Skyler F's Short Story

Wake up.

His eyes open, blink a couple of times, and glance around trying to comprehend his surroundings through the darkness. It took him only a handful of seconds to give up and close his eyes once more.
      Wake up, Jarvis, get up.
Eyes open again, faster than last time. Jarvis sits up and looks around, trying to spot some sort of clock in the room, but doesn’t succeed. He looks down at his wrists. Nothing.
      It’s about 3 AM. You fell asleep yesterday at about 7. Remember? Of course not. Not after all that codeine syrup you drank. You might also be wondering where you are. This is your house. For now, at least. Michael Conley got it for you a couple weeks ago, shortly before he left you. Remember? Mike, your agent? Well, he was your agent, at least. And your friend, or so you thought. But that was when you paid him 500,000 a year to represent you. Leaving you with this house was the least he could do. Funny he would choose Decatur. Remember this city? This was where it all began. And here you are now. What are the odds?
Jarvis toyed with the thought of actually calculating the odds mathematically, but quickly dismissed the idea. He sat up, got off his bed and clumsily groped the walls, looking for a light switch. Upon turning the light on he really examined the room for the first time. White walls, dirty, old carpeting and empty if not for the lone mattress in the far corner. He exited the room through the wooden door next to the light switch, and found himself in another room. There was a square table in the middle of the room, with a couple of chairs and a small kitchen setup on the right wall. He took a seat at the table, and looked around the room.
      Home sweet home, huh? And no, you’re not dreaming. This is it, Jarvis, this is where you are now.
Jarvis gets up and walks over to the window on the opposite wall. He brushes the curtains aside and peers out into the street. It was pitch black out, except for the lone street light on the corner. Under it he made out the words Prospect Drive on the street sign.
      Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? In fact, a couple blocks down this road will take you to Decatur High School. Remember that place? You probably remember their field better than the school itself. That, Jarvis, is where it all began. There was no Pop Warner youth football in Decatur. Even if there was, your mother couldn’t afford it. Like everyone else, you went from the backyard to the Friday night lights. But you were different. You wanted to be bigger and better than the rest. Ever since the first time you touched a football you decided to set your aspirations on becoming the greatest of all time. Remember that broomstick in your mother’s garage? You would put holes in bricks and use the broomstick to bench press them every day, until you had so many bricks on that the broomstick broke. By your freshman year you were 6’3 and well over 200 pounds. Remember your first day of the varsity tryouts? You were Decatur’s starting running back before you even had a chance to showcase your full abilities.
Jarvis thought about his days at Decatur high. The memories seem so distant, yet it seemed like he was running the ball for the Red Raiders only just yesterday.
    Decatur’s offense rested upon your shoulders. The raiders offense was atrocious. Coach Thompson was defensive minded, and spent most of practice coaching up his linebackers. “Our linebacker corps makes our defense, and defense wins football games.” he’d say. Don’t get me wrong, the linebackers sure were good. you used to take a beating in practice everyday going up against those guys. It's still too bad coach wouldn’t pay much attention to offense though. The linemen were weak, and so was the quarterback’s arm. In the beginning of each year, coach Thompson would hand the offensive coordinator a playbook, which would eventually simplify down to three plays by the end of the season: a dive, a pitch and a fake pitch, all of which involve you getting the ball. You didn’t mind; more carries meant more opportunities for a highlight-reel play.
Your high school career was nothing special, really. Going undefeated for four years straight could get pretty monotonous. I mean, all you did was shatter every single Alabama high school record for anything that had to do with a running back. You did it so easily that it just wasn’t even significant anymore.
Jarvis thought about all this. It had been almost ten years since his senior season at Decatur. Suddenly, a headache struck him from the left side of his head. He tried to ignore it at first, but the pain began to amplify and he dug in his pockets for some painkillers.
    You’re getting a headache just thinking about those four years, huh? The only day worth remembering was the junior year game against Athens. It was homecoming, and the stands were filled with people routing for a third straight rivalry win over the Golden Eagles. They were the only team that actually had a slight chance of beating you. They had a really good offense led by Phillip Anderson, who was an all-state first team QB. He scored on the opening drive to put Athens up 7-0 early in the first quarter. But you answered his score, and continued to answer up throughout the first half. Decatur took the kickoff to begin the third quarter. With the score tied 21-21, you drove the offense 65 yards up the field. Remember? Good, because you definitely don’t remmber what happened next. On Athen’s 35 yard line, you took the handoff up the middle. The line was able to create a small tunnel in the defense, which you squeezed into. You were at full speed after the first five yards, when the safety met you at the 25. You managed to hurdle yourself over him, minus your left foot. You landed awkwardly on your right foot, stumbled, stuck your hand down for balance, and managed to stay upright only to have the solid metal facemask of Athens’s Rolando Maclin postage stamped onto your earhole. Your brain shook inside your skull like some sort of inter-cranious earthquake. The ringing in your ears was deafening. There were lines of blue and red in your vision, as if the blurriness wasn’t enough. The worst part was that you couldn’t do anything about it but lay there and wait and pray for it to be over. You lay on the rough astroturf for what seemed like hours before the trainer got you on a stretcher and took you off the field. You wanted to ask the trainer where you were but the pain was so unbearable that you couldn’t concentrate. Laying down on the medical table next to the bench, you could make out the sounds of coach Thompson yelling on the sideline. He was swearing loudly at the defense for letting up yet another touchdown. The scoreboard said 35-21, and the fourth quarter had just started. Thompson briskly walked over to the trainer sitting by you on the bench. “How is he? Can he play?”  The trainer responded but his voice was soft and you couldn’t decipher his words. “I don’t need him 100%, I need him on the field.” “No, no, no. Do you know how bad a snapped undefeated streak looks on my resume? Years of hard work only to be ruined by a trainer's words? No, I simply won’t have it.” He strolled over to you, grabbed your facemask, and said “Get up, son. Lets see if you can walk.” You managed to get up and take a few steps. It helped ease the pain in your head, and after shaking your head a little, you realized that helped as well. You managed to ward off the pain for a little. Thompson then grabbed your facemask again, looked you dead in the eye, and said “ Look at me, Jarvis. I need you right now. Your team needs your right now, and so do all those people in the stands. Look at the scoreboard. I need you to do this. I need you to win. Now go get us the lead back.”
    Sure enough, you got the lead back. the adrenaline was able to temporarily negate the effects of the concussion, allowing you to score 21 points and get Decatur a 42-35 win. You became a hero. A hero plagued by severe headaches for the rest of his life.
Jarvis closed his eyes and thought about that day. He thought about the selfishness of Thompson. His success over the past couple of years has made his paycheck skyrocket, as well as draw attention from college programs. he knew he couldn’t have a single blemish on his record, especially when his star player is laying down when he could be in the game. Jarvis sighed. He backed away from the window and decided to explore the one remaining room of the house. It was a bathroom, small, with a shower in the back and a sink and toilet to the right. Jarvis entered the room and turned right, staring at his reflection in the mirror. What he saw was a tall man with a muscular build, slightly chubby, with a dark complexion. His eyes were tired and bloodshot, his hair short and his chin and upper lip were covered in stubble.The blue and white striped polo was dirty, for he had worn it for the past three days. On his right bicep, a tattoo poked out from the sleeve of his polo.

