He wandered over to Big Playground. No one was around except Turkey.
"Hey." Turkey waved.
"Hey. What's goin' on?" Perry didn't like Turkey, didn't especially want to be alone with him.
"Nothin'." Turkey felt self-conscious alone with any of the Wanderers. A big group was O.K., but one guy made him want to run away.
"You doin' anything?" Perry jammed his hands into his coat pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold.
"Well, I gotta go downtown. I wanna check out this new bookstore."
"How you goin'?"
"Train."
"Let's go." As much as Perry disliked Turkey he didn't want to be left alone to think about Emilio.
"Sure." Turkey was amazed at Perry's confidence. He could never just walk up to a guy and say "Let's go" like that. They walked to the train station. Turkey felt like he had to entertain Perry, but everything he said fell flat. He talked about the skull he'd seen for sale on 46th Street, but Perry only scowled and stared across the street. He mentioned the Nazi armbands he'd just bought off this guy on Radcliffe Avenue, and it was like Perry wasn't even there.
On the train, Perry thought about the possibilities of fighting Emilio. This made him nervous, so he searched his brain for something else to think about. He flashed on Debbie Luloff, the orange-haired girl from the Bronx House dance. Maybe he should take her out. He imagined diving between her huge breasts and staying there for a week—maybe taking food and water with him.
"...and he also has the original soundtrack from 'War of the Worlds.'"
"What?"
"He has all of them."
"Turkey, what the fuck are you talkin' about?"
"This guy Lowell Tucker down in the village got all the..."
"Turkey, I ain't interested. You broke my train of thought. Shut up."
Turkey wondered why he thought that he had to keep Perry amused. At Times Square, Perry walked off the train without even saying goodbye. Turkey felt hurt but relieved.
Perry wandered past the row of dirty movies off Broadway. Although he wasn't eighteen he could get into the "be 21-or-be gone" bookstores because he was a big guy. In one narrow shop with pegboard-covered walls, he examined a magazine called Hand-Job. One of the girls looked just like Debbie Luloff. He found a phone booth outside.
"Hullo?" An older woman's voice.
"Oh. Is Debbie there?"
"Who's calling?"
"A friend from school."
"What's your name?"
"Perry."
"What do you want with Debbie?"
"Oh, I gotta get the homework."
"Well, Debbie doesn't have it. She's been in bed for a week."
"Well can I..."
The lady hung up on him. "Rotten cunt," he muttered. He walked around the streets in a mixture of rage, embarrassment, and horniness. A storefront caught his eye:
TROPICAL JACK'S BOOK STORE
MOVIES—MOVIES—MOVIES
Private Booths
With SOUND!!!
Two life-sized big-titted nudes were painted in silhouette against the white windows. Perry walked through the brightly lit dirty-book section past the cashier into a dark hallway lined on both sides with curtained booths. The only light came from red bulbs over each booth: on if occupied, off if available. Perry picked a booth and stepped inside, drawing the curtain. He checked out the interior—a square closet with a wooden box on one wall, a coin slot, and two eyeholes. He dropped in a quarter. The screen lit up—the show began. He pressed his eyes against the peepholes. Two teen-age kids grinded mechanically from all angles for about three minutes. A tiny speaker from somewhere in the booth played a recording of a woman's voice, "Ohhh-oh-ohhh," alternating with a man's voice, "Yeah baby oh yeah baby oh baby."
Perry debated whether to whack off or not. Some guys must—why else would they give them their own booths. The screen went blank. He left the booth and slipped into the next one down the line. Dropped in a quarter. He squawked—two guys going at it. He watched anyhow. They stroked each other's chests. Then a close-up of mingling tongues. Then slightly hairy asses rolling over and over in bed. Against all mental protest Perry was excited. They don't show cock. He thought he saw a flash of cock but wasn't sure.
He ran to the next booth. Dropped in a quarter. Two dykes. That's more like it. They show bush. A close-up of a lipsticked mouth over a tit. Perry frantically rubbed his prick through his pants.
He ran to the next booth. He was out of quarters. He put in two dimes and a nickel. Nothing happened. He cursed, spraying spit. He stormed to the book section to get his money back from the guy behind the counter, but as soon as he left the darkness of the booths and entered the brightly lit storefront he felt ashamed and lost his hard-on. The guy behind the counter was a good-looking kid with long hair. Perry left Tropical Jack's and went home.
