The Wanderers

by Richard Price

  When Joey woke up the next morning he was sure he had cancer of the throat. He sat up in bed with his hands on his neck like a man who'd just taken a shot of homemade redeye. He stumbled into the bathroom, flipped up the toilet cover but not the toilet seat, and pissed. Swallowing was agony. He took the Vaseline from the medicine chest, scooped out a fingerful, and put it in his mouth. Bracing himself, a hand on each side of the sink, he gagged and swallowed simultaneously. He couldn't remember if his grandmother used Vaseline, Vicks VapoRub, or Ben-Gay for sore throats, but he imagined they all tasted the same.

  Emilio sat in a bathrobe listening to the radio, smoking a cigarette, and staring out the dinette window. Nine-thirty. Saturday morning sunlight splashed onto the bright red-and-white oilcloth leaving a swath of brightness across Emilio's chin, neck, and seminaked chest. Joey brought in a cup of coffee for himself and sat down in his underwear at the far end of the table. Emilio glanced briefly at his son and returned his gaze to the street and the el tracks, which were eye level with the window. Joey sipped his coffee and watched his father. He was dying for a cigarette but afraid to ask for one.

  "Jo-wee! Jo-wee!"

  "Fi' minutes!" He dashed into his bedroom, crammed his equipment into a duffel bag, and slipped on a sleeveless sweatshirt and black dungarees. Yanking the bag over his shoulder he tramped into the dinette and gulped down the rest of his coffee standing up. "Twelve-thirty at French Charlie's," he said to his father. Emilio didn't turn around. Joey stood there for a few seconds staring at his father's back, then left the house.

  Emilio watched his son emerge from the building. Buddy, Eugene, the Tassos, and Richie waited for him on the bench, duffel bags strewn at their feet. Eugene threw the football at Joey, who one-handed it and flipped it behind his back. A perfect spiral. Emilio felt a strange rage building up inside him, a restless blackness at watching the six boys. He lit another cigarette and turned off the radio. He felt a little better when they tramped up the hill toward Bronx Park. His anger turned to a mazelike boredom. Hearing bis wife in the bathroom, he slipped into the bedroom, dressed quickly, and left the house.

  It was a beautiful day, and he decided to take a walk toward Allerton Avenue. The el train roared overhead but he'd stopped hearing it years ago, after he'd moved into the projects. Sometimes his whole life seemed to be made up of loud noises—el trains, sirens, alarms, screams from burning windows, but he didn't mind noise that much, at least he preferred it to the silences in his life. He bought a Daily News on the corner of White Plains Road and Allerton Avenue under the el station stairs and walked down Allerton toward the park. A block from the entrance he stopped. He didn't mean to go to the park to see the game He was going to read the goddamn paper and have a smoke' He felt as if he had to convince an invisible audience in his head of this fact. The game had slipped his mind and he was just going for a goddamn walk. He became angry again He cursed Joey Little bastard Can't even go into the park for a little relaxation on a Saturday morning Emilio folded the paper jammedit under his arm and wheeled back toward White Plains Road He went home, made it to the elevator, turned around, stormed out to the street again, his face as red as a blood boil, and walked back to the park. He sat on a bench for ten minutes staring at the sports page without one score or photo registering in his enraged head. He flung the paper onto the narrow asphalt bicycle path, scattering it like tumbleweed. He kicked furiously at a pirouetting page that the wind blew across his legs. He marched back to the newspaper stand. He had nowhere to go. The anger drained away, substituted again by the baffling boredom. He didn't want to go home, but there was nothing to do. He thought of going down to the fire station. He thought of taking a nice ride through Westchester. He thought of going out to Brooklyn to visit his parents. Everything seemed incredibly boring and meaningless and stupid and fuck Joey anyway, the little bony rat, rat shit.

  Ten-thirty! Emilio stood at the bar beside Lenny Arkadian in Manny's. Lenny and John the bartender disliked Emilio. He made them nervous the way most bullies make people nervous. They didn't like him, but they made sure they were nice to him.

  "How's your kid?" Lenny twirled the ice in his drink.

  Emilio looked away, annoyed. Lenny shrugged. John absently wiped the counter in the subdued almost brown light of bis bar. "What time's the game, Lenny?"

