The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2011

Curiosity

Sean Trolinder

Grunts pulsed from Leonard Weston’s room as I pushed open the door, Brokeback Mountain playing in the background. Onscreen, the two dudes playing cowboys sat a little too close to the campfire for my liking. I grabbed a Maxim from a nightstand and pretended to search for as much cleavage as possible. Our pal Chester Hawkins—football team co-captain along with Leonard and I—leaned over a bench and curled a ten-pound barbell. His muscles were chiseled, veins flushing between each lift. He gritted his teeth between reps, counting up to ten before working the other arm. Chester winked at me, his face sunrise red. This gesture forced me to recollect what my girlfriend Catalina had said forty minutes ago—“It’s pretty gay you’d rather hang around those jockstraps than watch me model new lingerie.” I chuckled at the irony.

Leonard lay on his bed, scrapping his nails with a filer. He blew his fingers lightly, loose bits falling over his six-pack abs. Over his left pec was a tattoo that read “A.D.”—meaning “All Day,” a motto he had adopted three years ago when we were freshmen with ambitions about making the varsity squad. We had accomplished that goal because our dads were coaches for the Hugh T. Plowright High Panthers—my father as the head football coach and Leonard’s as the defensive coordinator.

“Why are you fudge-packers watching this fag reel?” I asked.

Chester dropped the barbell and wiped the sweat from his brows. The stench of gym socks, dirty cleats, and a dried up protein shakes clued me in—they had been working out all morning. He popped a pill and downed a glass of water. The way Chester stuck out his chest and gorilla beat it twice made me think about how steroids could kill a man. Such a show off—the ultimate alpha dog who had always wanted to impress my dad. “You’re like a second son to me,” my father had once told him.

“One of them T.V. production nerds said that Anne Hathaway shows her tits in this, so Leonard here burned the movie onto DVD,” said Chester. He cracked his knuckles before arching his back.

“Put on your shirt, dude,” I ordered Leonard. “What if your dad catches us watching this shit in that position?”

“Relax,” said Leonard, pushing himself off the bed. “Big poppa will keep you warm at night.”

He placed an arm around my shoulders, his crooked teeth in a sideways grin, a way he had of telling people that he’s being sarcastic. But still, his bare chest pressing against my ribs made my livers quiver. Seeing that part of the movie where the one cowboy was shivering in the cold and being invited into the tent creeped me out. Really, I could see what these two actors were going to do from a mile away. I stared at the door, waiting for Coach Weston to walk in any second. “You two homos trying to seduce my boy?” Coach would ask, so I shoved Leonard away. He slapped my ass, causing Chester to chuckle like a puppet from some children’s program.

I had never suspected Leonard of being a fag, but his current advances made me aware of how the room was decorated. Posters of half-naked football players hung over his computer, a screensaver of two fishermen with their poles near their crotches flashed over the screen, and an ABBA CD sat atop a wooden tower. Star stickers were attached to the blue walls, cumulus clouds blotched in the background. This room would’ve been ideal for a fifth grader, but not a seventeen-year-old like Leonard. If my father were to ever see this room, he’d probably beat my ass for just being in its presence.

“Can we just skip this part?” asked Chester. “I think this is when the two guys get it on.”

Leonard shot Chester a glare. “You’ve seen this, have you, limp-dick?”

“I think this Anne Hathaway scene doesn’t exist,” said Chester, picking up a Gatorade from an ice chest sitting next to Leonard’s porn stash. I wondered if there was a Playboy somewhere in there.

“Stop being a puss,” said Leonard.

Chester made his way to the door, but Leonard cut him off. Chester pushed Leonard into a desk. Pencils scattered, falling to the floor.

Leonard cleared his throat and said, “You’re going to watch this scene, goddamn it!”

