Another Broken Wizard by Colin Dodds Read Free Book Online Page A

night.
“Oh man, don’t think about dog dicks. I was just talking about mutually assured destruction. Think about that instead.”
“Great, that’s just great. Thanks, man.”
“Dog dicks!” Tommy barked.
“Tommy …”
“Dog dicks!”
“Enough dog dicks …” I started, and then trailed off.
    Things were still weird, but not as surprising anymore. The peak had passed. We walked back up the hill, which seemed about five times longer and twice as steep as he one we’d come down. Back at Joe’s, Tommy got in his car and drove home. He made it, I hear.
    Joe and I took our positions on his sprawling plantation of a bed. I set my cell-phone alarm and closed my eyes, praying for a little sleep. Coming down from the cocaine and mystery drug was a dose of hell.
“What’s up?” Joe asked into the darkness.
“I’m just figuring out tomorrow, writing e-mails, sending off resumes, helping Dad around the house, stuff like that.”
“I am going to sleep for twelve hours, then eat two Dunkin Donuts’ egg sandwiches and watch some movies at my mom’s house.”
“Well, then I have to say, having thought it over, screw you.”
“Jim you Mick yuppie bastard, you’re my oldest friend, I love you,” Joe said.
“Back at you, you froggy, last-of-the-Mohicans nutjob.”
     
     
    9.
    Sunday, December 28
     
     
    Dad had his season tickets since the early nineties. Back then, the Patriots were one of the worst teams in the league, playing in a stadium where you rented seats to clip onto the aluminum bleachers. But lately, they’d won a few Super Bowls and built a new stadium, with working seats, plentiful urinals, an alert security force, and even a shopping center outside of it.
    It was only around ten in the morning when we pulled into the dirt lot outside the stadium. We parked under a pine tree and I went to work unfolding a table and chairs and setting up the grill. Dad sat down and I poured him a beer. The shouting drunks and the Patriots flags hoisted from trucks and campers at the edge of the trees made the Foxboro parking lot feel like the encampment of a Gothic tribe nearing the gates of Rome.
    I cooked cheeseburgers on the grill. Dad criticized how I handled the spatula, how long I cooked the burgers and how much cheese I used. But when it was done, he grunted in praise. Hot and bloody, held in cold hands, surrounded by trees, camaraderie and washed down with beer, the burger didn’t have to be perfect to be damn good.
    The game was Dad’s last hurrah before his surgery. The next day, he’d start his pre-operation fast.
    Police and news helicopters cruised the sky above us. The game was one more chance for Massachusetts to matter, and everyone was excited. Among the fans, a few had dressed for attention, with body paint and costumes. One strolled the parking lot in a new Arizona Cardinals jersey screaming “Let’s Go Cardinals” at the top of his lungs and otherwise taunting the fans who milled around their grills and coolers. Greeted by jeers and insults that included most of his family tree, he went on screaming in blinkered rage, cheering on the opponent.
“What’s the story with that guy? He was here last time I was up, rooting for the Dolphins,” I asked.
“He’s here for all the games. He’s always wearing the other team’s jersey and shouting up a storm. He must have season tickets.”
“And hate the Patriots.”
    “Something’s wrong with him. Even if he doesn’t have tickets, he’d have to pay for parking. And those jerseys aren’t cheap,” Dad said.
    I could hear the guy scream that the Cardinals would sexually humiliate the Pats, and the fans in the row of cars behind us cursed and mocked him. Anger was part of our excitement for the violent game ahead. But anger is hard to focus, hard to limit. And it’s hard not to be changed by it. The begrudged man kept on screaming against the Pats, until he was out of range.
    We finished off the burgers and the beer. I packed up the car and we