*?What We Need to Know About George?*
George rarely got annoyed at anyone, never at his patients (even if they obviously weren’t flossing enough) or his parents. Even when Lizzie pushed him beyond endurance (and he could endure a lot), he’d usually only sigh heavily, clamp his lips together, and somehow radiate an air of frustration tinged with regret. Probably very few people besides Lizzie, or maybe Elaine as well, would notice anything different about him in those situations.
George even looked like the perfect purveyor of happiness. He radiated health. He looked steady and safe, dependable and kind. You just knew that he could competently handle any situation that might arise. He had an infectious smile (and, of course, perfect teeth), and he smiled a lot. To those who had been his patients from the beginning, when he and Lizzie were newly married and he was straight out of dental school, those patients who had been through cleanings and routine fillings and impacted wisdom teeth and gum disease and root canals and crowns, who had suffered more than once through the dreaded tap test to determine which tooth, exactly, it was that hurt so badly, he was held in high esteem, even loved.
He had one seemingly impossible desire, which was to do a standing backflip. He had fantasies of entertaining his patients, while they were waiting patiently in the dental chair as their gums numbed, with a flashy (and to all appearances effortless) little backward twirl into space and back to earth again. He didn’t aspire to the Olympics. He didn’t necessarily want to be known as the dentist-who-excelled-at-backflips. He just wanted to be free of gravity for a few short seconds, launching himself into the space behind him and then returning to his normal existence.
On Saturdays and Sundays, watching football, he would gnash his teeth in envy as lithe and superbly muscled tight ends or wide receivers would do an insouciant backflip after scoring a touchdown. This happened so frequently that George began worrying about the state of his molars and took to wearing his plastic night guard while he was watching the games.
George had always dealt affirmatively with his desires. For several years, beginning in college, he had subscribed to an early online motivational website called LiveYourDream.com. On the day he signed up, he had to submit a list of what he wanted to accomplish that year: getting an A in organic chemistry and losing fifteen pounds were what he remembered he’d included. He’d then receive daily messages urging him on toward the fulfillment of those goals. (“Pay attention to your desires.” “Don’t be discouraged by setbacks.” “Affirm. Affirm.” “Forge on.” “Breathe deeply and go forward.”) He had never included his dream of doing a backflip, feeling that it was too frivolous. But later, when he was in dental school, he decided to come clean and e-mailed the company. “I would like to revise my automated online goals for the coming year. My new goal is to conquer the standing backflip. Thank you. George Goldrosen.”
Lizzie felt that the advice the company proffered was puerile and altogether useless, but couldn’t convince George to see it that way.
*?The Guards?*
Brendan “Toker” Tolkin, the right guard, was the biggest stoner in high school. He smoked dope before, during, and after games. Maybe all that pot left him too zonked for any semblance of enthusiastic sex. Or maybe it was Lizzie. He was also way too spaced-out to have any sort of sensible conversation with. All in all, a week lost in Lizzie’s life, one she’d never get back again.
Billy Jim Estes was just about what you’d expect from a left guard named Billy Jim. Billy Jim was always sweaty, always smelling faintly but noticeably of BO. Each time he successfully blocked someone, he’d rub his hands together in a gesture that indicated that he’d been there, done that, and succeeded beyond everyone’s expectations. He took to the idea and practice of the Great Game with great enthusiasm. Though Lizzie had to breathe through her mouth when she was with him, it made for a nice change after her experience with Toker.
*?The Last Down?*
By the time it was finally Leo deSica’s week in the Great Game, Lizzie was counting the minutes until the whole project was done and she could get on with what was left of her life. She was sick of sex in the backseats of cars, sick of sneaking up to an empty bedroom at a party, or, when the weather had been good in the fall, having sex in someone’s backyard after the game, where Lizzie and the football player du jour were often ineffectively hidden by the leaves of one tree or another. Because sex with those twenty-three guys was completely uninspiring, not to mention embarrassing, she was glad the act itself was quick. No one lingered around, before, during, or afterward. Of course, as a result of such hurried sex during high school, some of those boys would find themselves in a few years at a doctor’s or therapist’s office, dealing with issues of premature ejaculation. Still, Lizzie more or less sailed through the first few guys on offense with determination and a sense of triumph: she could do this, wasn’t it larky, wasn’t it going to be great to look back on it later, during the dull years of her forties and fifties (impossibly old), and brag about what she’d done as a high school senior? But as the weeks went by she felt increasingly aggrieved and sorry for herself and then mostly furious at Andrea, who was supposed to be here playing the Game at the same time. It wasn’t fair that Andrea had simply opted out of it.