These two knuckleheads slapped each other across the chest a couple of times like a pair of WWE wrestlers. Chester reached for the doorknob, causing Leonard to pull Chester’s hair. Soon enough, Leonard had him in a headlock. Chester’s legs slipped and buckled as he tried to plow Leonard to the ground. I got out of the way, my head slamming into a dartboard. Footsteps pounded from the hallway and I squatted as if sitting in a phantom chair. I’d be damned if Coach Weston was going to accuse me of any gay activity. I imagined my father disowning and publicly humiliating me in front of the team by making me the hitting dummy during Oklahoma drills.

“No son of mine will grow up to be a faggot,” my father had said when I was six. He had even whopped my ass for kissing a male cousin on the cheek. I’ve tried to file that memory away, but it still gave me nightmares.

And right when I expected the worst, on the television screen was the silhouette of two cowboys about to go at it, Leonard dragged Chester to the bed. The springs shrieked; the posts rattled. Leonard climbed on top of Chester and tried smothering him with a pillow. Leonard’s legs hammered the mattress as he sat on Chester’s lap. I closed my eyes, hoping this was all a bad dream.

The door opened and the ice-being-crushed-through-a-blender voice of Coach Weston said, “What the hell’s going on here, fellas?”

I refused to open my eyes through the long pause, anticipating the very words I hoped he wouldn’t mutter.

“Brokeback Mountain? In my house?”

*

My jaguar cruised down Main Street, coasting at forty-five miles per hour. A giant ass panther was custom printed over my hood and I admired its jagged teeth and razor claws. But sitting in the driver seat now with an erection, I felt unworthy to have such a thing on my car. I didn’t feel too fierce after leaving the Weston residence. My mind was on Calvin Klein underwear ads, and the probability that Coach Weston had phoned my dad.

As I turned onto Thorpe, sunrays bounced off the hood of my car, blotching out the image of the panther. On the west end of the road, men in gray suits and old ladies wearing long khaki skirts exited Douglas Baptist Church, a two-story building with a painted glass replica of the Virgin Mary in the front. The golden tint blinded me for a second, so I flipped down my visor. The sun was setting behind a tangerine grove upon a hill, its light bleeding pulp orange into the sky.

The parking lot was packed, trucks and station wagons side-by-side like toys in an unopened box. Men were shaking each others’ hands, women were laughing, and kids were playing tag. One kid tripped over a brick, and as he fell, we exchanged gazes. His eyes looked puzzled as if he were asking me why I’m driving by. Catalina, my girlfriend, had been baptized in this place long ago, and when I had asked her if the pastor tried copping a feel, she claimed the guy respected her.

I’ve never attended church—but, given what I had witnessed at the Weston residence, I felt the need to cleanse myself of any homosexual thoughts. Leonard Weston’s abs kept flashing through my head like ancient photos at a nickelodeon. Sensing my father’s disapproval, I decided this was an appropriate time to play nice with Catalina. I picked up my cell phone and dialed her number.

She answered after two rings. “Done playing with the boys?” she asked, a toilet flushing in the background. She coughed and I pictured her breaking a promise to quit smoking.

“I need you to come over for dinner tonight,” I said. “Wear something slutty, something that shows off your breasts.”

The church disappeared in my rearview mirror. My jaguar accelerated over a hill. The eastern hemisphere looked gloomy, as if God threw a curtain over my windshield. Cattle were playing with one another, ramming their heads into each others’ asses. A thump came from the sky and I sensed rain. Florida weather is funny that way—clear skies one moment, thunderstorms the next.

“Fuck you,” she said. “I’m not your whore.”

“Have you been smoking again?” I asked. “I can’t stand it when you smoke. Kissing you is like kissing a chimney.”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“I’m sorry, love. It’s just that dad seems pissed about the possibility of another losing season, and I’m always getting the blame.”

“Stop acting like a whiny baby,” she said. “You need to step up your game anyway. Last season, you sucked donkey balls. Hit the gym more and get that body into shape, so it doesn’t feel like I’m fucking a ball of Play-Doh every week.”

“Fuck you,” I said. I punched my steering wheel.

“You’re lucky I’m not modeling underwear in front of your meathead friends. I bought something really special for you, too.”

