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Overview
Football is Willy Keeler's ticket out of West Texas, but only if he can keep the explosive combination of his intellect and hormones from destroying his high-school career. Not an easy task as he also contends with the endless demands of his girlfriend, mother, coach, and college recruiters. When a startling sexual encounter with a classmate and a consuming infatuation with one of his mother's friends threaten to shatter his fragile balance, Willy discovers that simply figuring out who he is may be the greatest challenge of all.
Reminiscent of The Catcher in the Rye and The Last Picture Show, Mitch Cullin's Whompyjawed is an unforgettable coming-of-age story, told with unparalleled humor and compassion.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780743202084 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Scribner |
| Publication date: | 04/10/2001 |
| Pages: | 208 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Street and other magazines. His work has been widely anthologized and he has won various awards for his writing. He lives in Tucson, Arizona.
Read an Excerpt
I am of the earth, earthy. —W. Somerset Maugham, The Razor's Edge
Chapter One
GAME NIGHT
I know some things. A guy can't grow up in Claude without not knowing something about the place. But what I understand best about my town is how it shuts down on game night, how dusk settles over the deserted Main Street with only the blinking of a single yellow light that sort of marks the center of Claude. And with the wind blowing dust and bits of trash along the sidewalks and gutters downtown, not a soul in sight, someone driving through on the interstate could just think a bunch of folks got tired of where they was at and decided to leave for good. Even the domino parlor gets dark and spooky and a fellow would have to strain to see all the posters and signs taped on the plate glass window. Go by the Dairy Mart on the outskirts, all lit by fluorescent light inside showing it's open for business, but there ain't nobody eating and the parking lot is empty. That's game night. Don't want to see the game? Might as well drive to the stockyard to watch the cattle at the troughs. Might as well walk along the railroad tracks leading from town. Might as well try to learn Hindi from the new owners of the old Trail End Motel.
Not too long ago, when I was still a little kid, I used to climb the water tower on some game nights. I'd sit there with my legs sort of hanging into space, those peeling painted words over my head—Claude, Home Of The Fighting Tigers—and I'd take in the WPA football field and park from where I was at. Way the hell upthere, sometimes the wind was so dry and strong it'd get me tired, but I could see the bleachers on both sides of the field, the big lights glowing down on the grass. The cheering from below would come to me there. Sometimes I cheered too, even though I didn't know who was winning. But I could see the game. And on those Friday nights I knew everybody was there, all the old- timers and cowboys and housewives and kids and people I went to school with, all packed in and around the field, and me, no more than ten or eleven, so far above them that if I had drooled over the edge my spit would've disappeared before ever coming close to the ground.
And I know some other things too. These things I know from no books or teachers, but from the Domino Men with their spit cups and their beer guts and their rough faces, who'd buy me an Orange Crush or a jawbreaker and who'd talk about how Claude was when it was. Few others my age know that Claude once had almost ten thousand souls, though it's got less than half that these days, and that this little dusty West Texas city was a stopover for men trying to get elected as governors and senators. Once Teddy Roosevelt himself whistle-stopped through and made a big speech from the presidential train in front of the depot. Who'd have ever thought that? Another thing, those tracks that brought Roosevelt here was built by the Fort Worth and Denver Railroad when it pushed through in 1887. So this place used to be kind of important, I think. But on game night, like most nights really, Claude is nothing more than a scar widening that stretch of blacktop bypass known as U.S. 287. "The real ass of nowhere," says Coach Bud. But I know better than that.
THREE-FINGER TALK
Usually Doc Wallace says, "Everybody in one piece, huh?" And we're always quick to answer. He comes into the locker room just grinning, no matter if we've won or lost, with that old black leather medical bag in his hand. And all of us, all the team, we're scattered around old steel lockers or the wood benches. We're still sweaty from the game, geared up or let down, with all our pads and jerseys and personal stuff thrown around.
The Claude Tigers. There's about twenty of us. We got red and black uniforms. Jesus, we're a mixed bag. Even though we got more white than most, we still got several black players and three Mexican brothers. No matter though. There's no shit between any of us because, one, it's stupid, and, two, we don't win when we're not all together. I make sure that's clear. That's my role in a way. Make sure everyone's pumped. Make sure we're together like a swarm of ants or something like that, like a bunch of monkeys or something. When we win, we all just yell and laugh and stuff, but when we lose, we all feel it together and no one says anything for a long time.
Either way, Doc always wanders the locker room after a game kind of checking us over, looking in our eyes for a concussion or something, sometimes pressing on bones here and there. What I find funny about Doc is his long gray hair, which makes him appear like some old hippie or something. We kid him about that and he takes it fine because that's the kind of man he is, real lively. Some might say jovial, I guess. Sometimes I flash him the peace sign with my fingers and he just shakes his head and smiles.
