New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  “Well you better not be drinking and driving, Ray,” my old man continued. “The Blackwater Police Department has very strict rules about that, you know.”

  Mr. Gigliotti swiped the filterless Camel from behind his ear and stuck it between his lips. The cigarette bobbed up and down, as he said: “Yes, sir. I’m well aware of the rules.” Then he looked at me. “You ready?”

  My old man folded his arms firmly across his chest. “Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “Where are you going, Mark?”

  More cigarette bobbing from Mr. Gigliotti. “With everything going on around here, Chief, I figured you and your son could use some time apart.”

  “I can take care of my own damn son,” my old man blasted.

  I wondered what my old man was thinking. Maybe he was too proud to let Mr. Gigliotti take me, or perhaps it was that I was the only one left to cook and clean for him.

  Mr. Gigliotti gently raised his hands, soothed the air as if it were one of the taxidermied animals I’d often witnessed him masterfully paint and varnish. “Easy, Chief. I ain’t saying you can’t. I’m just saying a little space might help clear both your heads.”

  Again, my old man got that wrecked look on his face, the one I’d witnessed after Mom first left home. Just then, I almost changed my mind. Told him I’d stick around. But then his look flashed back to that badass sergeant on Gomer Pyle.

  “I’ve had enough of this shit,” he said. Then he tossed out a threat he’d uttered to me umpteen million times in private, but was now only saying to Mr. Gigliotti for the first time. He meant every damn word of it when he said: “You better watch yourself, Ray. I know where your pick-up is parked every day at five.”

  He was referring to Duffy’s Bar. Jimmy’s dad was a regular Happy Hour fixture.

  “Just drinking Cokes,” said Mr. Gigliotti.

  “We’ll see about that,” said my old man. He flashed another round of glares, then said: “The two of you. Go.”

  I quickly grabbed some clothes, my lava lamp, Ouija board, and my two Bruce posters. Once outside, I said to Jimmy’s dad: “Sorry about that, Mr. Gigs.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “I get worse shit from my wife for drinking outta the milk carton.”

  I placed my belongings in Bessie, then said: “I wish you were my dad.”

  Mr. Gigliotti rested a hand on my shoulder. “Your father might have his faults, but he’s a good man.”

  “Not as good as you,” I said.

  He considered that. Then, in a comforting and scratchy voice, like one of my old Bob Dylan records, said: “Let’s just say I’d never give you shit for drinking outta the carton.”

  He glanced up and down my block, observing my neighborhood filled with posh ranch- and colonial-style homes and well-tended lawns, along with Buicks, Chryslers, and other big American cars parked in oil stain–free driveways. Then he observed my freshly skidded-up driveway. He shook his head, then sparked up his filterless Camel. Through a cloud of smoke, he said: “Whudya say, son. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Chapter 6

  When I wasn’t alternately missing and hating Mom, or on the phone, checking in on my grandmother, or arguing with my old man as to when I’d be returning, I was adjusting to my new life in Jimmy’s basement room.

  Bongs, beer bottles, and pot plants; leaky overhead pipes; Rhiannon; The Dark Side of the Moon; the ceramic gnome, whose pointy hat now held an extra coat; the oddball assortment of Lord of the Rings, Stevie Nicks, and Chuck Norris posters—everything from Gandalf and Saruman to Bella Donna and Lone Wolf McQuade. It was all fine while visiting, but now it was my home. And while I’d hoped my lava lamp, Ouija board, and Bruce posters would improve the situation, it still felt like Tolkien repackaged—not so much a world of Men roaming the lands of Gondor, just two drug-hungry, music-loving teenagers exploring our own cold, damp, and creepy Jersey Middle-earth.

  When Jimmy and I weren’t arguing over matters like who’d sleep in the bed versus the lumpy sleeper sofa Mr. Gigliotti had lugged into the basement, or who was a more kickass singer—Chrissie Hyndes versus Stevie Nicks—I also had to deal with the smells.

  Besides the musty puddles, Nag Champa, and old bong water downstairs, combined with the combative odors of bengay, Lysol, and stale cigarette smoke lurking upstairs, there were also Mrs. Gigliotti’s cooking smells. The pervasive, heady, and soulful aroma of simmering garlic, sausage, onions, and tomatoes would recall what my house used to smell like before Mom left.

