Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

  Screechy.

  Mewling.

  High-pitched.

  It’s bagpipes.

  Yup, those are bagpipes coming from Schumann’s.

  And the spot of pride-swallowing that has been slowly working its way down Coffen’s esophagus gets thwarted, deemed irrelevant. He can’t go home. No way. He can’t pretend that this never happened, Schumann leaving him in the street like roadkill.

  These brash bagpipes push Coffen to retaliate. Here he is bleeding on the grass. Here he is bleeding and Schumann is in there merrily bagpiping songs for his family? Here Bob is feeling so alone in his life, feeling so separated from his own wife and kids, and the Schumanns are happily huddled by the hearth appreciating a bagpipe recital? And why had it been so easy for Schumann to abandon Bob in the street back there? Why was it so easy for people to abandon Bob Coffen? First his father had walked out, then the few girlfriends he had throughout his twenties, and now he and Jane had wilted into the ultimate cliché—a sexless marriage. They had a life much like the subdivision itself: walled off from everything, even each other.

  All these things inspire an elegant gush of rage in Coffen. He notices an American flag that hangs from a silly stick outside the château, and he thinks that maybe he can indeed think about this as a video game—maybe the hero can snatch the skinny flagpole. Maybe he can position himself in front of the huge picture window in Schumann’s living room—maybe this hero can pull back his arm to heave the patriotic javelin, the American flag whipping behind it—maybe Bob Coffen is in fact this hero.

  He feels the bruised clavicle burn even though he’s using the opposite arm to throw the javelin, not that the agony much matters, no way, because nothing’s going to keep Coffen from doing this.

  He watches the javelin sail, the flag waggling behind it.

  Bob watches and admires his toss as it glides toward the window.

  Watches its trajectory and thinks: The HOA will not be impressed with what’s transpiring on one of its hallowed lawns. Bob thinks, I might be stepping in some serious shit, but oh boy, does sticking up for myself feel good.

  Yes, if this were a video game, the picture window explodes!

  Sure, if this were a video game, Bob’s well on his way to winning.

  But in Coffen’s reality, his aim isn’t such great shakes. His javelin misses the huge picture window. Misses it badly. His heave is over near the front door and knocks off a flowerpot that’s suspended from a support beam. It shatters on the porch.

  The sounds of breaking terra-cotta halt Schumann’s bagpipe recital. Commotion in the douche’s lair. Footsteps stomping, dead bolt turning, and any second Coffen will hear a stampede through the door, and the featured brawl can commence, pitting the underdog versus Notre Dame.

  Schumann opens the front door, holding his bagpipes, spies Coffen out on the lawn. He yells back into the house for his wife and kids to stay put, he’ll handle this. It’s only Bob. Then he says in a calm voice, “Your head’s bleeding pretty good.”

  Coffen nods.

  “Look,” Schumann says, “let’s not make things any worse.”

  “You can’t smear me into the oleanders.”

  “Seriously, your head is pouring blood.”

  “And my shoulder’s hurt, too.”

  “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  Coffen stares at the bagpipes, limp in Schumann’s arms like a sleeping toddler. Bob wipes some blood from his face and asks, “What song were you playing before?”

  “Huh?”

  “What song was that?”

  “The fight song of my alma mater. Called ‘Hail Purdue.’”

  “A fight song?”

  “Our call to arms.”

  Having fought for something—having fought for himself—Bob feels like he needs to hear the song in its entirety. He fancies himself victorious in this situation with Schumann, despite the mangled bicycle, the bleeding head—despite the fact he’s only hours removed from somebody honoring him with a plock, probably the most malicious prize ever designed. Always midnight. Always lying about how much time has gotten away from him. Always Robert.

  “Before we go to the hospital, will you fire it up again?” Coffen says.

  “Why?”

  “I want to hear the song.”

  Schumann looks momentarily confused, then shrugs. He gets the bagpipes going, those gigantic, funereal squawks. Coffen stands on the lawn listening to “Hail Purdue” coat the whole subdivision in celebration. For some reason, Coffen has brought his hand up and placed it over his heart like he’s pledging allegiance to something.

