If Rock and Roll Were a Machine (20 page)

Bert hadn't heard that voice for five years, but he could have picked it out of a concert crowd. “Gary Lawler,” he said. “It's Bert Bowden calling about racquetball. We need to set a time for our playoff game.”

Bert had stumbled through his first few calls to guys for games, but then a guy had called him and said pretty much what he'd just said to Lawler. It was confident but friendly, and it was short, so Bert started using it himself.

“How about Saturday morning?” Lawler said.

Bert had wondered if Lawler would recognize his name. “Needs to be early for me,” he said. “I work at nine.”

“Let's make it six-thirty, then.”

“Six-thirty,” Bert said. He said good-bye, but Lawler had already hung up. I'll bet he does remember me, Bert thought.

He took his tape player and some favorite tunes to the garage. Clapton, Seger, Dire Straits, Dylan, Eagles, John Cougar Mellencamp. Tunes to mount a luggage rack by. He worked slower than he needed to while both sides played through. Then he roared off through the blue dusk. It wasn't long before he was rolling back under the carport and then
letting Gram's screen door bang behind him.

“Where'd you ride off to, Berty?” Gram said.

“Had to test my new luggage rack,” Bert replied. “He held up a Baskin-Robbins bag. “It carries ice cream,” he said. “That was my prime concern.”

Bert ate peanut butter and chocolate out of the quart container. He ate it all. Gram ate a little of her pint of chocolate mousse royale. Bert sat awhile, then gave Gram a kiss and said he was off for a ride. She asked if he had schoolwork, and he said he'd hit it when he got back. “Berty,” she said, “I want you to promise me.”

He promised.

It was close to ten, but Bert rode in just a T-shirt. He did, however, have his jacket strapped to the rack. He wished Darby Granger were on behind him. It probably wouldn't hurt to call her sometime. She had a boyfriend, but a call from her associate editor for next year wouldn't be out of line. Bert would be patient about Darby and about romance in general. He wasn't confident about a great number of things, but he was fully confident in his belief that everything of value took patience to acquire.

Bert swung by the 7-Eleven, though, just in case Darby was there hoping he'd show up to take her for a ride. But he didn't see her as he rolled past the gas pumps. The only patrons were some Thompson sophomores sitting on the
curb eating Cheetos.

He rode south, then east along the Spokane River. Soon the houses thinned out. It was darker here and he could see the stars. Plenty of people cruising. Mostly kids. Boyfriends and girlfriends, some of them on bikes. Ninjas, Interceptors, Katanas—those bikes that are supposed to be so distinctive but are really just stamps of one another. A few Harleys.

Cars were parked at every turn-out. Bert's contemporaries into heavy petting. But maybe they'd only pulled off to look at the stars through the pine boughs, or at the black flowing river. Maybe they'd come here from Dick's with burgers and fries and a contempt for the dangers of cholesterol. More likely, however, they were doing the nasty with flagrant disregard for its consequences. They were doing the bad thing, all right. Everybody was but him. How Bert longed for the opportunity to make such mistakes. How does a guy be patient about a primal urge?

Thank the powers of creation for Bowdenland.

He turned south on Argonne Road and was back among the houses and streetlights. He turned west on Trent and pointed the Norton for home. He slowed at Latus Motors, Spokane's Harley dealership, and looked through the windows at the new bikes.

Bert dipped south onto Sprague and cruised the tattoo parlor. He thought of having
RIDE FAST, LIVE FOREVER
written in blue on his throttle
arm like Scotty and Steve and Camille Shepard. The words rang to him like a statement of faith. Bert wished he could face his life with such audacity. If he ever had anything written on his body, this imperative would be it.

Friday night Bert is too
nervous to sleep. He tries reading to tire his eyes, he tries lifting the lid of his mind and allowing the nervousness to float away. He watches
Terminator
,
Aliens
, and
Predator
until the sky begins to lighten. He makes coffee then, but can't drink it.

As he rides to the club he tells himself it's just another match. But he doesn't convince himself. Bert Bowden knows a pathetic, futile, desperate, chickenshit lie when he tells himself one. This is not just another match. If he wants to win it, though, he needs to make it one.

