GW Robichaux

"Damn, we're gettin' clobbered," GW muttered before taking a swig from the flask in his hand.

The teenager leaned back against the back of the bleachers and gestured out toward the pitching mound where the Crowley pitcher had just given the team from Midland High another home run. It was only the fifth inning, but Crowley High was down six to zip. At home.

Midland had won the division championship last year, and opponents needed to bring their 'A' game when they played against them. Crowley was decidedly not playing their 'A' game tonight, and GW wasn't sure they would be able to rally back to beat their district rival.

"Is Budreaux even tryin' to strike em' out?" He shook his head in disgust and handed the flask back to his fellow senior and former wrestling teammate. "TJ's little league team could play better, an that's th' truth!"

Chuckling, Bastian Sonnier reached out and accepted the flask for a drink of his own. "Dey tired, reckon," he said with slightly tipsy good-natured humor. "Saw dat ole boy St. John at Papa's liquor house las' night, doubt his head's quit spinnin'. You wouldn't be able to field nothin' after that neither."

Scratching his chest, the other boy squinted up into the lights surrounding the ballfield. "C'mon, ya bunch of girls!" he catcalled towards the playing field, and several older people in the crowd cast disapproving looks his way. Bastian smiled and waved. "You playin' like my gran'mother, you, and she got the 'ritis so bad she can't half move!"

GW shook his head and smiled, Bastian could always be counted on to liven things up. "We never liquored up 'fore a meet when we was wrestlin', they shouldn't neither." The boy put his fingers to his lips and whisted loudly, "Go sleep it off, Robbie! Let th' relief have a shot!"

His voice had just the touch of a slur to it. He'd already had a few beers down behind the Vocational School with several of his and Bastian's friends. Beer was easy to come by, it was the harder stuff that people wouldn't sell to them.

Several people turned to stare disapprovingly once again, but GW ignored them and took the flask back from his friend. "Y'all are playin' worse than my little brother's team, you are! Mebbe I call him an' see if he can fill in!"

The early evening was very warm, and Bastian was sleepy and a little drunk as he and GW continued to sit there. He'd filled the flask from his father's bottle of whiskey, which he'd swiped out of the older man's desk and then replaced without being caught. He was larger than his friend, built like a young bear, and he'd wrestled his way through high school both on and off the team.

"We oughta get up outta here," he suggested. "Dem boys gonna be runnin' their mouths when dey come off de field, and I'm likely to have to fight. Dat Gendron kid been givin' me a hairy eyeball since the fourth innin'. He open his mouth, I'm gonna pop 'im one." It might have been a joke, but a Bastian who'd been drinking was a Bastian who was likely to say - or do - anything. And bring GW along for the ride.

He looked at his friend in the way a mildly drunk person would, then clapped one hand onto his shoulder. "You all right to stay, or you wanna go?"

"Non, mon ami, I ain't lettin' no one run me off, no way no how." GW prized loyalty from his friends, and was loyal in return. Bastian had always been a good friend and he knew that he could count on the other boy to have his back if things got hairy.

"'Sides, th' band ain't playin' anywhere till tomorrow night." He'd been performing in bars, honkytonks and festivals since he was twelve, and planned to do it full time as a job after he graduated next month. There were hundreds of little bars in Southern Louisiana that offered live Zydeco and Cajun dance music and he had no doubt that he could make a living with his fiddle and was itching to get out of school and get started.

He took the flask back from Bastian and took a long swig of the whisky. "Anyone try somethin', they gonna regret it."

"I gonna knock his lights out, me. His daddy bought 'im a car las' month fer his birthday, he been makin' fun 'cause I got to walk ever'where." Bastian scowled, the heat and the liquor beginning to take their toll. The Sonniers were, if not poor, then at least hard-pressed, and there would be no cars as birthday presents without a minor miracle. "You jus' wait. He say one word...gonna be trouble."

The field drew his attention away from brooding when the crack of a bat sounded, and he squinted at the players as the batter began his hustle towards first base. "You run like a woman, you!" he jeered loudly, and several of the spectators tried to shush him. He waved them off impatiently, his strong legs bringing him to his feet as he continued to heckle. "Mebbe your coach should put you in a dress, huh? Might make you more comfortable!"

"I think you want to sit down," a stern voice said, and Bastian's shoulders hunched as he turned. "That's my son you're talking about." The man was in his early forties, maybe a little older, and the teenager's face darkened with annoyance.

"T'ink you wanna kiss my butt, you."

Oh, shit. GW didn't normally get into it with adults, at least not outside of the occasional bar fight that he couldn't avoid. People that old were trouble, trouble for him. But he'd said he'd stay and couldn't not back his friend's play.

