I felt like such a loser. It was the summer after my senior year of high school and I was the only one in my circle of friends who wasn't enrolled in college. I was the captain of my football team during both my junior and senior years and was being scouted on a pretty regular basis. I just knew I was getting a scholarship for sure! I had lain in my bed almost every night during football season dreaming of all the calls I would get once the season was over. Oklahoma, Southern Cal., maybe even Florida State would give me a ring. I dreamed dreams of my cell phone battery being consistently drained of its power as a result of the thousands of calls I was sure to receive. Mom and dad would have to buy me two or three extra phones just to compensate, but they wouldn't mind. I was Michael Anderson, and their world revolved around me.
I was 6' 1" and weighed in at 215 pounds. Not terribly large for a linebacker, but big enough to do some damage when I needed to. Besides, it was my superior skill that commanded attention, not my gargantuan size. I had it made, or so I thought. It was the third game of the season when it happened. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a cool September evening, 73 degrees, slight smell of moisture in the air, but not raining. Not yet, anyway. It was a perfect night for football. We were playing a team we had beaten the year before pretty badly, and we were prepared to do it again. It was the end of the second quarter with only 23 seconds left. The other team was down by 13 and was trying hard to score before halftime.
The quarterback took the snap and dropped back to pass. My feet churned as I dropped back into my area of pass coverage when I saw him cover the ball, lower his head, and charge toward the line of scrimmage. My heels dug into the turf as I charged forward to make the tackle. We crashed into each other with the force of two semi trucks in a head-on collision. Our legs still pumping as we each fought to gain ground, neither of us was willing to give up so much as an inch. It didn't take more than a second for my teammates to crash in around me to assist in the tackle. That's when it happened. I don't know who it was, but I felt a helmet drive deep into the back of my knee. The flash of pain that shot through me at that moment is something I can't even describe.
The next thing I remember is being carried off on the back of the golf cart the trainers use to haul injured players off the field. That was it. That was the end of my season. No phone calls came. No extra cell phones were purchased. I spent the rest of the season on crutches standing on the sideline. I was 18 years old and already I felt like a has-been. My life was over.
I spent the rest of my senior year in a mild state of depression. I didn't fill out one single college application even though several of my friends were trying to talk me into going to the same schools they were going to. I just couldn't bring myself to do it, though. I hated the idea of being just a normal college student even though most of my friends were going to be just that. Most of the guys weren't playing football after high school. For most of the guys the athletic chapter of their lives was over and the next chapter was about to begin. Such a thought made me sick to my stomach.
*** *** *** *** ***
The first day of my summer job had just begun. My mother had gotten me the job through one of her friends because, as she put it, I needed to do something productive over the summer instead of lying around feeling sorry for myself. I agreed, and accepted a job at an inbound call center. The job basically consisted of sitting in a cubicle waiting for the phone to ring. Apparently when someone is stupid enough to buy something from a telemarketer the call gets transferred to an outside company that verifies the information and basically ensures the customer wasn't lied to. The job seemed easy enough. At least I got to sit and read magazines in between calls, which is what convinced me to take the job in the first place.
I had just finished my training for the day and entered the break room to grab a coke when I saw her standing by the vending machine. Rachel MacDonald had graduated in my class. In fact, she sat by me in my algebra II class during the last semester of our senior year. I didn't know her very well because we were in different social circles during high school, but I was still a little sheepish considering I didn't want anyone from school knowing where I had ended up after graduation. Getting injured was bad enough, but working at a freaking call center instead of going to college was worse.
We didn't talk to each other that day because I spent the rest of the day finishing up my training class. The next day, though, as luck would have it, I was seated in the cubicle next to hers. She looked just like she did all through high school; pale skin, dark hair, dark eyes and lipstick, and dark red fingernails. She had her nose pierced, which I secretly thought was kind of cool on a girl, and was carrying the same black backpack she carried since the 9th grade. She was wearing blue jeans and a Lacuna Coil concert t-shirt that looked like she had just bought it and was wearing it for the first time. I had never really spoken to Rachel in high school, but now that my ego had been taken down a notch I figured I could at least acknowledge her existence.
"Hi," I said, expecting the same giggly reaction I usually got from the cheerleaders.
"Hey," she replied without looking up from her Rolling Stone magazine.
That was odd, I thought to myself. I figured she would be excited to have someone like me sit next to her and say hello. Don't all girls want the star football player to talk to them? About an hour had passed before I decided to try again.
"Did you get that shirt at a concert, or something?" I asked.