Chester’s sweaty biceps and bare neck entered my thoughts. I shook my head, feeling like slapping myself.

“My dad will be home,” I said. She had always wanted to spend an evening with “The Coach,” or so she had put it. Light precipitation splotched my windshield, so I decelerated and turned on the wipers.

“Why do you need me to dress slutty for your dad?” she asked. “I want him to think I have class. I’m just going to throw on a sweater.”

“The classy thing to do would be not to act like my grandma.”

The rain trickled and hit the road harder, forcing steam to come off the asphalt. Golden sunflowers sifted along a plateau where a goat was sleeping. Black love bugs smashed onto my windshield, their guts caking like mush after a food fight. The wind kicked up, blowing grass over my hood. Suddenly, my panther emblem seemed ridiculous.

I realized Catalina deserved better than being a pawn to impress my dad, but I wanted to assure him that I didn’t have one gay fiber in my body. Having a sexy girlfriend had its advantages, but it sucked when she didn’t want to play ball.

“Dress however you want,” I said, clearing my throat.

“That’s a good hound dog,” she said, laughing. Hound dog was her stupid little love name for me. Gag me. “Pick me up in twenty minutes.”

As the line went dead, lightning struck in the distance. By this time, the sun was eclipsed by the storm.

*

Catalina ran down her driveway, her chest covered by a navy blue sweater, her skirt longer than those worn by the ladies at Douglas Baptist. Her umbrella was cocked diagonally, allowing droplets to hit her face. The rain was now coming down quicker than piss pouring out of a boot.

I unlocked the car door and she plopped beside me. She tossed her dark wet hair like some shower model, covering me with the spray. And she smelled like a grandfather’s pipe.

“We sure need the rain,” she said.

She turned on the radio and some pop song I never heard of came on. She dipped her shoulders and stretched her hands out, clapping them into gator chops.

“Please don’t embarrass me,” I said, backing out of the driveway.

“Why can’t I just be me?” she asked, pinching my cheek.

I pulled away, nudging her off with my elbow. “Dad always tells me not to date a jackass,” I lied. “I can’t afford for you to give him more of a reason to be pissed off.”

“What the hell’s your problem?” she asked. “I mean, you’ve always been a jerk, though a sexy one. But today, you’re acting like the biggest piece of shit on Earth.”

I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of hearing about how my buddies got caught in a compromising situation in the middle of the tent scene in Brokeback Mountain.

“I’m thinking about joining a church,” I said, trying to change the subject. She didn’t attend services anymore, claiming that she refused to feel like a hypocrite. “I saw that place you were baptized at and thought maybe that would be nice.”

She poked my ribs hard and I squirmed. “No wonder you’re acting so weird. Did the Holy Ghost enter you while I was away?”

Leonard’s ass. Chester’s lips. The image of Leonard straddling Chester. I pulled down my shirt and gritted my teeth.

“Not exactly,” I said.

She grabbed my hand as I worked the clutch. She fingered the gap between my middle and index finger. “I’m going to kiss you in front of ‘The Coach,’” she said. “A long, fat, passionate one to show just how serious our relationship is.”

I slammed on the gas, winked at her, and said, “Please do.”

*

Rain continued to pound hard as I cut the engine. Sheets of water slid off my dad’s tin roof and through the metal gutters, spouting a small lake between the porch steps and the rock path. An overhead light shined over my dad, his arms folded, and his shoulders bulging as if he were the Incredible Hulk. His mustache curled down with his lips, and his eyes were like a cougar’s, sharp and dangerous. He wore a Hugh T. Plowright polo, probably the only shirt he owned. A steak knife dangled from his fingers, causing me to grip Catalina’s hand. The rain drenched my body. It didn’t help that Catalina’s umbrella directed a stream at my chest.

Dad turned his back and walked into the house. As Catalina and I entered, the stereo blasted commentary from a Tampa Bay Buccaneers preseason game. I turned down the volume while Catalina wiped her boots against a doormat. Dad snapped his fingers at me and pointed to the kitchen behind a corridor, his way of demanding a private moment.

