What Lion is, first, is an artist. When he’s not swimming or in class, he’s making pictures. I don’t know much about art—I don’t even know what I like—but I don’t have to sit in the cafeteria or out in the hills along the Little Spokane River watching him sketch for long to know he has a boatload of talent and, I think, probably the personality and arrogance to stretch it as far as it will go. Mark my words: you’ll be hearing from Lionel Serbousek.
His art isn’t just picture-making, though. Lion’s an artist at everything he does. He brings a certain zany grace to things—workouts, classes, just hanging out—that makes them more alive, more animated, maybe more real. He’s long been legendary around Frost for his madcap hijinks, like the time he set the school record for snorting Jell-O cubes. Lion’s different from the rest of us because he doesn’t have parents. They got killed in a freak boating accident over on Coeur d’Alene Lake between our freshman and sophomore years, when their boat and another speedboat collided at full speed out in the middle of the lake. No one ever figured out how it happened; they weren’t drinking or anything, and they’d been boating all their lives. Everybody in both boats was killed. Lion didn’t have anyplace to go—no relatives or anything—and he didn’t feel like moving in with any of the people who offered, so he got himself an apartment, if you can call it that, and started living by himself. I don’t know whether that’s legal or not, but nobody stopped him. His folks had plenty of life insurance and he inherited some other money from them, so he doesn’t have to work to support himself. Most of the time he goes on like nothing happened.
We’ve talked about staying together for Stotan Week—that is, when Nortie’s not around to hear we all know we’re going to sign up—and have decided if our folks will let us, we’ll move into Lion’s for the week. Now, I said Lion was an artist at everything he does, but in his personal lifestyle that holds true only if you’re looking for Still Life of Swine. His so-called apartment is two condemned rooms above the Fireside Tavern with a bed, a hotplate, a sink that drains out onto an alley and—the one really class item—a toilet with a seat belt. He’s got a seat belt on his toilet. Claims it keeps him from blasting off. There are no electric lights in this palatial suite, and the sole source of heat is an old electric reflector heater powered by a frayed extension cord running out the window and down to the outlet behind the bar in the Fireside. Artificial light, lest you think these quarters uncivilized, shines from a flashlight dangling at the end of a rope above his bed.
I would like to go on record here—despite the sense of adventure for doing this Stotan Week thing together on our own—that I am not looking forward to spending a week with the guys in Lionel Serbousek’s bachelor pad.
Besides voluntarily placing myself in ghetto-like accommodations at Lion’s, the only thing that really bothers me about Stotan Week is that I was looking forward, during this extra week at Christmas, to spending some time with my brother. I said he was a little out of touch and that’s probably the understatement of this decade. It’s strange how I feel responsible for him sometimes—I mean, we were never really close or anything. He was off to college by the time I was five, and pretty well into the flower world not long after that. He was always nice to me when he was around, but, given his political leanings, he and my dad weren’t famous friends, so he wasn’t around all that much. But, for whatever reason, I feel protective of him like he’s a stray errant uncle or something; I’m always making excuses for the weird way he acts and the stupid choices he makes. One of these days my concern for him may get me killed, or at least seriously mangled. He spends a lot of time over at the Red Rooster Tavern, drinking beer and buying drugs from the bikers who hang out there. I shouldn’t have to go into a detailed description to let you know that’s a rough scene. My folks have given up on him, so when he gets in trouble it’s me who bails him out. When he goes off the deep end, Ed Savage, one of the bartenders over at the Rooster, calls me to come get him, instead of calling the police or someone from the looney bin. I don’t know how that little ritual got started, and there are times I feel like letting the law haul him off, but I always go. And I want to tell you, it’s scary over there. I went to get him one night the summer before my sophomore year, and eight or nine of those bikers had him stuffed in a garbage can up on the pool table—butt first, so his feet and head were sticking out—and they were spitting snoose at him for target practice. When I tried to get him down, they kept right on spitting. Ed had to threaten to call the cops to get them to let me out of there with