Vision Quest by Terry Davis

Thompson sneakers rubbed to sand this former grass? My teeth fall out. They slide across the sandy patch below, near, then very far as I swing. They nip the iron pole, bite down on a clump of grass. I can’t get sick now. I’m lean. I carry the colors of the Columbia. I can make the river flow again. My short hair brushes the sand, the grass, the sand, the grass. My nose begins to bleed, arcing dots of blood elliptically. I rave. I jump.
    Gene catches me. He’s making me drink water. It’s easy, because I’m thirsty as hell.
    â€œYou’re all right, man,” Gene says. “You’re just dehydrated.”
    â€œVictim of a fucked-up nitrogen balance,” I reply. “At least I hope that’s all, Gene. There’s no end to the terrible diseases people can get.” I’ve been reading Rare Diseases lately. It’s ghastly. Poe could have written it.
    I feel a bit better. Things have changed a little since Gene wrestled in high school back in the middle sixties. I explain to him how I’ve got to have a doctor’s permission to drop down to 147. I have my appointment next Tuesday, the day after Christmas. The appointment’s in the morning; then we wrestle Lewis and Clark in the afternoon. If I’m much over fifty, I doubt the old doctor will let me go down. We have to wrestle eight matches at the weight we’ll wrestle in the state tournament. Outside of those eight, we can wrestle in anyclass above the one we start the season in. But if we want to drop down a class, then we have to have a doctor’s permission. I wrestled my first match this season at sixty-five; then I dropped to fifty-four. I’ll wrestle at fifty-four against Lewis and Clark Tuesday afternoon, then once or maybe twice more in the Custer-Battleground meet in Missoula next Friday and Saturday. Then Shute at 147 on the day after New Year’s.
    Coach is back, stuffing yellow salt tablets down me.
    â€œSalt,” he says.
    â€œSodium depletion,” I reply.
    â€œYou’re crazy,” Coach says. “Shute’ll take you apart if you ruin your health going down too fast.”
    â€œMy doctor’s appointment’s Tuesday,” I say.
    â€œYou’ll be all right if you stay about fifty, fifty-one. Take salt. Don’t start dehydrating. And don’t screw so much, for Chrissake!” Then Coach pounds me on the chest, knocking the wind out of me, and clicks off down the hall.
    I feel a lot better after I get my breath. I’m hungry. I remember I haven’t mentioned Carla. Coach just gave me a good opportunity. I’m a little weak yet, but I think fast.
    â€œGod,” I moan. “A guy can deny himself only just so many needs of the flesh. I’m not sure willpower would do it, anyway. I think all this weight loss has given me priapism. The problem may be pathological, Gene.”
    â€œPriapism?” Gene says. I can see him thinking, Priapism? Priapism? What the fuck is priapism? Gene knows a lot of stuff, but sometimes I can catch him.
    â€œA disease of constant hard-on,” I explain. “I’ll bet Coach wouldn’t tell Carla to slack off. She’d gouge his eyes, invert his navel.” I’m getting in pretty good spirits.
    â€œCarla!” Gene exclaims quietly. “I thought you and she didn’t get along. What happened to the black dude?”
    Tower used to take Carla to the Spokes’ games. About half the time Gene didn’t know the snap, he’d be scouting the bleachers so intently for beaver. He used to love to dive for sideline tackles so he could roll under the bleachers and look up skirts.
    â€œGene, kind of a sad thing happened to that relationship. One day last August this black girl walked into Tower’s apartment and began to shout at Carla how she is his old lady come from New York and that Carla had best get her little red-haired ass out of there in a big hurry. Carla knows just what to