Swing State (4 page)

6.

Z
ACHARIAH
T
IETZ WROTE GAME SHOWS.

Portions of them, anyway. He'd filled two notebooks with ideas for challenges. But before
Love Balloon,
he'd never been able to visualize a show from start to finish. The individual segments in his notebooks, he realized, were standalones. Trying to get them to work together felt forced—when the shows made it to television, he would see their seams grinding against each other. If he was going to be a good game show producer there couldn't be any seams.

With
Love Balloon,
his ideas came together.

Almost.

Zachariah had never seen or heard of a show that was completed over two seasons—that is, a game show where the end of the first season was the halfway point.
Love Balloon
would be the first. The success of his first televised show would get him out of Armbrister—and out of the voc wing—forever. He'd move to whatever neighborhood in Hollywood housed successful game show producers. For Christmas (and maybe Thanksgiving) he'd visit his dad in a limo. Everyone in Armbrister would know his story: son of a single millworker finds Hollywood success.

The problem with his show was the second season. He had no idea what to plan for the challenges and speed rounds after the end of the first half—the bachelors and their competitions were no problem. But how could he know what to do after the balloon? In the apartment? Viewers needed some kind of structure to rely on, but he hadn't figured out what that structure was.

I hope I can figure out the second season,
he thought.

He sat for a minute, waiting to see if anything felt different.

Nothing did.

That was good, right? When the bleachers had been fit to collapse he hadn't had any sort of tingle: the pass was picked off—that was all.

* * *

Lunchtime was the worst.

He wished he could eat in the library. Ms. Collmenter and Ms. Petrie, though, rigidly enforced a no food or drink rule, especially in the computer area. He might get away with the Library Lunch Challenge, but at some point they'd catch him and maybe revoke his library privileges. So, his choices were the single-stall handicapped bathroom in the hallway or on the walk to the library. The latter was worse. Last year he started eating rapidly while walking as slowly as possible. No one noticed. Since his weight gain, though, anything involving food gained a negative charge:
Hey, Zits, you're so hungry you have to eat while you walk? There's a room for that! Or are you eating on the way to the cafeteria to eat?

He preferred the handicapped bathroom, but for the past few days Jamie Townes, the wheelchair girl, would be in there at the start of the lunch period. When she came out, fifteen minutes into the twenty-five minute lunch break, the bathroom stunk so bad he couldn't enter.

Skipping lunch altogether in favor of going to the library would be easiest, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not eating made him feel woozy. The last thing he needed was more trouble with math and measurements.

When the lunch bell rang, he went straight outside. There had to be someplace where he could eat his sandwich in seclusion before heading to the library.

The only spot he could see was a clump of bushes at the far end of the football field, where older kids smoked and made out.

The cafeteria was out. Sitting by himself was an invitation for trouble.

Until last year lunch was never a problem. He sat with his soccer friends Rick and Jim and Kenny and Sal. But following his accident, a stream of kids arrived at the table to make fun of him—and, then, him and them—and his friends moved away. First they talked to him less, then not at all.

He assumed things would go back to normal after a few days and discovered, as days turned to weeks, that the new normal was that his friends had moved to different tables and gave icy, minimal responses to his questions.

The summer would make everything better, he had thought. When he got back, he'd start playing soccer again and things would be the way they were. He'd practice through July and August and make a goal the first game back, shut everyone up, and go on eating lunch with his friends like nothing happened.

Instead he gained his weight.

Everything that happened in the wake of his accident was just a taste. There were kids at the high school who hadn't heard about it, but his size was obvious to all. He supposed he could join the Fat Table, but he'd seen the way people
gravitated to it for the express purpose of picking on those kids. Besides, sitting there would be an admission. He'd gained some weight over the summer was all. Like the doctor said, it happened. Puberty. He'd grow, and the weight would distribute itself evenly.

If the handicapped bathroom was full he didn't know what he'd do.

I hope no one is in there
.

He walked down the hall as fast as he could, feeling his belly and breasts jiggling rhythmically. He was still sometimes shocked by the way his new body felt and moved.

The door was unlocked.

Later, Zachariah thought back and realized he had willed the bathroom empty without meaning to. Just like he had kept the bleachers from collapsing.

* * *

In the library, he researched game shows.

