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Feels good to be back. Got pardoned after three. Guys from around the league wrote to him regularly and sent him CARE packages—cakes, cookies, video cassettes, beaver magazines—because he refused to name any of his customers. Story Time was a competitor. These guys were the guts of our team, along with me and T. You look like somebody's done licked all the red off your lollipop. Our brain trust, which was Shoat Cooper and Burt Danby, tried to rebuild the dynasty. The record shows how good a job they did. Through our portals swaggered the grandest collection of scum ever perpetrated on a squad room. When we didn't welcome a sullen, millionaire rookie who wouldn't learn his plays and traveled with a business manager, we inherited a malcontent who'd been with five other clubs and came to us with a nickname like Dump, Point Spread, or Bail-Out.

It seemed like the harder I played, the more games we lost. Shake had a good football mind. I asked him one evening in a tavern what he thought our biggest problems were. He looked off from his cocktail for a minute, then turned back to me with a sigh. Shake was busy on a novel before his last football season was over. For a time, he flirted with the idea of giving up his penthouse apartment in the high-rise at 56th and First Avenue and buying a loft in SoHo, thinking the artistic environment would stir his creative juices. SoHo had become a desirable area of lower Manhattan for reasons that could only be answered by the friends of dissident poets or rabid sculptors.

It was the newest place to go watch activist groups eat croissants. Shake dismissed the idea of moving after Barbara Jane pointed out to him SoHo had an abundance of vegetarian restaurants with no-smoking areas. I wasn't sure what to expect from Shake Tiller the Writer. Maybe I thought he would take to wearing a Lenin cap or something, but his lifestyle didn't change. He did begin to jot things down on napkins, and he grew a short beard, which looked surprisingly good on him. The title of his novel was The Grade-B Plot. I have a confession. Like the vast majority of Americans, I didn't read much past the first paragraph either. Originally, his first paragraph consisted of three words. This said Riley:.

That was it. New paragraph. When Shake handed me the manuscript to glance at one night, I said, "You got a semi-colon in there real quick. It was the kind of response Shake might have expected from a guy who'd once made an effort to write a book of his own, your typical professional athlete's memoir—why I'm great because I know how to talk to a tape recorder and get a sportswriter to clean up the grammar. I had failed in my literary attempt, not because it wasn't art like The Grade-B Plot , but because I took the trouble to read it and thought it sounded like a joke book that had been put into a blender with The Sporting News. Unlike I would have done it, Shake re-wrote the first paragraph of The Grade-B Plot sixty times, but when the novel made its way into the bookstores, the only improvement I saw was in the length.

The book began:. The moon was a half-scoop of vanilla that night and Riley had the slab of raw liver strapped to his bare chest when he entered the campus library. He knew Laura would be in there somewhere, screaming at Proust as usual, or mutilating pages of Dostoyevsky. He figured they might as well go over the edge together. Funny how much she had changed since the Okefenokee Swamp. Shake's agent, Silvia Mercer, said this was very good, as did his editor, Maureen Pemberton, a good friend of Silvia Mercer's. Shake said literary pussy was overrated, after all. Maybe the better-known authors in Silvia Mercer's stable could appreciate her pounds of energy, her pigtails, and her smock, but Shake had known pulling guards with straighter teeth and more reverence for the written word.

He was happy to be published, of course, but he wondered how often Thomas Hardy had stooped to "duty fucking. The reviews of Shake's novel ranged from vicious to— his word—disorienting. A reviewer in The New York Times called it a book for anyone who had "lost faith in the human race. The reviewer, a professor of English at the University of Arkansas, went on to condemn the publisher for even sending the novel to the printer and binder. Shake said, "That's interesting. I can't find the fucking book anywhere. Silvia Mercer got excited because Time magazine reviewed the book. Shake would rather have been ignored. The Time critic wrote:. Exactly how far should the writer remove himself from his characters and story?

