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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 The Famous Quarterback
Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000 09:10:03 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 9/20/00)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
1090X The Famous Quarterback
Thursday PM, August 15, 1991
By Peter Jackson Campbell
Don't believe anything I say especially about Henry,
but my story about the famous quarterback is true, so
help me.
Hot, evil August weather persisted long after Sunday's
sundown. 82 at 9:33 PM, 68 percent humidity, unknown
misery index. Time hung between nine thirty three and
thirty four, unmoving, as everyone outside prayed for
a thunder shower, or some dramatic event to clean the
skies and break the heavy monotony of the deadly air.
Everyone inside played their fans or huddled in the
dark cool musty air conditioned space, afraid to step
outward, trapped inside watching the Skins push and
shove the Giants in what passed for exhibition
football.
Last night, before the game, Henry drove the QB with a
famous name and large hands, who seemed infinitesimal
and self assured, in control, crushed in the back seat
between a tight end and place kicker.
Henry picked the four players up at the service
entrance of the luxury team hotel. Future Hall of Fame
QB too famous for frontal escape. Fans screamed as
Henry, accidentally on purpose, crossed in front of
the lobby and waved at the crowd. QB laughed, for a
moment, enjoying the peer attention in the locked
taxi. Henry loved the vicarious attention, didn't
really give a fuck about the possible loss of tip or
how he treated the rich and famous.
"Let's go," the famous QB, menaced by the startled
crowd, eyebrows furrowed, said.
Henry thought of this moment two seasons later when
three behemoths hit the famous QB simultaneously
when he hit the TE, Dudley, in the '92 NFC Championship
on a third and eight for a first down. QB rocked his
own brains sour on the artificial grass. Last play of
the season for the QB. Some thought he could be the final
play of his career. It wasn't. The championship (and Super
Bowl chance) were lost.
QB survived. There was more fear in the QB's eyes
when he faced the crowd in '93 at the then Dark House
Rickshaw Hotel. No security. Rick could have been
ripped to pieces.
Famous QB in critical condition, Henry created story
and ending. Teammates disabled. Taxi driver charged
with reckless endangerment. Andy Warhol fame at
last, Henry chuckled, three years later.
Henry, or the Gadfly (He was never certain who called
the plays) created this spurious headline as he drove
the Jersey Turnpike from Teaneck to the Meadowlands
Hilton: FAMOUS QB DEAD. CAR FIRE CLAIMS FOUR SKINS.
Henry remembered the short ride, and the QB who
was visible as he hugged the driver side of the back
seat. Easy going, shy, the QB mocked himself as he signed
an autograph before escaping to join his buddies
in what the tight end had earlier claimed would be an
innocent get together of old Carolina chums.
Just for banter sake, the balding black linebacker,
who had filled the front seat, leaned over, and bragging,
he teased the rookie place kicker about the babes he'd
meet on the road. Don't worry they're glad you're
married. Famous QB's enigmatic smile, innocently taken
as the snap, before a TD pass caught just inside the
end zone marker.
The famous QB groaned, enjoying the attention.
"You're fucking with the pros now," LB quickly
described how had met the ladies last night.
"Beautiful stuff, no sluts" he said, "Wait till they
see who the fuck I brought them."
The QB pulled back slightly with lost innocence.
"Not me," the QB, barely audible, spoke. "I'm
just along for the ride."
"They'll fucken pay us," The linebacker quipped,
as the QB paid the taxi, and the huddle exited,
banging the roof of the cab as a gesture.
"Naughty children hungry for candy," the Gadfly
whispered to Henry, startling him. It's true,
fame dazzled Henry. Henry had heard the Gadfly
before inside his head, separate from his daily
dialogue with self.
It was sharp laughter, not his own, clearly
within his spirit, and the Gadfly had emerged
again after a long absence. Henry had heard him
in Nam when he pulled his buddy Jay out from
the chopper burn, as they descended like a stone.
Henry heard it again when he returned and learned
he had been awarded another Silver Star. He was
a famous soldier in spite of his fear. No Gadfly
voice now. It had disappeared. Now, it's back.
"Reup Specialist," his battalion commander offered.
"Fuck No," Henry shouted back.
"Here's the deal: Return home. Battlefield Commission.
No OCS. Advanced Medical training. Medical School when
the fucken war is over. One more tour, but not combat."
The Lieut. Colonel spoke for an hour, and all that time,
the Gadfly mocked Henry, driving him to the word Yes,
when any irrational soul would have seen the value
in another fucken tour. I wouldn't have gotten Lost
in the fucked up late sixties, Henry remembered.
Henry said NO several times that month. Each time, he
said NO, he was ordered to meet with a higher ranking
officer. Interviews stopped at the Corp level.