The broken ones interested him the most.

He knew
Press Your Luck
from reruns. Contestants answered questions to gain turns at a big board, where they pushed a button to land a fast-moving frame over cash or prizes. If a contestant's frame landed on a “Whammy”—a cartoon that made fun of you—all cash and prizes disappeared.

Some guy who had watched hundreds of taped episodes made it to the bonus round. Most people who made it to the big board only stayed for a few minutes before they hit a Whammy. But this guy had discovered that the frame moved in a pattern. After a few tries to get the timing right, every turn yielded more money or spins or both. He was on for so long that the show had to keep taping his final round on
the next day. The producers were mad, but what could they do? He hadn't broken any rules—he was smart enough to recognize a pattern.

Zachariah didn't want
Love Balloon
to be beatable. Most of the time, dating shows favored guys who looked like underwear models: they were handsome and strong and basically had everything going for themselves. They didn't need to win anything because they had already won. None of them ever had to sit in a stinky bathroom stall to eat another peanut butter sandwich at lunch. They had moms. Their monogrammed backpacks didn't draw jeers. When they played soccer they scored goals. They didn't have dads who drank too much and got mad at nothing. They talked to girls and got jobs and left their hometowns to live in New York or Boston.

They knew the pattern.

But there were other people on the shows. Normal-looking people, sometimes even fat ones. Like the guy who figured out
Press Your Luck
. He looked crazy.

Zachariah had watched the few heavy people on game shows more closely since he gained his weight. When they won they were happier than their skinny counterparts, and when they lost they didn't look bothered. They were already used to losing all the time.

That was a pattern, too.

He wondered if their lives were like his. Maybe they grew up with dads who thought they were going somewhere but got stuck working in a mill putting coffee trays into boxes. There was nothing to do but drink can after can of Venerable and watch sports on TV after work, either at home or in a bar. Sports reminded his dad of high school and Armbrister's state
championship. Zachariah knew his dad told everyone about playing football. But he'd work in the mill forever. Partially because he, Zachariah, had come along.

When he rode his bike around town Zachariah saw kids hanging around who he recognized from the junior high halls. Kids who once played soccer or football, now smoking cigarettes in front of the L'il Bee. They were only a few years older than him, but had creased faces like his dad's.

Recipes had patterns, too. He was horrible at math, but he understood how food worked. Bread, especially. And pastry. Pasta dough. Mrs. Lafrancoise always shook her head when she watched him bake. Zachariah, she'd say, you have a gift. She was the one who convinced him to enroll in voc.

All the kids who wore denim jackets and T-shirts bearing the names of scary-sounding bands did voc. They drove noisy cars and drank beer. Even before his soccer accident, before his weight, he didn't want to hang around with that crowd—taking regular classes would make more sense (except maybe math). But Mrs. Lafrancoise told him that because of the way he knew about bread—just knew, she said—he would have no problem getting a job at a nice restaurant. He could be a pastry chef. Or a baker. And because he came from a low-income family, he might be eligible for a scholarship to a culinary school.

* * *

Zachariah heard the TV as he opened the door.

Uh-oh.

When his dad came home early it wasn't because something good happened. Which meant he had already started drinking. And a beating, probably, unless he escaped.

The TV was loud with some kind of car race. Zachariah, still holding the screen door handle, turned and began to tiptoe back out of the house.

He could walk back to the school library, open until five. Or he could walk downtown to the Double Scoop, although doing so would probably mean getting picked on. He missed sitting at its dark wood tables, a dish of ice cream in front of him, working on a game show. Since his weight gain, the rewards the place offered—quiet music, sun pouring through the windows—were not worth the inevitability of kids walking by his table, saying that fatties didn't need more ice cream. But that risk far outweighed the sock of tennis balls in his father's closet.

“I HEAR YOU!”

Oh no.

Paul Tietz appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes red and bleary, holding a can of Venerable. His short-sleeved work shirt was unbuttoned low, a stained white tee poking out from underneath.

“Trying to get out without me hearin' you, huh?”

Zachariah said nothing.

“What did you learn in school today?”

If he said “nothing,” his father would deride him for being stupid. If he mentioned something he learned, his dad would accuse him of trying to outsmart his old man.

