Going All the Way Read Free Page B

started walking forward, when the train gave a sudden lurch that sent beer cans skittering precariously over the chrome tables in a general clatter, and something fell and smashed behind the bar. It was the sort of jolt that usually sent anyone who was walking down the aisle reeling into the lap of some stranger, but the tall soldier seemed to catch the very motion of the car with his hips, feinted with it, and continued on, his expression unchanging, his rolling gait with the feet pointing inward moving ahead, ready for anything. It was with the movement that the graceful soldier revealed his identity, for it was the same elusive, flowing sort of move that had so often evaded enemy tacklers, the natural action of the greatest broken-field runner in the history of Shortley High.
    It was Gunner Casselman.
    After recognizing him, the young soldier buried his head back in the magazine, knowing a famous guy like that would never remember him, even though they were in the same class at Shortley, and certainly wouldn’t have anything to say to him. Casselman sat down in the seat next to him and made a pop of his fingers that brought the sluggish waiter to him like a shot.
    â€œBring me a Bud, please.”
    â€œYassuh, right away.”
    It was as if the waiter knew, or sensed, who he was, or that he was Somebody. From the corner of his eye the pudgy young soldier could see Casselman was staring at him, almost squinting, his hand raised before him as if it would help him grab hold of the memory he sought. Then the forefinger shot out straight from Casselman’s hand, the thumb cocked back, the way kids make like they’re pointing a pistol at you, and Casselman said, “Indianapolis. Shortley!”
    The young soldier looked up, feeling his ears go hot, and said, “I went there.”
    That seemed to accurately describe the unsensational nature of his own time at Shortley, as compared to the glorious record of the Gunner.
    Casselman thrust his big hand forward and said, “I’m Tom Casselman,” and added, “Class of Forty-eight.”
    For anyone who went to Shortley, it was sort of like having the President come up to you on the street and say, “I’m Dwight Eisenhower,” adding, as if you might not know him, “President of the United States.” Then you were supposed to shake hands and say, “I’m John Q. Public.”
    The young man shook the outstretched hand and said, “I’m Willard Burns.”
    The waiter brought the beer, taking the small coin Gunner left him with effusive thanks, and Gunner stared again at Burns, like he had X-ray vision, and made that pop of his fingers.
    â€œYou’re Sonny Burns.”
    â€œThat’s what they called me.”
    And, he thought ruefully, it was evidently what they still called him; was what they would continue to call him, the little boy-cherub nickname he would be stuck with into old age, a bearded old coot called “Sonny.”
    â€œSure,” said Casselman. “Sure, I remember. You were a photographer. Took pictures for the Daily Echo .”
    â€œI did some sports stuff you might have seen,” Sonny said.
    â€œRight! Action stuff! Damn good!”
    Sonny ran a finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt, looking away as he said, “I got some good shots of you in the Southport game, senior year.”
    â€œRight! Hey, this is great. Running into you like this.”
    Sonny couldn’t figure out what Casselman could think was so great about it. Unless there was going to be some reelection of high-school class officers and Gunner was looking for votes, Sonny couldn’t imagine what use or interest he could have for the guy.
    â€œBeen doing some photography myself,” said Gunner.
    He pulled out a pack of Chesterfields, gave it a sharp tap, and one of them popped out toward Sonny, just the way it happened when someone offered a cigarette in the movies. Whenever Sonny