Tiller would have us believe there is no limit. The commercial failure of Shake's novel drove him straight into non-fiction. He started to work on The Art of Taking Heat , a how-to book designed to help the average person cope with life its ownself, and he took up expose journalism. This in itself wasn't so bad. Who among us doesn't like to know that certain leading men in Hollywood are only five feet tall and stuff washrags into their elastic briefs? Or learn that certain United States Congressmen have fathered dozens of illegitimate children in Latin America who will now blow you up with homemade bombs? I think it's fair to say that Shake's journalistic exploits in no small way added to the confusion in our lives after Dreamer Tatum busted my knee.

About that play. We were down on Washington's 6-yard line in the third quarter, behind by 14 points. A touchdown could turn the momentum around. Fourth down came up and I expected us to throw the ball, so you can imagine my surprise when our quarterback called Student Body Left. Student Body Left was a power sweep for me, Old The play had been a moneymaker for us when I had Puddin Patterson to block for me. It was the play I'd scored on in the last four seconds to beat the dogass Jets in the only Super Bowl that was ever worth a shit. The situation wasn't the same, though. For one thing, Puddin Patterson was no longer around. He was busily selling rabbit pates in San Francisco. He had been replaced on the left side of our offensive line by Alvin Point Spread Powell.

Point Spread Powell's idea of a block was to assume the fetus position about one second after the ball was snapped. And there was this other thing. Obert Dreamer Tatum, The Black Death, was across the line of scrimmage, which was where he had not been in that Super Bowl when we made our game-winning drive. Any loyal fan of the Jets would be quick to remind you that Dreamer Tatum had sprained his ankle in the fourth quarter of that Super Bowl.

Dreamer had been watching from the sideline when we punched it in. Loyal Jets fans were easy to recognize in my day. You just looked for the little old lady being mugged, and there they were. Well, Dreamer was not only out there wearing the braid of his five years as an all-pro cornerback, he had something else going for him. I had noticed earlier in the game that Dreamer had fortified himself with a handful of amphetamines. Dreamer and I had known and respected each other a long time.

We had traded enough licks to be married. And nobody knew better than me that you didn't spend a lot of time running the football at him when his eyes had a maniacal gaze and he chewed his gum so fast, the slobber ran down his chin. Dreamer's condition prompted a minor rebellion in our huddle when the quarterback, Floyd Dump McKinney, called the running play. Cross 'em up," he said. We'll take his ass to the parking lot. Now, then. I don't happen to be a person who goes through life looking for signs of impending doom.

Even so, I hadn't come in contact with a cross-eyed Mexican that morning. I hadn't seen a red-headed spade, or a gray dog shit on the sidewalk, or a lone goose fly across the marsh. All of which was why I shut up in the huddle and took the handoff from Dump McKinney and ran the ball in my normal way—not fast, not slow, not fancy, but sort of in a threading, weaving, determined fashion. The blow came while I was in the air. I was jumping over Point Spread Powell when Dreamer's shoulder flew into my knee. It wasn't the lick itself that did me in. I landed awkwardly and 2, pounds of Redskin stink came down on top of me. I didn't hear the tear of the medial collateral ligament and everything else that got cross-threaded.

Maybe it did sound like somebody opening an envelope, as a newspaper guy wrote. All I knew was, the inside of my knee was on fire. You couldn't have moved my leg with a tractor-pull. Everybody was untangling when I said, "You can turn me over, Dreamer. I'm done on this side. Dreamer made frantic gestures toward our bench. He was genuinely concerned. He helped the trainers lift me onto a stretcher and he walked all the way to our sideline with me. The last thing I saw in the stadium was a fat woman wearing an Indian headdress and a buckskin pant suit. She screamed at me like a psychopath as the trainers carried the stretcher into a tunnel. She glared down at me over a railing. Does it hurt? Oh, I hope it hurts you good! I hope you limp the rest of your life, you slimy bastard!

