spike-heeled shoes an a blond Beatle wig, an Dan was wavin two big champagne bottles out the winder. Next, Mister Tribble done quit, too. Just up an left one day, an after that so did everbody else, account of they not get-tin paid, an finally, the only one left to answer the phones was ole Sue, an when the phone company pulled out the phones, Sue left, too. Guess he figgered he wadn’t bein useful no more.
“I reckon they took all your money, Forrest,” Bubba’s daddy said.
“Who took it?” I ast him.
“They all did,” he said. “Dan, Mr. Tribble, the secretaries and the crews and the office help. They was all luggin stuff out of there. Even ole Sue. Last time I seen him, he was peekin around a corner of the buildin, carryin a computer under his arm.”
Well, this was all very bad news. I just couldn’t believe it! Dan. An Mister Tribble. An Sue!
“Whatever,” says Bubba’s daddy. “Forrest, you is wiped out.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I have been there before.”
Anyhow, wadn’t nothin to do about it now. Let em have it then. That night I set there on one of our docks. Big ole half moon out over the Mississippi Sound come up an sort of hung over the water. I was thinkin that this wouldn’t of happened if Mama had of been here. An also, I was thinkin about Jenny Curran, or whoever she was now—with little Forrest, who is actually my son. An I had promised her my share of the srimp bidness so’s little Forrest would have some money to fall back on if he ever needed it. So what am I gonna do? I am ruint. Broke! An that’s okay when you are young an don’t have no responsibilities. But, hell, here I am more than thirty years old now, an I wanted to do somethin good for little Forrest. An what has happened? I have made a mess of it again. It is the story of my life.
I got up an walked down to the end of the pier. Ole half moon still just hangin right there over the water. All of a sudden I just felt like cryin, an I leaned over on one of the big pilings that holds up the pier. Damn if it didn’t bust right off into the water, rotten, an carried me with it. Shit. Here I am again, a fool, standin in the water up to my waist. I wouldn’t of minded then if a shark or somethin had swum by an eat me up. But it didn’t, so I waded on out an caught the first bus back to New Orleans, just in time to start sweepin up in the strip joint.
A day or so later, ole Snake dropped by Wanda’s about closin time. His hand was all bandaged up an in a splint from gettin it sprained on my head, but he had somethin else on his mind.
“Gump,” he says, “let me get this straight. After all the shit you have done in life, you are now the cleanup man in a dive like this? Are you crazy? Let me ask you somethin—you still run as fast as you did in college?”
“I dunno, Snake,” I said. “I ain’t had much practice.”
“Well, let me tell you somethin,” he says. “I don’t know if you know it, but I am the quarterback for the New Orleans Saints. And as you might of heard, we ain’t doin so good lately. Like we is oh and eight so far, and everbody’s callin us the ‘Ain’ts’! We gotta play the goddamn New York Giants next weekend, and the way we are goin, we will then be oh and nine, and I will probably get fired.”
“Football?” I ast him. “You still playin football?”
“Well, what else am I gonna play, you idiot—the trombone? Now, listen here, we gotta have some kind of trick against them Giants on Sunday. And I think you might just be it. It won’t take much—just one or two plays, that’s all you’ll have to practice. You do okay, you might make a career for yourself.”
“Well, I dunno, Snake. I mean, I ain’t played no football since you thowed that pass out of bounds on fourth down to stop the clock an we lost the championship to them cornshuckers from…”
“Damnit, Gump, don’t remind me of that again—it was twenty years ago! Everbody’s forgotten about it by now—except apparently you. For God’s sake, here you are moppin up a beer joint at two in the morning and you’re turning down the opportunity of a lifetime? What are you, some kind of nut?”
I was about to answer yes when Snake interrupted me an begun scribblin on a bar napkin.
“Look, here’s the address of the practice field. Be there tomorrow at one sharp. Show them this note, and tell them to bring you to me.”
After he left I stuck the napkin in my pocket an went back to cleanin up the place, an that night when I went home I laid up in bed till dawn, thinkin about what Snake had said. Maybe he was right. Anyhow, might not hurt to try. I remembered those times back at the University of Alabama all them years ago, an Coach Bryant an Curtis an Bubba an the guys. An when I did, I got kind of misty-eyed, account of they were some of the best times of my life, when that crowd was roarin an yellin, an we almost always won all our games. Anyhow, I got dressed an gone out an got some breakfast, an by one o’clock I had arrived on my bicycle at the New Orleans Saints’s practice field.
“Who you say you are again?” the guard asts when I shown him Snake’s napkin. He is lookin me up an down pretty suspiciously.
“Forrest Gump. I used to play ball with Snake.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he says. “That’s what they all say.”
“I did, though.”
“Well, wait a minute, then.” He looked at me kind of disgusted like an went off through a door. Few minutes later he comes back, shakin his head.
“All right, Mr. Gump. Follow me.” An he takes me back to the locker room.
Now, I have seen some big fellers in my time. I remember them University of Nebraska players, an
“Yeah,” I says. “Snake.”
“Well, he ain’t here today. Coach made him go to the doctor on account of he sprained his hand hittin some idiot on the head in a bar.”
“I know,” I says.
“Well, anything else I can do for you?”
“I dunno,” I tole him. “Snake says for me to come by here an see if y’all want me to play ball for you.”
“Play ball? For us?” He got kind of a funny little squint in his eye.
“Uh huh. See Snake an I was on the same team back at Alabama. He tole me last night to…”
“Wait a minute,” the feller says. “Your name ain’t Forrest Gump, by any chance, is it?”
“Yup, sure is.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I heard about you, Gump. Snake says you run like a bat out of hell.”
“Dunno about that anymore. I ain’t run in a while.”
“Well, I tell you what, Gump, Snake asked me to give you a tryout. Why don’t you come in here and let’s get you suited up—By the way, my name’s Coach Hurley. I coach wide receivers.”
He took me back to the uniform room, an they found some clothes an shit for me. Lord it was different from back at the University. All them clothes have changed now. They got twice as many pads an pieces of rubber an stuff, so’s when you get all suited up, you look like a Mars-man or somethin, an when you stand up, you feel like you gonna tump over. When I finally get dressed, everbody else is already out on the field doin they exercises an shit. Coach Hurley motion me over to his group, which is runnin pass patterns, an say for me to get in line. I remembered this part from my playin days—just run out about ten yards an turn around an they thow you the ball. When my turn comes, I run out an turn around an the ball hits me square in the face, an it surprised me so much I tripped an fell on the ground. Coach Hurley shake his head, an I ran on back to the end of the line. Four or five times later, I ain’t caught a ball yet an all the other guys be kind of avoidin me. Like I needed a bath or somethin.
After a while, Coach begun hollerin an shoutin, an everbody gone on into the scrimmage. They was divided up into two teams an after a few plays, Coach Hurley motion me over to him.
“All right, Gump,” he says. “I don’t know why I am doin this, but you go on in there at wide receiver and see if you can catch a ball, so Snake, whenever he gets here, is not going to be a laughingstock—or, for that matter, me either.”
I run into the huddle an tell them I am there. The quarterback looks at me like I’m nuts, but says “Okay,