  "One o'clock, John."

  "Twelve-thirty," said Emilio, still not looking at them.

  "You goin'?"

  "No"—a clipped sound cutting of! all debate. Lenny was relieved. He didn't want to watch the game with Ivan the Terrible. "You know why I'm not goin'?" Emilio challenged Lenny and John. "I'll tell you why ... I'll tell you why..."

  Lenny ran his finger along a scratch in the bar top. He wished Emilio would go away, drop dead or something.

  "Because..." Emilio looked at them now, pointing a finger like a gun. "Because that kid, that little bastard..." The finger wavered, folded into a fist, and Emilio returned to his beer. Lenny and John looked at each other and shrugged.

  "Ralphie playin'?" John asked.

  "Yeah, the kid runs like a stallion. They're puttin' 'im in as halfback," Lenny said with pride.

  "No kiddin'?"

  "No kiddin'. You haven't seen 'im in years."

  "Christ, lemme think, the las' time ... the las' time he was like ... thirteen, maybe fourteen."

  "Jesus, you're in for a shock."

  "Got big?"

  "Big and fast. They're puttin' 'im in as halfback."

  "Fast too, hah?"

  "Runs the hundred in ten-two."

  "Jeez, that's fast."

  "Yeah."

  "Ten-two ... wow."

  "Goddamn stallion."

  "No, he's not," said Emilio, again looking away.

  "Not what?" asked Lenny.

  "Joey's halfback." Emilio sat erect, his back to his audience.

  "But..." Lenny started.

  "Joey's the fucking halfback." Emilio's voice came out loud and flat.

  Lenny was going to say that there were two halfbacks—Emilio's son and his own kid brother—but decided it wasn't worth it. Anything he said would be a goddamn major production. Fuck it. Fuck Emilio. Goddamn asshole. He threw a dollar on the bar and waved to John. As he passed Emilio he involuntarily flinched as if half expecting a punch in the back of bis head.

  ***

  Bronx Park was a plain of high weeds, weeping willows, and sporadic swamps stretching for miles in every direction. The only area cleared enough to play ball was French Charlie's field—a rectangular patch of land almost bald from generations of football cleats. It looked like an old oriental rug. No one knew who French Charlie was. Some said he was a farmer in the area before it became Bronx Park, but unless he raised mosquitoes and rats that didn't seem likely. Some said he was a murderer who lived in the woods and killed people strolling through the park during the 1890s. The cops had him holed up one night, and when they couldn't flush him out of the woods they set fire to the area. He was presumed dead although the body was never found. Over the years the burned-out land became known as French Charlie's field. The reason he was called French Charlie instead of just Charlie was because all his victims were women. But this legend was probably bullshit too.

  French Charlie's was surrounded by a small forest of willows and other more shapeless trees. When football teams arrived for a game, they dumped their gear on the borderline between the forest and the field and changed behind the trees.

  When the Stingers showed up the Del-Bombers were already in uniform, doing push-ups and wind sprints on the far side of the field. The Stingers watched the enemy in anxious silence: the most intimidating thing about the Del-Bombers was their full uniforms. The Stinger outfit was a silky green jersey, shoulder pads, a protective cup, a helmet, and tight black dungarees. Half the team had cleats, the other half wore converse sneakers. The Del-Bombers weren't richer than the Stingers They had uniforms because Winston Knight and Raymond Firestone held up a sporting goods store last year and
took everything from ace bandages to teeth guards for twenty-five guys. As a matter of fact the Del-Bombers were on the average poorer, if for no other reason than they were spades.

  Joey tossed his duffel bag against a tree and yawned. The Del-Bombers looked big. He wished Perry could play. But Perry was in that fingertip-elbow cast. Richie and the Tassos started throwing around a football. In the distance Joey saw Jo-Jo and Ralph with duffel bags. Ten minutes later Peter Rabbit, Ed Weiss, and Lenny Mitchell showed up. They had an hour until game time. Everybody was silent. The Del-Bombers finished their warm-ups and left the field.

  "Anybody wanna run?" Joey asked. Joey, Buddy, and Ralphie started jogging around the field. Joey felt tight. He felt fast. On the third lap he fell into some fancy broken-field running. So did Ralphie. Buddy trotted back to the Stingers.