"Hallo, Perry, you have a good time? We gonna eat soon." Perry pushed past his mother. The thought of food gave him a stomach ache. She bustled after him, Lou Costello in a housedress. "Perry, whassamatter? You sick?"
"Lemme alone, hah?"
"I bet you're sick, c'mere." She put a wet, raw-meat-smelling hand on his forehead. The coldness and the food smell made him nauseous.
"Get outta here, willya?"
She started jabbering at him. Sidestepping her beefy clutches, locked himself in the bathroom. She yelled at him through the door. "Per-ry, Per-ry, opena door!"
"Go 'way!"
"Perry, come outta there an' lemme take your temperature!"
Pacing the bathroom Perry thought of the guy behind the counter looking in on him now and laughing.
"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" He punched the door, turning his knuckles red. He heard a gasp. Deathly silence. A little choke. A siren went off deep within her throat. The wail filled Perry's ears and eyes and mouth. He didn't know which to cover first and slammed his hands to his ears, screaming back, "SHADDUP SHADDUP SHADDUP SHADDUP."
The siren walked toward the kitchen, competing with the crashing of pots and pans.
Sweating, Perry flopped down on the toilet seat, exhaled heavily, and wiped his face on his sleeve. Then he stood up and combed his hair. He lit a cigarette and sat back down on the toilet. The trapped smoke in the tiny room made him wheeze. He was still wearing his coat. He stood up and flicked the butt in the bowl. "MOTHERFUCKIN' SHIT!" He slammed the seat back down and went into his room, threw off his coat, took off his damp shirt, and wiped his underarms with it. He splashed cologne in his armpits, put on a clean T-shirt, and walked into the kitchen.
"I'm sorry, Ma, I wasn't feelin' too good."
She turned to him—her long-suffering eyes as red as torn flesh. "Oh, Perry, Perry." She started crying again, holding him around the gut in a bear hug. He awkwardly returned the embrace, revolted by the burning sensation of her tears on his chest. He tried to disentangle himself. "O.K., Mom, O.K., Mom, I'm sorry. Hey, I'm sorry, awright?"
"I don't believe I should live to hear my younges' son, my baby ... my baby call me a bad word like that. Perry, I'm a old woman now an' soon I'm gonna be wicha father up there." She let go to shake a finger at him. "An' he's gonna as' me how the boys treated me these las' few years..." Her voice died to a choked whisper. "An' I'm gonna hafta tell 'im, Perry." She shook her head. "I'm gonna hafta tell 'im..." She grabbed Perry again sobbing in mighty bellows. Perry couldn't breathe. Suddenly she stopped, brought her tear-stained face up to his, and touched him lightly on the cheek.
Perry imagined plunging his tongue in her mouth, grabbing those big fat tits, twisting and squeezing them, ripping off that stinking housedress, and ramming his cock in her so hard that he'd break her fucking ribs.
"Perry, your face is hot. You got a fever, get in bed."
"G'wan, I ain't sick."
He disentangled himself from her arms, aware of the wet spot on his chest. He went into the bedroom again to change his T-shirt. She followed right behind: "Perry, please, lemme take your temperature?"
/> "No!" She started to cry again. "O.K., O.K., take my temperature."
She kissed him. "Lay down." She went to the bathroom. He dropped his pants and lay belly-down on his bed. She returned with a jar of Vaseline and a thermometer. As she walked in he covered his ass with a corner of the bedspread. She laughed. "Mister Bigshot." She sat down next to him, shook down the thermometer, scooped up a blob of Vaseline on the tip, and tried to remove the cover from his behind. He grabbed the thermometer from her hand and held the cover tighter around him.
"Jus' gimme the goddamn thing. I'll put it in myself."
She rose smiling. "Mister Bigshot. I knew you when..." She started to leave the room but turned around just as he took the cover from his ass: "I knew you when..."
9. The Funeral
LEANDER TULLY HIGH SCHOOL had 8000 male students and no girls. It was probably the toughest school in the city. Social Studies 326 was a special class for punks. The students were hand-picked troublemakers and although it was nominally a history class, the teacher was supposed to teach discipline. In past years the class had been taught by guidance counselors, but after one of them was beaten up by his students, it was given to gym teachers.
