by Dan Jenkins
"Seems a little harsh," I said.
Shake said, "Naw, that would do it. She'd bitch one time, sooner or later, and the whole thing would be ruined. Women can't help it. It catches up with 'em. At one time or another, they got to bitch about something that don't make a shit."
"Seems like Barb ought to get the privilege of one bitch in a lifetime," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said, honestly.
"Has she ever bitched?" he said.
"Not that I know of," I said.
"Well," he said, "you let her become a legal wife, an owner, and then you would see some dissatisfaction expressed."
"Even Barb?" I said.
"That's the thing, Billy C.," he said. "No matter how great she is — and she's the best — she can't help the fact that she's a woman. It'll finally catch up with her, and I just don't want to be there when it happens."
I asked my old buddy how he knew all this.
"Books and movies and knowing people," he said.
I busted up laughing.
Then I asked him what about men who bitched.
"Men don't bitch like women and even if they do, you don't take it seriously, and you can tell 'em to go shit in their wallets and they don't get their feelings hurt and they don't hold grudges," he said.
Women were certainly a different problem, I said.
Shake went on, "Women take things personally when they shouldn't. For example, if you forget the loaf of bread, they have a tendency to think that you forgot it because you don't love 'em as much as you did yesterday. And that's not why you forgot the loaf of bread. You forgot the loaf of fuckin' bread because you were drunk, or it wasn't important enough to remember."
I said, "It might have been important to the woman. She might have needed it to cook you something good."
Shake said, "Then she could fix navy bean soup instead. Or enchilladas."
"Oh, that's right." I giggled. "I forgot."
Shake said, "It's too bad about women, and especially Barb, but that's the way it is."
I said I guessed so.
He said, "You were wondering where we're all going and that troubles me a lot more than it does you, like I said. The thing is, you see, where we're going now doesn't lead anywhere."
"We're living," I said, "and laughing."
He said, "Yeah, but it would all be ruined by Barb not getting her loaf of fuckin' bread some day. See, I've known the all-time girl and I've loved her and she's loved me. I've had the all-time pal, which is you. And I've played a game as good as anybody ever played it. Now I think I want to do something else."
"Find some spies," I said.
"Just do something different. It bothers me that all I've ever done is be a split end and fuck around," he said.
"It doesn't matter that you've been loved and happy and famous and rich?" I said.
"Anybody can do all that," he said.
"All you got to do is want to," I said. "I forgot again."
"Right," said Shake.
"In other words," I said, "you want to go see if you can round up some misery somewhere."
Shake said, "Well, I'm not exactly looking for any misery. I've always been dead set against hunger or being thirsty, as you know. I think what I'd like to find is something different to look at and something different to listen to, but I don't know what."
"What's your position on being lonely?" I asked.
Shake said, "Nobody's lonely who's got any sense. And if it's female companionship you're speaking of, well, you know old Shake 'Em Up, Shake Loose ain't gonna be without a pretty face with a set of dandy lungs, although the colors may differ as he travels about."
I said, "Old buddy, what you're telling me is that love doesn't matter."
"Naw," he said. "Love is great. Love is flowers and oceans and mountains and laughing and a Her or a Semi to share 'em with. But maybe I'm tired of all that. It's not so important any more."
Not as important as what else, I wondered.
"I don't know," he said. "A new kind of talk, maybe."
I said, "Well, why don't you go the fuck up to Harvard? They'll talk to you."
He said that wasn't quite it, and he said that he supposed I couldn't really understand what he was trying to say since I had to be somewhere so I could get the scores.
"All I know," I said, "is that if a girl like Barb loved me the way she loves you, I would have found everything I was ever looking for. And I would bust my ass more than I do on Sundays for the New York Giants trying to make her happy. Old Billy Clyde is the one who ought to be looking for something instead of you."
Shake said, "Aw, yours will turn up. She'll walk right into a New York bar one night, a vision of loveliness and lungs and good nature."
"For fifty or a hundred," I smiled.
