by C. D. Payne
I extracted Mr. Fergusons’s $20 bill from its hiding place (the thumb cavity of my official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s glove), and sneaked out of the house to McDanold’s. I ate slowly, savoring the burgers and fries. This could be my last decent, greasy meal for a long time.
When I got back, Mom was gone. She had left behind a note affixed by a magnet to the liver refrigeration chamber. It read in stark simplicity: “You’re in trouble, buster!”
SATURDAY, September 8 — I am writing this in pencil. Mom has confiscated my computer keyboard for a week for violating my prison sentence. If my dick unscrewed, I’m sure she’d have that hidden somewhere too to prevent unauthorized access to bodily pleasures.
Mom went for the grand slam this morning. At 7:12 A.M. she pitched her pabulum. The slight delay I attributed to a more leisurely pace on the weekend.
Later, while Mom was hammering in Joanie’s room, the phone rang. In breathless anticipation, I accepted another willfully disobedient collect call from Sheeni. Great news! She has actually dredged up a writing job in Ukiah.
“Progressive Plywood is looking for an assistant editor,” reported The Woman of My Dreams. “It’s perfect for your father.”
“What’s Progressive Plywood and how much does it pay?” I asked.
“Its a trade magazine,” explained Sheeni. “All about the wonders of plywood, with occasional digressions on waferboard. The salary starts at 32.”
“Wow, that’s kind of low,” I said doubtfully. “And Dad’s not much of a woodworker. I’m not sure he knows what plywood is.”
“That’s OK,” said Sheeni. “They’re just looking for basic writing skills. The salary is quite generous for up here. And I had to pull some strings to get even that.”
“Oh,” I said suspiciously, “you have clout with trade magazine editors?”
“Indirectly,” replied Sheeni. “The owner is the father of a friend of mine.”
“Anyone I know?”
“OK, it’s Trent’s father. So what?”
“So why should Trent want to help my dad move to Ukiah?”
“I told you, darling. Trent harbors you no ill will. In fact, he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
I didn’t believe that for a second. “And I’m looking forward to meeting him,” I lied.
“Can you call your father today?” asked Sheeni. “They’re anxious to fill the position.”
“I can’t do that. My father would never take a job I found for him. It would violate his competitive Type A standards.”
“You’re probably right,” said Sheeni. “OK. I’ll pretend to be a head-hunter and I’ll call him up.”
“Flatter his ego,” I advised. “He’ll go for that.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Put your charm in overdrive,” I added.
“Why, Nick,” said Sheeni innocently, “I don’t know what you mean.”
After lunch, Lefty came over with a steak bone for Albert. Both dog and bone giver were happy to see each other. Lefty’s body has returned to what passes for normal for him. He is still grounded (aren’t we all?), but since both his parents work, he is free to be willfully disobedient during the day. By 4:45, though, Lefty is back in his room—pretending to be bored and cranky from a day of tedious confinement.
Mom was in the kitchen baking cakes when Lefty arrived. She greeted him with cold correctness. Perhaps she’s jealous that Lefty rose from the dead but Jerry hasn’t so far.
“Gee, that smells good,” commented Lefty, after we went upstairs to my room. “What’s your mom making?”
“Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies. You name it. She’s going all out.”
“What’s the occasion?” asked Lefty.
“I don’t know. She’s not talking. My theory is she’s planning a big surprise party for me to tell me all is forgiven and to make up for my having to go to public school.”
“Well, I didn’t get an invitation,” complained Lefty.
“Of course not. You’re grounded.”
“So are you.”
“True. But I don’t have to leave the house to go to the party.”
Lefty, I noticed, had something flat and rectangular concealed under his shirt. “Don’t tell me you’ve been to the library,” I said.
“No, a bookstore,” he replied, pulling out a large hardbound volume. “I got this for my date with Millie.” The book was titled Lovemaking for Advanced Gourmets. “I was reading it all last night. Boy, having sex is a lot more complicated than I thought. Did you know you were supposed to stick your pinkie up her bumhole?”
“You lie!”
“No way, man,” said Lefty indignantly. “Here, I got the page marked. Read that!”
I read the paragraph in question. Although phrased somewhat more delicately than Lefty’s crude summary, there was no doubt this was precisely what the authors were advocating. “Well,” I said, reading the passage again in disbelief, “I think this is for people who’ve been married so long they’re kind of revolted by the sight of each other. Like your parents. I definitely wouldn’t try this on a first date.”
“I’m not planning to,” stated Lefty with conviction. “If Millie wants that kind of action she can go back to Willis. See if I care.”
I leafed through the book with interest. Every page was illustrated with tasteful drawings of yuppie couples participating in sophisticated lovemaking.
“Check out the chapter on cocksucking,” suggested Lefty.
“Looks pretty spicy,” I agreed. My T.E. was throbbing in my pants.
“Do you suppose our girlfriends will actually do that to us someday?” wondered Lefty, adjusting his crotch.
