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Fourth and goal, the crowd was frenetic! The constant roar of the two hundred thousand historic fans measured at jet airliner decibels. It was a moment as big as any in modern history. The ball sat squarely on the two-yard line going in. The clock sat still at :03. The Reb defense, tired and gallant, dug in to protect its turf. The Rebs led 21-17. The world was watching. Everything hung in the balance.
It had been a long time coming!
. . . . .
It began in 2008, with the election of Barack Obama as President of the United States. Obama’s presidency was filled with vitriolic racism channeled through talk shows and entertainment news. It was all about political and economic gain, but with the country in a recession, it was easier to cast doubt on a man of color and what his aims were. “Muslim,” they had called him. In the last years of his presidency, violence flared up along the unspoken boundary between North and South.
It had actually begun decades earlier with the deregulation of the media. Fewer interests controlled most of the airwaves. Independent voices disappeared. News outlets needed to fill the day-long, twenty-four hour news cycle with features, talk and, of course, lots of advertising. Bobbing head commentators subbed for serious news.
The division of red and blue states was not far behind. Next came rancor, resistance, little congressional cooperation, and a government run by corporate interests.
The people? The people were mired in ignorance, led there by bought and paid for leaders.
Under President Jeb Bush, the divisions grew deeper and more pronounced. A chasm developed in the country, fueled by politicians needing to be re-elected. Jeb promised he wouldn’t be a worse president than his brother, “W.” He was. Bush’s directives, cronyism and the reversal of President Obama’s course sent the country back to the fearful, duct tape, shop till you drop, Osama Bin Laden, be fearful of those different from you, the terrorists are coming to get you days. Jeb infuriated the liberals. But something new happened. The liberals fought back. No one had counted on that happening. The liberals had never fought back before. But, flushed from their safe havens of intellectualism, the once staid liberals did something beside talk. “An eye for an eye,” became their war cry.
President Duvall Patrick, after much deliberation and counsel with his War Chiefs, decided that short of war, there was only one way to settle things. Elections? They no longer mattered. In 2025, no one believed in or trusted elections anymore. Elections could be bought or decided by a Supreme Court ruling. The controversial Supreme Court Ruling of 2010 allowing an endless supply of cash to flow into elections meant not only that elections could be bought, but also recalls could reverse elections, as with the short lived tenure of President Hillary Clinton. Neither of the three political parties was able to get a sixty-vote majority in the Senate. Things ground to a halt in Washington D.C.
The settlement was the one thing the southern republicans, the tea party people, the young, the gay, the independents, the helpless, the rich and the liberals could agree on.
During his 2025 State of the Union address, President Patrick announced the plan for a World College Super Duper Bowl I. Every four years, beginning in 2025, the country’s political differences would be settled by a football game.
The nation celebrated.
. . . . .
The North called timeout. Yank quarterback, Abdul Lewis, “the traitor” as the Southerners called him, because of his Alabama heritage, jogged over to meet his coach, the legendary Paul D. Jones.
Southern linebacker Co-Captains, Leroy Gilliam, and Kassan Lewis, Abdul’s younger brother, jogged over to their equally legendary head coach, Jake Snead from Ole Miss.
The bands on either side of the field broke into their respective fight songs. The Yank band played The Star Spangled Banner. The Reb band broke out a rousing version of Dixie. The 200,000 fans on both sides of the specially constructed stadium that sat geographically right in the middle of the country’s Mason–Dixon line, stood yelling and screaming, some with hands over their hearts, other drunk off their ass.
“I’ll go first,” Buck instructed. “Then Chris, come in. Tyrone, you hang around outside near the door. Don’t cause no suspicion now. Got it?” Buck, from the drivers’ seat, stared at Tyrone in the rear view mirror.
Chris, from the passenger seat, waited for Tyrone’s answer. Tyrone nodded but without conviction.
Quiet and darkness set in inside the car as Buck settled the Blue Camaro onto the exit ramp of the freeway. They began their descent into the city.
