Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions
I keep my visions to myself
-Fleetwood Mac, "Dreams"
***
Fulton
The great thing about being a Bash Brother is that, no matter how many problems we have at home, they stay at home.
As we get ready for our first pre-season game against the Vancouver Canucks, Portman goes around the locker room, playing some Rob Zombie on the stereo, shaking whoever he meets by the shoulders, and screaming to the top of his lungs to mock our ever-so-beloved coach, "Guys, we got a Stanley Cup in our hands and some Canuck fucks want to take it away! What do you do? Are we gonna give it to them?"
"NO!"
"Fuck no! The only thing we'll give those bastards is the beating of their motherfuckin' lives! 'Cause the hell are we giving way to their sorry asses! You guys ready to beat those motherfuckers?"
The whole locker room goes into this loud "YEAH!"
"C'mon! Where're your balls!? You guys ready to cream those motherfuckers!?"
"YEAH!"
He then goes to where McKittrick is, whose locker is right next to mine, and screams, "MickeyD, are you ready to cream 'em?" McKittrick says nothing and just shrugs his shoulders. He's the only one not saying anything. That's our McKittrick Abbot, Number 42, who at 24 is the youngest player on the roster. He always keeps it to himself and hardly talks with anyone, and I mean anyone, so anything that came out of his mouth came as a surprise. He started out as an enforcer because he was a fat guy, really fat, but Coach Manning saw that the guy was damn fast, too, so he moved him up to a left wing. It's weird: He's fat but fast. Everyone else thinks of him as fast but fat.
Then he comes to me, and we give this loud ass scream to each other and make a chest butt, when Coach Manning walks in like the old gunnery sergeant that he is, grabs Dean by the ear and yells into it that he should un-fuck himself. Dean gives this little salute, mockingly says, "Sir, yes, sir," and rolls his eyes as he walks back to his locker. The coach then does his own yelling, saying stuff that Portman already covered. Those two get on each other's nerves, and Portman enjoys it a lot. Manning can be an ass, but his ass-whipping got us two Stanley Cup titles! Wouldn't you like to thank the guy who put your name on the Cup twice?
As Portman goes back, he pats the back of our captain, Jonathan Bosco, Number 92, winner of the Calder, Masterson, and Lady Byng trophies, and one of the best centers in the league. Yeah, Banksie was great, but even he paled compared to Bosco. He's 33, with short blonde hair, about my height, and built just like Portman. On top of that, he just got married over the summer! He has that cool but serious look that's so typical of those football jocks that dominate the high school scene. He pats Portman on the back with a cool grin and keeps getting ready.
All of the lockers are in numeric order, so Portman's is just a few lockers down. I love seeing him getting revved up by punching his bag that hangs on the locker door, jumping up and down, shouting, "I Am the Greatest" like he was getting ready for a boxing match and not a hockey game. Man, he's turning me on. I look down and, damn, my pecker is getting horned up! Better cover it up with my helmet before anyone notices.
So we finally get out of the locker room and into the deafening cheers of "BASH! BASH! BASH!" that swarms the Xcel Energy Center. I swear, it's as if they shoved everyone in Minnesota into this one puny arena. Girls are holding up signs saying FULTON MARRY ME PLEASE as the guys are waving those State of Hockey flags that I loved seeing every time we play at home. Portman and I then give this big scream as I grab Portman's wrist and hold it high. It's all too weird to be the most dangerous pair of enforcers the NHL has ever seen.
Portman
I see my baby girl Amber sitting right in front. I blow kisses to her while we sing the national anthem. She spots and catches them. Normally, all the girls would be throwing roses and even a few panties at both of the Bash Brothers, but now that I'm engaged, they're throwing them to the remaining Bash bachelor. Fulton just waves back to them. Poor Fulton, I wish he could try girls again, but girls never seem to work out for him.
So the game begins with two of the stars of the show: Our center Bosco, and left wing MickeyD (the nickname we gave to Abbot), along with right wing Carl Weiland, and our two guys on defense, Jim Polanski and Miguel Soto. The game begins and for about 10 minutes, other than some penalty to the Canucks for hooking, nothing happens.
But then, Coach Manning calls in both Polanski and Soto. It's show time!
Fulton and I put our bandanas and helmets on, give a toast with our hockey sticks, and hit the ice. The fans go to a roar as we check any and every Canuck that came our way. For each check, a loud "BASH" goes around the arena. After a shitload of checks, Fulton gets the puck for good and, seeing the open hole, shot that little fucker in the goal. The whole place goes nuts! The four of us go to my bro and give him high fives, but I add a chest butt and we both scream to the fans again.
We're back on the ice again when the second period begins. I get the puck, but one of the Canucks comes too close as he fights with his stick for the puck, wrapping his leg around mine. When I can't get out of the bind, I fall, but quickly get up and push the guy. The referee calls a penalty for misconduct and sends me to the box. I'm pissed, but I make the best of it as I start banging the glass, screaming and hollering to the fans and leading the cheer: "FULTON! FULTON! FULTON!" Everyone starts to repeat his name as I then climb inside the box like a monkey on speed, screaming my bro's name. How's that for support! The Canucks had a power play, so my Bash Brother needs the help. A minute into my penalty and, as Fulton again has the puck and goes past the box, another Canuck heads straight for him and,
BAM!
