Hell, you were askin' for it

By now, he should have noticed what his watch was telling him: it was past the hour, he was late, and he was blowing it.

Samuel Price couldn't have been any more oblivious to what he was missing at the time, for the interview was the last thing on his mind. For Samuel, routine ruled all in the suburban nation of Ecklandburg, and waking up meant video games for as long as the sun poured through the panes of the basement windows, business when those warm rays turned to a more generic light, and pleasure -- drinks, friends, more video games -- when that light had succumb to nighttime. Stuck in a game of Wii bowling in the furnished basement of his old home, he was patting himself on the back for a finely bowled 216 before it occurred to him exactly where he was supposed to have been at 1:30.

A sick feeling tore through Samuel's abdomen and up into his chest before materializing in his brain: the interview was supposed to start 40 minutes ago, the job he wanted vanished into an ether of laziness and attention deficit. As the feeling made its way through his esophagus and out the back of Samuel's neck in the form of sweat, seepeing toward the sensory perceptors in his face where it became throbbing, red hot reality, Sam slinked back into his chair and stared in amazement, showing a shellshock that would have been more than enough to convince Mr. Essing of his wholehearted commitment. The rims of his eyes became hot and watery, but the pulsating light from the number 216 flashing on his television prevented him from resorting into a cliched despair. He simply sat, and began calculating his recourse, like a population after having suffered from a violent tornado.

Sam made his way upstairs, where his mother was preparing for her first errand of the day, the bank.
"Mom," he began, but was cut off.
"Sam, you're not... done with--" he retaliated her interruption, to admit his guilt before the accusation could beget his regret.
"I fucking missed the interview."
His mother took some time to assess the situation and calculate the next move, like Sam had. She had no answer.
"How did you forget the interview," she said softly.
"I don't know... it was totally just ... inexcusable."
"I didn't know you were still here, otherwise I would've gotten you out of here, I had thought you were gone already."
"Nope, I was playing Wii bowling."
Sam's mother said nothing, as Sam took solace in the fact that she was as hurt by this absurdity as he was. She wouldn't laugh, but be right there in his frame of mind, sharing in his disappointment taking in the gravity of the situation the same way he was.
The silence of Sam's statement lingered in the air, before he broke it as a mercy toward both himself and his mother.
"Should I call him?"
"Only if you have something to tell him other than you missed your appointment to play video games."
"Yeah." He pondered the notion. He couldn't just be "sick," like when he missed days in high school. He needed a reason, a profound and legitimate reason, and he could think of none right now. He set the issue aside.
"I hate being this bad at succeeding," he threw out.
"Well, it's something you'll have to avoid, letting things like this happen."
"Yeah."
"And it's just a summer job, at least it's not a permanent job."
"If it were permanent, I wouldn't have forgotten it."
"Well now you won't forget next time even if it isn't permanent."
"Small consolation. I feel like shit."
"Well you can't go back and fix it, so feeling sorry for yourself isn't gonna help."
"Yeah, well neither is pretending this is OK."
"Yeah, well..." she searched for proper words. "If you learn from it, you can make this a positive experience."
"Almost as positive as an internship with Claire's dad's firm."
"Almost," she said, growing tired of the conversation's hopelessness. She disclosed dinner plans as she grabbed her keys and left for the bank.

Sam, feeling slightly decompressed about the issue, went into his old room and sat on the guest bed that used to be his. A jealous montage of his friends working successful office jobs ran through his head, as he pictured himself literally lagging behind as they pacingly walked-n-talked about their bright futures. The future was only as bright as Sam could make it, and being absent from what was a make-or-break interview cast a rather dim light on everything Sam could find to think of.

Sam suddenly felt all of himself, of his weight pushing down on his thighs and buttocks, which were pressed against the crisp, cool cream-yellow sheets of the rigid spring mattress. It wasn't new-age comfortable, and that's what Sam liked about it. He tossed his head back over his shoulders and fell back onto the bed. He glanced at the plain white ceiling for a brief moment and allowed his eyes to crush closed and thought about the things he used to want.

