Can’t Pardon Me, Governor
Messed-up world.
When I got home, Jerri stood in the living room staring at a letter she’d just opened. She looked up at me. “You’re totally soaked.”
“I’m cold,” I said.
“Uh-huh. This came for you this afternoon,” she said. She held up the letter and scrunched her eyebrows.
It was a letter from the Governor of Wisconsin. She handed it to me.
The letter was printed on official Wisconsin letterhead with a big seal of the state on it. It was dated February 13—the day before.
It said:
On behalf of the State of Wisconsin, on this date, February 13, I, Scott K. Thompson, the Honorable Governor of the State of Wisconsin, hereby accept your apology to the people of the state.
All is forgiven, Mr. Reinstein. Best of luck at Stanford. We hope you will return to play for the Packers someday!
“What the hell, Jerri?” I asked.
“Why do people care so much about you?” she asked.
“Do you understand I won the genetic lottery?”
“Those aren’t my genes.”
“No shit,” I said.
Jerri glared.
Then my phone buzzed. A call. I pulled it out of my pocket. A Madison number. “What’s this?” I asked Jerri.
“I don’t know,” Jerri said. “Who?”
I answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, Felton, this is Megan Hansen from WISC-TV. We talked the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“Hope you don’t mind me reaching out to your cell number. I figured you were out of school by now and we’d like a comment for the 10 o’clock news.”
“How’d you get this number?” I mumbled.
“Jay Haas, the sports guy.”
I’d talked to him a few times in the fall. “Okay…”
“We received a press release from the governor’s office with the text of a letter officially accepting your apology to the state. Did you get it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Pretty cute!” laughed Megan. “We taped a short interview with the governor’s spokesman—it’s a hoot—and thought it would be fun to get a quick response from you. Just audio. Do you mind?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think…”
“Nothing complicated. Just a quote.”
“Okay. Okay. Fine,” I said.
“I’m recording.”
Here’s what I wanted to say: I banged this dude’s walnut against a metal bleacher yesterday. He bled. I shouldn’t say “dude.” He’s a little kid. Scrappy little shit hole of a kid with a fat dad. I did it because my friend’s little brother shot himself in the heart with a handgun. That’s real. That happened. But you’re interested in my response to a joke letter from the freaking governor? That’s what you care about?
“What did you think when you got that letter, Felton?”
I took a breath. Concentrated. And here’s what I actually said: “Pretty cool. Made me feel good. Thanks, Wisconsin. I hope I play for the Packers too.”
“That’s all we need. The spot will run tonight. Great talking to you again, Felton. Take care!”
“Bye,” I said.
I hung up.
“What the hell?” Jerri asked. “Are you a political asset?”
“I don’t know.”
“So many people care about you…” Jerri’s voice trailed off. Her ears turned red, which is a sign she’s pretty fired up. “Call that woman back. You call her back and tell her you will not be pushed around. You will not be made to look like a…a…supporter of some politician. Even if you did support that man, no one should listen to you. No one! Because you’re good at a sport, this is…this is…I’m really pissed!” she shouted.
“I don’t care about this. Pig Boy wouldn’t be forgiven.”
“What?” Jerri shouted.
“I don’t care about the governor.” I stared out the picture window at the darkening sky. Escape. That’s what I wanted. Shuffle off the mortal coil. Run farther than I can run. Fast. Instantaneously.
Jerri looked at the ceiling and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” I said.
“Oh shit,” she sighed. “I used to get so pissed at reality, you know? So pissed about how things are.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m pissed, Jerri.”
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” Jerri asked. “Who are we going to fight?” She inflated her cheeks and blew out slow.
“I don’t know. Who?” Tell me, Jerri. Who should we fight?
“Never mind, right? Never mind. Who really cares, right?” she asked.
“I do,” I said.
“Good for you,” she said. “Somebody has to.” The red bled from her ears. They turned the normal color again. She turned to walk into the kitchen. “You hungry?” she asked.
Help, Jerri.
She disappeared.
“Can I borrow your car?” I called after her.
“Oh, honey,” Jerri said. “I’ve got an economics study group tonight…”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” I said.
“Terry might come over after,” she said.
“Yeah. Good. That’s perfect.”