So I sit with Greg in Angus Bethune's office, holding an ice pack on my bruised face. Greg minds his own business as he quietly looks at his sticky comic book. After about 20 minutes, seeing him fumbling through it gets boring, so I stand up and look at the pictures and degrees on the wall.
The first picture I see is of a football team wearing blue-and-white uniforms with OWATONNA written across the jerseys. Immediately, I noticed Angus dotting Jersey Number 76. Even though I'm guessing this was him while he was in high school, he actually looks older in this photo.
Then next to it is a photograph of another football team, this time wearing blue-and-gold. On one of the helmets I notice a name: U.C.L.A. Whoa! Could Angus have played college football? I look around the picture, and sure enough, I see his face. He looks happier than in the other one.
Next to that is a degree. It's a bachelor's from U.C.L.A. in sports medicine. That's awesome. I hear that in college, a lot of players take some wimpy major, like communications or economics, so that schooling doesn't take too much of their time and mind from the field. Sports medicine can't be wimpy.
Finally, there's another degree. This one was a doctorate in the same major. Oh shit! Angus is a doctor!? Then that would make him Doctor Bethune. This guy must be really smart! Then I had to ask what's a guy like that doing here, cleaning up people's processed lunches. No matter, I sometimes think of being a doctor, or a scientist or something scientific; maybe he could help me out, if baseball or football didn't go through. It's always nice to have a safety.
"What do you think of him?" I ask Greg without realizing it.
"Huh?" Greg responds knee-jerkedly as though he came out of a trance.
"The security guy."
"Oh. He's okay. Better than Mister Mattison, I guess." Yes, Mister Mattison never liked it when he heard his last name called without the title, and he would give detentions just because of that. For that matter, he gave kids detention for any little reason he could scrape up like, for example, saying hello. My dealings with him, however, were never based on trivial things. He often had to break up fights I was involved with, and it was always me that ended up spending the afternoon picking up trash under his watchful eye and acidic tongue. More than once did he suggest rather meanly that I should move my fat ass out of his way and "lose some weight if you wanna get laid, or else you'll crush some poor girl to death."
That's a sad way of summing up my purpose in life. My life is hell-bent on ridding this great gut that hangs all around me. Everything I try fails, and believe me, I've tried everything. Fasting, dieting, exercise, sports, treadmills, counseling. Hell, I hardly even eat anything; my refrigerator storing nothing but bread, cheese and dead flies. I ask my dad to get me nothing but salad, orange juice, and other presumably nutritious stuff. Instead, he brings home pizzas, burgers, and sodas galore. Most of the time, I try to ignore these offerings, but then my dad would bust out with his speech on ingratitude and being thankful, so I force it all down my throat, feeling as though the guilt would chuck it back up. How am I ever going to get laid like that? And why am I all riled up about it? I don't even know how to lay a girl!
How did I wind up thinking about this!? Oh yeah: Mister Mattison! I'm glad he's gone now. Dr. Bethune will probably be a lot better than him.
Then the door opens.
"Okay, guys," Angus says as he enters the room, "I already have notes for you to give to your teacher saying what happened." Angus hands the notes. I read mines quickly. The fight was mentioned, but it also says that we weren't at fault. Now I'm wondering what would he do if one day I caused a sensation. Then I think about all the stories the school's rumor mill will churn up once my class sees a big black bruise on my cheek. It's all upsetting! I wish I could stay here for the rest of the day and get away from all of that!
"Do we really have to go?" I ask weakly to Angus.
"I'm not supposed to keep you here forever," Angus sighs with a small frown, "but I wouldn't mind some company."
"Then I can stay?"
"Just for a few more minutes."
I can hear Greg whisper a quick yes.
"So, Greg. What did those guys want?" Angus said.
"I don't know. They just started to tickle me."
"Sounds kinky."
Greg chuckles at that. "Yeah, I guess."
Turning to me, Angus says, "And you came in and tried to save him."
I nod stupidly.
"Kick ass."
This threw me off a bit. He actually liked what I did back there. Angus obviously caught the confused look on my face.
"You're a good friend, Robert, defending Greg even though you knew you'd get in trouble."
The fact that he called me by my first name and not another weight-related moniker makes me feel good.
"Are you going to make the team this year?"
"I don't know. Loge's a better pitcher, so he'll definitely be there. I'll probably end up relieving him."
"You pitch?"
I nod.
"I hope to see you play sometime. You better go now."
I didn't want to go, but I had to. I get up, and Greg does the same. We leave the room, but not before Angus says, "You're going to be a great pitcher. Anyone that tells you anything else, well, screw 'em!"
He knows how to make a fat boy smile.