***
Eugene was O.K. He wasn't out for more than a few seconds. He knew he was O.K. Physically. But something had happened to him when he was coming to, when he didn't know if he was dreaming or awake, when he saw not the Wanderers but a painting of the Wanderers, when above their unreal faces he saw the giant lights of the parking lot—at that moment he'd realized that some day, like Sloopy, he, Eugene Caputo, was going to die. And it scared him shitless. It wasn't pain that made him wobbly-legged, but terror.
His reflex protective impulse was to watch TV. And he watched TV for hours and hours with a savage concentration until his neck muscles felt like pincushions. When only test patterns were on he turned off the TV and turned on the radio. When the radio station signed off, he turned on his record player, dressed up in his sharpest clothes, and practiced dancing as if as long as Kookie Byrnes or Cousin Brucie or Mad Daddy or Babalu or Murray the K or Dion or Frankie Valli could be heard, as long as there was some kind of hip ditty bop noise, as long as there was boss action, as long as there was something to remind him of the nowness and coolness of being seventeen and hip, he was safe. At six in the morning he collapsed, trembling with exhaustion. It was no use. He couldn't dance it out of his system. He couldn't stick two fingers down his throat and puke it up like too much Tango. Death was for keeps. He fell asleep and dreamed he was a rock-and-roll star.
8. Perry—Days of Rage
JOEY SAT in the living room watching cartoons. His school-books were sprawled over the big marble coffee table. He heard the elevator door open in the hallway, and his gut tightened instinctively. Outside the door, a splash of dropped keys and change. A muttered curse. Joey turned off the television. The door swung open, knocking over Joey's bicycle parked in the foyer. Emilio came crashing down on top of the crazily spinning wheels Staggering to his feet he picked up the bicycle and flung it the length of the apartment. He turned his eves on his son who stood frozen in the center of the living room.
"I tol' you to get rid of that goddamn thing!"
Joey stared at his father, the former Mr. New York City, the anchor tattoos, the thick old Italian-style mustache, the hawk nose, the burning eyes ignited by liquor and hatred for his weakling son. Joey took a deep breath and started the long walk past Emilio to his room.
"Whereya goin'?" Emilio demanded.
"I'm gonna pick up the bike," muttered Joey.
"What?" Emilio cupped an ear and squinted, standing dangerously close to Joey. "Talk like a man."
Joey didn't know whether to leave himself exposed or cover his front for an attack. If he put up his hands, he'd be asking for trouble. If he stood defenseless, his father could deck him in a second. But whatever he did, he couldn't walk past his father without answering—that would be suicide. "I'm gonna pick up the bike."
"What? I gotta fairy bad hearing problem." He brought his ear close to Joey's mouth.
"I'm gonna pick up the fuckin' bike!" Joey screamed. He had a split second to curse himself for losing his temper before a blur of flesh zoomed in on the tip of his nose, sending him sprawling, blood cascading from both nostrils. That was Emilio's favorite shot—the flat of his palm square in the nose.
"Jesus Christ." He looked down at his son. "You bleed just like a goddamn girl!" He walked down the foyer into his bedroom, giving Joey's bike a kick for good measure. "If I see this here when I get up," he said, pointing to the bike, "I'm gonna wrap it around your head."
Joey played dead until the bedroom door slammed. He went into the bathroom, took two Q-Tips from the medicine cabinet, ran them under cold water, and plugged one in each nostril until the bleeding stopped.
Joey rode the seven blocks to Eugene's house. "Hey, man."
"Hey, Joey. Hey, what's on your shirt?"
"Ah, I dripped some chocolate ices."
"What's up?"
"Ah, lissen, you think I could leave my bike in your basement a couple of days?"
"Sure, hey, your nose is bleedin'."
Joey wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He never carried a handkerchief.
After school the next day Joey invited the guys to his house for a taste of his old man's homemade wine. "This is good shit. He made it from apricots." Joey offered a glass to Eugene. Everyone else helped themselves.
"Feh!" Richie swallowed with difficulty. The others also had trouble drinking the bitter brew.
"It gets better the more you drink," said Joey, on his third.
After a while everyone was plowed.
"Hey, man," Buddy grinned, "where's Mr. America?"
"He's sleepin', the fuckin' musclehead," Joey sneered.