Bert is sitting on the steps when one of the strength instructors arrives to open up. Lawler walks through the door as Bert is getting his towel and locker key.

The locker room is silent. Bert has never been here when rock radio wasn't pouring from the various speakers. He is bending to set his helmet on the floor of his locker when “Young Mr. Bowden!” makes him jump.

It sounds like a rooster's crow. Bert turns and watches Lawler walk by the sinks. He holds his chin high and his chest out like a little rooster. Bert would love to let the air out of this guy.

“Young Mr. Bowden,” Lawler says as he tosses his bag down beside a locker.
“I remember the name now that I see you. You were one of mine.”

“Yup,” Bert replies. He sees Lawler in the center of the line of kids walking back from recess, everybody with their arms entwined, singing. Everybody but him and Zimster. Bert sees it as though it took place minutes ago instead of years. He hears kids shouting as they take off down the slide. He hears the creak of chains as kids pump high on the swings. Bert walks out to the courts with the singing voices of his fifth-grade classmates in his ears and their backs and entwined arms in his vision.

He hits a few easy forehands and tries to feast his ears on the pop of the ball. As he hits a little harder and the pop gets a little louder he thinks he feels it nudging out the other sounds in his head. He hears Lawler warming up in another court. He watches his racquet meet the ball, he watches the ball contact the wall and bounce. Bert tries to fill his head with these sensations.

Lawler raps his racquet on the door and pushes through. “Let's get this done,” he says. “Two games to fifteen, tie breaker to eleven. Lag for serve.”

“Let's do it,” Bert says.

He tosses Lawler a new ball. He tries to take deep, even breaths, but his stomach is banging up against his diaphragm. He watches Lawler's lag hit the wall and arc back. He watches it bounce a few inches from the line. Bert reaches out with every sensory receptor for the sight and the sound of that blue ball. His lag isn't bad, but Lawler's was closer.

“Zero serves zero,” Lawler says.

Bert can't get a breath. Lawler's drive bounces out of the corner fat.
But Bert hits it into the floor with his frame.

“One serves zero,” Lawler says.

Don't do this to yourself, Bert thinks. You can play this game. Play it.

This drive is harder and better placed, but Bert takes it about six inches off the floor and right to the ceiling. It bounces back hugging the wall. A beautiful shot. Beautiful and lucky. Bert locates at center court and watches Lawler set up. He swings a smooth, high backhand but gets mostly wall. “Touch shot,” Bert says.

“Nice return,” Lawler says.

“Zero serving one,” Bert says. He's developed an effective drive serve down the right side. He doesn't have a lot of respect for Lawler's backcourt shots, and few guys look for the first serve of the game to come to their forehand, so he lets it go. And it's a sweet one, hugging the wall all the way to the corner.

“Screen,” Lawler says.

Bert looks at him. Screen? he thinks. I'm standing in the middle of the court. That serve didn't come within five feet of me. But what he says is “Second serve,” and lobs it in the same direction.

Lawler hits a leisurely ceiling shot to what he figures will be Bert's backhand. But the ball is three feet off the side wall and the bounce doesn't carry high enough over Bert's head. Bert takes it overhand and buries it in the right corner. Lawler looks at him
as though he's spoken in a foreign language.

One serving one: Bert drives to Lawler's backhand. Lawler waits for it to bounce and gets a solid hit on it. Bert doesn't locate as far back for Lawler as he does for harder hitters, and he sees by his feet that he's coming straight down the wall. Bert is waiting for the ball as it bounces back across the short line. He takes it cross-court with an off-speed backhand. No use for Lawler to go after it, and he doesn't.

Two serving one: Bert's drive takes a crazy bounce out of the corner. Lawler is set up, but only Plastic Man could hit this. “Lucky serve,” Bert says.

Lawler shakes his head.

Three serving one: Bert sets up so it looks like he's driving to Lawler's forehand as he did with his first serve of the game, but he goes to his backhand. Lawler is moving to the right side of the court as the ball zips by behind him and bounces out of the left corner. “Nice serve,” Lawler says.

“Thanks,” Bert replies. He's trying not to think of the score as anything but the announcement of serve. He's trying not to get excited.

