Generation Blindside

Marty Desmond wasn't sure what made him more relieved - the fact that McRibs were back at the local McDonald's or that he would not have to listen to Hank Williams Jr. the rest of the night.

The first round of graduation parties had begun for Addington High's class of 1989. 137 seniors had impatiently waited through yawning remarks from a guest speaker who had left Addington two decades ago to successfully chase ambulances and become a thorn in doctors' sides. During a long-winded speech from Reverend Sunday, Billy Lowry yelled "Hurry up, Goddamn it!" which nearly prevented him from accepting his diploma as Principal Harris seized the mike to give him Billy one last warning before he became somebody else's problem, likely the local sheriff's. Then Carrie Hagman gave her valedictory speech where she used quotes from Leo Tolstoy and Bruce Springsteen. Best of all, she kept it to three minutes - an Addington High record for brevity. Finally, Principal Harris called everybody in alphabetical order, collected $1.37 in pennies and proceeded to bid a hasty farewell to the class of '89 before they collectively got up and walked out on their own accord. Then he went back to his farm to drink a couple shots of Maker's Mark before falling asleep to Matlock reruns.

Meanwhile, everybody repared to Justin Robinson's farm to get progressively wasted - even the socially deficient souls were invited to partake. It seems that when people graduate high school the class war recognizes a cease-fire and the untouchables are allowed to mingle with the beautiful folk. A couple of the prime geeks didn't stay long - probably because they were too much in shock that the football players actually gave them beers and not atomic wedgies. Most everybody else sang along to Hank or some other country star (they all sounded the same to Marty), a few people hooked up for unlikely make-out sessions and eventually the gathering dwindled down to the hardy souls that passed out in the wheat field or were smart enough to grab a couch or floor space.

Marty wiped some barbecue sauce off the side of his face with a napkin just as Jamie snapped a picture with his trusty Canon.

"Seriously, I'm trying to eat here," Marty said.

Jamie Pulley snapped pictures of everything in sight. He was supposed to ship out to Fort Bragg in July. Usually he just took pictures of the dirt roads and the dead trees in black and white. They were good and some of those arty people would probably applaud them as classic descriptions of "rural blankness" (whatever that meant) but his dad thought he was too soft so he made him sign up for a tour of duty. "You can take some good war pics, son," he said. Obviously, Mr. Pulley forgot that the U.S. had been in peacetime for most of the decade, unless you counted Granada, which few people did.

Carrie Hagman sipped on her Diet Coke and nodded her head to Siouxsie and the Banshees. This automatically qualified her as Addington's town weirdo. Secretly, most of the guys wanted to have sex with her, or at least see her naked. Even though she rarely wore color the past two years, she had that hot British model look and big breasts, which she hated. She had been going out with Jamie for the past nine months until last week, when they were lying in her bed listening to Echo and the Bunnymen and reluctantly agreeing that, while getting out of Addington was ideal for both of them, Fort Bragg was not ideal for her.

"Did you see how Hart Sherrard and Kelly Ramsey were sucking each other's tonsils on the pile of hay tonight?" Jamie asked.

"Get out. Did you happen to take a picture?" Marty asked.

"No, I did not."

"Too bad. Hart might have paid top dollar for that. You know Kelly's not gonna remember that little tryst and she'll deny it when Deanna or one of her other cheer-slut friends calls her on it. And nobody will believe Hart - even his circle of loser friends think he's a loser. All he'll have is foggy memories. If you captured the moment in pictures at least he could frame it and keep it with him forever."

Hart was one of the few geeks that stuck around at the party. When Kelly bet Deanna and Robin Sallee that she would make out with Hart Sherrard or else she'd pay them fifty bucks apiece she was thankful that the multiple vodka shots she drank got her through it. After it was finished and Hart stood there dazed and happy she puked on a flower bed while Deanna and Robin laughed and fell down on top of each other.

Marty yawned. "Man, I do not want to start work tomorrow." He took a cigarette out of the pack of Camels and lit it, then immediately rolled down the window before Carrie would start hacking her lungs up. Carrie also felt like a minority in Addington since she was one of fifteen adults in the town that didn't smoke. Marty did it because it made him feel British. Carrie already looked British so she guessed she didn't need nicotine-stained fingers to complete the package.