"Aw, he ain't bad," said Perry.
"Aw, he ain't bad," mimicked Joey. "I'd like to cut his balls off and jam 'em down his throat."
"Hey, don't say that, man, he's your father," said Perry.
"Yeah? You just say that cause your old man's dead, Perry." Everyone stiffened. No one ever said anything to Perry about not having a father. Joey was really drunk. "I'd trade places with you any day a the week, Perry," Joey said. Perry's neck veins bulged. "Any day a the week, man," Joey repeated.
"Hey, Joey." Richie glared at him. "Whyncha shut up."
There was a taut silence for ten minutes. What could have been a shit-faced blast turned into a wake.
"My old man ain't any better," said Eugene. "He thinks he's like Marlon Brando. Spends whole fuckin' days in the bathroom combin' his hair. He fucks more pussy than you ever kissed."
"Gowan," said Buddy, "you're full a shit."
"Yeah? You shoulda heard the fight las' night, man. My ol' lady was gonna kick 'im outta the house. Dinky was scared shitless. It ain't right for parents to fight in fronna a eight-year-old girl. I had to take her for a comic book just to get 'er outta there. Paid for it wit' my own money. I don't want my sister windin' up wit' no ulcer, man."
The Wanderers sat in shocked silence.
"My mom's O.K.," said Perry. They all turned to him, watching his face. Because of what Joey said, the guys now looked at Perry as if he were naked. No one ever had the nerve to ask Perry about his father's death. Perry was the biggest Wanderer, standing over six feet, weighing over two hundred pounds. Perry looked around, confused by the abrupt silence and the weird looks the Wanderers were giving him. He didn't know that each of them was waiting for him to start talking about how his old man died. Each of them imagined a different death—guns, cancer, explosions, war, nothing as mundane as the heart attack that did in his father when Perry was twelve. "My mom's O.K.," repeated Perry. "The real douchebag is Raymond." He stared at their faces. They wanted more. He continued unsteadily. "Ever since he married that Jewish cunt and moved out to the Island he's been breakin' my mom's heart." Everybody knew Raymond Jr., Perry's older brother. Raymond was the projects' celebrity because he was almost a millionaire and not even thirty years old. "My mom drags me out to the fuckin' Island every month to see Raymond's kids. We always come back on that fuckin' train an' Mom's always cryin' 'cause that stupid blond twat thinks Mom's some kinda Mustache Pete and'll contaminate her kids." He took another gulp of wine. "Raymond's a fuckin' jellyfish. I don't care how much dough he got."
The sound of slippers shuffling on linoleum broke the spell. Emilio wearing a baggy pair of boxer shorts, scratching his balls, his eyes half-closed in sleep, stood in the doorway. His eyes traveled slowly from Wanderer to Wanderer, finally settling on Perry. "Hey, you come inta my house," he said, pointing a thick finger at Perry, "an' you watch your language. God lives in this house." They stared at his incredible biceps flexing effortlessly with every movement of his arms. "I don't want no cursin' here." He absently picked his nose as he sized up Perry, wondering if he could still kick a big man's ass as fast as he could twenty years ago. "Don't your father teach you no manners?" Emilio leaned against the door frame, tensing his body almost seductively. His words were angry, but his facial expression was slick and cool. "Ain't you got no tongue in your head? I ast you a question." Joey's eyes darted fro
m his father to Perry and back to his father. Perry gripped the sides of the padded easy chair. The other Wanderers sat as if nailed into their chairs. "That's the trouble with you rotten kids today." He raised his hand over his head, a riot of muscle movement in his arm, and caressed the arch of the door frame. "The fathers are afraid to kick some sense inta their heads."
Perry half rose, still gripping the doily-covered arms. Emilio smiled, sizing up Perry again—he liked them big. "Your father mus' be some kinda piss ant 'cause..." He never finished the sentence. Perry flew across the room. Emilio stood poised, relishing the sensation of his iron fist sinking into soft flesh. But Perry didn't get close enough to be hit because Joey knew what his father was up to, and he tackled the big Wanderer as soon as Perry moved. Emilio stood there with his fist cocked watching his scrawny son trying to hold down the enraged giant The other Wanderers also jumped on Perry. Perry bellowed in fury and frustration as his friends stopped him from getting to his feet.