"You always fight yer boy's battles, mister?" GW challenged, just drunk enough to not realize that it would only exacerbate the situation. "Yer boy looks like he can take care o' himself, he do. Why don' you jus' sit down?"

"Young man," the older gentleman said, drawing himself up to face both boys squarely. "This is a public place and there are ladies and children present. If you can't conduct yourselves decently, you should leave." He was clearly an upscale sort, his shirt freshly ironed, the knot in his tie only slightly loosened. Bastian decided he hated him.

"Nuh," he said, shaking his head. "You de one should leave. Me an' him, we live here. Dis our place, not yours." A thick index finger lifted, stopped within a hair's breadth of poking the man in the center of his chest. Behind them, the ball game went on, but more and more attention was being given to the smaller drama playing out in the stands.

Bastian somehow got hold of the flask again, took another drink. He capped it, stuffed it out of sight into the pocket of his jacket. "Mister, take yourself outta my face. Ain't gonna say it no more."

"Why don' you just go someplace else mister?" GW tried to defuse the situation as best he could that is to say, not well. "We ain't hurtin' nuthin, and your boy's team is winnin'."

He stood up beside Bastian, hoping like hell they weren't about to get into a fight. "Stay cool Bas'," he told his friend out the corner of his mouth, "Don' be throwin' th' first punch, hear?"

"I ain't ast to be spoke to," Bastian answered, his voice just as low. "He ain't my daddy. But I ain't hittin' nobody. Not wit'out bein' hit first." The late evening sun was weighing heavily on the back of the heavyset teenager's neck, and he slouched where he stood in the bleachers.

The older man made a face, catching a whiff of the whiskey fumes coming off of the older boy. "You're drunk," he said with almost prissy reproach. "I'm going to call someone from the school tomorrow and have you suspended."

"Not drunk, me," Bastian argued, and the situation began to teeter closer and closer to a fight. "Jus' had a few sips. Nobody ast you, nohow. Mind your business, huh?"

"Ain't you never had a few sips before, you?" GW was getting angry himself now. A suspension could threaten their graduation prospects, and freedom to do as they pleased afterwards. "We hurtin' anybody?" he inched forward just a little, instinctively, "Ain't doin' nothin' but hecklin' de other team."

He wasn't sure what he was going to do. but he wasn't going to let this stuffed shirt ruin his life with a simple phone call.

Bastian turned very slightly, and his expression turned both embarrassed and sullen when he recognized Mr. Jessup, his and GW's history teacher. "Ever't'in fine," he said, his tone quieting, but the way he cut his eyes at the apparent interloper spoke volumes."Jus' havin' a disagreement, sir."

There was a silence, and the second adult on the scene looked both boys over. "Have you been drinkin', Sebastian?" Mr. Jessup asked the larger teenager, a knowing if sympathetic expression of his face, and a dull red flush crept up Bastian's neck to color his ears and cheeks. "Yessir. Little bit. Not much."

Mr. Jessup sighed, nodding. He understood how restless these older boys could get, and liquor only added to their restlessness. "I think maybe you and George here need to go cool off, huh?"

GW didn't budge from his spot. "Ain't done nothin' wrong Mr. Jessup," he told the teacher, his expression mulish, "just a li'l catcallin' o' the other team, that's all. He just a sore winner, him, cause his boy's playin' fer Midland." He eyed the adults warily.

All he wanted was to be left alone to finish watching the game and then maybe go out to one of the Zydeco bars out in the country that didn't bother checking ID. He'd performed in jam bands in bars like that all over Cajun country and knew them well.

Bastian was looking down at the tops of his scuffed-up work boots. He had wanted to be left alone too, to sit with his friend and drink a little while watching the game, savoring these last few days of high school. Unlike GW, who simply didn't apply himself as well as he could, Bastian was just not very smart, and without coasting on his success as a wrestler he'd likely have been booted out of school altogether. His large hands twitched at his sides, then hung limp.

"He's intoxicated," the first man said, and a grunt escaped from the larger boy's throat. "I'm as upright as you," he said stubbornly. "Ain't ast you to be lookin' out fer me."

"Sebastian."

That was Mr. Jessup again, and Bastian blushed harder. Would the man at least stop using his full name? "Not my fault his boy run like a girl."

The history teacher snorted, then covered it with a cough. "Would you at least like a cold soda? Its awfully warm here tonight. You can have one too, George. We don't want trouble, all right?"

"I'm not lookin' fer trouble Mr. Jessup," GW liked the history teacher, but wasn't in the mood to give ground right now. "He threatenin t' get us suspended, him. He oughta be mindin his own business rather than pokin' into others."