"No, I got it at Abercrombie and Fitch, where else?" she said, sarcastically.
I blushed, realizing how stupid that question now seemed. "Sorry, I've just never heard of them, that's all."
She closed her magazine and gave me a look as if the sight of me actually caused her eyes pain and said, "that's probably because they don't get played much on the radio. Not everything can be commercially packaged and presented to you by the morning zoo. Sometimes you have to disengage yourself from the media and decide for yourself what you like instead of letting MTV or the local disc jockeys to tell you what to listen to."
"Okay, fair enough," I said. "Have I done something to offend you?"
"I'm just a little confused as to why you are even talking to me, to be honest," she said. "Aren't you popular kids supposed to only talk to each other? I mean, we went to the same school for the last 4 years and you never said hi to me or any of my friends, so why are you talking to me now?"
I didn't know how to respond to that. I just assumed we would jump into a conversation together. I hadn't expected to be put on the spot like this.
"I'm sorry. I guess I just never thought it would matter. I mean, it isn't like you tried to talk to me and I pushed you away or anything. We just had different friends," I replied.
"Why are you here, anyway?" she asked. "Aren't you supposed to be playing for some college somewhere bashing your head against stuff and grunting like a retard?"
"Well, no," I said, a little offended at the remark. "I was injured last year and didn't get a scholarship, so I'm just taking the summer off to clear my head and plan my next move. I'm here because I just needed to do something to earn a little money. You didn't know I hurt my knee? I thought everyone in town knew that."
"Believe it or not, some people have better things to do than keep track of what happens to YOU," she said.
"Ok, fair enough," I replied. She obviously had made up her mind that she didn't like me very much and frankly I was beginning to think she was just a bitch, anyway. I turned back to my computer and took a couple of calls before hitting the "away" button and heading to the bathroom.
I was just sitting down at my cubicle and was about to hit the "accept calls" button when she grabbed my hand.
"Hold on," she said. "I'm sorry for being such a bitch earlier. High school's over now and I shouldn't be so bitter about stupid shit that happened. I'm sorry."
I didn't know what to say except, "it's okay, don't worry about it."
"High school just wasn't a pleasant experience for me like it was for you, and when I saw you yesterday I just got this tense feeling. It was like, ok I thought all the bullshit was over and I could move on, but now here you are. I just assumed you would be an asshole, and I'm sorry for being rude," she said.
I was at a loss for words. I wasn't used to people apologizing to me like that. I was more accustomed to people who were afraid to show a vulnerable side. I had heard my friends and girlfriends apologize when they said or did something that made someone else mad, but it was usually just a quick "sorry, dude" and that was it. Rachel, however, seemed to be genuinely concerned that she had hurt my feelings.
"No, really, don't worry about it," I replied.
*** *** *** *** ***
Over the next week or two Rachel and I talked every day. I learned that she was very artistic and had even written a few short stories and poems. I was beginning to realize there was much more to this girl than dark eye make-up and tattoos. She was a really deep and kind-hearted person.
One afternoon she was showing me a picture of a flower growing out of a rotting dragon carcass she had drawn. As I was admiring the picture and listening to her explain the beauty of something wonderful growing out of such a dark and gruesome place, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"Mike, I need you and Rachel in my office," the man said. It was our manager, Mr. Wright.
Once inside his office, he explained to us that the management was concerned because we both seemed to be spending most of our time talking to each other and not enough time actually taking calls. Apparently every time we hit the "away" button the manager could see it on his screen. We were written up and told the next time we would be let go. We went back to our cubicles and spent the rest of the day in silence.
After our shift Rachel asked if I would like to hang out with her for a while. I accepted, and followed her to an apartment complex about 3 blocks from our old high school. I didn't realize until we were inside her apartment that she lived alone. She explained that after graduation she needed to get out of her parents house because she didn't get along with her step dad.
"I love my mom, but he's a bastard and I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to get away before I lost all control and killed him," she laughed. I didn't have any stepparents. My mom and dad had been married for more than twenty years, and I couldn't imagine having to take orders from someone else.
Her apartment was just like I thought it would be. She had a small television, a blue futon with notepads and pencils scattered on it, a small but efficient kitchen, and a twin-sized bed that looked like it hadn't been made in a couple of days. Her walls were covered with posters and drawings, and she had several candles on the dresser and along the back of her bathroom sink. The studio apartment was small, but it seemed to suit her well. She took off her jacket, walked to the refrigerator and brought out two beers.
"I hope you like Coors Light," she said as she handed me the bottle.
"Oh, yeah. I drink pretty much anything," I said.
