Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,60
she deserves to know the truth?”
“I know the truth. That’s what matters.”
“I bet she’d disagree with that.”
“The important thing is that I’m going to be a better man now.”
“I bet she’d think the important thing is that you had sex with Tilda.”
It disappoints Coffen that Schumann isn’t going to level with his missus, but then Bob figures he has so much to worry about in his own life that he can’t try to control how Schumann’s going to handle things. At the very least, it sounds like Coffen will never endure another cameo from Reasons with His Fists. Thank Christ for pigskinned miracles.
Plus, and maybe this is the heart of the matter, Coffen sees Schumann for what he is: confused, sad, and broken, like so many others their age. Like Bob. Confused about their role in the world. A football game. A video game. It all adds up to the same thing. A way to escape how grueling reality can be, all the responsibilities, all the worries. There’s good stuff, too, as Tilda says, between the cops, monsters, prudes, and mice, but you have to hunt for it, or the routine can pull you under.
“You’re not going to tattle on me, are you?” Schumann asks.
“On one condition.”
“What?”
“For one week, starting now, I want you to take a steady dose of Scout’sHonor!®”
“Why?”
“So you know when you lie,” Coffen says. “I want you to be aware when you lie to your wife.”
“What good will that do?”
“She won’t know, but you will.”
“I can’t walk around all week bleeding from my nose, Bob.”
“Exactly why Scout’sHonor!® works so well. Nobody can afford to bleed all week long. Our lives are busy. Wonder what would happen if you don’t lie to her but come clean about everything?”
“I don’t want to come clean. And because you don’t cheat on Jane, you’re no perfect husband yourself. Don’t you lie to her about other stuff?”
“I more leave stuff out than lie.”
“Like what?”
“Like most of my real feelings.”
“Isn’t that lying?” Schumann says. “You should take Scout’sHonor!® too. Let the pill decide what’s lying and what isn’t.”
He’s spot-on. No disputing that. If one of Coffen’s goals going forward is to do right by his people, then he has to find out all the facts. Try to be honest about everything, even issues he’s previously avoided or downplayed or gone dumb about. Bob should go into his future with his eyes open as to when he’s being dishonest. A week of Scout’sHonor!® will help keep him on track.
“Fine,” Coffen says. “I’ll do it.”
“Right on. Good man. You take it for a week and after your time is up, maybe I’ll decide to take it once we see how it works on you. That makes perfect sense.”
“Take it or I tattle.”
“What if I bleed to death?” Schumann whines.
“Stop being so selfish and you won’t bleed to death.”
“It’s not that easy. You can’t stop cold turkey.”
“Choice is yours, Schumann. But I’ll rat you out.”
“These are the moments I know you never played on a football team. Teammates have each other’s backs no matter what, until the game clock of life expires.”
“What’s it going to be?”
“What choice do I have? I’ll take them and try not to bleed to death,” Schumann says. “But if I do die, you can have my bagpipes. Every time you look at them remember that you murdered me with your truth pills.”
“I can live with that.”
They shake on it. He squeezes Bob’s hand hard. Really hard. Hard enough that Coffen winces and emits a little girly yelp.
For the first time during the conversation, Schumann smiles, still crushing Coffen’s hand. “Now who’s peeping like a mouse,” he says.
After dumping Schumann at home, Coffen makes it to the status meeting with ten minutes to spare. It’s just him and Malcolm Dumper in the conference room, Coffen’s young cohorts only arriving seconds before these meetings commence, risking late arrivals to maintain a persona of youthful ambivalence to structure, rules, the asinine consideration of other people’s time.
Dumper is plopped on a beanbag, while Coffen hooks his laptop up to the overhead projector, so Scroo Dat Pooch will appear on the large white screen.
“Are you excited about your unveiling this morning, Coffen?”
“I’m excited to see what you think of it.”
“I bet the Great One will love it like a bee loves smelling the roses.”
“I hope you love these roses.”
“We still need to have that dinner we’ve been talking about for years,” Malcolm says.
“Yes, you’ll have to come by the house sometime soon.”
“Is your roof helipad-friendly?”
“I