  Tough-love life coach

  Bob initially hated how the bagpipes squawked, but soon the sounds transform into the most beautiful music ever, and Coffen is mesmerized, burrowing deep into the fight song’s melody. He’s heard people talk about experiencing things so perfect, so sating, that they feel they can die happy right then. Finally, he understands the meaning of such righteous hyperbole. It’s a moment nude of any other details, life freezing momentarily—much like the plock’s hands—and it’s only Bob, inside the fight song, finding solace in the idea he can stand up for himself. Sounds simple, easy, obvious to a certain kind of person: Of course you should stand up for yourself; you’re supposed to do that. But for somebody emotionally programmed with a three-thousand-pound inferiority complex, like Coffen, this act of resistance is a major coup.

  Being imbedded inside “Hail Purdue” doesn’t last long, though. Before Schumann launches into the fight song’s final chorus—Bam! Knock! Splat!—down Coffen crashes onto the lawn, out cold, hand falling from his heart.

  Next thing Bob sees is Schumann’s missus hovering over him, saying, “We can rule out death because I think he’s breathing. Are you breathing? I think I see him breathing probably.”

  “I’m not,” Coffen says.

  “Not breathing?”

  “Not dead.”

  “Obviously,” she says, “we’re in the midst of conversing.”

  Next thing Coffen remembers after that is being in the SUV with Schumann, driving down the main road in the subdivision.

  “Stay with me, muchacho. Schumann shall save the day.”

  “I don’t need you to save my day.”

  “I want to save your day.”

  “Do you know I’ve fantasized for years about hurting you?” Bob asks.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Schumann says, taking his hands off the wheel and clapping a few times—slow, awestruck applause. “I love it! Who would have thought you had violence in you. I feel a new kinship to you, Coffen. Dare I say I like you after you threw that flagpole and admitted you want to kick my ass! You’re a possessed warrior tonight. ‘In the zone,’ as Coach used to say. Honestly, I see you in a whole new light. One that makes me deeply respect you. I have a business proposition, my friend.”

  “We aren’t friends,” says Coffen.

  “I think we might be now.”

  “You’re always making fun of me at our block parties.”

  “It’s nothing personal. Comic relief helps everyone relax at those things.”

  “I don’t find it particularly relaxing when everybody thinks I’m a pussy.”

  “Don’t be so thin-skinned.”

  “You told the guys I couldn’t play touch football because of my yeast infection,” says Coffen.

  Schumann tries to repress a giggle, but it slips out. “That’s your standard locker room razz.”

  “This isn’t a locker room. This is real life.”

  “Real life is a gigantic locker room, Coffen,” he says, laughing harder.

  They’ve turned out of their subdivision, driving down the road with the oleander. Coffen sees his wrecked bike, his rucksack, and says, “Pull over.”

  “Why?”

  “I need my plock.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “I need my plock to remind me not to give up another decade.”

  “Maybe your tongue
is swelling from injury and I can’t decipher your slurred speech.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Schumann pulls the SUV into the bike lane and Coffen hops out, retrieves his newly received anniversary present, jumps back in the vehicle.

  “Oh, you meant ‘clock,’” Schumann says.

  “No, plock.”

  “Man, you really hit your head hard.”

  “You hit my head hard. You tried to ram me with your car, prick.”

  “Look, I shouldn’t have run you toward that oleander.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s my damn competitive streak. I want to win the whole world.”

  “You could have seriously injured me.”

  “Coach used to say I take things too far.”

  “He’s right.”

  “He used to punish me after practice, and you should, too. It’s the only way I learn. Do you want to ram me with my car so we’re even?”

  “What?”

  “Then we’d be fair and square, except technically I never rammed you with my car. Technically, I only almost rammed you. But I can overlook this inconsistency. I can take one ramming for our team. Don’t go faster than my speed from earlier—seven miles per hour.”

  “You’re saying I can hit you with this SUV right now?”

  “Only if you want to. There’s no obligation. If you don’t feel up to it, I’m totally fine with that.”

  “No,” Bob says. “I’d like very much to hit you with a car.”

  “And then we’re even.”

  “Why would you do this?”