  Just a week into my stay, I walked through the door after school. Mrs. Gigliotti was in the kitchen whipping up some sausage, peppers, and onion hoagies. All those smells sucker punched me. I steadied myself against a vestibule wall, took a few deep breaths, wiped at my burning eyes.

  Mrs. Gigliotti approached me, studying me long and hard. “What’s the matter, son? You been drinking?”

  I blinked once, twice, studied Mr. Gigliotti’s Korean War medals lining the walls. Thought machine guns instead of Mom. “I’m just a little dizzy.”

  Jimmy’s mom wiped her hands on her apron, then dug inside the pocket of her shabby flannel housecoat, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, and sparked one up.

  Though veiled in a noxious cloud of smoke, I was still able to get a good look at her. With Mrs. Gigliotti, it was like watching TV with lousy reception. Her big teeth, lined and nervous face, and graying hair recalled a more haggard, staticky version of Alice from The Brady Bunch.

  I coughed out a “how are you today?”

  Between puffs off her Lucky Strike, Mrs. Gigliotti croaked: “I’ve been better.” Her voice was far more rough-edged than my grandmother’s voice—a cross between nasal North Jersey and a smoker’s rasp. “This fall’s been playing hell with my arthritis.”

  While Jimmy’s mom was fifty-two, her liver-spotted hands, physical ailments out the wazoo, and a parade of wrinkles marching over her brow and around her eyes, had her looking at least fifteen years older. That made sense. She’d given birth to Jimmy’s brother back in her mid twenties. All the diaper changing, extra cooking and cleaning had been tons more work than she’d expected. Once Jimmy’s brother turned nine, Mrs. Gigliotti insisted that Mr. Gigliotti get his tubes tied. Just as he was about to do so, she discovered she had another pie in the pizza oven. Enter Jimmy.

  I glanced down the hall, through the kitchen window. Spied the distant image of the Crab Creek Power Plant. That evil radioactive specter with its massive hourglass-shaped steam towers recalled a recent report I’d heard on the news: how radon had recently been detected in numerous Jersey basements. I turned back to Mrs. Gigliotti. “Quite the view you have there.”

  She sighed out another cloud of smoke. “Beats Newark any day of the week.”

  Still, Missing Mom smells, radon, and the occasional bickering aside, life at Jimmy’s wasn’t bad. There, at least, I didn’t have to worry about hiding my beer breath or stoned-out eyes. And while Jimmy’s parents weren’t keen on his partying, they didn’t put the kibosh on it. They figured if they did he’d just rebel and continue anyway. So rather than having him get wasted out in the real world, where lurked dangers such as my cop old man, Jimmy’s parents condoned his activities within the confines of his basement room.

  One Friday night, a couple weeks before Christmas, we were plopped down on Jimmy’s cold cement floor. We were seated right by Rhiannon. As usual, she was humming warmly and steadily. For additional warmth we had Jimmy’s bong, his Tubes record jacket, some of his mom’s codeine cough medicine, a sixer of Rolling Rock, and a holiday tree we’d fashioned from an old hat rack with cutout cereal box fronts folded into cone shapes and attached as ornaments. There was also my Ouija board sitting between us.

  “Let’s do some looking into the future,” I said. “You first.”

  Jimmy placed his hands on the inverted-heart pointer then asked: “Will I ever get married?”

&n
bsp; At first the pointer did nothing. Neither did we. Jimmy and I just sat there stone quiet. All we could hear was Rhiannon’s warm song, along with faint gunshots and tire squeals from the upstairs TV.

  Gradually, the pointer drifted upward from GOOD BYE, past the 4, the Q, the C, finally ending its road trip on YES.

  Jimmy blushed, though it was a little hard to see the red due to his olive-brown complexion.

  I raised my beer in a toast. “Way to go, Casanova. Who’s the unlucky girl?”

  Once Jimmy asked that question, he again rested his hands on the pointer.

  This time, it took off almost instantly. It floated downward, coming to rest on S. Then it wobbled next door to land on T. After that: a short trip upward to the left to land on E. Once done, it spelled out: S-T-E-V-I-E.

  What a surprise. Jimmy’s favorite singer: Stevie Nicks. “The board’s been known to lie,” I said.

  “You wish,” he shot back. He tossed me the pointer, flipped the board around. “Your turn, buttmunch.”

