The Rome of Fall

by Chad Alan Gibbs

  ~ ~ ~

  “That’s all he said?”

  “Yeah, he was freakishly calm, which honestly made him scarier. We both stood up, and Becca buttoned a couple buttons on her shirt, and her dad was like, ‘Please, leave this home,’ so I left as fast as I could.”

  Silas bent over laughing and said, “Oh god, I wish I could have been there to see it. The parents walking in part, not the making out part, obviously.”

  “Maybe next time,” I said.

  “Next time,” Silas repeated. “Dammit, Brinks, I warned you about that chick on day one, and I hereby absolve myself of any guilt regarding your pending heartbreak.”

  “She’s not going to break my heart. I told you she and Deacon are seeing other people.”

  “And girls like that pick guys like you over Ken-doll quarterbacks all the time?”

  “Yes ... well, no ... but I saw a flyer for the school talent show in December, and if I—”

  Silas covered his ears and said, “I can’t listen to this; it’s too sad.”

  “Ten bucks says, by Christmas, she’s seeing me exclusively.”

  “Keep your money, Brinks. You’ll need it for therapy.”

  “Whatever, just promise me you won’t tell Jackson about any of this.”

  “Why not? He’d tell you the exact same thing I told you.”

  “I know,” I said, “but for some reason, it pisses me off more when he says it.”

  Silas smiled and shook his head, “Fair enough, now hold the umbrella still. I’m getting soaked.”

  We were in Carthage for the last game of the regular season, and God was reneging on his promise not to destroy the Earth by flood again. The skies opened just after the pep rally that afternoon, and it had rained, sometimes sideways, ever since. Of course, no one in Rome would complain if God wiped Carthage High School off the map. I’d only been here a few months, could not care less if Rome ever won another game, and I wanted to crush Carthage so bad that night I was willing to put on shoulder pads myself, fake heart condition be damned.

  You’d see them, cruising Main Street, or at the Riverton Mall, or line dancing, I suppose. Kids from Carthage, driving late model BMWs and dressed head to toe in Tommy Hilfiger, because that was the most expensive store in the mall. Carthage was affluent, at least by Rubicon County standards. The doctors and lawyers of Riverton lived in Carthage, in stately homes on the river, and they only came to Rome to watch their sports teams beat ours and to eat BBQ at Trevi’s, because the BBQ joint in Carthage sucked and they knew it.

  Carthage High School was bigger than Rome. We had three hundred students; they had over twice that. This wasn’t an area game; it had no effect on the play-offs, and going into the 1994 season, Carthage had defeated Rome thirteen straight times.

  No doubt the rain helped Rome that night. At halftime, neither team had threatened to score, and at one point, they alternated fumbles on four consecutive plays. The bands did not perform at halftime in a hopeless effort to preserve the playing surface, but it didn’t matter. The teams played the second half in a mud pit that rivaled Woodstock.

  The Rome students roared all game, taunting Carthage fans with chants of, “We’ve got molars, yes we do, we’ve got molars, how ’bout you,” a reference to an unlicensed “luxury dentist” who practiced in Carthage for five years before being arrested, leaving a generation of Carthage students with missing permanent teeth that the con man pulled to collect insurance money. But despite our efforts, our team couldn’t string together consecutive positive plays, and late in the fourth quarter, Carthage broke off a long run that led to a short field goal attempt.

  “No way he makes this,” I said to Silas. “Not in all this wind and mud. This game’s been too weird. It’s our night, man.”

  “It’s been a weird game,” Silas agreed, “but that doesn’t mean we’re going to win,” and as the kick split the uprights, he turned to me and added, “I’ve been around too long to get my hopes up. We’re never going to beat them, Brinks.”

  After the kickoff, Deacon threw two incompletions, fumbled the snap, and lost ten yards on third down, and as the clock went under ten seconds to play, Coach Pumphrey called timeout. It was over, and some Rome fans began the sad walk to their cars while Carthage fans taunted, “Is there a fire drill?”