Tyrone’s full stomach felt queasy. Buck had insisted they eat on the way to the job. He stopped at Church’s Chicken® on Martin Luther King Boulevard, got a family box of greasy chicken, dinner rolls, corn on the cob, and ate it in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant. Tyrone ate a wing and couldn’t eat anymore. He had no appetite.
Buck devoured the drumsticks, breasts, two ears of corn, two dinner rolls, sucked down a 24 oz. strawberry soda, and belched a sinful, nasty, loud, vulgar belch then said, “Let’s do this.”
They rolled toward the western side of town.
Anticipation gripped Tyrone in the darkness of the back seat. His chest was tight, his throat dry. His 6’1” frame hardly fit into the tight back seat of the sports car. He slumped and bent his head forward to find some comfort for his long legs.
Tyrone’s long legs had carried him to the 400-meter state finals in high school. “Little Horse,” they called him. He finished second, but no scholarship offers came his way. He had no money for further education.
I’ve been to this store many times before. The thought drifted across Tyrone’s brain. The car hit a bump in the worn road. The coldness of the blue steel in Tyrone’s pants touched his skin. This ride to the store was different. He knew it. He removed the gun from inside his pants and placed it on the seat, pointing it away from himself and toward Buck
Tyrone had tried to get his old high school buddy Goose to come along. He’d begged Goose, but Goose begged off. “Ain’t going to jail, Jack,” Goose responded.
Approaching the destination, Tyrone could see the blinking lights of the 7-11®. The city streets were naked, with the exception of an old, fat bag lady wobbling her way home from the bus stop and a day of scrubbing, cleaning, and caring for someone else’s home and children. She walked as though her feet hurt, and her next step would be her last. A step, a wobble; she would shift her weight then take another step, another wobble. Tyrone thought, Everyone has to make a living.
Buck had instructed that they all wear black windbreakers and a black cap just like he’d seen the bad guys do on CSI-NY, his favorite show. “Zip up,” Buck commanded.
Sweat beads gathered on Tyrone’s forehead. Even though it was a warm night, cold chills crept into his bones. Was this the dumbest thing he’d ever done? How could he get out of it? Was he scared of Buck? He was damn sure afraid of Chris. What about his family?
He’d married Pam two weeks ago. It felt good to marry the mama of his two-year-old son. He promised to get a job and help her with the bills. A good woman, Pam worked as a nurse. She was smart with money. She and Tyrone had dated since high school. She had gotten pregnant their senior year.
He thought of his son. Little Man, they called him. Tyrone had been so proud the day he was born. He’d held him so close, those first few days. He’d vowed to do right by his son. He tried. He drove cabs. He did day labor. He’d landed a career opportunity loading trucks with UPS®. Thirty days later, they fired Tyrone for a positive marijuana test. He hadn’t worked in a year. Desperate, he tried to make nice with his father long enough to get his rent covered. Daddy said, “No way. When I tried to help you, you didn’t want it.” His father had arranged a job for Tyrone in the steel plant where he’d worked for forty years, but Tyrone turned it down. “I ain’t working in no plant,” he emphatically told his father the last time they had talked.
Buck’s gruff voice interrupted Tyrone’s thoughts. “Get ready.” Buck, at nineteen, was a convicted felon and a violent veteran criminal. He slowed to make the right turn into the parking lot but then suddenly accelerated and passed his mark. No one said anything. Tyrone breathed a little easier. Both Tyrone and Chris had faith in Buck. Tyrone thought, Buck’s the man. He knows what he’s doing.
Buck circled the block, making sure there were no cops around. He came back and made his turn. The lot was vacant. The store was empty of customers. Chris reached over and killed the radio.
Buck pulled the Camaro next to the rectangular building with flashing neon lights. Only the old man was inside, just as Buck had figured and Tyrone had said. Tyrone hit the illuminating dial on the watch Pam had given him, 10:49. Buck turned, checked his piece of big, cold blue steel, and demanded, “Everybody be cool. It’ll be over in three minutes. Don’t be a fool.”