You grew up an Alabama kid. So there never really was any question as to where the state’s top ranked running back prospect was going to go. Alabama gladly offered you a scholarship. Your first year at Alabama was somewhat unsatisfying. Out of the 13 games you played at 100% for about 4 of them, putting up good numbers. In the other 9, not so much. Playing with sustained concussions caused you to lose focus, run slower, and shy away from contact. And when you weren’t playing, the headaches were unbearable. But the coaching staff couldn’t care less. They gave you a scholarship, and they were going to get all they could from you no matter what. They didn’t really see you as a person, they saw you as a business figure. Your production on the field would lead to the football program’s popularity, which would lead to an increase of ticket and merchandise sales. The worst part was, you didn’t even get a cent of the billions that the NCAA was making off of you. You were just another figure in the NCAA’s equation to make billions.

    You weren’t even allowed to get a job. NCAA rules. Good thing your teammates found a tattoo place where they’ll hook you up for a jersey or two. The one on your bicep was from sophomore year. Ha, sophomore year. If you thought you had a bad freshman year, sophomore year was worse. You started off amazing, went injury free for four games, rushing for 700 yards and 6 touchdowns. But in rivalry week 5 against Auburn, you were knocked unconscious by their stud linebacker Karlos Dansby. You don't even remember, huh? You were hospitalized for two days. The NCAA ordered you out for the season despite all of coach Saban’s protests.

    The rest of the season seemed somewhat nice. After finally getting proper medical attention, you were prescribed painkillers that eased headaches a lot better than the generic ones did. You weren’t really required to show up at the games, but you did anyways, and sat on the bench. It was a rather new experience for you being that you had never skipped a game in your career. Despite all your injuries, your junior season was highly anticipated by Alabama’s fans. However, it was all for naught. As you came back from injury rehab in february, an NCAA crackdown on the memorabilia-for-tattoos trade got you and 20 other teammates 6 month suspensions for the upcoming season.