  “Psycho Schumann’s not doing anything. You’re doing something.” Schumann opens his door. He walks in front of the SUV, stops about fifteen feet down the road.

  Coffen crawls over the console and into the driver’s seat, plock riding shotgun.

  He looks at Schumann standing out there in the headlights.

  Looks and thinks about how rare it is when a fantasy comes true: Bob’s secret yearnings to inflict pain on his subdivision foe are about to be realized.

  He revs the engine.

  “I am not afraid of anything,” Schumann says. “I’d take a grizzly bear’s temperature rectally. I’d tickle Sasquatch’s ass with a feather.”

  “You ready?” Bob asks.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I can’t wait,” says Coffen.

  He means it—or really, Bob wants to mean it. A certain part of Coffen is excited by the impending violence, but unfortunately, that faction of his psyche is outweighed by a more empathic caucus, a body of voices all whispering the same thing in his head: You can’t do this. No matter what, this is a road too low for you. Don’t go down to this disgusting level.

  “Hut, hut, hike!” Schumann says, eyes closed, arms flexed.

  But the SUV doesn’t move, continuing to idle.

  “I can’t do it,” Bob says.

  “What?” Schumann says, his eyes still closed.

  “I can’t ram you, even though I really want to ram you.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I’m not insane.”

  Schumann lopes back to the driver’s door; Coffen climbs back over into the passenger seat, holds the plock in his lap. Schumann starts driving and says, “I think I can coach you, Coffen.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Imagine you’re on a football team and you get a new special teammate. Imagine that every player on the opposing team is not on steroids, and they are sort of weaklings, staggering around and not really doing very good out on the field. And this new special teammate of yours is on steroids and sculpted like a Roman statue and having him on your team is going to guarantee a stampede into the play-offs. Does this sound like the kind of teammate you might want on your side?”

  Bob doesn’t respond. He should’ve hit him with the car.

  Schumann continues, “What I’m saying is that I’m like your new teammate.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You see this all the time in sports,” Schumann says. “Heated competitors in one season get swapped onto the same team the next, and once teammates, they transcend any grudges of yore.”

  “Yore?”

  “It means things that happened in the past.”

  “I know what it means,” Coffen says.

  “So what I’m saying is, I can help you. I know lots of things that maybe might help somebody like you.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can coach you to always act like the guy who threw that flagpole at my house. Not the pansy you usually are. You’ll always be a fearless warrior.”

  Schumann looks at Coffen, awaiting acknowledgment, but Bob doesn’t say shit, the clang in his brain getting worse. Words are far from his lips, locked behind some sort of window painted shut. Coffen will soon find out that a concussion is the culprit, but maybe it’s other things, too: Maybe it’s this new way Schumann speaks to him—with, what, respect? Deference? Equality? Bob’s not quite sure, only knows that he digs it.

  “How’s your head?” Schumann asks. “Your eyes aren’t focusing, I don’t think.”

  Bob sees the inherent merits in Schumann’s suggestion: Having him as a kind of tough-love life coach will not only take some pressure off, it might also earn a few bonus points at the neighborhood barbecues, jealous fathers wondering when these two kissed and made up, now trotting around like long-lost chums. Plus, Jane has always raved about Bev Schumann, and maybe now the couples can go out for paella.

  Bob extends his hand out toward Schumann for a shake and says, “You want to be my life coach?”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.”

  “Can you teach me to be manlier? Like Gotthorm?”

  “Who’s Gotthorm?”

  “Never mind,” says Bob. “I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to be pushed around anymore.”

  “I can definitely help with that,” Schumann says. “Training starts now. Let’s stop for some pizza on the way home from the ER. Demand that I pay for it.”

  “Buy the pizza, please.”

  “A kindergartener can be scarier than that.”

  Bob pauses for a couple seconds, then screams, “You’re going to buy me a pizza. And there will be several expensive toppings.”

  A smiling, hand-shaking Schumann says, “That’s the spirit.”

  “And cancel any plans you might have for Friday. You’re chauffeuring Jane and me to a magic show.”