Buck opened the door, slid from under the wheel, and made his way around the car. He shoved the gun into the back of his pants just like criminals did on television. Chris followed. He shoved his gun down into the back of his pants, just like Buck. Tyrone lingered for a few precious seconds. He’d begun to sweat and beads of water trickled down his forehead, into his eyes. He thought about running. Just running. Maybe, running track again. When he was running track, it had been the happiest time of his life.
“Damn,” he murmured.
The night air was thick, the heat a forewarning of trouble. Water beaded up on Tyrone’s forehead and ran from under his arms. Like Buck and Chris, Tyrone tucked the gun into the back of his pants.
He started for the door about the time he figured Buck and Chris were inside. Tyrone was the lookout. He was afraid, afraid to go through with it and afraid to leave.
Tyrone could see the old man, Mr. Perkins. He knew Mr. Perkins through his grandfather, who also worked at this store. Tyrone had casually mentioned that his grandfather, his father’s father, worked at a 7-11®, and Buck had taken it from there. Tyrone had protested, but Buck reasoned it was all the way across town and their heads would be covered. No one would get hurt. He swore it would be a piece of cake. Tyrone stood his ground and insisted the job be done when his grandfather was not working.
Tyrone peeked inside the store. He did not want Mr. Perkins to see him.
Mr. Perkins had retired from his job in the factory. His wife had died five years before. He worked in the 7-11® to make a few bucks and get out of the house. Tyrone’s grandfather had recommended him to the owner, who hired him. Mr. Perkins stood slightly slumped and his hair grew in gray patches throughout his head. His customers loved him and his pleasant disposition. He, in turn, enjoyed his interaction with his customers.
Looking through the glass, Tyrone lost his focus. Mr. Perkins reminded him of his grandfather. He pictured his grandfather standing behind the counter with Buck and Chris in the store. What would he do?
Tyrone snapped out of it, made it to his position. Buck, Chris, and Mr. Perkins were the only ones in the store. Things were moving smoothly. No problems.
Mr. Perkins did not see him.
Suddenly, without warning, the old man’s eyes came alive, registering danger. He’d spotted the piece in the waistband of Chris’s pants as Chris bent over pretending to look for some Oreo cookies. In a split second, Mr. Perkins, a kind, lovable older man, went under the counter for his piece, a Charter Arms Undercover .38 special.
Instantly, Buck, a veteran crook and felon with no dreams and no future at nineteen years old, went for his automatic, shouting, “He got a gun.” Chris, having spent a few years in juvenile detention and having enthusiastically watched too many Criminal Minds episodes, dove spread eagle, behind the row of cookies.
Tyrone, paralyzed, watched it all unfold. He could not flee, nor could he help.
The old man fired the .38 special twice in Buck’s direction. Bam! Bam!
Buck, kneeling, gun pointed sideways like he’d seen in the new rap video, fired multiple rounds. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
It was surreal to Tyrone. It looked like television. The images were so vivid! The old man shooting, Buck behind the potato chip counter, and Chris lying prone on the floor, firing like a marksman. Tyrone thought about his own gun. The thought made him sick.
This wasn’t television. It was for real. His nervous stomach threw up the Church’s Chicken® wing.
In the next instant, fate slammed the door on all four lives.
Buck rose, his gun sideways, and fired multiple times. The bullets caught Mr. Perkins full in the chest like target practice. Tyrone saw blood gush and squirt through the gray flannel work shirt. It wasn’t like television at all. It wasn’t surreal. It was real, bloody, and scary as hell. Bullets tore away at Mr. Perkins’ flesh. Little pieces of his body flew in different directions. Mr. Perkins screamed out with the pain, became limp, and fell against the cash register, violently bumping his head. He hit the floor, lifeless.
It was time to go.
Tyrone’s legs started moving. He pulled his gun, threw it toward the dumpster in the parking lot, and broke for the freeway. His stride was long and casual, but his heart and mind were frantic. He replayed the picture in his mind—Mr. Perkins’ flesh being ripped open by the penetrating bullets. He tried blocking it but the pictures kept coming.
Sweat poured in currents from his body.
