HOMETOWN HERO

It’s Friday night. The sun has dropped beyond the horizon of half-harvested fields of corn and soy. The giant floodlights high above the stadium make the high school football game the bright spot in town. Across Circleville, the announcer echoes from the loudspeakers, the brass, the xylophone cadence, and chime. The rumbling of drums, the stomping of feet, a war beat, chants, and cheerleaders rallying the crowd. An explosion of cheer, a roar, as QB tears through the paper-covered hoop during the run-through, leading the team, his team, as he is their captain, closer to victory. As he raises his arm, beachboy blonde shaggy hair, helmet in hand, his team jumps as a clan, crashing their facemasks together as Vikings ready for battle, ready to go berserk. QB awakens the night, and it is as though Circleville could be seen and heard from outer space, a bright spot in the void, alive with his go; this is QB’s show. The cheerleaders throw their legs up, tossing their pompoms high in the air, as they flip, dance, spin, and catch one another midflight. Freshman bandmates, brass to their lips, catch glimpses of purple panties. Purple—purple and gold are the colors. The opposing team is—red and white—the Chiefs, from Washington— “yuppies,” it is said. And as the crowd stomps and cheers, there is hope their entitled asses are smeared by the good old corn-fed country boys of Circleville.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” booms the announcer through the loudspeakers, “Please rise and remove tour hats to honor America and those who support our freedom at home and abroad. And now, please join in the singing of our national anthem.” 

A dirty blonde choir student with wide hips and thighs walks mid-field in a blue dress, where she stands behind a screeching mic, and a goth boy with long black hair in his eyes hunched over his guitar. With nails painted black, he plucks at the strings with an autographed pick, a scratchy, poor imitation of Jimi Hendrix.

“Oh-oh say—”  

The Circleville Giants take the field. The coin is tossed, heads, the Chiefs T-off. QB has a quick chat with the coach, then gives an endearing wave to his sweetheart Tiff, who sits in the stands with his parents. Tiff blows him a kiss, and his pecan eyes sparkle in the lights. He then squares his jaw and watches the punted ball flip through the air. First and ten.

“Kick their fucking asses,” yells QB’s father, who sits between his wife and Tiff, his hand on the young brunette’s knee.

QB jogs to the huddle as a group of three middle school boys toss a football behind the goal posts. The floodlights shine in their young eyes, the roar deafening in their ears, the goose pimples rising on their arms. They live for this moment. They dream of this moment. The glory that is one day to be had. One day to be their own. The night. Friday night. The lights. Those Friday night lights that light up their town—their town. QB’s town. And maybe, just maybe, one day, they, too, will be hometown heroes.

Neurofibromatosis is a genetic disorder that causes tumors, rather aggressive growing lumps of flesh—wart-like—to push out from the body, toad-like. “Toad,” as the locals call him, even has lumps on the bottoms of his feet. This makes walking painful as he hobbles his way to Browns Diner for a cup of coffee and hopefully a quick chat with a feller or two about this or that. As Toad hobbles with his elbows tucked in, shoulders tense, the bottom of his shoes rounded with his walk, he is greeted at the door by an old farmer just leaving, who holds the door open for him with an underbite grin that wraps his smile around his bulbous nose. Toad thanks him as he enters and makes his way to the opposite end of the long counter of the smokey, grease-laden diner for an empty stool near the john. Browns is cavernous with dark-paneled walls and low-lying ceiling tiles that—yellow with said smoke and grease—droop and sag in the middle with the humidity of an Indian Summer.

“What can I get ya, hun? The usual? Cup of coffee, regular, no cream, no sugar, side of bacon, bowl of cottage cheese with pineapple?” asks the waitress named Marge, jet black hair held up in a frizz by the hair spray that competes heavily with the constant barrage of said Indian Summer humidity.

Toad nods in approval. The row of men, old men, and old-old men chat on about this and that in a mumbled chorus of local dialect as Toad twiddles his thumbs.

Marge returns with his coffee, telling him politely, “That bacon and cottage will be out in a snap, hun. Anything else I can get ya?”

Toad clicks his cheek and gives a slight nod, and Marge makes her way down the row of coffee cups, refilling one after another, spreading her hospitality around like it’s cheap as chips. He thinks to strike up a word with a man in a red and black flannelled shirt, but he can’t think of a word to say. So, he blows on his coffee, inches around on his stool, as they grow on his bottom as well, and he waits patiently for his side of bacon and bowl of cottage cheese with pineapple. Occasionally, as someone comes or goes, the marching band can be heard bellowing in through the front entrance, along with a rush of fresh evening air, a tinge of autumn on the cusp.

“10-50, over,” calls dispatch, “Oaklawn Housing Complex—Caucasian woman, 5’ 2”, brunette, medium build, high on narcotics creating a disturbance, over.” 

“Hey Patrice,” says LT into the Motorola, “I’ll take care of it—cancel back up.”

Turning off his radio, LT, crew cut, donut belly, bifocal aviators, flips on his lights and speeds through the intersection at the corner of the high school and McDonald’s. Behind the high school, about the flood light glow of the stadium, the crowd erupts as a touchdown is made, but the roar is quickly dosed with a blast of his siren as LT swerves into oncoming traffic. Those in the McDonald's drive-thru quickly swivel their heads to see the action as the squad car nearly hits a navy-blue minivan screeching to a halt head-on. Speeding down Main, LT runs two red lights, then making a right, east on Locust, he runs the two more stop lights, having run the total number of stoplights in town. He then speeds through a good half-dozen stop signs as he curls a fresh stick of Double Mint on his tongue. Arriving at Oaklawn, LT comes screeching to a halt in a back parking lot of the housing complex lit by three buzzing streetlamps. LT gets out, tightens his belt, and approaches the Caucasian woman, 5’2”, brunette, medium build, high on narcotics creating a disturbance as she screams at a neighbor about one thing or another.

“Hey, hey, Jennifer, calm down, calm down,” demands LT.

“Bitch has my dentures,” yells a Caucasian woman with no teeth, short, possibly 4’10”, peroxide blonde, brunette at the roots, squatty, heavy set, scolding her kids, “get back in the damn apartment!”