Tonight Doc goes first to one of our linemen, Harvey, who's real big and round but not what I'd call fat. Harvey is undressed from the waist up. He's got sweat and dirt on his face because he hasn't showered yet. Sometimes he don't. Three fingers on one hand are taped together with some raggedy bandage, but with his other hand he's busy stuffing his jaw full of Red Man. Doc just stares at him for a bit, shaking his head at the amount of chew Harvey is putting in his mouth, then he points at Harvey's wrapped hand. "Bothering you any?"
Harvey lifts the three fingers so Doc can get a look at them. "Feels fine, Doc," he says.
Doc brings those fingers close to his face, squints his eyes to inspect, sort of bends Harvey's fingers one way and then another.
"Hell," Harvey says, "seventy-two was laying down for me during the second quarter just so he wouldn't have to tackle Willy no more."
"Harvey," Doc says, "you're a case for the books. Peel it and shower. Let me have a see before you leave."
And Harvey nods with that mouthful of chew. Doc pats him on the stomach and moves on. He moves past several of us, sometimes swatting butts, though there ain't nothing weird about how he does it, or touching heads. Then he comes to where me and Lee Haywood, the quarterback, and my black friend Sammy are standing together as we remove our gear. "Good game," he tells us, "all of you. Everybody here okay?"
We nod our heads that we're fine, so Doc repeats himself by saying, "Hell of a good game, boys. I'm proud of you."
"We could've hung thirty more on them, Doc, if Coach hadn't wanted to ease up," says Lee. Then Lee glances at me and Sammy. "Gutting them with Willy," he says, "they was trying to man Sammy. Even I could of hit him all night."
Sammy laughs, flashes a big smile, so me and Doc start to laugh a little too. "All Lee's got to do, Doc," says Sammy, "is get' em up in the air. I'll be there when they come down."
"I tell you, Doc," says Lee, "it do make quarterbacking fun."
But before I can join in, I hear Coach Slick, our assistant football coach, call my name. So I lean forward some and see him standing outside Coach Bud's office, his thumb jerking toward the open door behind him, saying, "Hey, Willy, Coach wants to see you."
The thing about Coach Bud is that when he wants to see someone, no matter what that person is doing, he had best drop everything and go. Don't matter if he might be getting wrapped by Doc. Don't matter if he's taking a shit or is butt-naked in the shower. He ain't kept waiting by no one, especially us. That's just how it is.
So I go into Coach Bud's office wearing only my game pants and socks, and he's sitting behind his desk in that high-backed, tattered swivel chair. He's as sweaty as the rest of us, maybe more. His dress shirt is stained at the armpits, unbuttoned at the neck, with a wrinkled blue tie loose and dangling to one side. His cheek bulges with a wad of chew. He's got this half-pint wastebasket set on the lap of his baggy slacks for spitting. Thing about Coach Bud is that from looking at him it's easy to tell he was once a player. Even with his thin hair and that heavy hanging paunch, he still runs with us during practice. He's pretty good at showing the line how to block and all. Like if I was to blur my eyes a little, or sort of pinch my eyelids almost shut, he might not look much older than me.
"Yeah, Coach?" I say.
His face is hard, very thoughtful, in a way to where it's impossible to tell if he's happy or mad. He just might break into a funny story or give me some hell about something I done wrong in the game, though he'd be pressed to say what. He tells me, "Shut the door." So I do. Then I turn around again to face him, and he's waving me toward a metal chair in from of his desk. So I go and sit.
I watch as he works that chew a little, spits, then gives me a wink in kind of an admiring way. I've seen him do this before, but it always makes me feel strange. I can't help but shift some in the chair. I glance at the taping table along one wall. Glance at the folding chairs set close to his all-purpose wooden desk. He spits again. I notice the stand-free photo of his wife on the corner of the desk, the old circular-dial telephone, the nameplate made years ago by a shop student that Coach Bud now uses for a paperweight, with uneven carved letters—COACH BUD WARFIELD.
"That was pure-dee football you played out there tonight, son," he finally says. "Pure-dee football."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Know who was up in them stands tonight?"
I shake my head like I don't know, but I got a pretty good idea.
He leans forward over the desk. "Two more recruiters," he almost whispers.
"Where from?"
"TCU," he tells me, "but that don't matter. That's chickenshit as far as I'm concerned. Point is—they're all starting to come in now. And everybody knows what everybody else is doing. That means the big boys are going to be getting serious about you real soon, and that's when I'm going to start sorting the wheat from the chaff. I got eighteen colleges asking about you, Willy—eighteen!"
