Why not? my head wanted to know. Your dad would never turn out to be that guy who joined the army, either, except he did. He was.
I didn’t have an answer for that. I just stood there and let the white noise of the guy’s swearing wash over me, until my head argued, This is ridiculous. You might as well call him Popov. He’s as likely to be the guy they named the vodka after as he is to be Exley.
But my dad doesn’t need a guy named Popov, I argued back. He needs Exley. And after that, my head was quiet for a while.
By now, Exley had stopped swearing and started hacking, hacking and hacking. I leaned over, picked up the half-full bottle of vodka, handed it to him. He drank straight out of the bottle, drank until the vodka was gone. By the time he’d finished it, Exley was pretty much gone himself. He gave one of those satisfied, all-over body shivers, then slumped down against the wall, his pale, spotted hand still strangling the neck of the now empty bottle. I crouched in front of him. His eyes were slits, barely opened, but he wasn’t sleeping, not yet; I could see his pupils in there, lazily moving from side to side, like a searchlight.
“Are you Exley?” I said, and shook him a little. His eyes opened a little wider, and his mouth opened, too, I guessed in an attempt to say something. Except no words came out, only a sweet, rotting smell, like a cow that’d died from eating too much cotton candy. I moved back from Exley and held my nose, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t, just lay there with his mouth hanging wide open. Still holding my nose, I took a couple of steps toward Exley, and with my free hand I closed his mouth for him. He let me, too. He watched my hand move toward his mouth, felt my thumb under his lower lip, my fingers over his upper. But he didn’t do anything to stop me. It occurred to me, despite his swearing, that Exley was a sweet, passive guy. He was looking at me, lips pursed, head cocked to the side, as though to say, What next?
“Why don’t we get you something to eat?” I suggested. Exley nodded. But he didn’t move. He just lay with this moony look on his face. I grabbed his left hand, the hand that wasn’t holding the vodka bottle, and tried to pull him onto his feet, but I only managed to drag him out of his slump and face-first onto the sidewalk, where he lay, not making a sound, not a peep. His arms were at his sides, like a ski jumper’s.
“Who is that guy?” said Harold’s voice. It scared me and I let go of Exley’s hands and fell backward, then scrambled to my feet. Harold was on the sidewalk behind me. He must have run all the way from school. He was gulping for air. His Adam’s apple looked like it was trying to bust out of his throat.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I followed you,” Harold said. He moved a little closer to me and to Exley. Harold had a grossed-out look on his face, like Exley was a meal that Harold couldn’t believe he was supposed to eat. “Who is this guy?” he asked.
“Frederick Exley,” I said.
“The guy you talked about in class today,” Harold said.
“Yes,” I said. “Here’s his book.” I took a copy out of my backpack and handed it to him. Harold looked at Exley’s picture on the back cover and then bent over to look at the left side of Exley’s face, the side that was up.
“That’s not the same guy,” he said. He was still bent over, and I had to stop myself from kicking him.
“Shut up, Harold,” I said. Because this was the way you talked to Harold. Because this was the way Harold talked, about anything: in the negative. For instance, in gym class just the week before, during our wrestling unit, Coach B. was demonstrating on Harold (Harold was also the kind of kid coaches demonstrated on) how to get your opponent to the mat, flip him on his back, and then pin him. After doing all this, Coach B. counted to three and said, “Pin.”
“That,” Harold said, a little breathless from being manhandled, “ — that wasn’t a pin.”
“It wasn’t?” Coach B. said. His teeth were gritted. He knew Harold, which was why he demonstrated on him and not on someone else.
“You didn’t keep me down for the full three seconds,” Harold said. “It wasn’t a pin.”
“OK. Why don’t we try it again,” Coach B. said, his voice heavy with fate. He rested his big barrel chest on Harold’s cavelike one, hooked one of Harold’s sticklike legs with one of his meaty arms, and stayed there for three seconds. He stayed there for longer than three seconds, much longer than three seconds. I started getting a little panicky, the way you feel when you watch someone being held underwater for what might be too long. So I got down on my knees, yelled, “Pin!” and slapped the mat. Coach B. did what he’d taught us to do once he yelled “Pin!” and slapped the mat. He pushed himself up off Harold. Coach B. rubbed his eyes with his fists, removed the fists, blinked once, twice, three times. Then he looked at us waiting for him to order us around. “Pair off,” he said. I paired off with Harold, who was pretty much up from the mat by this time but who still managed to gasp, “But Coach B. didn’t pin me the first time.”
“Shut up, Harold,” I said then, and I said it now, too, when he told me that the Exley on the back of the book and the Exley on the sidewalk weren’t the same Exley. “That picture was taken __________ years ago.”
“Why did you just say ‘ __________ ‘?” Harold asked.
“Because that’s the way you’re supposed to say it,” I said. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how many years it’s been. He’s a lot older, that’s what’s important.”
“He looks like he’s dead,” Harold said.
“Well, he’s not,” I said. “Help me get him up.”
After a lot of pulling and grunting, we managed to get Exley propped up against the wall again. All the commotion woke him up, kind of; his head kept snapping back and hitting the wall, and then snapping forward. As it did, his eyes seemed to focus on us for a moment before completing their forward progress and snapping back again. I figured that sooner or later this head snapping would totally wake him up, so I stepped behind Harold so that when it happened, Harold would take the full brunt of Exley’s swearing. Because this was another reason Harold and I were friends: he was the kind of kid who would take the brunt of someone’s something. Harold didn’t do it on purpose, I’m pretty sure. He just couldn’t help getting between you and whatever might give you serious trouble. I watched Exley over Harold’s shoulder, waiting for the moment when Exley would spring to life and let Harold have it and then let me take over afterward.
“What does he like?” Harold finally asked.
“He likes football.”
“To play?” Harold asked dubiously.
“To watch,” I said. “He likes to watch the Giants.”
“They’re called the New York Giants even though they play in New Jersey,” Harold said.
“Good for them,” I said.
“They should be called the New Jersey Giants.”
“Harold,” I said, “can you please just help me bring Exley into the Crystal?”
“I don’t think he wants to go to the Crystal,” Harold said. “I don’t think he wants to go anywhere.” He had a point. Exley’s chin was tucked against his chest now. His eyes were closed, and he was snoring again. He looked content. I could think of only one thing to do. I said, “It’s Sunday!” Before Harold could correct me, I whispered, “He probably doesn’t know it’s not Sunday.” And then to Exley: “C’mon, c’mon, we’re missing the Giants game!” This was what Exley’s brother-in-law said to Exley in A Fan’s Notes after Exley didn’t have a heart attack. “Jesus, yes,” Exley said back, in the book. But he didn’t say anything outside the Crystal. He kept snoring. And I was out of ideas.