“Calm down, and tell me what’s going on,” says LT.

The short, squatty woman then says with her gums, hands on her hips, “This bitch is over here high out of her mind, knocking on my front window—”

As Jennifer—the medium build woman—paces back and forth with gritted her rotten teeth and white-knuckled fists, nails digging into her palm, LT interrupts the squatty woman, telling Jennifer, “Hey, take a seat,” showing her to the curb.

As Jennifer takes a frustrated seat on the curb, the squatty build goes on, “She’s over here bangin’ on my dern window, kids are trying to have their Kraft and cheese, well that Aldi’s brand, taste the same, but anyhow, she’s bangin’ an’ hollerin’ away, and I opened the window to tell her to shut the hell up, and to get on home—seein’ I didn’t have a clue on god’s green earth what in the same hell she was carrying on ‘bout anyhow—anyhow I was tellin’ her to get as my show was comin’ on, damn near missed it by now. Anyhow, my damn dentures came unstuck and fell out my mouth. Well, she picked ‘em up, and she is refusin’ to give ‘em back.  

“Is this true? You have her dentures?” LT asks Jennifer, squirming on the curb.

"They’re down her pants," says the squatty build, “in her whore crotch.”

“I ain’t got shit!” shouts Jennifer.

“Just give her the dentures back,” says LT.

“I ain’t responsible for her lost teeth.” 

"Look, we can do this easy way or the hard way," says LT.

“You do what you gotta do, but I ain’t doin’ shit,” she yells, crossing her arms.

“Alright, then,” says LT grabbing Jennifer by the arm.

Jennifer resists as LT lifts her to her feet and puts her hands behind her back. And as the handcuffs tighten around Jennifer’s wrists, she cries out, “Please, don’t arrest me, please, come on,” as LT walks her over to the far side of the squad car, pushes her back against the door, and as the reaches down the front of her pants, Jennifer screams out, “Get your hand out of my pussy!”

LT feels around, and then with “Humph,” he grins and pulls out the dentures.

The navy-blue minivan heads north out of town for the medium-sized city of Grandview, forty-five miles to the northeast, and the closest mall in a three-hour radius. The driver, a middle-aged man named Hank with a pink polo shirt, thinning, red combed-over hair, says to his wife Grace, “I don’t think the boy deserves a damn thing for his birthday. Found them cigarettes again under his mattress—and a playboy!”

“Honey, Red is a good boy,” says Grace, a heavy-set brunette with frosted tips. “He just needs his father more often, is all.”

“Honey, I gotta pay the bills! If I spend all my time dillydallying around with the boy, whose gonna buy his godforsaken birthday presents? Did you bring the coupon, by the way?”

“It’s in my purse,” she says as they pass endless rows of corn illuminated in the moonlight, “Honey, where is my purse?” Grace asks.

“God dab it, now—don’t tell me you forgot your damn purse on the counter again—I’m starin’ to think you’re gettin’ the Alzheimer’s!”

“I know it’s around here somewhere—” Grace says, unbuckling her seat belt to look in the back seat.

“If we gotta go all the way back home to get the god dab thing, the mall will be closed before we get there!”

“Well, honey, if you didn’t work so late—”  

“God dab!” Hank slams on the brakes in the middle of the highway and whips the van around, driving down into the ditch before heading back the way they had come.

Having slammed into the dashboard, Grace repositions herself in her seat and clicks her seatbelt. 

“Guess what—my birthday is tomorrow,” says Red, a twelve-year-old redhead boy with freckles, tossing a football with his two pals behind the goalposts.

“No shit?” asks his friend Tommy Bull, short, obese, bull cut, who everyone calls “Bull,” who tosses the ball to a third boy. “Hell, we should get some beer and celebrate!”

“3rd and 8," the announcer’s voice booms through the loudspeakers.

“I know a guy who will buy us some beer, says the 3rd boy the call “Lank,” a rather tall boy for the 7th grade with spiked brown hair and an overbite.

“Shit, right you do, who?”  asks Bull.

“Streaker,” says the Red. 

“Streaker?” asks Lank.

“How do you know Streaker?” asks Bull.

“Just do—he bought beer for me before,” says Red.

Standing before a full-length mirror in a sparse second-story apartment in a semi-renovated industrial building, Streaker, an odd man in his mid-forties with thick round coke bottle glasses, mumbles to himself as he tries on a short brown trench coat. His shaven legs are exposed all the way down to his patterned socks and brown leather shoes. He then tries on a long grey one that hangs nearly to his ankles; he exchanges it for a black one, lined and insulated, that drops just below the knees, and a yellow waterproof one, unlined, then a plaid wool one, but it itches his bare skin. So, he tries a cotton gabardine, then a khaki drill, a poplin, and a twill weave, but he settles for his standard go-to, a black, single breast with classic details that lands directly above the knee cap. With a knock at the door, he fastens its belt and pers out the peephole.

“Hey, if I give you five bucks, can you buy us some beer?” asks Red, as Bull and Lank stand to his left and right, yet a step behind.

As Red hands forth the money, Streaker, in his trench coat, says, “I told you boys, no more beer, not again, not after last time.”

“It wasn’t me, I swear—that was the other boys that did that,” says Red.

“I remember you—you were there with ‘em—go ask the Neunecker,” says Streaker, shutting the door in their faces. He then looks in the mirror at a healing lump above his left eyebrow and applies a bit of foundation on the lingering bruise.

Meanwhile, across town and above Cha-Cha’s Hair Salon, FBI agent Mulder walks from a urinal to the sink and washes his hands. Another man leaves the restroom. Mulder bends down and rinses his face, then gets up and dries it. He sees, in the mirror, a man standing behind him, the same man that was watching him from the bar. Mulder turns to face him.

DEEP THROAT: Leave this case alone, Agent Mulder.

MULDER: What?

DEEP THROAT: The military will not tolerate an FBI investigation.

MULDER: Who are you?

DEEP THROAT: I, er, can be of help to you. I’ve had a certain interest in your work.

