Chapter OneBerkley“No football this year, eh?” I stare down at the top of Davis’ head. He’s been bent over for so long I wonder if he’s going to have a permanent kink in his neck. Smoke billows out from beside his head from his joint. “Tough.”
“You sound real sympathetic.”
I squint at the sun and think about my tone. My mom is always on my ass about my tone. Berkley, watch your tone. Berkley, say it with some meaning. Berkley, if you can’t be nice maybe don’t say anything at all.
“Never mind,” Davis sighs. “Don’t break your brain trying to drum up some feeling. I know you have none.”
About this situation? Yeah, not really. I mean, maybe if I had a rocket for an arm like Davis, I’d be more upset that school wasn’t taking place like normal this year, but I’m not a football star like my friend. I’m part of that group in high school that doesn’t socialize. I suppose I could. There’s always girls on my non-existent jock strap trying to worm their way into my home, but my door’s closed. I’m not a fan of people.
Davis hands me the joint. I take a puff and then drop it to the ground, grinding it out with my boot heel. “That shit’ll kill you.”
“Weed does not kill anyone.”
“It stunts your growth.”
“I’m six five.”
“Shrinks your dick.”
Davis’ head jerks around. “Really?”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t know. My cock is giant.”
“Fuck you.” He holds up his middle finger.
“Think of all the extra time you’ll have to smash Chandler.”
“She’s like my fucking sister, you asshole,” he snarls.
“You don’t look at her like she’s your sister, but if you’re all filial and shit, guess you don’t mind if I take a shot,” I say, knowing full well he’s about to strangle me.
“You touch her and your giant cock is getting fed to my dogs.”
Thought so. “Why are you always talking about my cock, man? It’s nice, I know, but it’s not for you.”
“God, why does the pandemic always take the decent people and leave the likes of you?” Davis groans, burying his face in his hands.
“I’m decent,” I protest. “Just because I’m not kissing babies—which, by the way, we aren’t supposed to do during a pandemic—doesn’t mean I’m not decent. And you’re still around, which means you’re in the same boat as me.”
“I might as well be dead.” He throws himself against the grass and stares up at the sun. “If I can’t play football, what’s the point?”
“Sooner you’re dead, sooner I can make a move on Chandler.”
“Would you stop saying her name before I deck you?”
“Promises. Promises.”
He half lunges at me, but there’s no spirit in it. I give him a worried look. Usually bringing Chandler up in a conversation invokes the most maniacal response from him. Everyone knows it. Even his teammates will use that tactic if they feel like he needs extra motivation in a game. But the whole canceling of the football season, the mandated learning from home, is putting him into a deep funk. I pull a bottle of whiskey out of my backpack. “I was saving this for tonight, but have at it.” I hand it to him.
He takes it with gratitude, chugging at least a quarter of the bottle before wiping off the neck and then the back of his mouth. “Wild times we’re living in,” he says moodily.
“Yeah.”
Davis and I both caught the virus early on, making us two of the few who have had it in our town. It’s probably made us reckless since we’re immune and we can’t transmit it. The ironic thing is that we caught it doing the most mundane shit. Davis was watching his niece for his aunt who works at the hospital. She caught it from a patient and unknowingly passed it on to the baby. It was in the early days when no one knew anything about it other than it was like the flu on steroids.
I didn’t have any symptoms, whereas Davis lost his taste and smell and had fevers so high his mom was scared he was going to have seizures. He pulled through, but his aunt’s mom succumbed. It sobered everyone up real quick. Masks went on and school’s shut down. I think everyone was hoping we’d be able to go back to normal this fall, but it’s not happening.
“If you’re not going to bang Chandler and you can’t play football, what will you do?” I ask, capping the bottle.
Davis exhales wearily. “Don’t know. Feel like this whole year is going to be a waste.”
“We should do something fun then.”
“Like what?”
“Dunno.” We’re not real creative people. Davis’ idea of fun is getting chased by eleven guys weighing over two hundred pounds. My idea of fun is day trading on the market, but these days I feel guilty about it because of how everyone else is suffering, so I haven’t been doing much of it lately. It’s not like I need money anyway. I’ve got too much of it. To ease my guilt, I’ve been cruising donation sites and leaving sums here and there. It’s not much, but it helps me sleep at night.