The Perk (20 page)

Julio did not want to live his life invisible.

His parents had long ago resigned themselves to such
a life; it was the trade-off a Mexican must make for a better life in America. An invisible better life. But Julio was an American citizen. He should not have
to make that trade-off. He should not have to live his life invisible.

But it would always be so here.

He had often wondered, what is it about a brown
face that brought anger to the Anglos? But he had never found an answer, until
Juan was born. Julio had walked to the hospital just down the road and gone to
the nursery to see Juan lying there in his crib wrapped like a papoose. And
Julio then looked at the other new babies; they all had brown faces. His eyes met
those of the Anglo nurse; and in her eyes he saw the knowledge that with each
brown baby that came into her nursery, her world was changing.

The Anglos' world was changing.

Now when Julio walked downtown and the Anglos looked
upon him with disdain, he just smiled, because he now understood: his brown
face did not make them angry; it made them afraid. They did not hate him; they
feared him. They feared the future. Because his brown face was their future.
Because change was upon them.

Change that would threaten their way of life.

But Julio Espinoza
did not threaten the Anglos. In fact, he did not threaten anyone: he stood
barely five feet eight inches tall and weighed only one hundred thirty pounds soaking
wet. He was not a gang member, he did not tag the school campus with gang
graffiti, and he did not have gang tattoos all over his back and arms. He did
not cause trouble. He was a "good Mexican." So he was tolerated by
the Anglos—as long as he stayed in his place. And minded his manners. And did
not speak to the pretty Anglo girls. The big German football players always glared
at him if they caught him talking to an Anglo girl after an AP class, but he
did not glare back and call them
cabrónes
and throw up a gang sign, as
did the tough Latinos.

Julio Espinoza knew his place.

His place that Saturday night was behind the
snack bar at the movie theater just south of town, where he worked weekend
nights, serving sodas and buttered popcorn and candy to Anglos before the eight
o'clock movie began.

"Thanks, Julio."

He handed the large popcorn to Nikki and tried
not to stare. Nikki was a senior like Julio, she was smart like Julio, and she
took all the AP courses like Julio. But she was not like Julio; she was blonde
and she was beautiful and she was German. She was the head cheerleader and the
most popular girl in the school. Julio had loved Nikki Ernst since first
grade.

"Julio," Nikki said, her white smile
blinding him, "after the movie we're all going over to my house to swim.
You wanna come? And don't worry, Slade won't be there."

Nikki was also Slade McQuade's girlfriend.

He had often imagined
Nikki in a bikini; just seeing her in her cheerleader outfit at school on game
days made him feel faint. But Nikki's movie would end at ten; Julio got off
work at midnight on Saturdays, after the last movie. Not that he would really
be welcome at an Anglo party—he might be a good Mexican, but he was still a
Mexican. Julio could only imagine her parents' reaction at the sight of a
Latino in their pool: "
More chlorine, Hilda!
"
Nikki
was nice, but terribly naïve.

"Can't. Working till midnight."

She put the popcorn on the counter, stuck her
hand into her purse, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. Julio took the bill,
made change, and held a handful of coins out to her. Nikki took his hand,
turned it over, and held her purse underneath to catch the change. It was
almost as if they were holding hands, something Julio had often dreamed of. Just
the touch of her smooth skin on his made Julio's entire body come alive; he
inhaled her scent and felt drunk. The last thing he remembered about that
incredible moment was how it ended: huge hands grabbing him by the shirt and being
lifted off his feet and dragged across the counter by Slade McQuade.

"
Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco
…
"

Six days later—the night before the election—Beck
stood in the kitchen stirring J.B.'s stew in the crock pot, listening to Meggie
count to ten in Spanish, and wondering if he should have gone public with the
D.A.'s half-Hispanic child. Dirt was part of politics today—but was a child
fair dirt? The D.A. had made a youthful mistake when he was young; what if
Mary Jo had gotten pregnant when they were in high school? They probably would
have married, but he had loved her. The D.A. didn't marry the girl, but he was
supporting the child. He was doing the right thing.

