When Marcus and I were kids, Austin was a college town and a football town. Now it’s one of the fastest growing cities in America. The culture has changed, it’s whiter, richer, less Southern. The demographic moving in is basically a basketball demographic. Laycock was a businessman, he wanted to make money. The city had promised him a stadium, although there was still a bond vote coming up. Until then the team could play in the Erwin Center, where Marcus played in college. It seated almost 17,000, which put it at the bottom end of NBA stadia in terms of capacity, but still in the ballpark. If taxpayers voted down the new bond, who knows what would happen. But Laycock figured that if he brought playoff basketball to Austin, nobody would vote it down.
I quoted him for the story, too: Marcus Hayes Is Coming Home.
None of my pieces ever got so many hits. By the end of the month, my agent had a deal with HarperCollins for the book, and for that, Marcus had to sign off, he had to grant exclusive access. For weeks I waited around to get his signature. First, he was in China on a shoe tour, then he was training hard in LA, trying to get in game shape. Nobody could reach him; everything shuts down in August anyway, I mean, my publisher and agent, the literary types. So the deal was on hold. Meanwhile, I had to rearrange my life.
At the end of August I packed a few suitcases, put a bunch of crap in storage, rented out the apartment and drove west. My dad refused to fly because of the DVT, even though the doctors had cleared him; but it didn’t matter, we made a road trip out of it. We didn’t need any furniture because my sister said we could stay with her and help look after the kids. By that point Greg had moved out. Well, she kicked 87him out. She said she’d rather live with us. “It’s either you or get a dog,” she said. “That’s what I promised the boys. And I don’t want a dog.”
It’s a two-day drive if you drive all day; we took three.
I own a Corolla, the trunk size is not really adequate. We had to fill the back seat with luggage. Not even suitcases but just stuff we couldn’t fit anywhere else. Like, how many shoes do you really need to take? We put them in paper grocery bags. It feels weird locking the door for the last time. You think, did I leave a coffee mug in the sink? Does it matter? But it’s also like, when you get in the car, and everything you actually need is in the car, and you can really go anywhere in the world or at least America (even if the place you’re going is your hometown, and the person you’re going with is your father, who you still live with), you feel light, you feel happy, you feel like, fuck everything, who cares, I’m basically okay, which is what I felt.
Of course, we argued most of the time. The plan was to reach Knoxville by dinnertime, where my dad had a fraternity buddy. I said, Dad, this guy does not want to see us, he does not want to put us up. Of course he wants to. He’ll be excited to see you again. Steve reads your stuff all the time, he told me so. You’re famous. Dad, I said, Dad …
Steve turned out to own several furnished apartments in Fort Sanders, near the university. That’s actually where we stayed the night, in one of his student rentals—because the semester hadn’t started yet, he had a lot of empty units. He brought sheets and towels from his own house and took us out to dinner. And, in fact, it’s true, he had read my article and wanted to discuss Marcus Hayes.
My dad said, “Brian is writing a book about him, he signed a six-figure deal.”
“Well, I still have to get access.”
“He requested you specifically, you’re the only reporter he trusts.”
The poor guy had to listen to all of this, maybe he got a kick out of it, I don’t know. Dad also talked about Betsy. My daughter is having 88a temporary break from her marriage. I’m moving back just to help out; she’s got two small boys. Since I’m retired anyway. And Brian has the book to write. After fourteen hours on the road, when you just want to go to bed, you don’t even bother to correct him. The waiters started putting chairs on the tables.
On the drive the next morning, we argued about Greg.
“There’s something going on that I don’t understand. Every interaction I had with him was pleasant—he was the kind of guy, if Betsy was in high school, I would have been happy for him to escort her to the prom.”
When my father took the wheel, he pushed the seat back so far it was almost like he was sitting in the row behind. He laid his forearm on the window frame; to check the mirrors he adjusted his eyes. The impression he gave was of expertise and control.
“She never dated guys like that in high school.”
“Yes, well.”
“Probably because that’s not the kind of guy she likes.”
“Somebody who respects her, somebody who treats her like a serious person.”
“He bores her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” my father said. “At her age, in her position, who has time to be bored. When she gets home from work, it’s put food on the table, wash the clothes, brush the teeth, get the boys to bed. Go to bed yourself so you can do the whole thing again tomorrow. If this life bores you, you should sign up for a different life.”
“Maybe that’s what she wants to do.”
“This is not a realistic option. When you have kids. That is your life. And by the way, what she’s signed up for is not rock and roll. It’s living with you and me. I think, after a few months of us, she may reconsider.”
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t even really disagree with you. But I don’t want you to show up at the house with false expectations. What you 89said to your friend about a temporary arrangement—that’s not the sense I get from Betsy. The sense I get from her is, this has been a long time coming.”
We stopped at the Arby’s just after the exit to Lebanon and picked up sandwiches to eat in the car. They’re even good cold the next day, we bought enough for two meals. The weather was summer hazy, and sometimes you could see a storm cloud waiting for you at the highway horizon, a sort of stain on the air, which you slowly approached and then entered, the light changed, rain slashed the windshield, and then you emerged again. We passed Nashville and Memphis and crossed the border into Arkansas. From time to time we got gas and switched seats. My dad had a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke, which he nursed the whole trip—the sound of the built-up carbonation releasing every time he twisted the cap was one of the sounds you get used to in the car. It slowly flattened as the miles rolled away beneath us but my dad drank it anyway.
Outside of Texarkana we saw a sign for Red Roof Inn and pulled off. You have to pass Hope to get there—after a while, everything becomes a topic of conversation. You can fill the hours just reading out the exits. By this point it was almost eight o’clock, sunset poured through the windshield. I was driving and the rich red light, which I had to shield my eyes from (lowering the flap only helped a little), was a vivid reminder of cosmic forces. There’s large-scale machinery out there that can make you feel the pressure of its thumb whenever it wants. The motel had a pool next to the parking lot, and after checking in, I dug a swimsuit out of the trunk and padded barefoot across the day-hot asphalt to the water. My dad joined me, but in his clothes; he lay back on one of the lounge chairs and I stepped down the concrete steps.
Even in the water you could hear the highway; it didn’t matter, I let it trickle into my ears. Everything seemed to be floating—my hair spread out, and something, a vein maybe, in the red of my eyelids crawled around like a microscopic organism on a slide. The place I 90had lived for the past five years was behind me; the place I was going was the house where I grew up. I could feel the chlorine on my skin and almost sense in the trembling water the stress on the landscape caused by cars and trucks. For some reason the phrase, “All of these arrangements are temporary,” ran through my head. When Marcus Hayes goes anywhere he takes his own jet.
My dad and I shared a bedroom—these motel rooms all have two queen beds. The air-conditioning dripped and smelled of cigarettes. In the morning, we breakfasted on cold roast-beef sandwiches in the car and continued on. Austin appeared around lunchtime, you could see the treetops rising over the line of the elevated highway. After three days on the road, where America basically seems a country of concrete inhabited by commuters, it takes a little adjustment to stop at stop signs again and see the world at a pace where people can live in it. Dad had the wheel and pulled in behind Betsy’s Honda. He sat there for a minute then pushed open the door. The temperature must have been a hundred degrees. Just the heat made a noise, like a pulse, like a great heart beating. We were home, like nothing had happened to us in twenty years, and Dad was picking me up after basketball practice.