Hairstyles of the Damned

by Joe Meno

  It got real bad for Mike. One night, a few weeks after Mrs. Madden had said she was giving up on us, we had two girls down in the basement, two girls who Mike had met at the grocery store while he had been shopping. All he bought were cans and cans of Chef Boyardee to eat. The girls were definitely Catholic high school girls—from Queen of Peace, which was in a Hispanic neighborhood—because they were as clean as any girls I’d ever seen; not just their soft brown hair, but the way they talked and smoked like very polite foreign movie stars, and even the way they crossed and uncrossed their legs. Well, we passed around the bowl and the girls got high and then I put on “I Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore,” which was a song by REO Speedwagon and a good one to set the mood, because Mike had used it before. I was on one couch with one girl, and Mike was in his bedroom. Then I had my hand up this girl’s shirt and was feeling her up over the bra and she had her eyes closed, and her name was Teresa, so pretty, but I thought it was weird that she kept her eyes closed, like if she had her eyes closed she wasn’t going to have to go to confession next Saturday or whatever Catholic girls feel they have to do. Well Mike, he just walked out of his bedroom suddenly and said, “What the fuck is this shit you’re listening to?”

  And I said, “What?” sitting up, pulling my hand back.

  And then he said, “Don’t you got any goddamn consideration for my feelings, man? I asked you not to play this record anymore.”

  And I said, “I don’t get it, it’s a good record,” and he said, “Turn that goddamn thing off unless you want to go in the backyard to do your dry-humping.” Which I did not, because I knew Mike’s secret: A girl on a couch is a lot more likely to just lie there and let you do what you want than if you were, say, in the backseat of a car or under her back porch. By then, I had made out with like ten girls, but I still didn’t know what went on in their heads, if they just looked up at the ceiling and counted the tiles or if they were thinking about their homework assignments or imagining I was somebody special like Scott Baio, but like Mike said, if you can get them on the couch you are halfway there, my friend, or so I have seen.

  “Fuck, it’s no big deal,” I said. I stood up and lifted off the record arm and put on Cream with Eric Clapton instead, but the mood was ruined already. When I went to undo Teresa’s bra, she stopped me and asked, “Is there a bathroom around here?” and I nodded and pointed up the stairs and she sat up there for like a half hour until her friend came out and the two of them left, not coming back down to say goodbye or thanks or anything.

  three

  I fell in love with a girl named Dorie. She was Mike’s neighbor and the moment I met her, I was so into her it was not even funny. Most girls I didn’t really fall for at first, like Gretchen, who had been my friend for so long that it probably would have never worked out, and, well, I was not one of those kind of guys who was very particular with girls. Mike told me to take what I could get, so I did. There were tons and tons of mostly decent-looking girls who wanted some nondescript, renegade, loner-type to de-virginize them so they could have it over and done with and so they never had to see the doofus again. That was where I liked to think I came in, though it hadn’t happened like that exactly for me yet. Monica Dallas: over the bra. Kelly Madley: down her pants. Kathy Konoplowski: not totally de-virginized, but close.

  OK, so the first time I met Dorie it was a Friday night and about a month since Mike’s mom had gone crazy. Mike had to finally go out and get a job, at DiBartola’s Pizza, which was this take-out place by his house, which meant he was not home from work until after eleven most nights. So that night, I had to sneak out of my house through my bedroom window, which was ground level, and ride my bike over, then walk down the basement steps. “Moonlight Drive” by the Doors was playing loud; I could hear it even when I was outside. When I came down, like that, there she was: this tall girl just sitting on the sofa beside Mike, smoking a roach, and she had on this Iron Maiden “Somewhere in Time” T-shirt, which must have been black once but was now gray and soft from being worn so often. Dorie was tall and skinny and had long greasy brown hair that was cut in bangs. Fuck. No girl had bangs that I knew, they all wore their fucking hair in ponytails. I mean, fuck. Also, she had this love bite, you know, on her neck; one bright red mark at the base of her throat. Which to me meant she must have fooled around, I dunno. She was sitting down there in Mike’s basement and cussing out this other dude we knew, Larry with the superbad acne, and she was yelling at him for him spilling his beer on her shoe and Larry, quiet as he was because of his uncontrollable pimples, just nodded and apologized, wiping it up off the tip of her black boot. Then, by mistake, Larry with the superbad acne looked up and smiled and simply said, “Sorry, dude.”