Given a choice, I suppose I'd rather have heard the woman sing a chorus of "Hail to the Redskins. We moved through the tunnel beneath the stands, and one of the trainers looked down at me. In the dresing room, the team physician, Dr. Fritz Ma- honey, pushed around on my knee. It would have been more accurate if Dr. Fritz Mahoney had said I'd been Gale Sayersed. Sayers had been a running back, Butkus a linebacker. But I got the drift. Damage to the medial collateral, a vital ligament in the middle of the knee, had prematurely ended the careers of Dick Butkus and Gale Sayers, two of your legendary Chicago Bears. Overnight, they had become famous medial collateralists.

I knew enough about the injury to realize that if I ever did go on a football field again, I'd have to wear a knee brace the size of a Toyota Cressida and play with considerable pain, but even though I understood all this, the competitor in me came out. To the doctor, I said, "This ain't the end of my ass! Fritz Mahoney said, "Spunk helps, Billy Clyde. Never underestimte the value of spunk. We in the medical profession place a great deal of trust in spunk. Spunk can't help you this season. Fritz Mahoney clasped my upper arm and looked at me proudly.

The most esteemed guests to visit the hospital that evening were Burt Danby; his wife, Veronica; and Shoat Cooper, the old coacher. But are we talking down-down? No way! We're not talking Mondo Endo here. We're talking Johns Hopkins, baby. We're talking Houston Medical. We're talking Zurich! I raised myself in the bed slightly. Veronica took a seat, browsed through a magazine. Shoat Cooper dabbed at a tear, his eyes fixed on my right leg. His whole offense lay in my bed. Burt Danby kept moving around. I said, Whoa, assholes, my man'll be back next season with a Gucci knee, and it's look out, Super Bowl! Right up the old anal! Listen, you got everything you need here?

How's the food? Right in the shitter, huh? Let me order you some Chinese. How 'bout some minced pork with lettuce? Fuck it, I'll call Pearl, she'll bring it over herself! Burt Danby was a wiry little man who had never stopped talking like an advertising executive. Burt had been named the club's chief operating officer. He had presided over our Super Bowl victory. He had suffered so much throughout the turbulent contest that he had sworn to God he would give up drinking and cheating on his wife if only we could win that one game.

I later heard that after I scored the winning touchdown, Burt had jumped to his feet, shook his fist at God, and hoarsely screamed, "Fuck you, Skipper, if you can't make it in Big Town, go to Des Moines! A year after the Giants won the Super Bowl, Burt had somehow gained majority control of the franchise in a mysterious stock transaction and left the agency. It was said Burt had a silent partner in the deal.

It was also said he might wind up living in Costa Rica if the Justice Department ever took a close look at the stock transaction. You got a season to jerk off; why not? Burt said the networks were sure to offer me a job as a color announcer. Billy Clyde Puckett would be the only winner. I laughed at that and Burt pressed on. TV is God's way of telling you to rape, steal, and plunder. It's a fucking souffle! You know what those guys make? They can buy the Vatican and redecorate! Burt went into a crouch. He stared at an imaginary object in front of him.

He humped the thin air. Burt looked astounded. You want to talk good? Good is who wears a blazer and has a microphone. Know how you make it big in. TV, Billy Clyde? First, you're an athlete, then you go to makeup. All you gotta be after that is deaf, dumb, and blind! Shoat Cooper's eyes were still misty. He said he guessed he'd better shove off. Burt's wife, Veronica, comforted me by commenting on how unattractive hospitals were. Veronica Danby was an ex-"fashion person," a cadaver whose dark brown hair had been styled into a shower cap.

She was two-thirds cheekbones and one-third pout. Veronica did ask if Barbara Jane had done anything to her eyes yet. Not that I was aware of, I said, but what did I know? Barb was out in L. Anything could have happened. Wrinkles are so treacherous. I accepted that piece of information with a nod. Veronica said, "I'm sure she doesn't use strong cleansers anymore. I've learned to stay strictly with non-alcoholic lotions.