  Aloud, I asked that first question Jimmy had. But the truer, more secret question I said to myself was the one I’d asked in my room just after Mom left: When will everything be okay?

  It didn’t take the pointer long to spell out the word it had before: E-A-T.

  Jimmy howled over that one. “Dude, you’re gonna marry EAT. Like eat my dick!”

  I flipped the pointer at him like a Chinese throwing star, then huffed: “Like I said, its been known to lie.”

  We grabbed our beers, downed them in a few huge gulps. Then we chased it all with a couple swigs of his mom’s cough medicine.

  “Hey,” said Jimmy. “Check it out, Pac Man.” Pac Man. That was one of his most recent nicknames for me. He called me that because of the wah-uh, wah-uh sound my ratty black Converse high tops made when I walked.

  I countered with my own nickname: Pong. That seventies video game. Like that game, Jimmy could be boring as hell. Especially with how he’d spend so much time in his basement room, getting buzzed, and reading The Hobbit. Said he loved it for the treasure hunt and adventure. I figured he was secretly in love with the Wargs, Wizards, and Elvenkings. Me, I was never into that fantasy crap. I craved grittier, more streetwise things: Springsteen’s Greetings From Asbury Park. “Dude,” I said. “You’re so blinded by the light.”

  “Whatever,” said Jimmy. “Listen to this.” He plopped his Stevie Nicks Bella Donna record onto the turntable and cued up “Edge of Seventeen.”

  The tune started slowly with a chugging guitar and drummer playing four on the hi-hat. Not long after Stevie had sung, “Just like the white winged dove...” Jimmy stopped the record with his finger.

  “Not this again,” I said. One of his favorite pastimes: looking for hidden messages in rock songs.

  “Serious,” said Jimmy. “It’s a good one this time.” He spun the LP counter clockwise.

  To me, it sounded as cryptic as Mom’s goodbye note and every math word problem I’d ever encountered. “I don’t hear nothing,” I said. “Just backward shit.”

  “You got it all wrong,” said Jimmy. “Check it out.” He spun the record again, then added: “She’s saying dump the crocks in a boiling bowl. Pound them up with a thumping pole.”

  Another Hobbit reference.

  I responded with a choice Bruce Lee quote I’d often used in similar situations: “As you think, so you shall become.”

  “Bullshit,” said Jimmy, plopping back down on the cold floor. He grabbed his brown glass bong—brown like the color of Stevie Nicks’ eyes, he’d once told me. He sparked up, drew in a long bubbly hit. He tightened his mouth closed, made that coughing sound, which also sounded a lot like suppressing a sneeze. He took in a few sips of air. Then, still holding in the smoke, he managed to say in a choked-off voice: “Chuck Norris could kick that guy’s ass any day of the week.” With that, he exhaled a great gust of smoke that drifted up toward the mildewy cedar wood rafters.

  Minus that bong, Jimmy was a carbon copy of his dad—green flannel shirt and overalls. As for me: ratty jeans and a Def Leppard Pyromania long-sleeve shirt, nothing like my old man’s crisp white button-ups and slacks. I observed our funky Christmas tree—a Captain Crunch here, a Tony the Tiger and Count Chocula there. But no amount of silly cereal box fronts could make me forget that this was going to be my first Yuletide without my family. I recalled past Christmases: the family gathered around a tree—a real tree, a Douglas Fir—that filled the house with heady whiffs of green. There’d been glittering lights, loads of carefully wrapped presents, Bing Crosby on the stereo, eggnog dosed with rum. But all that cheer never lasted. Mom and Grandmother would argue. My old man would rail about the turkey being over or undercooked. My grandfather—before he died—was civil enough when sober, but belligerent after a few belts of Jameson. None of those Christmases had ever been perfect. But at least we’d all been together.

  It was right then—right when that family memory got all tangled up in my mellow beer and codeine high that a few tears leaked from my eyes.

  Jimmy asked: “What’s up?”

  “Whudya mean, ‘What’s up?’”

  Jimmy’s eyes got all broken. I couldn’t tell whether he was about to bawl himself, or if he was just mirroring my expression.

  “Fuck you,” I said. “It’s just the smoke.”

