The Great Ones
'm a child watching football on television with my father. We are
watching Walter Payton run.
"The great ones," he says, "they always make it look easy."
I'm driving to New York, to college, and I encounter a severe blizzard in the middle of Pennsylvania. Obsessed as I am with the ridiculous notion of making the over-900-mile drive in under 12 hours, I reluctantly drop my speed to 40 mph and fume.
"You're sleeping with her, aren't you!" she accuses.
My reaction amazes even myself as a dumb smile creeps across my face.
"You little shit. I don't believe you." She is resigned.
"Look, I . . ."
"Don't even talk to me. Just be quiet."
"But . . ."
"What can you possibly say to me that I don't already know?"
"Hm. I don't know. Nothing, I guess."
"I guess I should leave then." She gets up off the bed.
"You don't have to."
"No. I want to."
"Oh. All right"
She grabs her sweater and heads for the door.
"You know, you're really a good person . . . " I try half-heartedly.
"Spare me!" she interrupts. "I really don't need it."
She walks out, slamming the door.
The snow looks like it's letting up. Yeah, it definitely is. The needle on my speedometer is creeping up. You know, I think, it really looks worse than it is. The needle creeps. And I'm driving a Saab. Creep, creep, creep. It really just looks so bad because I'm driving through it. If I was standing still (and not doing 85 mph, which it appears I now am) then it wouldn't look so bad at all.
The door opens again.
"You're a real asshole, you know that?" she says.
"Yes, I do know that."
The rear wheels, surprisingly enough, are where the front of the car was mere fractions of a second ago. I grab the wheel and shut my eyes. Yes, your life really does flash before your eyes, even when they're shut. Mine appeared unsatisfying at best.
"And you know something else? You're lousy in bed! Did you know that too?"
The car slams into a ditch at the side of the road, rear-end first. The hatch flies open and most of my most treasured possessions fly at about 85 mph out of the car and embed themselves in about four feet of snow. The silence is nothing short of amazing.
I am looking at Walter Payton on TV. He impresses me simply because he so obviously impresses my father. I watch his quick, powerful little form running around and between all those big, slow linebackers. I'm not very impressed. It looks easy.
Miraculously, I open my door and step out of the car completely unharmed. The car is totaled and I don't get to school until mid-afternoon the next day. All in all, though, I can't complain. My dad's homeowner's insurance even covers all the crap that got ruined in the snow. I've also got a hell of a story for my friends at school.
"Yeah," she continues, "I faked it every time! You have no idea how to please a woman! Did you know that?"
"I admit I figured as much . . . "
"You shithead! Fuck you."
The door slams for the final time.
I remember sitting, watching Walter Payton with my father. I remember being unimpressed. And now I understand, it is truly the great ones who make it look easy.
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