  “Do I look like a dude to you, you fuckface?” she asked.

  Fuckface? I thought to myself. Who even uses the word “fuckface”?

  The girl of your dreams, my heart said.

  Immediately, and I know this is weird, I had this kind of vision, this daydream: I imagined Dorie standing up from the sofa, smoothing down her brown hair, and then unzipping her dirty blue jeans and, well, I know this is strange, but, well, I imagined there’d be like this golden crown that would appear, this magical golden crown would just appear as she unzipped her pants, like a flower blossoming, and then that would be it for me. I came down the steps, flashed Mike the devil sign, said hi to Larry with the superbad acne, and took a seat directly across from where Dorie was sitting.

  “Hi,” she said, just waving her hand very quickly. “I’m Dorie.”

  “Dorie?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “She’s my neighbor,” Mike said, passing me the roach. “Since we were kids.”

  “Cool,” I said, taking a long hit.

  “We used to set up the Slip ’N Slide between our front lawns when we were little,” Mike said. “Those were the days,” he added, nodding.

  “Now I have to work all the fucking time,” Dorie said, nodding.“No more Slip ’N Slide for me.”

  “Really? Where do you work?” I asked, blowing the smoke out without coughing.

  “My dad’s restaurant, Dockie’s.” I passed her the roach and for a moment our hands touched, oh so briefly.

  “The fish place? On Kedzie?” I asked. “How long have you been working there?”

  “Since I was a kid. I’m the night manager.”

  “The night manager? You’re like a kid.”

  “I’m seventeen,” she said.

  “Well, how can you be the night manager?” I asked.

  “My dad needed help, you know, he had back surgery and there’s nobody else, so I go there at night and help him. Plus,” she said, “this guy Ken, the cook, he usually gets me high.”

  “Is he the guy that fucking mauled your neck?” Mike asked, being all brotherly and everything.

  She looked down and then lifted one eyebrow and said, “None of your business.”

  “How old is this dude?” Mike asked again.

  “Fuck off,” she said, “twenty-five.”

  I looked at her and realized I was so in love with her it was not even funny. I wanted to ask her right there if she would maybe think about being my girlfriend and she could wait until we were married before ever doing it with me, but instead I asked:“

  So you like Iron Maiden?”

  “Their older stuff, when they talked about elves and sorcery and stuff. ‘Wasted Years,’ that’s a good song, though.”

  I was very fucking impressed. I looked at her and decided to ask her the hardest question I knew to ask a girl ever, which was:“

  Hey, Dorie, what was the first record you ever bought?”

  “Honestly?” she answered.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “New Kids on the Block.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Which to me meant she was not a liar, and not worried about being cool, because New Kids on the Block was like the first album for every girl I
knew, it was just a matter of whether they admitted it or not. I was completely and totally shocked.

  “Those guys were fucking hot,” Dorie said.

  “Yeah,” I said, agreeing for some reason. “Once I recorded one of their videos off MTV and tried to learn how to dance from it.”

  “No shit?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, kind of blushing. “I did it to try and impress this girl.”

  “I think that is hot,” she said, grinning. “I wish some dude would learn how to dance like the New Kids on the Block for me.”

  “I still could if you want me to,” I said.

  “I’ll have to think about that,” she countered, smiling a very small smile at me.

  “You let me know,” I said.

  “I will,” she said, and then it was just us—it was only us—talking. She was staring at me and asked, “Didn’t you used to wear glasses?”

  “I got contacts.”

  “I used to see you at the mall all the time, at Aladdin’s Castle,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “I worked next door, at the airbrush T-shirt place.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I went in there once and got a T-shirt made.”

  “What did it say?”