Shake said I was probably right about all of it and that he was probably crazy, but maybe he would be less crazy with a couple of bacon cheeseburgers down his neck at Clarke's.
"You don't want to hang around with spies, anyway," I said. "Most of 'em don't even speak English, I hear."
"That's right," he said. "And they're mostly men, too, aren't they?"
I laughed a yeah.
"Piss on spies," said Shake. "Let's go eat and talk about football, or something that makes sense."
"Just do me a favor, old buddy," I said.
"Yeah," he said.
I said, "Don't disappear on us until we've had a chance to draft a good split end."
Well, friends, I am finally out of my lemon-lime bubble bath and I'm sitting here on a stool by the dressing table, but I am going to have to take a shower now, because of something that took place in the past thirty minutes.
There I was, all comfortable in my tub with my tape recorder and a cigarette, when the bathroom door cracked open and this voice came floating through.
It was singing.
What the voice sang was:
His achin' muscles soaked in that old tub where he was sittin',
A day's drive was done and that was good.
But his drivin' never ended, just like a woman's knittin',
And his life was just as lonely as that engine 'neath the hood.
Oh how he'd drive, drive, drive that big old truck
It was Elroy Blunt, naturally.
He poked his head in the door wearing a large floppy-brimmed suede hat.
"Clyde!" he whooped. "They told me you was in the tub so I made that up from the living room to here. Good to see you, son."
I told Elroy he was still a genius and I was delighted to see him. And I was.
"They's good times ahead, Clyde," he said. "Nuthin' but good times."
How's it going? I asked.
"Just as smooth as the inside of a little old girlie's thigh," he said. "How 'bout your own self?"
Good, I said.
"You look good, son," he said. "Takin' them old fag baths and all. Marvin Tiller looks good, out there in the livin' room wearin' his pirate shirt and his velvet pants. Barbara Jane looks her same old delectable self, just as if the Old Skipper sent her to us from upstairs. And I want to congratulate you on that there Cissy what's-her-name. Hmmmmmmmm, son. Strong."
She's comforting, I said.
"Clyde, that Cissy what's-her-name's got to be stronger than a family of Mexkins," he said.
She's understanding, I said.
"Lookie here, Clyde," said Elroy. "Now you know I'm always thinkin' of your fantasies. Ain't that right? Well, I done brought you a present."
I wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.
But it was O.K.
What Elroy Blunt brought into the bathroom was what he described as a debutante from Savannah. Name of Sandi.
"This here's Sandi," he said.
I said it was a pleasure.
Sandi was solid built and she had orange hair piled up, and her eyes were-painted dark purple, and she looked somewhat bored.
Elroy said, "If you will note, Clyde, young Sand
i here is a lady with a whole dress full of titties."
She certainly was, I said.
Elroy said, "Now, Clyde, if a man was to rate this particular set of delectable lungs on a scale of Small, Medium, Large, Gigantic and Just Right, where would you say they stood?"
Pretty close to all right, I said, and they were.
"Strong, ain't they?" Elroy grinned, squeezing on one of Sandi's enormous lungs and kissing her on the cheek.
Sandi didn't seem to change her expression much. Her lashes flapped, that's all.
"Now, Clyde, one of the things they teach a Junior Leaguer in Savannah, I found out, is to start their tongue on a man's big toes and work their way all the way up to the backside of his teeth. With intermittent stops, of course," he said.
Of course, I said.
Elroy looked at Sandi and said:
"Say somethin' to my old podner here that'll get him excited."
Whereupon young Sandi knelt down by my tub and stuck her arm in my lemon-lime bubble bath.
"Let's see what I can find down here," she said.
Elroy said then, "Well, I think I'll leave you two lovebirds alone for a while. Clyde, son. By God it's good to see you. And there ain't nuthin' ahead but good times, hnn't worry about your guests in the livin' room. The star’s here. He'll entertain 'em."
