Bird Boy

 

    Chapter 6


  
    Michael slowed the truck to a stop at the side of the road about twenty yards in front of Dov and Kim, at a spot they would have to ride past on their bikes. With his left leg immobilized in the walking cast, his only choices when it came to the business of getting around were either constantly bugging Meagan and his friends for rides, or the automatic transmission in his dad’s beat-up old truck.

    His first night back from the hospital, he talked it over with Tomasz, who was more than happy to let Michael borrow his truck. All he asked was that Michael return it every day in time for him to get to work; that he never bring it back it empty; and that he treat his brother a little better.

    Turning on the charm, he readily agreed.

    What the Hell, he could tolerate his little brother for a while.

    This way, he could avoid calling in too many big favors from his buddies. Because with what he had in mind, he would need some big favors from his friends.

    “Hey, Bird Boy,” this time the name almost sounded friendly. “Listen, I’m on my way into town. You guys want a ride?”

    Dov and Kim exchanged puzzled looks, then shrugged. “OK, Michael. Hey, thanks!”

    “No sweat. Just toss your bikes in the back and climb on in.”

    As they pulled away from the side of the road, there was an uncomfortable silence for the first few moments, which Michael finally broke.

    “Hey…Look, I just want to tell you I’m sorry for everything. And that I got a lot to be sorry for. Know what I mean?”

    Dov couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What he really wanted to say to Michael was, “OK, where is my brother and what have you done with him?”

    But he knew better than to do anything to mess up what appeared to be a good thing.

    “So, where you guys headed?” Michael asked.

    “The Circle, I guess. After that, I don’t know…maybe the park, maybe the pool.”

    “Hell, The Circle’s only a couple of blocks out of my way.”

    Dov still couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his brother’s mouth. Or the fact that Michael was spontaneously offering to do something for him.

    Or that he wasn’t in the process of beating him bloody.

    “Thanks, Michael…I really appreciate it. Seriously.”

    Kim enthusiastically nodded her agreement. “Definitely, Michael. Thanks.”

    “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, I got a lot to be sorry for.”

    He stopped the truck in front of the Arctic Circle’s patio. As Dov handed their bikes down to Kim, Michael rolled down the driver’s window.

    “Listen, I’m just going over to the gym to do some arm and chest work. You guys want a ride back, I should be done by about three. OK?”

    Cranking the steering wheel hard to the right, Michael floored the gas pedal, burning a set of ‘donuts’ in the pavement as he took off for the exit.

    Watching him go, Kim turned to Dov and asked the question that was foremost on both their minds.

    “Do you believe that? He actually seemed nice!”

    “I know,” she answered. “Weird, huh?”

    Dov’s mood suddenly got a little more serious.

    “The question is, is it for real? And how long is it going to last?” 

 

                                                    *                              *                              *

 

    Michael laughed out loud, all the way to the High School parking lot.

    If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, then baffle them with bullshit.

    He was amazed at how well things had turned out for him over the previous couple of weeks.

    True, between the walking cast on his leg, the week of observation from the psychologist, the anger management group counseling sessions, the drug testing and the surprise visits from his new best friend from the Probation Department, life hadn’t exactly been fun.

    But, during the past few days, he had made an incredible discovery: that the people around him actually wanted him to succeed.

    Hell, that ugly little gnome of a brother of his just proved that.

    And as long as he remained upbeat and a little chipper, they would all go out of their way to help. Even to the point of bending, or breaking the rules for him.

    Even Meagan.

    Hell, especially Meagan.

    He had explained his plan to her, one afternoon about halfway through his second week in the hospital. And at first, she really didn’t want to have any part of it.

    What he was asking her to do was against the rules and probably illegal. And she didn’t want him to get into any more trouble.

    Christ, it wasn’t like he was asking her to rob a freakin’ bank, or something. All he wanted her to do was go online and order his steroids, that was all. Just click onto www.bulkmeup.com. He’d even give her his ATM card to pay with, then she’d have them Fed Exed to her house and store them all in the trunk of her car.

    And nobody would ever have to know.

    But Meagan wasn’t sold on the idea. What about those drug tests? What if he got caught? She couldn’t stand it if he got sent away.

    Great, Michael thought to himself. She can stop in every afternoon and give me a blowjob…but this is too much for her to do?