It's the worst thing you can do! Burt beamed at me as they were leaving. Dane goes with this actress on The Guiding Light. He thought they'd done all the sperm capers but he made a hell of a discovery the other night. Eyelashes on the clit. Says he can blink her off in no time. I had a while to think about that before the phone started ringing. Dreamer Tatum called. Ex-teammates like Hose Manning and Puddin Patterson. Jim Tom Pinch, an old newspaper buddy. Hang in there, they all said. Shake Tiller phoned from Houston. He was swinging through the South on a promotional tour for the paperback release of The Art of Taking Heat. His book had been a non- fiction best-seller the previous year.

Silvia Mercer, Shake's agent, had peddled the idea to an editor friend named Rosemary Compton, arguing that The Art of Taking Heat would appeal to that mass of readers in the Advice, How-to, and Miscellaneous category who might be fed up with diets, exercise, and money-managing. Shake's book sold over , copies in hardcover, though it never dislodged Get Rich in 30 Seconds as the No. Still, the book's success had turned Shake Tiller into a semi-known author. This not only meant he'd had to appear on drive-time radio shows and early-morning TV shows around the country, he'd been obligated to fuck Silvia Mercer again, and then Rosemary Compton. He had once said that Xeroxing was the toughest part of writing, but he had changed his mind.

Paperback tours differed from hardcover tours, Shake had discovered. You didn't sell books or autograph many of them on either tour, but there was drastically less literary pussy on the paperback tour—unless a man had a weakness for the pudgy girls who ran the checkout counters at supermarkets. On hardcover tours, Shake had spent most of his time apologizing to the cultivated owners of bookstores because his book had been published and theirs hadn't. Occasionally, he would sit and smoke at a table in the store and point out to a browsing customer where the bird books could be found. On the paperback tours, he would mill around the grocery stores, occasionally be recognized as an ex-football star, and be asked to autograph twelve slices of Virginia ham wrapped in butcher's paper.

Now on the phone from Houston, he said, "Hi, gimp. Luckiest thing ever happened to you, B. You can go into TV. Rob everybody's ass. A wounded warrior whose career was struck down by tragic fate. Fuck 'em. Football's not the same anymore, anyhow. Sit up there in the booth with Summerall. Tell everybody how the quarterback wants to isolate on the linebacker. Hell, you might wind up in a beer commercial. The conversation with Shake didn't necessarily boost my spirits. For the next hour, I squirmed in the bed. I was half- rooting for the painkillers to get with it, half-wondering if I would ever play football again. Was it really possible I'd never climb into another uniform, never trot into another stadium, never blow another one in there for six, never hear the crowds again?

Football was the only thing I'd ever done. I was in a fairly miserable state of mind, feeling a terrible sense of loss, when the phone rang for the last time that night. I fumbled for the receiver and greeted the caller with a weak hello. A little trouble up on the bell tower, huh? It was the witty voice of my sympathetic wife. Somebody once described marriage to me as one year in Heaven and twenty years in the Light Heavyweight Division. It couldn't have been my Uncle Kenneth who said that. He stored up a backlog of ex-wives for sure, but he never stayed married long enough to know their bathroom habits.

Not that my uncle was ever torn up when the ladies walked out on him, usually in a foaming rage over some domestic misunderstanding. Uncle Kenneth would just shake his head, light a Winston, and say, "There goes old Connie. God help the world if she'd been born twins. Having been raised by my uncle in Fort Worth, I was privileged to watch a steady stream of bimbos go in and out of our duplex apartment. Some of their names were easier to remember than others. Dorothy was the one who had hair the color of V-8 juice. Ina Fay ran up the department-store bills.

Patsy had an epileptic brother we used to imitate. Teresa played the radio loud and jitterbugged around the living room in her shortie nightgown. Bobbi Lynn had trouble with fever blisters. All of Uncle Kenneth's wives knew how to cook butter beans. They had jobs. They either answered the phone for optical companies or licked envelopes stuffed with freight invoices. They looked like funeral wreaths when they dressed up to go somewhere. None of them drove air-conditioned cars.