"Perry!" Joey shouted. "He'll kill you, man, he'll kill you!"
"Lemme up! Lem-me up!" He struggled, his face almost purple, but the Wanderers held him. Emilio chuckled. Joey looked up as his father turned to leave the room. Snarling, Joey sprang to his feet, grabbed a wine bottle, and smashed it across the back of his father's head. The Wanderers ran like hell, dragging Perry with them. Eugene grabbed Joey's hand, almost jerking him off the ground.
"C'mon, man!" They flew down the stairs into the sunlight and raced for the park. Emilio Capra slept in a pool of blood and homemade apricot wine. They sat on the stone wall circling the park, gulping the cold air into their overworked lungs.
"H-hey, Joey." Richie labored to catch his breath. "Y-you shouldna done that."
Joey stared sullenly at the ground. "I hope I bashed his fuckin' brains out."
Perry grabbed Joey by the front of the shirt, pulled him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall. "Don't ever say that." He eyed Joey coldly. "He's your father and don't you forget it."
Perry walked home with a mean head. He was confused and angry. He would have liked to paste that rotten scumbag Emilio, yet in a funny way he liked him. He was sorry that he got pissed at Joey, but he didn't feel like apologizing. Fuckit. His mother was still at work. He threw himself on his bed and listened to Babalu on the radio. Half an hour later, he heard her come in. He didn't feel like talking so he turned off the radio and pretended to be asleep.
"Perry! C'mon, honey. I gotcha supper on the table."
"I ain't hungry." He rolled over on his side.
"C'mon, it's gonna get cold."
"I ain't hungry."
"You wan' me to bring it onna tray?"
Sighing, he got up to wash his face.
"I'm gonna be at Tillie's," she said, slamming the door.
He sat down to a dinner of hamburgers and three mounds of mashed potatoes. The phone rang. "Hey, Ma! Get the phone." He remembered she was next door. "Hullo?"
"Perry?"
"Hi, Ray."
"Hi, is Mom there?"
"She's over by Tillie's."
"Good. Ah, lissen, buddy, you gotta do me a favor."
"What?"
"Ah, Mom is supposed to be comin' out Sunday."
"So?"
"Well, we're gonna have some company and, ah..."
"You don't want her to come."
"Yeah. I mean whathehell she'll be out in a couple of weeks for Christmas anyhow."
"So? I'll call 'er in, you can tell 'er."
"Hey! Perry? Ah, you tell 'er."
"Why don't you tell 'er."
"Ah, you know. She'll keep me on the phone for hours."
"Awright."
"Make up somethin' good."
"Sure."
"Take care, babe." Ray hung up.
"Rotten douchebag," Perry muttered.
"Was that the phone?" Perry's mother walked in.
"Yeah."
"Yeah what?"
"It was Ray."
Her face brightened. "How is my sweetie?"
Perry stiffened with anger. "Your sweetie's fine. Your sweetie said he can't wait to see you on Sunday."
Perry's mother sat down at the table as if in a trance—her eyes glazed with happiness. She was a short, fat woman with a face so sexless that if she wore the right clothes she would look like an old man. Perry took after his father—big and powerful, but with a soft baby face, round, full cheeks, and slightly pouting mouth. His eyes were like his mother's though, deep blue, pulled down at the corners. They gave the impression he was much older and more weary than his seventeen years would seem to permit.
"You know," his mother smiled, "I'm sixty years old, I ain't got more than a couple a years. But when I hear my sweetie gotta call me long distance just to tell me he can't wait to see me, I don't care if I die tomorrow. As long as I can see my sweetie on Sunday."
"You got more mashed potatoes?"
His mother drifted into the kitchen, took the ice cream scoop off the counter, and dipped it into the two-quart pot. She plopped the ball of mashed potatoes on Perry's plate and took her seat. "Hey! That's funny!" She smiled.
"What?"
"If I die tomorrow, how could I see Ray on Sunday? Hah hah!"
"You oughta be on television, Ma."
"Yeah, like on 'Ed Sullivan,'" she offered.
"I was thinkin' more like 'Queen for a Day.'"
