The Music of What Happens(6)

“Shut your hole, dipshit,” Betts says. “Like you should have done last night.”

“Snap,” says Zay-Rod, and I shoot him a look, like, Aren’t we teammates here?

He flips me off. Apparently all is fair in trash talk, even among teammates. Good to know.

“You know this kid Jordan something?” I ask as I finally bring my Cardinals to the line of scrimmage. “Skinny dude with lotsa acne? Emo? Black hair hanging over his face?”

“You just described twenty percent of my homeroom,” Betts says.

“I don’t know how to explain him. He’s … I’m gonna work on a food truck with him.”

“You’re wha?” asks Zay-Rod. “I thought this was the Summer of Max. You were gonna wake up at noon and shit? You were gonna binge watch Cartoon Network and hang in the pool all damn day.”

I bit my lip. “Yeah. Rosa was not down with that.”

Betts laughs. “Since when does your mom lay down the law?”

“Since I came home at six this morning,” I blurt, and then I’m sorry I said it.

Betts hits the pause button on his controller just as my running back takes the handoff from Carson Palmer. “Hey,” I say, annoyed he’s stopped the action.

“I knew it. Soon as you said you had to jet last night. I was like, No way that dude’s going home. I knew it.”

I grab my phone out of my pocket and see what’s up on Snapchat. Nothing.

“Yup,” confirms Zay-Rod when I don’t say anything. “That whole ‘I need to get up early’ shit was weak. Where’d you go? Was it this Jordan kid?”

“Relax. I’ve only been with like five guys.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Betts asks. Looking up and to my left and right, I see him and Zay-Rod looking at me funny. I smile and laugh, as if one of them just told a lame joke.

“Shut up,” I say, and by habit I pick up my phone again and then put it down. “And no.”

Betts says, “Holy shit. Max Mo got some, yo! Max Mo got some!” and Zay-Rod cackles.

“Yeah he did,” Zay-Rod says. “What was his name? This some Grindr hookup and shit? Pitch or catch?”

Betts laughs like crazy and I say, “Shut the hell up.” I pull my leg from under his.

“Oh, come on. You can tell us,” Betts says.

“So anyway, I’m gonna work on this food truck because Rosa was not having it when I came home in the morning. She texted me like twelve times and I had my phone off. I’m fuckin’ stupid.”

“Was Stupid his name?” Zay-Rod says, laughing, but he stops fast, because I’m not laughing.

“It was either get a job over the weekend, or Monday morning my ass was gonna be at State Farm with Rosa.”

Betts gives Zay-Rod a look that I think means We’ll talk later. “Whatever, dude,” he says. “Don’t tell us.”

“That’s the plan,” I say, and he shrugs, and picks up his controller and un-pauses, and because I’m not exactly ready, David Johnson gets hit for a loss. “Ass,” I say.

“That’s what happens,” Betts says back.

“What do you think you got on your podcast?” I ask Zay-Rod, as we huddle up once again. It was the final in AP Composition, which was Thursday.

He shrugs.

“You’re so modest,” I say. “You know you’re gonna get an A.”

He doesn’t answer, and Betts says, “You know why he’s not answering? Because he doesn’t want to make you jealous, and you’re not very smart. And not-very-smart people are sometimes jealous of smart people.”

I say, “That awkward moment when a kid in remedial everything tells you that you’re stupid even though you’re in four AP classes.”

“There’s other kinds of smarts,” Betts says. “My obdulla oblongata is bigger than yours. I promise.”

I snort. “Medulla oblongata. And all that would prove is that you have a large organ that controls your heart and lungs.”

“You said big organ,” Betts says. “Which is funny because you have a micopenis and tiny munchkin biceps.”

I punch him in the bicep and he drops his controller midplay. “Asshole,” he says, rubbing it.

“If you had bigger biceps muscles, that would hurt less,” I say.





My wives take me to the Chandler Mall food court because it’s Saturday evening and that’s what we do.

I want to tell them about my impending employment issue, though I still haven’t told them about the potential homelessness motif and I don’t plan to now. It seems like a downer for a Saturday evening. Getting their full attention proves challenging. As usual.

“Did you see how she looked at me?” Pam asks as she just about slams her tray down opposite mine. She is staring at the Panda Express station, and her expression is typical Pam — defiant and dramatic in a way that is too big for the space, and most probably the situation too.

“I have my own life, Pam,” I monotone. “Not everything is about you, Pam.”

She sits down with a huff. “I swear to you she just gave me side-eye for no damn reason. I asked for an extra soy sauce and she was all, ‘I’ll give you that soy sauce’ reeaall sllooww, and ‘Here, have this side-eye too.’ You know they’re a bunch of racists over at Panda.” She raises her voice now as if she’s yelling back at the Panda Express girl, but her voice is way not loud enough to reach. “Yes, you. Side-eye. I swear I’m gonna boycott this racist-ass mall.”