Bunny and Sam

Start of scene

The Longhorns gonna kick some serious butt this Saturday, just you watch. We got a kid at tailback from down your way— outta El Indo—

Sam: That’s in Maverick Country.

Oh. Right. And you’re in—?

Sam: Rio.

Right. This kid, Hosea Brown? Does 40 in 3.4, soft hands, lateral movement—the whole package. Only a sophomore—

Sam: You still going to all the home games?

Well, Daddy’s got his box at the stadium, of course, and I’ll fly to the Cowboy away games when they’re in the conference. Then there’s the high school on Friday nights—West Side got a boy 6’6”, 310, moves like a car. High school, we’re talkin’. Guess how much he can bench-press?

Sam: Bunny, you—uhm—you on that same medication?

Do I seem jumpy?

Sam: No, no—you look good. I was just wondering.

Last year was awful rough— Mama passing on and the whole business with O.J.— I mean it’s not like it was Don Meredith or Roger Staubach or one of our own boys, but it really knocked me for a loop—

Sam: You look good.

And that squeaker the Aggies dropped to Oklahoma—sonofabitch stepped in some lucky shit before he kicked that goal—

Sam: Yeah, well—

They hadn’t pulled me off that woman I would’ve jerked a knot in her.

Sam: You were in a fight—

Daddy calls it an “altercation.” How you doing, Sam? You look skinny.

Sam: Same weight as I always was.

You look awful good in that uniform though.

Sam: Best part of the job

Daddy hired a pin-head to take your job. He says so himself. Says, “Even my son-in-law was better than this pin-head I got now.”

Sam: Bunny, is that stuff I left still in the garage still there?

Least he never called me that. With me it was always “high-strung.” “My Bunny might’ve done something with her life, she wasn’t so high-strung.” Or “tightly wound,” that was another one. You seeing anyone?

Sam: No. You?

Yeah. Sort of. Daddy rounds ‘em up. You aren’t talking about money, their beady little eyes go dead.

Sam: You didn't—uhm—you didn’t have one of your fires, did you? The stuff I left in the garage— some of it was my father’s—

You watch the draft this year? ‘Course you didn’t, idiot question. They try to make it dramatic, like there’s some big surprise who picks who in the first round? Only they been working it over with their experts and their computers for months. Doctor’s reports, highlight reels, coaches’ evaluations, psychological profiles—hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they collected stool samples on these boys, have ‘em analyzed. All this stuff to pick a football player for your squad. Compared to that, what you know about the person you get married to doesn’t amount to diddly, does it?

Sam: Suppose not

You kind of bought yourself a pig in a poke, didn't you, Sam? All that time we were first seeing each other you didn’t know I was tightly wound—

Sam: It wasn’t just you, Bunny.

No, it wasn't, was it? You didn’t exactly throw yourself into it heart and soul, did you? Your shit’s still in the garage if that’s what you came for. 350 pounds.

Sam: What?

This boy from West Side, plays tackles both ways. Bench-presses 350 pounds. You imagine having that much weight on top of you? Pushing down? Be hard to breathe. Hard to swallow.

Sam: I think they have another fella there to keep it off your chest. A spotter.

“I only got my little girl now,” he says, “she’s my lifeline.” Then he tells me I can’t be in the box anymore if I can’t control myself. Sonofabitch don’t even watch the damn game, just sits there drinking with his bidness friends, looks up at the TV now and then.

Sam: You look good, Bunny. It’s nice to see you.

Thanks. I like it when you say that, Sam.