Javier

I felt self-conscious walking into Hooters wearing my dirty work clothes, but who was I trying to impress? Certainly not the other customers, who were exclusively male and primarily blue-collar, and definitely not the hostess, who directed Javier and me to our lakeside table with an icy smile.

“Not a bad view, eh, amigo?” Javier asked me.

I appreciatively surveyed Seattle’s Lake Union in all of its summer glory, before redirecting my gaze to the departing hindquarters of a bleach-blond waitress.

“Yeah, and the lake’s nice, too.”

Javier laughed joyfully at this cheap joke, his head thrown back and his eyes closed.

“Maybe you should ask one of them for a date. Tell them you’re a big shot from New York,” he said, deliberately enunciating each word in his accented voice.

“Buddy, I’m just a college sophomore with a lot of student loans. They’d probably be way more into a swarthy Latin lover like yourself.” In reality, there was little chance they would be interested in either of us, with our dirty Carharts and worker’s tans. Javier seemed perfectly comfortable, but I would have welcomed some clean clothes. Whenever I left the job site in my work clothes – whether on the bus or in a restaurant – it felt as if I was wearing an unflattering costume. I respected my co-workers and recognized that most of them never had access to the opportunities I took for granted, but for all of my enlightenment I was still embarrassed to make eyes with a Hooters waitress because of my grungy appearance.

“A beaner like me? I wish you were right. Excuse me, could we get a pitcher of – what do you want? – how ‘bout Bud Light? And wings, um, fifty, please. Spicy, right? No, thank you very much.”

As the waitress walked away, Javier leeringly waggled his tongue at her. I chuckled indulgently, happy to be included, however crude our mirth. This was the first time I had been out with a co-worker during my two months working as a laborer, and I didn’t want to come off as a snob. Javier and I had been toiling on the same crew for five or six weeks, and I was amazed at his unparalleled work ethic, intelligence, and relentlessly positive attitude. Unlike some of the other guys on the job, who initially took me for a connected rich kid who was slumming for the summer, Javier seemed to accept me on my own merits. Or maybe he just didn’t want to antagonize someone who might be tied to the powers that be. In any event, we had formed a real bond, and one that I cherished.

Our pitcher arrived quickly, followed a few minutes later by a heaping plate of surprisingly good wings. In between bones, carrot sticks, and highly speculative assessments of the waitstaff’s sex lives, we talked about work. I was content to let Javier do most of the talking, nodding along as he spoke of his co-workers’ resentment of him (I didn’t tell him that their muttered complaints were even worse than he imagined.), the love-hate relationship he had with our hard-driving and sometimes unappreciative boss, and his ambitions to start a construction company of his own. At some point we ordered a second pitcher, and I noticed that Javier’s face was flushed from alcohol.

“All we’ve been talking about is me – what about you? Are you going to find some sexy Puerto Rican chica and stay in New York?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll probably end up back here someday. There’s no place like home, right?”

“Yeah.” He paused for a moment and looked into his beer. I should have kept my mouth shut, but the watery lager had dulled my already limited sense of tact.

“Do you want to go home?” I asked.

“Of course – I just don’t want to have to sneak back over here.”

Everyone on the job – including Javier himself –joked about his citizenship status, but I assumed he was legal. The company we worked for was a credible one, but apparently the laws governing immigrant labor were easily subverted. Javier’s mood grew more somber as he related an epic tale featuring a harrowing journey through the mountains of the Mexican border, a morally torturous period spent living with unsavory characters in Los Angeles and Seattle, a series of difficult jobs leading up to his current position, and a pragmatic romance with a 35-year old white single mother, 10 years his senior, with whom he traded his companionship and handyman skills for a marriage license and a shot at citizenship.

“Jesus, Javier. That’s quite a story. I’m amazed,” I said.

“Hombre, there are thousands of Mexicans who have been through the same thing. At least I have a gringo wife to go home to!” He laughed, but it was clear from the shaky tenor of his voice that he was shaken up. We talked some more about his childhood, and he told me some funny stories about his exploits with the young women of his hometown. By the time we reached the end of the wings and beer, Javier was in a much better mood. He tried to pick up the entire tab, and I had to physically wring the check from his hands and give my portion to the waitress. I was reluctant to let him drive me home in his tipsy state, but I also didn’t want to take the bus. We listened to Eninem on the short drive to my apartment, and before getting out of his truck I promised not to tell anyone about our conversation when we got back to work on Monday.

My roommates weren’t home yet, so I put on some quiet music, cracked open a microbrew, and brought my journal out to the common room. As the grandchild of a Japanese war bride, I harbored a strong sentimental attachment to the American Dream, despite the vagaries of contemporary society. Javier’s story, for all of its pain and suffering, was ultimately one of hope – he still believed that hard work and perseverance would win him a better life. For the sake of my fragile worldview, I hoped he succeeded. With that resolved, I closed my notebook and headed for the shower.

