by Ron Koertge
When Muriel is finished (“Shelby livdud — devor-boor!”), we all applaud politely.
Mr. Sterling calls her name and Megan, who’s been sitting by the window wearing some kind of long dress, stands up, pads to the candle, and blows it out. Then she unbuttons the dress and takes it off.
That makes the athletes sit up. It’s not totally dark. Light seeps in around the blinds and from under the door.
I watch her drag a desk-size theater (proscenium, wings, apron, curtain) and set it up where Mr. Sterling usually sits.
Once, in my other school, an English teacher took us to a matinee at the Mark Taper Forum in downtown Los Angeles. There wasn’t a curtain, so between scenes people in black glided out from the wings to carry off the flowers, push the couch back and turn it into a bed, and generally get things ready for Act Two.
The next day in class we discussed the play, pondered its meaning, and talked about our favorite parts of the performance. Well, the play was long, the actors were loud, and my favorite part was riding home on the train. But I kept those opinions to myself. When I had to say something, I claimed to like those people who came out in the dark between scenes.
The teacher, Mrs. Columbus, gushed, “Behind the scenes would be a wonderful place for someone like you to start, Ted.”
“Yeah,” muttered somebody from the back row, “way behind the scenes. Like out in the street.”
Everybody laughed, and Mrs. Columbus tried not to.
Nobody’s laughing at Megan. Her black bodysuit is skintight. There’s even a snug cap to cover her hair.
Miniature footlights come on, then something from an opera. Something sad in Italian. She lets us listen to that for a little while before she disappears behind the tiny stage and says, “Today I’m presenting ‘The Body as Prom King.’ This is theater, okay? Just much, much smaller. And before you roll your eyes and remember those little fuzzy hand puppets you got for Christmas that ended up under the bed, I’d like to remind everyone that puppetry is an art. There’s the Teatrong Mulat of the Philippines, the Bunraku puppets from Japan, Balinese and Chinese shadow puppets, just to name a few. Now — curtain up, house lights down. Here is Act One.”
A pair of tiny somethings carved from Styrofoam rise center stage. One on each index finger. “Think of these organs as twins,” she croons. “Lost children. Kid-neys.” She breaks the word in half. “The legs know each other intimately; they twine and flex. The arms and hands are perfect allies. If the eyes are lonely for each other, they look in the mirror. But the kidneys are always apart.”
All of a sudden I get a sharp pain in my back, right where my kidneys are. For the first time I wonder what it was like for my parents.
What was jarred loose during the accident? Did the spleen carom off the ribs? Did the stomach open like a wet sack? Did the punctured lungs collapse? Was everything flooded with blood?
As Megan makes her way through the body, I have to hold on to the desk with both hands. My liver throbs, then my trachea spasms, my heart speeds up, and when she comes to the brain, mine aches thinking of theirs shaking in their skulls as the car turns over and over and then bursts into flame.
Just before I almost pass out, Megan finishes. The lights go on, she takes a bow, and class is dismissed.
I almost can’t get up. Somebody slaps me on the back of the head on his way out. “What are you, O’Connor? The freakin’ Bird Whisperer?”
In the hall, it’s like Megan has been waiting for me. She hugs all her girlfriends good-bye and hustles over.
“How did you do that thing with the bird?” she asks.
“He was already scared to death. I stayed calm.”
“He just sat there until you picked him up. Did you learn how to do that at your parents’ store?”
“At my parents’ store I learned how to wash dogs.” I point to the door of our English class. “I like that thing you just did. It really got to me. My parents’ car rolled over. Did you know that?”
She shakes her head. “Just that they died.”
I shift my books from one hand to the other. “So when you were talking about lungs and hearts and all that . . . well, it all just made me think about my folks and their lungs and hearts and stuff.”
She puts her hand on my chest. The flat of her hand right on my sternum. Usually I’d flinch. Usually it’s what somebody would do to push another person away, but not this time. This time it connects me to her.
