Edward Adrift

Big Mac, large fries, and a large Coke. I order a grilled chicken sandwich, no fries, and an unsweetened iced tea. It’s not an ideal diabetic meal, but it’s better than what Kyle has.
    I’m the first to notice that six men in this restaurant are wearing Denver Broncos jerseys with Tim Tebow’s name on the back. I’m usually the first to notice such things. I point it out to Kyle.
    “That’s because Tim Tebow’s the best,” he says.
    This is so far beyond absurd that I cannot believe it.
    “He’s the best what?”
    “He’s the best quarterback in the NFL.”
    “Kyle,” I say, “that is a laughable contention. I know you are a Denver Broncos fan, but you’re being ridiculous.”
    “Who’s better?”
    I laugh a ha-ha laugh. I even snort a little bit, which is strange. “Aaron Rodgers is better. Tom Brady is better. Drew Brees is better. Ben Roethlisberger is better. Tony Romo is better. Lots of other guys, too. I can prove this statistically.”
    “Tony Romo! That’s a laugh!”
    “He is, Kyle.” It’s a strange feeling. I know that I’m being defensive because Tony Romo is the Dallas Cowboys’ quarterback, and the Dallas Cowboys are my favorite team. But I am also correct about this. Also, my voice is getting loud.
    “Tony Romo is a punk,” Kyle says.
    “He’s better than Tim Tebow.” I’m being really loud now, and people are starting to look at us. Three of the men wearing Tim Tebow jerseys begin walking toward our table. I ignore theirapproach and keep arguing with Kyle. “Do you know what Tony Romo’s completion percentage is? It’s sixty-six-point-three percent. Do you know what Tim Tebow’s is? It’s forty-six-point-five percent.”
    One of the jersey-wearing men, a guy who looks to be in his mid-twenties and is so large that he probably shouldn’t be eating at McDonald’s, says, “Tim Tebow wins. A lot more than Tony Romo does.”
    “OK,” I say, “but you have to acknowledge the fact that one player can’t do everything. Tim Tebow has a better defense than Tony Romo does. That makes a difference.”
    “All I know,” says another man with a Tebow jersey, “is that the Broncos were one-and-four before Tebow started playing. They’re seven-and-one since he got in there.”
    Kyle looks at me with a big smirk on his face. “Yeah!” he says.
    “I’m not talking about wins and losses,” I say. My eyes are moving back and forth between the two men who have rudely injected themselves into my discussion with Kyle. “The debate is quarterback ability. Tony Romo is better than Tim Tebow.”
    Everybody around us groans, and now the third man wearing a Tim Tebow jersey jumps in. “What’s the point of being a quarterback other than to win?”
    “I’m just—” I say, but I’m cut off, because now the second one is back at it.
    “You’ve got big balls, bad-mouthing Tim Tebow in Denver, dude.”
    A chorus of “Yeah” goes up in McDonald’s. Kyle is sitting there with a shit-eating grin on his face. I’m not even sure where that saying comes from. Why would anybody grin after eating shit?
    I try to talk, but everybody in the restaurant boos me, and a couple of people—including Kyle—throw french fries at me.
    This sucks.

    On our seventh lap around the big shopping center parking lot, Kyle, who is walking a couple of steps behind me, says, “Will you buy me a Tim Tebow jersey?”
    I stop, turn, and stare at him. I am incredulous.
    “You must be kidding. After what happened in there? You have big balls.” I didn’t like the men in the Tim Tebow jerseys, but I like this saying that one of them introduced me to.
    “You owe me a buck,” Kyle says.
    “‘Balls’ isn’t a curse word.”
    “So I can say ‘balls’ as much as I like?”
    Kyle has me cornered. I don’t think I should lose a dollar on a word like “balls.” On the other hand, I don’t think Donna will be pleased with me if I send her son home and he’s saying “balls” all the time. I think she will be especially angry if she finds out that I gave him permission to say it.
    “OK,” I say. “Your debt is now down to two hundred and one.”
    “What about the Tim Tebow jersey?”
    He has incredibly big balls.
    “No.”
    “If I’m good the rest of the trip?”
    “Maybe.”
    “If I call my mom twice a day?”
    He has relentlessly big balls.
    “Yes.”

    Back in the Cadillac DTS, we take a big loop around Denver, out past the new airport, to Interstate 40 East. For part of the