Chris had stood alone, watching the ball sail. Two seconds later, she was clobbered by a pair of players coming in from both sides. They sent her flying onto her back. That drew the first whistle and flag. After a few more seconds, as Chris started to push herself up, they pounced again, making sure to push her helmet hard into the grass. “Stay down, girl!”
More whistles and flags. People in the stands began to notice and point, and the celebration in the end zone ceased. The Pahokee team watched two cocky players trotting away from where their kicker was faltering as she tried to get up, a big chunk of muddy turf stuck in her face mask. “Chris!”
The offending players never made it back to their sideline. The Pahokee bench emptied and they were swarmed, then the visiting team entered the fray. It took a while to untangle, but coaches and cops were ultimately able to pull everyone apart.
For a victory, it was unusually silent in the Pahokee locker room. Normally a fight, let alone a bench-clearing brawl, would receive a tongue-lashing from the coaching staff. The players were waiting for the rebuke that never came. Everyone knew what wasn’t said aloud. Chris may have been viewed in the past as just a girl, but now she was a Blue Devil, and nobody but nobody does that to one of theirs.
Chapter 30
The Next Morning
The sun had just peeked over the eastern sky of Lake Okeechobee when a Dodge Ram pickup with all the chrome and jacked-up tires and everything else it stands for rolled into the parking lot. There was the full complement of bumper stickers and decals: black POW-MIA logo, the yellow-green-red bar for Vietnam, silver parachutes for airborne, silver dolphins for submarine service, Purple Heart, Rangers, et cetera, et cetera.
Another pickup rolled in behind, a black Chevy Colorado with more decals, flying flags, American, Marine Corps. The pair of vehicles stopped outside an off-brand motel on the northern shore of Lake Okeechobee. The cabs of the trucks were already full, and more people squatted in the beds of the pickups as if there had been a pre-dawn street-corner call for migrant workers: “We need ten for six hours . . .”
A motel room door opened, and Serge and Cheyenne stepped out. He walked to the next door and knocked.
“Just a minute.”
“Coleman! Come on! People are waiting!” said Serge.
“It’s okay,” said Cheyenne. “They have to stop anyway for the others to catch up.”
“Others?”
The door opened and Coleman appeared. “All set to go.”
Serge stared at a lumpy spot below Coleman’s collarbone. “You’re wearing the chest pouch?”
“That’s right.”
Ribbit, ribbit . . .
“A frog’s in there?”
Coleman nodded and patted the pouch. “We worked things out last night. We’re friends now.”
“You do realize they’re not like ferrets,” said Serge. “I don’t think he has any idea what’s going on.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.” Coleman stroked the canvas. Ribbit. “And you wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he’s a raging maniac.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“I found out that it’s almost impossible to get a frog to smoke a joint—”
“Another sentence I never thought I’d live to hear.”
“—So I grabbed one of the empty plastic bags that come with the trash cans in the room, and put the frog in it. Then I took a mondo, triple-clutch hit and blew it into the bag.”
“I realize that among your people such gestures are tokens of goodwill, but we’re bordering on animal unkindness here.”
“He didn’t mind at all.” Coleman peeked down through the opening. “He liked the beer, too.”
Serge covered his eyes with a hand.
Coleman reached into the pouch. “I know you and Cheyenne had your own thing going on in your room last night, but you missed the real fun.”
“Did we?”
Coleman scooped out the frog, stroking its head lightly with an index finger. “Isn’t that right, Jeremiah?”
“You call your frog Jeremiah?”
“Because he is a bullfrog.”
“Naturally,” said Serge. “But back to giving him beer.”
“Three Dog Night let their frog drink wine, so I don’t see the big fuss.”
“Technically their frog brought the wine,” said Serge. “Didn’t that tell you there was some artistic license going on?”
“I don’t know what that means, but you should have seen him last night,” said Coleman. “When this little sucker gets his swerve on, look out! He was jumping straight up, sideways, even a backflip. We had a contest.”
“You jumped with him?”
“Duh!” said Coleman. “Then I used the plastic ice bucket to make him a little boat in the tub. But what he really liked was the toilet. Don’t worry: I taped up the flush handle in case I forgot. I was responsible. And some of those blind mosquitoes had gotten into the room, and I was able to capture a few, but only crushed them a little, and then I sat on the edge of the tub throwing bugs to Jeremiah in the toilet. I wish someone had a camera.”
“I can’t picture anything more precious.”
“I know,” said Coleman. “He really had the munchies.”
“But don’t you think you should be releasing him now?” said Serge. “He probably wants to get back to his own kind.”
“I think he’s happy,” said Coleman. “Remember how they were jumping all over the parking lot last night? Look at him now, happy to sit in my hand.”
“Coleman, his eyes are closed. He’s still fucked up.”
“Then the nice thing to do is let him sleep it off.” Coleman opened the pouch. “Back in you go.”
A roar erupted from an unseen point around the bend, growing louder and louder until it was vibrating stuff. The source came into view and pulled into the parking lot.
The bikers had arrived.
Harleys, helmets and star-spangled bandannas. Most had black leather vests, festooned with medals and patches from every branch of service.
“Time to saddle up,” said Cheyenne, and the three climbed in the bed of the second truck. The caravan pulled out of the parking lot and headed north.
Serge sat against the back gate next to Coleman. “I think I might have a problem.”
“I’ll do anything I can.”
“It’s not that kind of problem. It’s Cheyenne.” Serge searched for words. “She doesn’t want a commitment.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“That’s the problem,” said Serge. “Almost every woman I’ve ever met wants a commitment. Some act like they don’t at first, but it eventually comes up, and I’m a ramblin’ kind of guy.”
“I get it,” said Coleman. “You think she’s acting?”
“No, I think she’s on the level.”
“Then you’re home free.”
Serge was quiet a moment. “I can’t describe it, but it’s having some kind of effect on me. I’m oddly attracted to this. She’s a ramblin’ kind of gal, and that makes me want to commit. And then I’ll be trapped following her around a Pottery Barn with an armload of guest towels and that feeling that I can’t breathe.”