Tyrone ran. Running felt good. Running restored order to his world. He could control running. He started to relax. Running, he was able to think.
He didn’t know if Mr. Perkins was dead or not. Yes he did. He knew Mr. Perkins was dead. Damn! He didn’t look back for Buck and Chris. He never had to see them again, and it would be okay. He would never do this again. This had been stupid. He thought of Pam and Little Man. He was running to them. I’m on my way honey. Hey, Little Man, Daddy is on his way home. His thoughts raced along with him. Maybe I’ll call Daddy and get the job in the plant, he thought. Oh God, I hope so.
Somehow he ran up the entrance ramp to the freeway. Cars whizzed by. The thought of thumbing a ride entered his mind and exited just as fast. He continued running; his long strides now growing shorter; his breaths coming in fevered pants. He was no longer in running shape.
He never looked back. He didn’t stop running. He never again wanted to stop running, never again.
Sirens whistled in the distance, and he knew cops must be on the scene. Never losing stride, he hit the watch dial, 11:00 pm. It was time for his grandfather’s shift to start. Was his grandfather there? Would he find out? Would his dad?
Tired, exhausted, and run out, he wanted to quit running. He couldn’t go anymore. He wanted to stop. He wanted to be in the little one bedroom apartment with Pam and Little Man. He wanted the three of them to cuddle up in the bed his father had given him. He wanted to be home. Gradually, he slowed. Cars zipped by. He didn’t look backward or to the side. He only wanted to look straight ahead. He stopped running. He didn’t see or hear the Camaro pull up behind him. He didn’t hear the horn blow. When he heard his name called, it startled him. He turned.
Buck pulled the Camaro next to him, and commanded, “Get in.”
She saw him before he saw her. The flash of adrenalin shooting through her body upset her equilibrium. Excitement pumped in her chest. Uncertainty crept through her mind. Should she?
Yes? No? Duck and hide?
The old woman, talking in her ear, droned on incessantly. “So Simone…
Blah! Blah! Blah!” The old lady continued. Simone was oblivious to the old woman’s words. Her eyes were glued to him.
It had been fifteen years, another life ago, but he was aging well. He was a little heavier. He had a slight limp. He had less hair. His hair was now the silver color that gives men distinction. Dressed smartly, his body language said he was still comfortable in his own skin. He was still cocky, but in a more mature, dignified manner.
At the bar, a glass of wine in his hand, his eyes canvassed the reception. No one he saw interested him.
She sank further down in her chair.
Should she confront him? Say hello? Accidentally bump into him? Or just leave. Maybe he’d never know she was there.
She’d anticipated this moment for over a month after she had seen his picture in the Festival Program. Still, seeing him in the flesh had set off her alarms. She never thought of him anymore. She figured she had doused those embers a long time ago, but apparently not.
Had he seen her picture in the program? It was a nice picture. One she’d had made for the occasion of the book festival. The photographer had done a good job of hiding her baby fat.
. . . . .
The Montgomery, Alabama sun turned orange.
There was maybe another thirty minutes of sunlight left in the day and she was on his mind. Two days before the festival Eric had been shocked to find her picture in the festival lineup. He’d not heard of her book, based on her family’s Alabama Civil Rights History. Nor had he heard of, from, or seen her in the fifteen years since he’d...
Fifteen years ago he’d ended their relationship. No, he hadn’t ended it, he’d simply quit calling, would not return her calls, and within months married another woman. Someone he thought he’d always loved.
That was the best excuse he could come up with for his behavior.
Their mutual friends had to choose sides. Her female friends said he’d screwed up badly. “A dog, a low down, stinking, rotten dog,” they called him.
He’d convinced himself he would not be embarrassed to see her. “If I can avoid it, I will,” he thought. “Should I apologize?” The conversation played on in his head. “What if she’s forgotten? What if she’s simply moved on, not wanting to revisit the ugly past?” That would be a relief. He’d feel less guilty. He decided he’d play it by ear.