There is a knock on the door, and we see it has been bolted from the inside.

“Come in,” hollers Neunecker over a blaring TV.

In his recliner, bald, thick glasses, silver mustache, no chin to speak of, significant potbelly in a yellowed tank top exposing his outie bellybutton, and stained dockers with the fly open, Neunecker doesn’t move an inch as the boys enter. The old perv lives above the hair salon, the last door on the right at the end of the hall. He hasn’t reported his new address to authorities, but he’s laying low, and the authorities seem to have forgotten his existence for the time being. “Shut the door,” he shouts as the boys enter, keeping his eyes glued to the screen.

Red, in the lead, says, “Streaker said you’d buy us some beer.”

“Shh,” Neunecker shushes him with a quick wave in the air.

VOICE: Sorry.

MULDER: How do you know about my work?

DEEP THROAT: Well, let’s just say that I’m in a position to know quite a lot of things, er, things about our government.

MULDER: Who are you? Who do you work for?

DEEP THROAT: It’s unimportant, I came here to give you some valuable advice. You are exposing yourself and Agent Scully to unnecessary risk, I advise you to drop the case.

MULDER: I can’t do that.

DEEP THROAT: You have much work to do Agent Mulder—

The man unlocks the door.

DEEP THROAT: ...don’t jeopardize the future of your own efforts.

The man leaves, and as Mulder rushes out after him, he is obstructed by another man trying to come into the restroom. Mulder pushes passed the man and moves out into the bar. When he looks around, he sees no sign of the man he was talking to. Scully notices Mulder’s curious look and approaches.

“Yeah, well, what does Streaker know?” asks Neunecker, followed by a violent cough that tosses him forward in his recliner. His toes curl in his threadbare dress socks as he asks, “And what are ya gonna do for me?”

“Give ya five bucks,” says Red as Bull, and Lank wait by the door.

Neunecker looks back at the two boys by the door, saying, “Come in, come in, make yourselves at home, as he puts the footrest down on the recliner. “Have a seat, hey redhead, grab a few beers from the fridge.”

“Sweet,” says Red, as Bull and Lank sit cross-legged on the green carpeted floor.

“You boys like X-files?” asks Neunecker.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” says Lank.

“Yeah,” Bull agrees, as Red returns with four cans of Coors.

“So, what you boys up to tonight?” asks Neunecker as he cracks open his beer.

“It’s my birthday,” says Red.

“Your birthday? How old are ya?”

“Thirteen,” says Red.

“Well hell, cheers, boys,” says Neunecker, “let’s celebrate!”

At the end of a narrow pathway winding through stacks of clutter, mail, clothing, boxes, cans, dishes, and newspapers, where the air is thick with the smell of cat urine, human urine, trash, and rotten food, sits a morbidly obese man named Chubbs on a floral-patterned couch in hues of brown and orange. Chubbs has brown, neatly combed hair, parted on the left, tight around the ears, with a trimmed mustache, and he hasn’t been able to push open his bedroom door in years. Night after night, Chubbs sleeps where he sits, on the couch, beside a TV tray, where he eats TV dinners, morning, noon, and night, and often in-between. He gets out of breath, even making his way to the john though he uses a walker. So, Chubbs doesn’t move much but to go to the freezer, the microwave, and back, to where he sits under a ceiling damaged by a leaky roof, where a rafter is exposed. Chubbs listens to the game on the radio with a two-liter of Coke in his grip.

“Let’s see what the Giants can do here before halftime—Chefs are gonna have to do everything they can—they’re gonna have to snap the ball within inside a minute. Let’s see what the defense can do. Handoff goes to—” then, screaming like a high-pitched out-of-breath man-baby, “Ball goes to the ground! Giants pick it up, he could go—he could go—go, Giants—go, Giants—go, Giants—he’s gonna go—he’s gonna go—”

Chubbs does his best to sit forward on the couch in the excitement though his belly gets in the way. He breathes excitably through his mouth as the announcer wails on.

“He could go all the way—SCORE!!!—TOUCHDOWN GIANTS! TOUCHDOWN GIANTS! WOW!!! Oh, my god, WHOOW!!! And there ain’t no flag! Giants with the scoop and score! 97 yards with the scoop and score! 30-0 Giants at halftime, baby!” 

And as the band marching out on the field begins to play, Chubbs looks up on the wall, where just above the crest of debris, is a framed photograph, number 12, the brunette quarterback kneeling before the goal post on one knee, helmet under his arm, a proud grin spread wide across his face. Beside it hangs a plaque which reads:

HOMETOWN HERO

Postgame, a beautiful brunette with silky hair that hangs well below her shoulders stands behind a microphone that reads 25 News. On the field with QB, says, “I’m out here with QB, quarterback for the Circleville Giants—you guys had one heck of a game tonight—how was this possible? The season has been back and forth, a brutal dog fight! How did you manage to pull off this victory, 59-0?

An ecstatic QB, barely capable of standing in one place before the camera, answers, “Well, we told ourselves, ‘We’re going to keep going fast! We’re going to keep going fast! And we’re going to finish fast!’ It takes guts, it takes attitude—that’s all it takes—that’s all it takes to be successful! Attitude! And that’s what the coach told us, he said, ‘Hey, it’s going to be tough, it’s going to be hard, you’re going to go out there and face down these yuppies who think they are better than you down home country boys, you red necks, you inbred hicks! But you’re going to go out there, and you’re going to fight for one another—do it for one each other—do it for yourselves—do it for us—and you’re going to come out with this win!’ And we believed that, and truly did, and it’s an awesome feeling—it’s an awesome feeling when you truly believe that you’re going to be successful!” QB’s sweetheart runs and jumps into his arms, and he spins her around and kisses her for the 10 o’clock news.

“And with a motivational speech like that—that is exactly what makes QB a ‘Grade A,’ Hometown Hero!”

“More coffee, hun?” asks Marge as Toad notices she’d painted her nails a shade of berry instead of bronze, her usual. He thinks to mention something on it but only nods as she fills his cup to the brim and moves on down the line.

