Buddy put records on Richie's record player and turned out the light. Despie almost pulled him down on top of her. Buddy excitedly started grinding, and she groaned appreciatively.
"Buddy?" She tapped him on the back and whispered huskily, "Get me a glass of water."
"Huh?"
"I'm thirsty."
"Yeah ... wh ... yeah." He stood up, his shirt half out of his pants, his hair messed up. He padded to the bathroom, took a piss, and brought Despie a glass of water. Despie put the glass on the floor.
"I thought you wanted water."
She took his hand and placed it between her legs.
"Jesus God!" Despie was naked. Buddy had never been with a naked girl before. She unbuttoned his shirt as he sat paralyzed, his hand frozen where she placed it. "Are you a virgin?" he whispered. She didn't answer but started on his pants. " 'Cause if you are, don't be scared." She pulled down his shorts and caressed his hard-on. "I don't got no bags but I'll pull out before I come." She put an arm around his neck, slid under him, and with her other hand guided his prick. The moment he was in, he came a bucket.
Early the next morning, Buddy lay in his own bed thinking about Despie. He looked at his alarm clock. Five-thirty. He got up, went into the kitchen, and dialed her number. He prayed her parents wouldn't answer. The phone rang four times; he was about to hang up when she answered.
"Hello?"
"Despie?" he whispered.
"Who's this?"
"Buddy."
"Whassamatter?" Her voice was thick with sleep.
"Nothin'. I just wanna talk."
"Wha' time is it?"
"I dunno, about two."
"Whadya wanna talk about?"
"I dunno. I miss you."
"That's nice."
"Do you miss me?"
"...yeah."
There was dead silence for a minute.
"Despie?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I come over?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Now."
"Now? Everybody's sleeping."
"I gotta talk to you."
Another silence.
"O.K."
"See you soon." He hung up, got dressed, took his father's car keys, and drove over to her house. She was waiting for him on the porch. "Hi."
"Hi." She wore a quilt bathrobe and a kerchief over rollers.
"Let's go inside," she whispered, taking his hand and guiding him up the steps to her room. "Don't talk out loud. You'll wake them up." She closed the door, and they lay on the bed.
"I missed you, Despie."
"Me too."
"It was a good date."
"I had a good time."
Sitting up, he took off his coat and shoes. She lifted the cover, and he slipped in, right up next to her.
"Despie?"
"Yeah?"
"That was numero uno for me."
Another silence.
"Me too."
"Did it hurt?"
"A little."
"I tried not to hurt you ... did you have an orgasm?"
"I don't know."
"Whadya mean?"
"I dunno ... I couldn't tell."
"Did it feel good?"
"Yeah."
"I came pretty quick."
"That's O.K."
"I won't come so quick next time."
"It's O.K."
"That was your first time?"
"I told you yeah."
"Did you bleed?"
"I didn't look."
A light went on in the hallway. Slippers shuffled toward Despie's door. Buddy jumped out of bed and hid in the closet. A soft knock. Despie pretended she was asleep. Her mother opened the door, poking her head into the room. "Despie?"
She peered into the darkness for a moment, then softly closed the door. Twenty minutes later Buddy came out of the closet. Despie was fast asleep.
The next day in Big Playground Buddy was moody and quiet. He couldn't play basketball or join in with the every minute bullshitting. Thinking of Despie made him miserable. He thought of her with intense longing, yet there was something about her that made him wish they'd never met.
"Hey, man." Richie sat on the bench next to him. "Why ain'tcha playin'?"
"I dunno." He shrugged. "Don't feel like it."
"Despie give you a bad time las' night?" Buddy smiled. If Richie only knew Buddy lost his cherry he would flip. Buddy himself was amazed that he wasn't shouting it from the rooftops. Sex wasn't anything like he thought it would be. It was a bitch. "Despie give you trouble?"
"Nah."
"How far you go?"
"Far enough."
"Don't wanna talk?"
"I guess not, man."
Richie shrugged and got up. "O.K., man, it's on you."