"Can't believe they scheduled you," Jamie said.

"It was either that or work tonight. At least I don't have to go in until 11." Marty also worked at Kroger but usually walked around the parking lot gathering carts while listening to homemade mixtapes on his Walkman even though the supervisors told him he would be fired if he didn't focus more on cart duty. Marty simply nodded and imagined sending an onslaught of motorized grocery carts after the supervisors, leaving them crushed to death amid twisted metal and real estate ads. Then he shuffle along to Jesus and Mary Chain while people loaded their trucks and minivans with overstuffed plastic grocery bags.

"What about you?"

"Five to eleven. Dad wants me to go ahead and get the flattop tomorrow. I might have to come up with some grand excuse to put that off but I'm afraid if I keep delaying the inevitable he's gonna hold me down and take the clippers to me." Jamie ran a hand through his meticulously groomed mullet. Most of the other kids who previously sported the short-long 'do had trimmed theirs. He held on to his luxurious mane as a source of twisted pride.

"I can't see you with a buzz cut," Carrie said from the back.

"Well, since you'll be no longer running your fingers through my hair I guess you don't have to worry about it," Jamie said.

Robbie Lowe tossed the basketball to himself a couple times and tried to imagine himself in a Golden Eagles uniform. At least he would get to come close to home once a year when they played Eastern Kentucky.

Robbie had the same home practice ritual that he never differed from for the past seven years. 50 layups with the right hand, then 50 layups with the left hand. 75 jump shots from the right side at the top of the key (his dad had drawn the key to exact specifications in their driveway and unless the weather was uncooperative nobody was to park in said driveway), 75 jump shots from the left side at the top of the key. Once he retrieved the cones from the garage he lined them up six inches apart then five trips dribbling with the right hand followed by five trips dribbling with the left, or off, hand. He was not to be disturbed while completing the practice ritual. So as he prepared to launch the first of 50 three point shots he didn't notice when Ian pulled up in his powder-blue Dodge Omni, even though its frayed timing belt announced its presence from a mile away.

Ian Stein cursed the day his parents moved to Addington when he was eleven years old. It wasn't his fault his dad got mugged on the way home from his all-important job as a defense attorney in the Big Apple. He liked pressing all the buttons in the elevator and annoying the people in their apartment building because they had to wait for the ding at every floor. He liked the shady characters that went in and out of the little bodega while he pretended to shoot dice with a couple of his classmates that were probably getting in brawls with the Bloods/Crips/Disciples today. After the mugging his dad fancied himself a small-town attorney who would be greeted on a first-name basis by farmers with thick drawls that chewed tobacco and wore John Deere hats. Maybe he thought there was money to be made defending moonshine violators. Whatever, this was the week he was going back. He hadn't actually been accepted into NYU but since he was on the waiting list all it would take was a moment of the dean of admissions' time and he would be back in Greenwich Village, exchanging ideas with a diverse field of people. These people wouldn't know diversity if it bit them in their collective asses.

Ian got out of the "Super-Omni" and tried in vain to look cool as he leaned against the driver's side door while Robbie drained three after three. If nothing else, Tennessee Tech would get a hired fun in exchange for its scholarship. Robbie was six-two but didn't know if he could run an offense at the college level and there were concerns among those in the know (aka Bob Gibbons and Tom Konchalski, who were two of the big names in high school basketball scouting) that he would be able to play shooting guard. Robbie though that Gibbons and Konchalski should have reviewed the 41-point game he had against Bourbon County when he set the Addington High record for points in a half with 26.

After Robbie hit the last of his fifty shots he turned to Ian and asked, "How did I do?"

"You hit twenty-seven. Not bad, captain."

Robbie shrugged. "I'm no Glenn 'Scooter' Tropf. He hit 63.4 percent of his three-point shots for Holy Cross in '88."

"If you say so," Ian said. Ian didn't plan on attending another basketball game as long as he lived. He only went to see Robbie and while his fellow students were figuring out where to get drunk afterward he would hide his Walkman and listen to the same two tapes (Def Leppard's Hysteria and The Clash's Combat Rock). The cheers interrupted his listening pleasure. He figured that Robbie must have scored again or one of the cheerleaders forgot to wear underwear.

