked, really. I hadn’t read A Fan’s Notes at this point, of course, and so I didn’t know then that my dad was doing what Exley did in his book and I guess in his life, too: every Sunday, Exley would go to the New Parrot and not so much watch the Giants game as act it out. But still, I could figure out pretty much what my dad was up to: he was pretending to be one of the football players on TV, and he was also pretending to be one of the TV announcers telling us about one of the football players on TV. I didn’t know why my dad was doing it, but I knew that I was about to be embarrassed. “Hut, hut, hut !” my dad yelled, then sprinted toward the back of the bar, where the dartboard was. He really was sprinting, too: I could hear the huff and whine of his breathing. For the first time, I noticed there was another TV on that wall, too: it also had the Giants game on, and my dad was watching it as he ran right into the wall, just to the left of the dartboard. When he hit it, he didn’t run into it accidentally, but instead he left his feet and crashed into it on purpose with his left shoulder, like he was trying to hurt the wall, or his shoulder, or both. My dad hit the wall so hard that he bounced back a little, toward the center of the room, his eyes wide and angry and glaring at the TV. “Where is the fucking flag !” he screeched. Then my dad was running again, back toward me. Which is when I turned around in my stool and faced Laurel. Because I couldn’t watch. Please sit down , I told my dad in my head. But he wasn’t sitting down. I could see Laurel looking at him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her eyes were following him back and forth across the room. I wondered if she was going to do something, like kick him out. I looked at the two guys with buzz cuts. They weren’t paying attention to my dad, yet. Mario pushed the white guy away from the phone book and said, “I told you, it starts with a C , not an S.” I heard my dad bang into something behind me, and then I heard him yell, from some distant spot in the bar, “Cheer, you goofies, he’s still on his feet!” Laurel opened her mouth to say something, then closed it; she turned toward the two soldiers to see if they were seeing what she was seeing. The white guy was paying attention now. He was staring at my dad and had a confused, angry look on his face. I could see him mouth the words, What the fuck ? and he took a step toward my dad. I was about to get off my stool, walk over, snatch the remote off the bar, and change the channel, when I heard the guy on the TV and my dad yell, “Touchdown!” at the same time. I turned and saw my dad lying on the floor, on his stomach. His arms were stretched out in front of him, his hands together like he was holding on to the football; then he dropped whatever he was supposed to be holding on to, and put his hands and arms straight out and screamed, to the floor, “Oh, Jesus, B. did it! Really good, really swell!” My dad then started pumping his arms and kicking his legs — he looked like someone learning to swim on dry land — and at the same time he was making noises that were closer to the sounds babies make when they’re really happy than they were to actual words.