“Certainly,” I replied, “it says right here most women enjoy performing fellatio. Once they overcome their feelings of revulsion and impulse to gag.”
Lefty unzipped. “Want to try it?” he asked shyly.
“Maybe we should,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Just so we’ll know what it’s like for our girlfriends.”
I went first. In spite of the fetid crotch odors, Lefty’s cock was surprisingly tasteless—except for some mild salinity at the tip. The experience was not unlike sucking a nailless, oversize, somewhat crooked thumb. I found I could take about three-quarters of the warm shaft before gagging. Lefty groaned with pleasure as I rolled my tongue around the sensitive glans. Thankfully, he pulled away just before he came and finished the job by hand.
Then, when Lefty was doing me, Mom walked into the room carrying two chocolate cupcakes. She screamed, Lefty bolted upright, I zipped. Zingggg. The first cupcake whizzed past my left ear and splattered against the wall. The second one slammed into the side of Lefty’s head.
“Perverts!” screamed Mom. “Friggin’ goddam perverts!”
Panicked, half blinded, Lefty bolted toward the door and ran into Mom. She shoved him aside like a wild woman and lumbered toward the bed with murder in her eyes. I assumed the abused child’s Basic Defensive Posture (knees against chest, arms shielding head) as Mom grabbed the nearest object (a heavy volume on advanced lovemaking) and began flailing me with it.
“In my house! How dare you!” she screamed. “Pervert! Friggin’ pervert!”
After what seemed like ten minutes, she paused, examined her now tattered weapon, screamed, and flung it across the room. She looked around wildly. “Where’s, where’s that other degenerate?” she demanded, gasping for breath. But Lefty had long since beat it. “He won’t get away!” she exclaimed. “I’m calling his parents!”
Futilely I whimpered for compassion. “Aw, we didn’t mean anything by it, Mom. Don’t tell his parents!”
Mom wasn’t buying it. “I don’t want to hear another word!” she bellowed. “Wait until your father hears about this!”
I decided to go on the offensive. “Well, it’s all your fault! You told me I couldn’t see my girlfriend anymore!”
“Shut up!” she screamed. (But I think the point had struck home.) “Don’
t you dare leave this room! I’m going to have you locked up!”
Mom walked out and slammed the door. I sat up, still somewhat dazed, and wiped chocolate frosting out of my hair. All this unpleasantness could be avoided, I thought, if only the woman would learn to knock before entering.
5:15 P.M. Mom is downstairs having an animated conversation on the telephone with someone. I fear it may be Lefty’s mother. I also smell the unmistakable aroma of liver frying. Running away from home has never sounded more appealing than it does at this minute.
8:07 P.M. Mom is entertaining about 45 noisy truck drivers downstairs. She’s had the poor taste to host a wake for Jerry. I can barely think over the raucous country and western music. Periodically over the noise, an annoying peal of laughter rises from Mom. One would hardly suppose that just hours before, she was beating her only son for illicit homosexual congress. Why are adults so two-faced?
Me, I’m surprisingly blasé about the whole affair. It’s occurred to me that a kid can get in just so much trouble and then you bump against a plateau. No matter what other heinous acts you commit, you’re still in the same deep shit. So, that being the case, why not hold your nose, let ’er rip, and enjoy life? That’s my philosophy.
I’ve been reading Lefty’s book and taking notes. These are the practical, tab A in slot B pointers I was seeking (and not getting) from that late alleged genius Wilhelm Reich. I can’t wait to try out some of the more improbable maneuvers on My Future Wife. Am I wrong to expect that our sex lives will be nothing less than sizzling? I think not.
SUNDAY, September 9 — Figuring Mom would be sleeping in from her late-night funereal debaucheries, I sneaked downstairs bright and early to call Sheeni. The living room was totally trashed—with the picked-over remains of a large buffet spread over the hood of Jerry’s dead Chevy. I flicked cigarette ash off a brownie and gulped it down as I dialed the number. That Wonderful Teen herself answered on the second ring. As expected, Sheeni’s pious parents were away at church, so she could talk without fear of interruption. She had bad news to report.
“Alas, darling,” she said, “your father listened to my employment proposal most graciously. But he’s declined to come for an interview.”
“He declined!” I exclaimed. “Why?”
“He says he thinks this is a wonderful opportunity for him to resume work on his novel.”
“His novel! He’s been working on that piece of trash since before Joanie was born. I don’t think he’s past page five!”
“He says he’s now.”
“And what’s he planning to live on?” I demanded.
“I asked him that, of course,” replied Sheeni. “He said he’s going to move to a cheap apartment and live on unemployment compensation. He said his check will just cover rent, food, and BMW payments. Oh, and he thought his girlfriend might move in and help with expenses. He also suggested that if she did not perhaps I could come down and have dinner with him sometime.”
“That lecher!” I exclaimed. “That lazy, parasitic lecher!”
“He seemed rather sweet to me,” observed Sheeni.
