The Lives of Four Men from Tyson, Texas

By Joshua Rittenberry

In the tired dusty town of Tyson, Texas, a new arrival shakes up a community firmly entrenched with the past and it's traditions. When a series of shocking events unite a new high school football coach and three of his players, it turns out their ultimate connection is more shocking than you are ready to believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Rittenberry
• Release date: Oct 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311250803

Joshua Rittenberry

I grew up in a patch of cotton in the Bootheel of Missouri. Writing was not the lane I thought my life would travel. My childhood home was surrounded with loving parents who taught me the art of responsibility and nourished my ambitions. I dabbled with writing as I grew older, penning the forward to my high school yearbook. After school, I was offered, but turned down a newspaper job for fear of the unknown. I found the love of my life and settled down in my little town. As my wife and I fought through infertility issues, I took to my computer to alleviate my frustrations. Fate would intervene and my first book, Encroachment, was born.

Book preview

THE LIVES OF

FOUR MEN FROM

TYSON, TEXAS

Josh Rittenberry

Smashwords Edition

Copyright (c) 2014 by Josh Rittenberry

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

PROLOGUE

HELL TOWN

Tyson, Texas was a wasteland; it was…a hell town. No one came to Tyson on purpose, unless they missed their exit on I-20, or unless they lived there; which is why it made the Hybrid Prius trekking down Truman Avenue so curious. The charcoal gray car stood out amongst the battered Chevys and blistered Gremlins that hung on by a single, dilapidated bolt. One could have imagined a flock of tumbleweeds trailing after the foreign-made car, running it out of town on behalf of most of the residents who had never set a pinky toe north of the Mason-Dixon.

The residents referred to it as Hell Town because it seemed everyone who had done wrong in their lives ended up there; in the shiny new state prison which sat on an elevated plot of land as the highest vantage point in town, to be more specific. The nickname became so identifiable, that every couple of years a few miscreants would spray paint the misnomer in black on the hand-painted sign welcoming visitors from the interstate. If Tyson was the author of the residents’ stories, then Hell Town was it’s nom de plume, spinning their yarns with the same darkened tones that were difficult to wash from the sign that students from the high school’s graphic arts class painted for extra credit. The Prius seemed to hesitate as it passed the latest unrevoked attempt to brand the town with the tourist-deflecting moniker.

Though the citizens weren’t exactly boastful about their chained neighbors in the maximum security facility, which sat like a screw-ball Aunt Minnie who was locked away in the attic, only to be brought down to entertain extended family on special occasions, many saw it as no cause for complaint because the prison did double as full-time employment for 65 of the local townsfolk, who considered themselves to be some of the lucky ones. They were what was left of the thin middle class that had been wiped out by the last recession.

The scarce middle-classers occupied the literal middle of town, while the east side housed the poorest minorities in the county. The west side was something of a bubble unto itself; it was home to cookie-cutter McMansions that sheltered the families made rich by the nearby oil fields. Crossing the visible threshold to their part of town was like Dorothy opening her ramshackle Kansas house to see Oz for the first time in all it’s Technicolor gloriousness. These rich people weren’t the types to inhabit such an anti-sophisticated place like Tyson, but their oil fields went back generations and acted as the crude, black ties that bound them there, from the present until the rest of eternity.

If there were anything that would unite the patchwork of residents; the black kids, Latinos, the rich kids, the stoners and jocks, it was football. Tyson had the kind of program that wasn’t consistently at state level; although they did make the playoffs three times in a five year stretch during the 80’s; it was still revered by the generations that lived it, that watched it and the proceeding generations that played it. Though Jamal and Scott had absolutely nothing in common off the field, they shared one unifying thread which would last as they waved passing glances at one another when they sat and watched their own children play. The subtle nod to each other was silent, but spoke a river of volumes. It was a Jamal or a Scott in one town, it was a Derek and a Ricky in another; whatever their personal identities or the schools they represented, they were all the same all over the country; bonded brothers divided only by the vast expanse of time and distance.

They were supermarket managers, corporate executives, car dealers and junkies. Some of them mentored the coming classes as they recalled their own glorious moments of battle, while allowing wisps of the present to bask in that temporary spotlight. This was also what made Tyson so damned hellish for these people. Boys still going through the maturation process were groomed to be great for four years, erected on a pedestal and chiseled in stone. Some, who were lucky enough to make it out, got to experience that hero worship on another level, but those boys were few and far between. The rest walked across that temporary graduation platform with a piece of paper in their hand and no sense of direction. A few would continue their education if they had the benefit of a full ride courtesy of their parents. Others, however, would be forced to settle for what little Tyson had to offer them. A few would prop up the tent poles of the businesses downtown, while others would find it easier to deal with the loss of their identities through drug and drink.