“What are you watching?”

“Some car race,” he said. “Who cares? Why would I want to watch a bunch of guys drive in circles? Going nowhere.”

Zachariah nodded.

“What's for dinner?”

Zachariah wanted to tell his father it was two-thirty in the afternoon.

“You're always thinking about it. You're probably thinking about food right now.”

Zachariah said nothing.

“I SAID WHAT'S FOR DINNER?”

Before he knew it Zachariah was on the floor. A sunburst of pain blossomed in one kidney, fresh and raw. He hollered.

“ANSWER ME!”

Zachariah moved his mouth to form words. None came.

A fresh blossom on the other side.

Still no words, but a howl.

“WHAT'S FOR DINNER?”

“Ah,” Zachariah said.

His father stood over him.

“Ah . . . I'll make . . . Ruh . . . Ravioli.”

It was Paul's favorite. There was always frozen hamburger in the freezer.

“I'm hungry,” Paul said and stomped back to the living room.

7.

L
IBRARY.
C
AR BOOKS WERE GOOD.
P
ICTURES.
Understood more every day. Remembered.

The recruiter said easier to get work when you come home. You gain stature. College if you want. GI Bill. Grants. But their looks when he went into the job place. Like here we go again. No. Couldn't be because there were none. It was him. The way he looked. Talked. Something. So he'd learn up. Go see Artie. Say hey, man. I haven't called because I've been studying.

Pictures. Helped him remember. Under the hood. With Peck. Gotta be cold, Peck said overseas. Make sure. Sounds easy. It isn't. Guys hurt themselves. Everything Peck said was like that. Stuff he didn't know that he should've. Common sense. Maybe because he had none. He thought back. School. What an asshole. Making excuses. Trying to get off. That got beat out of him. Basic. He learned fast. Talking himself out of it. Not to make excuses, sir, but I thought this was clean enough. Then McSorley that friggin' prick put him on toilets for a week. Maybe having your face in shit will make you realize there's no such thing as clean enough, private. There's clean and not clean and you'll learn which is which by putting your face in both. After that McSorley
gave it to him for weeks. Called him a slacker. But he didn't ever fuck up again. At least not in basic. The guys said you can't talk to him like that. I know, I know. A week of your corn and peas. Trust me. They laughed.

After the library he walked. Every day around the common. Exercise. To get his leg back to where it was. And to get out of the apartment. Okay most of the day. When the wind blew he could feel it. Stuffed up the cracks with towels. Plastic over windows. Didn't matter. Wasn't cold like on his skin. Inside him, his bones. Never got warm. Not even winter yet. The library was always hot. One reason he went.

The same people on the common. Not the same time every day. Checked the church clock. Lots of dog people. Guy with husky. Tillie Tompkins. Her yappy dog. Went to the same church Auntie Blake did. Hello, he said. Being polite. Making an effort. She looked at him the first time and said oh my. Her face. Made him remember going to Boston for field trips. Zoos. Animals knew they were being watched. Couldn't change it. Tried not to care. Same as on patrol. Villagers watching. Saying hello. Saw it in her eyes. He still tried. Her and the dog both. She didn't mean anything by it. But still.

Across the common he saw that girl. From the quarry. High school. Always wearing black. What was her name? He hadn't been there. Artie's friend Gil said he knew someone who was. Like a melon hitting pavement, he said. They pulled her out. Didn't know why he cared so much. She jumped. Maybe that was all. So did he. Like someone else was pulling the strings. Maybe she felt the same before her head hit.

Remembered that same summer. They went back to the quarry. After he jumped. Artie and Christa. Some of her friends. Dudes.
He thought that was weird. Artie didn't mind. Couldn't remember their names. Knew faces.

Two twelvers. Roy carried one again so they could hold hands. The other guys were like you're the man, dude. We heard you did Tits your first night. Yeah, he said. That shit is hard. Gonna do it again? He sat there by the fire. I don't know, maybe. Drank. Listened to stories. Waited. Like it was gonna happen again. It didn't. Drank four. Knew he was ripping someone off. Three each. Didn't care. Those guys talking about it. How tough he was. He wanted to.

Didn't even stand up. Wouldn't walk to the ledge. Nothing.

