North Dallas Forty Read Free Page B

throat. He looked and sounded like a four-pack-a-day man getting out of bed in the morning.
    “B.A. wants me in his office at ten tomorrow morning,” I said, remembering.
    “He’s probably gonna tell you you’re starting Sunday.”
    “I doubt it.” I frowned. “If he was gonna do that he’d just call in Gill and tell him he wasn’t starting. No, I think B.A. just wants to make certain I understand the nonprejudicial, technically flawless way he arrived at the opinion I should sit on the bench.”
    “I dunno.” Maxwell gazed out the windshield. “That was a big catch you made yesterday. It put us ahead to stay.”
    “Yeah maybe, but it was the only pass I caught.”
    “You only played the last quarter. Besides, it was the only one I threw at you.”
    “He’ll want to know why you don’t throw at me more.” It frustrated me to use the coach’s logic. I paused. “By the way,” I turned my face from the windshield and frowned at Maxwell, “why don’t you throw to me more?”
    “Cause you ain’t been playing that much, asshole.”
    “I suppose. After that truly amazing catch, you’ll surely want me as the special guest on your television show. Gimme the opportunity to snuggle my way into the heart of Dallas-Fort Worth. It’s the least you could do.”
    “It’s also the most,” Maxwell said. “Besides, I’m having Jo Bob on the show this week.”
    “How about a remote interview?” I suggested, smiling widely. “I could tell how I overcame a truly Middlewest upbringing and a childhood case of paralytic ringworm. Maybe they could do some closeup shots of my hands doing something—like picking my nose.”
    “Listen, man,” Maxwell interrupted, “it’s a family show.”
    I shook my head. “Why can’t there be a football show for the hard-core pervert?”
    There was no response from Maxwell. He seemed lost in thought.
    “What do you think of the SCA?” Maxwell said finally.
    “What?”
    “The Society of Christian Athletes.” His voice was deep and halting as he tried to keep the marijuana smoke down in his lungs. “B.A. asked me to make an appearance at the national rally they’re having in May. At the Cotton Bowl.”
    “You don’t believe that shit, do you?”
    “Sort of.” Maxwell’s voice became submissive. “I mean, when you have a chance to influence people you oughta do some good.”
    “Who says that’s good?” I asked. “Besides B.A.”
    “What’s wrong with him? For God’s sake, the man’s a Christian. That’s a helluva lot more than you are.”
    “Sure, our coach has money, success, his life planned down to the minutest detail. Everything going off like clockwork. He must have God on his side.”
    “You sure are bitter,” Maxwell said. “What harm can it do?”
    “I don’t care, man. Go ahead, influence people.” I deepened my voice to affect an imitation. “Hi, kids. Seth Maxwell here to give you a little good influence. Don’t get your kicks doping. Get out on the ol’ gridiron and hurt somebody. It’s cleaner and more fun.”
    Maxwell stared silently through the windshield. I turned my attention back to the road.
    Six Flags Amusement Park flashed by on the right. In all the years I’d lived in Dallas, I’d been to this “Disneyland of the Southwest” only once. I’d spent the entire time, stoned on mescaline, in the Petting Zoo caressing a baby llama. I considered screwing the furry little bugger as a protest against captivity, his and mine. But I decided even if the llama understood, the guards wouldn’t, so I chalked up another sexual and sociological frustration and went home.
    Flailing arms and loud coughing brought me out of my thoughts.
    “Goddam. Goddam.” Maxwell’s voice was raspy and he was gagging. “Goddam. I swallowed the roach.” He shook his head. “It burned the livin’ shit outta me.”
    “I warned you about suckin’ so hard.”
    “Fuck,” he said. He leaned over and spit on my floor. “You got another?”
    “In