“Hear the Giants won 59-0?” asks a man in a John Deer hat.

“Oh really,” says Toad, as he looks over to see that the man in the hat sitting next to him had actually been talking to another man passing by for the john.

“Be right back—gotta beat the piss outta this little guy!”

“Is that right?” asks the farmer to his right.

“Whooped their ass, sure did!” he says, “them yuppies ought think twice ‘fore they come back ‘round to Circleville—hey, you’re a farmer. Is it true that it takes one acre of soybeans to produce 100,000 crayons?

Toad twiddles his thumbs as his coffee steams. Hot coffee burns the lumps on his limps, but the tumors in his stomach can’t handle the milk, so he sits and lets it cool on its own. He watches hashbrowns fry on the flattop and wonders, “Hmm, berry...?”

He thinks to inquire as Marge passes by but says nothing as she asks, “Can I take your sugar, hun? Seein’ you ain’t usin’ it—”  

Toad clicks his cheek and nods. He repositions himself on his stool and looks on down the way at a man he once talked to, who settles in at the opposite end of the counter. He tries to remember what they talked about, but “it must a’ been just sompin’ er’ another,” he decides. And as he gently dries the sweat from his lump-covered face with a napkin, dabbing first his brow, then his cheeks, and finally his lips as notices the hashbrowns are starting to smoke and char around the edges. But the line cook flips them just in time, “Oh, good,” thinks Toad, feeling relieved.

“Where the hell you takin’ me?” asks Jennifer, “Jails that way, idiot!”

“Is that where you wanna go? Jail?” asks LT, his rosacea acting up.

“What the hell you arrestin’ me for anyhow?” she asks.

“Well, let’s see, where to start—disorderly conduct, public intoxication, disturbing the peace and trespassing, theft, resisting—”

“Oh, come on, that’s bullshit,” says Jennifer as LT pulls down an alley that leads behind an abandoned warehouse. LT parks in the darkness but keeps his headlights on as the medium build asks, “What the fuck? Where you takin’ me?”

“Hey, hey, calm down,” says LT, as he pops the trunk.

LT gets out and then opens the back door as she screams, “NO—NO—NO!”

“Hey, hey! Shish—shish. You’re okay, you’re okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Do as I say, and I’ll take you back home—no jail.” Jennifer quiets but jerks around as LT pulls her out by the arm and stands her in front of the headlights. “Here, just lean back against the wall—don’t move,” he says. He then grabs something from the back of the trunk, “Don’t you think about running.” And he quickly returns with a polaroid.

“What you doin’?” asks Jennifer, the headlights in her eyes causing her dilated pupils to sting.

“Don’t you worry about what I’m doing—just stand still,” says LT as he pulls up Jennifer’s shirt and bra, exposing her breasts and giving them a good feel.

“Oh, I see, you some kind of perv?” she asks.

“Yeah, well, a junky whore ought to know,” says LT as he steps back, points the camera, and a flash blinds her with a hiss—click—ka-chick. The polaroid kicks out a photo, and LT gives it a shake and watches as Jennifer’s pale face—blurred to the left—buttery-milk chest, and perky pink nipples slowly develop. He smiles, saying, “Yeah, that’s nice,” and drops the photo on the hood. Hiss—click—ka-chick, he takes another. This time her face is blurred to the right. “Hold it,” he says as he reaches out to grab her by the chin. “Smile!”

Hiss—click—ka-chick

“Red is a good boy,” says Grace.

“Yeah, think so...?” asks Hank. “Well, pretty sure he’s been filling the vodka with water.”

“Oh, come on, Hank—”  

“Well, maybe it was you,” says Hank.

“It’s not like you don’t have another bottle under the sink,” mumbles Grace under her breath.

“What was that honey?”

“I just think you should pay more attention to the boy,” she says as Hank passes a slow-moving sedan, swerving back into his lane just before colliding with an oncoming 18-wheeler, “Honey, slow down,” she shouts.

“God dab, honey—so, you can blame me if the mall closes and the boy ain’t got no presents to open tomorrow?”

No, honey, so “Red” doesn’t end up with nothing but two dead parents for his birthday.

Streaker walks into Good Creek Park in the peace of the night. The moon is full, and he cannot strip off his trench coat soon enough. His pale skin absorbs the moonshine and reflects off his coke bottle glasses as he bathes in the blue light. He sets off down a winding park avenue that dips down into a wide valley, past giant oak trees that haunt the night. Coyotes cry out in the distance beyond a tree line on the other side of Good Creek, and a lone owl hoots in the otherwise silent night. A gentle yet chilled breeze rises goosebumps down streakers’ hairless thighs, and Streaker is in ecstasy. With a satisfied grin, Streaker strolls down the lane with not a shred of clothing, but the old worn-out dockers on his feet and the trench coat draped over his arm.

Meanwhile, above Cha-Cha’s Salon, Nunicker folds a piece of foil in half and then opens it up again so that it's V-shaped. He puts a small rock in the middle of the foil and holds the foil in one hand and, with a plastic McDonald’s straw cut in half in his mouth, he heats the rock from below with a lighter. When the rock turns liquid, he inhales the vapor through the straw. As he exhales the burn-plastic-and-cleaning-chemical scented smoke, he passes the foil to red. Lank puts the straw in his mouth and coughs, passing it on to Bull, who follows suit, before attempting to hand it off to Red, who refuses, saying, “No thanks, I’m good with my beer—”

“Whose beer?” asks Nunicker, “that’s my beer, and if ya want another, you’ll take a hit!”

Red accepts the foil but struggles to heat the bottom in a way that melts and burbles the crack cocaine. Finally, he gets a hit that floods his lungs with hydrochloride, and a rush of euphoria instantaneously overloads his brain and body as dopamine surges through his bloodstream. Red falls back and stares at the ceiling, not wanting to move or think, though a sense of invincibility and tremendous energy builds. As a ringing sound vibrates in his mind, and jitters run up and down his spine, he rubs his eyes until he sees stars, and all about him seems magic, with endless possibility. Fifteen minutes later, Red feels let down, depressed, uncomfortable, and unable to sit still. He swigs his Coors, but the chemical taste will not wash down. And as he suddenly feels a surprising surge to take another hit, Nunicker unzips his fly.

