Read Online Stotan! by Chris Crutcher - Free Book Online Page B

Lion’s Jeepster in the parking lot and piled in. The Jeepster has no top and the temperature outside stood at about twenty degrees, but there was no sense of cold as Lion pulled out of the lot and wound his way through the unplowed neighborhood streets and down to Safeway, where we attempted to buy all the Coke they had in stock and all they ever will have. The first eight bottles were empty before we got them into the Jeepster; we left some fluids back there in that hellhole.
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    As we lie here on our mattresses, letting KZUU, “The Rock of the Inland Empire,” hammer its way into the consciousness of Stotan Week, I ponder a few other constants of this time. One is Jeff’s miracle sandwiches. They aren’t bad! They’re quick, and Jeff makes them for everyone—claims you have to have just the right amount of each ingredient—so no one has to cook. That’s a plus. And there’s Nortie’s St. Christopher medal, speaking of constants. It counts every pushup we do. (“You Stotans think that’s funny? Drop for ten!” chink…chink…chink…“You’re dogging it, give me ten!” chink…chink…chink…) If I can get my hands on him, St. Christopher’s going on a trip.
    We canceled all our pressing social engagements forthis afternoon and evening in favor of lying in our sleeping bags listening to rock and roll, reading and otherwise burning not one calorie more than is absolutely necessary. The fatigue in my body goes to the marrow. My guess is that tomorrow morning that fatigue will be replaced by something very close to excruciating pain.
    TUESDAY
    I was right. I woke up this morning pinned to the mattress with deep-burning muscle pain. My spleen was sore. My liver was sore. Nothing worked like it was supposed to; I felt like a stumbling toddler learning to move all over again.
    From the time the alarm went off until we arrived at the pool, not a complete sentence was uttered—unless the Lord’s name in vain can be considered a complete sentence, and I think it’s missing a verb. The heater wasn’t working and it had to be forty degrees in the room; sitting on the freezing toilet seat was our first Stotan surprise of the day.
    We grabbed our suits and towels, pulled on our coats and gloves and boots like grumpy little kids being forced out into the snow to play, and piled back into Lion’s Jeepster. I have to say one of the worst parts ofthe whole day was driving through the neighborhoods toward the pool, anticipating four more hours as a wus posing as a Stotan. I couldn’t imagine it being over. When I was a little kid and had to go to the dentist, the only way I could get through the “death walk,” where you’re riding up in the elevator, then walking down the hall to his office, hearing imaginary screams, was to think about how in an hour or so it would be over. No matter how bad it got, how many live nerves he accidentally drilled, I’d walk out of there alive in about an hour. Well, I couldn’t even see an hour into this day, much less clear through to noon. It seemed as if we were headed into something dark and ugly from which there was no return. We were getting on the MTA (one of Long John’s old favorites).
    After forty-five minutes of non-stop land drills and a good hosing off by Fireman Max, Lion showed his first signs of cracking. We were lined up ready for the 400-’fly warmup when Lion suddenly did a perfect military about-face, a left-face, marched to the low board, up and out to the end, did another perfect about-face, folded his arms over his stomach and fell straight backward into the pool, his back slapping the water like a wet carp on a flat rock. As he fell, he screamed, “Stotan!” We stared a split second in stunned amazement as hestarted his 400 ’fly, before Nortie and Jeff and I followed suit, dropping off the end of the board like ducks in an