Sam Lipsyte - The Fun Parts

“I also want to tell you this: Oldcorn had black friends, Oriental friends, he had a Mexican roommate. That’s character. It didn’t matter what you looked like. He didn’t care what was inside of you, either. He was a shot-putter. Now shower up.”

* * *

We were fifteen, sixteen and maybe feeling funny when we showered up. We talked a lot about dropping the soap. Maybe Merk felt the funniest, but it wasn’t his fault he had a foreskin, that his dong had weird veins. He was from a weird country. We taunted him, but only in the shower room.

“Hey,” said Fred Powler. “What’s a snapper?”

“What’re you, a fucking ’tard?” said Merk.

“Leave him alone,” I said.

Picture me, the good kid from after-school television. Picture Fred, the feeb who will teach us to be free. That’s the story of humanity, or at least that was the story of Fred. He’d been smarter than any of us and not teaching us anything until some punk got Fred in the skull with a snowrock. An accident, said Fred’s dad, Chief Powler. Most of the world’s snowrocks are packed by accident, I’m sure. Now Fred maybe belonged on that bus with the rubber handles, but who had the heart to put him on it? I didn’t have that kind of heart. I did Fred’s homework for him. I figured he could start to be retarded next year.

* * *

Twilight, we’d walk home to our houses down streets named for famous soldiers: Eisenhower, Bradley, MacArthur, McQueen. We had our own names for places that didn’t have town names. I worried the feebed version of Fred had forgotten them all.

“What’s that?” I said.

“It’s for cars.”

“The Parking Lot of Lost Ambition,” I said. “And what’s behind it?”

“Bushes.”

“The Forest of Teen Pregnancy,” I said.

That’s maybe where Mindy Richter was right now, I added, conducting guided tours of her snapperhole. When I got to Oklahoma State, Oldcorn’s alma mater, on my shot put scholarship, all the Mindy Richters of the world would beckon me from beds of silk. They’d wake at dawn, alone, a poem there on the pillow where my cheek had been.

An ode to Oldcorn, maybe.

* * *

There was a book in the library called Athletes of the Seventies. I spent a lot of study periods studying a photograph of Oldcorn in the middle of a spin. Sweat twirled off his antiwar whiskers. His mouth was cut wide with what must have been his famous banshee noises. The shot was pitted, chalked, cradled in the hollow of his neck. I could almost see it flying off his fingertips, hang there in the day skies of my mind, an iron moon.

We took a bus to a meet in the land of the Jackson Whites, a mountain people with too many fingers on their hands and even fingers on their feet. The Jackson Whites were a wild breed, Coach Monroe had told us, come down from Revolutionary War times — Hessian deserters, Indians, runaway slaves. There on the mountain they made their own inbred mutant race. I was hoping to see a flipper boy flapping on a banjo or a Revolutionary lute.

But this mountain had big houses on it. There were shiny cars with smug bumper stickers parked along the road. We drove up to a beautiful school, this tinted octagon of new-math glass. Our milers, quarter milers, hurdlers and high hurdlers, long jumpers and high jumpers and triple jumpers and pole-vaulters, all our twitchy golden Spartans jumped off the bus and ran up to the bleachers, the raked cinder track. There were no shot-putting circles in sight.

Coach Monroe grabbed a guy jogging past. The man’s whistle popped from his lips.

“Where the hell do you put around here?”

“Put what?” said the man.

“The shot.”

“Other side of the school,” he said.

“Where? In the fucking woods?” said Coach Monroe. “These kids aren’t lepers. In Europe, this sport is appreciated.”

“Go throw in Europe,” said the man.

“Put,” said Coach Monroe. “Not throw.”

We found the circle, a pack of boys warming up. They looked like us with better sneakers. They wore brand-new shorts with bright metallic trim. Coach Monroe took the tape measure out of his coat. There were not enough judges in this part of New Jersey. We would have to judge for ourselves.

Coach Monroe gathered us to him, jabbed his clipboard at each of our hearts.

“Go, Spartans!” said Merk.

“Forget that crap,” said Coach Monroe. “Just accelerate.”

It wasn’t even what you would call a contest. The kids in the metallic shorts were gliders, like some lost clan of Cro-Mags, new to fire, ignorant of spin. They were good sports, though. They hopped around with the tape roll, called out our marks.

“Teach us that spin you do,” one of them said.

“Are you a Spartan?” said Merk.

“We’re Badgers,” said the boy.

“They’re Jacksons,” I said.

“I’m a Baum,” said the boy.

“Can’t help you,” said Merk. “It’s the Spartan spin.”

“It’s Oldcorn’s,” I said.

“What’s Oldcorn?” said Baum.

“Look it up,” I said. “There’s a book.”

Somebody stared at us from the edge of the field. He had dirty pants, carried a planter and a spade. I tried to look into his crazy Jackson eyes, but there was nothing crazy about them. Just bored.

“That’s the groundskeeper,” said Baum.

“Oh,” I said.

* * *

Sometimes after a big meet we went to Merk’s uncle’s house to drink beer. Merk’s uncle’s basement was filled with beer, beer memorabilia, electric beer signs, and beer embroidery on the wall. Merk’s uncle worked in beverage distribution. Mostly beer. He said we could drink all we wanted, as long as we stayed in the basement.

There was a pool table down there. The cue sticks were just the right size for indoor javelin. We didn’t have outdoor javelin at our school anymore. Some kid had caught one in the neck.

Now the basement door swung open and there were Merk’s uncle’s loafers on the top step.

“Hello, boys,” he called. “I’m home and I’m thirsty. Pour one for the old man.”

Last time he’d gotten drunk with us, he’d sung love ballads into a balled-up pair of underwear.

“I’ve got to book,” I said.

* * *

Oldcorn won gold in Mexico. He was supposed to go to Munich, but he shattered his hip in a bike wreck. The hip never healed right. He had to revert to the glide. He won some meets, but he wasn’t Oldcorn anymore. He went out for the American team in 1976, the Montreal games, but with one put left in the trials, trailing badly, Oldcorn walked off the field, disappeared.

“He went to an ashram,” said Coach Monroe.

“Why?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“What’s an ashram?” I said.

Coach Monroe’s office was a cubbyhole behind the basketball bleachers. His desk was heaped with binders, team rosters, meet schedules, pole vault catalogs. He lit a cigarette, took a puff, blew the smoke into a gym bag, zipped it shut. Then he dunked the cigarette in a cup of tea.

“There,” he said. “Now, what were we talking about?”

“Oldcorn,” I said.

“Well, what can I say? I don’t know. He was an eccentric dude. He lived a private system. I know you guys like hearing about the good old days, but you should concentrate on what you’re doing now. Which brings me to another question. What do you think you’re doing now?”

“What do you mean, Coach?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I like having you around. You’re a nice kid. But how far do you think you’re going with the shot put?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“That’s good,” said Coach Monroe. “That’s good to hear.”

* * *

Coach Monroe said there would be a special surprise at our last home meet. When those Jacksons, with their satchels and their magic shorts, made their way to our circle, I saw what he meant. The special surprise was named Bucky Schmidt. He was enormous, milky-blue colored, like thin milk, with a flat head and a mean Hessian nose. He was the most mutated boy you could ever hope to see, though you had to look hard to see the Jackson in him. Or maybe there wasn’t any Jackson in him at all.