Christine

Arnie himself flickered in and out of my view, like something you see from the corner of your eye. He was around the halls, and we had three classes together, and he sometimes came over after school or on weekends. There were times when it really seemed as if nothing had changed. But he was at Darnell’s a lot more than he was at my house, and on Friday nights he went out to Philly Plains—the stock-car track—with Darnell’s half-bright handyman, Jimmy Sykcs. They ran out sportsters and charger-class racers, mostly Camaros and Mustangs with all their glass knocked out and roll bars installed. They took them out on Darnell’s flatbed and came back with fresh junk for the automobile graveyard.

It was around that time that Arnie hurt his back. It wasn’t a serious injury—or so he claimed—but my mother noticed that something was wrong with him almost right away. He came over one Sunday to watch the Phillies, who were pounding down the home-stretch to moderate glory that year, and happened to get up during the third inning to pour us each a glass of orange juice. My mother was sitting on the couch with my father, reading a book. She glanced up when Arnie came back in and said, “You’re limping, Arnie.”

I thought I saw a surprising, unexpected expression on Arnie’s face for a second or two—a furtive, almost guilty look. I could have been wrong. If it was there, it was gone a second later.

“I guess I strained my back out at the Plains last night,” he said, giving me my orange juice. “Jimmy Sykes stalled out the last of the clunks we were loading just when it was almost up on the bed of the truck. I could see it rolling back down and then the two of us goofing around for another two hours, trying to get it started again. So I gave it a shove. Guess I shouldn’t have.”

It seemed like an elaborate explanation for a simple little limp, but I could have been wrong about that too.

“You have to be more careful of your back,” my mother said severely. “The Lord—”

“Mom, could we watch the game now?” I asked.

“—only gives you one,” she finished.

“Yes, Mrs Guilder,” Arnie said dutifully.

Elaine wandered in. “Is there any more juice, or did you two coneheads drink it all?”

“Come on, give me a break!” I yelled. There had been some sort of disputed play at second and I had missed the whole thing.

“Don’t shout at your sister, Dennis,” my father muttered from the depths of The Hobbyist magazine he was reading.

“There’s a lot left, Ellie,” Arnie told her.

“Sometimes, Arnie,” Elaine told him, “you strike as almost human.” She flounced out to the kitchen.

“Almost human, Dennis!” Arnie whispered to me, apparently on the verge of grateful tears. “Did you hear that? Almost hyooooman.”

And perhaps it is also only retrospection—or imagination—that makes me think his humour was forced, unreal, only a façade. False memory or true one, the subject of his back passed off, although that limp came and went all through the fall.

I was pretty busy in myself. The cheerleader and I had broken it off, but I could usually find someone to step out with on Saturday nights… if I wasn’t too tired from the constant football practice.

Coach Puffer wasn’t a wretch like Will Darnell, but he was no rose; like half the smalltown high school coaches in America, he had patterned his coaching techniques on those of the late Vince Lombardi, whose chief scripture was that winning wasn’t everything, it was the only thing. You’d be surprised how many people who should know better believe that half-baked horseshit.

A summer of working for Carson Brothers had left me in rugged shape and I think I could have cruised through the season—if it had been a winning season. But by the time Arnie and I had the ugly confrontation near the smoking area behind the shop with Buddy Repperton—and I think that was during the third week of classes—it was pretty clear we weren’t going to have a Winning season. That made Coach Puffer extremely hard to live with, because in his ten years at LHS, he had never had a losing season. That was the year Coach Puffer had to learn a bitter humility. It was a hard lesson for him… and it wasn’t so easy for us, either.

Our first game, away against the Luneburg Tigers, was September 9th. Now, Luneburg is just that—a burg. It’s a little piss-ant rural high school at the extreme west end of our district, and over my years at Libertyville, the usual battle cry after Luneburg’s bumbling defence had allowed yet another touchdown was TELL-US-HOW-IT-FEELSTO-HAVE-COWSHIT-ON-YOUR-HEELS! Followed by a big, sarcastic cheer: RAAAAYYYYYY, LUUUUNEBURG!