  “‘Reckless Youth,’” I said. “That was the name of a band I was trying to start.”

  “That’s not a bad name.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s why I got a T-shirt made. So no one could steal it.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I know. I have like three others, all with different names, in case, you know, I ever get a band together.”

  Dorie smiled and squinted, pointing her cigarette at me but not saying anything. I pointed back with my finger. Things were happening, but then Dorie said:

  “Well, I think I’ve gotta split.”

  “Really?” Mike said.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to work all day tomorrow.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, my heart pounding up in my ears.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  When she stood, I saw how tall she really was. Her small breasts poked against the front of her Iron Maiden T as she pulled it down. “Nice meeting you,” she smiled, awkwardly. She started up the stairs, her long legs stretched out beneath her as she climbed.

  I panicked and stood up, saying, “I think I forgot to lock up my bike.”

  “What?” Mike asked.

  “I think I forgot to lock up my bike,” I said. “Hey,” I called out. “I’ll walk out with you.”

  Mike looked at me and smiled, winking. I hurried and walked behind her, watching her sweet ass as it swayed, and we got outside and I fumbled for a cigarette, offering her one nervously.

  I asked her, “Hey, you got a boyfriend or something?” and she said:

  “No. Not really. Why?” And I said:

  “I dunno. You know, what about your neck?” and she said:

  “That was just some asshole that mauled me,” and I said:

  “Somebody I know?” and she said:

  “Shit, I don’t even know his name,” and it was like I fell in love with her right there, maybe.

  four

  Mike’s mom and dad were definitely getting split and the paperwork had definitely been signed and his dad made it obvious by going out and buying a brand-new red convertible Cadillac with all the extras:leather seats, big beautiful chrome bumpers, automatic sun roof. Mike and I were at the mall killing time with this new cop-killer game at the arcade and then we were outside waiting for the bus, throwing rocks at the seagulls, and we saw his dad cruising by with some blonde in this red convertible and they were both laughing like they had known each other their whole lives. Mike’s dad, who was tall and balding, with a dark ring of hair around his ears, had a flashy ’70s yellow silk shirt on. He saw us and pulled over and said, “Get in, dudes, I’ll drop you off.” I looked at Mike’s dad and then at the bimbo who was like twenty-eight, tops, in some low-cut red deal that showed her fake tits. Mike’s face got all red and he said, “Mom’s supposed to pick me up,” which was a total lie, and his dad nodded and said, “See you later, dudes,” and pulled away.

  Seeing his dad take off in this brand-new car with this girl Mike didn’t even know made me feel weird and uncomfortable and lonely, and so I asked Mike, “Hey, man, are you all right?” And he just frowned and said, “Jesus Christ. This is not how I imagined my junior year going at all,” and I said, “Yeah. Shit,” and then just to say something, I said, “Maybe we should stop by the library and see about this Boston Strangler dude,” and he said, “Maybe,” but we just stood there, not saying anything else, waiting for the bus, not even laughing when a group of junior high kids showed up and they were all wearing these stupid fucking Color Me Badd T-shirts.

  five

  Because it is time, I will teach you how to really make out, said Mike later on, when we were back in the basement. Here’s some things you should know by now:

  Rule #1. Like always, get her on a couch or a bed. Something happens to girls when they are on a couch or bed, they just give it up easier or whatever! Clean up your room first and put away dirty magazines where a girl will not look, like inside a Sports Illustrated is good! If you are at my house, which you usually are, clean up the place where you plan on making out!Empty the ashtray and stick the rest of the shit under the couch. When you are about to make your move and she sees how clean it is, she will immediately know what you are expecting, because it will be like a secret message you are sending her, and this will make her happy. She will understand that you have cleaned for her, so if she does not go for it and you spent time cleaning, dump her quick, dude!