Well, friends. All of this was just a while ago. Young Sandi has now finished practicing her hobby. She's dressed again, and already gargled, and gone into the living room, where I'm sure she received a warm reception from Cissy Walford.
Now I got to take me a shower and join my guests.
There I was, all clean and smelling good, and then Elroy brought me that Junior Leaguer for a present.
With him around a man never knows what's liable to happen.
Anyhow, I got to get after it. We'll chat later.
Yawl come see us again in Savannah now, you heah?
I DON'T KNOW HOW ALL OF THE OTHER GREAT BOOK writers do it but I like a little quiet and semi-solitude myself.
It's after one A.M. right now, which means that it has turned Saturday, the day before the game.
I am laying here on the bed where Cissy Walford has gone to sleep in a mound of movie magazines. Everybody left our palatial suite pretty early, about midnight.
That was just what me and Shake wanted to have. An early night.
All we did was sit around, mostly, and talk about how we were going to dough-pop the dog-ass Jets.
Elroy Blunt got out his guitar and sang about seven thousand tunes, which was fun, and relaxing.
Big Ed and Big Barb don't go much for country music and they kept requesting things like "Moon Over Kara-kaua," and "Palm Frond Mamba," and "You're the Twist in My Cocktail."
Once, Big Ed and Big Barb tried to do their version of the Fort Worth Slide when Elroy sang "You Can't Peel the Bark on a Redwood."
It wasn't so good.
Right in the middle of the evening Shoat Cooper showed up, as he is known to do. He was having his usual case of pregame second thoughts and worry.
He wanted me and Shake to go out in the hall with him and have a "gut check."
Shoat said he had been down in Hose Manning's room chewin' on his cud, as he put it, and there was something troubling him about the game.
"I believe our defense is ready to stick 'em," he said. I ain't worried about the defense. Their navels is gonna lie screwed to the ground and they'll scratch and bite and spit at 'em."
Shoat said he figured our defense could hold the dog-ass Jets to seventeen or maybe twenty-one points. Twenty-four at the most.
"What this means," he said, "is that our offense is gonna have to stay off the toilet seat."
Me and Shake shook our heads in agreement.
"What troubles me," he said, "is that I dreamed the other night that they ain't gonna stay in their tendency defense. I think them sumbitches have so much respect for our runnin' game they're apt to give us a new look."
Shake said, "They can't overload anywhere. We got too many ways to fuck 'em."
Shoat said, "They can do one thing we ain't thought about."
Me and Shake looked at each other, and back at Shoat.
"They can Man you with Dreamer," Shoat said, looking at Shake Tiller. "And send the whole rest of their piss ants after stud hoss here."
"Dreamer can't play Man on Shake," I said. "Shake'll dust his ass off."
Shoat said, "Why's that?"
"He just will," I said. "Nobody's ever been able to play Man on Shake. And the best have tried."
"Dreamer ain't tried," said Shoat.
"So what?" I said.
"It's just something that come to me in my sleep," said Shoat. "It'd be a gamble for 'em. But I think it's what I might try, if I had me a Dreamer Tatum."
We all stood there in the hall and looked down at our feet.
"What else this means," said Shoat, "is that you're gonna take some licks in there, stud hoss. You got to hang onto that football out there Sunday. We can't give them piss ants anything."
I hardly ever fumble, by the way, and I reminded Shoat Cooper of that.
I looked at Shake as if to ask him about all this.
Shake said, "Coach, if I had one wish in life it would be for Dreamer Tatum to cover me Man. The whole fuckin' game."
Shoat Cooper thought about that. Then he said:
"Well, it would be an interestin' thing to look at in the screening room some day, or maybe at a coaching clinic. But I don't know as though it would help us win this football game."
Shake said, "If he tries to cover me Man, he'll get at least three interference calls, and I can beat his black ass all day on deep."
"He cheats," I said to Shoat.
"He wouldn't cheat if his job' wasn't to stop no sweeps or pitches," said Shoat. "If his job was only to intimidate old Eighty-eight here and climb inside his shirt, he wouldn't cheat for the run."
