“What’s wrong with my T-shirt?” The Three Amigos are on hour four of our Madden Football Fest in Betts’s TV room. His Dallas Cowboys are huddling up. They’re trailing Zay-Rod’s and my Arizona Cardinals by three in the fourth quarter, but this drive could give Betts’s ’Boys the win. He breaks the snap and the Cowboys head to the line of scrimmage. Big third down.
I say, “Dude. That shirt is so straight it watches Tosh.0. That shirt isn’t even bi-curious. You need a shirt upgrade.”
“For real though,” Zay-Rod chimes in as Betts hikes the ball. “You go out in that and the ladies be like, yo. That shit needs some Downy.”
Zay-Rod’s Cardinals blitz, and Betts says, “Crap,” as he tries to help his quarterback evade the rush. Fail. Seven-yard loss.
“Clutch, dude,” I say as Zay-Rod slaps my raised hand. “Clutch.”
“Gang up on the white guy. Nice,” Betts says, and he crosses his right leg over my left one at the ankle. It’s an unspoken thing with the Three Amigos. We’re very physical with each other. Telling them I was gay didn’t change anything at all; it’s just what we do. His Cowboys get in punt formation and Zay-Rod hands the controller over to me. I’m playing the Cardinals’ offense.
“So, what actually happened when you disappeared last night, MAXIMO?” Betts asks as he punts. He says the last part real loud and slow.
I shoot him a quick-but-deadly look that he doesn’t see because his eyes are on the screen. I hate being called my birth name. Imagine naming a human baby Maximo Ashton Morrison. Hell to the no. “None of your damn business,” I say as my returner catches the punt and goes literally a yard before he’s swarmed by Cowboys. “Do I ask you what you do with the ladies? Not that you don’t tell us anyway.”
“You’re too secretive,” Betts says. “That’s not normal. I know something happened.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Seriously don’t sweat it. You’re way too up in my business. Makes me think you’re interested. And if you are, don’t even, because I’m out of your league, dude.”
Zay-Rod snorts. We call him Zay-Rod because his name is Xavier Rodriguez and, like Alex Rodriguez — A-Rod — was, Zay is a third baseman. The baseball team coined him X-Rod and we tried that for a while, but Zay is here to stay.
Truth is, yes, something went down last night. And maybe if it went better, I’d spill. I’m not shy. But this isn’t the motherfucking View. We don’t sit around and talk about our feelings. We play varsity baseball at Mesa-Guadalupe High School. We fiend on Madden. We eat Poore Brothers jalape?o potato chips by the bagful. We’re the Three Amigos, and I’m so lucky, because I have the most loyal buddies in the world. They’d do anything for me. I’d do anything for them. I don’t want to change that.
“Stop running out the clock. What kind of punk-ass shit is that?” Betts says.
I say, “Right. Wanting to win is punk-ass. Like you didn’t do the same thing with the Pats?”
“Shut your hole, dipshit,” Betts says. “Like you should have done last night.”
“Snap,” says Zay-Rod, and I shoot him a look, like, Aren’t we teammates here?
He flips me off. Apparently all is fair in trash talk, even among teammates. Good to know.
“You know this kid Jordan something?” I ask as I finally bring my Cardinals to the line of scrimmage. “Skinny dude with lotsa acne? Emo? Black hair hanging over his face?”
“You just described twenty percent of my homeroom,” Betts says.
“I don’t know how to explain him. He’s … I’m gonna work on a food truck with him.”
“You’re wha?” asks Zay-Rod. “I thought this was the Summer of Max. You were gonna wake up at noon and shit? You were gonna binge watch Cartoon Network and hang in the pool all damn day.”
I bit my lip. “Yeah. Rosa was not down with that.”
Betts laughs. “Since when does your mom lay down the law?”
“Since I came home at six this morning,” I blurt, and then I’m sorry I said it.
Betts hits the pause button on his controller just as my running back takes the handoff from Carson Palmer. “Hey,” I say, annoyed he’s stopped the action.
“I knew it. Soon as you said you had to jet last night. I was like, No way that dude’s going home. I knew it.”
I grab my phone out of my pocket and see what’s up on Snapchat. Nothing.
“Yup,” confirms Zay-Rod when I don’t say anything. “That whole ‘I need to get up early’ shit was weak. Where’d you go? Was it this Jordan kid?”
“Relax. I’ve only been with like five guys.”
“Did you hear what I just said?” Betts asks. Looking up and to my left and right, I see him and Zay-Rod looking at me funny. I smile and laugh, as if one of them just told a lame joke.
“Shut up,” I say, and by habit I pick up my phone again and then put it down. “And no.”
Betts says, “Holy shit. Max Mo got some, yo! Max Mo got some!” and Zay-Rod cackles.
“Yeah he did,” Zay-Rod says. “What was his name? This some Grindr hookup and shit? Pitch or catch?”
Betts laughs like crazy and I say, “Shut the hell up.” I pull my leg from under his.
“Oh, come on. You can tell us,” Betts says.
“So anyway, I’m gonna work on this food truck because Rosa was not having it when I came home in the morning. She texted me like twelve times and I had my phone off. I’m fuckin’ stupid.”
“Was Stupid his name?” Zay-Rod says, laughing, but he stops fast, because I’m not laughing.
“It was either get a job over the weekend, or Monday morning my ass was gonna be at State Farm with Rosa.”
Betts gives Zay-Rod a look that I think means We’ll talk later. “Whatever, dude,” he says. “Don’t tell us.”
“That’s the plan,” I say, and he shrugs, and picks up his controller and un-pauses, and because I’m not exactly ready, David Johnson gets hit for a loss. “Ass,” I say.
“That’s what happens,” Betts says back.
“What do you think you got on your podcast?” I ask Zay-Rod, as we huddle up once again. It was the final in AP Composition, which was Thursday.
He shrugs.
“You’re so modest,” I say. “You know you’re gonna get an A.”
He doesn’t answer, and Betts says, “You know why he’s not answering? Because he doesn’t want to make you jealous, and you’re not very smart. And not-very-smart people are sometimes jealous of smart people.”
I say, “That awkward moment when a kid in remedial everything tells you that you’re stupid even though you’re in four AP classes.”
“There’s other kinds of smarts,” Betts says. “My obdulla oblongata is bigger than yours. I promise.”
I snort. “Medulla oblongata. And all that would prove is that you have a large organ that controls your heart and lungs.”
“You said big organ,” Betts says. “Which is funny because you have a micopenis and tiny munchkin biceps.”
I punch him in the bicep and he drops his controller midplay. “Asshole,” he says, rubbing it.
“If you had bigger biceps muscles, that would hurt less,” I say.
My wives take me to the Chandler Mall food court because it’s Saturday evening and that’s what we do.
I want to tell them about my impending employment issue, though I still haven’t told them about the potential homelessness motif and I don’t plan to now. It seems like a downer for a Saturday evening. Getting their full attention proves challenging. As usual.
“Did you see how she looked at me?” Pam asks as she just about slams her tray down opposite mine. She is staring at the Panda Express station, and her expression is typical Pam — defiant and dramatic in a way that is too big for the space, and most probably the situation too.
“I have my own life, Pam,” I monotone. “Not everything is about you, Pam.”