The New Masculinity

I trim my chest hair. Fifteen-dollar haircuts make me nervous. After applying pomade, I finish the look with whipped gel or – depending on weather conditions – molding clay. My grandfather would likely vomit if he knew how much my jeans cost. I don’t just wash my face - I have a skin care regimen. Shopping fulfills an undefined but compelling need that bubbles deep within me. My choice of footwear depends largely on my mood. I run 30 miles a week, and as anyone who has seen me at the bar can attest, I’m no health nut.

In modern parlance, I am a textbook “metrosexual.” I reject this term, however, on grounds of inaccuracy and inadequacy. Because it is largely associated with Carson and his “Queer Guy” reammates, the concept of metrosexuality is, for better or worse, interpreted as an insult by the rabidly straight males who are its most prototypical representatives. Furthermore, this new vanity is not confined to metropolitan men – in fact, as indicated by recent sales figures for Clinique For Men and Seven jeans at suburban malls, America’s cul-de-sacs are the latest front in our wholesale redefinition of what it means to be a man.

From George Washington’s wig to Buffalo Bill’s handlebar moustache, even America’s most manly men have gone to great lengths to improve their appearance. But what we’re dealing with now goes beyond pride or even foppery – young men are now giving women a run for their money in the prissy department. Take a look at any lad mag: stuffed between articles about sports cars and surefire seduction techniques are tips on how to look, smell, and dress for success. Sure, publications like GQ and Esquire have been offering up similar (albeit somewhat more restrained) advice for years, but they were also not intended for a mass audience. Maxim and its ilk can be found on the bathroom floors of frat houses, subdivisions, and mobile homes across America.

So is this a bad thing? Is the guilt that strikes me every time I inadvertently shoot my best Blue Steel into the mirror simply the last vestige of a bygone, primitive age, or am I indeed a reduced version of my forefathers? Our female peers have done little to clarify the situation. On the one hand, they claim to be founding members of the Grizzly Adams Fan Club, and it’s certainly true that many women are put off by men whose pubes are shorter than theirs. However, Chris Rock may have put it best when he said that if men could fuck women in a cardboard box they would never buy a house. Which is to say, we’re not exfoliating for our own sake. When women stop buying Us Weekly, N Sync records, and tickets to Adrien Brody movies, maybe we’ll stop borrowing their conditioner. Because, in the end, it all comes down to the biological imperative: I’m going to do whatever it takes to spread my seed among the most fertile and attractive female humanoids. Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

Shanked - Pt. 5

University of Boston’s athletic facilities were the envy of the Atlantic Athletic Conference – three floors of top notch equipment (LifeCycle treadmills, ellipticals, and stair climbers; Concept II ergometers; Hammer Strength machines and benches), a spinning room, climbing wall, cardio floor, two basketball courts, an Olympic-sized pool, etc. The gym conformed to the same high-class-industrial-park design motif of the other new buildings on campus, and was certain to look hopelessly obsolete within 5-10 years. The athletic department – which is to say the football team - had the basement level to itself.

The locker room was an especially gross violation of the school’s purported priorities. Four years of tuition for a deserving inner-city student could be financed for the price of the flat-screen TVs alone. Burgundy, our school color, was prominently featured, and the center of the floor was embossed with a large hawk, our mascot. My locker was in the back corner, along with the other special teams players. I made my way through the pack of burly, toned, half-naked men, nodding discreetly and feeling very small, both physically and psychically. Dusty, my long snapper, was bent over in front of the locker, attempting to squeeze his enormous ass into a pair of team-issued sweats. I tapped him on his bare shoulder.

“Hold on, Kempton. Goddamnit, these sweats are tighter than an armadillo’s ass!”

Dusty was a junior from Ft. Worth, Texas. He had apparently been a hot-shit center at a Friday Night Lights-type school, and had traveled east with dreams of anchoring the UB O-line. Unfortunately for both of us, last spring Jermaine West, a Juco stud from Florida, transferred in as a junior, knocking Dusty from his spot on the depth chart. Dusty hadn’t had a problem with black players during his high school career, probably because they were always somewhere else – on the other side of the locker room, in different classes, or elsewhere on the field, trying to outrun each other. Now, however, it was personal, and Dusty came to define himself first and foremost as a white southerner, defender of a bygone code. At first it was restricted to his taste in clothes (Wranglers and dinner plate-sized belt buckles) and music (Toby Ray McGraw), but now I could see that he was itching for a confrontation.

“Alright, I’m done. Hurry up – Coach Blakely is already waiting outside.”

I quickly stripped out of my puffy coat, jeans, and t-shirt, and threw on my sweats. The rest of the team was filtering down the hall towards the weight room, where they would work chest and tris. After pumping some iron, they would review film of Saturday’s game. Because there was no practical reason for me to bench 300, in addition to the fact that kickers know what went wrong the second the ball leaves their foot, Dusty and I practiced by ourselves on Monday, which provoked in Dusty no small degree of resentment.