Besides, he was a different man today. Happily married, but not to the woman he dropped her for. That ended up being a living hell. Today, his life was peaceful and full of bliss. In addition to loving his wife and son, he liked them. They were his friends. They were his backers. His work required him to be away from home for long stints and they hung in there with him.
He had almost not made it to the Festival.
A scheduling conflict had him in two places at the same time. The important, but boring university meeting had droned on all day when he decided to skip out on the dinner hosted by the University President, and drive the fifty miles to the Book Festival reception.
He enjoyed book festivals. His book was doing well. The attention, money, and increased sales pleased him.
He liked the book world. It was the entertainment business yes, but the main characters, the writers in their rumpled clothes and smart glasses underplayed their roles. Writers, unlike actors, didn’t strut around like peacocks, their “look at me” attitudes flashing their colors. Most of the writers he’d run into at least had something to say. There was an intelligentsia. At book festivals, there were people eager to explore ideas and discuss differences.
He started to wander around the dusty reception area. He watched the authors and benefactors mingle. She was on his mind.
Suzie, the forty-something volunteer chairman, came over with a red headed friend accompanying her. “Eric, thank you so much for coming,” she sang in her Alabama accent. She draped herself over him in what passed for a hug. He felt her press her pelvis up against him, the way women will do when their hug says more than hello. He politely hugged her back.
For Eric, this function was strictly business. Suzie could only help him by giving him a platform to sell more books. There was one personal issue he needed to attend to and he would avoid that one if he could.
Suzie’s husband, Sylvester, standing by as his
wife groped Eric, obviously did not care. Sylvester was verbally engaged with a
sloppy, fat writer who liked himself far more than was warranted. Sylvester and
Suzie had been married 25 years and over that time
Sylvester had trysts with both girlfriends and boyfriends.
Suzie introduced her friend, the red head. Eric shook her hand. He thought she was cute, “southern white girl, cute.” Marge, an author, had written a book about her native state of Mississippi, Mississippi Mud. It had gotten good reviews and Eric promised to read it. All smiles and giggles, she couldn’t wait to ask, “Do you know Morgan Freeman?”
“No,” Eric begged off, excused himself, and wandered away to enjoy the Alabama Book Festival.
. . . . .
Simone had come from Washington D.C. where she was now a federal judge appointed by President Barack Obama. She was on track to fulfill her life’s ambitions. Back then, fifteen years ago, as they lay in bed, she had confided to him that one day she hoped to be on the U.S. Supreme Court.
He had made the journey from California. Hollywood, to be exact, a fantasy world he’d escaped into after college. He’d been successful but after a while, become bored. Since he’d gotten married, “for real this time” is how he described it, coupled with the changes in the business, he’d found writing as his rescue. Thus, he’d written a memoir about his early days in Hollywood and the stars he had known. It had been a kiss and tell with juicy, salacious sexual details.
There had been no mention of Simone. He respected her too much.
They had met in his hometown of Birmingham. She was the hotshot lawyer out of Harvard, working at a local firm for the summer. He was in town visiting his family. One of his lawyer friends hooked them up.
It had been a long-distance courtship, a whirlwind. Dates became weekends in D.C, New York, Los Angeles, and Birmingham. Hollywood and lawyer types were their friends. It was a wonderful ride, until one day she had rushed home from her clerk job on the federal bench to call him. She fell asleep waiting for his return call. It never came. She called again the next day wondering if he was ill. He did not answer. She called again that evening and again the next day. He never returned her calls. She tried again a week later, and again two weeks after that.
She never heard from him again. She never saw him again, other than television and films, until now. She did hear from a colleague that he’d gotten married.
“Why couldn’t he at least tell me?” she wondered.
. . . . .
Simone decided she had to conquer her fears, meet them head-on. She purposely walked right into Eric’s sight line, making sure he saw her.
He saw her. He smiled.
She was not a flamboyant woman. She was dressed comfortably but professionally. She projected the sexiness that comes from being smart and assured in your chosen area of life.
His smile of recognition lifted her.
“I didn’t want you to think I was ducking you,” she said, her words fighting through a nervous smile.