him. One of them grabbed my arm on the way out and let me know Long John owed him money for “goods received” and if I came down there again to get him, I damn well better be able to pay off his debts. I was so scared I lied and said I would, that I’d get the money he owed them by the end of the week, and he slapped me a couple of times hard on the cheek, squinted and smiled and nodded his head. When I got Long John back to his room at the Jefferson Hotel, he told me what a great brother I was and he was glad I understood. I understood diddly. I screamed at him that he’d almost got me killed and I never wanted to see him again, and if he got into any more trouble he could sit it out in jail, if he was lucky enough to have someone call the cops. Then I went home and lay in bed and trembled. I got over hating him, but I didn’t get over the terror I felt about those bikers. No doubt they’d as soon tear off my head and spit in the hole as look at me. I decided then and there I was going to make it risky to mess with me. Next day I went into Max’s office and asked if he could have me transferred into the karate section of PE. He started me out there, and worked with me some on his own; didn’t even ask what I was up to. He also got me a key to the wrestling room, where the class is held, and said I could practice any time I wanted as long as it wasn’t being used. He gave me some drills to work on too, and I’ve been putting in a couple hours a day at least five days a week since then. I’m not a mean guy and I never go out looking, but even though I haven’t passed any tests and I don’t have any “belts,” I’ve developed some pretty classy moves and, if it comes down to it, I can hurt you.
From the sound of all the tough talk, you’d think all I do is try to go fast in the water and strike fear in the hearts of those who cross my path, but that’s not true at all. I no longer have any illusions of single-handedly cleaning out a biker bar, and the stuff with Long John is really peripheral to what’s important to me. I’m part of a group of really special guys—and a girl—who happen to swim, and I’m a little paranoid about being physically vulnerable, but it’s a lot more important to me to be a part of that group of humans than it is to be in a school of fast fish or to flaunt a truckload of Billy Jack moves. We all know this is it for the frivolous part of our lives; we’re going to have to go out and start the real thing very soon. We want to do that with style, and we want to finish this part together.
You have probably figured out by now, if you can count, that my parents are old people. Figure my brother is fifteen years older than me, and my parents got a late start anyway—that puts them right up there. Old people call my parents old. They’re older than lots of my friends’ grandparents. Folks used to rub my head and tease me about how lucky I was that my rambunctious daddy saved up enough rugged sperms to produce such a healthy specimen as myself, and Dad used to laugh and shake his head when he heard it, but I have a feeling he would have just as soon not had to deal with a brand-new bouncing baby boy at the ripe old age of fifty-five. There was no way either of my folks was ready to spend another eighteen years practicing the latest child-rearing techniques. So they kind of let me raise myself. Don’t get me wrong, they have always been good to me and pretty much given me everything I need and most of what I want, but they’re not very involved with me. I don’t think I’ve suffered much, though, because, even though Max is a little removed, in a lot of ways he’s been as good a parent as I could ask for.
It’s kind of scary sometimes to think that we’ll all go our own ways after this year—break up this little group that h
as really been together since grade school. None of us is fool enough to think that we can keep things like this forever, but there are times I’d really like to give it a try. Nortie and I will probably get swimming scholarships somewhere, maybe together and maybe not, and Jeff will more than likely follow his girlfriend down to Stanford, where she’s a freshman this year. God, he’s in love with her! He’ll probably major in Political Science just so he can spend the rest of his life telling folks how things really are.
And who knows about Lion? He’s fast becoming Frost’s Renaissance man; commie pinko in the A.M., imperialist pig after lunch. He fools around with ideas for the sake of fooling around; tries them on, wears them a few hours, swearing they are a part of his very soul, then casts them off like he should cast off his old sweatsocks, but doesn’t. His most intense beliefs are lightly held, and he changes philosophical positions like a chameleon changes hues. Ten years from now Lion could show up just about anywhere and I wouldn’t be surprised. I would only be surprised if he doesn’t show up.