“Oh, Teddy,” she says. “You can’t just sit up in that attic and think things like that.”
“I don’t. Really. I go out; I’ve got friends.”
“Where do you go?”
“Well . . .” All I can think of is the backyard and the garbage cans. And school. And that one time with Astin.
“Exactly. And name three friends.”
I’m all over that one. “You, Astin, and C.W.”
“I don’t count, Teddy. I’m unstable. You need a girlfriend. If you’re alone too much, the hyenas will get you.”
I honest to God take a step back. “What! What’d you just say?”
“I said if you’re alone too much, the hyenas will get you. Don’t you watch the Animal Channel?”
Her hand is still on my chest, and it’s warm. Maybe even warmer.
“Hang around with boys,” she says, “and all you do is brag and eat trans fats. And if you want to have a little cry, you’re gay. Girls love it when boys cry, and I know just the girl.”
“Megan, I don’t think so.”
“How can you not think so? You don’t even know who she is.”
“I mean I’m, uh, kind of busy.”
“Doing what? Being an orphan? How much time does that take?”
“I just . . . I want to keep my grades up, and basically I don’t date, okay?”
“It’s not a date. It’s having a friend who’s a girl. Wanda’s like two years older than you. She graduates with Astin in six weeks, and then she’s leaving for New York, so it can’t be a date. You’re a way more interesting guy than you give yourself credit for, and she’s totally fabulous. I’ll set it up. You and Astin come over. Wanda and I will be there. We’ll swim; I’ll have stuff to eat. Don’t say no or I’ll cry.”
A week or so later, I’m walking down the stairs at the Rafters’ when C.W. comes out of his room. “What’s the big deal with Little Noodle?” he says. “Astin made it sound like somebody with an ax. It’s a doll.”
“Yeah, but didn’t that whole scene freak you out?”
“Compared to havin’ to shoplift for some foster mom who needs a hundred dollars for a new tattoo? Get serious. A few choruses of ‘Rock-a-Bye-Baby’ to the Noodle and I get this.” He points to his polo shirt.
I’m still not used to him in his new clothes.
He grins at me. “What’d you pay for those cargo pants?”
“They were on sale at the Gap.”
“Hey, just sing to the Noodle and you get an upgrade to Banana Republic.”
“Astin and I do just fine at the Gap.”
“Does he go in the dressing room with you and make sure everything’s just fabulous?”
“No.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Teddy, man. I’m pullin’ your chain here, okay? Just doin’ the dozens at the undergraduate level, if you get my drift. So let’s try it again. I say, ‘Did he go in the dressing room with you?’ and you say, ‘Fuck you.’”
“I don’t use the f-word.”
“Okay, okay. How about I say, ‘So you two go in the dressing room and he keeps dropping his keys. I sure hope you didn’t pick ’em up.’”
“But that didn’t happen.”
C.W. laughs out loud. “You’re one of a kind, Teddy. Where’d you grow up, Mars?”
“Kind of.”
“Let’s try this one more time. Forget Astin, okay? I know he’s not gay. Let’s say you get on my nerves, so I tell you, ‘Iron is iron and steel don’t rust; yo mama got an ass like a Greyhound bus.’ What do you say?
”
“Does it have to rhyme?”
“No. But if you gonna cap my rap, it has to put me in my place, man. I just disrespected your mama.”
“I’m not very good at this.”
“Try, ‘Yeah, well, yo mama raised you on ugly milk.’”
“I say that to you?”
“Uh-huh.”
I stand up a little straighter. “Okay, but is Ugly Milk a brand, or is the milk itself just unattractive?”
C.W. laughs and drapes his arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the living room. “You’re either the hippest son of a bitch I’ve seen in a long time or the dumbest cracker in the world.”
Astin’s watching TV, but he still wants to know who’s the dumbest cracker in the world.