The teenager's jaw clenched and he looked away. "'Suppose I could do with a cold soda, sure."

The older man shelled out money from his own pocket to buy two Cokes for the boys, and Bastian's meaty hand closed around the cup as though he were looking for a lifeline. Or someone to strangle, whichever came first. If Mr. Jessup had not come along, it was likely that he would have gone ahead and punched the ballplayer's father right in the mouth, adult or not. But in front of a teacher, someone he'd have to see every day until he graduated, he had subsided into a sullen, brooding silence.The bleacher seat sank beneath his weight, and his booted feet thumped onto the space in front of him one at the time.

He muttered something in gutter French as he re-focused his attention on the ballfield again, picking out the form of the aforementioned ballplayer where he hovered just beyond second base. Maybe he should catch up with him after the game. He felt like hitting somebody, and it just might not matter who that turned out to be.

"I gonna drink this, and then I'm goin' to the parkin' lot," he said to GW, trying to pretend as if the adults weren't still hovering entirely too close. "Game's almost over anyhow." The other boy would back whatever play he made, he knew that already. Only GW would have stood up next to him in the face of the earlier confrontation. He could always count on his buddy. "You 'bout ready to go?"

GW was still fuming at the interference by both the teacher and the visiting player's father. They hadn't been hurting anything, just having some booze and heckling the other team. Since when had that become a crime? He sipped his soda and eyed the ballplayers on the opposing team.

He chuckled at Bastian's muttering, having understood the words perfectly and agreeing with the sentiment expressed. Bastian normally had more of a temper than he did, but tonight GW's was shortened by the booze and the poor performance of the home team, and the boy was in a foul mood.

"Sure, ain't havin' no fun here anymore anyhow," he told his friend, chugging his soda down and tossing the can toward a nearby trash bin before standing up.

"See you at school Mr. Jessup, we'll be goin' now."

Mr. Jessup watched them leave, his expression troubled as he looked at their retreating backs. He'd genuinely been trying to help, especially the Sonnier boy, who always seemed to struggle unless he was in a wrestling match, but he was afraid that he might well have just made things worse. He'd check on them when he saw them at school again, make sure everything was all right.

"Dumbass," Bastian muttered, squashing the cup in his hand before pitching it into a trash can with much more force than was necessary. "I gotta get outta dis place," he added, waving his hand around as if to indicate the school in general. "Bad 'nough dey on me all week, now can't even have no fun at a ball game. Merde!"

The teenager swiped one fist through the air, swinging at nothing. He fumbled the flask out of his pocket and took an almost defiant drink, then offered it to GW. "We oughta go find some beers, us," he said. "I got money, got paid yesterday. We'll go where dey don' care how old we are, hear some music. I got my uncle's car. Feel up for it?"

"Sounds good t' me, podna," GW responded, slapping his friend on the back before taking the offered flask and tilting it back for a healthy sip. "I could stand t' hear some music, mebbe do some dancin'," the teenager scanned the full parking lot, noting the different types of cars. They ranged from thirty year old rusted out beaters all the way up to brand new SUV sitting next to Bastian's uncle's old chevy pickup.

"Well, well, well...lookie here Bas, whatca wanna bet this is peckerhead's?" GW circled the SUV, looking at the bumper. Sure enough there two stickers on the back: My son is a Midland High Honor Student, and Midland Baseball.

"Midlan' is balls," Bastian announced, still stinging from the way the older man, the ballplayer's father, had looked at him.. You're drunk. As if some rich snot nose knew him from Adam! It was all crap as far as he was concerned; school, teachers, work, life, all of it. The boy cursed under his breath, bumped his shoulder against the SUV in an aggressive fashion.

"You drunk," he said to GW in an overly prissy voice, clasping his hands together in a schoolmarmish way. "Shame on you, you piece of gutter trash. Huh. Ought to not be speakin' to your betters. Show you not to forget your place." He circled the vehicle, scowled at the bumper stickers, placed both hands on the passenger door.

"You ain't better den me, you," he muttered, looking through the window at the dashboard and stereo system with a scowl. How much did a car like this cost, anyway? A lot, probably, more money than his whole family had. Bastian's frown deepened, fueled by alcohol and frustration and the uncertainty of the future. What would he do with himself after graduation, if he graduated? He'd never really thought about it.

"T'ink I don' like dis car, GW."

"I don' like it much either, podna," GW replied, and took another sip from the flask before handing it back to his friend. "Thinkin' it looks pretty ugly. Mebbe we can pretty it up some, non?" He glanced in the bed of their pickup and reached down for the tire iron under the spare tire.

