Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,4
that?”
“The fight song of my alma mater. Called ‘Hail Purdue.’”
“A fight song?”
“Our call to arms.”
Having fought for something—having fought for himself—Bob feels like he needs to hear the song in its entirety. He fancies himself victorious in this situation with Schumann, despite the mangled bicycle, the bleeding head—despite the fact he’s only hours removed from somebody honoring him with a plock, probably the most malicious prize ever designed. Always midnight. Always lying about how much time has gotten away from him. Always Robert.
“Before we go to the hospital, will you fire it up again?” Coffen says.
“Why?”
“I want to hear the song.”
Schumann looks momentarily confused, then shrugs. He gets the bagpipes going, those gigantic, funereal squawks. Coffen stands on the lawn listening to “Hail Purdue” coat the whole subdivision in celebration. For some reason, Coffen has brought his hand up and placed it over his heart like he’s pledging allegiance to something.
Tough-love life coach
Bob initially hated how the bagpipes squawked, but soon the sounds transform into the most beautiful music ever, and Coffen is mesmerized, burrowing deep into the fight song’s melody. He’s heard people talk about experiencing things so perfect, so sating, that they feel they can die happy right then. Finally, he understands the meaning of such righteous hyperbole. It’s a moment nude of any other details, life freezing momentarily—much like the plock’s hands—and it’s only Bob, inside the fight song, finding solace in the idea he can stand up for himself. Sounds simple, easy, obvious to a certain kind of person: Of course you should stand up for yourself; you’re supposed to do that. But for somebody emotionally programmed with a three-thousand-pound inferiority complex, like Coffen, this act of resistance is a major coup.
Being imbedded inside “Hail Purdue” doesn’t last long, though. Before Schumann launches into the fight song’s final chorus—Bam! Knock! Splat!—down Coffen crashes onto the lawn, out cold, hand falling from his heart.
Next thing Bob sees is Schumann’s missus hovering over him, saying, “We can rule out death because I think he’s breathing. Are you breathing? I think I see him breathing probably.”
“I’m not,” Coffen says.
“Not breathing?”
“Not dead.”
“Obviously,” she says, “we’re in the midst of conversing.”
Next thing Coffen remembers after that is being in the SUV with Schumann, driving down the main road in the subdivision.
“Stay with me, muchacho. Schumann shall save the day.”
“I don’t need you to save my day.”
“I want to save your day.”
“Do you know I’ve fantasized for years about hurting you?” Bob asks.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Schumann says, taking his hands off the wheel and clapping a few times—slow, awestruck applause. “I love it! Who would have thought you had violence in you. I feel a new kinship to you, Coffen. Dare I say I like you after you threw that flagpole and admitted you want to kick my ass! You’re a possessed warrior tonight. ‘In the zone,’ as Coach used to say. Honestly, I see you in a whole new light. One that makes me deeply respect you. I have a business proposition, my friend.”
“We aren’t friends,” says Coffen.
“I think we might be now.”
“You’re always making fun of me at our block parties.”
“It’s nothing personal. Comic relief helps everyone relax at those things.”
“I don’t find it particularly relaxing when everybody thinks I’m a pussy.”
“Don’t be so thin-skinned.”
“You told the guys I couldn’t play touch football because of my yeast infection,” says Coffen.
Schumann tries to repress a giggle, but it slips out. “That’s your standard locker room razz.”
“This isn’t a locker room. This is real life.”
“Real life is a gigantic locker room, Coffen,” he says, laughing harder.
They’ve turned out of their subdivision, driving down the road with the oleander. Coffen sees his wrecked bike, his rucksack, and says, “Pull over.”
“Why?”
“I need my plock.”
“That’s not a word.”
“I need my plock to remind me not to give up another decade.”
“Maybe your tongue is swelling from injury and I can’t decipher your slurred speech.”
“I’ll show you.”
Schumann pulls the SUV into the bike lane and Coffen hops out, retrieves his newly received anniversary present, jumps back in the vehicle.
“Oh, you meant ‘clock,’” Schumann says.
“No, plock.”
“Man, you really hit your head hard.”
“You hit my head hard. You tried to ram me with your car, prick.”
“Look, I shouldn’t have run you toward that oleander.”
“You think?”
“It’s my damn competitive streak. I want to win the whole world.”
“You could have seriously injured me.”
“Coach used to say I take things too far.”
“He’s right.”
“He used to punish me after practice, and you should, too. It’s the only way I learn. Do