“And did he mention how he proposed to meet his legal obligation to pay child support?”
“No,” admitted Sheeni, “I don’t think that issue is weighing particularly on his mind.”
“Well, it will be shortly,” I said. “I’m not going to stand for this lawless neglect.”
“Good for you, Nickie,” said Sheeni. “Parents should be reminded periodically of their responsibilities. In fact, my father received quite a sobering reminder yesterday. Mother and I drove down to Santa Rosa and spent $2,683 on my fall wardrobe. It was quite an exhilarating day.”
“Santa Rosa!” I said. “That’s halfway to the Bay Area.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I thought of you, Nickie, in the lingerie department. So close, and yet still hauntingly out of reach.”
“Did you get some nice lingerie?” I asked, nearly swooning.
“Oh yes! Something sheer and lacy and ever so alluring. I’m not going to tell you precisely what it is. I’d rather it be a surprise. Frankly, though, I was amazed my mother consented to purchase it.”
I heard a noise that sounded like feminine vomiting upstairs. “Oops, I better hang up now,” I said. “The forces of darkness are astir. I can’t wait to explore your surprise.”
“Soon, darling, soon,” promised Sheeni. “Bye-bye, and kiss darling Albert for me.”
Two seconds after I hung up, Mom dragged herself downstairs. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Waiting for the newspaper,” I said. “It’s late again.”
“I’ve got something to tell you, Nick,” she said, giving off a familiar aroma of gastric evacuate.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“I’ve decided to accept it,” Mom said, “I don’t mind that you’re gay.”
“What!”
“But please, be careful. Don’t get any, you know … diseases.”
You should talk, I thought. “Thanks,” I said, “I’ll remember that.” I thought of making an effort to convince her I was a card-carrying heterosexual, but what’s the point? She’ll believe what she wants to anyway. Reasoning with parents is like spelunking in a sewer: it’s dark, scary, and almost always results in a lot of shit coming down on your head.
I actually had a pretty good morning. I read the Sunday paper and ate leftover wake pastries until my eyes could no longer focus from the sugar rush (though I pointedly boycotted the chocolate cupcakes). Mom fixed herself a nice plate of scrambled eggs and fried liver. As she was digging in she looked up and apologized for tilting the menu so heavily toward the organ meats. “I have this incredible craving for beef liver,” she remarked. “I can’t get enough of it.”
“Oh,” I said, “too bad it’s not steak and french fries.”
“No, I never craved steak when I was…” Mom stopped. “When I was having cravings before.”
The woman is sure acting strange. Maybe it’s dreaded menopause. I hear that can be hell on innocent family members.
Just as Mom was finishing her second helping of liver, the doorbell rang. She was off like a jackrabbit to answer it. “Good morning,” I heard her say to someone. “So you came by after all. Nice to see you.”
A moment later, Mom walked back into the kitchen followed by an immense, seven-foot-tall giant in a plaid shirt and bib overalls. The giant had to duck to come through the doorway.
“Oh, Wally,” said Mom, “this is my son. Nick, this is Mr. Rumpkin, a friend of Jerry’s.”
The giant leaned over and stretched out a frighteningly huge hand. Timidly, I offered mine and the Brobdingnagian fingers enveloped it in a shockingly mild grip. The giant blushed, looked at his shoes, and mumbled, “How do?”
“Fine, thanks,” I replied. I noticed that instead of being completely hairless, as I had first supposed, Mr. Wally Rumpkin’s immense pink head was covered with wispy blond hair of such fineness as to make even the most delicate infant green with envy. His features were also babylike, with a tiny pug nose and watery blue eyes forming a lonely oasis in a vast desert of puffy pink skin.
“Wally volunteered to help with the cleanup this morning,” said Mom, beaming. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”
Wally blushed and looked at the ceiling. From his vantage point no flaw in the plaster escaped his scrutiny.
Mom and Wally set to work on the cleanup while I helped by staying out of the way. As the laconic pink giant carried tray after tray of soiled dishes into the kitchen, he would sometimes glance in my direction and blush fiercely. Twice I looked down to make sure my robe was closed. No winkie in sight. The source of Mr. Rumpkin’s acute embarrassment remained a mystery.
Most intimidated by Mom’s new helpmate was Albert, who scurried into the Chevy and burrowed under the front seat until only his black nose and two frightened black eyes were visible. Perhaps Albert feared being crushed under Wally’s size 16 triple-E boots.
Even with Wal
ly’s gigantic assistance, the cleanup took nearly two hours. Mom talked gaily all the while and Wally mumbled semi-incoherent replies in his deep, giant’s voice. David Susskind he is not.
Later, while Wally was showing Mom his new semi-tractor out front, the phone rang. It was Dad making his court-ordered Sunday check-in call. He said he wanted to take me to Pier 39 for a fun afternoon of video-game playing, but couldn’t because I was grounded.
“And what’s this I hear about your being gay?” he asked.
