by Bill Albert
He took the can from Jingles. It was a little more than half the size of an ordinary beer can.
“Guess so, sure, thanks,” Harold lied. “Where’d you get it at?”
“My brother’s got an ID. He always buys for us. You got some money to chip in?”
“Yeah, sorry, sure I do. How much?”
“A couple of bucks’ll be alright.”
It seemed a lot of money for a can of beer, especially such a small can, but Harold decided not to say anything. He took out his wallet and gave Jingles two dollars.
“Anyone got a fucking church key?” said Garf.
“Here,” said Earl. “Now shut up, willya?”
Harold leaned back against the cab of the truck and sipped his beer. It was awful. Thick and lukewarm. On the screen the Creature was climbing onto the boat. Harold took another sip. It still tasted awful.
“Lizard fuck!” shouted Garf.
Earl leaned over and knocked off the smaller boy’s hat. It sailed over the side of the truck.
“Ah, shit. Earl! Come on,” Garf whined.
He got out to retrieve his hat.
The boys drank steadily. Harold winced as each empty can clanged loudly against the concrete. He had to force himself to finish his.
Next to him, Jingles was crushing an empty can in his big hand. He was short and burly, had a tattoo of a rose on his left upper arm and a long scar running down the side of his neck. Here was just the kind of kid Harold had successfully avoided at high school.
Jingles caught Harold looking. Harold tried to avert his eyes, but the other boy didn’t seem to mind the stare.
“Fight with some greasers,” he explained, fingering the scar. “Bastard had a straight razor. Broke his fucking arm and his fucking jaw.”
“Come on, son,” he said, handing Harold an open can. “You got another four coming.”
Another four, thought Harold despairingly. He already felt sick to his stomach from the first can which was sloshing around on top of Aunt Enid’s somewhat suspect corned beef hash.
Just then Tommy announced he was going to get some popcorn.
“I’ll go with you,” said Harold, seeing his chance to escape from Jingles and the four unfinished cans of beer. Maybe the others would drink them before he got back.
“I gotta take a leak,” explained Harold, putting down the can.
“Don’t you go and piss in the popcorn now, Red,” Garf called helpfully.
The two boys walked between the parked cars toward a low building in the center of the drive-in. The movie soundtrack ebbed and flowed as they passed by the open windows.
“Hey, man,” laughed Tommy, “your aunt, she sure got a nice pair of knockers on her.”
Not him too, thought Harold. He didn’t answer, pleased that it was dark. He looked up at the screen. They had captured the Creature. It always made him sad when that happened. Fucking thing out there swimming around in the middle of a pond minding its own business.
“No offense, OK?” said Tommy, uneasy at Harold’s silence.
“Sure,” answered Harold after a moment, “no offense.”
Outside the building they saw Tody. He paced back and forth in front of the door, head down, muttering to himself.
“Hey, Little Brother,” called Tommy, “What’s the matter, huh?”
The other boy looked up. His heavy shoulders, well-muscled arms and scowling face made him look older than his nervously scrawny big brother.
“Nothing,” he replied sullenly.
“You find Kathy, or what?”
Tody stopped pacing. He banged his fist into his open hand.
“Shit no, I didn’t. I saw Robertson over there.”
He pointed toward the front of the drive-in.
“Said Carpenter and them others ain’t here tonight. At the bowling alley or something. Shit!”
Harold felt the knot of fear in his stomach loosen slightly. No Carpenter, no troubles. Maybe he would make it through the night after all.
“You wanna get something to eat or what?” asked Tommy.
Tody didn’t answer. He walked off into the darkness.
“That there is one pissed-off dude,” said Tommy. “Glad he didn’t come across old Carpenter though. Guy’s a fucking animal. Football player. Don’t know what I would have told Mom if he got himself beat up. She’s always saying how I’ve got to look after my little brother. But you just look at the idiot, willya. How do you reckon I’m supposed to look after him?”
Harold smiled to himself. He was glad he wasn’t the only one who wanted to stay out of trouble.