Sunday was always a drag. It was cold and windy. The few trees in Big Playground were leafless. Buddy still hadn't finished the report due Monday for social studies. He couldn't concentrate on anything but Despie. He walked across the basketball courts and through the hole in the fence to the street. Fishing in his pockets for a dime, he went into Pioneer's Candy Store and sat in a phone booth. He hated the panicky feeling in his gut. He had nothing to say, vet he had to talk to her.
The number was busy.
No one answered.
Wrong number.
No one answered.
No one answered.
Buddy left the candy store, his clothing soaked with nervous sweat. Everyone had left the playground. He went upstairs and tried to call Despie. Still no answer. He took out his loose-leaf, opened it to a clean page, and wrote
He took out the WYC-XAU volume of the Home and Hearth Encyclopedia, opened it to the XYZ Affair, and began copying verbatim. After every ten sentences he would get up and call Despie's number. She hated him. He bored her. She wasn't a virgin. She fucked Nazis and niggers before breakfast. His dick was too small. He loved her. She gave head to all the guys on Lester Avenue. Terror liked to shit in her mouth. When he was in the closet she laughed herself to sleep. She told her parents, and they all had a good laugh. Lenny Arkadian knew the inside of her cunt like the back of his hand. She was out fucking right now. He loved her. He did. He really did.
"Hello?"
"You're home."
"Who's this?"
"Buddy."
"Hi."
"Where were you?"
"I was at my uncle's house."
"What were you doing there?"
"Whadya mean what was I doing there? He's my uncle. We went to visit my uncle."
"Sorry."
"Buddy, is something wrong?"
"Nah."
"Look, I gotta go, my friends are waiting for me. Bye."
Before he could say goodbye, the phone clicked. His stomach frosted over. Friends. What friends? Boyfriends? Probably. But he'd be cool. The fastest way to lose a girl is to be possessive. What uncle? She didn't say anything to him before about an "uncle." Uncle my ass. Uncle Sam maybe. Fucking for the troops. Uncle Sam wants you.
That night Despie sat at her desk doing her homework and listening to the Scott Muni Show on the radio. She couldn't figure Buddy out. She liked him and maybe would like to go steady with him in time, but he acted so goddamn weird. Maybe they shouldn't have done it so soon. She wasn't sure he could handle it. Maybe after he calmed down a little they'd have a talk. On the radio a slow piano led into a song. "O.K., gang, this is a dedication from Buddy to Despie. Listen to the words. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles doin' it to ya."
I don't lak you, but ah luh-uv you,
Seems that I'm all-way-yays thinking uv you
Though-wo-wo you treat me badly,
I love you madly,
You really got a hold on me
You really got a hold on me
Despie sat in stunned silence. The words went in one ear and out the other. The phone started ringing, and in two hours Despie got calls from six girl friends. Despie didn't think about the words of the song. It could have been "Duke of
Earl" or Beethoven—it didn't matter. The only things that mattered were that Scott Muni mentioned her name over the radio and Buddy dedicated a song to her.
Buddy sat at his desk in a pool of sweat. He hoped Despie had heard the song, but he was afraid she would be mad at him for declaring the agony of his love in public. He hoped she wouldn't take offense at the "I don't like you," and he hoped she wouldn't be scared by the "but I love you." The phone rang, and he almost took a chunk out of his thigh scrambling from the desk to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Lissen, man, are you buckin' for a section eight?"
"Hey, Eugene, you heard the song?"
"Though-wo-wo you treat me cruelly, I luv you true-el-ly," he mimicked with a nasal nastiness.
"You don't like the song?"
"Man, it's a very pretty song, a delightful song, really. Lissen, you sap, if I was a chick lissenen' to that song, I would think ... man, that guy's one fuckin' rag. Look, I don't know this Despie chick, all I heard is she's nice-lookin' but man, I'm tellin' you, a chick likes to be pushed around, man, she likes a guy wit' balls not no..." He sang another nasal verse from the song. "Do you know what I'm talkin' about?"
"I dunno." Buddy got depressed listening to Eugene.
"Look, Buddy, do you wanna remain a virgin all your life?"
