Bates, whose first name remains unknown (though it definitely isn’t Norman), appeared once again in last night’s Flash Fiction Workshop, where one of our prompts was: As Bates entered the room, all eyes were upon him.
Bates was back. At least, he thought he was. Felt it in his gut, which, though it had swelled (from the swill he’d been drinking) to twice its normal size, was still rock hard, reminding him of his football days, when he was unstoppable on the field with the guys—and off the field (which he played quite expertly) with the girls.
As he entered the crowded room, 80s music thumped from a pair of giant speakers on either side of the live band—a motley crew of aging hippies with either too much hair or too little or hair where it wasn’t supposed to be, clinging to their instruments as they clung hopelessly to their youth, swaying in the way that only middle-aged white men can sway.
The banner over the double oak doors that led into the carpeted ballroom (worn carpet, he noticed—a beigey, blue colorless color, at least as far as color-blind Bates could tell, with evidence of spills in numerous places and badly frayed where the door frame met the floor) read:
40th Reunion—Brookview (East) High School—Go Wildcats!!!
Under his size 48 black sharkskin blazer, Bates wore his old football jersey, well, not the actual one he’d worn in the games, but a replica he’d purchased online for the event, with profits going to support the school’s sister institution in Guatemala—or was it Honduras? The green nylon with gold letters glowed under the flickering light of the disco ball rotating from a pole up in the ceiling. His classmates and their significant others (he hated that phrase, but what else could one use—lover, partner, special friend, or God forbid, friend with benefits) were clustered and clumped, chatting and chomping, chugging and glugging, singing (out of tune) and swaying (out of step), and saying God knows what about so and so—or maybe even about him, since, when he strode into the room, bald and bold, all glittering green and gold, and (he hoped) not too old, all eyes were upon him.
It was just like the freshman Monster Mash, when he’d gone as Frankenstein with a giant green mask and everyone had recognized him, or Senior Prom, when sweet—sweet corn sweet—Norma Jean had bought him a green and gold boutonniere and pinned it on his too tight tuxedo jacket. Now, as then, he was the indisputable center of attention. But Norma Jean was dead (car accident) and only about half the members of the team he captained were there, drinking posh imported beer out of glass mugs (Bates was a Bud man through and through) and reminiscing about the games and wives and lives they’d lost and won.
Suddenly Bates felt sick—sick to his oversized stomach pushing his jersey out over the top of his belt. He’d been a hero to these people—and now…who was he? What was he? Why was he even here, pretending to be somebody when he lived alone on a lake, the loons his only companions, swam naked, and often ate Campbell’s soup straight from the can?
What on earth had happened? How did he get sacked so many times behind the line of scrimmage? And who moved those damn goalposts out of reach?
He picked up a frosted mug full of Overbotherbeck, or whatever it was called, smashed it on the floor, wiggled his knees in a familiar little dance, and yelled, “Touchdown!”
© 2022 Thomas G. Fiffer