You can look no further than Joe as a prime example of what Tyson can do to a man. Joe would be considered by a few to be the poster child of how snuffed ambitions can cut a man right in half. If you ain’t careful, his town will eat you up and spit you out, he would say, before the addiction stole his mind. Joe was a star running back at the old Booker T. Washington High School, the segregated high school where blacks were taught the same curriculum as whites, where they held to the same educational standards as whites, but did so in their own territory on the east side of town. After integration, Joe was the only Booker T. guy brave enough to try out for the all-white Tyson squad. He was named to the team as a novelty, eschewing the lingering racism at the time. After a stellar senior year, Joe was the first from his family to graduate. However, there were no scholarships or offers to coach when he swiped his tassel to the side, just the devolution of a promising young man into the town drunk who used the corner of 4th and Truman as his stage to beg for money to buy the beer that would nurse his withdrawals, and where every once in a while, he would allow a well-to-do white boy to take photos of him as if he were some kind of Edwardian carnival oddity. Few knew what Joe was in his past life, even as they passed unrecognized pictures of him in the trophy cases at Tyson High. The majority only saw him as the mascot for what Hell Town could do to a life.

ONE

GREY

Grey wrestled with the leather messenger bag after it fell in the floorboard of his year-old Prius, after which he randomly fished around for the scattered papers and writing utensils while surveying the scene outside intently. He couldn’t believe what he was actually seeing with his own eyes; the narrow vestiges that led to the high school were a scene from the ancient west; the modern paved roads had been completely covered by red clay dirt, making it look as though covered wagons and masked marauders still roamed those parts, the same ones depicted in his boyhood schoolbooks. The exteriors of the buildings that lined the main artery through the center of town were still shellacked with reminders of the past, when Remember the Alamo! was the national rallying cry. Dual water fountains outside a vacant women’s clothing store where imprints of two plaques that once hung above each; presumably, one for whites and the other for coloreds; remained as static reminders that he was in a place that grudgingly stood firm with the past, like the black and white scenes from The Last Picture Show. These pickled veneers were true testament that Grey was not in Boston anymore.

The Prius pulled into one of the empty parking spaces at the rear of Tyson High School. The three story building was clad in red brick and a carved stone reflecting 1924 was aloft above the entrance. After gathering his things from the car’s floor, Grey strapped the messenger bag to his person and pressed the rickety double doors of the entrance open. The burst of modern air invaded the time capsule inside, drifting past the trophy cases which held on to tattered photographs as well as pennants pinned to the particle backing board and golden symbols of athletic victories from a by-gone era. Grey glided his hand across the flimsy fronted glass, disrupting the solid sheet of dust that had gathered upon the surface since the last time it was given a proper scrubbing; the time when President Truman was in town for the now-defunct county fair on a whistle stop tour.

Grey ventured past an interior concession stand and over to another set of double doors which revealed a darkened auditorium that was also a basketball court. The wooden bleachers were neatly recessed against one wall, while another wall contained the electronic scoreboard and a plastic sign that reflected the lyrics of the school song, "Tyson, our joy and pride". As he imagined the squeaks of the 1950’s high-tops, Grey spied the hand-painted red and white tiger above one of the goals. The mascot was depicted in a silent roar that gestated out to the nobodies that cheered on the phantom hoop stars.

Grey left the emptiness, in search of the school’s authoritative inhabitant. He half-expected to see a suited, balding man in the suite of offices that made up the principal’s lair, but there was no one to be found. As he searched further down, he happened upon the ajar door of the teacher’s lounge. The top portion of the door was glazed glass with the lounge identified in black letters. It was the same kind of door Grey passed as he progressed through school from kindergarten to high school in the suburbs of Boston. He often imagined what fantastical wonders lay beyond that mysterious door as he colored inside the lines of his second grade turkey on brown construction paper, all the way up to the moments when he drooled asleep in third period Algebra II. Sadly, there was no secret roller coaster or chocolate fountain in this room. In the middle sat a rectangle table with seating for six, a long counter held an industrial coffee maker that looked like it was a reject from the IHOP, along with a faux flower arrangement that had just as much dust on it as the trophy case. An old fashioned water cooler sat in the corner with the paper cup dispenser void of any instruments from which to drink the lukewarm substance.

Hello there, can I help you?

Grey quickly turned around to see the middle-aged woman exiting the broom closet on the other side of the lounge. She had frothy brown hair streaked with gray at the sides. After wiping beads of sweat from her brow, she clapped the dust from her hands and extended them to Grey, waiting for some sort of identification from this young stranger standing before her.

Hi, Grey Henley, he offered, finally ending the speculation.

Mr. Henley, so nice to meet you. I’m Dayle Cook, the woman countered.

Grey took her hand, but was bumfuzzled; he had expected to meet that balding principal in a suit, not this petite woman who looked more like a content grandmother.

I’m sorry for staring, but I was expecting a man, Grey admitted.

