Quarterbacks

Quarterbacks

       Pigskin Reimer

Bridled, Basil balked but bristled a "Yes." He would stay on one more year for the Bombers. How could life be so, so, so unfair, he thought. If he were playing hockey none of this would have happened. He would be earning in the six figures and living it up summers with girls named Summer and ensconced in apartments with names like Summerland. Summer, summer, summer. Gad, he hated hockey, since it couldn't be his sport. He exited the manager's room and walked out of the suite of stadium offices, determined to come there as little as he had to. For practice and for official ceremony, that's it, he thought.

       He skirted Les Rendezvous where Fred and Bo might be and got to his Prince via an alley, out of sight. He was an end. Ends could be thin and wear panties, though the other boys didn't know this about his underwear. Except for Bruiser, the Bomber center. He knew because he liked to take them off of Basil now and then in Miami where they spent winters together. "Don't bend the end," someone would yell, or "He's so thin if he turns sideways you can't see him." He didn't mind, just so long as he kept scoring and kept his job.

       "Hey Buckie," he called to the dude in the Stetson and the pink boots. Bring me another. Bucky ignored him and Basil gave him the finger when his back was turned. Let's see. Five on Foreigner and another five on Go-Get-Em. He marked them with his pencil, went to place his bet, and ate a hotdog with mustard. A girl behind the counter with a horsey smell and a long smile blinked at him and he smiled back. He sat in the cold seat and watched the horses race by.

       He liked watching Ali McBeal and Rosy Odonal. That was it. The rest of it you might as well trash, as far as he was concerned. He also stayed up nights now and then when he couldn't sleep till midnight when the pay per view shows started. He could sometimes just make out a breast, a vagina straining and white underwear or even an erect penis now and again. Other than that, he disliked television.

       He washed the dishes after supper and grimacing put them away. If you left clean dishes on the counter you began to leave dirty ones too and in a day the space was full. The phone rang. It was Bucky. Hi, Basil, have you got Bruiser's number? I've misplaced it. Thanks. Before Basil could ask what he wanted it for, Bucky hung up and Basil stood there for a while pondering. He went to bed early but couldn't sleep and so got up and switched back and forth between channels 71 and 70 for an hour and then returned to bed.

       Second string quarterback, second-string end. Same dif. That's how he woke up. Gad, he hated hockey. One more year of this and he'd have to find other work. What would he do? Maybe go back to school and take, what, engineering? Accounting? Business management? Only about every other person in the western world was taking bus. man. What then? Bus driver? Live on welfare? It wasn't that bad, but it wasn't good either.

       Birtle called. "Say, Basil, how are you?" in a sweet and happy voice. Before he could say more than, "Oh, good. How are you," she had asked him if he would drive her to her clinic and take care of her daughter for the next few hours. Sisters had a way of making you work, work, work. He hated babysitting. Especially when they were so young. Oh, well, it would be one of those days. She arrived and he said not one word to her and didn't smile so she wouldn't think he was always available. In the end he did squeak out a hug. He and his charge went to the zoo and saw the birds and such. The afternoon dragged on.

       At the first practice he injured his arm and was sidelined for at least that one practice, maybe another. The coach didn't know and would have had no time to commiserate with him anyway. Basil sat there watching Bruiser and the others running back and forth on the field. He drank Gatorade and daydreamed, thought of Summer, and was so bored he could have thrown up. Gad, he hated hockey.