Commander told Henry that he had been nominated
for a CMH, and if he accepted the commission,
for some reason, that would help the documentation
necessary. Henry politely asked how any action he
would take "after the fact" could honestly influence
the award of a medal for valor.
The starry eyed General, West Point, self righteous,
and arrogant, sputtered. "You've no choice."
"I really hope I don't receive it," Henry said.
The General was not amused by my answer.
"I didn't do it to be no fucken hero. I did it to survive
and to help my buddies our of shit. You think I want to be
an asshole in the rear, covering my ass, protecting my
pension, retiring a Colonel eighteen years down the road.
I'm no fucken Lifer."
After Henry's speech, the General dismissed Henry saying
there must have been a foul up. Man was an obvious fuck up.
All during that last interview, Henry had heard the Gadfly
push and pull his conscience. Stay, Go. Hump, not hump.
Score a TD, miss the field goal.
When Henry stepped forward into the world, two months
later, after extending a month to train replacements,
He had lost the Gadfly until he picked up the famous
QB at the famous hotel kitchen door in 1991.
What made that coarse creature come back, Henry
thought, take over his body. Why now? What does fame
have to do with voices and hallucinations? Who the
fuck makes us this way. Henry lost in the Gadfly
surrendered, and for the first time, Henry wished he
could have returned to Nam, been an officer, then
later, a Doctor, been awarded the CMH.
When Henry refused, the military refused him. The
paper work for the medal was lost in transit. No
action. Henry had won three silver stars, a DSC, but
not CMH. Did I really care, Henry asked, as he watched
the famous QB with the wry smile wondering why fame
was so capricious. What do you really have to do to
win the fucken girls and not get it in the ass.
Back in the world, not the present, Henry remembered
August of 1991 and the famous QB who had a beautiful
(and also accomplished) wife. He was a good guy and
obviously a faithful husband.
Likewise, Henry had been faithful to his grunts.
Tending them. Keeping everyone alive. Henry knew the
power that famous QB exercised within courage and
fearlessness. There was a difference, Henry believed.
Risk for no sake had occasional merit.
Sometimes, you just have to be at risk for greater
glory. Controlled risk. Danger on the edge, like
riding the hot LZ straight down and facing the final
quiet death threatens. Facing a third and eight does
not truly compare.
But every round, or each time you bang your head
against the artificial turf, something was lost. One
more chance, one more risk, and then oblivion.
The famous QB would have returned to the fire fight on
field or off if he could in conscience get it done.
The mortally wounded dark skinned LT. did return when
the deep serious shit overtook him. He looked into
Henry's eyes, held his hand, and died, having rescued
with Henry (and the Gadfly's help), the remnants of
the RECON patrol, after being overrun by the NVA.
Henry and four others good men had lived.
Henry was awarded another Silver Star. Lt.'s widow
held the CMH the good LT. had rightfully won in her
lap, listening to those feeble words, truth, honor and
courage, duty and country.
Why speeches about courage, she thought?
My husband, father of my children, my lover is dead.
This widow is courage, This widow is courage, Henry
said when he stood during the award ceremony and added
his testimony about a fallen comrade. Henry then
watched the sky pickup sins waged as war.
Innocent death he had inspired even taken when he
had picked up a weapon and joined the defense.
Dead, mutilated, skin lost children were scattered in
the mud beneath the napalm trees.
Are they the true soldier?
We play at it, Henry thought. War is a silly game.
Football makes more sense as he watched the famous
QB step up to the door of another famous hotel,
and that's the way it ends driving a taxi from one
LZ to another, hot or cold, miracle, or cruel joke.
When Henry returned from Nam, no one gave a fuck.
They were right of course, but one crowd welcoming
the heroes home might have been pleasant and worth
the clean up. Henry couldn't believe it
"Fuck no! I would have run from the crowds and felt
even more a freak."
How did I ever get to be such a glutton. No one really
cared when Henry returned the medals, he knew some
notoriety as the heroic anti war vet.
Again limited world. Not fame, but attention. Half
hearted love with noble passion. No exuberance. Sports
heroes are genuine, Henry thought. Energy inside and
outside taxi. Fans crowd the metal. Inside, players
worshipped the Hall of Fame player. Women, men
Everyman fucks, sucks, and kisses ass.
I have one more question, Henry was insistent as he
politics and abandoning the cynical pose that many
taxi drivers assumed with ordinary folks.
As Henry left the player and his entourage, imaginary
tabloid headline: Famous QB Pulls Muscle in fire fight.
Back at the taxi stand, even the clocks stalled within
the mottled patches of truck, automobile, bus and
human traffic passed through the hot veil beneath the
foul inverted gases like furtive, fast food sex, short
of breath, lethargic and impotent, the mark of indigestion.