I get that all the time. I was named for my daddy, Dale. He was so adamant that I was a boy that he and mama never picked out a girl’s name the whole time she was pregnant, so I became Dayle, with a y, instead of D-a-l-e, Principal Cook revealed.

I see.

So how was your drive down?

Nice, nice, really nice, Grey said, beginning to tense up now that he was slowly coming to the realization that he was a fish out of water. I got to see the Mississippi River for the first time, he continued.

Grey followed Ms. Cook to her office inside the maze of offices at the front entrance. Her space was dark and paneled, and lacked any touch of femininity. A degree from the University of Texas was the only thing that adorned the walls, except for a class graduation photo from the 1960’s.

That’s me in the second row, third from the left. Good ole Class of 1968, she said as she noticed Grey inspecting the frame.

I’d like to thank you for coming on a Saturday, Mr. Henley.

Grey, he said.

Grey. I realize school doesn’t start for another week, but our staff normally gets a head start on things. Since I knew I would be up here, I figured it would be a good time to get acquainted. If you would have been here a week earlier, you could have gotten to know the rest of the faculty. The teachers have a tradition of holding a Back to School dance for the kids before school starts. It’s always a nice ice-breaker and I would have loved to have had your help.

I certainly appreciate that.

I know you went through the interview process with the superintendant, but I’d like to know a little bit about you, myself.

Well, Grey began as he stiffened in the chair Ms. Cook offered him. I graduated from Brown with a degree in American History. After that, I went back to my home town of Brookline and taught history at an all-boys school.

Yes, yes and what about football? she asked, noticeably disinterested in her new faculty member’s scholastic achievements.

Football? Well, I did coach the boy’s team for two years. My mother never allowed me to play when I was in school, so that was a way to get back at her, Grey said with a chuckle.

Principal Cook did not chuckle. She pinpointed the football topic and focused on Grey with a steely stare.

Well, he began again, this time looking more serious. We did ok. My first year there was a learning process for us all. Most of the guys that made up the team were leftovers from the class that graduated the summer before.

I understand you won a state championship, correct?

Yeah, sure did. We got the hang of things after we finally worked all the kinks out. That was a great moment I’ll always remember. It was the first private school state championship Hurst Academy ever won.

A private school championship? You mean you weren’t part of an NCAA Program?

Oh no, strictly private school stuff. Didn’t you know that?

No.

Principal Cook rested back in her seat in deep contemplation. She had been had. Superintendent Chandler made Coach Henley seem like the second coming. Chandler knew Cook would have vetted and turned away any candidate that crossed her desk, so he took it upon himself the handle the interview process direct. Ms. Cook was serious about football; more serious than the most serious in town. Football was all they had here; football was what got grown men through the week, it was what kept the dropout level stable at Tyson High, otherwise, the school would have been taken over by the state. Ms. Cook was keenly aware of that fact and took the vacant football coach’s position very seriously.

Huh. Well, I guess we’ll see how it goes, she said. It’ll be a novelty to have a Yankee around these parts, anyway.

Grey shook hands with his new boss and thought to himself about the word novelty. What exactly did she mean by that? He knew he was about the enter a world completely different than any he had ever known thus far, but surely the history curriculum was the same as the rest of the country, and certainly the football here was the same football he had known on the east coast. At any rate, Grey drove his hybrid past Truman Avenue, past the nosey onlookers who stopped in their tracks when they saw his car. Is that a UFO, mama? one kid asked.

As Grey pulled up to the apartment, he gathered all the belongings he could carry on the trip. The back of his small car was so full, he could barely see out the back window. He had sold all of his furniture and only packed what would fit into suitcases or small boxes. His apartment was one of three tacked on to the back of a barber shop. Three sets of yellow lines were drawn out front; one space allotted for each occupant. He was lucky to have found a place in a town that either rented out shanties on the east side or sold foreclosures on the west side at reasonable, but exorbitant prices. Although he preferred a house, Grey thought it best to rent in the short term, not knowing how long his tenure would last. This place was on a list of homes Superintendent Chandler had faxed to him. Every interaction he had with anyone from Tyson took place by email, phone or fax, which included his interview and choice of housing; something he hoped he wouldn’t regret, although the symptoms were already starting to encroach on his peace of mind.

Grey dangled his key toward the knob as he carried two stacks of boxes, along with a finger-full of occupied hangers. The inside was musty and warm. Grey flicked on the tiny air conditioner that occupied the only window of the studio apartment. Although it rattled and shook the wall to make it’s presence known, all that blew out was warm air. No matter, he left the door open as he traversed back and forth to his car in four trips. After he finished, Grey shut the door as the space was being infested with hovering mosquitoes. The room contained a sofa bed that sat in perpetual pulled-out status. A pile of used, but clean sheets and two pillows sat atop it. The fuzzy green shag carpeting stopped at the small kitchenette that had been carved into an alcove complete with a stove, mini-fridge and microwave. The only separate space was the three piece bathroom just big enough to turn around in. Grey looked