“I guess I’ll have to get my workout in before class tomorrow. Somebody told me West put up 350 last week – he MUST be on fucking ‘roids,” Dusty said. We were walking up the stairs and out to the practice field. “As if they didn’t already have a physical advantage. Jesus Fucking Christ, I knew I should’ve stayed in Texas.”

“Yeah…” I said. Dusty tended to dominate our conversations. We left the locker room through a back door and headed for the practice field.

“Mix that shit with the Olde English forties I know he loves, and his liver’s gonna be a fucking mess in ten years.”

We made the rest of the short trip in silence. The field was completely empty except for Coach Blakely standing on the 30-yard line with a bag of balls, looking up at the sky. My cleats felt good in the soft, wet turf.

“Well, look who decided to show up – Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee,” said Coach Blakely.

Coach Blakely was from Melbourne, a former Australian-rules football star who had made his first stateside trip in the company of a young Bostonian girl whom he had met while she was spending a semester down under. The girl happened to be the daughter of a prominent UB booster, who had convinced Blakely to make a bid for the vacant kicking coach position. It is testament to his intoxicating charm that Blakely, who had never played a down of American football, was able to convince a skeptical Coach Malarkey that he was the man for the job. Blakely was thirty years old now, but that hardly stopped him from hitting on my classmates (he had long ago ditched the first girl). I don’t know if it was just the accent, but I liked him, even if he didn’t know the first thing about kicking a field goal.

“Alright, after Saturday we’re going to keep it simple. Let’s start out on the twenty – or is that too far for you, Kempton? I’ll hold.” He had to – Jenkins, our holder, would also be playing safety this week because the starter had broken his wrist. The three of us jogged onto the field and took our positions, spread out like the points of a constellation – Dusty on the twenty, Blakely eight yards behind him, and me three steps back and two steps left from Blakely.

“OK – five to warm up. You guys stretched in the locker room, right?” Blakely said.

“Yep,” I lied. My arms swung limply, and I stared at Blakely’s hands, anxious to get started.

“Good, then… Hut!” As Dusty snapped the ball, I began moving forward, all the while staring at Blakely’s hands. In my peripheral vision I saw the blur of the football, and by the time Blakely caught it I was already focused on the point where he was going to put it down. I brought my leg back and swung through with force. My foot met the ball solidly and rocketed through the crossbars.

“Hey, buddy, let’s bring it down a notch - I don’t want you wearing yourself out. Four more,” Blakely said. Dusty grabbed another ball from the pile by his side, and I banged it through. After three more tries at the twenty, we moved back ten yards for five more. No one said anything; we were beginning to find our rhythm, forgoing thought for the comfort of repetitive motion. Snap, place, kick. By the time we moved back another ten yards, I was sweating. After I easily made the first four kicks, Blakely told Dusty, who had been complaining about his back every few snaps, to hold up.

“You know you haven’t missed one yet?”

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot easier like this.”

“Really? Even Gabe would have fucked up one by now, if only to get me riled. I’ve been watching you these last few years, and your leg is top rate. Once Gabe is gone, you’ll be the man.”

“Gabe’s the man because he’s clutch. I’m not.”

“Kid, you missed your first kick. No big deal. Happens to the best of us. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Maybe.”

“How ‘bout we start small? You make this next one, we’ll call it a night right now. Miss it, and you and the Duster can run some sprints.”

Dusty groaned. He wasn’t a big fan of the cardio.

“OK,” I said.

“We’re all out of balls, anyway,” Dusty said.

“Then go grab another one, lardass,” Blakely replied.

As Dusty slowly walked towards the end zone to retrieve a ball, I pawed at the turf with my cleats and thought about what Blakely had said. I appreciated his vote of confidence, but I already knew my leg was strong. What Blakely didn’t know was the debilitating, stomach-bubbling fear I had felt on Saturday. This terror went far beyond anything I had previously experienced, and I had played in some extremely tense high school football and soccer games. In the midst of my terror, I was able to register a sense of surprise at how deeply affected I was. After the kick I was simply numb, but now, almost alone on the empty field, I realized the source of my fear. Growing up, I knew that most of the faces in the crowd, even those I didn’t recognize, recognized that I was a person with feelings. Sure, there were always a few assholes, but athletics were generally recognized not only as competition, but also as a means of empowerment and personal revelation. Even the most bitter defeat presented a learning opportunity. On Saturday, the vibe had been completely different. The crowd wanted me to succeed, but for their own crass purposes – a successful kick meant that the would be rowdier, everyone would get drunker, and it would be that much easier to justify all manner of sexual hijinks. My miss provoked nothing but loathing among my alleged boosters.

“Riley – don’t fuck this up,” Dusty said, wagging the ball at me. I considered kicking the ball straight up his racist ass, but instead I put through the middle of the crossbars.

“See, I knew you could handle it,” Blakely said.

I smiled and attempted to look relieved, but I hadn’t actually felt any pressure – in fact, I had considered missing the kick intentionally, in only to make Dusty run.