Chapter Eight Fran #3
“Just talk to RJ. See what you can come up with,” Kon wheedled. “He owns his own business. You know he has it.”
“I’m not asking RJ.” Hale had finished his ice cream. His face was sticky with vanilla, and he was trying to get the bigger boys to give him one of the little snaps to throw.
“It’s your father, Fran. And Mom. They’re going to lose the house where they raised you,” Damien called, but she pretended she couldn’t hear him over the music.
In the late afternoon everyone gathered along the beach, first to watch the rowing races and then the main event.
There were hundreds of boats in the harbor, there were Jet Skis and paddleboards and kayaks, and anyone who didn’t have a professional camera had their phone ready.
In recent years people even flew drones over the whole spectacle to catch the Greasy Pole from above.
It was easy to spot RJ among the crowd on the pier.
There were dozens of guys waiting to walk the pole, half of them shirtless, still covered in green Crisco from the morning’s practice, the other half in costumes as varied as they were bizarre.
There was a guy in a cowboy hat and vest, a guy dressed as Captain Hook, there were tutus and bunny ears and grass skirts.
Fran had to assume that for every guy on that platform there was a mother or a wife standing on the beach, just dying of embarrassment over the whole thing.
All the competitors knew that if you just walked, you’d fall in right away, so the key was to hurl yourself as quickly as you could toward the flag and see if the momentum could get you there before gravity kicked in.
Some people tried to run straight, their toes facing the end of the pole, but the best ones knew how to run sideways so that their feet could kind of curl around the pole for purchase as they scrabbled like crabs.
The first several guys only made it a few steps before sliding off into the water.
A big man in a wrestling costume made it a third of the way before slipping, but on the way down he grabbed the pole with his arms and bear hugged it, hanging on like a sloth for a few extra moments before dropping into the harbor.
A shirtless guy in red trunks hit his chin on the way down and an EMT on a Jet Ski darted over to haul him out of the water and bring him to shore.
Blood poured down his neck and chest. He saluted the platform before climbing in the back of an ambulance to go get stitches on his chin.
Fran felt a nervous tightness pass through her.
What if RJ lost a tooth or broke his wrist?
What if they had to pay a thousand dollars for dental work?
What if he ended up on crutches? There was a line somewhere between the kind of fun that made you feel alive and the kind of fun that inconvenienced everyone around you.
Fran couldn’t decide where the Greasy Pole fell.
Sure, Fran had her share of hangover days where her parenting had been less than stellar, but for the most part she kept herself in check, always thinking about her kids, about dinner, about laundry, about her savings account.
She felt awash in fury at her father. What was he thinking, betting away money he didn’t even have?
It was stupid. It was selfish, inconceivably so.
When RJ’s name was called London and Hale screamed and started jumping up and down like popcorn.
“Get the flag, Daddy! Get the flag!” Hale was so excited he looked like he was going to faint, and Fran grinned in spite of herself, muttering an entirely different kind of prayer, one to ward off broken bones and teeth.
With a whoop, RJ took off down the pole, half running, half skating on the green muck.
At first it looked like he might actually make it, whirling his arms and flying along the beam.
The crowd started screaming, but then halfway across he began to lose control.
He was sliding, he was waving his arms, but then it was like he realized what was happening and gave in to the moment.
He kicked himself back off the beam and flew, falling, falling, tumbling into a joyful backflip as he crashed down into the water.
The crowd roared and Fran screamed and laughed.
It was classic RJ, a spectacle of unruly glee even in defeat.
When his head popped back out of the water he gave a wave, maybe to the crowd, but most likely to Fran and the boys, before swimming back out to the platform to cheer for the rest of the gang.
RJ would stay out all night celebrating.
He would drink and smoke and arrive home in an Uber long after midnight, covered in grease and seawater and probably somebody else’s tutu.
And while he did that, Fran would run the laundry, would bathe the boys, would turn on nightlights, and would check under beds for monsters, because that was her job, and she felt it harden like a pit in her stomach—to put up with the bullshit, to clean up the mess, and to take care of everyone but herself.