    He paused for a second, then smiled at her. And then he brought out the bullshit.

    Look…this for us, Baby.

    See, I’m already off the crutches and onto a cane, and I’m gonna be back playing this season, trust me. But I need this stuff.

    Without it, I won’t be as big. Or as strong.

    I just won’t have that edge.

    So without the ‘roids, I guess we’ll just have to forget about the scholarships.

    And the pro’s.

    And that big house we want. And all the kids…

    “We will?”

    Meagan sat silently for a moment, Michael’s argument causing her to re-examine her objections.

    Of course, we can always move in with my dad and Dov. Who knows, maybe I can get a job at the college or something.

    That clinched it.

    “Michael…you sure it’s gonna be all right?”

    “Trust me.”

    She let out a heavy sigh, and reluctantly nodded.

    “OK.”

    Michael gave her a huge hug and lifted her off the floor and onto his bed.

    Then he peeled back the covers and the front of his hospital gown, and settled back against the headboard, smiling.

    His testicles had staged a full recovery. 

 

                                                     *                              *                              *

 

    Every high school in the country has them; not to mention every college and university.

    Even middle and junior high schools have their share -- important but unappreciated items of athletic support, the kids who are too uncoordinated; or too fat; or too thin; or too short; or too sickly; or too slow; or too nearsighted; or just not quite good enough at their chosen sport to play it for their school.

    But that doesn’t stop any of these kids from desperately wanting to be one of their school’s fighting Wildcats, Pioneers, Wombats or Buccaneers. (Or, in the case of one University of California campus, their fighting Banana Slugs.)

    Which is why so many of them end up working as equipment managers for their school’s team, instead of playing on it.

    Equipment managers invariably get all the invisible, thankless tasks, from the post-game collecting of dirty towels, jerseys, pants and jockstraps to lugging around and dispensing the team’s supply of bottled Gatorade during a game; from sweeping out the locker room to washing and waxing the first-string  quarterback’s car.

    It’s really more about vicariously enjoying the thrill of victory, rather than the actual agony of defeat.

    But, like the old joke about the circus employee whose job during parades was to immediately follow after the elephants, wielding a large push broom and shovel, hey, at least they’re still part of the show.

    Tim Farnham was one of Bidwell High School’s fighting equipment managers.

    He was Timmy to his friends; Timmy, to the players and coaches; Timmy, to his allergist, his orthodontist and his optometrist.

    Timmy to just about everyone -- except his Comparative Romantic Poetry teaching, Ph.D. wielding mother. To her he was, and always would be, Timothy.

    The outside door was locked, as it usually was when school was not in session, so Michael rapped loudly on it with his cane. No biggie; somebody would be along in a minute or two to open up.

    As he waited, Michael shifted his weight slightly, letting more of it fall on his uninjured leg. It wasn’t that the knee Kim had taken out was causing him any problems, far from it. In fact, the orthopedist had just assured him that it was healing nicely, and he’d probably regain its full use. It was just that the walking cast was a long way from comfortable, especially when he was standing stationary.

    A moment later, there was a loud metallic clunk and the windowless metal door swung open to reveal Timothy Farnham standing in the doorway, with a half-eaten, chocolate covered protein bar in his free hand. Timmy always seemed to have a half eaten chocolate covered protein bar in one hand or the other. Which explained his 245-pound weight and aerodynamic silhouette much better than his mother’s view, that his girth was just a phase he was going through, a function of his being so kind and big hearted.

    What he was really going through was between ten and twelve of the 350-calorie bars a day, a function of having a set of keys to the team’s supplies locker, where all the protein bars were stored.

    “Timmy!” Michael reached out his free hand and shot the chubby equipment manager a high five/low five. “S’up, bud?”

    Timmy shook his head noncommittally, killing a little time until he was able to swallow the mouthful of protein bar.

    “Hey, Michael.”

    “Anybody using the weight room? I want to do some arm and chest work. You wanna spot me?”

    Timmy shrugged. “Sure, why not? But Coach wants to see you first.”

    Michael nodded and silently continued on toward the locker room. Both he and the equipment manager knew what it was the coach wanted to see Michael about. Today was to be his first official drug test; he had been warned the night before, to drink plenty of water during the early morning.

