“I told you she’s down here.”
“Billy, dawg, come on. Dude, you’ve lost it.”
“Unh-unh, she’s down here. She’s a cheerleader.”
Mango actually screams, which makes it all the sweeter when Faison gives a little jump and yells Billy’s name. The front-row walkway sits a good ten feet above field level; Billy leans over the railing and calls down to her.
“Now are you cold?”
She grins and shakes her head, hair tumbling everywhere. “No, it feels great! They say it’s supposed to snow!”
“This is my buddy Marc Montoya.”
“Hi, Marc!”
“Say hello, numb nuts.”
“Hello!”
“I’m so glad yall came to see me!” she calls up to them. “You havin’ a good time?”
“We’re having a great time! Hey, you were on TV! They showed you on the Jumbotron!”
Seeing how happy this makes her crushes him a little. This is where the vital part of her energy goes, into the semi-mystical, all-consuming, positive-thinking hustle for exposure and notice, the miracle moment of prime time that will lead to the big break. She wants to be on TV. She wants to be a star. So how a common grunt like him is supposed to compete with that—
“You looked great,” he tells her, and she beams. “That trippy little step,” he says, and breaks out a male approximation of her pom-pom routine, and this is funny, a U.S. soldier in dress uniform doing a shimmy-shimmy hip-slip sideways glide. She laughs; Mango is laughing too, half-draped on the railing he’s laughing so hard. Billy has never known such happiness, and if thousands of fans at his back are watching, no matter. Let the entire world be witness to his love, except now a couple of security guys are walking up, telling the Bravos they have to leave.
“What, you don’t like my dancing?” Billy says, but they just stare, all badass and bacdafucup, two doughy, middle-aged white guys with CORVINGTON SECURITY printed on their nylon bomber jackets, service-issue.38s bulging at the hip. Billy laughs. This makes it worse. He would guess they are moonlighting cops from some hick suburb, for they emanate the worst of both worlds, rural sloth plus urban malevolence.
“We’re not terrorists,” Billy deadpans, pushing it.
“Move,” says one of the cops. “Now.”
“We’re just talking to my friend down there.”
“I don’t care if you’re talking to the president, you can’t stand here.”
“You’re blocking their view,” says the other cop, indicating the front row. “These people paid good money for their seats.”
“What if they paid bad money?” says Mango, getting into the spirit, and the careful way the cops turn to him hums with all kinds of possibilities. For nothing Billy would gladly bust their heads, it’s that fast, adrenal valves shoved full on and his brain hot-wired every which way, and wouldn’t that do it, he thinks, busting their faces in, putting the truth of himself out there for all the world to see. If they make a move — but they don’t, and Billy’s homicide moment passes. He calls over the railing to Faison:
“These guys are saying we have to go.”
She’s walked over and is right below them now. “I think you better.” She’s worried, Billy realizes. She’s fearful of a scene.
“So I’ll see you!” he calls down.
“At halftime!” She sends up a killer smile. “I’ll look for you on the field!”
He doesn’t understand but nods anyway. Sure, on the field, in the stands, Brazil, wherever. He feels like he’s known her all his life and loved her even longer. The Bravos mad-dog the cops with one last stare and head for the main concourse, where Mango staggers around like he’s been maced. “Billy,” he moans, “Billy, Billy, a cheerleader? Oh God she’s fuckin’ beautiful, Billy, how’d you get with that?”
Mango’s slavering makes Billy cherish her even more. “I don’t know. We met at the press conference and just started talking.”
Mango turns wistful. “She really likes you, man. You can tell just by the way she looked at you, all warm and chewy and everything.”
Billy wants to go straight back and see her again. Their hump session could have been a freak of nature, but this second encounter proved some things. Maybe there’s hope for his love life after all. Maybe it didn’t end with Shroom.
“Dude, you gotta get with her before we go,” Mango says.
“Don’t see how. We’re on post as of twenty-two hundred. Plus she’s a Christian girl.”
“Fuck, you kiddin’ me? Christian girls fuck like rabbits, vato. If you’re gonna give up sin, you gotta sin, you know? You better go for it now, ’cause by the time we get back she ain’t gonna know you, dawg. She’ll be fucking some linebacker and you’ll be like, Billy who?”
“Thanks, asshole.”
“I’m just sayin’! You better hit it while she’s into you. That’s just good advice.”
Billy’s cell rings. He checks the screen. A-bort.
“Yo.”
“Where the fuck are you guys? Dime is pissed.”
“We went for a walk. We’re on our way back.”
“They went for a walk,” A-bort says off-phone. “They’re on their way back.” Billy can hear Dime’s growling response.
“He says get the fuck back asap.” A-bort pulls away again. “Hang on, they’re briefing us on halftime.” Another pause. “What the fuck. They’re saying — uh.” Pause. “Oh Jesus.” There follows a longer pause, then A-bort resumes in a hushed voice. “Dude, you don’t even wanna know what they’re gonna make us do.”
RAPED BY ANGELS
BILLY KNOWS THEY ARE truly in the shit when Lodis gives him a cockeyed grin and leans close, like he’s about to impart some awesome piece of wisdom. “Billy,” he mumbles. Bih-yee.
“What.”
“Biy-yee.” Lodis is so far gone he’s in Buckwheat mode. “Man, where we at?”
Dear Lord. “Lodis,” Billy murmurs, “we’re down on the field. We’re gonna do some drill, got it?”
Lodis grins and bobs his head. He’s practically drooling.
“How many drinks you have up there?”
“Wonh’ tha’ many!”
Day peers around Crack. “What’s his problem?”
“He’s hammered,” says Billy.
Crack sniggers. “This oughta be good. He can’t drill worth shit even when he’s sober.”
“Don’ be wishin’ bad on me!”
“No worries, Load. You don’t need my help to suck.”
Jesus Christ. Billy tells Lodis to key on him. Stay on my shoulder, just do everything I do. He wants to tell Dime they have to call it off but Dime is clear on the other side of the formation, yes, thank you, in addition to everything else they have split Bravo in half to please some fascist bandmaster’s jones for symmetry. Holliday, Crack, Billy, and Lodis stand four abreast on the home sideline. To the rear and sides the Prairie View A&M marching band is moving into position. It could be the setup for a night attack, there’s that same edgy rustling of gear and clothes, the covert thump of boots on turf. Somewhere a lone drummer is marking time with his sticks, left, right, left, right, tick, tick, tick.
“Load, take some breaths. Clear your head.”
Scgggggck. Scgggggck.
“He dying over there?” Crack asks.
“Coal!”
“Hell yeah it’s cold. Suck it up, bitch.” Thirty-four degrees, so they were informed by an unseen voice in the tunnel, and stepping onto the field they were met by a stinging crystalline mist, swarms of frozen micro-droplets like polar gnats. Ranks of young flag girls stood bravely in the cold, pinch-faced, pale, their bare legs pebbled and chapped, heads shiny with condensed mist. Lambs to the slaughter, Billy thought, as if they were truly forming up for battle, and farther on stood the high school bands in silent ranks, all those rows and rows of pink-cheeked baby faces so still and focused beneath their feathered caps, so seriously fixed on what they were about. Billy envied these kids the sincerity of their youth, their orderly student lives of classes, pep rallies, sleeping late on Saturdays. They looked so sharp! He felt tremendously tender toward them. They made him nostalgic. They made him feel so damn old.