The teenager tapped the iron against his hand, staring at the SUV with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Jus' needs a little tune up, thass all." When had the day gotten so hot? Bastian had no idea. But even in the new evening dusk, he could feel how overly warm he was, and he wiped a hand across his forehead. He finished the contents of the flask off, then did some rummaging of his own in the truck bed.

Tools rattled, empty beer cans rolled back and forth, and finally he came up with a good-sized hammer. "Gonna show you who's better, reckon," he muttered, giving the object an experimental swing. Just as if it were a baseball bat. He'd always knew he hated baseball for a reason.

"Don' like you, me. And don' like your car neither."

"Think it'll look better with some busted headlights 'n windows," GW told his friend conversationally, and took a swing at the passenger side tail light. The tire iron shattered the plastic with a satisfying 'crack', and tiny peices of red and white plastic littered the ground at GW's feet. He moved around to the front and repeated the process on the passenger side window, turing the glass into hundreds of jagged pieces the size of a grain of rice.

"We best be doin' what we gonna do and get gone, Bastian."

"You waitin' on me, you backin' off," Bastian said with grim humor, then swung the hammer with clumsy determination at the back windshield. It cracked but didn't shatter, and he grimaced before slamming the object into the passenger door instead. That made a nicely pronounced dent in the metal, and he darted a glance at the ballfield

Two more dents followed the first one, and the larger boy let out a grunt of effort as he knocked the rearview mirror off onto the ground. They were going to have to make a fast getaway after this. It wouldn't be just suspension if they got caught; both of them could face expulsion.

"Midlan' is balls," Bastian said for the second time, realizing that his bladder was suddenly entirely too heavy. And the night was hot, not just warm, but hot. He looked at the hammer, at the damage he'd already done,. then shambled around to the back of the SUV. "Dey is merde!"

It started out as a few drops, then turned into a small deluge as the offending bumper stickers got a good dousing. Bastain was muttering the words of Crowley's fight song under his breath, the hammer on the ground next to his foot. And that was the precise moment in history when a couple and their two children made their way into the parking lot, having decided to try and beat the rush of the departing spectators.

Later, it was unknown if either boy heard them approach, but they absolutely heard the clear sound of a boy no more than nine ask, quite loudly, "Daddy, why's that boy peein' on that car?"

Merde. After destroying the window, GW had contented himself with knocking off the mirror from the door and puncturing the tire with his pocket knife. Once he'd accomplished those tasks he'd gone to put the tire iron back in the pickup, and then heard the little boy's voice. Merde.

They were truly up the creek now. If they'd been able to make a clean getaway they might have been able to claim that they didn't know anything about it and the cops would have had to worked to build a case against them. Now, they were caught red handed by several witnesses and GW noticed a few other people coming their way. That included an off duty police officer he recognized from a few events he'd performed at, the man had been moonlighting as security to make extra money. The older man did not look happy at all as he surveyed the damage and then the two teenagers.

"You boys just started up the creek without a paddle, you did," the officer told them, shaking his head and reaching for his radio to call it in, "Y'all just put yer hands against th' truck there and stand still."

GW nodded resignedly and did as the cop ordered.

"Daddy gonna kill me," Bastian slurred forlornly as his own hands came to rest against the side of the truck. He squinted into the glare of the flashlight, then looked down to avoid it when the light hurt his eyes. His fly was still undone. He hadn't meant for this to go so far, but he'd been too drunk to care. Now it looked like he was in for it.

"Daddy gonna make me dead," he added, and the police officer said, "Well, you should've thought about your daddy before you started destroyin' things." The larger boy ducked his head, ears burning with new humiliation. The click of the cuffs going around his thick wrists was very loud, deafening, and his stomach quaked with apprehension.

"GW?" he whispered, looking at his friend over the hood of the old truck. "I sorry."

GW's head hung low and he felt like he was going to throw up. Bastian's father wasn't the only one who would be furious. His own had never hit him aside from taking him over his knee and hitting him in the rear with his belt, but this was far beyond the few bar fights or late nights he'd pulled before. His cheeks were burning bright red from the shame and the booze, and the teenager had no idea how he was going to face his family again.

"I gotta t'row up," he slurred in warning to the policeman before vomiting up the alcohol he'd consumed over the course of the baseball game. The stinking mess narrowly missed the cop's shoes and the officer grimaced at the smell as he put the cuffs on GW's wrists.

"Ain't yer fault I was here," he whispered back to Bastian. "I started it anyhow, Bas, don't you pay it no nevermind."

One thing was for certain, they were in deep shit now and GW had no idea how they were going to get out.