The Removed(49)

When Jackson came in, it was dark outside and the music was still playing. He set his briefcase down and stood over me. “There’s a gathering tonight,” he said. “Some folks involved in the games. It’s not far, maybe a mile or so down the road. My friend Lyle who’s working on the Thorpe game with me wants to meet you. Maybe take some video, have you stomp in a headdress or shake your head like an animal.”

“Shake my head like an animal?”

“People will be fascinated, Chief. Who knows—maybe someone will have some good gak you can get geared up on. Good gak, Chief. Sometimes Charlie has Mexican speedballs.”

He took a shower while I turned the album over and started it again. In the kitchen I heated up leftover pizza in the microwave. When he was ready to go, he came into the kitchen and ate leftovers while I looked in my bag for a toothbrush. I couldn’t find one and then wondered when I’d last brushed my teeth. My teeth were bad from meth use. I changed my T-shirt before we left.

Jackson wanted to get there quickly, so he drove us, taking a road I hadn’t seen. We crossed over the railroad tracks, and a flock of blackbirds fired into the dark sky. I thought about the fowl, which I hadn’t seen in a while. I knew it was still lurking around, waiting to swoop down and attack me, dig its talons in my shoulder or hair. We drove down a desolate road until we came to a warehouse.

The warehouse was crowded inside. A band of old men with gray beards and straw hats played some type of sad country music, droning slide guitar and low singing. The people around me were wearing loose-fitting flannel shirts and boots, the only alcohol a domestic beer served in red plastic cups. I saw people engaged in serious conversations, looking at their phones. I saw the intensity and pain on their faces, no laughter at all. This is supposed to be a party, I thought. There were NO SHOOTING signs all around.

Jackson left to get us beers. While he was gone, I overheard two guys talking near me. “I played for twenty-seven hours straight, stopping only to piss once,” one guy said to the other. “The game is really addictive. The whole town is buzzing about it.”

The other guy rocked on his heels. “I played three days without sleep. Fought about two dozen Indians. My wife prefers TV, but I need something more interactive.”

Suddenly one of the guys made eye contact with me, and I realized I had been staring. He squinted at me, and I looked away. No matter where I looked, I felt threatened by everyone I saw. Before she left me, Rae had encouraged me to go to counseling and figure out why I never wanted to be social, why I preferred isolation, and why I always wanted to stay home. She said I was constantly running away, never facing my problems or emotions. I wasn’t confrontational enough, that was the problem. I’d struggled to look her in the eye as she told me this. Maybe she was right.

Jackson returned with Lyle, who was thin and pale. Jackson handed me a beer, and Lyle introduced himself. “I’m mighty glad to meet someone who can help us with this Thorpe game,” he said. “We understand there’s a way Jim Thorpe dominated sports with his body. He used his weight, had a low center of gravity, so he had certain poses that gave him a whole lot of power.”

Jackson coughed hard into his fist. “Well, that’s all purely speculation, Lyle.”

Lyle had narrow eyes and sculpted hair. He was short, with a slender chin and a bony nose. It made him look a little like a badger.

“We met a Depp-like Indian who told us his grandpa works for the government here,” he told me.

“To be fair,” Jackson said, “the Depp-like dude was not really an Indian, I don’t think.”

“Shit. The grandpa just fathered a child at eighty. He runs three miles every damn day and still works for the government. That man is a god.”

Jackson nodded impatiently. “Let’s not get excited here, Lyle.”

They both looked at me, waiting for me to respond, but I didn’t say anything.

“We really need to talk gaming,” Lyle said.

He motioned for us to follow him and led us to a foldout table by the far wall of the warehouse, away from the music and crowd. Lyle put a cigarette in his mouth but couldn’t get the lighter to work.

“Lyle has some questions for you,” Jackson said. “We’re beta-testing the game I told you about. There’s a mud pit we’re using. Lyle can explain it better than I can.”

“A mud pit,” I said.

Lyle kept flicking the lighter until he finally got his cigarette lit. He exhaled a stream of smoke from the side of his mouth and leaned forward. “It’s an area near Devil’s Bridge,” he said. “Do you know where that is?”

“I’ve only been here a couple of days. How would I know where that is?”

“It’s on the outskirts of town. There’s a mud pit we want you to see.”

“You want me to see a mud pit?”

Lyle nodded, eyeing Jackson.

“We actually need you to get muddy,” Jackson said. “We’ll take video. We just need you in the pit.”

I took a drink from my cup and frowned at them. I couldn’t figure out if they were serious or if this was some strange joke at my expense.

“For a football simulation,” Lyle added. “We need better footage, like playing in mud and bad weather. You get the idea. It’s a mighty good game, friend.” He stopped talking to watch a woman walk by. She wore a black leather jacket and blue jeans. Her hair was long and dark and hung down her back. I wasn’t able to see her face, but Lyle was staring at her.