“Teddy here,” says C.W.
“Leave Teddy alone, homie. Teddy’s my right-hand man.”
“Why don’t you use your own hand, you lazy puke?”
They’re both laughing when I give Astin the grammar exercise he left on my bed this morning. I tell him, “I changed a few things. You still don’t know what a prepositional phrase is.”
He barely glances at it. “Thanks, Teddy.”
“So are you ready to go?”
“In a minute.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, where a science-fiction movie is playing. “I want to see the thing with all the arms again.” He motions to C.W. “There was a black guy, but the monster ate him first.”
“Now, ain’t that the way it goes, though.” He saunters over to Astin. “Word on the street is you and Ted were makin’ out in the Gap.”
“Fuck you.” He waves me toward him. “You’re in this movie, too, Teddy.”
“Yeah? Which one am I?”
He points. “Mr. Thoughtful there in the glasses. He’s next on the menu.”
“Where you guys goin’?” C.W. asks. “When you go?”
I answer for both of us. “Megan’s.”
“She’s Belle’s friend, right?”
“One of ’em,” says Astin.
“Belle’s cute. She was watchin’ us play ball the other day.”
“Teddy here’s fixed up with Wanda today.”
“Which one is she now?” asks C.W.
Astin cups both hands and holds them in front of his chest. “Curly hair, real white skin, big rack.”
C.W. leans into me. “There you go, Slick. Live off the fat of the land. We make a player out of you yet.”
“Ted! Can I see you a minute.”
We all look at Mr. Rafter, who came out of nowhere.
I tell him, “Sure.”
“I’m not waitin’ till your movie’s over. Meet me out back.”
“Oh, man,” says C.W. “He chewed me out yesterday for leavin’ the hall light on. Now it’s your turn.”
Astin shakes his finger at me. “Just don’t drag those garbage cans. Lift ’em. That way they last longer.”
C.W. points to the screen. “Here comes the monster.”
Outside, Bob is turning the trash cans so the OSH labels face the same way. “Want to give me a hand here, Ted?”
We carry the first one out of the little corral he made for them, up the driveway, and almost to the street. Then on our way back, he says, “Let me show you something.”
We skip the rest of the trash cans and go right into his workshop, which is spotless. The saw blades gleam, the drill press is immaculate, all the tools hanging on the wall have white outlines like bodies at a crime scene.
“I spend a lot of time in here,” he says, “because everything is where it’s supposed to be when it’s supposed to be there. Are you following me here?”
“I think so.”
“Sir.”
“I think so, sir.”
“So when you’re supposed to be down for breakfast at seven thirty, that’s what I mean.”
“But I do come down at seven thirty.”
“Five.”
I look up at him. “Pardon me?”
“Seven thirty-five. That’s when you came down yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“Measure twice; cut once. Screw up twice and you’re history.”
“I’ll get up earlier.”
“Good for you. You’re not much trouble, Ted. I’ll give you that. You don’t whine to your social worker or give me any lip. But you can always do better.”
He leads me outside again. I know what I’m supposed to say. “I can take care of the rest of these trash cans. They’re not heavy.”
“That’s the ticket,” he says. “Now, listen up — when Astin leaves in June, we’re not taking another boy. That room is yours. The same goes for C.W. if he lasts that long. You two are it. Don’t upset the applecart and you can age out here. Then I’m going on a cruise to Alaska: all you can eat and bears to look at through the binoculars. Barbara can come if she wants to or she can sit in her rocker with that doll. It’s all the same to me.”
“I understand.” I pick up one of the green cans.
“Don’t drag it, and it’ll last longer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure you finish up out here before you do anything else.”
“Astin and I are just going over to Megan’s.”
“Well, police this area first, and when you rake that little patch of dirt over there, I want to see all the lines in one direction.”
Astin starts the Harley, and I climb on behind him. I used to think I was like the feral cats my mother fed behind the shop. They lived by the underpass, the parking structure, the clump of trees behind the cul-de-sac.