For the current year Mr. Sharp was chosen. Mr. Sharp was a tall, lean, athletic guy with a hawk face and stooped shoulders. He was young, in his thirties, and didn't mind the assignment. In his late teens he'd been Warlord of the Red Wings, the most feared gang in New York City after the war. He wouldn't tell that to his students, not because he was ashamed but because the Red Wings were notorious "nigger chasers" and half his students were colored. Some of them might have older brothers who remembered the Red Wings, and it wouldn't be too cool for them to know their teacher used to get his kicks busting woolly heads. Besides, the past was the past, and now his name was Mr. Sharp.
For some weird administrative reason the thirty-five students in 326 were colored or Italian except for one Jew. A similar class, Social Studies 381, was composed of Irish and Puerto Rican with a sprinkling of Polish and Germans. Mr. Sharp didn't understand the logic behind this, but he didn't mind the setup. He didn't like Puerto Ricans.
He sat behind his desk as the class filtered in, banging books on their desks, sprawling into their seats like they'd just finished ten laps around the gym. Colored sat on the left side of the room, whites on the right side. He didn't assign seats because he knew they'd sit with their own kind anyway.
The room was composed of six rows of nailed down old-fashioned combination chair-desks, his chair and desk, and a blackboard. The walls were bare. He didn't believe in arts and crafts or displays. Besides, what would these guys like to see up there, six easy steps to putting someone in the hospital? Maybe portraits of famous gangsters. Once he'd cut out pictures of an electric chair, a gas chamber, a firing squad in action and a gallows He'd even printed a title "The Way to Go," but he junked the idea on a last-minute impulse.
The classroom was filling up. He opened his Delaney book and read off the names of the students he didn't see present.
"Rocco?"
"He ain't here."
"Capra?"
"He ain't here."
"Jenkins?"
"He ain't here."
"White?"
"He ain't here."
"La Guardia, take your feet off the desk." Perry smiled, looked around at his audience, and slowly moved his feet. "It smells bad enough in here," said Sharp.
"Ahhhh-ha-ha."
"Whoooooooooo!"
Perry sat up and shot Sharp the finger when he turned his back.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Boo-Boo hammed. Boo-Boo was in the Viceroys, a colored gang. "Mistah Sharp, you shoulda seen what La Guardiah did."
"Woooooooo!"
"Shaddup, stoopit!" Perry glowered across the room.
"Woooo! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
"You gonna make me?" Boo-Boo stuck out his chin at Perry.
"O.K. O.K., shaddup, both a you."
"See you later!" Perry whispered loudly.
"Any time." Boo-Boo stood up and gave Perry crossed forearms, guinea for fuck you. Everyone laughed.
Sharp decided to teach: "O.K. Does anybody know what this week is?"
Joey Capra waltzed into the room, slamming the door.
"Capra," Sharp said, marking the Delaney book, "come on time or don't come at all." Joey shrugged and started to leave. "Capra! Siddown!!"
In mock fear Joey scrambled for his seat and slid in next to Perry. Joey smiled around the room at the laughter.
"Hey, Mistah Sharp, them white boys is getting obstreperous." A teacher once called Ray Barrett obstreperous, and he liked the word and used it twice a day.
Five or six white guys stood up, mouthing threats and pointing fingers across the room. The colored guys stared bug-eyed, stuffing their knuckles in their mouths, trembling with mock palsy.
The door slammed again, and Curly White bopped in. He walked like he had a record playing in his head—dipping his hips left then right in slow motion, eyes almost closed, snapping his fingers. The colored guys cheered in approval. Joey Capra, wiggling his ass, shaking his shoulders, eyes closed, lips moving, did a gross imitation down the aisle. The white guys cheered.
"Capra, you got detention." The colored guys cheered. "Awright, everybody is gonna get detention if you don't shut up." Sharp was getting pissed. "White, I'll tell you the same I told Capra—come in on time or don't come in at all."
Curly sat down covering his face with his hand. He eyed Sharp through spread fingers. "Sssshoo, man, ah jus' wanna go to sleep." Everyone shouted their approval.
"O.K., White, you got detention."
"Awwwww, ma-a-a-a-n! Sheee-it." He waved his hand in disgust but knew he'd made a big mistake.