Connie was the one who could outcuss Uncle Kenneth. She was kind of attractive for a woman whose hair was always in a blonde beehive and whose skirts were too tight, but she wasn't too pretty when she was displeased with my uncle. If Uncle Kenneth would come home late from a hard day of betting football games at the pool hall, and if he happened to have a can of Budweiser in his hand, and if there was the normal amount of vomit on his tasseled loafers, Connie's lecture would have a little something extra in it. She would say:. You smell like four kinds of turds in a Goddamn fillin'-station toilet! What whore's ass did you crawl up and die in tonight? You think you're a slick cocksucker, but you ain't no slicker than two snakes fuckin' in a barrel of snot!

Don't come near me, you limp-prick motherfucker, unless you want to wear that beer to the emergency room! Uncle Kenneth learned not to step up the backtalk with Connie. He would just stroll quietly across the room and stretch out on the pink chenille spread that covered the day bed from Montgomery Ward and turn on TV to watch what he called the "ambulance news. Once he had responded to one of her tirades with "Connie, are you sayin' my poem don't rhyme? That was the night she whapped him on the ear with the metal bar from a Eureka vacuum cleaner. I used to wonder why Uncle Kenneth kept getting married. It always turned out the same. One day I put the question to him at the Texas Recreation Parlor.

You can't talk no sense to him. Wilbur was the name of my uncle's dick. My momma and daddy split up when I was six years old. As Uncle Kenneth liked to tell it, my dad, Steve, unfolded a Texaco road map one evening and laid it out on the kitchen table. He drew a vertical line down the middle of the United States. He then turned to Dalene—that was my momma's name—and said:. Steve said, "That's what I'll be looking for, fond as I am of your hair-curlers. Steve said, "What I'll thank him for is that you ain't gonna haunt my heart like a damned old movie star! You won't even be a memory!

Life is a series of choices. I was told I could either go to California and watch Steve sell floor covering, or I could go to Mobile and watch Dalene take care of her sick mother and look for a new husband. Evidently, what I said to both of them was "I want to go to Uncle Kenneth's house. He likes sports and he don't holler. I never saw Dalene again. She had remarried by then and given birth to three other kids. Apparently, the kids jumped up and down on the furniture so much, a headache did her in. Uncle Kenneth took me to the funeral in Mobile. It was my first funeral, but I figured out from the seating arrangement in the funeral parlor and at the cemetery that her new husband, Raymond, was the man on the front row in the windbreaker and the Schlitz cap.

Being at the funeral was a strange feeling because I didn't know my momma at all, but the trip wasn't a complete loss. I saw my dad only one time after he moved to California. We were killing time. Shake and I were waiting to board the team bus to the L. We were laughing at all of the TCU fans in their purple blazers and purple leather cowboy boots when this man came toward us, and I couldn't help staring at him because of his outfit.

He wore green slacks, a pink Munsingwear shirt, a red-and-yellow-checked linen coat, and white mesh-top shoes. He had an admirable tan. I thought he was just another California nitwit who wanted an autograph from me and Shake, your basic All- Americans. He didn't look anything like Uncle Kenneth, his brother. Before I could speak, Shake said, "What's your name? Steve stammered. Then over on Hemphill.

Barbara Jane folded her arms as she studied Steve. They're both named Kenneth. Out of embarrassment for Steve, I led him aside, seeing no reason to subject him to Shake and Barbara Jane's wise-mouth. We had a brief visit. He said he was proud of me. He said he followed my "dipsy-dos" in the newspapers. He said he had meant to write several times over the past fifteen years, but things had been hectic in the floor-covering business. He said he'd bought a new set of MacGregor irons and they had lowered his handicap to He glanced around the lobby at my teammates, some of whom were black.

