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

walked up the hill, toward the stadium. Though early, the sun was low. With thousands of edgy, half-drunk fans, we crossed the bridge over Route 1, past thousands more drinking beers, roasting meat, throwing footballs, shouting over each other and laughing.
    The new stadium was state of the art. The seats were intact and clean, the concessions varied and pricey, the field synthetic and vivid green. I bought a pair of beers, left one with Dad, and walked down to the field to watch the big men warm up. Millions of dollars rode on the shifting of their shoulders, the strength of their thighs, the durability of their ankles and the sureness of their hands.
    Dad and I stood and sang the national anthem along with the local celebrity. The clock by the scoreboard clicked down as she sang about rockets and bombs. It was zero by the time they got the microphone off the field.
    The Patriots were favored by more than a touchdown. But as the big, fast men from all over the country ran toward the kickoff, fear took hold. The fear said me and my kind weren’t worth a damn, that we were trash, whom history had passed by and would soon regret. But there was still a chance, and the game would decide the matter. It held me rapt until the Cardinals kickoff returner was tackled at his own eighteen-yard line. No billionaire owner, Nevada bookie, professional athlete, or scout, my interest was the irrational interest of a fan. And the game below was only more of that vast and mysterious exercise called entertainment. I yelled until my voice was hoarse from phlegm and blood and beer.
    Anyway, the Pats killed them, 38–10, holding our worst suspicions at bay for another week. The stadium lights were on and the sun was setting by the time the clock struck quadruple zeroes. And we the faithful thousands streamed back to our cars, warmed by victory and beer. There were still fights in the parking lot, though.
    Dad drove back to Westborough with the same careful drunk-drive he taught me. We passed the maximum security prison and the historic Massachusetts towns along Route 27, down the silent Sunday night streets, listening to the sporting opinions of the drunk, the mad, the lonely and the dull on the car radio.
    Back at the apartment, I cooked up a pair of sausage sandwiches and we watched what was left of the four o’clock game. Dad went to bed as the 8:15 game started. Torn between a lackluster late game and the amorphous promise of the other three hundred channels, I flipped around and tried to convince myself that I was tired. Then Joe called.
     
     
    10.
     
     
    Joe sounded distracted when he invited me over. But I was glad to be free of my obligation to watch TV and go to sleep. I wrote Dad a note, pulled on my shoes and cut through the night in my rental car.
    At Joe’s, it didn’t take long to realize that something was wrong. The apartment he shared with his roommate Marissa was in disarray when I arrived. The furniture sat at odd angles from the walls. There was a fresh hole punched in the sheetrock a few feet in from the door, with a big smear of blood by it. Joe offered me some rum and then excused himself to take a shower. Then Marissa came out of the other bedroom. She and Joe had been friends since high school, when they used to play hooky and get stoned together.
    “I thought I heard something, what’s up, Jimbo?” she said. I never liked being called Jimbo. I think she knew that. Being a pain in the ass was part of Marissa’s charm. “How’s New York?”
    “It’s alright, could be better. I’m just hunting for a job right now.”
    She pulled up a creaky wooden chair across from the couch I shared with a small pile of dress shirts and textbooks. She crossed her legs and leaned forward. She somehow managed to have a tan in December. Always pretty, she never pressed that point. Not with me, anyway.
“Looking for work sucks. The place I’m at is looking for waiters.”
“Thanks, but I think I’m just going to stay in