    Without really pondering the decision, you declared for the NFL draft. On April 25, 2007, the Oakland Raiders shocked the football world by selecting you first overall over Jamarcus Russell. Your 4.22 second 40 yard dash at the combine was just too much for the Raiders to pass up.
Jarvis backed away from the mirror, left the bathroom and took a seat at the table once again. the 2007 NFL draft was being replayed in his head. “With the first pick in the 2007 NFL draft, the Raiders select Jarvis Green, running back out of Alabama.” He recalled the millions of thoughts that sped through his mind. Shock, confusion, disbelief, and excitement. Every person with the slightest knowledge of football would have thought Jamarcus Russell was to go first, with you going at least seventh.

At the time, it was just about the biggest draft surprise in NFL history. Everyone questioned your ability. were you really worthy of a first overall pick? The answer would depend on your rookie year performance. the raiders were known for drafting first round busts, so in a way, the odds weren’t in your favor. Those thoughts didn’t bother you, though. You were too busy planning out how to spend your first paycheck. 15 million up front with another 60 coming in over the next 6 years. First a house in the bay area. Then a car, another car, a house for your mom back in Decatur and another house for yourself back in Decatur. At the end you only had a little less than 2 million left on your hands. Mike Conley said he’d handle all the business stuff, you just make the money. Remember Mike, your agent? Of course you do. We went over this already.

Suddenly, Jarvis was overcome by a strange thirst. In the refrigerator to his right he found a half-empty can of sprite with a another bottle labeled codeine syrup. Instinctively he mixed the two together and drank it, grimacing slightly as the bubbling, medicinal nectar sweet liquid ran down his throat.

For a while life was alright. You got out of school in late may, and had a couple of months to kind of relax before the season started. You began to spend less and less time with your friends though. You couldn’t really figure out why, you just felt like you preferred to be alone a lot more than usual.