    Michael knocked on the partially open door to Coach Gubbins’ office and the man looked up from the pile of forms on his desk, then smiled broadly.

    “Come on in, Halek.” He motioned to a chair next to the wall. “G’head. Take a load off. Timmy, come on in. You might as well hear this too, since you’re gonna be part of it.”

    He drew a stapled bunch of papers from the stack on top of his desk. From the large Butte County seal at the top of the page, even upside down, Michael could see it was from either the Probation Department or Children’s Services.

    “OK, these are the instructions they sent me.” Coach Gubbins seemed uncomfortable reading them out loud and instructing Michael on the performance of some chores he didn’t think needed following in the first place. “Which we all have to follow.”

    According to the instructions, Michael was to submit a urine specimen to the Athletic Department for testing, the same day, each week.

    And to make certain that his specimen was, in fact, his and in no way tampered with, the collection of said jar full of urine had to be performed in the presence of an Athletic Department official.

    “Timmy, as head equipment manager for the team, you’re an official member of the Athletic Department. Right?”

    The boy nodded, stuffing the last portion of his protein bar into his mouth.

    “Good.” Coach Gubbins turned to Michael. “OK, you two hit the locker room. Timmy knows the drill, so just do exactly what he says. Got it?”

    Both boys nodded.

    “These clowns want a clean urine specimen? We’ll give ‘em a clean urine specimen.”

    The coach took an empty specimen jar from his desk drawer and tossed it to Michael. “Now, go take a leak.”

    Walking through the weight area on their way to the locker room, Michael noticed that the place was pretty much deserted. Only a couple of his teammates were working out, doing bench presses at a station down at the far end.

    The men’s room was off to one side of the locker room, just past the showers. As they entered, Timmy held up his hand, motioning for Michael to wait by the sinks. Then he methodically checked every one of the stalls, making sure that they were the only occupants of the large, white tiled room.

    Michael was a little puzzled, and slightly amused by Timmy’s dramatic show of stealth, craftiness and paranoia. Chuckling quietly to himself, he settled back against one of the sinks, watching the overweight equipment manager quietly pushing open one stall door after another, then silently tip-toeing on to the next one.

    Finally satisfied that they had the whole room to themselves, he returned to Michael, darted his eyes around the area one last time, held out his hand and in a hushed, overly dramatic voice, said one word: “Jar”.

    By now, Michael was fighting to suppress his laughter. For all his well-intentioned seriousness and drama, Timmy had managed to turn the whole situation into one of the silliest things Michael had ever seen.

    “The jar,” Timmy insistently whispered. “Gimme the damn jar!”

    Still fighting to keep his laughter at bay, Michael dug into his pocket and held out the empty jar.

    Timmy snatched it out of his hand, then turned, gave the room one last furtive once-over, and quickly tip-toed over to one of the stalls, slamming the door shut behind him, dissolving Michael into a loud laughing fit, to which the equipment manager delivered a loud “Sssshh!” through the closed stall door.

    A few moments later, Michael lost the battle to control his laughter a second time, as the stall door opened and Tim Farnham emerged, holding the now full specimen jar between two fingertips, looking angry and disgusted.

    Centered on the fly of the shiny orange and white pants of his XXXL warm-up suit was a huge round, dark wet stain.

    “So, what happens now?” Michael hadn’t quite figured out how the whole charade was going to operate.

    “Now?” Tim answered, wiping the front of his warm-up pants with a paper towel.

    “Now I give this to the coach, he sends it off to the lab…and you test totally clean. As far as the lab is concerned, I am Bidwell High School’s first string Varsity nose tackle.”

    Michael was duly impressed.

    “Just like I’m two of their varsity offensive tackles, a half back, both wide receivers, the entire defensive back field and the whole damn basketball team.”

    Timmy was really no different from every other overweight but under talented equipment manager to ever don a giant economy sized, shiny satin sweat suit in his school’s colors.

    In other words, the more X’s in the sweat suit size, the bigger the pie hole -- and the smaller the brain.

    The smaller the brain, the larger the propensity for its towel, water bottle and soiled jockstrap-carrying owner to harbor illusions that their actions are somehow important to the welfare and success of their athletic team.

    Timmy opened his pie hole again and continued, “So…as long as I’m fillin’ your jar, you got nothin’ to worry about.”