  "How you feelin', Joey?" asked Ralphie.

  "Good. We're gonna run their asses off."

  "Yeah."

  They ran two more laps. Joey saw Perry standing with the guys and shouted in delight. Perry wore his Stinger jersey. "Hey-y, mah man, you playin'?"

  "Nah, I just came in case you guys got in a fight."

  "How's your arm?"

  Perry shrugged. "Busted."

  Four more Stingers showed up. Each time somebody else came the Stingers felt a little looser, a little more relaxed. Soon rooters showed up from the projects, and when the girls, C, Margo, Laine, Anne, and a few others, came, it was time for the Stingers to get the show on the road.

  The first thing they had to do was get into their gear. This was an important ritual because changing into their uniforms was all they could offer in the way of a pregame show. Each player had a different specialty. Richie liked to stomp around naked to the waist in subfreezing temperature while he looked for his shoulder pads. He would isometrically tense his gut, puff out his chest, and parade in front of the girls in a flurry of preoccupation, making sure the wind caught his hair just right so he could frown heroically like a raw-muscled Viking on the prow of a raiding ship somewhere in the North Sea. His whole show was pretty effective; seeing a guy seminude in the winter was the equivalent of seeing a girl in a bikini in the middle of Manhattan. Joey was a cup insertion and ball adjustment man. His thing was to open his fly, peel his briefs to the curly perimeter of his pubic hair, and make a major production of inserting the large white diamond-shaped protective cup. One hand up to the forearm in his pants he would jiggle his balls align his cock, and do little dances of adjustment to secure and anchor his goods against the coming violence of the afternoon. If Richie liked to frown heroically Joey's expression was a grimace of Herculean labor like he was moving two cannonballs inside his briefs. Some guys did shoulder-pad slamming duets. Like mountain goats butting heads, they would square off, ramming shoulders together to make the pads set better. Then they would walk around shrugging, making small circles with their shoulders to signify they were ready. Perry's forte was the most impressive. Perry never really enjoyed being a big guy except for football, and before a game he liked to come on twice as big and mean as he was. After he put on his shoulder pads he would wrap his arms around a big tree and slam his shoulders against the trunk to settle the pads. The whole tree would shake and nuts, squirrels, leaves, bird's nests, and whatever else was up there would rain down on the fans. Last year Perry got so carried away he separated his shoulder and missed four games.

  At midfield Richie and Ray Rodriguez, the co-captains of the Stingers, met Leslie Frances and Toby Barrett, the co-captains of the Del-Bombers, and shook hands.

  "G'luck, man."

  "G'luck."

  Walking back to the sidelines, Richie made some comment to Ray about niggers. Ray, the only Puerto Rican playing for either team, didn't know whether to be pissed at him or agree.

  Fifty yards from the fans, Emilio Capra stood alone. He saw that Joey was playing halfback, and Ralphie Arkadian wasn't even playing offense. He saw Lenny Arkadian with the rest of the assholes cheering their heads off, and he resisted an urge to ask him how his half-assed halfback kid brother was doing.

  Today was Joey's day. He saw daylight every time he got the ball and near the end of the first half, he had racked up over 120 yards. Ed Weiss, the quarterback, was throwing like Y. A. Tittle, and the Tassos had golden hands. Defense was holding steady and so far nobody had gotten hurt. The Stingers led, 14 to 6. Full uniforms or no, the Del-Bombers would have to hold up a few more sporting goods stores to look good that day.

  Lenny Arkadian noticed Emilio about twenty-five yards down the line of trees that served as a boundary. He nudged Perry. "You know that guy?"

  "Emilio?"

  "He's a real douchebag."

  Perry shrugged, not in the habit of cutting down any of the guys' parents.

  Coming off the field at half time, Joey noticed his father standing about ten yards from everybody else. In spite of himself, Joey felt excited but resisted an impulse to run up to Emilio and ask how he had looked on the field. Fuck it. He knew how he looked. Like always. The best. Joey walked over to the rest of the guys, tossed his helmet by the duffel bags, grubbed a cigarette from C, and out of the corner of his eye watched his father watch him out of the corner of his eye.