And now Coach Bud is all excited. His eyes are lit up and I ain't sure what to say or what I'm supposed to say, so I sigh and grin at the same time. I sigh like I can't believe it, like a guy who's worked real hard and gotten the reward, like a guy who knows it was only a matter of time, knows it's bound to happen, whatever it is, and still can't understand it when it does. Sort of like dying, I guess, except in a good way.
"Yessir," Coach Bud is saying, "pretty soon now, we going to start getting down to the nut cuttin'." Then he settles back in his chair, spits once, and stares real seriously at me for several seconds.
My grin becomes odd in my mind. It's forced but honest, and I'm self-conscious of my lips and the muscles or whatever holding them in place that way.
"Willy, it's God-given what you got, son. God-given. I've seen a ton of them over the years—good ones. But not a one that's got it all like you."
I still don't know what to say, I really don't. All I can do is shrug my shoulders. But Coach Bud understands. He gives me another wink, "Well, I'll keep my thumb on the recruiters. You go on now and have some fun."
So I stand. And right as I start to leave, he goes, "One more thing—"
"Yessir—?"
"You ain't going in bareback with Waylon's daughter, are you?"
That'd really scare some guys, but it don't me. I know Coach Bud well enough, know how he feels about me, so I just tell him, "Nah, Coach, I ain't going in at all." And that makes him chuckle real hard for a second.
He says, "Well, I ain't so damn sure I believe that, but—"
"I'm not. Not yet anyhow."
"You remember what I've always told you—they's three things that ruin a good ball player quicker than anything else."
Then out comes his three fingers and Coach Bud starts counting them off like he does once or twice a month to me. "There's drugs—" he says and pauses. "There's injury—" he says and pauses. "And there's marriage," he says and pauses. His fingers roll into a fist and he shakes it at me. "So you be careful, huh?"
"Okay, Coach," I tell him.
And as I walk from his office, he mumbles something all soft but I don't catch it, and I'm not sure if it was meant for me to hear anyway. Then I come into the horseplay and noise of the locker room and get slaps on my back and handshakes and good game, Willy, good game, from my team.
'75 CHEVY
It ain't much to look at, what with all the circles of rust and those dents, but it's still mine. Stump's my mother's boyfriend, the nearest thing to a father Joel and I got, except for our real father who's a bum and I'd rather not talk about him, and it was Stump who let me have the truck. He'd had it since high school, says he got his first piece of tail in it, which is kind of gross if you know Stump. Anyway, like I said, Stump's been kind of a father to me and my brother, sometimes he's just like a big kid. Between him and Coach Bud I'm okay. Coach Bud sort of keeps me going with school and stuff, and Stump makes sure I get to have a little fun every now and then. Sometimes Stump just shows up with a six-pack and we go riding in this truck of mine. We go out into the middle of nowhere, sit on the tailgate, shoot the shit about almost anything a guy could think of—girls and stuff, football, sometimes he gets sort of serious and talks about the war, though he don't like to talk about it, and he only does when he's had just a little too much to drink and something reminds him of it, like a flash of lightning over a mesa, or some song on the radio.
When I got the truck, Stump woke me one morning and said, "Come on, son, I've got something to show you." He was really drunk at the time, had been up all night, and his voice was booming around the house. "Don't worry about your damn shirt, come on!" And he took me outside and that uglyass truck was sitting there with the keys in the ignition, a full tank, with the windshield washed. "Don't want you to feel like you got to say anything, don't want you to feel like you owe me or nothing. It's yours." Simple as that. I was sort of still asleep, not even dressed, and he's got his arm around my shoulders. That's the closest I've ever come to wanting to hug him.
Now, after games, once I'm showered and everything, I take my girl Hanna out in the truck. I pull off a feed trail outside of town, park along a patch of mesquite trees. I kill the engine, but the radio stays on—KVRP, the voice of the great high plains, pure country, oldies and good-time hits. It's the best out there like that.
Like tonight, for example, the sky is clear, so bright we can see nothing but stars, not even a single cloud. We are alongside each other on a blanket in the pickup bed. I got on my Wranglers, my letter jacket, my Tony Lama boots. I'm on an elbow looking at Hanna, who's flat on her back, and I'm tracing patterns with my fingertips on her thigh. I got a painful hard-on pressing against my stomach, kind of pushing under the elastic band of my underwear. Thing about Hanna is that even though she's only seventeen, she seems so mature. I mean, I'm nearly two years older than she is, but I sometimes feel like a boy around her. Anyway, she's fine in her Wranglers and school jacket and reminds me of that actress in that movie Splash, the one who was the mermaid, except her lips are thinner and her hair is brown. She's gazing at the starry sky while I'm telling her, "We nearly have, Hanna—a lot of times."