    “Cool.” Michael couldn’t believe what a repulsive, brown-nosing little asshole this tubby, pee-stained sweat suit wearing, big-mouthed tub of lard was.

    “Yo, yo, yo. Timmy got yo’ back”. He held out his fist, to bump knuckles with Michael.

    Unfortunately, he had already turned and left for the weight room.

    As Timmy hurried to catch up, he yanked another protein bar out of the pocket of his warm-up jacket, quickly unwrapped it and stuffed a good-sized chunk deep into his mouth.

    Michael hit the door to the weight room hard, literally exploding through it in his excitement. Between the news from the orthopedist and the whole go-round with coach Gubbins and Timmy, it had been a very good day. Better even than he could have hoped.

    More than likely, his knee was going to heal faster and stronger than anyone originally thought. Which meant it wouldn’t cost him nearly as much of the football season.

    And, for all of his bluster and tough talk about drug and steroid abuse, Coach Gubbins had actually found a way to bypass both the Probation Department’s regulations and the NCAA’s rules to allow Michael to keep on taking the steroids, if he so wished.

    And with his college years and pro prospects staring him in the face, Michael so wished.

    In fact, he so wished so strongly, he even had Meagan talked into going online and ordering his steroids for him under a false name and storing them in her car, just in case the county should decide to search him or his home.

    As he had suspected, both Bidwell High School and Coach Gubbins had a winning record to protect. So, nothing was going to be allowed to interfere. And, since he was considered a necessary ingredient of that success, nothing was going to be allowed to interfere with Michael’s football career, either.

    Not the courts.

    Not the Probation Department.

    Not Children’s Services.

    Not even the injury to his knee.

    All he had to do was just appear to cheerfully play the game; that was it.

    That was all anyone was asking of him. Just make it look like he was on board.

    He sat down on the weight bench and eased back onto the thickly upholstered pad, designed to support the weight of his upper torso and whatever weight was locked on the bar. He reached up, grasping the bar with both hands set shoulder width apart, then took several deep breaths, steeling himself for the effort that was about to come, once Timmy finished adjusting the amount of weight.

    “Sorry. Having a little trouble with these plates.” Timmy apologized and went back to setting Michael up with a total of three hundred pounds to lift, down from his usual three forty five.

    Michael could feel himself getting annoyed at the delay. This fat-ass clown, who had just peed all over himself, was costing him valuable workout time.

    But rather than getting upset at Timmy, he decided to follow a suggestion he’d been given in one of the anger management counseling sessions.

    Just visualize a situation where you’re feeling happy, successful and at peace. Then use images from that series to slowly count to ten. What the hay, might as well try it.

    So Michael took a few seconds to visualize a few situations where he was feeling happy, successful, and at peace.

    In his mind’s eye, he was back in uniform, in a game -- sacking an opposing quarterback.

    Now, he was with Meagan, sitting in her family room, watching his name being called during ESPN’s coverage of the NFL Player Draft.

    He closed his eyes and began to slowly count to ten, with each new number imagining a new and different scenario that made him feel happy and serene.

    One—He had Dov by the throat, strangling the life out of him, and feeling OK.

    Two—Bashing Dov‘s face into a bloody pulp with his bare fists. Feeling pretty good.

    Three—Stomping Dov into the ground. Feeling even better.

    Four—Running over that little misshapen little turd with his dad’s pickup. Feeling nice and relaxed.

    Five—Holding him under the surface of the pool until his body stops thrashing and he turns blue.

    Six—Clotheslining Dov during a play and ripping his head off. Definitely feeling good now.

    Seven—Running Dov through with a carving knife. Big, relaxed smile.

    Eight—Crushing his brother’s skull with his football cleats. Oh yeah, feeling pretty damn good.

    Nine—Blasting a huge hole in his chest with their dad’s shotgun. This psych shit really works.

    Ten—Setting his brother’s lifeless body on fire

    Michael opened his eyes, feeling relaxed and calm, at peace with the world.

    He took a quick, deep breath then strained against the bar, pushing all three hundred pounds into the air, and settling into the rhythm of slow, deep breathing and massive exertion that would carry him through another dozen repetitions.

    Then four more sets of a dozen reps each.

    Each time, relying on his special group of mental images to induce a feeling of calm and well being to get him through to the next set of repetitions.