The microwave dings, and with a dirty rag, Chubbs removes three TV dinners from the turn table: Two “HUNGRY MEN” backyard BBQ and a roasted carved turkey with stuffing. Each box read:

XXL

It’s good to be full!

Slowly peeling off the plastic, the steam rises and reddens his chubby fingers. Pulling up the TV tray to his gut, he flips on the 10 o’clock news. A recap of the postgame interview with QB is airing. While watching attentively, Chubbs partakes in a resilient ritual that has accompanied executions for millennia, if not longer; hell, if Chubbs knows where and how self-execution pertains, he knows not neither but partakes, nonetheless. This is indeed intended to be his last meal—seeing he has already prepared a noose and secured it hastily to the rafter above him using a stepping stool that had creaked desperately under his weight. The part that goes around the neck hangs lazily from the ceiling as he sucks the gravy from his fingers. After dessert—a microwaved Ding Dong and the last scoop of Double Fudge—he has vowed to step up on the desperate stepping stool. And given it holds his four hundred and fifty pounds, he will place the noose around the neck, kick out the stool, and hang until dead. The time has come to put an end to the humiliation once and for all, he reassures himself as he watches QB, his unwavering confidence, and a sparkle of the bright future that lies ahead of him from the stadium lights that glimmer in his eye.

“Hometown Hero,” the interviewer calls him, and Chubbs avoids the plaque on the wall like the plague.

Part of Chubbs dearly hopes QB befalls the same fate as himself. That word, that horrid word, “Hero,” a title the likes of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, an honorary parasite out to destroy its own host with such great, crushing expectation. That expectation shall stalk him, smother him, bruise his shoulder blades with slaps on the back as he grows fatter, pulled up the bar before his brewski and fried tenderloin sandwich—two for one @ Brew n’ Cue every Thursday. And all that will be left of QB’s glory days, buying the boys another round to cheer him and his long ago-landslide-victory against the Washington Chefs. “Yuppies,” they will call them, “Hero,” in passing, they will call QB, returning from the john for their own stools. He hopes QB’s arteries, too, clog, that his self-esteem drains down the urinal like piss and that his head will drop the moment he is alone, realizing it was all a sham. That QB, too, will fail his hometown—fail them all. As those Friday night lights had faded long ago in Chubbs’ eyes. No cheering crowd, no beautiful blonde with blue eyes wide on him. And all that is left is a Ding Dong that burns his tongue, yet he quickly cools it with the last scoop of Double Chunk.

QB interrupts his make-out session with Tiff to glance at his watch just as the porch light comes on.

“That’s my dad,” she says.

“Tell the old man whassup for me,” says QB, as she steps out of the JEEP Wrangler with blushed cheeks.

“You know, QB, he really likes you!”

“Sure, he does,” says QB. “But not quite the way my father likes you!”

“He does, I promise—I think he’d just rather you be his son than a son-in-law.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a little weird—”

“He’s proud of you—we all are,” says Tiff.

“Love you, darlin’,” says QB, throwing the JEEP into gear.

“Love you more!” she says as QB speeds off with a cowboy yelp, waving his hat high above.

QB speeds across town, jumping the tracks as GNFNR blares paradise city. Leaving town takes a backroad amongst a cornfield that leads to the lake. He then circles Canton Lake on a dark road that tunnels through arching tree limbs as it rises in and out of steep ravines. The stars twinkle on the lake’s calm, mirror-like surface as QB pulls up alongside a Cadillac parked at the boat ramp. The young man waiting on him is a few years older, wearing a blonde mustache and white ball cap backward with a NIKE swoosh across the front. He twirls a gold ring on his finger that matches the gold chain hanging low down the front of his turquoise Hornets jersey. QB steps out of the JEEP letting a GNFNR ballad play on low volume.

“Whassup dawg,” says the young man, pants hanging below his ass, shanking QB’s hand with a snap.

“Hey, what’s going on, Ted? Nice to see ya, man!”

“T,” he says.

“T,” says QB, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s all good, dawg—So how was the game?”

“Oh, it was slammin’ had the Chefs down by 30 by the—”

“I was startin’ to worry you ain’t got my money,” says T, “seein’ I’m ‘bouts to get a shipment in, some a’ dat ‘Grade A,’ Columbian shit—here, dawg, try a bump, shit’ll throw ya back sum dawg,” says T as he holds a small metal film canister to QB.

“But I can do you a solid,” says T, polishing the face of his gold watch that dangles loosely on his wrist on his jersey as QB takes a small scoop of the white power out with his pinky finger and holds it to his right nostril.

QB snorts and throws his head back, shouting, “Wow, damn,” which echoes over the lake.

“Tryin’ to wake the neighbor’s dawg?”

“Ah, nobody livin’ out her but old timers,” says QB.           

“Anyways, as I was sayin’, I can do you a solid on a pound dawg—”

“Look, about the money, T, I actually don’t have it all right now—I have some of it, but not all, but I’ll have the rest in a few days, I swear.”

“What you sayin’ dawg? Why you call me all the way out here to your fuckin’ shutdown, you ain’t got my money? How much you got?”

“I have four grand,” says QB.

“Four grand. Four ain’t gonna do dawg. Dawg, you owe me twelve g’s,” says T, spreading his arms wide, his head swaying on his neck. “So, where we stand, dawg?”

Chubbs steps up on the stool, and it creaks and moans just as the Tonight Show with Jay Leno has just come on.

JAY: My first guest is an Emmy-nominated actress who stars as the beautiful and highly intelligent Agent Scully in the very popular series X-Files. Please welcome Gillian Anderson! 