I could hear Fulton's helmet crack as he slides down the side of the glass. Not giving a damn what the referee would say, I get out of the box and go to Fulton's side, taking off his helmet. My bro's bleeding from the head and his eyes were shut! I slap his face around, trying to wake him up as the doctors take their time coming.
"Bro, are you okay? Wake up! C'mon bro, wake up!"
Fulton
After walking down some river, I come to this house in the middle of an open field. The house looks like it hasn't been painted for years and the termites got the best of it. Looks like someone hasn't been keeping up with the décor! There's this short tree that's easy to climb on one side of the house and a rusted Studebaker idling on the other. Under its open hood is this huge, bald guy wearing this overstretched wife-beater, fixing the engine. Next to him are a bunch of younger but still bulky looking guys wearing mechanic's jumpers. It looked all so familiar, but I couldn't pin my finger on it, so I come closer to the house to figure it out, when the big guy goes,
"Boy?"
I know that voice and stop moving.
"BOY?" That's all Dad ever calls me. I try backing away, but then he spots me.
"Boy, you better get into that house and get me and your brothers some Buds or I'll whip you with the switch!"
Yep. I know where I am now. It was the old house outside Stillwater, next to the Saint Croix River. That's where I spent the first seven years of my life. That's where I listened and obeyed everything my dad said to me, because there was no other way. If only I knew how to swim! Then I would've made it across the river to Wisconsin, to salvation.
I go back inside and I see my whored-out step-mother, pretending to make eggs. She's thin and wrinkly, but she's wearing these silly short shorts and this colorful rag or scarf or whatever which was holding her sagging black bra over her huge boobs. She tells me with that drawl of hers that the Buds are in the fridge. I take the cold bottles of Budweiser outside to him and my two underage step-brothers. After opening the bottles with their bare thumbs, Dad goes, "Boy, sing us a song."
"But I don't know any songs." That's just to give me time to either remember or invent one.
"Sing us a damn song, boy!"
I muster up the courage and sing with this terrible, weak voice, "I'm a little teapot, short and stout"--
My step-brother James pokes my head with his bottle and shouts, "Don't give us that wimpy girly shit!"
But I don't know what else to give them. I better come up with something, because my other step- brother Hike, is giving me the eye, getting ideas. Then, I remember this Kenny Rogers song called "Lucille" and start singing it. I'm a terrible singer and we all know it. Their kick is not from the song, but from me trying to sing it and embarrassing myself in front of them. When I'm done, they give these little claps.
"Now get inside and help your momma."
I walk back to the house, but not before saying to myself, "She's not my momma." My dad catches this and grabs me by the arm.
"Say that again, boy?" Now I really pissed him off.
I say it again, weaker than before, "Well, she's not." Fulton Reed, that wasn't the smartest thing a seven-year-old would say.
He squeezes my arm even more. "Boy, you better show respect to your old lady!"
Then, from out of nowhere, I blurt out what I thought was the smartest think a seven-year-old could say, "And you better show her how to wear a bra! She could use a tip from you!"
Now, all three of them are pissed. My dad pulls me from the ear and James and Hike take me by the arms and legs into the garage. He goes to the shelf and takes out this big, tin water bucket, which always reminded me why I couldn't just swim into Wisconsin....
Portman
Fulton lies on the bed in the first aid room, not moving an inch. I sit next to him, waiting for him to wake up. He's had concussions before, but this looked really bad.
Finally, he starts fidgeting, turning his head to the sides and sweating. He whispered, "Dad, don't. Don't." This is totally freaking me out. I slap him again, and his eyes open towards mine. I smile back and hold his hand. One of the first aid guys takes a towel and pats it on Fulton's head to dry off the sweat.
"You're gonna be fine, bro. Don't worry."
"Dean." Fulton whispers dryly.
"Hey, his name was Cramer, Reginald Cramer." That was the bastard who checked him. "Next time we meet with the boys from Vancouver, we both check his ass back!"
Both of us chuckle at that as I take the towel and finish drying his sweat. I tell the first aid guys to leave for a minute. When they do, my head rests on Fulton's chest. I wanted to ask him what his dad was doing to him in that dream he had, but I can't. I guess if I knew, I'd get interested all over again. He looks back again with those sweet eyes of his and smiles as I reailze how much I miss that. Then he goes back to staring out in space.
"Bro, did I ever tell you how much you mean to me? You're the only reason why I'm still alive, you know, and I owe you a lot." Fulton blurts out. Whoa, I wasn't expecting that. He hasn't told me that in a long time, and just hearing it from his soft but dry voice again after so many months made me feel mushy and gooey. Now I was confused; flattered and touched, yeah, but confused.
"We're best friends, right? We're the Bash Brothers, you mean a lot to me, and you don't owe me shit." As we relax in the first aid room, I rub his chest slowly, just like old times.
"But I owe you big time." Fulton says shakingly.
"For what?"
"For saving me."