The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper

those days, when he was the town hero worshipped by all, including his wife.
    â€œSo how long have you been the assistant coach?”
    â€œFive years.”
    â€œThat's a pretty long transition, isn't it?”
    He sighs. “No shit.”
    â€œDugan doesn't want to quit,” I say.
    â€œBingo.”
    That makes sense too. If the Bush Falls basketball players are the town's shining knights, then Dugan is their king, universally revered. He is greeted everywhere he goes with “Hey, Coach,” “Great game, Coach!” “Give 'em hell, Coach,” or some variation on that theme. His special table is always waiting for him at Halftime, where he traditionally goes with his wife after every home game. The restaurant is typically packed with former Cougars, and he invariably receives a round of applause when he enters, no doubt waving it down with feigned embarrassment well after it peaks.
    This kind of blind reverence affords him no small amount of power in Bush Falls, especially as his former players grow into positions of affluence in the community. Ex-athletes rarely leave their hometowns. Anywhere else, they would be just anyone else, an unthinkable fate after four glorious years playing for the most dominant high school basketball team in the region. The graduates from Dugan's basketball program are a fraternity unto themselves, and he is their sovereign leader, the nucleus serving as the single link to their glorious past. If an ex-Cougar needs a job, Dugan makes sure he gets one. If an ex-Cougar runs for local office, Dugan makes sure he gets the necessary votes. Because of his relationships throughout the Falls, Dugan is also a highly effective fund-raiser for Bush Falls High, which lends him significant leverage with the administration and the school board.
    Not surprisingly, Dugan is an arrogant, manipulative son of a bitch. And in my novel, he is also a chronic masturbator, a habit I rather artlessly connected to his nightly obsessive review of game tapes. The coach in his boxers, watching teenaged boys run and sweat as he pulls and twists his way to violent, angry orgasm. It's pure fiction, petty and mean-spirited, but I've never felt an ounce of remorse for writing it, in part because I hold Dugan responsible for what happened to Sammy and in part, I guess, because I am petty and mean-spirited.
    I look at Brad. “So you work for Dugan.”
    â€œThat's right,” he says pointedly.
    â€œI imagine he wasn't too pleased with my book.”
    â€œYou think?”
    â€œHis wife either, I guess.”
    â€œSeems that way.”
    â€œI'm sorry,” I say to Brad, although I'm not sure I am. “I guess it couldn't have been too comfortable working for him when the book came out.”
    â€œHe didn't take it out on me,” Brad says evenly. Then, looking directly at me, he adds, “Most people didn't.”
    â€œGlad to hear it,” I say, getting to my feet. “Are you done?”
    â€œYeah. But you barely touched your burger.”
    â€œIt tastes like milk shake,” I say.

nine
    Memory is never beholden to chronology. Even though I know my nephew, Jared, is now eighteen, in my mind he's still the scared fourteen-year-old I last saw that night in my apartment a few years ago. So when I come upon him stripped down to his underpants, rolling around on my father's living room couch with a girl in an equal state of undress, I am doubly surprised. The girl, upon hearing me enter the room, lets out a piercing shriek and dives gracelessly behind the couch for cover while Jared reflexively yanks up the tangled pile of clothes from the floor and pulls them onto his lap.
    â€œShit, I'm sorry,” I say, spinning on my heel and quickly leaving the room. I seem oddly predestined to be continually interrupting my relatives in midcoitus. There's a pattern forming here that might merit future study: the observation of lovemaking rather than the making of love.