Wrestling The Wind

 

‘until then I will be the fool, wishing for the day, that I could change the world’

                      ---Eric Clapton

 

  

 

 

            “I want you home by dinnertime”, she said as I rode away, “do you hear me?”

            I nodded with my face already west into the wind, never looking back.

            “It gets dark early and I don’t want to be worrying”.

 

            Mom always was concerned.  You see, I was her oldest of four, and I was growing up far too fast for her tastes.    If she could have kept me at nine years old for ninety years, it wouldn’t have been long enough for her.  She was always trying to baby me.  When my dad was helping as assistant coach for the Sperry Elementary wrestling team, she accused him of pushing me too hard to win. 

 

            Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

            I wanted to win.  Like the other boys on my team.

 

            I wanted to be like them.

 

            So, when I won the third place state championship in the 50 lb. weight class the previous weekend, I knew I would get to be one of them.

 

            And that evening, with my Snoopy handlebar radio pulling in the AM band, I cruised my metallic green schwinn with its blue plastic-metallic flake banana seat out west to the county line road to meet up with those older boys from the team.

 

Those who would be my friends.

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            “Can I come out to the clubhouse?”, I asked as I dodged the dodgeball for the fifth time.

            “If you can make it all the way out there by yourself”, Pat said, lining me up for another attack with the ball.

            “You make it out there and you’re in the club”, Robert added from the sidelines,

            “but, if you don’t, then we know you’re a wus”.

            “And we’ll tell everyone in Mrs. Walker’s class that you’re a homo.”

            “I’m not a homo”, I said angrily.

            “Clay’s a homo”, Pat mocked in sing-song, “Gay Clay”.

            “What time?”, I asked, stepping forward from the firing line.

            “Five o’clock”, Robert said as I narrowed the distance between them and myself.

            “That too late for a homo?”, Pat said as he kicked the ball towards me.

            “No.  I’ll be there”, I said dodging the shot, “How far is it?”

            “Two miles out 96^th street north to county line road.”

            “Don’t be late.”

 

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            “I won’t be”, I told her as I closed the trunk of the Valiant. 

            “If you get another ticket, your dad will be furious”, she said, “So don’t be speeding.  You’ll get there in due time”.

            “I said I won’t”, I said turning my back, getting into the car, “I’ll be safe”.

 

            I was eighteen and well into my first semester at college and you’d think that she’d give it a rest.  Being so protective that is.

 

            “I just don’t like you driving at night”, she said, “that two lane between here and school isn’t the best road”.

            “He’ll be okay Mrs. Wilbury”, came a voice from behind, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t speed”.

            “Thanks Ian”, Mom said as she turned to our neighbor, “I know you boys will be okay, I just worry”.

 

            Ian Chambers and I had been friends since ’77 when my family moved to Bartlesville.  He lived next door and his dad and mine had been our Boy Scout leaders at the Methodist Church in Oak Park.  We played on the same baseball team, took Karate lessons at the same place and worked the same low paying summer jobs at the same local park.  In the years since those days, I’ve tried to keep up with what he was doing.  Last I knew, he was going to be an officer in the Highway Patrol.  Somehow, I never saw him in that role.

            He will always remain as a friend to me.

            And as my first college roommate.

  

            Well, my first roommate, along with Derek.

 

            You see, we were freshmen.  And with an increased enrollment that year, all freshmen roommates living in the dorms were forced to share their two-person room with a third student. 

            That would be Derek Hubbard, in our case.

           

            He was a big man.  Second all around state shot put champion.  The college had offered him a meager scholarship, tuition only, to play football.  Because of his size, he could have been a lineman, but he turned them down cold.

            He wanted an education.  And playing football for a junior college does not an education guarantee.  Besides, he had promised his mom that he would help get his brothers through school once he graduated. 

And playing ball was not part of the bargain.

 

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“Took you long enough”, Pat said as I slid to a stop, “we didn’t think you would come”.

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

“Well, we almost left”, Robert said, “my mom wants me home early tonight.  My dad’s gone tonight with his buddies.  Pat’s dad goes too”.

“I think all they do is drink beer”, Pat said, “but my mom says it’s important stuff that they do.  Things for the town and stuff.”

“So y’all can’t stay?”

“Nope”.

“I guess I’ll stay.  For awhile anyways”, I said.

“Suit yourself”, Robert said,  “the clubhouse is up the road, just over the first hill”.

“Under the big blackjack”, Pat added, “and don’t mess with anything”.

 

And they rode away down the darkening eastern highway toward town, leaving me to make the rest of the way myself. 

 

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“I can’t wait to get back”, Ian said, as we valiantly flew westward, down the road, onward towards school.

“Me either.  Got the radar detector?”

“You know it.  Homecoming’s this week”, he said as he plugged in the detector, protecting us from what lay ahead.

“All the parties”, I said, “all the women”.

“All that and a side of fries”, he laughed.

 

That week melted away as quickly as the rare fall snow in Oklahoma.  Before we looked up, it was Friday.  No one went home for the weekend, as usual.  The culmination of a week of homecoming festivities was tonight.  A rally, bonfire and the streetdance.