But the D.A. campaigned against Mexicans to win
the judgeship. Was that the right thing? Illegal immigration was the hottest
wedge issue in America today; presidential candidates were wedging for all they
were worth. Why shouldn't a local D.A.? Was he to blame or the voters who
voted for him?

Beck had faced the same dilemma as a lawyer: Do
you work the margins of ethics and the law to win? Most lawyers did because
that's where the money is made in the law, at the margins. He never had. But
he had still won. And he wanted to win this election—as much as he had ever
wanted to win a football game or a trial. He wanted to win for the children,
for J.B. and Jodie, and for Miguel Cervantes.

"
… seis,
siete, ocho, nueve, diez.
"

"That's very good, honey."

The back door opened, and his father walked in
with Luke. J.B. came over and patted Meggie on her head.

"Why, you're gonna be the prettiest gal at
the game." He then stepped over and sniffed the stew. "Wasn't sure
about the garlic powder, but figured what the heck. I think it's gonna turn
out okay." He went to the sink and washed his hands. "Hector says Luke's
got the makings of a real winemaker."

Luke almost smiled then said, "J.B., the Gator's
running rough."

"I'll look at it tomorrow."

The phone rang. J.B. dried his hands and picked
up the receiver.

"Yep?" He held the phone out to
Beck. "Jodie."

Beck swapped the spoon for the phone. He put
the phone to his ear.

"Hi, Jodie."

"Beck, Mavis just called me. She said
early voting closed out, and the D.A. is up by two thousand votes."

He sighed. He had expected that verdict, but it
still felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut.

"You were right."

"About what?"

"Using the D.A.'s kid."

"No, Beck, you were right. I was
mad."

"You worked hard, Jodie. I'm sorry we
lost."

"We didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Lose. You won."

"I won?
How?
You just said he's way ahead, and the election is tomorrow."

"D.A. dropped out of the race."

"
When?
"

"Today."

"
Why?
"

"Mavis didn't know. But you're our new judge.
Congratulations. I'll see you at the game."

She hung up.

"What's all that?" J.B. said.

"The D.A. dropped out of the race."

"I'll be damned." J.B. turned to the
children. "Hey, kids, your daddy's the new judge."

"He's way ahead in early voting but he quits
the day before the election? That doesn't make any sense."

"Beck, ain't nothing in a small town makes much
sense, especially politics and football."

If you've never played football on a Friday night, you
can't begin to imagine what it feels like to be on the field under the bright lights
on a warm evening with the fans screaming, the bands playing, cheerleaders
cheering, and your body pumping out so much adrenaline and testosterone that
you're actually high on hormones. Every cell in your body—nerve, brain,
muscle—is alive. In fact, when you're forty-two and you look back on those
nights, you realize that you had never been more alive. And if you've never
played high school football in Texas, you haven't lived.

High school football in Texas is more than a
game. They say it's a religion. It might be an obsession. But Texans don't
win or lose high school football games—they live or die high school football
games. Few states spend less on education, but no state spends more on football.
High schools across the state boast indoor practice arenas like the pros and
stadiums like colleges with artificial turf, air-conditioned press boxes, 20,000
seating capacities, and Jumbotron video screens showing instant replays in living
color.

The Gallopin' Goats Stadium did not have a
Jumbotron. It had a real grass field, an open-air press box, and a capacity
crowd of 2,200 that had come to watch the top-ranked high school football team
in the state. The Goats wore Angora-white jerseys and helmets and black pants,
socks, and shoes. The players were identified by their last names printed on
the backs of their jerseys—except the name on the back of the quarterback's
jersey was SLADE. The sleeves of his jersey were cut short to reveal the barbed-wire
tattoos wrapping around each massive bicep. His long hair was wet and combed
straight back. He looked like Samson.

