Tom & Sue & John & Debbie Ch. 06

Debbie and I sat for the ACT and I felt good about the test. The ACT Review study book had prepared me for the test.

Debbie's mind was not on the ACT test. Clearly she was worried about John, even if she wouldn't admit it.

Debbie and I drove over to the apartment after the ACT test, stopping off to get a pizza at the local Pizza Hut. We'd meet Tom at the dining hall around 5:30 after he finished his workout. Being exhausted, we both took a nap.

Saturday night at State, only the men's basketball team was playing at home. The women's basketball team and wrestling squad were on the road.

John was again absent from the wrestling squad.

Tom made the dinner arrangements and we all ate dinner in the dining hall before our planned evening at the Horseshoe.

During dinner Debbie spoke, "Tom, I'm worried about John. What has happened to him?"

Tom told me and Debbie, "I have a hunch I know where he is—if we go there, both of you will have to be strong. I'll only have one chance to bring him back, and at least one of you will have to help me."

Debbie asked, "Tom where do you think he is?"

Tom sadly replied, "Debbie, I think he's down on Avenue C-Skid row, living with the street people. I've looked everywhere else."

Tears filled Debbie's eyes as she said, "I want to go find John—I'll be strong."

I asked Tom, "Skid row—you mean drugs and stuff?"

Tom replied, "Yes babe—steroids, drugs, crack, and booze. I think that's why John changed and did what he did to Sally. He must have started getting hooked on steroids and drugs before Christmas break.

Tom added, "When we were freshman, going through hard times, we'd go to this dive and drink beer—no one ever checked ID's at this dive. No cops ever came down to Skid Row—those people got to know us. John and I would take the scrap food from the training table every night and feed them.

Tom kept going, "Pablo, the bar owner, told me he thought he had seen John there on Wednesday night. Angie and I went Thursday night, and again last night, but have yet to see him. Skid row is a whole different world. Sleeping in a cardboard box—if that—eating what you can find in the dumpsters. You live for booze and drugs."

We got in Tom's truck, drove to Skid Row, and parked outside Pablo's bar—it was scary looking place. There were bars on the windows, the front porch was broken down, and the front screen door was barely hanging on the hinges.

I thought to myself, "This was Tom and John's world growing up as kids back home. That's why he can relate to these people."

It was almost midnight and we still hadn't seen John. We continued watching the front door hoping he'd show up and Tom would have a chance to bring him back.

Debbie and I were dozing—we'd been waiting since before 7:00 and it was close to 12:45.

Tom suddenly yelled, "There he is!"

We looked toward the bar and saw John stumbling along toward the front door carrying a bottle with him. He was still wearing the same blue shirt he was wearing last weekend. We watched him go inside.

Debbie began crying when she saw her once-proud boyfriend in that condition. Tom snapped, "Debbie you can't do this, if you're going inside. YOU have to be strong."

Debbie muttered, "Tom I... I can't."

Tom looked at me and said, "Babe, then you'll have to go with me—it'll take both of us."

Even though I felt slightly nauseated at what I'd seen, I said, "OK."

Tom said, "Debbie, lock the doors and keep them locked. When you see us coming out, open the door so I can shove him in. OK?"

Debbie, still crying, said, "OK. I just want to hold him in my arms and tell him I still love him."

Tom replied, "I have to get him out of the bar first. It isn't going to be easy."

Tom and I approached the bar while Debbie remained in Tom's truck with the doors locked.

Tom and I entered the smoke-filled bar. I noticed a juke box, a shuffle board, and a pinball machine. There were maybe twenty tables and booths. The bar had another ten seats. Sawdust covered the floor. There were two small bathrooms in the back—the men's didn't even have a door. We could smell a foul odor coming from inside!

Tom approached the bartender. The bartender nodded his head and motioned toward the end of the bar—John was sitting alone with his bottle of whiskey—sipping it straight. The bartender had to be Pablo.

I was very nervous about being in the bar and approaching John—I'd never seen him like this in my life. The blue shirt was blood-stained and his Levi's were filthy. He was unshaven, his blonde hair was matted and covered with dirt. His arms and hands were scratched and cut. His elbows were skinned. His breath smelled like whiskey. A foul odor surrounded him. I could only imagine the conditions he'd been living in these past eight days.

