North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent

supporting his philosophy. He bore on. “Yessir, you can say what you want about a dictatorship, but there’s no crime in the streets.”
    “You can say that again,” I nodded, smiling wryly at Louis Lafler.
    When I was still married, Louis Lafler had invited my wife and me to his house for drinks one afternoon. I had smoked a couple of joints on the way over and was completely loaded. My wife didn’t dope and was furious. About twenty-five other married couples were already there and I parked our car behind the Lincolns and Cadillacs that lined the street in front of Lafler’s palatial north Dallas address. Once inside, Louis quickly hustled us a couple of drinks, introduced us, and then called the room to order for the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. It was a John Birch Society meeting.
    At the end of the meeting they passed around pencils and paper and asked everyone to list people they thought might be Communists, use drugs, or otherwise act suspicious. I was afraid to hand in a blank sheet of paper, so I listed my wife.
    “What do you think about that, Phil?” Muttonchops stared quizzically into my face. He looked like a hip Porky Pig.
    “About what?” I noticed my glass was empty and turned to the bartender. “I’d like another beer, please.”
    “The death penalty,” Muttonchops pressed. “What do you think about the death penalty?”
    “The what?” I had heard him distinctly, but was shocked by the question. I needed more time to collect my cannabis-dazed mind.
    “Death penalty ... to guys who sell dope.”
    Oh, beautiful. The death penalty. I wished I had another beer so I would have something to do with my hands and mouth.
    “Well, I wouldn’t lump heroin and marijuana together... .” That was a pretty stupid thing to say.
    I heard the distinctive clunk of my fresh beer hitting the bar beside me. I whirled and picked it up. I drank half the glass in long, terrified gulps. I focused intently on the beer and everything fell back into place. I took another long drink.
    “I think the death penalty is pretty extreme,” I said, “no matter what the crime.” Nice safe middle-of-the-road humanitarian statement. I was proud of myself.
    “Yeah, that’s true,” somebody agreed with me.
    “Enough of this. Let’s hear about that football team,” the red-faced man interrupted. “How you guys gonna do in New York this weekend?”
    “Okay, I guess. They don’t have much, but you never know.”
    “On any given Sunday ...” Muttonchops said, nodding his head, his lips in a tight line. He sounded like Sports Illustrated.
    “Boy, I’ll never forget the time you hit the goalpost against New York. I thought you were dead.”
    “I thought I was dead, too.”
    They all laughed heartily.
    It was always surprising to me to see respected businessmen who deal in millions of dollars and thousands of lives giggling like pubescent schoolgirls around a football player. I could never figure out if it was worship or fear. Probably just confusion.
    “Boy, you sure took some lumps last year.”
    “I took some this year, too.”
    They all laughed again. Apparently, we were having a good time.
    People always like to discuss my injuries in great detail. I wondered if this happened to all players.
    “Which injury hurt the most?”
    “Well, one year I had hemorrhoids.”
    “Hemorrhoids? Oh ... no ... no ...”
    They all laughed again. Here I was, having a big time with the cream of the Dallas business world.
    “No, really, which one?”
    “Did you ever have hemorrhoids?” I asked.
    “I’ve got ’em now.”
    “Well, that explains the expression on your face.”
    They all laughed again.
    “Well, then.” The laughter had subsided. “What after hemorrhoids?”
    “Back, I guess.”
    “That time against Cleveland?”
    “Yeah, smashed the big muscle along the spine and broke off some short ribs. Hurt pretty bad.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Muttonchops offered. “Can’t do a thing when your back is hurt.