The crowd goes nuts as Gillian walks out, smiling broadly and waving with both hands. She is wearing a long black dress, open far enough to show some cleavage—and belted at the waist. Black heels. Red lipstick and long red fingernails. Her hair is close to Scully’s—down, no adornments—but much puffier. She brushes back a piece that just won’t stay where it belongs as she walks to the desk. Jay meets her halfway, kisses her cheek, and then gestures toward the chair. All through this, the audience cheers wildly, and as she sits down, Gillian looks toward the audience and smiles again and says “Hi!” to everyone, then a long, drawn-out “Wow!” to Jay with a big smile. Chubbs holds his balance as he places the noose around his neck.

JAY: Hey, thanks for comin’. 

GILLIAN: Thank you. Can I—can I just talk about my nails? 

JAY: Your nails? Sure. 

A tear runs down Chubbs’s cheek as his lip quivers and his knees wobble.

GILLIAN: My nails—nails like this are like not a part of my life and never have been.

Jay chuckles.

GILLIAN: And honestly—I did a photo shoot last night, and um—the makeup artist left without leaving anything for me to take them off, which is why I have them here today. I feel very grown-up with them on.

JAY: Really? 

GILLIAN: I feel older in some way. And they make my fingers longer—they’re kinda spindly—

JAY: Can you do that thing—make that noise?

Jay drums his fingertips on the desk. Gillian taps her fingernails on the desk too, and then the microphone as Chubbs manages to make eyes at the plaque he has been avoiding. And just as he scans those two haunting words, he kicks out the stool, and the rope quickly stiffens, catching him around the neck with a painful heave from his gut that bulges his eyes.

JAY: I always remember women making that noise when I was little. 

GILLIAN: You do? 

JAY: Yeah. That noise and this noise. When my mother would have women over and they didn’t want us to listen when they started talking, they’d always do this with the cup.

Jay stirs whatever’s in his mug with his pen, and it clinks against the ice in the cup. Jay mugs for the audience, and they laugh as Chubbs gags.

GILLIAN: Yeah. 

JAY: That means important stuff is gonna happen. So, scram.

Chubbs kicks his feet and grasps at the rope tight under his chin until his face turns from cherry-red to violet to purple.

GILLIAN: That’s—that’s very annoying. That’s very annoying. 

JAY: Stuff kids shouldn’t know. 

GILLIAN: But—but like, how do women pull up nylons with these things on? I don’t get it.      

JAY: Now you got my mind going.

The audience laughs as Chubbs starts to convulse.

GILLIAN: How would you do it, Jay? 

Chubbs’ legs jerk, toes pointed downward, face, now a dark purple, bordering on black.

JAY: How would I do it? I don’t know—but I like them—I think they look very sexy.

GILLIAN: They are nice. I like them too. 

JAY: Are you gonna keep them for a while?

Chubbs’ arms go limp, and his legs fall still after one last twitch—lips, swollen.

GILLIAN: I can’t—well, once I start work again tomorrow, um - it wouldn’t be appropriate for autopsies, I don’t think.

The audience laughs as Chubbs hangs utterly lifeless. But then, snap, the rafter breaks in two, and Chubbs—all four-hundred-and-fifty-pounds—plummets for the floor. With a thump that rattles the house on its foundation, Chubbs lies at the end of a narrow pathway winding through stacks of clutter, mail, clothing, boxes, cans, dishes, and newspapers, where the air is thick with the smell of cat urine, human urine, trash, and rotten food. The morbidly obese man, before a floral-patterned couch in hues of brown and orange, lies motionless on the ground. His brown, once neatly combed hair now hangs disheveled before his eyes and darkened face. His trimmed mustache perched above a mouth gaped open.

GILLIAN: Yeah, so after dinner, I went to the bathroom, and—

She faces the audience and speaks in a deep, resounding voice.

GILLIAN: I HAVE DIARRHEA!

The audience laughs, and Gillian laughs, too, as Chubbs lies still as death.

JAY: So, you’re sitting on the john, and you have diarrhea? Hey! Hey!

The audience laughs. 

GILLIAN: It sounds very graphic. 

JAY: Well, yeah—

GILLIAN: It was indeed. 

And with a sudden gasp for breath, Chubbs’ eyes snap open. He pants, and wheezes, loosening the rope around his neck until he finally gets a full lung of air.

JAY: Well, let me ask you about—how you are on more magazine covers—and these wonderful, sort of, half-naked magazine covers—

In embarrassment, Gillian puts her head in her hand as Jay holds up three magazines: the British Esquire with Gillian standing with no shirt on, wearing long black gloves, her arms crossed over her chest, and forming an “X.”

JAY: Did they do that on purpose? Cool!

Then as Chubbs rolls to his side, Jay holds up the Rolling Stone with David and Gillian in bed, covered by the sheets from the waist down and naked from the waist up—Gillian is turned over so you can’t see her breasts. And Chubbs begins to gently weep.

JAY: Now, let me ask you about this picture—

A close-up of the image as the audience “whoo”s. 

GILLIAN: See what I’m doing...? I’m doing this thing with my nails—the tapping thing—that’s what they’re for. 

Chubbs then begins to sob.

JAY: Now are you—well, what is going on below—the sheet part here?

Jay points to a cover of Rolling Stone, and Gillian smiles. 

GILLIAN: Uh—

JAY: Are you guys dressed for this part or...?

Now in the fetal position, Chubbs begins to convulse in tears.

GILLIAN: Yeah, we are—I—I had um—we both had underwear on. We both had briefs— 

JAY: Briefs? 

GILLIAN: Well, you know, like I had those little—what are they called, those um— 

JAY: Oh, describe them as best you can. 

GILLIAN: Those—yeah. Those little—you know, those silk women’s under—what are they called?

Gillian looks at the audience as snot and spit ooze from Chubbs’s nose and mouth.

JAY: No—don’t make it any easier for her! Please.

GILLIAN: And—and he had some silk boxers on, and it was—it was fun, it was a fun shoot, it was, uh—you know, because everybody’s always asking are we ever gonna be in bed together, and—and we’re not, ever on the show, I don’t think, but it was kind of like a—a tease, for the audience, in a way. 

JAY: Well, it’s a great show, you know, it’s—it is better written than most movies I’ve seen lately. Cause they—the stories really are exciting.

GILLIAN: Yeah—

JAY: And—and they really—you know they, boom-boom, snap along!

