Chris Bachelder - The Throwback Special

Later, their space tidy if not dry or fragrant, Tommy and Myron sat in chairs on opposite sides of the room, throwing a football and talking about public education. Myron’s kids’ school’s library’s roof had collapsed under the weight of snow last winter. Tommy’s kid’s teacher’s aide was someone he could not stop thinking about. Because he called her “striking” and “pretty,” because he talked about her “features” and her “figure,” Tommy did not sound creepy to Myron, nor to himself. It was but a partial and genteel confession of his depravity, and it trailed off into silence and obscene ideation. The men did not need to talk because they were throwing and catching a football. Or, if they chose, they could talk about throwing and catching a football. Eventually, of course, one man sat beneath the window and tried to time his throw so that the other man, running from the door, could make a diving catch on the queen bed. They alternated positions. Both men became flushed and sweaty. Neither man cared to remember the year that Vince broke the corner off of a bedside table. Both went about the game with gravity and good-natured intensity. It was important to them to throw and catch the ball well.

“Nice one.”

“My fault, bad throw.”

“The one-handed grab!”

“I suck.”

“That one will no doubt be reviewed.”

“I used to be able to do that.”

“Lead me a little more next time.”

“Crap.”

“Whoa.”

“You okay?”

“Nice one.”

“Got my bell rung.”

“Hold on.”

“Broke the plane!”

“It went in the closet, I think.”

“Fearless over the middle.”

“I have to blow my nose.”

“That’s it.”

“On a roll now.”

“Oh, shit.”

“That was my bad.”

The wall sconce was chipped, but functional. The men quit their game, and prepared for bed. They texted their wives, brushed their teeth. Fat Michael had still not returned. Tommy and Myron got into the same queen-size bed. Myron asked Tommy if he wanted to read, and they both laughed. Myron turned off the light. Tommy, it seemed to Myron, fell asleep immediately. He had never seen someone fall asleep so quickly.

In the faint red glow of the alarm clock, Myron could see the empty bed they had left for Fat Michael. It was customary for the man playing Theismann to sleep alone. It was intended to be a perk, or a compensation, but it had always seemed to Myron to be mildly punitive, a form of exile or symbolic estrangement. Myron, who six or seven years ago had been Theismann, imagined Fat Michael slipping into bed later tonight. He knew what it was like. Now Myron, feeling Tommy’s warmth beside him, remembered so very clearly that time after the birth of his first child. He remembered tucking her in at night, leaving her alone in the dark of her room. It had always seemed odd to him, somehow unfair or backward, that the adults could sleep together at night for warmth and comfort, while the child, fearful and lonely, had to sleep by herself.

IN BED, in the dark, Andy and Robert talked quietly about injuries. Robert’s neighbor had sliced himself wickedly with a hedge trimmer. There had been blood on the roof . Andy knew it didn’t sound like much, but he had ended up in the ER because of a splinter from his back deck. Both men had been laid out with back spasms. Both men found themselves using the railing when they climbed stairs. Neither man could put on socks while standing up. They had both lived in the paradise of a painless body for years without even realizing it. The inglorious body had become, for Robert and Andy, one of life’s most prominent themes. They often woke up sore, scanning their minds for possible causes. Each man in the bed cupped his genitals, not for arousal but for comfort.

“I’m sorry to hear about your marriage,” Robert didn’t say.

“It’s just one of those things,” Andy didn’t respond. Nor did he say anything about the day he and his wife told their two children. That night, one of his final nights in the house, Andy went to check on his nine-year-old son in his room. He planned to sit on the edge of the boy’s bed, to say things to him while he slept. But the boy wasn’t there. Andy searched the house, gripping his phone, preparing to call someone, the police. Finally, he climbed to the third floor to his thirteen-year-old daughter’s bedroom. Andy said none of this to Robert. He opened his daughter’s bedroom door gently, even though he was expressly not allowed in the room, and had not been for a couple of years. A lamp was on inside. Andy smelled the fresh paint. She had painted her walls. The color was ridiculous, but she had done a neat job. The room was heartbreakingly clean and organized. The items on her bookshelves were arranged perfectly. He had had no idea what was up here, but he never would have guessed this. A silk butterfly dangled from the ceiling, spinning slowly in an invisible draft. The girl was in bed, texting. Andy’s son was curled beside her, asleep. His son and daughter didn’t even like each other. All they did was fight. The boy was not allowed in this room. Andy’s daughter did not look up from her phone. Andy nodded to her, and he left the room.

Robert knew that Andy was going through a hard time. He knew he had a kid, maybe two. The question Robert would not ask had a long answer that Andy would not provide. Robert wanted to help. He wanted to give something to Andy. “My mother has Alzheimer’s,” he said quietly.

“Really?” Andy said. “Robert, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks,” Robert said.

This was something Robert could offer, even if it wasn’t true. He had just visited his mother in Wisconsin, and though her mind certainly was not as sharp as it had once been, she was doing just fine, still living by herself. Together they had handed out candy to neighborhood trick-or-treaters. They had run out of treats and turned the porch light out at eight o’clock. Then they had watched a documentary about the enormous salt mines beneath the Great Lakes.

THE EMPTY HALLWAYS WERE HAZY WITH sconce light and Wi-Fi radio waves.The small red lights of ceiling smoke detectors blinked in no discernible pattern. An elevator car rumbled in its shaft, transporting nothing but a name tag ( Marc ) and the scent of degraded deodorant. A ghost coursed the stairwell. The vending alcoves clicked and hummed.

Vince’s T-shirt read Daytona Beach , and he snored intermittently.

Carl’s T-shirt read No Coffee No Peace , and the Sharpie wouldn’t wash off his hands.

Wesley’s T-shirt read Richardson’s Lawn & Garden , and he composed, in his mind, in the dark, a long letter to his son.

Gary’s tank top read I ATE THE MEGABURGER , and he snored aggressively.

Bald Michael’s T-shirt read Miller High Life , and his sleep apnea machine made a pleasant bubbling sound like a fish tank.

George’s T-shirt had a picture of Darwin with an enormous block of text far too small to read, and he snored slowly.

Nate’s T-shirt read WTF? , and in the dark he regretted the cigarette.

Robert’s T-shirt was inside out to conceal the design, and in the dark he worried that his older daughter was developing an eating disorder.

Andy’s T-shirt read Which Way to Rock City? , and he snored like a cartoon hound.

Gil’s T-shirt had a picture of Thor and Loki, and his hand was asleep beneath his pillow.

Myron’s T-shirt was yellow, and he snored with a placid countenance.

Tommy’s T-shirt was incomprehensible, and he snored beneath his mustache.

Fat Michael’s sweaty shirt read Bailey’s Peak Challenge 2006 , and he ran seven-minute miles on the treadmill in the hotel’s Workout Center, wearing his Joe Theismann helmet and staring blankly over the single bar of the face mask into the wall-length mirror.