That night Perry had a nightmare; he dreamed he was lying in bed. He heard the limp jangle of a cowbell from his mother's room and he jumped out of bed, his candy-striped pajamas soaked with sweat.
"Per-ee, Per-ee, Per-ee," in her weak, petulant voice.
He closed his eyes, trying to slow down his racing heart. "Hold on, Ma, I'm comin'." He lit a cigarette, exhaled heavily, and walked into her room. The stench of human shit assaulted his nostrils. She lay in bed—a vague collection of flesh and damp bedsheets.
"Per-ee, Per-ee, the man was here, yeah?"
He took the cover off the bed. She was laying in a pool of diarrhea. He pinched the skin between his eyes and clenched his teeth. "Jesus Christ. I'll be right back, Ma." He walked into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and a small blue plastic pail. On the way back he took a clean bedsheet from the linen closet. He rolled her on her stomach. Then he pulled the dirty sheet from under her, carefully rolled it into a ball, and threw it out the window. He went back into the bathroom for a sponge to wipe down the rubber sheets. When he returned he saw she had partially missed. "Jesus fuck! You got it onna mattress! Goddamnit! That's it! You did it an' you're gonna lay in it!" He rubbed furiously with the sponge, but the stain was deep. He threw the sponge in the bucket. He opened all the windows in the room—the smell was causing his eyes to tear. Then he went to the other side of the bed where his mother lay motionless on her stomach He removed her soiled nightgown and tossed it into the bucket. For a moment he stared down at her nude frame—bloodless and fleshless. He spread her legs delicately and turning his head away wiped her ass with the towel.
"Per-ee, the man was gonna hurt me, yeah?" She started to cry.
So did Perry. He went to his room. He took the thirty-eight from his dresser drawer, placed it on his desk, and sat down. Wiping the tears from his cheeks he smelled the shit on his hands. No matter how careful he was when he wiped her, no matter how big a towel he used, the same smell was always on his hands when he finished.
The cowbell again. Perry picked up the gun. His mother still lay in the same position. "Oh, Jesus." With two hands Perry aimed the gun at her head, closed his eyes, and fired. The shot missed its mark, blasting the pillow into a cloud of feathers.
She remained motionless as Perry dropped the gun at his bare feet. Then she calmly turned her head until she could see Perry. "Where's Raymond? I want Raymond."
"Aw-nuld! Aw-nuld!"
Perry's eyes opened wide.
"Hey, Aw-nuld!"
He got out of the bed and went to the window. Two kids sat on the green wooden bench downstairs in front of his building
shouting for their friend. A little head appeared at a window two floors down. "C'mon, man. It's twelve-thirty."
The head disappeared, a window slammed. Perry sat on the window sill. It was a cold, sunny day. He spit, watching his saliva spiral and twist until it hit the pavement. He closed the window. The doorbell rang.
"Hey, man, it's twelve-thirty."
Perry scratched his ass through his pajamas and sleepily regarded Joey. "C'mon in."
"Whadya wanna do today, man?"
"I dunno. Hey, boil me some coffee, O.K.?" Perry headed for the bathroom. When he came out, Joey had poured him coffee and was sitting in the dinette eating a salami sandwich. "Help yourself!" Perry smirked.
Joey opened a bottle of soda.
"What happened wit' your old man?" Perry asked.
"Nothin'," Joey answered.
"What!"
"Yeah, nothin'."
"It don't make no sense." Perry sat down and sipped his coffee.
Joey shrugged. "Well, as near as I can figure it, that was the first time I ever hit back, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, so like ... I dunno, maybe he got respec' for me now, you know what I mean?"
"I'd still like to mix wit' 'im. No offense." Perry poured another cup of coffee.
"Don't," Joey said, "don't even think about it."
"Ah, he ain't so tough."
"Perry, I know that cocksucker. Hell tear you to shreds."
"Well, just tell 'im to stay outta my way."
Joey shook his head sadly. "Hey look, man, nothin's happenin' so I think I'll go over to my cousin's. I gotta get some shit over there." He headed for the door. "Dig you later."
Perry sat in moody silence for twenty minutes holding but not drinking his coffee.
"Perry?" His mother came through the door with a fun-shopping cart. He ducked through the kitchen and into his room. Dressing quickly, he left the house before she had taken her coat off.
The Wanderers Page 13