"Wooooooo!"
"You're gettin' a pink card, White."
"Awwwww, ma-a-an, I was only kiddin'!"
"Well I'm not." A pink meant suspension. Everyone was silent in respect for the sentence just passed.
"Now." Sharp looked over the faces of his army of misfits. "Who knows what this week is?"
"'s Bruthahood week," mumbled Curly White, sulking behind his hand.
Sharp was impressed. "Good, White."
"You still goin' gimme a pink, Mistah Shahp?"
Sharp ignored the question and wrote "Brotherhood Week" on the blackboard. Then he wrote, "All men are created equal." "Anybody know who said that?"
Perry mumbled, "Your mother," but Sharp didn't hear it, although those around Perry cracked up. Perry slunk lower in his seat, trying not to smile at his own wit. Sharp wrote: "A. Lincoln" under the quote. "Abraham Lincoln."
There was a bored silence in the room. Sharp tried a more radical approach. He numbered one to five on the blackboard. Above the numbers he wrote: "Race, Creed, Color." "O.K." He swept the slightly interested faces with his eyes. "I wanna see how many different races, creeds, and colors we got just in this classroom. Ah, all Joosh people stand up." Embarrassed, Dushie Melnick, the smallest kid in the class, stood up. Mr. Sharp wrote, "Jewish," putting a chicken scratch next to the word.
"O.K., how many Italians here?"
Half the class stood up, cheering and shouting, clasping hands over heads like "champeens." The colored guys booed, holding their noses. Ricky Leopoldi started singing an aria. "Awright! Awright! Awright!" Joey yelled as if at a football game. "O.K., sit down." Sharp shouted. Slowly, the Italian delegation sat down still congratulating each other. Sharp had forgotten to count but he wasn't going to ask them to stand again, so he wrote "Italian—18."
He' cursed himself. This was a stupid idea. "O.K., how many"—he debated what word to use—"colored?"
The colored guys jumped up, cheering and shouting twice as loud as the Italians. They danced down the aisle, giving each other skin. The Italians also stood up, booed, and made farting noises. Sharp slammed a dictionary on the desk. The noise sounded like an explosion. Everybody froze in place. "Awright," he said softly. He noticed that Curly White wasn't standing with the rest of h
is people. "Everybody sit down." They sat, murmurs of laughter and good times. "White, din't we pick a group to suit you?"
Curly's face was still covered, his legs dangling in the aisle.
"Ahm a Eskimo."
"Ah—ha-ha."
Just to show that he wasn't a straight-neck, Sharp wrote "Colored—15" and under that "Eskimo—1." Curly White fought back a smile.
Sharp was struck with a giddy thought. When he was a Red Wing he was known for leading charges against armed gangs with the recklessness of a kamikaze. He was often overcome with a crazy feeling, a disregard for danger that made him one of the scariest guys in a very scary gang. Over the years he'd mellowed, but every once in a while he got a flash of the old insanity, that courting of disaster which earned him the nickname "Jap" as a teen-ager. And Jap was in control now. With a flourish of the eraser he eliminated Dushie Melnick and the Jewish people, leaving the universe to Italians and colored.
"O.K., Italian and colored. Italian and colored. Izzat the way people talk? I mean"—he looked at the white side of the room—"is that the way your old man talks. The Cullid?" They snickered, intrigued, trying to figure out what he was getting at. "And how 'bout you guys?" He addressed the left side of the room. "Whada you say outside a class? Eyetalians?" They roared. "Let's be straight." He almost said, let's call a spade a spade, but he didn't. He faced the board, touched the chalk to the surface, and said, "Gimme some names."
Embarrassed silence. Then Perry said, "Nigger."
Sucking in of breath. The sound of writing on the blackboard. Perry looked down at his desk.
"Greaseball," said one of the Dukes. Angry glances.
"Jungle Bunny," said Peter Udo.
"Swamp Guinea," shot back Ray Barrett.
"Han'kerchief Head," said Ricky Leopold!.
"Mountin' Wop," said Curly. The colored guys slapped palms.
"Boogie!" Perry shouted, rising from his seat. A chorns of "yeahs" from the whites.
"Guinea!"
"Coon."
"Dago."
The Wanderers Page 14