“Dad, I want to introduce you to Catalina, my girlfriend,” I said, marching into the kitchen. I placed emphasis on the word “girlfriend,” but it didn’t faze my old man.

“Give us a moment, sweetheart,” Dad said.

Catalina winked at me. My fist tightened, waiting for the kiss she had promised me, but nothing happened. My old man snorted and, judging by how he cracked his neck, I knew he was in no mood for pussyfooting around. I marched into the kitchen, head hanging down.

On my dad’s side of the table was a plate of mashed potatoes topped with gravy, a T-bone steak, cauliflower, three biscuits, and green beans. A beer sweated near his silverware. Normally, I would have sat in the seat to his left, but he placed my dish on the other end. A teacup, bowl of fruit, and a salad only made of lettuce had been prepared for me. No dressing was in sight. The ceiling fan whooshed over me as Dad grabbed a dishrag, strangle holding it.

“I was thinking that it’s time we strip Chester of his ‘captain’ title,” he said.

I proceeded with caution. “But he’ll have been a four-year starter.”

“I need you to be one-hundred percent honest with me—is he taking steroids?”

I had seen Chester swallow pills before and I suspected they were steroids. I shrugged and said, “If this is about what happened earlier today, then I say we stop beating around the bush and get it out in the open.”

I clenched my fists, expecting Dad to come after me. We’ve had our share of fights, and I had never won one.

“Yeah, I heard that little faggot made you and Leonard watch Brokeback Mountain. Why the hell didn’t you leave?”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Leonard was the asshole who made us watch that shit.”

I remembered all the times Dad had gotten on Chester’s ass about doing better, how he’d push him in the weight room to bench twice his weight, how he’d make Chester run more forty-yard sprints than any other member on the team. He had pushed Chester the way he should’ve challenged me, his own son. Would he have disowned me if I had showed that film?

“Don’t you lie to me,” Dad yelled. He stepped into me and my ass plopped on a chair real fast. “I see how close you are with him. Why do you and Leonard stand up for that little faggot?”

“The same reason you used to,” I said. “Because he’s a hell of an athlete who can help us build this football program.”

“Don’t get fresh with me, boy,” he said, raising the dishrag. “I knew there was something funny about you ever since you kissed your goddamn cousin as a boy. Damn fag syndrome starts as a kid and spreads like a sickness. I ought to beat the gay out of you all.”

“Then what do you call my girlfriend out there?” I asked.

Dad bumped his chest into me and I toppled over. A ripple of thunder crashed outside. The hardwood floor beneath me vibrated. Dad started beating me with the rag, the corners striking my clavicle hard. Rash burn roughed up my skin and my hand fumbled to block the blows. As I considered punching my old man’s kneecaps, I saw Catalina standing in the hallway, a hand covering her mouth. Mascara trails ran down her cheeks and I couldn’t make out if they were tears or streaks caused by the rain. Dad stopped, picked up the chair, and shrugged.

“Coach Wyle,” said Catalina, timidly. “Adam and I were thinking about joining a church and we’re wondering if you wanted to join us.”

Dad tossed the dishrag onto the table, sat down, and started carving into his steak. Blood gushed from the medium rare meat.

He said, “Get your girlfriend a plate, Adam. Make her a steak. As for you, stick to the fruit, Fruit Loops.”

*

I didn’t expect Dad to be serious about stripping Chester of his co-captain spot. But the next morning, Dad was scowling as he went to work. The “gay” talk hadn’t blown over, so I prepared for the worse. I wondered what type of hazing Dad would put us through at practice. Fifteen gassers? One hundred yard bear crawls? Or possibly a game of tackle the dummy, where Leonard, Chester, and I were the targets?