Tom looked me in my eyes, "You're going to do fine—I need you on this one."

Tom and I approached John. I looked over the bar and there were two pictures, cut from the newspaper, taped to the mirror—one of Tom scoring the winning touchdown in the Sugar Bowl, and the other of John after winning a wrestling match. A hand-written scribbled paper sign was taped below the pictures, 'Our Boys.'

Tom sat on the bar stool next to John. I was beside Tom. I was nervous and wanted out of this place, but I had to help Tom. How, I had no idea.

John was clearly so far gone, he didn't know who we were. The person sitting next to Tom was not John, but a 'drunk.'

Tom yelled, "Hey barkeep, bring us a couple whiskeys—no make that three. Bring my friend here, one, too."

The drunk muttered, "Ain't nobody's friend—I got my own," as he sipped from the bottle.

Tom answered, "Now friend, don't be that way—just trying to give you a drink."

The drunk muttered again, "Ain't nobody's friend, but I'll take the whiskey."

Tom pointed at the pictures behind the bar, "Hey friend, who is that kid making the touchdown?"

The drunk replied, "I ain't your fucking friend! It's Tom Sanders—he WAS my friend—my only friend."

Tom replied, "Really—how do you know him?"

The drunk replied, "My best friend. We grew up together."

Tom yelled to the bartender, "Bring us another round for me and my friend."

The drunk replied, "Ain't your fucking friend—why do you keep calling me a friend?"

Tom replied, "Hell buddy, anyone that is a friend to a State stud like that kid is my friend.

"Let's drink a toast to your best friend, Tom Sanders."

Tom and the drunk raised their shot glasses together and the drunk downed the shot.

I was thinking to myself, Tom is gaining his trust just like he did with Mom on our first date, but why am I here?

Tom said, "Who is that wrestler in the picture?"

The drunk replied, "It's me."

Tom went ballistic, "No shit? Friend, that's you?"

The drunk was now trusting Tom, "Yep, that's me!"

Tom yelled out, "Another round bartender for me and my friend."

The drunk said, "For another bottle or two, I'll tell you a story about Tom Sanders and me."

Tom yelled, "Bartender bring a couple bottles for me and my friend."

The drunk began, slurring his speech, "Tom Sanders and me were best buddies since grade school--we were outcast from the other kids--called 'half breeds' or 'breeds.'

"My Dad deserted Mom when I was like two years old—never knew the worthless son of a bitch. He was a Native American and Mom was Swedish. Tom's Dad was Native also, and his Mom was Italian. His Dad was killed in a mine explosion in West Virginia when Tom was six years old. The next year his Mom moved back to be near family. Tom and me were second graders."

The drunk took a sip or two of whiskey and continued his story.

"For my 7th birthday party in February, no one showed up except for Tom. Mom had invited the whole second grade class—there were 25 of them. It really hurt Mom, but that was the beginning of our friendship. We were like brothers—we did everything together.

"For Tom's 7th birthday party in April his Mom gave us the money and we went to the show—just me and Tom. Bunch of chicken shits started poking and making fun at us, but we kicked their ass—they were fourth graders. Tom held one of the motherfuckers head in the stool while I pissed on it. We both laughed while Tom flushed the toilet."

The drunk took another sip or two of whiskey and continued.

"We always covered each other's back. As we got older we became great athletes—nobody fucked with us anymore. We even fucked the same homecoming queen—at different times, mind you."

The drunk gulped down a couple more shots of whiskey and continued.

"Ol' Tom and her dated for damn over two years—she was a doll. We always called her an 'ol' lady' since she was four months older than me and Tom. Mary Ann—that was her name—broke it off with Tom when he went to State for football practice before school started... She was going to University as a cheerleader."

The drunk downed another shot or two of whiskey.

"Ol' Tom busted her cherry prom night—she gave it to him for his 18th birthday which was about a month or so earlier than our May prom."

The drunk took a sip of whiskey from his bottle.

"I fucked her our freshman year in college—we had a wrestling match at University in late November on a Friday night and she had to cheer. I got her pussy later that night when she had a weak moment—she'd just turned 19—sure was good pussy too! Fucked her twice, without a rubber, emptying two big loads inside that sweet pussy of hers. She told me 'I was only the second guy to ever fuck her.' She was still hung up on Tom, but he'd moved on and she was dating some dude from University that was second or third string quarterback and the team had left town for the night before the game."