For his eighth birthday, he had wanted his dad to build him a treehouse. In his conception of it, the smell of oak wood and patterns on the two-by-fours that topped the amateurly erected walls would help him to feel independent and removed from the boredom of life in Ecklandburg. His father had always wanted Sam to become a lawyer, but never took him up on building the treehouse in exchange for a pledge to live his life around going Pre-Law. Sam's proclivity for mathematics steered him toward being an accountant, a profession that his father was only distantly interested in and made no attempt to fully understand. By the time Sam's parents divorced during his first year of college, Sam had already defaulted to an allegiance with his mother.

From this daydream, Sam opened his eyes and re-encoutered the blank ceiling staring back at him, motionless and emotionless. He continued to gaze, determined to see his future emerge from the white canvas; to his mind came sheets of paper with printed type on them, though they faded away before he could read them and the ceiling became white once more.

Checking his phone again with contempt for the time, Sam sauntered back into his basement and turned off the Wii. He grabbed his down comforter off the couch, wrapped it around him like a cloak, and collapsed onto the couch devoid of thought, ready to sleep for awhile. He dreamt of living in a tree house, raising only pet animals and bowling scores above 300 on the Wii to pass the time.

--Eliot Sill

A Real Dusk

I shake some of the raindrops off my umbrella and shut it. I grab the door and enter Shepherd's Pub, looking to the back corner of the front room to the table where we usually sit — he's not there. Things are different, alright.

I walk to the back room and see him sitting beside the billiards tables, staring intently at his mug, ignoring the three televisions in the room that are talking about him again. Mercifully, the volume's off.

"Hey Jerry," I utter as normally as I can, knowing well not to ask how it's going, or what he's thinking about.
"Hey, Al. Good seein' you. Yours is still cold," as he motions to the second drink on the table.

Though it's in a different room, our table is dressed the same, with Jerry's gold Miller Lite staring across at a tan-topped brown Guiness that I corral as I slink into my seat, setting my umbrella beside me in the booth.

I take off my coat. For an instant, silence freezes the room, and I begin to let out a discomforted exhale as Jerry speaks.

"I can't believe this is happening." My eyes fall shut for a moment. I was hoping he'd wait to bring it up. You know, a little small talk first. So I could at least get some beer in me. "Joe's gonna lose his job. The whole program's on fire."

His tone is tired, but not remorseful. He seems exhausted, not guilty.

"Yeah well, the whole thing's a shit storm. I don't know what to tell ya. You're the one who supplied the gas." As I grab my cold mug for comfort and send it toward my mouth to take a drink, he looks up at the television for the first time. He knows he's screwed up, and it shows. But his look is still mere regret, not guilt.

"It's not right that the program has to go through this. Even with the charges. It's not a football thing."
The dark ale slides down my throat and I'm able to look him in the eye. It is and it isn't a "football thing," but I explain to him that it doesn't matter.

"You're a coach, of course they're gonna run with it. You can't expect 'em to ease up just because none of the victims (this word evokes a sharp blink) played on the team. You fucked up real bad, Jere, if it's true, that is."

"... Do you think I did it, Al?"
My stomach flips inside out. Of course he did it. He had to've.
"It's hard to say no, with what I've seen in the paper. But since I'm right here, I'll ask ya straight up, did you do it?"
He goes for his beer, calm but compressed. I take a sip too, relieved I'm no longer the one talking.
"What I did with those kids wasn't right. But it wasn't illegal. Those things they said I did — it's not true. I didn't go that far."

The answer he had to give. It wasn't natural for Jerry to politic, as he normally worked best outside the limelight. But here he was, telling me his bowl of shit was sanitary. I don't believe him, but I let him think I do. After all, I wish it were that way.

"So, you got a good lawyer, you gonna fight this thing off?"
He does, and he tells me he will.
"Good, so I wouldn't wanna see you wind up in jail. Especially with the shit they got you charged with."