They pushed open the door to the refreshment stand. Harold squinted against the fluorescent glare. On each end of a long counter electric fans blew the hot air back and forth. The whole place smelled of popcorn, rancid butter, and cigarette smoke. The cracked cement floor was stained, covered in cigarette butts and candy wrappers. There were only a few customers milling around. Doris Day’s voice squeaked out at them from a loudspeaker high in one corner.
“Now’s the time to come, before the rush,” said Tommy. “Wadda you want?”
Harold looked up at the loudspeaker. First Pat Boone, he thought, and now Doris Day. He belched, tasting the Country Club and a not-so-gentle hint of corned beef hash.
“Some popcorn’s alright,” answered Harold.
“Right. Hey Wayne,” Tommy shouted to the tall skinny boy behind the counter. “Give us a couple a boxes of popcorn, willya? And a Three Musketeers, OK?”
“Right,” the boy replied without a smile, adjusting the small paper hat on his head.
“Wayne here’s a real friendly cuss, ain’t you Wayne?”
The boy stared dull-eyed at Tommy. Slowly he scooped popcorn into the boxes. He glanced up. Across the room the manager, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a string tie, was watching him intently. The manager rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, a tight smile on his face.
“You always was a dumb-fuck cowboy,” Wayne whispered harshly, not looking at Tommy or Harold.
“You just keep on trucking now, shit-for-brains,” Tommy laughed, taking the candy bar and the popcorn.
He handed a box to Harold. There was a loud screech from the loudspeaker. Someone had dropped the needle onto a new record. The manager looked up at the loudspeaker. He shook his head with resignation. The music began again. Harold sighed.
It wasn’t R&B, but given how things were the Del Vikings were a definite improvement over Doris Day.
“Hi there,” someone behind him said.
Startled, Harold turned. A small blond girl stood next to him.
“Remember me?” she said, pouting slightly.
Harold didn’t. He could feel a blush starting up his neck.
“Uh, no . . . Sorry, can’t say that I do.”
“The drugstore . . . Come on, you know. We still got your old straw hat in the back somewheres.”
She laughed, mouth open wide. Then he remembered—the steel-toothed Pat Boone fan.
“Oh, yeah. Hi.”
“How you doing?” she asked.
“OK. Just fine, you know, just fine, uh-huh,” he said, nodding and smiling.
Tommy stood next to Harold, staring uneasily at the girl. He shifted about for a few minutes, looked over his shoulder and then tugged on Harold’s shirt.
“Come on, Harold, let’s go, huh,” he said impatiently.
“Sure,” replied Harold, eyeing the girl as if she were a coiled snake.
Holding his box of popcorn against his chest, he began slowly to back toward the door. He had heard that when you came across a rattler in the desert you didn’t want to make any sudden movement. The girl followed him, smiling. He bumped into something. A few pieces of popcorn sprayed out of the box and fell onto the floor.
“Why don’
t you watch where you’re going, Fatman!”
The hair on the back of Harold’s neck stood up. He took a step forward and swung around slowly. A short thickset boy stared up at him. Why, thought Harold, why do they always find me? And, why do they always look like they’re auditioning for a part in The Blackboard Jungle? This one wore a black leather jacket, his greasy hair combed back in a ducktail and forward in an elaborate waterfall. His body seemed to be in constant motion, shoulders swinging, fingers snapping. Behind him were two other boys, also wearing leather jackets. They watched eagerly.
Harold knew he was going to fart. He always did when he was about to take a pounding. He squeezed the cheeks of his ass together as tightly as he could and prayed.
“Uh . . . I’m sorry,” said Harold, looking down at the floor.
“Sorry? Sorry? Wadda you mean, sorry? And, you’re talking to my girl. What you think you’re doing, huh?”
“Sorry,” repeated Harold, the pitch of his voice rising, his panic rising and his bowls rumbling
“Come on Johnny,” said the girl. “Leave him alone. He weren’t doing nothing. And like I told you before, I ain’t your girl neither!”
The boy ignored her. He took a step closer to Harold, bent down and picked up a piece of popcorn from the floor. He studied it carefully. It was covered in dirt. He rolled it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, caressing it. Harold couldn’t take his eyes from the piece of popcorn.
