by C. D. Payne
“You’re entirely welcome,” said Dad, hanging up.
Meanwhile, in between defending her lifestyle to Mom, Joanie continues to eye me suspiciously. I struggle to remain inscrutable.
Joanie made the mistake of divulging that her new boyfriend Philip, besides having a doctorate from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, has a wife and three children in Santa Monica. Joanie met him because he is a frequent flyer to assorted accelerator locations. “It was love at first sight,” she said. “I asked him if he wanted a magazine. And he asked me if I had Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists.”
Shocked, Mom flew off the handle and called Joanie a “home wrecker.”
Joanie got livid and said, “Oh, really? I understand your last boyfriend didn’t exactly qualify as bachelor of the month!”
So much for comforting Mom in her hour of need.
This emotional turmoil has played havoc with my erupting zit. My chin looks like an explosion at an earthworm ranch. I wonder if there’s such a thing as malignant acne?
I have lost interest in my Penthouse collection. Now I am only interested in the real thing. I think about Sheeni constantly. She is the one bright, dazzling star in my gray world. Which reminds me, I have to go walk her stupid dog.
MONDAY, September 3 — Labor Day — Just think, if I had a job, I’d be paid all day for sitting around being bored. Instead, I get to do it for free. What a laborious holiday. And all those ominous back-to-school ads in the newspapers.
Mom and Joanie aren’t speaking to each other. This is better than screaming, but still palpably tense. Mom got mad at Joanie for not helping with the breakfast dishes. “I don’t understand it,” said Mom, tossing a plate against the wall for emphasis. “After 18 years of not lifting a finger around here, you go out and get a job waiting hand and foot on total strangers. Why is that?”
“Because,” replied Joanie, slamming down her book (Particle Physics for Laypersons), “occasionally one of those strangers displays a fucking particle of gratitude.”
“Lazy, foulmouthed home wrecker!” reasoned Mom.
“Overbearing, never-satisfied shrew!” rebutted Joanie.
No wonder people have to escape family life through drugs. I just hope Sheeni and I have better rapport with our gifted children.
Lefty’s mom just called and asked if I wanted Lefty’s baseball card collection or computer. They’re clearing out all his stuff! I suggested maybe they wait a few more days, since the body still hasn’t been recovered. But she said no, she now has an absolute conviction that her son has “discarded his deformed body and departed this sphere.” (So much for motherly intuition.) She wants to distribute his possessions to “needy youths” as soon as possible. (So much for being paralyzed with grief!) Already, she’s given away his bike, stereo, and most of his clothes. So I said I would take the baseball cards and the computer. I just hope the other legatees will be as amenable to returning their bequests.
Mom and Joanie have made up and are organizing a “holiday picnic.” I’ve been drafted to go to 7-Eleven for some chips and charcoal. Can this day get any drearier?
7:30 P.M. Yes, improbably it could. When Albert and I returned with the groceries, we found Mom and Joanie in the back yard. They had moved the grill out of the garage and set up the lawn chairs. Unfortunately, Mom, seeking a more Sierra-like ambience, had also cranked up the trailer—thus discovering the TV, tuna salad remains, and a large portion of my Penthouse collection. When the interrogation began, I proposed as one possible explanation a visitation by the homeless. Mom, however, refused to buy it.
“You are disgusting,” she bellowed, “a disgusting, sick pervert.”
“Oh, Mother!” interjected Joanie. “All boys his age are interested in those kinds of magazines. You should be grateful, at least, the pictures are of women.”
“Thank you, Miss Home Wrecker,” replied Mom. “When I want your opinion on raising my child, I’ll ask for it.”
Joanie sighed, sat down in a lawn chair, and picked up her book. I sighed, sat down in a lawn chair, and picked up a magazine. Mom ripped the magazine from my hands and tossed it across the yard. Albert dashed after it and brought it back. Mom grabbed the magazine, smacked Albert on the nose with it, threw it at me, and stalked into the house. Joanie looked over from her book.
“When are you leaving?” I asked.
“I escape tomorrow morning at six.”
“Wish I was going with you,” I said.
“Your day will come,” said Joanie. “I never thought mine would, but it did.” Joanie studied me for a moment. “Can I ask you one question?”
“OK,” I said.
“Is Lefty dead?”
“Not as dead as Jerry,” I replied. “Did you really take a posture class?”
“Implants,” said Joanie. “I wanted them all my life.”
Mom walked out of the kitchen door carrying a tray of hamburger patties. “OK,” she said brightly, “let’s get that charcoal started!”
Later, as we were cleaning up from the gala picnic, the doorbell rang. It was Lefty’s dad and Martha delivering his computer and famous baseball card collection. Helping them unload, I was appalled to see their station wagon was jammed to the roof with Lefty’s worldly goods (much of them, of course, unlawfully obtained).
“Gee,” I said, “I could take all of this if no one else wants it.”
“Aren’t you the greedy little friend,” observed Martha.
Lefty’s dad showed me his delivery list. “Sorry, Nick,” he said, “everyone wants something to remember Leroy by.”