  On fourth down, Carthage only rushed three defenders and placed some defensive backs as far as fifty yards from the line of scrimmage. From shotgun, Deacon took the snap, rolled to his right, and pulled up to throw the ball as far as he could but reconsidered and took off downfield. Rome fans cheered because Deacon was running in open field, but he was still sixty yards from the end zone, with eight defenders and only a few blockers in front of him.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Idiot,” Silas said and sat down.

  But Deacon made a tackler miss then slipped from the grip of another and reversed field toward the far sideline.

  “Holy shit,” Silas said, standing up again, and Deacon cut back once more, hurdled a tackler, and caught a couple blocks as he turned the corner.

  He was at the thirty, the twenty-five, the twenty, and it was about then my mind calculated all possible outcomes of Deacon actually pulling this off, and a foreboding dread replaced any excitement I felt about possibly beating Carthage.

  Two defenders slipped and fell in the mud when Deacon cut back one last time. He was at the fifteen, the ten, and the noise from both sides was deafening as a final defender hit Deacon high, wrapped his arms around the quarterback, and was dragged the final seven yards to the Carthage goal line, where Deacon collapsed forward into the end zone.

  Final Score: Rome 6, Carthage 3.

  Rome students poured from the bleachers, over the fence, and onto the muddy field. Silas was with them, though I can’t for the life of me figure out how he scaled the fence with his crutches. I alone remained in the bleachers, soaking wet and dumbfounded, and watched as Rome students taunted Carthage fans with middle fingers and ass slaps. Then the Marching Legion struck up the fight song, and Romans sang at full voice while the players lifted Deacon onto their shoulders. The quarterback raised both hands in victory, and when the students started to chant his stupid name, I wanted to throw up.

  I assumed Becca was at the game, but it rained so hard she never came to talk to me, and I didn’t see her until she pushed through the crowd to Deacon. The players lowered him, and she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him like a world war had just ended. A photographer snapped a shot of the kiss, and it was on the front page of the Riverton Times the next day below the headline, “The Fall of Carthage.”

  The Carthage public address announcer asked the Rome students politely, then impolitely, then demanded they leave the playing surface, but they remained, celebrating with the greatest mud fight of all time. The grounds crew turned on the sprinkler system, thinking this might run them off, but they’d been standing in the rain for hours, and a person can only get so wet, so they continued to throw mud and ruin Carthage’s field until some taser-toting Carthage police officers entered the gate, and everyone ran for the parking lot and returned to Rome, where most of the town celebrated at Pantheon Pizza until the sun rose on Saturday.

  I went home to play my guitar.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was up by seven the next morning, playing my guitar and hating life, when Steve barged in without a knock. He’d spent the night, I guess, and I figured he was about to scream at me for waking him up, but he didn’t say anything, so I kept strumming while he walked around my room, looking at my posters and flipping through an issue of Spin on my desk.

  “Not bad,” Steve said, after I finished the song I’d been playing.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, and he continued to walk about the room. “Can I ... uh ... help you find anything?” I asked after a moment.

  “No,” Steve said, shuffling through my stack of Sega games before picking up my Warren Moon Starting Lineup figure, taking off his helmet, and setting him bac
k on my dresser.

  “Hell of a game last night, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “We beat Carthage twice when I was in school. They were just another shit town on the river back then. Did you know,” he asked, sitting on my desk chair, “me and your mama used to date in high school?”

  I shook my head no.

  “We did,” Steve said. “All senior year. She broke up with me that summer, right before she moved to Auburn.”

  Good for her, I thought, but didn’t say anything.

  Steve stood up, paced the room for a minute, then said, “What would you say if I told you I was gonna ask your mama to marry me?”

  Oh, god, no. Not this asshole. I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t breathe, because I knew she’d say yes. Not my mom from six months ago. She wouldn’t let some guy like Steve mow our lawn. But Mom had changed, and Steve had all but moved in with us, and the thought of him being my stepdad made me want to hang myself with a guitar string.

