Read Online Cash Out by Greg Bardsley - Free Book Online Page B

beers, leave the lights off. A sliver of sunlight streaks through the kitchen blinds and crosses his face, illuminating a gray eye and the scar on his left cheek. I take another deep breath, trying to regain my composure. He takes a swig and studies me, eyes narrowing, neck and head going rigid, as if he’s saying, Who did this to my buddy?
    O f the many times I’ve seen Rod fight, one of the few times I’ve seen him get emotional was in high school, more than twenty years ago.
    It was actually one of my fights.
    Ninth grade. I’m a lowly freshman still getting lost trying to find my locker. Two juniors sneak up behind me, lift me up by the legs, laughing. A longhair with tinted glasses keeps yelling, “Freshman . . . freshman,” like he’s proclaiming me to the school. They’re laughing, I’m laughing, students are laughing. Not a big deal. Easy hazing. Until I lose my balance, grab for leverage, and end up stabbing my No. 2 pencil into the forearm of the longhair. Unintentionally.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” The longhair looks down at me and pushes me hard, bringing his fists up. “Fucking stabbed me, you little fuck.”
    Kids swarm around us. My heart spasms.
    Oh fuck.
    An English teacher with a surfer cut saunters to his door, leans against the frame, and watches, arms folded. Guys are hollering, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Big circle around us. Pretty girls watching from a distance.
    â€œDude, it’s cool.” My heart is pounding. “I don’t wanna fight. It was an accident.”
    â€œLike hell it was.” He comes toward me, and I back up. “Fucking stabbed me.”
    FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!
    â€œLittle fucking new-wave piece of shit.”
    FIGHT . . . FIGHT . . . FIGHT.
    â€œHit him.”
    â€œWaste him, Mark.”
    He charges and takes a swing, and I duck. He misses badly, and I roll behind him on the asphalt, scramble back up. I feel like I’m about to cry, but I can’t.
    God, please don’t let me cry.
    People are screaming, happy about the excitement. Longhair turns around and comes after me, at which point someone yanks me back. It’s Rod, my best buddy. Goes straight for Longhair, swipes away a punch, lands a right into his glasses, cuts the guy in the eye, sends shards of tinted lens into his brow, grabs and slams him onto the ground. Place goes silent as my freshman buddy Rod puts this junior into an “arm bar,” ready to make his elbow do unnatural things.
    Longhair groans and struggles.
    Rod’s eyes are wild. I’ve never seen him so angry. “Say you’re sorry, burnout.”
    Longhair struggles again.
    Rod applies more pressure. “Say you’re sorry.”
    Nothing.
    Snap.
    It took three minutes for the English teacher and two seniors to pull Rod off the screaming Longhair. And when they did, all Rod could say was, “My family.”
    I was Rod’s family. No one else. Just me.
    I ’ve just told Rod the whole story. He’s walking back to the fridge, fingering two more Modelos. “I know a guy at the gym.” He pops the caps. “Does some side work for the suits. You know, security.”
    Rod himself used to do that kind of work. He had a nice gig doing weekends for some of the biggest names in technology and venture capital. Easy work. But it wasn’t him. Now he’s a full-time mixed martial artist signed to a six-figure contract with the UFC—a premier athlete training with some of the best MMA fighters in the world.
    Rod glances at the clock on my microwave. 6:10. “I’ll call my buddy later this morning.”
    I take a sip. The alcohol and the Vicodin seem to be mixing nicely because my crotch feels okay for the first time in nearly a day. “What are you thinking?”
    Rod looks out to my backyard. The lawn is littered with toy trucks, balls, and plastic dinosaurs. “I’m thinking, this bald guy? Probably has