If Nortie doesn’t become a permanent orphan somewhere, he’ll more than likely be a grade-school teacher. He loves little kids; talks to them on their own level—which I sometimes think is his own level. Nortie works a few nights a week and Saturdays at a daycare center over on the east side, where most of the town’s blacks live. Boy, he’s amazing. It’s a completely different Nortie; I’ve seen him work. He knows what makes little kids tick, where their pain is and how to help them fly. Given his Catholic background, he’ll probably teach at St. Somebody’s school, which means he’ll never be rich—but he’ll be happy as a pig in mud if he can spend his time making their lives better. Old Nortie has a lot of heart.
Me, I’d like to be a writer of some kind; maybe a journalist, maybe a storyteller. I should have my choice of at least a few schools once this swimming season is over, and I think I’ll pick the one with the best English and Journalism departments. I love to write things down, be they fact or fiction. It helps me see things more clearly, and besides I just enjoy it. That’s why I have a semi-regular column in the school newspaper, even though I’m not in the Journalism class, and why I submit articles to the Spokesman Review and the Sunday supplement. I’ve actually had one or two published. I used to go out with a girl whose dad was a bigwig at the Review, and even though the relationship was a marathon screaming match, he liked me and still throws a few bones my way when they need some local public-school filler. I was afraid that would stop when I quit going out with his daughter, but he told me recently it would have stopped if I’d kept going out with his daughter.
November 13
Nortie and I were over at my place this afternoon after workout, up in my room listening to some music and pretending to get some study time in, when Jeff came a-pounding on the door. We were lying there on the beds listening to an old Kingston Trio album (part of the cultural legacy left me by Long John Dupree), helping them out now and then with a little burst of the lyrics and flipping through the pages of our U.S. Government book like we might be learning something. Jeff had a very old Sports Illustrated he’d obviously lifted from the city library rolled up in his hand, and the grin of a man in the catbird seat. “Hi, Anus Breath,” he said. “I have some good news and some bad news.”
“Give me the good news,” I said. “You can keep the bad news to yourself.”
“The good news,” he said with a grandiose sweeping gesture of the magazine, “is your hero now knows what a Stotan is,” and he pointed to the magazine. He shook his head and looked to the heavens. “God, redheads are bright. Do you know the average SAT score for redheads as opposed to the rest of mankind?”
The question passed over Nortie as he laid his book aside and sat up. “So what’s the bad news?” he asked. “Give us the bad news.”
“The bad news is,” Jeff said, his grin widening considerably, “I found out what a Stotan is.” He shook his head. “It isn’t pretty.”
Nortie groaned and sat back against the wall. “Oh, God,” he moaned. “What is it?”
Jeff said, “You don’t want to know. I will tell you this much. The term was coined somewhere after the middle of this very century in Australia. Further knowledge can be obtained by interested parties through clandestine arrangements for sexual favors with family members—preferably mothers and sisters.” He did an exaggerated about-face and high-stepped out of the room.
Nortie was up in an instant, following him out, yelling, “Wait, Jeff! You can sleep with my sister.” It’s a good thing my parents weren’t home.
Jeff has an abscessed front tooth with a temporary hole drilled in the back for drainage, and the substance that comes out would be more appropriate draining into the alley behind Lion’s apartment than into someone’s mouth—even Jeff’s. It drains very slowly—it’s been like that for months, with no end in sight according to his dentist—so he doesn’t have the taste all the time, but when he wants to he can suck it out with his tongue, blow it on you and flatten you out. I’ve always said if any of us could take Max and his black belt, it would be Jeff and his magic tooth. Max would get one whiff and kick his own brains out trying to get out of his misery.
Nortie ran back into the room with a stunned expression and a tear in his eye.
“Any luck?” I asked.
Nortie gasped. “He knows I don’t have a sister.” He wiped his eye. “Jeez, why does he do that? He sucked his tooth.”
CHAPTER 3
November 14
You have to hurt a little for Nortie. He’s a classic case of what can happen to a guy who’s been beat up all his life. Eighteen years old and his old man still punches him around.