"I know we nearly have," she says, "but nearly's not like doing it."
So I go, "If we're going to sometime anyhow, then what does, it matter when?"
"It matters because when we do, I just can't be where I have to go home." She sighs, "Mother would just look at me and know."
"How's she going to know? It don't make you baldheaded or anything." Then I laugh some at the thought of her being bald. But she doesn't laugh.
"Because you know how she looks at me when I come in. And if we'd really done it—it'd show. I know it would. It's not like there's ever going to be anybody else—you know I'd never do it with anybody else." But that don't make me feel any less horny. "Besides," she says, "you know when we nearly do it and then don't, I feel just as bad as you do."
"I don't know," I tell her. "Somehow I don't think that's true." She's got no idea how blue-balled I get around her, how sometimes when I drop her off at home my left hand is already unzipping my pants before she's even into the house, how my shorts get all sticky when I'm with her, how sometimes I imagine just holding her down and making her do it right there in the back of the truck.
Hanna snuggles in close to me. She kisses my neck, but I continue the thigh tracing, writing my name over and over. Then we're quiet for a long time, her just kissing under my chin, me fiddling about with her thigh but not writing anymore. And when this coyote lets loose somewhere, Hanna kind of gets a chill through her, sort of absorbs that howl. Then she goes and says the damnedest thing: "A coyote somewhere in the crater of night wails as if a spike were being driven into its soul with muffled blows from the mallet of creation." It comes out of her all dreamy and quiet, just like that, and I'm amazed at how her voice sounded so different from herself when she said it.
"What's that mean," I ask.
She shrugs. "Don't know. It's part of what we had to memorize."
And that gets me hotter for some reason. Just the idea she goes off and reads and remembers something like that gets me all worked up. Another thing about Hanna is how she'll suddenly do something strange that way. One time we was in my bedroom with the radio playing, and out of the blue she starts dancing to this Willie Nelson song—except she's not two-stepping or anything like that. She's running around with her arms out, kicking her legs, very graceful, but not like I've ever seen before. Maybe like a ballet. And I thought she was just being goofy, so I started clapping my hands together like a walrus and arf arf arfing with my voice, and she got so pissed I thought she'd never talk to me again. "Willy," she told me, "you just don't have a sense of art or culture." I guess she's right. But that's what I like about her a lot, she's someone who reads, someone who's got that sense of art and stuff. So I figure it'll rub off on me in the long run.
Now I slip my fingers under the waist of her Wranglers. I do it right as we start to kiss. But, dammit, her eyes pop open. She half smiles her way through the kiss. I'm trying to work the zipper on her Wranglers with my other hand, real cool too, but she brushes my hand away. Suddenly we' re both laughing and not kissing no more. She sits up and then, without as much as a word, stands and vaults out of the pickup bed onto the ground. "What are you doing?" I say.
But she just tears off into the night, making ghost sounds as she cuts through the group of mesquite trees. "Woo, where am I, Willy? Woo—"
Man, nothing I don't want to do more than run around after a game, so I shout, "Come back." I say it in a tired way, like I just don't have the energy to move.
I hear her moving away, somewhere in the brush, going, "Come and get me!"
So I try to sound pretty angry. "Hell," I yell, all disgusted and loud. "Come back here!"
"Woo, Willy, woo. Willy!"
Then I can't stand it. I get up, stretch, and then jump from the pickup bed. I go ripping through the mesquites and disappear in a tangle of branches. "Going to get you," I'm telling her. "You just wait, Hanna."
Table of Contents
| ONE | |
| Game Night | |
| Three-Finger Talk | |
| '75 Chevy | |
| The Hollow Leggers | |
| Beer-Smoke Hoarse Morning Voice | |
| T.K | and Jackie |
| The Duke | |
| Lockharts | |
| Homecoming | |
| Nebraska | |
| Slick's Offering | |
| Ramona with the Black Eye | |
| Dancing the Orange Blossom Special | |
| 2:36:57 A.M | |
| TWO | |
| Ode | |
| Ragweed Fever Head | |
| Slow-Motioned and Blindsided | |
| 95 Points | |
| Southern Comfort and Precious Moments | |
| Bodies Above Ground | |
| Return of the Great American Death Car | |
| Dead Flowers | |
| Chipping at E | |
| Lighting Pall Malls | |
| Linsteads | |
| Javelina Fears |