  Jimmy scooted closer. He reached out a hand like he was going to place it on my thigh, but stopped. Through a mess of black curls, his stoner brown eyes peered right at me—blinking once, twice—flashing an overly attentive Mother Hen Morse code. And if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, there were also those overhead bare bulb lights—more like interrogation lights—blazing down on me. To top it all off: Stevie Nicks on the crappy Sears with “How Still My Love.” The scratchy track was all sexy croons, slick bass, and guitar.

  “Jeez, you fag,” I said, scooting away from Jimmy. “Stop looking at me like that. I told you I’m fine.”

  Jimmy’s shoulders slumped. His already sleepy eyes, dozier. But that didn’t last. He sat bolt upright, shoulders back, fists up, eyes alert—his version of Chuck Norris fighting mode. “Speak for yourself,” he spit back. “You’re the one that fights like a girl.” He punched me in the shoulder.

  I punched back.

  Then, without a word, we just sat there, hands to ourselves. All we could hear was Stevie Nicks along with faint screams and dramatic music from the upstairs TV.

  When I couldn’t stand our uncomfortable silence any longer, I said: “Stop Bogarting the bong.” I swiped it from Jimmy; pulled out a healthy green bud from the record jacket. Just as I was about to pack up, I heard the toilet flush upstairs. That was followed by water whooshing through the overhead basement pipes. No way could I get wasted while Jimmy’s parents’ waste products whizzed along just above my head. “Dude,” I said. “Road trip.”

  Jimmy brightened. “You mean what I think you mean?”

  I nodded. “Grab your old socks. Let’s Speed Racer.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Bundled up in puffy down coats, and armed with the six pairs of ratty socks we’d managed to scrape together, Jimmy and I trudged through the dick-shrinking, see-your-breath-turn-to-smoke, unseasonably frigid night. All around us, snow fell plentifully, peacefully—It’s a Wonderful Life snow. We blinked nonstop to remove the falling flakes from our eyelashes and clomped along the highway shoulder, passing busted beer bottles, wrecked hubcaps, sheered-off lug nuts, and spent bullet casings laced in icy white. Those random glittery objects served as stars—the makeshift constellation leading us faithfully toward Mad Man.

  Once we reached the dirt lot across from his shack, I spied the surroundings. Had it been summer, the air would’ve been filled with the stench of street racer burnt tire rubber and the sounds of cranked stereos blaring from the muscle cars of those Third Lake denizens. That night, however, the accumulating blank
et of snow had tucked Blackwater into bed, made everything smell clean, and sound so quiet.

  I shattered the serenity by calling out our signal: “Julie’s Been Working for the Drug Squad!”

  Mad Man emerged from the shadows. His Flock of Seagulls dyed-blond hair was tucked beneath a Santa hat. In addition to his usual Sex Pistols–style jeans, he was sporting a McCloud-era sheepskin coat, and Flashdance leg warmers partially concealing his Doc Martens.

  Jimmy brushed a mess of curls from his snow-stung eyes to get a better look. “What a freak,” he muttered.

  I agreed. While there were tons of weird mutations being passed down from generation to generation in Blackwater—everything from radiation-linked cancers to a ravenous love of firearms—we had no clue what original mutation had created Mad Man. It was bad enough that he was in his late forties, and dressed like a pop-culture car crash, but he was also buying the town’s old socks. What twisted shit he did with them, Jimmy and I could never figure out. No matter how often we pressed Mad Man for an answer, he’d never confess.

  “Sleazons greetings,” he said, his breath reduced to smoke as it met with the cold night air. “How’re you juvenile delinquents doing?”

  Jimmy flashed a thumbs-up.

  Mad Man flashed one back. Then he excavated a wad of grimy bills from his pocket. “All right, Spicoli,” he said, waving the dirty money in my face. “You know the drill.”

  Jimmy and I handed over the socks we had stuffed in our pockets.

  Mad Man examined each pair carefully—determining the wear, smell, and fabric.

  Another thing about Mad Man.

  He didn’t buy socks from everyone. Some of the more bigoted and hateful, redneck, Piney locals he steered clear of. Said their footwear was filled with bad vibes. As for our own socks—the ones we could spare from time to time—Jimmy and I had first figured Mad Man bought the dirty cotton because he was queer for us. He said no way. He just thought we had some righteous foot-funk going on.

  Once Mad Man finished inspecting our socks, he said: “Ten.”