"Hello?"
"Buddy?"
"Despie!"
"Hi, I heard the dedication. That was really sweet."
"You liked it?"
"Yeah, that was really nice of you."
Buddy sighed from the innermost part of his soul. "So you liked it, hah?"
"Yeah. Did you talk to Scott Muni on the phone?"
"Yeah."
"Ooh! What's he like?"
"He's O.K. Do you wanna meet tomorrow after school?"
"Did he say anything about what a funny name Despie was?"
"Uh ... nah. Do you wanna meet tomorrow after school?"
"What time?"
"Four. I'll come over to your place."
"O.K. Did he say anything else to you?"
"Nah. Despie?"
"Yeah?"
"I really ... really like you."
"Me too."
"See you tomorrow."
"See you."
Luddy lay on his bed, simling at the ceiling. What the hell did Eugene know?
6. Super Stud
EUGENE CAPUTO ran his dry lips over Barbara Berkowitz's unextraordinary nipples, lowered his mouth to her ribs, then her navel, and hesitated before moving on to the warning track. He waited for her hand to yank his head up, but she lay paralyzed with anticipation, so he continued down until his nostrils were stuffed with pubic hair—then lower still until his tongue tasted and his nose smelled the acrid pungence.
"Oh, Eee-yew-gene! Eee-yew-gene!"
Eugene gagged on her stench and the sound of her ecstasy. He sat up and picked a few pubies like flecks of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. "Jesus Christ, Barbara, you oughta use Right Guard down there!"
She sat up, head slightly cocked in a questioning, shocked, open-mouthed stare as if he'd said, "Your parents are dead." "What?" squeaked from her constricted throat, her eyes glistening in mortification.
"Oh shit, don't cry," he sighed.
As if to spite him she cried so hard it actually sounded like "boo-hoo."
He debated whether to console her by patting and caressing her, or to just light up a cigarette.
"Hey look, Barbara, it's perfectly normal for girls to stink down there," he said, taking a long drag and blowing a smoke ring. She arched her back and hitched up her skirt. "Besides, you ain't that bad. I once ate out a girl who smelled like she stuffed small dead animals up there." He laughed at the memory.
"Eugene," she said coldly, her features like four deadly straight lines, "shut your filthy mouth and take me home."
He shrugged, started the car, and pulled out into the deserted street. He drove in silence. When they reached her house she got out, slamming the door as if to make the car crumble from shock waves. Eugene winced, leaned over the shot-gun seat, and shouted out the window to her back, "Nice meeting you, Barbara. Good night."
When Eugene came home his father was still up watching television. Eugene plopped down on the couch and started undoing his tie.
"How'd it go, Ace?"
"Thirty-four," Eugene answered without taking his eyes from the set. His father smiled and lit a Marlboro. He offered one to his son from a flat silver case with A.C. initialed in swoops and swirls like Louis XIV silverware. Eugene declined, sticking one of his own Kools between his lips.
"Thirty-four, hah?" Eugene stared at the television. "When I was your age, I was up to forty-six. You're catching up." Eugene shrugged, unnecessarily cupping his hands around his father's lighter. "You want coffee?"
"Nah, I'm gonna turn in. School tomorrow."
"Later, Ace." His father tipped an invisible cap to Eugene and changed channels.
Eugene studied his face in the bathroom mirror. His complexion was soft olive—a mixture of his father's Mediterranean swarthiness and his mother's Lebanese duskiness. His hair was jet black with a blue sheen. The hairline was low and even, the hair straight, looking more manicured than cut. He examined the pores of his skin with his fingertips. No blemishes—not even a blackhead. His eyes were hooded, yet they didn't bug out like Gennaro's. They were sleepy Robert Mitchum eyes with a husky liquid color like good dark rum. His nose was narrow and straight. His lips were thin and perfectly defined by a nearly invisible slightly less olive line. He stepped back to take in the whole face—a real Michelangelo job his grandmother used to say. He massaged his face and neck with the blue soap his grandparents had sent from Spain for his birthday. Before turning in, he sat at his desk and opened his little black book to the page headed "E.B."—"Everything But." A long list of girls' names was followed by initials ranging from "D.H.T.I.C.," which stood for "Dry Humped Till I Came," to "H.J."—"Handjob," "A.O."—"Ate Out," "B.J."—"Blowjob," and "F.J."—"Foot Job." He wrote Barbara Berkowitz under "A.O." and turned to the next page, headed DIAL, which read backwards, LAID. The rest of the page was clear, as unblemished by ink as his own skin was by blackheads.