Four serving one: Bert hits a good drive and Lawler hits a good return that Bert barely gets his backhand on. Bert doesn't see the ball at first, but he sees Lawler setting up near the service line on the right side. Pinch! Bert tells himself, and he takes off for where he thinks the ball will end up. Lawler pinches it into the right corner. It's a good shot, but Bert's there to take it shoelaces-high
and powder it. “Bounced right to me,” he says.

Five serving one: Bert faults, then lobs his second serve. Lawler goes to the ceiling. It comes back high along the wall. Bert is lucky just to keep it in play. Lawler pinches it in.

One serving five: Lawler's drive is hard but not low enough. Bert couldn't have asked for a sweeter bounce if he'd dropped the ball himself. Cross-court backhand. Smoke. By the time Lawler has turned to see how Bert will take it, the ball is by him, off the wall and up the right side of the court. “You're no B player,” Lawler says.

“Lucky shots,” Bert says.

Five serving one: Bert feels in control of the game. He doesn't believe Lawler can get the ball by him. If Lawler's going to score, he's going to have to kill the ball. Bert isn't giving Lawler anything. He isn't serving aces, but his drives are hard and low, and Lawler isn't getting set up. Bert plays the offensive racquetball he and Scotty have been working on. He tries to put away every shot, and for the next seven points he does. Then he skips probably the easiest forehand he's had all game.

It's one serving twelve, but Lawler doesn't announce the score. He's through giving Bert low stuff, and he goes to a backhand lob Z. The first two are perfect, bouncing high off the receiving line and into the side wall. Bert hits the first one straight up into the ceiling and dribbles the second off the wall. The third comes back too high. Bert takes it off the wall with
his backhand and tries to bury it. It hits a foot off the floor, but that's too high when the server is planted on the service line. Lawler pinches it into the corner. The swing and the look on his face suggest he's about to close the book on young Mr. Bowden, the lucky little shit.

Four serving twelve: another good lob Z, and another well-hit but strategically stupid return by Bert. Lawler takes it knee-high and puts it away.

You can't get it by him, Bert thinks. Don't try to get it by him. Move him off the service line.

Five serving twelve: another good lob Z, but there's room to return it. Bert takes a breath and waits. He hits a smooth backhand to the ceiling. Lawler goes to the ceiling, Bert goes to the ceiling, Lawler goes to the ceiling. But Lawler's shot is a little hard and he doesn't tuck it in close enough to the wall. Bert sets up a forehand from near the backhand corner. He watches the ball drop down off the back wall, and when it's maybe six inches from the floor he swings. That's the line the ball travels to the front wall. “Fuck,” Bert hears Lawler mutter. Let's open that book again, Bert thinks.

Twelve serving five: Just play the game, Bert tells himself. Go with what's working. So he hits the drive. Lawler's return is way up. It comes off the front wall about shoulder-high. Bert can let it go to the back wall and take it on the rebound. But he cuts it off. The ball hits the front wall and is down before Lawler can take a step. He was forty feet away. He couldn't have gotten to the ball in a car. But Lawler is steaming into
forecourt, anyway. His momentum carries him to the front wall where he leans to get his breath. He's still facing the wall when he says, “What the fuck kind of racquetball shot is that?”

Bert doesn't consider that Lawler's question might be rhetorical. “The books say to cut off the ball if your opponent's at the back wall,” Bert replies.

Lawler walks up to Bert and stands close. “You're still a smartmouth,” he says. “You still think you know everything there is to know.” Bert steps out of his way.

Thirteen serving five: If they were anywhere but on a racquetball court, Bert would be intimidated. He'd be jelly. But they are on a court, and here it doesn't matter what the asshole says. This world revolves around the blue ball. The blue ball makes the rules, and the blue ball plays no favorites. What Lawler thinks of Bert doesn't mean shit. Bert makes sure he's in the middle of the service zone. Plenty of room for a drive up the right side. Plenty of room for Lawler to see the ball. So Bert drives the ball into the right corner. It's not a great serve, but it doesn't matter because Lawler is nowhere near it. “Screen serve,” Bert hears him say.

Bert doesn't think. He just turns. “Screen?” he says. “I'm in the middle of the fucking service zone. That's not a screen.”