With that, Jerry freezes. He sighs, staring at the brim of his cup with longing, as if he wanted to jump into it. I have to pull him back.

"So if Joe can't be out there this weekend, it's gonna be tough for 'em to get the win."
"Yeah, but if Stupar and that Hodges kid can keep Martinez contained, and get some push against Burkhead, Nebraska's got nothin' for us."
"Welcome to the Big Ten, mother fuckers."
"Still Penn State, still Linebacker U." He laughs. A forced laugh, but one he relishes. We talk about the game itself for a while, but, the scandal's effects on the program are too big to avoid for too long.

"Who would replace Joe now if he does get let go?" he asks me.
I'm hearing Tom Bradley, though Larry Johnson's also been mentioned. We talk about it a little, but none of it really matters. All that matters is that we're talking. It feels like old times, out front by the bar. But now with everything out in public, he's hiding back here in privacy. And all along he was the same guy. Jerry taught me a lot of things, nearly all of which won't be invalidated by his trial. But I can't shake the shame of talking with someone accused of such evil. It doesn't sit right with my conscience, but I'm all he has left at this point, so I finish a couple more rounds to settle it down.
"So the Second Mile, are they gonna have to shut that down too?"

He sets down his drink and sighs. Probably, he says. I can't help myself — I feel comfortable. I don't feel like I'm drinking with a felon, let alone a serial child molester. I look him in the eye, and it feels okay, I don't feel like he's the devil as the media is uncovering him to be. He changes the subject, asks how are my wife and kids, and as the word rolls off his lips, I feel like I would trust them with him — he's just Jerry.

"They're good, Jerry. Kellen is just in high school, he's playing safety at SCA, on the JV team of course. Candice is still in middle school, but she's doing real well. How's Dorothy? Is she behind you on this?"
 "Yeah, she believes I didn't do anything illegal. I'm worried though. She knows I need her right now, who knows what she'll do when this is all over."
"Yeah, she doesn't seem like the kind to walk out, though."
"Hope you're right about that." He finishes the final third of yet another round. "But the boys — Jon hasn't been talking to me. E.J., I don't think believes me, he thinks I fucked those kids."

Despite my efforts, I cringe slightly. I look up to the television to avert my eyes to see Joe rambling incoherently to a group of students outside his house. "Don't say that — that way. It creeps me out just hearing it, Jerry."
"Well I've heard it enough over the past few days to jump off a bridge." He retorts, and for a moment he looks guilty, and then "— I'm fine though, Al, I wouldn't do anything criminal. Like I said, I didn't do ... those things."

I believe him, outwardly. In my mind, my doubts are mounting.  "Right. Sure hope you can prove it, pal."
"I did so much for them. The charity, the coaching, the whole thing. Look at my home. I worked so damn hard to make the kids happy — my whole life, it's what I wanted to do. And I was lucky I guess to do it for so long. But for this to come of it. I know I made some stupid decisions that I now regret, but it's not like I'm a monster. I loved those kids. I wouldn't, you know ..."
"— I know, Jerry. I know." We finish one final round in silence. "... Well I've gotta get going, Jere."

I offer and sign off on the tab (he did just shell out 100 grand for bail). As we walk outside, Jerry's paces are slow and unsturdy. His eyes are on the floor, and not sifting through the patrons of the front room like they would normally be. He's wearing a forlorn and glumly scowl as opposed to the traditional jolly smile glazed onto his face. He doesn't want to go home — or anywhere. My family is visiting relatives in Georgia in two weeks for Thanksgiving. Jerry's future plans are much more complicated and cloudy.

As we step outside onto Hebert Street, Jerry has to walk the other way to go to his car. I give him a hug and wish him well. As I turn away from Jerry, I realize that I may have just seen him in public for the last time, but I guess that's yet to be determined. I begin to walk the half-block to my car, and realize I forgot my umbrella back at our booth. After a moment's contemplation, I decide to leave it. It's not too cold out, and if there's anything I learned tonight, it's that there are worse things than a few raindrops on an insulated wool coat.

--Eliot Sill