    When september came around and the season started, it all went downhill. Game one was solid. You shared carries with Justin Fargas, and managed to get 70 yards and one touchdown. Game 2 was in Pittsburg. On your third carry you were knocked out by James Harrison. You were out until week 11. Those 9 weeks you sat out were some of the worst in your life. You would still go to practice and watch, same with the games. At night, sitting alone at your house, you would think. Think about whether or not you really even like football anymore. Think about what would happen if he would just quit. Think about all the people you would disappoint if you did. Think about all the people you’ve already let down in your life. Nick Saban. Every Alabama fan. And at the time, all of Raider nation. Pretty much everyone who supported you after high school. Its probably just the concussions, you thought. But then you began to question things. “Can I really trust Mike Conley? Then again, can I really trust anyone?” Then your mind began to wander off into simpler things, like who really even cared about you. The Raiders organization? You gave it a thought, but decided that their care was deceptive. Your friends that you haven’t been with for a year? Your mom? Yes, your mother. But that’s about it. You imagined your mother alone at your funeral. Funeral? No. Not funeral. Not yet, at least. Never. But never would be impossible. You would eventually just take another pain pill and try to fall asleep.
    When you finally got back, you were inserted as a backup. You didn’t blame the coaches; your performance in practice was putrid. You simply couldn’t concentrate. Why? You told coach Cable it was the concussions and he told you to get it checked out. You said it was going to be fine, and he believed you. The rest of the season was just mediocre. You backed up Fargas, and shared time during your better games. The Raiders missed the playoffs once again, and the long offseason began. You avoided the press completely, denying every single interview offer.
Jarvis remembered that year, days where the sporting world denounced him a failure and made him regret ever picking up the game of football. Hated because he couldn’t live up to the expectations that were bestowed upon him without warning.
    As Year 2 came around, Al Davis, (yes, the one that just died,) the Raiders Owner, sat down with you and talked. I forgot most of what he said. Something about the trust put in you drafting you that high and how he needed you to act like the great wonderful football player he paid you to be. You told him you would try your best, and that you wouldn’t let him down. “Good,” he said, “I want to see more out of you this year. I want you to take Fargas’s spot because we don’t have enough cap space to pay for two starting backs.
    Alright. “You have one last shot.” you told yourself, “One last shot to prove that I am not only worthy of this organization, but the first overall pick I was chosen with.”
You produced well for the first part of the season. You were one of the NFL’s leading rushers through week three and was injured from weeks 4-6, and came back with a sub-par performance in week 7. But week 8, sitting in you house in Palo Alto, you received news of your mother’s death through the phone. Something about a heart attack. So it was off to Alabama. You attended the funeral of your mother on october 27th. However, the funeral wasn’t nearly as important as what happened after it. That night you found Jarodiaus Willingham at Decatur high, shooting hoops. Remember Jarodiaus? You guys played football together at Decatur, and later on at Alabama, except he dropped out after a year. He told you all about this one snitch that got him busted on a drug deal and sent him to prison for a year. “I know where he at.” Jarodiaus said, “C’mon.”
    Sure enough you guys found him slinging crack on the street corner Jarodiaus had said. After beating the daylights out of him, you pulled out your pistol, stuck it on his forehead, and watched Rishard Tapiscott beg for his life under the point of your gun. You embraced the feeling of control, but at the same time regretted it. Your finger decided whether the man would live or die. After what seemed like an hour, you let the gun off by Tapiscott’s ear, and tell him to leave immediately before you change your mind about not killing him.
    You and Jarodiaus were both arrested and tried. Jarodiaus got 60 days in prison while you got 180 for assault, discharge of a weapon within city limits, menacing, and reckless endangerment.
    Three days into your sentence, you were visited by Mike Conley. Unfortunately, he brought nothing but terrible news. First, the Raiders cut you. Second, you were going bankrupt. Third, all three of your houses had been foreclosed along with your two cars. Last but not least, Conley told you he was quitting the job as your agent. “How,” you asked him, “DIdn’t I just make 10 million over the last season?”. Then he explained how you were cut from the roster before the season was over, which makes it so that the Raiders don’t have to pay you or something like that. When you asked him what you had left, he chuckled ominously and said, “Nothing, Jarvis. You have nothing left. But here.” he pulled out an envelope. “You can redeem this after your sentence is over. Its the keys to a house that I managed to get my hands on. The owner was a crack dealer that was shot. Is not the nicest place, but it’ll do. Also in there is the address of the house and a couple hundred dollars. Hey, its the least I could do. Oh, and by the way, the house is in Decatur.”
    Prison really wasn’t that bad. You were big, so people didn’t mess with you. You would never talk to anybody, either. People thought you were crazy. In a way, you were. They let you have your prescribed pain pills, and you would just dope yourself out on them until your whole body went numb and you would just let the highs pass the time by quicker.
    You got out of prison on February 12. The first things first, you got yourself some codeine prescription cough syrup and some sprite. By the way, you became a syrup addict in prison somehow. You drank like a bottle of the stuff, and then got drunk on top of that. You ended up crashing here at like what, 7am? Heck, you’re still high right now. thats probably why my voice is so distinctly heard in your head.
Jarvis got up and put the bottle of codeine syrup back in the into the refrigerator. As he closed the door, he discovered a dark shape through the window on the bottom shelf. He opened the lower drawer and found a large pistol, 45 caliber.
    Conley did say this house was once owned by a drug dealer.
The gun was quite cold to the touch, probably due to the fact that it had been in a refrigerator for quite some time.
    I know what you’re thinking, Jarvis, and I agree completely.
Slowly, Jarvis raised the pistol up to his head, but brought it down quickly.
    No, Jarvis. Listen to me. You have nothing. There is no longer a single person that cares for you. You have disappointed everyone who had trusted you, besides arguably coach Thompson at DHS. Actually, probably even coach Thompson. They took down your jersey, you know? I forgot who told you, but it was probably the whole getting arrested in Decatur thing. Just get it over with. You were lucky to find a gun here, now make use of it. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to miss you. Your mother’s dead, after all. Don’t be a coward, Jarvis. Just trust me. Nobody’s going to care. They probably won’t even make a big deal out of it. Its not like you were that great of a person or anything. Just do it, Jarvis. You have to trust me. I’m the only one you can trust now. Also you’d just be downright weird if you didn’t trust your own conscience.
Jarvis was sweating now. A tear dripped down his cheek, followed by another, and yet another.
    C’mon Jarvis. I’ll give you a count down. 3, 2, 1...
Jarvis took a deep breath, and yelled at the top of his lungs, slammed the tip of the pistol into the side of his skull and squeezed as hard as he could. A blank click rattled through the gun. When he realized it, he threw the gun against the wall, creating a large dent. Swearing loudly, he noticed that his heart beat was screaming at him through his ribs, trying to snap him out of this madness, but he wouldn’t listen. He swore loudly through his tears, which were flowing now, and picked up the pistol once more, fixed the magazine, and started all over again. Another deep breath. But he couldn’t find it in him to bring the gun up once more.
    No, Jarvis. I just explained all this to you. We don’t have time for this. End it now. This is as simple as it gets. Pull the trigger. The gun was placed into the refrigerator. You think that's a coincidence? Michael did it, Jarvis. It’s Michael Conley’s gun. He wants you to do it and so does the rest of the world. How many more people do you plan on disappointing with the rest of your life, Jarvis?
Jarvis held back his tears and brought the gun up for the last time, and held it there for a solid minute. He then wiped his tears, and counted, slowly, “3.....2............1”