Gillian snaps her fingers. Chubbs cries out a painful shout and kicks the wall, and the plaque slides straight into a heap of hoarded goods and trash.

GILLIAN: We—we—we have an amazing group of writers on the show. We’re very—

JAY: But about these pictures again—

GILLIAN: Fortunate, yeah?

As the audience laughs, Gillian grins, looking mischievous as if she will be in trouble. Chubbs kicks his legs feverishly, collapsing a mountain of debris that buries him—trash that shivers atop his fit of mournful seizures and sobs.

JAY: Now you come from, I would guess—the Midwest—a sort of conservative background—Like when Grandma looks through these things, sees you half-naked—

Jay, reaching for the Rolling Stone again, suddenly, inadvertently triggers the button to make the TV screen come up behind them. On it is a still picture of David and Gillian, and Gillian jumps and makes a startling noise.

JAY: Ooh, what’d I hit, what’d I hit, did I hit something...?

GILLIAN: Oh, God!

Gillian bends forward, laughing, hand over her mouth, as the audience laughs. Jay looks around at the audience like a guilty little boy. Gillian, still laughing, leans back in the chair, her hand over her heart, as the audience applauds and cheers. Chubbs lets loose a rageful roar of frustration and pain, followed by silence and stillness that allows the pile of debris to settle.

JAY: Wait a minute. Wait a minute—wait—we just—wait, that was like—

Gillian is still laughing as Jay waits until the audience is quiet, then speaks in a “surfer dude” voice.

JAY: Okay, that was like an X-File experience—

GILLIAN: Oh, I knew you were going to say that!

As Nunicker leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes in pleasure, hand on the back of Red’s head, Bull and Lank sneak out the door, but not before grabbing what was left of the Coors from the fridge. Bull drops one on his way down the stairs, and the can springs a leak, spraying beer everywhere. He grabs it and holds the jet of carbonated brew as they stumble onto the sidewalk. Cracking it open and shotgunning it, Bull throws the empty can at a giant bell in the parking lot of a church across the street but misses. Strolling into the park, Lank downs two beers trying to chase off the lingering, stale buzz of the crack, though they speak not a word of anything that had just happened. They’d left their buddy Red behind, but in their mind, he’d have been right on their heels had he wanted to be, so they carry on without him, belching into the night. They turn and walk backward, braiding their streams of piss on the pavement as they make their way into Good Creek Park, trying not to get any drizzle on their shoes, when Bull says, “Hey, is that Streaker?”

“Oh my god it is—let’s go fuck with him,” says Lank.

As Streaker comes brisking by, elbows high, nut sack swinging, Bull and Lank jump out from behind a tree, yelling, “PERV!” “FAG!” etc., as they have rocks in his direction, one smashing him right in his eye.

Falling to his knees, searching for his broken glasses, Streaker cries out, “Stop, stop, stop,” as the boys wail him with stone and hate, leaving him in blood and tears.

“God dab idiot, turn off your damn brights,” says Hank, hand before his eyes as an 18-wheeler roars by, tossing the minivan a bit off the road.

Grace squeezes her thighs in fear, praying they make it home in one piece, as another pair of brights approach in the oncoming lane, just as a deer leaps out in front of the blue minivan. Hank screams out as he slams on the breaks, the seatbelt catching Grace, but the backseat full of birthday presents comes slamming into the windshield and dash. SMACK—the deer is thrown a good twenty yards ahead, as the minivan comes screeching to a halt. Hank and Grace sit stunned in a dread-filled silence for a long moment, as the horn blares uncontrollably.

“Oh, my—” she gasps, with her palm on her heart, as Hank slowly steps out of the van.

“Wait here,” he says, as he steps in front of the van to see the headless body of the deer bleeding out from its neck into the road before the headlights. “God dab deer!”

“10-50 over, deer-vehicle collision out on Route 24, mile marker—”

“God damn it, Patrice, my shift is almost over—hell, I’m pulling in my driveway. Can’t the idiots just drag the damn thing in the ditch?”

“Copy?”   

“Ahh, fuck—in route, over,” says LT tossing the Motorola on the dash as he flips on the lights and backs out of the drive.

Arriving at the scene, LT pulls up across the highway from the minivan.

“Just jumped out a’ nowhere,” says Hank, as LT looks down at the carnage.

“Where’s the head?” asks LT.

“Hell, if I know,” says Hank.

“Well, let’s get ‘er in the ditch until animal control arrives in the morning,” says LT grabbing the deer by one leg.

“You want me to touch that thing?” asks Hank.

“Ahh, fuck,” curses LT under his breath as he grabs the other leg.

LT wipes his hands clean as the minivan drives off, a clunking sound coming from the engine. As he gets in his squad car, he suddenly notices a pair of taillights pulled off into the side of the road a quarter mile up the way.

“What the hell? What now?”

Pulling up behind the maroon Cadillac, he runs the plates.

Patrice responds, “1992 maroon Cadillac Fleetwood, registration suspended, revoked driver’s license, two active arrest warrants—Grandview County, driver’s name: Ted Halstead, male, age 22, five-foot-ten-inches, one-hundred-fifty-pounds, blonde hair, hazel eyes, over.”

“For-fuck-sake Patrice, can you tell me what those warrants are for?”

“Unlawful possession of a firearm, delivery of a controlled substance, over.”

“So, we got a Grandview boy in town,” LT mumbles into the Motorola, whooping the siren behind the Cadillac—engine running, no driver to be seen.

“Backup requested on route 24,” says Patrice.

“Cancel that over,” says LT, “I’ll handle this piece of shit,” he says as he steps out of the squad car, unbuckling his holster.

LT removes his sidearm and holds it pointed downward as he spots his flashlight into the car’s back window. As LT approaches the driver’s side window, he notices the windshield has been smashed out. And as he shines his torch into the driver’s seat, he sees the body of a man in a turquoise Hornets jersey with a long gold chain. On his shoulders sits a fourteen-point buck with large bulbous eyes, as wide as a deer in headlights. Gathering himself, he illuminates the back seat, where lies a decapitated head wearing a blonde mustache and a white ball cap, Nike swoosh across the front. LT gasps and grabs onto the car as he almost faints, vomiting as an 18-wheeler roars by in the night.