I’ve asked Nort why he doesn’t just kiss him off—tell him to go to hell and stay with me for the rest of the year—but he shrugs and says his dad’s okay; he just doesn’t know any other way to act. I tell him it’s time he learned some other way to act or to hell with him, but Nortie dodges that.
When we were sophomores, I went to their place for dinner one Sunday afternoon just before Christmas. I think Nortie was uncomfortable having someone come over because his dad can be so ornery and unpredictable, but he had eaten at my place so many times he figured it was time to take a chance. Anyway, right before dinner, around three in the afternoon, Nortie and I jumped in their family car to run over to the local 7–11 to get whipped cream for the pie, and as we were pulling out of the parking lot, some guy slid around the corner on the ice and slammed into our front fender. There was absolutely no way Nortie could have prevented it—in fact, we were stopped when the guy hit us—but Nortie got real quiet, sort of set his jaw, and after they exchanged insurance information, we drove home.
His dad happened to see us drive up out the living-room window and was barreling down the sidewalk toward us before Nortie could even get out. He jerked Nortie out of the car onto his hands and knees, then lifted him up and slapped the sides of his head, screaming at him. When Nortie put his hands up to protect his head, his dad gave him a hard shot to the solar plexus and dropped him. To this day I’m embarrassed that I didn’t jump out of the car and take my best shot at Mr. Wheeler, but I sat frozen, my eyes glued to his face. He isn’t a very big guy, but he looked so mean, deliberately aiming each of his shots. When Nortie hit the ground, I came unfrozen; jumped out and ran around the car to help him up. His wind was gone and he was convulsing for air, but he waved me away. His dad was yelling, “Let the little screw be! I’ll teach him to mess up my car!”
I tried to explain what had happened, that it wasn’t Nortie’s fault, but I couldn’t make him hear me. Mr. Wheeler has Nortie pegged for a screwup, and the facts be damned.
Nortie’s mom watched it all out the living-room window and she didn’t move a muscle. For a quick second I remember hating her guts, but later I thought of the times I’d seen her wearing sunglasses on dark days and long sleeves on hot days to cover up her own bruises, and I guessed she was doing what she had to to get along. Still, it’s hard to respect h
er.
I didn’t stay for dinner.
Boy, it’s no wonder that little turd is so fast. He’s just a demon in workouts. He’s so nervous before every practice he can’t eat lunch and he whines and bitches and moans like a third-grader on Death Row as 2:30 approaches, but when we hit the water, he pays the pool back for every time his old man ever laid a finger on him. I hope he finds an outlet when we’re through with swimming, because he’s got to have a lot of mean energy boiling around in him.
I think I’d like to get the whole truth about Stotan Week from Max because Max is a human being, but I have a feeling I’m going to get it from Jeff, who isn’t. I found a note on my desk in English class today—about an hour after he tried to assassinate Nortie again in the hall with a blast from his chemical breath because Nortie had the audacity to try to get him to cough up Stotan information for free. The note said, “Learn all you can about Herb Elliot.” It wasn’t signed, but I’d recognize Jeff’s handwriting anywhere. It looks like he dipped the feet of a baby chick in ink, placed it on the page and set the little bugger ablaze. Big as he is on current events, Jeff’s a researching fool. You could have bet he’d be the one to crack this Stotan mystery, but you could also count on his not telling anyone what he found out. I do know who Herb Elliot is, so that’s a start.
November 15
Being the serious-minded student of current affairs he is, Jeff has appointed himself Frost’s official unofficial political analyst and at times he bowls you over with it. If you want the real reasons the Russians boycotted the Olympics, or the hot poop on the sudden unexplained disappearance of one unnamed assistant football coach and one similarly unnamed cheerleader, Jeff’s your man. For local, national and regional news, see Jeffrey Hawkins in flaming red color at six and eleven. Of course, he delivers each newsy tidbit like it’s the Russian invasion of Afghanistan or the release of the Iranian hostages, so some analysis on your own part is in order, but he’s a smart motor scooter and he does his homework. You’re making a mistake if you don’t listen to what he has to say, no matter how obnoxious he makes it.
Stotan! Page 2