I borrow some of their albums. He said, "Lord, I seen one the other day that gimme a pause. He was one of your hippie nigs? He stood there on Wilshire Boulevard and took a piss in broad daylight! I said to myself, Well, is this the end of civilization as we know it, or is it just another nigger pissin' on Wilshire Boulevard? My dad apologized for having been semi-halfway responsible for making me the victim of a broken home. I said he didn't need to apologize for a single thing. Uncle Kenneth had given me everything I'd needed, plus a good many laughs. He said, "Billy, I was sorry to hear about your mother. I never wanted her to bogey eighteen. I did root for a sore throat from time to time. Damn, she had a temper. Cora burned my name in the eighteenth green at Rancho Park.

Eileen threw a brand-new set of Pings in the ocean—can you believe that? My dad was killed two years later. You could make him sound like he was a successful businessman if you said he got killed in a private-plane crash. The fact is, he got killed on the golf course where the private plane crashed. He hadn't been able to get his Titleist 4 and Wilson wedge out of a sand trap in time to avoid a Cessna that lost power and suddenly dropped out of the smog and made the bunker a little deeper.

Old Steve was no big authority on relationships, but that morning in the Century Plaza lobby, he left me with some words I never forgot. You got them big, mean tackles comin' at you. But I'll tell you one thing about life. You ain't took no lumps at all till you've tried marital discord. Given the mood I was in while I floundered in the hospital bed for a week, you couldn't blame for me for the ludicrous things I thought about.

I spent days watching elderly patients creeping past my room, and I wondered how many of them would be shuffled into a nursing home where they'd live out their days playing dominoes until they swallowed the double-6, believing it to be an Oreo cookie. I tried to estimate how many patients might be dying of malpractice because of my floor nurse. She continually looked flustered and said things like "This God-damn place is comin' down over my ears! But mostly I thought about all of the obstacles life puts in the way of marriage. There in my room at Lenox Hill—me, my knee, and a mound of magazines and newspapers—I pondered the fact that I was now in my thirties and I only knew two couples who hadn't been divorced or estranged.

They had exchanged some sharp language, but they would never entertain the idea of divorce for two reasons. First, it would be socially inconvenient, and second, it would take Big Barb and her lawyers the rest of their lives to dig up West Texas and find all of Big Ed's money. Big Ed once said, "Show me a woman who wants a divorce, and I'll show you a beady-eyed lawyer comin' out of her closet! The other couple was T. They would never split up because they both liked Stouffer's chicken pot pies. But almost every guy I'd ever known had been married two, three, and four times, most often to an undiscovered actress or airline stewardess—er, excuse me, flight attendant.

This didn't include Shake Tiller. He had been on record for years as saying he would rather be confined to a Syrian prison than have to discuss furniture ads with a female roommate. Dump McKinney came to mind with no trouble. I thought of how he might just as easily have fumbled the handoff to me the way he had fumbled all of his marriages, in which case I'd still be playing football. I wouldn't be in a hospital trying to read a story in People magazine about a meditative movie actor who recommended tofu with sage as an alternative to a heavy Thanksgiving dinner. Dump McKinney held one pro football record that would never be touched. He married three flight attendants and two Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders.

I learned of his fifth marriage and fifth divorce one evening watching television. It had come to the attention of 60 Minutes that the progressive city of Dallas had spawned a flurry of drive-in divorce centers in which lawyers were handling as many as quickie divorces a day. I was watching the program when who should pop onto my screen but a disheartened Dump McKinney and his new ex-wife, Cheryl. The TV reporter turned to Cheryl. Cheryl ran a brush through her long blond hair, and said, "We just didn't have nothin' in common. Love was brutally outnumbered. That's how I saw it in the hospital that week. Maybe love could hold his own during depressions and wars, but if you gave people a little money and leisure time, love was in deep shit.