  “Well, what do you think?” Steve asked again.

  “I don’t think ...”

  “You don’t think what, boy?”

  “I don’t think Mom would ever marry you, when there are so many more eligible bachelors in the Rubicon County Jail.”

  Steve was out of the chair and in my face in an instant. He shoved a grubby finger into my chest and said, “You listen to me, you little piece of shit. Me and your mama are gettin’ hitched. That’s happening, ’cause we’re meant to be. So you’d better get used to the idea, or you can go back to Texas and live with your daddy, if he’ll even have you.”

  I tried to stand, but Steve pushed me back hard on my bed. “Choice is yours, boy. But just know I don’t give a shit, and me and your mama would be a lot happier if your ass weren’t around.”

  Then he slammed the door and left, and I sat on my bed and cried.

  Chapter Twenty (2017)

  “Mr. Brinks, you’re like, famous.”

  “I’ve been famous for twenty years, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s almost Thanksgiving and we’re not even through Act III. Now come on, folks, focus. We’re talking about the naivety of Brutus.”

  “Yeah, but you were like nineties-famous; now you’re now-famous.”

  I ignored this and said, “Brutus didn’t question the motives of others because he believed everyone was as honorable as he, and in the end, this cost him his—”

  “Did Ms. Walsh like her song?” asked the curly-haired girl near the door.

  They’d been doing this for nearly an hour and a half, and since there were only a couple minutes left in class, I gave up, closed my book for the day, and said, “Yes. She liked it.”

  “It was so romantic,” said the short blonde by the air conditioner.

  “Uh ... thanks,” I said.

  “Mr. Brinks, my YouTube video of your song already has over two million views,” said the guy in glasses by the wall, “and YouTube pays people a dollar per view, so I’m going to be crazy rich.”

  “I don’t think that’s how YouTube—”

  “They don’t pay people, dumbass,” said the guy behind the guy in glasses, after slapping the back of his friend’s head. “You pay them a dollar per view. How do you think they make money?”

  “Oh, shit,” said the guy in glasses then pulled out this phone to remove my video, I suspect.

  “Mr. Brinks, is your band getting back together?” asked the mousy-looking girl up front.

  “No, I don’t think we’re—”

  “Mr. Brinks, are you and Ms. Walsh getting married?” asked the curly-haired girl by the door.

  “What? No. I mean ... I don’t know ... maybe.”

  I blushed at my classroom’s collective, “Aww,” and thankfully the bell rang and they all left for second period. Well, all of them except for Kyler, who was asleep in the back of the room. I threw my pen at him but missed then walked over and shook his shoulder and said, “You don’t have to go home, Kyler, but you can’t stay here.” He looked up, confused, and stood to leave. I followed him to the door, and we were both a little shocked when Jackson walked in.

  “Oh, hey, Coach,” Kyler said, suddenly more awake than he’d ever been in my classroom.

  “You been sleeping, son?” Jackson snapped. “Is Mr. Brinks’ class not stimulating enough for you?”

  “No, Coach, it’s great,” Kyler said, then moving faster than he ever had on the field, added, “Gotta run or I’ll be late for biology.”

  Jackson shut my door and sat on my desk and said, “He’s a good kid.”

  “Who, Kyler?” I asked. “Jackson, he’s the worst.”

  Jackson laughed despite himself. “Okay, he’s a little shit, but he’s the best quarterback ever to come through Rome. Would you believe college coaches are already calling me about him? Division One coaches, and that kid is just a freshman.”

  “Wow,” I said, “too bad he’ll never graduate from high school.”

  Jackson stood up and walked over to my window to look out at the Colosseum. “Well,” he said, “that’s what I came to talk to you about. You see, Brinks, Kyler is doing well in every class this semester. Every class but yours.”