In the inefficient cool of fans and room AC, there's
no refuge. You can't live (although you try) in your
bedroom, on your car, above your office.
Infinite heat had no mercy. AC refuge didn't extend to
overworked taxi AC, front hood ajar, sweating driver,
shirt open, belly out, stubble and grit, fuck radio DJ
blasting venom as a naughty childish stew. Nothing
seemed to work as death took over.
Given these conditions, you believe the weather's an
adversary. Suddenly, within Henry, the Gadfly screamed
(inaudibly) in the street that he was not a fire bomb,
an incendiary; and his heat would not streak V1 rockets
into a London row house.
Nonsense, none of the above. In this heat, Henry joked back,
"I would trade your fucken roman candles for snowmen. Got that
you sad shit." Henry never stopped smiling. Henry smiled. See, I
missed him, he hugged the Gadfly's shadow wishing the famous
quarterback with the big hands could hear him.
In war, every one's a proper hero, of course, the
Brits would say, over a pint of dark, graphically then
pointing out the number of pricks and balls collected
on Hill # 875, Dunkirk, or at Pearl Harbor in another age.
Really hard to know Henry's intentions, but suddenly,
like the man who screamed that the King was naked,
Henry shouted: "See, freak's back," Henry pointing at
a well dressed, dark handsome but gray forty year old
black man as Peter Jackson Campbell (KIA Dak To, 24
November 1967) stepped forward out of the air.
"Did you keep him alive, when you, how should I say it,
acquired his body," Henry asked the Gadfly.
"You mean my body or its soul," showing Henry Peter's
scars where three NVA rounds had punctured heart and
carotids bleeding death from deep in the throat.
"Peter talks like a President. Chooses not."
"I know he writes amazing columns...for the Sentinel.
He was in my outfit in Nam. I put him in a body bag,
and now I am talking to a mischievous grave robber."
Henry couldn't suppress his nervous laugh. I know you
knew him in Nam. But you weren't buddies?
"He was a good LT., a hero how could I not?"
"You're full of shit," Henry, the Gadfly spoke inside
"I'm not a racist."
"Yes, you are especially then?
Remember when it wasn't politically correct to bait
black men, running their officer asses nuts?
"Are you God too," Gadfly, more than perfect.
"No, I'm more...perhaps your keeper of our sins or what.
Sometimes, dear spirit, you're a pompous ass.
Henry pretended disgust. "Let me tell you, truthfully.
Peter's been here with us all a long, saying this
almost as a set speech as the Gadfly (or Peter) put
his arm around Henry. "Now, I know the question you
want to ask. Heard it all morning when I rehearsed
this scene."
Of course you do, you fucken dweeb, dearly beloved dork?
Now, you're back. I suppose have no defense, no choice?
Most certainly, yes more limited choices And of course,
you're inside my head too, sitting on my mouth as if you
expect me to lick your clit? Make your ass come. Yes,
I know you have one of those two.
"Yes, I like being a woman, but you're wrong. Hear this:
No, I didn't pick Peter to be politically correct.
"There are no surprises then?"
"Egad, mon Dieu, mon Ami."
"No, when you get tiresome, I shut you all off."
Where is it, Henry looked closely at the ear, then
pressed against Peter's (the Gadfly's) neck hoping for
some reaction..--What the fuck, Peter (not the Gadfly)
answered. It was a clear, hearty voice.
"Where's your fucken mute button," you glorified
insect, and with that, Peter, slammed Henry against
the taxi, banging Henry's head against the door
frame.
"Get the fuck out of my face, white boy, and then
after daggers, and typical male to male in the face
banter, Peter relaxed, and Henry's eyes, suddenly
closed, thinking he had just gotten by a close call.
I know you expect niggers to be stupid and culturally
deprived, violent soldiers to fight your bullshit
wars.
No, Henry was now much softer. Listening to Peter
or the gadfly deeply intent.
"I didn't want to." Peter spoke softly. "I want you to
know I am here not just in spirit but in the flesh."
"Yes Sir. No Sir." Henry was confused.
"Sorry I lost my temper man," Peter extended hand to Henry.
"Glad to see your sorry ass again, Mother fucker," and
Henry hugged his grim and gentler buddy.
"How can you stand him, all the time (meaning the Gadfly),
Henry rubbed his throat, thankful for the swift release.
Walking back to his taxi, Henry shook his head, laughing
at the absurd mixture inside the insane.
Henry had missed the Gadfly. Now, he had Peter.
Well, the more the merrier, I always say. Just think when
I get laid, here's the natural orgy.
"Yes, I have missed the fuck," Henry said driving
his taxi, Car #4 off the stand, getting ready to check in,
and now, leaving no one behind, "taking no prisoners."
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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