I made a list as I lay in the hospital bed. There wasn't much else to do but glower at the cast on my leg or watch vampires make rock music on cable TV. As I observed it, love was forced to go up against the following enemies:. The insane cost of living. The stranglehold of analysts. Male-chauvinist jerks. Male-chauvinist feminists. Liberated wenches. Bizarre sexual demands. No sex at all. His or her lack of political "awareness. Recreational drugs. Porsche overhauls. Confidant fags. Overly familiar barmaids. People "preoccupied with success.

Partners "suffocating" for undisclosed reasons. Partners who have stomped on all the magic. People who change. People who refuse to change. Architectural Digest. Office flirtations. Business travel. Dinner parties. Sports on TV. No-smoking areas. Cold pasta salads. Ingmar Bergman. She's too "assertive. He's not "supportive" enough. Numbing boredom. There was a time when Barbara Jane would have agreed with me that none of those things could have affected us.

We were too clever. And then some of them did affect us— and there we were, as human as everybody else. Nothing in our history had indicated we would ever become human. If anything, the opposite was true. Barbara Jane and Shake Tiller and I had known each other since the third grade. It was in the third grade that we had formed our own private club, a society dedicated to laughing at life its ownself. We began by laughing at the things other kids put in their sandwiches at Daggett Elementary.

Chunky peanut butter? Then we laughed at everybody's clothes, and everybody's parents. I suppose you could say it got out of hand because everything after that seemed humorous, especially anything serious, except Barbara Jane didn't laugh much about Kathy Montgomery later on. Growing up, the three of us developed the same outlook on learning, achieving, surviving. We came to share the same beliefs about all the big stuff. Observing grownup behavior, I suspect, had more to do with it than anything. We agreed you had an obligation to take whatever you were blessed with in life and try to keep a shine on it. We said you shouldn't live out your favorite songs too seriously. We took an oath not to hurt anybody on our way up, but we said it was okay to use some lip if you started to slip.

We thought the main thing you had going for you in life was what you did. We considered it dangerous to place our complete trust in anybody who hadn't gone to Paschal High. We nominated pretension as the gravest sin of all. And we were willing to argue that a chicken-fried steak and cream gravy at Herb's Cafe could duke it out with any phony Frenchman who ever wore a chef's hat. We were armed with these notions when we moved to New York City. Shake and I had made a pact. We had some bargaining power, having been your sought-after All-Americas. We also had Big Ed Bookman for a "bidness" consultant. Big Ed talked a lot about bidness. The oil bidness, most often. William Westmoreland, who hadn't inducted us into the army during Viet Nam because we'd had the wisdom to be born white and our hair didn't hang down below our earlobes.

Barbara Jane moved to New York at the same time we did. Her parents didn't get to vote on it. She was still about half in love with Shake at the time, or thought she was. We lived at the Westbury Hotel while Barbara Jane hunted for an apartment that would be suitable for the three of us. She came up with a Park Avenue co-op for us to buy. It had four terraces and three wood-burning fireplaces.

Shake and I agreed it was suitable for the three of us. Luxembourg could have slept in the living room. She had expected to walk into one of the TV networks, pronounce Dien Bien Phu correctly, and get a job as a production assistant, but she never had the opportunity. Fate kept on happening. We were fresh faces in town. Barbara Jane was still buying Oriental rugs for the apartment. We hadn't even found out what bars not to go in—like " But in we waltzed, and there was Burt at the bar with all the little model airplanes, trucks, cars, baseball caps, and polo mallets dangling over his head.

Burt was swirling in a clump of network biggies when his eyes suddenly feasted on Barb. Burt sprang into action right away. His introductions set all the machinery in motion that helped turn Barb into a high-rent model. Few people ever blitzed Big Town quicker than Barbara Jane. She kissed it on the lips and backed up the trucks. All of a sudden, she was not just in our apartment, she was everywhere. You looked at a magazine ad, and there Barb was, telling you what to smoke or drink. You looked up on a billboard and she showed you how to get a suntan in your bikini.