They called Roy a pussy. Artie was like all right, lay off. No one else would do it. I'm not your bitch, he said. You fucking do it. No one would. They shut up. But he still felt it. They passed him in the halls. Had looks.

When he signed up he thought about that. Coming back would take away the looks. But it didn't. The college ones shook their heads. Asked if he was going to fight for oil. He got mad. Some skinny kid in glasses and a sweater. Punched him. First fight in a long time. Didn't matter. Artie's friends still looked at him. Because of the quarry. He wouldn't jump. Didn't matter he was going.

That girl, all in black, across the common. He wanted to talk to her. Say I walk, too. Be nice to talk to someone. Even if they didn't. Just be there. But she was all the way across. Couldn't cut it. Had to play it cool. Like he didn't care. That was better. Not sure why. Just was. He watched her walk around and down toward her house. He didn't think she'd lived there before. Maybe she did. Her place now. Everyone knew. Artie told him. Old van in the yard. Colored paper in the windows.

He knew the type. From school. Skinny. Wore big black glasses. Wrote in notebooks at lunch but called them journals.
Listened to fucked up music. Not like radio stuff. But he didn't remember her. They all looked the same. Were smarter. Talked about stuff he didn't understand. Didn't like sports. He remembered that. Right? All black? Always. Summer, winter. Didn't matter. Sometimes an umbrella. No dog. Just a walk. Fucked up when her head hit. Changed.

Still saw kids like that at the library. Writing in their journals. Reading their books. He just read box scores and car books. Foreign and domestic. Which did Artie do? He'd check. If domestic, maybe Artie knew someone. A network. Had to be like that. In basic they thought it was like that. Yeah, Peck always said. When we get back the shit is gonna be awesome. Come down to Bama and we'll grill steaks. Get wasted. Go to a game. Every year. Bring our kids. Check out each other's wives. He always said that. About the wives. They all laughed. Every time. He meant everyone would check out his. Peck, he knew. And they would. Bring your buddies. Their wives. Check them out, too. Friend of yours, friend of mine. Every year. Get to know some people. Good people. Help each other out. Thought he'd bring Artie. Christa. Talk about hunting, cars, football. Artie was a hunter. Went out every year. Looking for deer. Got a couple. Artie didn't mention hunting since he got back. He usually just talked about that stuff. Probably didn't because of what happened. He understood. Never much for it. Had a rifle, though. Artie gave it to him in high school. They went out once. Fucking boring. Like being overseas. Sat in a blind and waited. Deer never came. In Maine. Some family friend's cabin. Great place. Drank a lot. Dirty cards. Said he'd go again. Cabin got sold.

Common every day, but woods some. Yesterday he got up early. Nightmare. Headache behind his eyes. Someone chasing him.
Didn't know who. Or what. Sometimes tanks. Trucks. Dudes with guns. Couldn't remember. Always being chased. Tried going back to sleep. Couldn't. Went for a walk. L'il Bee parking lot full of cars. People buying coffee before work. No one in the woods. Too early. Ten minutes in he couldn't hear cars. Air cold and damp. But different than in his apartment. A morning thing he remembered.

He heard a crackle. A deer walked out. Huge. Stood there long enough to count points. Eight.

Woods were posted. That was why. Signs on trees when he did walks. To the hearse, the quarry. He wondered if Tits was still sharp. Probably. Granite was strong.

Roads during the day. Schaferville was far. At first thought he could get there and back easy. It was hard. Hilly. Both ways. Hurt his leg. And traffic. No sidewalk. Small shoulder. Cars hauling ass.

After the woods yesterday and the common today he started walking it and couldn't finish. Hurt too much.

He went home. Got the mail. Never anything good. The
Armbrister Sentinel,
a bunch of official-looking stuff. From the army. No check. Another ten days. Knew those envelopes. Kept the rest in a pile on the table.

He liked the paper okay. Wasn't the
Globe
or the
Herald
. Big print. Easy. Short articles. About the football team. Good players. This one defensive back. Scholarship, probably, the paper said. Not Durham or Plymouth or Keene. A real school. Division I.

He'd go see the one good defensive back. Keep walking. At night, pool. Dry lately. Only a few games a night. Lefty all the time. Kept him from getting bored. Sox sucked. Everyone hurt.