The Goats' opponent for their first home game of
the season was the La Grange Leopards. La Grange was a small town east of Austin that would forever be famous for having been home to the "Best Little
Whorehouse in Texas." Beck, J.B., and the kids were sitting in Aubrey's
reserved seats among the coaches' wives and children. Aubrey gave away his
tickets each week because he no longer had a wife or child.

The stadium, the team colors, the cheerleaders,
the band, the fans dressed in plaid, it was all as Beck had remembered—except
J.B. had never worn a Tommy Bahama shirt to Beck's football games. The one he
had on that night was black with long green and gray leaves stretching across
with red and yellow blooms; it was called "Kauai Five-O."

Everyone stood for
the opening kickoff. The Goat player returned the kick to the thirty-yard
line. The Goats offense ran onto the field and lined up without a huddle. The
players spread out from sideline to sideline, with three receivers on one side
and two on the other. Slade stood five yards behind the center in the shotgun
formation; there was no running back. The center snapped the ball back to
Slade; the La Grange defensive line surged forward, but the Goats line held them
to a stalemate. Slade stood tall while his five receivers raced down the
field. Then Slade's right arm just flicked forward as if he were throwing a
dart instead of a regulation-sized football, and the ball flew high and far and
fell into the Goats receiver's arms at the ten-yard line—
sixty-five yards in
the air
—and the receiver ran into the end zone.

One play, one pass, one touchdown.

The players' parents sat as a group and wore Goats
jerseys with their sons' names and numbers on the back. Beck spotted a tall man
in the group with an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth and a SLADE jersey
on his back. The other fathers were high-fiving him like he had sired the
second coming of Joe Namath. Maybe he had.

La Grange got the ball but went nowhere against
the Goats defense. The Goats were bigger, stronger, and faster. They hit
harder and hurt less. They were more aggressive and violent. They knocked the
La Grange running back out cold.

After each big hit, the Goats players slapped
and head-butted each other; they were high on hormones. The stadium pulsed as
the cheerleaders and the crowd chanted "De-fense … De-fense …
De-fense." Beck felt a twinge of sympathy for the smaller La Grange team,
like when Notre Dame had played Navy.

The Goats offense took the field again and put
the NASCAR offense into overdrive: they raced to the line of scrimmage,
snapped the ball quickly, and ran the play. Slade completed a pass for
twenty-two yards. They raced to the line of scrimmage again and ran another
play. An eighteen-yard completion. Three more plays and they scored again.
Seventy-eight yards, five plays, less than two minutes. It was frantic
football, and it was winning football. By the time the bands took the field
for the halftime show, Slade had thrown for four touchdowns, and the Gillespie
County Gallopin' Goats led 42-0.

"Beck," J.B. said, "you think the
Goats can win state?"

"Only team around here that could beat them
plays on Saturdays in the UT stadium."

"Slade's good, ain't he?"

"Yeah, he's good."

"Unreal" was the word that came to
mind.

The fans were giving the players a standing
ovation as they left the field when Beck smelled perfume and heard a woman's
voice in his ear: "Do goats really gallop?"

Jodie Lee stood next to him.

"More like canter."

She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a
big hug.

"Congratulations, Judge Hardin."

When she pulled back, she had tears in her
eyes.

"You okay?"

"I'm happy."

An old man walked by and nodded at Beck. "Judge."

Beck said to Jodie, "Word travels fast."

"Good thing about living in a small town is
that everyone knows everything about everyone. Bad thing about living in a
small town is that everyone knows everything about everyone. Woman we know,
she had an affair—everyone in town knew about it before she had put her clothes
back on."

She wiped her eyes.

"Thank God you won."

"I didn't win. He quit. Why would he do
that?"

She shrugged. "Who cares?"

She sat and looked away. Beck sat next to her.

"Something tells me I should care. Jodie,
you didn't use his kid, did you? To get him to drop out?"

She looked back.

"You think I would do that?"