  Scroo Dat Pooch

  Dumper Games is decorated like a dignified day care. That’s all the rage with greedy corporations these days, disguising themselves as elaborate romper rooms with Ping-Pong, billiard, and foosball tables, entire walls of vintage video games from the 1980s, kegs of microbrewed ale available whenever an employee fancies a pint. None of the young workers wear shoes, all lollygagging around in argyle socks.

  Malcolm Dumper, wearing his patented #99 Gretzky uni, invites Bob and his team into the conference room to plop down on one of the beanbags (of course, there’s no conference table or regular chairs in the conference room) and brainstorm. To powwow. To spitball ideas. To come up with a game so good it will boomerang DG back to its glory days. Specifically, Dumper wants this new game to corner the highly desirable and highly stunted eighteen-to-thirty-four-year-old male demographic: a land where scatology is king, a sad, lonely world where a certain segment of guys game and game and game their lives away, only taking breaks to jerk off or eat a Hot Pocket. And then quickly back to gaming. And then maybe another jerk. Another Pocket. Ad infinitum …

  Once everybody takes a seat on a beanbag, as is his tradition, Dumper launches these brainstorms with a speech, macerating his metaphors to pulp: “The Dumper family needs to make some immediate changes to our catalog and make them fast. Imagine Dumper as a massive ship. This ship of ours needs to bore full speed ahead to generate revenue, yet it also needs to do a 180-degree about-face to get away from the boring titles we’ve already put out this
year. Of course, no sailing vessel can do these two contradictory things at once. But we have to try to accomplish them, or who knows how long our doors will be open. Am I saying there’s imminent door closage? Not exactly. But the Great One is saying that our doors might get antsy to slam if we don’t start raking in some serious bacon.”

  “Are you talking about buying a company yacht?” the mouth-breather says. He’s almost half Coffen’s age, has only worked at DG for eight months. Bob can’t wait until he gets fired, pursues an industry more suited to his talents, say a tenured position as the chief mouth-breathing lackey at a sleep apnea clinic. “For, like, fishing trips?”

  “The Great One is talking about us. I’m talking about us taking the eighteen-to-thirty-four-year-old male demo and bouncing it on our knee and entertaining them with something edgier than they’ve ever imagined. And you’re the team to do it. So dazzle me with your pitches. Let me wet my beak on your fantastic ideas. Let me douse my beak. Submerge it underwater, deeper than the Titanic.”

  “What about a stoner’s quest,” says the mouth-breather, “in which a guy goes on a journey to find the perfect bong? Early levels give him pretty good bongs—nice draw, a properly placed carb—but each new level the bongs grow by a foot. The last level he can get a ten-footer. That’s like the Sistine Chapel for bong aficionados.”

  “You suggest that same idea at every meeting,” Dumper says, his humungous tongue safely stowed in his mouth, alerting everyone that he’s not impressed.

  “I’m pretty sure I nailed the pitch this time,” the mouth-breather says.

  “These drug ideas are a different demo. Teens. Maybe preteens.”

  “Bongs never go out of style, like turtlenecks.”

  “Dude, turtlenecks are completely out of style,” another young team member says to the mouth-breather.

  “Focus,” says Dumper. “Please. Shock me with your edginess. Let’s get back to our rightful Disemboweler throne.”

  Coffen had masterminded the whole Disemboweler franchise: Disemboweler I: Flesh for Breakfast; Disemboweler II: Tasty Comrades; Disemboweler III: Zombie Happy Hour; Disemboweler IV: Let’s Get Bloody! The first game had been Bob’s breakthrough success, and he built it back before computer advancements made it so simple to design games. Coffen did this before all the drag-and-drop technologies simplified the process so any novice could put a half-assed game together. He learned the trade back in a dark age when, god forbid, humans had to do the coding themselves. He constructed entire ecosystems from his imagination, dreamed up elaborate, sinister narratives for his characters. Bob saw this creation as pure beauty, on the same level as writing a sonata or chiseling a sculpture from a slab of marble. But at a certain point, technology ruined it for Coffen. Talent didn’t matter if any idiot could cut and paste stock images, drag them into a prefab world, and pass that schlock off as a game. His job, once ripe with art and self-expression, was spoiled. The sonatas were silent. The marble was safe.