You And Me, Pal

“I hate you!”

The words reverberated down the hallway, punctuated by a door slam. The big man spun on his heel, heading back down the hall when she slid in front of him, blocking his charge with one small hand on his barrel chest.

“Geez, Phil, must you be so hard on the kid? Leave him be.”

His eyes flashed steely blue. “Doors don’t get slammed in this house. That’s always been the rule and he knows it!”

She placed a second hand on his chest and pushed him backwards into the kitchen.

“You took his bike away. It’s a major part of his life, let him be upset about it.”

She walked him back until his legs hit a chair. He sat. Pulling up another, she perched in front of him, knees touching. She took his big hands, rough and gnarled from countless collisions with helmets and cleats, into hers and gently kissed each misshapen knuckle.

“Face it, Phil. Peter doesn’t like football and football doesn’t like him. Yes, pretending to go to practice was a bonehead move, but this — how you’re acting now — is exactly why he did it. He’s not Vinny, he can never be Vinny.” Phil avoided her gaze, focusing on a speck on the floor.

She put a finger under his chin and lifted his gaze up to hers. “Peter is brains, not brawn. He cannot follow in your footsteps, it’s just not who he is.” A single tear tracked down the crease by his nose. “He cannot be another Vinny,” she said softly. “He needs the freedom to find his own way.”

They sat, quiet and still, holding hands till both their tears stopped.

Peter finally exhaled and stopped watching the door to his bedroom. The instant it slammed he knew trouble was coming and the room was about to be filled with an eruption of his father’s anger. But he seemed to be getting a pass. That never happened. Rules were rules.

“Mom tackled him, you know that’s what it is. No one else can stop Big Phil when he gets rolling. She’s a reliable blocker.”

The mirror on the wall reflected the room behind Peter. Vinny was sprawled across his bed looking more outlandish than ever. Camo shorts, boots with no laces, and a sleeveless army-green shirt that showed off his muscular physique. A multi-colored frizzy clown wig poked out from the football helmet jammed onto his head. Peter pointed at the boots.

“Move over, ya big lunk. And get your feet off my bed.” Vinny obliged, swinging his feet down. Peter sat. “So, what’s up with the hair?”

“You like it?” Vinny mugged a bit, fluffing the frizz like a model, then pantomimed throwing it over his shoulder. “I’m rather fond of the colors. A bit festive, don’t you think?”

“A lot silly, that’s what I think,” Peter said. “You’re getting weirder every day. What’s that about?”

“Hey, why not? Nobody cares about me anymore, so why not have some fun?” He bounced up, walking to one of the crowded bookshelves that flanked a small desk. Peter leaned back against the wall watching him.

“And who are you to be calling me weird?” Vinny peered at the books. “Look at these egghead manuals. You actually read this stuff? Theory of Games, Advanced Coding, Basement Warriors. Huh. Dragonrunners…no…Dragonriders of Pern.” He pantomimed riding a horse. “Dragonriders? What the hell is that?” Dragging his finger along the book spines he stopped at another. “Stranger in a Strange Land…hey, that must be about you and this room, am I right?”

Peter sighed. “It’s classic literature, one of the best ever. Maybe if you had put down the football for half a second and learned to read, you might know that.”

Vinny screwed up his face. “Maybe if you put down the football….” he mimicked. “Those weren’t just footballs in my hands, young cub, those were…well, maybe someday you’ll figure it out.” He sat down on top of the desk, picking up a Starship Enterprise model and examining it. “Or maybe you won’t. Geez, this stuff is goofy.”

Peter threw a pillow, missing him completely. “Real funny, bozo boy.” He leaned forward, squinting. “Vinny, do you know there’s a hole in your helmet?” he asked, tapping his forehead to indicate the spot.

“I do, I surely do.” Vinny dropped into a crouch, pretending to hold a rifle and duckwalked around the room.

“It’s a wild firefight, but Vinny Spaghetti Fettuccini Morelli, football star turned soldier, he isn’t scared. Not one bit. Bang! an enemy goes down, bang bang! two more down. He’s a wild man, he’s everywhere, none can stand before him. Why, he’s pretty much invincible.” He strutted around the room, pausing a few times to sight down the imaginary rifle.

He crouched by the desk, then posed like a rabbit peering over the edge of a wall. “And then Morelli sneaks a look over the sandbags to watch the enemy running away in terror. Kerplunk! One catches him right in the cocoa bean. Oops.” He sprawled out spreadeagled on the floor. “And his brains leaked out like minestrone.” He opened one eye. “So, was that a great performance or what?”

Peter tried his best not to smile. “You are morbid, dude.”

A knock at the door. Vinny hopped up and flattened himself against the wall. “It’s the enemy,” he whispered. “You’re outnumbered, boy. When they come in, I will slip out and get reinforcements.”

The door opened and his mom stuck her head in. “Hey Pete, you okay? Is it safe for us to enter? Truce?” He waved them in.

“Listen, um, we talked it over, and we’re OK with you quitting football,” she said. Peter looked over at his dad, who nodded.

“I’m sorry bud. It’s going to be your decision to make, and if that’s what you really want, well, I’m down with it.”

Peter was stunned. “Thanks Dad. But don’t say “down with it” anymore, it’s kinda…weird.”

“But no bike for a week,” his mom added, “because you lied to us about going to practice.”

Peter groaned, but he knew there would be no negotiation. It was fair. “OK, I get it.”

Vinny’s multi-colored head popped up behind his dad, first on one side then the other. Peter ignored him.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” his mom said, bending down to kiss his forehead. “And don’t stay up late reading, it’s a school night. We love you, hon.”

Vinny had scrambled up her back and was sitting cross-legged on top of her head now, making faces. He patted his chest twice and pointed at Peter, silently mouthing the words. It was their sign-off: I love you, pal. Then he blinked out as the door closed behind his parents.

Peter smiled. “Love you too, you moron” he whispered.

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© Jim Marcotte, ARR, 2024