  Perry's bottle of Tango was passed around. Joey took a slug and walked past Emilio to the Del-Bomber camp. He handed the bottle to two guys and bullshitted with some other guys from Tully. Watching his father across the field, Joey suddenly wished that Emilio was talking to the other people. For a strange moment Joey felt depressed and sorry for him. He took back the Tango and walked toward his father.

  Ray Rodriguez was sitting alone drinking a soda and still debating whether he should be pissed at Richie when he saw a midget run from the woods and snatch the football. Ray jumped up in pursuit and tackled the midget. The football went flying; the midget ate dirt. Ray got to his feet, pulling up the thief by his jacket collar. "Whadya think you're doin', hah?" (slap). "Hah?" (slap). "Hah?" (slap). The midget was trying to fend off the slaps. He pulled out an old-fashioned razor and went for Ray's face. Ray was startled and fell backward on his ass. The midget jumped on his chest and was about to rearrange Ray's eyes when a football whipped the blade from his hand. He leaped to his feet, stomped on Ray's crotch, and disappeared into the woods. Joey and Ed Weiss ran to Ray and helped him up.

  Joey had been walking toward Emilio when he saw Ray Rodriguez beating up a dwarf. Then he saw a flash of silver, and Ray fall down. He thought the dwarf had killed Ray. Panicked, he dropped the Tango and ran blindly toward the bizarre scene. Ed Weiss was throwing footballs at a tree trunk. He'd pitched three no-hit games for the Evander Tigers, and he threw the pigskin with the speed of a baseball. He was reaching into the duffel bag full of footballs at his feet, ready to drill one into the tree again, when he saw Ray Rodriguez laying on the field about twenty yards away. A little kid was sitting on Ray's chest. At first he thought Ray was fucking around with one of the younger kids watching the game, but then he saw the knife. Ed grabbed a football and fired it at the glinting reflection.

  Ray was trembling as Ed and Joey helped him to his feet Some Del-Bombers and Stingers came over.

  "Shit! What the hell was that all about?" asked Perry.

  "I dunno. I saw this ... I think he was a midget ... grab the ball an' ..." Ray's hands were shaking.

  "Midget my ass." Toby Barrett walked over to the small crowd, the razor in his outstretched palm.

  "Oh, shit ... Ducky Boys." Joey felt his stomach tighten. The Ducky Boys were stone killers that always attacked in droves to compensate for the fact that few of them were over five feet.

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, man ... lookit the fuckin' blade."

  "Oh, my God." Ray closed his eyes and held his forehead.

  "You think they'll be back?"

  "Yeah."

  "Maybe not."

  "Well, I ain't hangin' around to find out."

  "What's happenin'?" C poked her head into the group.

  "No
thin'."

  "Get lost."

  "Whada we gonna do?"

  "What happened?" Richie and Jo-Jo came over.

  "Ducky Boys."

  "What?"

  "Ray just slapped aroun' a Ducky Boy."

  "Richie, I'm goin' home," C declared. Richie ignored her.

  "Where'd he go?"

  "Into the woods."

  "You think they'll come back?"

  "They always do."

  "So what? We got fifty guys here," said Perry. They looked at him like he'd broken his head instead of his hand. Perry laughed, swishing his cast through the air. "I'm ready."

  "Somebody take 'im home before he gets hurt," said Jo-Jo.

  "We playin' or not?"

  "I ain't takin' no chances," said Raymond Firestone.

  "You guys just don't like losin'," said Perry.

  "Motherfucker, we gonna whip yo' asses so bad you gonna have to shit out the other end."

  "I thought you was goin' home," Perry continued. Raymond shrugged.

  "C'mon, what's wit' you faggots?" Perry asked. No one said anything. Guys kept coming over to find out what was up. When almost everybody was standing in the center of the field, Perry shouted, "O.K.! Half time's over! Let's get the fuckin' show on the road!" and walked to the sideline. The guys looked at each other, shrugged, and went for their helmets.

  Joey saw his father standing with the rest of the spectators. He felt better. He wondered what happened to the bottle of Tango. He wondered what his father would do if the Ducky Boys came. When he picked up his helmet his eyes locked with Emilio's. He waved a short wave, but Emilio quickly looked away. Joey got hard and tight. He grabbed his helmet and marched onto the field.