***
The Wanderers met on the el platform next morning, each wearing a black jacket with yellow piping and "Tully" written on the back in yellow letters.
"Where the fuck's Caputo?" asked Buddy.
"Prob'ly sleepin'," answered Richie.
"Yeah, gettin' his energy back," said Perry with a tinge of envy.
"That guy's gonna screw 'imself to death."
"He mus' get laid more'n Elvis Presley."
"More'n Al Capone."
"Yeah, but he shouldn't miss so much school," said Perry.
"Ah, so what. Whad you rather do—sit on your ass in homeroom or sit on Barbara Berkowitz's face?" asked Buddy.
"I'd like to sit on your face, you stoopit dip."
Buddy made sucking noises at Perry, and Perry chased him around the platform until the train came.
"You-gene, You-gene." His little sister shook his shoulder. He turned over in bed and stared at her through quarter-mast eyes. "Al forgot to wake us again. It's ten o'clock," she nagged.
Eugene sat up and rubbed his face, then reached across his desk for a cigarette. "Ah, shit."
His sister was dressed. She left the room and went into the kitchen to make herself some breakfast.
"Dinky? Did he leave the car keys?" Eugene yelled.
"I dunno," she yelled back.
"Well, whyncha look then? I'll drive you to school." He lay back in bed, scratching his balls.
"Yeah, they're onna table."
"Awright" He got out of bed, and like every morning he had a hard-on, and like every hard-on, it pointed straight down between his legs. He stared at it—no longer shocked and dismayed, but with a hopeless resignation, a passive sense of doom. He staggered into the bathroom and out of habit tried to pull it up to a more natural position. As soon as he
let go, it snapped back, pointing rigidly at the ground like a divining rod that just discovered an underground ocean. He pissed, washed, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. He wore a yellow button-down shirt with gold cuff links, cocoa brown skin-tight slacks, gold Banlon socks, and brown suede ankle boots.
Dinky sat in the dining room eating chocolate-flavored dry cereal. Eugene came in with two cups of coffee. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He put one cup in front of his sister and sat down. "Did Al leave you money today?" Eugene extracted a five from his wallet.
She held up a tiny hand to signify she had enough. "Al gave me a five yesterday," she said, sipping coffee. "Can I have some more sugar?"
"No, your teeth'll rot. Did you do your homework?"
"Yeah."
"Lemme see."
She pushed away from the table and primly walked across the living room to her books stacked on the coffee table. Eugene chuckled. He really dug his eight-year-old sister—she tried so hard to be sweet sixteen. When she bent down he saw a flash of white.
"Dinky. Your drawers are showin'. Pull down your dress."
She stood up with her hands on her hips, tapping her toe impatiently and staring at him crossly. "You-gene," she said in a stern, lecturing voice.
Eugene laughed. She returned to the table with a black-and-white composition book, opening it for him. As he perused her arithmetic, she stood with one arm around his neck and one hand on her hip, studying his face for any sign of a mistake in her homework.
"How'm I doin'?" she asked.
"Good ... good ... ah ... ah ... how much is eight and six?"
She squinted at the ceiling, her lips moving. "Fourteen."
"Whad you put?" He pointed to a problem. She leaned over, her arm still around his neck. "Ah, shit," she said.
He bolted upright in his seat and stared at her. "Hey!"
"What?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"You know what," he said menacingly.
She shrugged, staring at her shoes. "You say it, and Al says it all the time ... last night he said shit to Mommy, and he said shit twice over the phone and this morning when you got up you said ah, shit."
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