The list must have had at least 20 names and addresses on it!
“Maybe you should keep a copy of that list,” I suggested. “Just in case Leroy happens to turn up.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Lefty’s dad. “If my son’s alive, I’ll buy him anything he wants. Brand-new.”
What commendable generosity. Now I’ve got two computers. And I can get big bucks for the card collection too.
10:30 P.M. Sheeni took advantage of the holiday rates to call collect. Thank God, I happened to answer the phone. Just the sound of her voice gives me the most amazing adrenaline rush—and immediate T.E. It seems almost incredible that someday soon she and I will be experiencing—as passionate beings—the ultimate expression of human union. (Which reminds me, I have to go to the library and drugstore.)
Sheeni reports Lefty is the sensation of the trailer park. Everyone wants to meet this pious youth from Burma. “He had a full social calendar today,” Sheeni said, “starting with a 7 A.M. prayer breakfast with Mrs. Clarkelson’s faction. Everyone is amazed by his mastery of English and his ignorance of theology.”
“Is he staying swelled up?” I asked.
“Perfectly,” replied Sheeni. “He sleeps with dear darling Albert’s sweet little blanket and that keeps him swollen nicely. He’s a remarkable sight in a bathing suit. Father loaned him a pair of his old trunks and we went swimming between church services and the afternoon prayer meeting.”
“He hasn’t made any passes at you, has he?” I asked. “I mean while you were at the beach together in your bathing suits. I hope you weren’t wearing that purple bikini.”
“I was, as a matter of fact,” Sheeni answered. “For your information, Lefty was the perfect gentleman. He is very nice, if a bit dim. Of course, he got somewhat excited applying my tanning lotion. That’s only to be expected. Odd, he looked a bit crooked, but perhaps it was only the weave of Father’s bathing trunks.”
I suggested to Sheeni that in the future she consider applying her own tanning lotion.
“I’ll remember that, darling,” said Sheeni, “the next time we’re at the beach together.”
“I didn’t mean me,” I said. “It’s OK for me to do it. But not Lefty.”
“Oh, I see,” said Sheeni. “You are an advocate of discrimination. And against Asians. I should have thought the era of such reactionary prejudice was behind us.”
I chang
ed the subject. “Your dog is doing well.”
“Oh, Albert!” exclaimed Sheeni. “I miss him terribly. Tell me all about the little sweetie!”
Since I wasn’t going to run up Mom’s phone bill talking about Albert, I made it brief, and soon I heard Sheeni’s sweet voice saying, “Goodbye, darling. I love you.” Then I put Albert down and she said goodbye to me.
Thus ends another laboriously labored Labor Day. Only one labor remains before I sleep. This involves some precision handwork on a T.E.
TUESDAY, September 4 — Joanie departed for the freedom of the open skies hours before I got up. She left me an envelope on the kitchen table. Inside was a short farewell note and $50 in tens and twenties. My wad is now back up to $90! And that’s not even counting my ever-appreciating baseball card collection.
I celebrated by going out for donuts. When I got back, Mom was in Joanie’s room painting the walls. An ugly pale pink. I hope she cleared the color choice with Joanie. I learned the hard way when I was younger—never mess with Joanie’s room. The bruises take too long to heal. Mom’s asked for bereavement leave from her job for the entire week. Needless to say, her constant presence here will be cramping my already crimped style.
11:30 A.M. Total unmitigated disaster! I just got a call from Lefty’s mom. She asked me—all excited—if I knew where Leroy was. I said well, ocean currents being what they were, he was probably halfway to Hawaii.
“That’s interesting,” she replied. “Because we just got a postcard from him. Dated Saturday. And postmarked Lakeport, California! Weren’t you just up at Clear Lake?”
“No, I went to Tahoe,” I lied. “What does the card say?”
Lefty’s mom read the short inscription: “Dear Mom, Dad, and Creep. I am enjoying my new life as your former son and/or brother. Too bad I didn’t bring my swimsuit, the lake looks great. I will write again when I get a job and get married. Regards, Leroy.”
“Do you think he ran off with some woman?” asked Lefty’s mom. She sounded quite distressed.
“That would surprise me,” I said. “Lefty’s always been pretty shy around girls.”
“Well, if you hear from him, Nick, please tell him to call home immediately.”
I said OK and hung up. Damn that bent retard!
I immediately called Sheeni. Her ancient mother answered and said Sheeni and Leff Ti had taken their Bibles to read down by the lake. I felt like asking if Sheeni had also packed along her suntan lotion, but instead requested that Sheeni telephone me immediately when she returned. Without fail!
“What, may I ask, is this in regards to, young man?” asked the prying old crone.
“I can only say it involves international ramifications,” I replied.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed. “I knew there was something fishy about that young man. I can always tell. I saw through you immediately.”
I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Saunders,” and hung up. I hope, after we’re married, Sheeni won’t expect me to do much socializing with her parents. I don’t think I could stand it.