She slinked across your TV screen, advising you to stay in a specific chain of hotels. She saucily tossed her hair at you on TV, daring you not to drive on her steel-belted radials. And she washed her hair on TV, strongly hinting that your own hair would come out by the handfuls if you didn't use her shampoo. None of this surprised me. One way or another, I had figured Barb would trick New York. She was too good-looking for it not to happen.

Barbara Jane was so heart-stopping pretty, she could raise the blood-pressure on a marble statue. She had flowing hair of streaked butterscotch, skin that tanned easily, and dark brown eyes that seemed to approve of everything you were thinking or saying. Her body was merely perfect—not the kind to set off burglar alarms in a tri-state area, but simply a luscious body with nothing out of proportion. When she walked down Fifth Avenue in a pair of snug jeans and flashed her pretty smile, guys tripped over street vendors and fell into piles of stolen jewelry.

In the summers when she'd walk into a restaurant wearing something white and semi-revealing over that wood-stained figure, forks dropped all over the room. Barb could have scooted by on looks alone. Most beautiful women do. But she had all of the extras—the ones I admired, at least. She had spirit, independence, street smart, book knowledge, wit, a quick laugh, and a lethal tongue. Unlike most models, she was alive, energetic, inquisitive. Being intelligent, Barb never had any respect for the modeling business, even though she earned some disgraceful amounts of money at it. Not respecting the business didn't make her stupid.

Like she said:. She playfully described herself as a "prime-time hooker. Shake liked to tease Barb about modeling. He'd try to get her to confess that she believed her talent was essential. We were hanging around the apartment one night when he said, "Don't be ashamed, Barb. Models are great for the economy. They create activity in the marketplace. You believe in some of the products you sell, right?

I think you're protecting the consumer from inferior merchandise. Barbara Jane thought this over for a moment, then slowly broke into a smile. Through all the years of Barbara Jane and Shake's on- again, off-again love affair, I was the good friend. I scoured the countryside to find a Barbara Jane of my own, but there was only one. Barb didn't help my cause. Not once did she ever give her total approval to any girlfriend I had. Oh, sure. She would be nice to the girl if I happened to be in the middle of a romance, but she would never say something like "Gee, Mary Alice Ramsey's a great girl," or "Golly, Rachel Watson's a lot of fun.

What Barbara Jane would be was tolerant. Great word. She would be all-out, full-on, no-holds-barred tolerant. The days and nights weren't without laughter and frivolity in the days when Barb and Shake and some girl and I would go out on the town together, or stay home together, or even take a trip together. And occasionally there would even be the unique entry—the keeper—that Barb might adopt as a friend. But eventually my relationship with the girl would be ruined—buried, forget it—because Barbara Jane's "review" would come in.

Sometimes I would ask for the review, but even if I didn't, the review would come in. One word. Maybe two. A short review but a killer. And dead. The poor girl would be a goner. She might be a pile-driving, bone-crunching showstopper, but Barb's review would reduce her to the lame, gnarled, disease-trodden, nuisance-peddling intellectual dwarf I urgently had to get rid of. Take high school. Mary Alice Ramsey was a prize. She was beautiful, stacked, sweet, generous, kind. I elaborated on the virtues of Mary Alice Ramsey. I was looking up from a cheeseburger as I reacted to the word. I thought it over. Barb had been right.

Scratch Mary Alice Ramsey, that filthy bitch. After Mary Alice, I had a good run with Mopsy New- some, a very sexy Junior Favorite whose talent for lap- dancing was far ahead of its time. The affair ended after one word from Barbara Jane. Our senior year in high school, I became an item with Rachel Watson. Rachel was a knockout, cool and sophisticated, a girl who stayed ahead of the trends in music and fashion. Barb held me in suspense.

Barbara Jane shrugged apologetically. And so it went. On through college. On into New York. Only a fool would have dropped some of the convivial helpmates I was involved with, but Barbara Jane's reviews knocked them off like point underdogs. Cissy Walford? Charlene Gaines? Becky Taylor? Dede Aldwyn? Sally Anthony? Melinda Rideout? Tiffany Howell?

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