  Rule #2. Always have some music playing because some girls get freaked out by the sounds you make when you are making it with them. Also, make it a long song, friend: anything from The Wall, like “Wish You Were Here,” or “Stairway to Heaven,” or anything from the Doors, like “Riders on the Storm”—something you don’t have to change every two minutes! My personal favorite: “Planet Caravan” by Black Sabbath. It is a good song to get stoned to, which brings us to:

  Rule #3. Smoke them out. Yes, if you don’t have any smoke, then you can try and drink with them, but this is tricky because some girls will fall asleep! I have had it happen to me, dude. I have. A drunk girl is sloppy, too, and I dunno, I would much rather nail a girl who was high than drunk. If a girl has to get drunk before she messes around, dump her quick!

  Rule #4. Be cool with the girl. Don’t be a jerk earlier in the evening and then go expecting something! Take her somewhere to eat if you can, maybe close to your house, but don’t eat something nasty! No onions!Be willing to pay if she is very hot or at least offer to pay and if she says no, cool. If she says yes, she is the kind of girl who expects things like that all the time and who can afford that? Dump her quick!

  Rule #5. Try out this scenario I invented: Tell her your parents are going through a rough divorce, which they are, and that you don’t know who to talk to about it, which you don’t, and you just need somebody to share your thoughts with and get her comfortable and tell her you just want to hold her. Then make out with her hard. If she says she’s not interested, fake-cry and see if she lets up about it. If she doesn’t, tell her you are moving soon and want to share this with her. If she still doesn’t go for it, you should dump her quick, because this woman is heartless!

  Rule #6. Also, have a van or car to go pick up the girl. This impresses them and makes them think you are upwardly mobile and decent!Clean the van or car out before you pick her up. Have decent music playing when she gets in the car. You can make a mix-tape for making out and pop that in. If she gets in your ride and starts bitching about how old it is, or the weird gasoline smell, you know what to do. There are hundreds of other girls out there—dump her quick.

  Rule #7. Brush your teeth before you go to pick her up, or if she is coming over, brush right before she rings the doorbell! Ask a girl and they will tell you it ma
kes a difference!

  Rule #8. Try out this other move I invented. Actually, I did not really invent it, this crazy Filipino chick Denise, who I used to fool around with before she moved, did it to me. Take a magic marker and write her name on your hand. That’s it. Don’t talk about it, don’t say anything, just watch what it does for you. She will see it and think about it all night and even if she doesn’t totally like you, she will see how much you like her without you having to say anything. If a girl doesn’t go for that, my friend, dump her quick.

  six

  Up in the sky, there were fireworks. But I wasn’t looking at them. I was lying on my back beside Dorie, watching her smile, the shape of her chin, everything. Mike’s older sister, Molly, had sent him an assortment of bottle rockets, roman candles, and M-80s from Indiana where she had visited on tour with REO Speedwagon, which we found out was not even made up of its original members anymore.

  It was like the first warm day of spring, somewhere in the beginning of April, just some Saturday night. Mike and me and Dorie and her very quiet friend Erin McDougal, who Mike had had a crush on since they went to public grade school together—a nice-looking Irish Catholic girl, a blonde with not much of a chest—were all lying in Mike’s backyard and he was lighting off fireworks, shooting a dozen bottle rockets in the air all at the same time, igniting them with the end of his cigarette as he lay on his back, nodding and smoking.

  “Fourth of July is my favorite holiday,” Dorie said.

  “It’s not fourth of July, stupid,” I said. “It’s only April.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, smiling back at me. And then that was it: She took my hand and started holding it and I felt my breath leave. Now, I had fooled around with a bunch of girls by then, I mean, I had pretty much done it, without doing it, if you know what I mean. If you don’t know what I mean, I mean frenching, finger-banging, and dryhumping; I had even kissed Kara Burton on her cooter and that was about all I was going to do down there for now. But when Dorie leaned over and took my hand, well, I dunno, it felt better than fooling around, I guess. In a moment, she leaned her head over and put it on my chest and without moving I could smell her hair, which smelled very different than all the other girls I had had the chance to smell. Dorie’s hair didn’t smell all flowery and fancy and fruity, like fucked-up strawberries and kiwi, all weird and phony. It was very clean-smelling, just like plain soap; just very simple, natural, even a little oily.