Neurofibromatosis is a godawful disease that requires a whole pill regime to prevent tumors from spreading up the spine. So, Toad pulls out his wallet and places six dollar bills on the counter. It took him some time to pry his hind end off the stool, but medication time is looming. Every night before bed, he chokes down a good dozen horse pills with a tall glass of milk for the indigestion the concoction of chemistry can cause. And then he’ll have to do it again first thing in the morning. He waits to ensure that Marge sees he’s paid and has left a hefty tip. He thought to wait to see her nails up close once more before he heads off, but she’s busy conversing with another man in a dungaree jacket and flannel cap about this or that. So, after she gives Toad a slight nod of recognition from down the way, he decides they have settled up and heads off. Now, standing on his own two, his back is stiff, his rear, numb, but the bottoms of his feet are on fire. He excuses himself past a few gentlemen and bids one man after they next along the row of steaming cups of coffee and conversation, “Goodnight,” “Good evening,” Take-er-easy,” and what have you, and in turn, noticing Toad for seemingly the first time, “Toad,” “Toad,” “Toad.” Still, not a single slap on the shoulder, which he is somewhat grateful for as, his skin is feeling rather sensitive this time of night. Toad is no dummy, seeing the medication regimen keeps the tumors from spreading up his spine, they have yet to reach his brain, and he knows he is something of the sort, a wallflower if you will, though “wallflower” may be a bit of an embellishment, as most prefer, just, “Toad.”

The sun rises over Circleville Lake to a squadron of Canadian Geese making their way south, an arrowhead piercing the sudden arrival of an autumn wind. A slight tinge of red has come upon the maple, and about the lake’s surface, the orange, and pink hues of dawn trickle in the wake of the cool breeze, as the body of QB bobs a few yards from shore. The blonde hair on the back of his head sways back and forth as the geese honk, and his outstretched arms reach toward nothingness—little fishes nibbling on the skin of his callused fingertips.

Toad is careful to step out of bed, as his feet are most tinder in the mornings. But he makes his way to the bathroom mirror—worry and dread in his heart—in search of any new lumps that may have popped up overnight. He takes a long, painful look at himself and then leans on the sink and sighs over bottles of pills. Mornings are tough, but the thought of a cup of coffee lifts his spirits, and he walks carefully to the kitchen, closing the mirror behind the bathroom door. He twiddles his thumbs as he listens to the coffeemaker burble and gasp. “Berry,” he thinks, “lovely.” Hell, maybe he’ll head down to Browns and order some blueberry pancakes, and Toad smiles, careful not to overstretch his swollen lips.

In a pair of Hanes and a tank top, with a cordless phone in one hand, LT pulls a lockbox off a shelf above his workbench in his garage. He unlocks it with a small key on his keyring and tosses in a half dozen Polaroids of Jennifer atop a collection of other medium builds, large builds, and petite. All women, mostly Caucasian, but a few black and brown as well, a Latina here and there. 4’10, 5’2”, 5’5”, 5’10”, but none much taller than that. There are brunettes, blondes, reds, blacks, and even a grey. Those with dilatated pupils, and others with nothing but a pinprick—blinking an unblinking, and a pair of hands over the eyes. On the workbench sits the fourteen-pointer bled out onto a scrap of cardboard, its glossy eyes glazed and gazed off confused, off to somewhere beyond. LT locks the lock box, puts it back on the shelf, and then grabs the yellow pages. As he flips to “T” for taxidermy, he turns on the cordless phone and dials.

As the morning birds sing out in hunger, Red steps quietly out into the hall with his sneakers in his hand, the hinges squeak as he shuts the door, so he leaves it a bit ajar. He scuffs his bare feet out onto the street. The beauty salon is open, and as he leans on the glass, he puts on his shoes. Behind the glass, a half dozen old women with curlers in their hair sit under hair dryers. He then makes his way home, excited to see what he will get for his thirteenth birthday.

Across town, Streaker, standing in the nude, pry’s open an aspirin bottle on the edge of the counter and they spill everywhere on the floor. He gathers a few ice cubes in a rag, holds it to his swollen eye, hangs his trench coat on a hanger, and then wraps plumber’s tape around his broken eyeglass, but it barely holds. He plops down on the edge of his bed and picks up a bible that sits on the nightstand, turns to Ephesians 5:29, and reads, “After all, no one ever hated their own body, but they feed and care for their bodies, just as Christ does the church—”   

Chubbs finishes a glass of water and goes to set the glass in the sink, but it is overflowing. He sets it off to the side, looks around his house full to the brim with garbage, and shakes his head. Removing the pillowcase from his pillow on the couch, Chubbs begins to fill it up with whatever he can grab, an empty 2-liter of Coke, a few TV dinner trays, an old sock, an empty package of Oreos, a stack of electric bills, a blackened banana peel and a rope. He digs through a box and pulls out a trophy, a jock strap, and a sweatband. In front of the mirror, Chubbs stretches its red, white, and blue stripes around his swollen head and grins. Tying on a pair of worn-out tennis shoes, soles that squeeze out from under his heels, Chubbs opens the front door. He slowly hobbles off the porch one step at a time, sets the pillowcase of trash on the curb, and sets off. A neighbor mowing his lawn waves at Chubb’s with honest enthusiasm, and a thumbs up, and Chubbs waves back, huffing and puffing, as he labors forth. And he could go—he might go—he will go—all—the—way.

Chubbs picks it up, he could go—he could go—go, Chubbs—go, Chubbs—go, Chubbs—he’s gonna go—he’s gonna go—”

Chubbs breathes excitably through his mouth as the announcer wails on.

“He could go all the way—SCORE!!!—TOUCHDOWN CHUBBS! TOUCHDOWN CHUBBS! WOW!!! Oh, my god, WHOOW!!!

And with a motivational story like that—

That is exactly what makes Chubbs a “Grade A,” Hometown Hero!