We stood there some more, and I made up my mind.
"If they use Dreamer that way they're more dog-ass dumb than I ever thought," I said.
"It's just somethin' that bothered me in my sleep," said Shoat. "I just wanted to know what you studs thought about it."
Shake said, "What'd Hose think?"
Shoat pawed at the hall carpet and said:
"Aw, old Hose, he just smiled. He said he kind of hoped Dreamer would be Man on you because at least if he was, then Hose wouldn't have to worry about gettin' blind-popped from a corner blitz."
We grinned, me and Shake.
"Everything's cool, coach," said Shake. "If they play that way, old Billy C. here might not get his hundred and thirty-five rushing but we'll get everything else."
"You hosses feelin' good?" Shoat asked.
"Ready as we'll ever be," I said.
"Feelin' fierce, coach," said Shake, hugging old Shoat on the back. "Ready to rape, ravage and plunder."
Shoat said, "You hosses get a lot of rest in these last few hours. I want them legs to have spring in 'em. It's gonna be nigger on nigger out there Sunday."
"We're ready," I said again.
And we said goodnight to old Shoat, who probably went and drew circles and x's for five or six more hours.
Shake and me stayed in the hall after Shoat walked off.
I said, "Is there any possibility whatsoever that Shoat could be right?"
Shake said, "None."
"No team gives up its basics and takes chances in a big game," I said.
"Right," said Shake.
"It's all down to who executes. And besides that, they're favored," I said. "Or were."
"They think they can play normal and cover us up with busy," said Shake.
"And they can," I said.
Shake had started back into our palatial suite, but he stopped and grinned and said:
"Goddamn, Billy C. Nobody ever said it wasn't gonna be semi-tough."
On Thursday night when we had dinner with Big Ed and Big Barb we had a fairly pleasant night, as it turned out
. Which was an upset.
You don't just go looking up Big Ed and Big Barb for dinner. Mainly you don't because you know that Big Ed will take you through the whole history of the "oil bidness" again. And he'll go right from that to what's wrong with pro football, specifically the coaching.
Generally, Big Ed will also get mad at one or two waiters or waitresses, so much so that people at other tables will stare at you. And so much so that the food and service will be pretty miserable for everybody.
But, anyhow, it wasn't bad. We went to that steak place on Rodeo where a place called the Daisy used to be. The name of it was Beef Jesus.
Big Ed was on his good behavior, as I say. Except for a few remarks about Hollywood having more Jews than it used to have — in a fairly loud voice.
"Sorry you kids missed Hollywood back in the days when you could tell the women from the men," he said.
Another time, he said, "By god, I loaned some Jews out here some money one time and came out to check up on it and had me a hell of a time. That was before you, Mrs. Bookman."
Big Barb only smiled the whole time and kept glancing around Beef Jesus to see what the other women were wearing.
Big Ed did have a bit of a problem with the menu and llie waiter, who looked and was dressed like straight Jesus and carried a big cardboard cross on his back as part of his costume.
"Hi, there," said the waiter. "I'm Jesus Harold. I've come back to serve you."
Big Ed spoke half to Jesus Harold and half to his menu.
"I don't know where you came back from, young man, but it looks like you didn't grab anything but your underwear when you left," he said.
And Big Ed looked around the table to see if any of us thought that was funny.
The waiter said, "The menu doesn't actually mean much. The specials, I think, will intrigue you a lot more. The menu is mostly for, well, you know, people from Iowa, or somewhere."
Jesus Harold adjusted his cross and stood with one hand on his hip.
Cissy Walford wanted to know what the specials were.
"To start," said Jesus Harold, "I've got avocado and aku, cold, of course, with Macadamia nut dressing. Very nice. I've got spinach and mushroom pie. Unbelievable. I've got asparagus soup, cold, of course, with some heavenly little chunks of abalone in it. I've got celery spears stuffed with turkey pate. Incredible. And I've got civiche without pitted olives. It's terribly marvelous."