The drunk gulped down more whiskey.

"Both Tom and me could have went to University, but we came to State together."

The drunk continued, "I still remember the first day of classes our freshman year. Two-a-day football practices had ended for Tom, so me and him got drunk as hell the night before—stayed out till 5:00 in the morning. I was fucking some old married bitch. His first class was 8:00 with like 400 people. Ol' Tom stumbled into class and fell in the first seat he could find. This good-looking, hot chick was saving it for her boyfriend who was going to be late since he had early band practice. Tom threatened to kick the kid's ass if he didn't leave when he tried to take Tom's seat.

"She was a freshman basketball player—her name was Angie—she was a real hottie. Big tits, long sexy legs with a nice ass and slim waist. Anyway, ol' Tom starts trying to hustle her, and is making some headway and never hears the professor call the class to order. After a while the professor yells, 'You... You in the white T-shirt—if you'd like to tell the class what's so important, feel free to come down.'

"The professor learned quickly, Tom wasn't your ordinary student as he walked to the podium.

"Tom gave him some song and dance about being a country boy and that good-looking girl next to him was just too much for him to take. She had a good set of knockers on her and those sexy legs—so he never heard the professor call the class to order.

"Tom then apologized to the professor and offered him four tickets to the first game of the season. The prof accepted the ticket offer saying, 'No harm done, Mr. Sanders. Please return to your seat—and good luck with the young lady!'

"The class cheered and whistled as Tom went back to his seat.

"Angie handed Tom a note with her phone number. Tom had his first date with Angie that night! He fucked her about a week later!

"I fucked her too—about five months later after she cut it off with Tom."

Tom now laughed, "Friend, you and Sanders must be pretty close."

The drunk replied, "We were till I fucked it all up. It... It was always about me and Tom.

"We had two really great girlfriends--they were the best we ever had—talk about some babes—Debbie and Sue are off the charts! Tom had Sue, and mine was Debbie. The four of us—me and Tom got their cherries here at State! I got Debbie's on a Friday night and Tom got Sue's the next night after his football game. We took'm to a motel and got adjoining rooms—like I said, me and Tom did everything together.

"Everything was going great between the four of us until I fucked everything up—every fucking thing. I lost the best girlfriend I ever had and my only friend... my best friend... Tom was like a brother to me. I fucked everything up—I'm a fucking failure—I don't deserve to be alive."

The drunk quit talking while wiping the tears away from his eyes as he picked up the bottle and gulped down the whiskey.

I now knew why I was there.

Tom replied, "Now friend, what if I told you I can take you to a magic place where you will be with your girlfriend Debbie again along with Tom and Sue—it'll be just like old times—the four of y'all together again—would you go with me?"

The drunk wiped his eyes as he put down the bottle, "Fuck, you can't take me to such a place, can you?"

I replied, "Yes we can. Debbie is waiting for you."

The drunk asked, "Who are you?"

I said, "My name is Jamie—remember me? I am Angie and Sue's friend."

The drunk looked puzzled.

I followed up quickly, "Debbie is still a cheerleader and misses you so much—come with us to this magical land."

Tom grinned at me and the drunk asked, "Where is this place?"

I replied, "It's not far from here--it's a place where you won't hurt anymore, you and Debbie can walk down by the lake and make love in your sleeping bag again on that little grassy knoll you and Debbie always called 'your special spot.' Remember? Please come with us—Debbie, Tom, and Sue are waiting."

The drunk look puzzled, but said, "Okay, I'll come with you. Help me up, and don't forget my bottles."

Tom helped John up and half-carried him toward the door. We hurried out the door as Pablo gave us a 'thumbs up.' Tom continued half-carrying John toward the truck. Tom left the bottles on the bar.

Debbie saw us coming and quickly unlocked the door while Tom shoved John inside.

Debbie grabbed John and held him tight, crying, "I love you."

John had already passed out.

Tom gave me the keys and got in next to John to help hold him down, should he regain consciousness and try to get out of the truck.

Tom said, "Let's get out of here and go to the apartment—we have to try and sober him up. He's in really bad shape—worse than I ever imagined."

Debbie was sobbing as she held John in her arms while I drove to the apartment.