  “Wait, you’re telling me Kyler, the same Kyler who thinks the Riverton Little Caesars was built by the ancient Romans, is doing well in every class this semester but mine?”

  Jackson turned around and nodded, and I said, “Jackson, that’s bullshit.”

  My old friend forced a smile, but I could tell he didn’t find the situation funny. I glanced out the window on my door to see students lining up for second period, but no one dared enter with Coach Crowder in the room, and Jackson wasn’t in a hurry to leave, so I said in a lower voice, “There’s no way that kid is doing well in every class but mine. I’ve never met a lazier student in my life, and I went to school with Fletcher Morgan.”

  Jackson shrugged and handed me a slip of paper. On it were Kyler’s grades for the semester. An A in Alabama history, a B-minus in biology, another A in algebra, and an F in English literature. I shook my head and said, “Jackson, we’ve had two tests and two short essays this semester. Kyler failed both tests in spectacular fashion, and he didn’t even bother to write the essays. The only reason I gave him an F is because they won’t let me give him a G.”

  “The kid has a lot of pressure on him, Brinks,” Jackson said. “Academically, athletically, socially. And as you can see, he’s excelling in his other classes. So maybe it’s ...”

  “Maybe it’s what?”

  “Well, maybe the two of you just don’t ...”

  “Are you suggesting I’m the reason Kyler has an 18 in literature? Jackson, I’m the easiest teacher in the history of Rome. Half the answers on my multiple-choice tests are Star Wars jokes. Simple deduction and guessing should be enough to get half the answers right, and he doesn’t even come close to that.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Brinks. He’s shining in every class but—”

  “Yeah, I heard you. But I’m having a hard time believing you. There is no way Kyler has an A in Silas’s algebra class.”

  Jackson sighed and walked over to put a hand on my shoulder. “Dammit, Brinks,” he said in a low voice, “of course he doesn’t. Are you gonna make me say it? Silas wants Kyler on the team as much as me or anyone else in Rome. Do you think his offense would put up those numbers without Kyler? Of course not, but he’s not going to lose his quarterback just because the kid can’t solve for x, and I’m not going to lose him just because he can’t find the energy to write a paper for your stupid class.” Jackson turned to leave but stopped and over his shoulder said, “Brinks, you know I’m the reason you got this job, don’t you? Your mama called the school back in the summer, and Trajan came to me, and I told him to hire you. I know about your mama’s debt, and I know you’re broke as hell, and I’d hate for you to lose this job. Particularly over some alleged inappropriate sexual conduct that you’d never be able to disprove.”

  �
��What the hell are you—”

  Jackson turned around and held up his phone. On it was a selfie of me and the crazy girl I’d thought was a big Dear Brutus fan. She was making a kissy duck face. He pocketed his phone and said, “I’ve got fifty of these, Brinks, but I don’t want to release them. That would just be too much to put on your poor mama in her dying days. So help me out here. I want us to be friends.”

  He slipped his phone back into his purple windbreaker while I stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and rage. Deacon was right, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a world where Deacon was right.

  “Well,” Jackson said, snapping me back to the present.

  “I’ll ... I’ll think about it,” I muttered.

  “I’m sure you will,” Jackson said and walked out the door

  ~ ~ ~

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I guess I’m going to change his grade. But I’m not giving him an A. He can have a C-minus and nothing more.”

  Becca and I were in a booth at Pantheon Pizza, eating dinner and discussing my conversation with Jackson. Well, the part about changing Kyler’s grade, not the part about blackmailing me with inappropriate selfies. I’d seen her, for at least an hour, every night since the homecoming dance. We were in love, I think, though we’d been rather good at avoiding all talk of our future.

  Becca smiled across the booth and said, “I know it’s a tough choice.”

  “It shouldn’t be, though. People should be able to live in this town without having to join Deacon’s stupid crusade or change Jackson’s stupid quarterback’s grades. This shouldn’t be a binary decision.”