Outside the athletic facility, a red bricked building with paw prints plastered over the walls, Catalina and I made out as if we were two lovers about to be torn apart by war. Leonard and Chester stretched. The sun had baked them red and mosquitoes were hovering all around them. When Leonard slapped the mosquitoes that landed on Chester’s waist, I told them to cut it out, just in case we got accused of any more homosexual activity.

“This is bullshit,” said Chester, turning to Leonard. “I’m going to kill you after practice.” Chester punched him in the chest.

“That’s if we even make it through practice alive,” said Leonard.

“You really should just stand up to him,” Catalina said to me. “Just quit. He’ll be damned to let you ruin his legacy like that. Just think about what everyone would say if his own son walked out and he did nothing.”

“No way,” said Leonard. “My dad would rather kick me out on the streets than see me quit the team. That’s not going to fly.”

Some pimple faced freshmen and sophomores walked past us into the locker room, laughing, sizing us up-and-down. One of them drooled while staring at Catalina’s ass, and I slapped her behind just to show him what’s up. Catalina flicked my hip in response and the kid squirmed away. Yeah, my woman, you bastard.

“Let’s go,” said Chester.

I kissed Catalina one more time before following the fellas into the locker room. The walls were covered in oak plaques with track-and-field, basketball, football, and weightlifting records. An empty trophy case was on the other end, right before the showers no one ever used. The room boiled with sweat, summertime heat, foot spray, and bacterial infections. Our teammates threw on their shoulder pads, some grabbing towels and snapping them at each other’s junk. I wondered how many of these dudes were closet homosexuals.

We entered the film room where Coach Weston and my father hovered over a playbook. Each had a pencil in one hand and a Gatorade bottle in the other. Coach Weston started laughing as we sat at the table. Chester crossed his arms and held his chin up high. Swagger.

“Well if it ain’t the Brokeback boys,” said Coach Weston. “We may have to name a play after you fellas.”

“Cut it out,” said Chester.

Dad opened up a box sitting atop a filing cabinet. Reaching inside, he pulled out three XXX-L pink shirts. He tossed them at us and said, “A little gift for y’all.”

The shirt fumbled through my hand. One hundred percent pure cotton.

“What do you expect us to do with these?” I asked.

“You fruits are going to wear them over your pads,” said Coach Weston. “No one on the team will know why, but for practical purposes, we figured this is the right punishment.”

“For what?” asked Chester. “For watching a stupid film.”

Dad went to the dry-erase board that had a depth chart, special teams formations, and a list of captains. He wiped out Chester’s name under the “captains” column, but left mine up there.

“This is utter crap,” said Chester, throwing the pink shirt on the ground. “I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“You pick up that shirt or leave the team,” Dad demanded.

Chester bent down, but I grabbed his hand. I nodded, stepped to the other side of the table, grabbed an eraser, and took my name off the captain’s list. Dad and I locked eyes, bull and matador. His gaze was harsh, like horns goring my insides. It was time to start acting like a captain.

I got to thinking about Catalina’s advice about challenging my father, the extreme stupidity of this situation, and that damn church the other day. The stained glass of the Virgin Mary had haunted my sleep the previous night, staying there like a still portrait. That was when I realized that it sometimes takes an act of God Almighty to take down a tyrant.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Dad.

“Wearing these shirts is dumb,” I said. “If Chester’s unworthy of being a captain, then rip the “C” off my jersey too. Find yourself a new puppet.”

I marched to the door. Chester and Leonard followed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Dad asked.

“To practice. See you on the field.”

The door slammed behind us. The three of us walked to our lockers, threw on our pads, pulled up the laces on our cleats, and butted heads with our helmets on. Coach Weston and Dad marched out of the film room, swinging their whistles, not paying any attention to us. They continued out of the training facility without saying a word.

Leonard slammed his locker, saluted us, and said, “You two are some bold motherfuckers.”

“We’re no longer captains,” said Chester, kicking dirt off his cleats.

“So what,” I said.

Chester snapped on his chinstrap, winked at me, and bent down to close his locker. I tried to look away, but his big, rotund ass stuck up in the air. I resisted slapping it.◊