 

The pyre had been built that morning.  We all had walked past it going to class.  Plenty of kindling had been left for us to feed the fire.

 

We had only to wait for the words to set it ablaze.

 

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In the distance, I could see it.  The large blackjack.  It stood stoic in the darkening northern horizon against the gathering southern wind.  Underneath its protective arms was the clubhouse.  Constructed from pilfered plastic milk crates and sheet plastic, on top of which laid a sheet of corrugated green fiberglass as a roof.  Zip-tied to the side of the structure was an old ten-foot CB whip antenna.  Flying at the top of this mast was a miniature Jolly Roger, under which was a small confederate flag. 

In the breeze flew the flags of warning.

They were pirates, and this, their ship.

And they took no prisoners.

           

            As I slowed my bike under the tree and the last rays of daylight fell, I noticed smoke from behind the next hill.

            My curiosity piqued.

            A grass fire?

           

            Remembering that my mom wanted me home by dark made no difference.  It was nearly that now.  I would be late.  Just a peek at the fire beyond the northern horizon and I would head back home.  It had to be a half a mile to the next hilltop and by the time I had made it halfway, the orange glow beyond was growing with the feeding wind.

 

            “I gotta see this”, I muttered to myself as the wind and my curiosity pushed me.

           

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            “You gotta see what,” the girl behind the front desk asked.

            “I gotta see the spare key to my dorm room”, I said, “mine’s locked inside”.

            “Can’t help you,” she said, “the extra roommate was issued the extra key”.

            “No other key,” I asked, “what about the RA on my floor, shouldn’t he have one?”

            “If he’s in his room, he’s got a pass key”, she said, “but good luck catching him there.  Him and his roommate are usually down at the gym.  Wrestling practice and all”.

            “What room?”

            “311”.

 

            As I made my way up, I remembered my roommates saying that they had met our RA the night of floor orientation.  I had missed because of my writing class that evening.

            “He’s a real nice guy,” Ian had said.

            And that’s all he would say about him.

            “Can I help you?”

            “Yeah, uh, I locked myself out”.

            “Hang on, Rob’s the RA”, he said turning around, “Rob, you got a lost soul here”.        

 

            As I waited in the hallway, I realized the guy that had answered the door looked vaguely familiar.  Like an old photograph that you haven’t seen for awhile.  Things look the same, but somehow different.

 

            “Locked your keys in your room,” the voice asked from behind the door.

            “Yeah, and my roommates are gone”.

            “What’s your name”, he asked as he stepped out from behind the door.

            “Clay”, I replied, “Clay Wilbury”.

            His face took on a puzzled look and he asked, “Did you ever go to school in Sperry?”

            “Yeah, just till I was nine and my parents moved us”.

            “Ever wrestle at school?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Remember me?”, he asked, “Robert Parks?”

            “From the wrestling team, fourth grade?”, I asked.

            “That’s me”, he said, “Pat Goard’s my roommate.  He answered the door.  Remember him?”

            “Yeah.  From the clubhouse”, I said, “I remember”.

 

            As we walked to my room, we talked of the past and the things that had happened in our lives since I had moved away.  He and Pat were there on scholarships for wrestling.  He asked if I had continued the sport after I moved.  He didn’t think I had, since he hadn’t seen me at any tournaments.  Drinking after the bonfire was his suggestion and I concurred. 

            “Bring your roommates”, he said.

            “I’ll do that”.

            “The fire starts at dark”.

 

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            And as I topped the hill I could see it. 

            The fire wrestling the wind.

 

            As the dark blue northern turned black, the cross stood as a man with outstretched arms, leaning into the wind.

            The flames fought the wind, and from a distance, made the cross look as if it was moving. 

            I was so mesmerized by the sight of the fire that, at first glance I didn’t notice the ghosts.  Seeing them scared me and I got on my bike and didn’t stop pedaling until I reached home. 

 

            I never went into the clubhouse.

 

            We moved a month later.

 

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            “Good to see you”, Rob said as I walked up, “we were hoping you would come”.

            “I was waiting for my roommates”, I said, “They must already be here”.

            Behind Rob was the pyre, ready to burn.  At the ready was Pat with an oiled torch. 

            “Hey, who invited the f*****g n*****s?" Pat asked, motioning behind us as he lit the torch and passed it to Rob.

            “Not me”, Rob said as he grabbed the torch and tossed it into the kindling, “We serving barbecue?”

            “Well, no and this here ain't no equal opportunity event”, Pat said to the people walking up behind me, "Unless you all are offering to be the barbecued event".

            As I turned away from them and the fire, I saw my roommates standing there.

 

            Ian and Derek.

 

            And with them they brought the wind.

 

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            “Where have you been?”

            “Mom, I saw some ghosts”.

            “Where did you see these ghosts?”

            “Out by Pat and Robert’s clubhouse?”

            “Were they just floating around?”

            “No.  They were dancing”.

            “Dancing?”

            “Around a cross that was on fire”.

            “Get in the house.”