"You working this summer?" Robbie asked.

"Well, my dad said I could work as his runner but I politely declined. Actually, I think I used the exact words 'When hell freezes over.'"

"How'd he take that?"

"Called me a smart-ass and took the offer off the table. Don't think he was serious - it was probably Mom's idea." Ian twirled his car keys with the Guns n' Roses key chain about. "What about you? You working Coach Branson's camp again?"

Robbie span the ball on his finger. As he stared a hole through the spinning orb he said, "I guess. Actually, I might take a class for their summer session and get started early. Granted, the NCAA says we can't officially practice together but I heard those guys play a couple hours of pick-up every night. As long as Coach Harrell isn't there it should be all right." The ball fell to the asphalt with a soft thud.

"When does summer school start?" Ian asked.

"Second session starts in about six weeks."

Ian figured this would Robbie enough time to see Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade about seven times. Opening night was tomorrow. Seven times would give Robbie enough sittings to properly compare and contrast the film with Temple of Doom and Raiders of the Lost Ark while comparing several bits of minutiae to his permanent memory. When Coach Branson wanted to push Robbie he would accuse him of spending too much time wishing he was running from the Nazis or trying to avoid being crushed by a boulder. Robbie would make a perfect pass or grab a few rebounds to shut him up then he got back to imagining he was wearing a leather bomber jacket and whipping the Nazis.

Ian nearly fumbled the ball when Robbie passed it to him. "C'mon, take a shot," Robbie said.

"You know how I feel about exercise," Ian said.

"A little exercise never killed anybody."

"Why be the first?"

Ian heaved the ball toward the basket like he was trying to push an uncomfortable weight off his chest. It didn't come close to its intended target and bounced harmlessly off the driveway.

Deanna Carlisle tied her hair back in a ponytail and put on her t-shirt and shorts before she strolled out to her car, which was still parked by the white barn out in the field. When she opened it Beau Giles and some miscellaneous girl he picked up last night were still asleep in the back seat but Beau woke up with a start.

"Oh, hey girl. We were just leavin'." Beau woke up his "date" for the evening, who was still half-naked and didn't give Deanna a second glance when she left the car.

Remind me to get the car washed tomorrow, Deanna thought as she drove home. She glanced in the mirror and thought she looked better with a bourbon hangover then most girls looked sober, despite the eye crust and the tangled curls. She knew that Hollywood was going to love her. Of course she hadn't heard back from the agents she had sent her head shots to yet but those guys were really busy. That had to be the reason - she was prettier than most of those girls. Maybe she should have had somebody else do the head shots. When she moved out to L.A. next month that would be her first order of business - get new head shots.

As she pulled her Pontiac into the driveway she waved hi to Robbie and Ian, who were leaning against Ian's Omni. She went in the house and Robbie let out a low whistle.

"She looks like shit," Ian said.

"Whatever. You know you want to get in there," Robbie said.

"No thanks. I'll just live through you on that one."

Every so often Robbie would get properly rewarded for his hoops acumen by Deanna. Afterward, she wanted to play Bobby Brown on her CD player (she was one of the few people in Addington to own one) and dance around in her underwear. Just before her dad would march upstairs to complain about the noise Robbie would have to hide in the closet and wait until she turned it down. Then he would have to sneak out the window and tiptoe back to his house, where his dad would be on the back porch smoking Pall Malls and drinking Buds. Every time this happened Mr. Lowe would ask him if it was worth it and Robbie would shrug while his dad muttered something about condoms and go back to his beer.

"I just consider it a job perk," Robbie said. "Wanna go to Puffy's?"

"Let me check my schedule," Ian said. He pulled out one of those cheap pocket calendars that the economics class made and tried to pawn off on unsuspecting teachers and students for $2.50 each when they could be bought at the local Hallmark shop for ninety-nine cents. Needless to say, they didn't sell well.

"Well, aside from the Price is Right my day looks wide open."

Robbie dribbled around the car, faked a jump shot to nowhere and piled in the loudest car in Addington.