2:00 P.M. No call from Sheeni yet! I can feel the tension churning directly into zits. Mom was gabbing on the phone with some girlfriend for 42 minutes about her deceased lover. It was all I could do to keep from strangling her.
3:45 P.M. Finally, Sheeni called (collect, of course). I told her what happened and asked to speak to the Burmese idiot. Lefty, of course, was quite surprised to hear that the postcard was a tactical error. “I always send postcards when I go places,” he observed. “I sent you two from France this summer. The stamps cost me over a buck.”
“Yes, but you weren’t running away from home then,” I replied. “People who run away from home don’t send postcards to their parents!”
“Oh, well, I never heard that rule,” said Lefty. “I just didn’t want them to worry too much.”
I started to explain that that was the point of the entire charade, but gave up in exasperation. “OK, Lefty. The vacation is over. You have to take the next bus home today.”
“But what will I tell the Saunderses?” protested Lefty. “And Sheeni and I were going to rent a video tonight. Some Frog movie called Breathless.”
Great! Just the two of them sharing an evening together on the sofa. “Sorry to interrupt your plans, Romeo,” I said icily. “But you have to get home as soon as possible. Sheeni will think of an excuse to tell her parents. Here’s what you have to do. Now pay attention.”
“I’m listening,” grumbled Lefty.
“OK. You fell off the Berkeley pier…”
“I did?” asked Lefty, surprised. “When?”
“The day you disappeared.”
“Why’d I do that?” asked Lefty. “I can’t swim.”
“Just listen and don’t interrupt! You fell off the pier. You swam—OK, no, you dog-paddled across the harbor. You got out of the water. You were too afraid to go home. So you hitchhiked up to Clear Lake.”
“Can’t we say I walked to Clear Lake?” asked Lefty, worried. “If my parents hear I was hitchhiking, they’ll pound me for sure.”
“Your parents won’t care this time. I guarantee it. Just, whatever you do, don’t mention me, Sheeni, or the Saunderses. You did this all on your own.”
“I did it all on my own,” repeated Lefty doubtfully. “But it was your idea, Nick.”
“That’s true,” I conceded. “And it was working fine until you screwed it up. But everything will still turn out OK. Just get home—quick!”
“Oh, all right,” said Lefty. “Anyways, I’m getting tired of being swelled up and going to church all the time.”
“If you do as I say—keep my name out of it—I’ll let you in on a nice secret.”
“What kind of secret?” asked Lefty suspiciously.
“I’m not going to tell you now,” I replied. “But you’ll like it a lot. Just don’t mention my name.”
“I heard you,” said Lefty.
“Nobody likes a squealer.”
“I’m not a squealer,” said Lefty.
I still needed more insurance. “Good,” I said, “because I’m sure you wouldn’t want your parents to find out how you got all your hotrod magazines and baseball cards and stuff.”
“I’m not a squealer!” insisted Lefty. “My lips are sealed.”
Eight more hours of hell. I figure everything should be over—one way or another—by midnight. I just hope the tension doesn’t pockmark my face for life.
5:00 P.M. Tired from painting, Mom whipped up a fast meal of fried beef liver, boiled red beets, and steamed lima beans—the three food substances I find most despicable. I gazed in horror at my plate.
“You might as well eat it,” said Mom, chowing down with alacrity. “If you don’t, it’s all coming back tomorrow in a casserole.”
Are there no bounds to parental sadism? I picked up my fork. With each bite, my body shuddered in revulsion. The lima beans and beet slices I swallowed whole, like horse pills. The liver—tough, gritty, stringy with real cow veins—necessitated actual mastication. My palate recoiled in shock with each chew. Swallowing ensued as a horrible relief.
6:05 P.M. A worried call from Sheeni! Her father took Lefty to the bus station more than an hour ago and has not returned!
“Maybe he stopped at a bar for a quick one,” I suggested hopefully.
“Would that he would do something so normal,” replied Sheeni. “Both of my parents are zealous abstainers. Yet a prolonged alcoholic binge is precisely what each of them needs. I think it would do them such a world of good.”
“Well, where can he be?” I asked.
“I fear the worst,” said Sheeni. “Oops, here comes Mother.”
Sheeni hung up. Panicked, my stomach contemplated its vile contents and decided to revolt. I ran to the bathroom and reexperienced my meal—in reverse. Up came the gritty liver, up came whole lima beans, up came pellets of boiled beets—red as clotted blood. Hot acidic wave followed hot acidic wave—each bilious spasm so horrific, I fear my aestheti
c may never fully recover. From a corner under the sink, Albert watched with ghoulish delight.
Mom barged into the bathroom and demanded what was going on.
“Food poisoning!” I exclaimed, still prone upon the cold tiles.
“Don’t be silly,” replied Mom, handing me a towel. “Food poisoning indeed! That was a good, nourishing meal. Better than the homeless had tonight. You should be grateful.”
“I’m grateful I’m still alive,” I said, struggling to my feet. “Now I can go kill myself.”
“Don’t say things like that!” exclaimed Mom. “It’s disrespectful of the dead. Think of poor Jerry and poor Lefty.”
