Festival in Fire Season by Ellyn Bache

Author:Ellyn Bache
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: C & M Online Media, Inc.
Published: 2012-01-13T00:00:00+00:00

Ten

Even before I got to King Neptune’s, where I knew Fetzer would be after freestyle practice, I had decided exactly how I was going to unload my day. My anger cooled some as I imagined the scene: Fetzer sitting with Ray Pfeiffer and Bobby Newell, other salesmen from Lowe’s, pointing his mug in my direction and saying with exaggerated heartiness, “Jordan’s here to make sure I go out to fight those fires in Columbus County tomorrow, now that they’re so close and their smoke is blowing our way. He’s afraid otherwise they’ll call our whole unit to help and take him away from his lady friend.” Then he’d notice my slashed brow. “Although I see she got you one over the eye.”

“This came from a student,” I’d reply casually. “A female.” And the looks on their faces would give me enough of my sense of humor to make the week into the best story I could—The Trash, the bombs, the cactus spines, Azalea Princesses brawling in the cafeteria and Bob McRae rescinding suspension so I looked like an idiot in front of whatever percentage of the student body was aware of what had happened at sixth-period lunch. It would come out sounding less like an insult than a joke, and everybody would laugh. Then I would start drinking beer, a lot of beer, and the evening would pass.

But when I got there, Fetzer and Bobby and Ray were already finishing their first pitcher, too mellow to notice my distress. Fetzer claimed since he’d turned forty he couldn’t drink more than two beers without getting a hangover, but he must have been on number three or four, considering how fast he was talking, and how loud. He noticed me only enough to point me to a seat.

“I was telling them about Darnell and Fred,” he said, naming two of his wrestlers who practiced together, one so black his skin absorbed the light, the other a redhead with a complexion the color of typing paper.

“Fred said the reason Darnell lost at the regionals was because he was psyched out,” Fetzer said, pouring the last of the pitcher into his mug. “And Darnell—this bull of a kid whose arms feel like metal—I swear to God, he said, ‘If I was psyched out, man, it was because the guy was more lily-white than you are. With a white guy, you never know whether or not he can eat you alive.”

The salesmen chuckled. I spotted the waitress and signaled.

“So Fred says, ‘Yeah, that’ll do it every time. The sight of me usually scares them shitless.”’

More chuckles. The waitress ignored me.

“Then Darnell says, ‘You white guys look like pussies, but on the mats, sometimes you’re stronger than I think. With a black guy you look at him and you can pretty much tell what to expect.’ So Fred says, ‘Yeah, you look at him and figure he’s been pumping iron and popping steroids since he was seven.’”

“Boy, don’t they ever,” Bobby said, reaching for the pitcher, finding it empty.

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