But I’m not a feral cat, and I wonder if I ever was. Maybe I was just a kid who was hard to like. Every now and then somebody would try, and I’d hiss and run away. But now Astin likes me a little and I can make C.W. laugh.
Astin half turns around. “How’d it go with Bob?”
“I got the workshop tour. ‘Everything in its place.’”
“The poor bastard. He practically lives out there.” Astin pats his pockets. “You got any money, Ted?”
“Some.”
“Loan me sixty, will you? I don’t want to stop by the ATM. We’re late now.”
“I have to go upstairs.”
“So? What are you waiting for?”
I’m up and down inside of a minute. Astin stashes the three twenty-dollar bills and pops the clutch.
At the stoplight just before we turn onto Huntington, he says, “Wanda goes for younger guys, always has. When we were fourteen, she was making out with twelve-year-olds. When we were sixteen, she was driving fourteen-year-olds around.”
“What do I talk to her about?”
“Whatever.”
“I’m serious, Astin.”
“Tell her about your folks.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea. ‘My parents died in a fiery crash. Can I get you some barbecue?’”
“She’s going to go on about how fat she is, okay? So let her and then say, ‘Stop being hard on yourself.’”
“I can’t tell her what to do. I just met her.”
“She’s fishing for a compliment. I’m telling you, man, she’s yours if you want her.”
I want to tell Astin I wouldn’t know where to start. Instead I say, “My father made me promise I wouldn’t get married, and my devoted mother told me once the only thing any woman would ever want me for is to get a piece of the business.”
He twists the throttle and we spurt ahead. “You know,” he shouts, “if those fuckers were alive, I’d go over there and set their house on fire.”
“Too late for that. Anyway, thanks for telling me what to say to Wanda.”
“Teddy, man. Relax. It’s just a day at the pool with a couple of girls.”
I’m not going to tell him I’ve never been anywhere with even one girl.
Megan and Wanda are waiting for us. Wanda’s not more than an inch taller than I am; she’s solid and strong when we shake hands. She’s barefoot in loose pants and a V-neck top. Megan’s wearing some ki
nd of pool cover-up; she looks like a statue about to be unveiled to thunderous applause.
She kisses Astin like we’re not there, so Wanda leads me toward the kitchen. “I’d tell them to get a room,” she says, “but they would, and where would that leave us?”
I can hardly see the counter for all the stuff from Bristol Farms, a market so upscale that my parents went there to point at things, like they were on a field trip.
I say, “That would leave us alone with enough food for six people.”
Wanda pretends to think that over. “You know, that doesn’t sound all that bad.”
She gets a lot of potato salad on a big spoon. “C’mon. Friends don’t let friends eat alone.” She hands me a napkin as she says, “My goal today is to gain five pounds and fall asleep in the sun. What’s yours?”
Just to not do or say the wrong thing. But I tell her, “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll gain five pounds too.”
“There you go. I like you already.”
You wouldn’t say that if you’d gone to my other school.
I take a couple of spareribs and some slaw and follow her out toward the pool with its tables and chairs and umbrellas.
Wanda balances her plate of food and her Coke, then falls onto a red chaise. Its cushions match the bougainvillea that tumbles down the nearest wall.
“What’s it like at the Rafters’?” she asks.
I have to remind myself that she’s just making conversation.
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“That thing with your parents. That had to be hard. Did a cop come to the door and everything?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wow, Teddy. Just like in the movies.” She shakes her head. “Man, the things that happen to people. Astin’s hair caught on fire once.”
“On the way over here, he was talking about arson. What’s going on with him and matches?”
She checks to see that we’re out of earshot. “His parents used, and they’d get high and leave him alone or leave him alone so they could score. So he’d get out the old Bic. My dad was just waiting for him to torch the Rafters’.”
“How did your dad know Astin?”