“Well, look what we got us here. The Fatman’s spilled some of his popcorn. Can’t have that, can we, Fatman?”
The boy reached up and carefully put the filthy piece on the top of the popcorn in Harold’s box.
Out of the corner of his eye Harold saw Tommy edging toward the door. He was on his own. He wished he wasn’t holding a box of popcorn. It made him feel more vulnerable. With a loud report, as if someone had popped a blown-up paper bag, a fart sneaked through his defenses. Luckily the fearsome noise of his fear seemed to have got lost in between the sound of the music and the noise of the fans.
“Just so as you don’t spill no more popcorn,” said the boy.
He put his hand on the top of the box and pushed hard. The bottom split open and popcorn rained down on Harold’s shoes. He kept hold of the empty box. He couldn’t think what else to do with it.
“OK, boys. OK. Outside. We don’t want any trouble in here.”
It was the manager. He put himself between the two boys.
“Hey, man, I’m just trying to help this here kid with his popcorn,” said the boy, flashing an innocent grin.
“If you’re not out of here in ten seconds flat,” the manager said, “I’ll call the cops. Now, out! All of you, out!”
The three leather jackets laughed loudly and sauntered out the door.
Harold stood his ground. The last thing he wanted to do was to go outside. They would be waiting for him.
“You too, son. Out!”
“But . . . I wasn’t doing nothing,” pleaded Harold. “It was . . .”
He farted again. This time with such monumental power and venom that neither music nor electric fans could disguise it. The manager looked at him in disgust. Wayne, the kid behind the counter, laughed out loud.
“Out!” the manager repeated, his face reddening and his quivering finger pointing straight toward the door.
Harold looked around for some support, but the girl had gone, Tommy had gone, and the few other people in the room were busy not paying attention. Only Wayne was watching, and he had a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
Reluctantly, Harold walked toward the exit. Sweat ran down his sides, his mouth was dry and he had given up trying to control his wind. He closed his eyes and pushed the door open, tensing for the blow. Nothing happened. Very cautiously he opened his eyes. There was no one there. He held his breath, listening, but all he could hear was the muffled sound of the movie soundtrack coming from the parked cars. The film was almost over. The Creature had escaped and was swimming away, wounded but still alive, back to the deep safety of the Black Lagoon.
He was woken by the sound of the sliding door in the living room banging closed. The dull noise thumped inside his head, then it tried to get out again by pushing painfully against the back of his eyes. He sat up. The outside brightness cut at him through the uncurtained window. He was still wearing all his clothes, even his shoes. He gazed down at his feet. No socks. He couldn’t understand why he was wearing shoes but no socks. He belched, his mouth filling with the taste of bile. Struggling to his feet he blundered into the hallway.
“Good morning, Harold darling. Had a . . .”
Enid stopped, taking in the bloodshot eyes and the patches of encrusted vomit on his shin, on his trousers, on his shoes. She thought she detected strings of red meat caught in the swirling yellow stains.
“Why Harold,” Aunt Enid cried in alarm, “have you been sick, dear?”
In reply, Harold’s stomach heaved. A low gurgling sound moved up his throat, his cheeks puffed out and he ran for the bathroom. He just made it. Slamming the door behind him, he fell on his knees, embraced the sides of the toilet and retched. A thin trickle of liquid dripped from his mouth into the bowl. His stomach and throat contracted in unison again and again. His mouth opened wide but nothing came out. He knew he was dying. The process wasn’t helped by the insistent voice on the other side of the door.
“Harold? What’s the matter, darling? Harold?”
Enid stood outside the bathroom. She rattled the knob. The door was locked.
“Please, darling, open the door. Let me see what’s wrong. Harold? Harold, please!”
Enid was frightened. She hadn’t thought about the possibility of Harold getting sick. Problems about school, about his lack of friends, about grief over his parents’ death, but not illness. He was so big and solid, so young. She had never had to think about anybody but herself and she had always been so healthy. Sickness, like children, was for other people. Even her mother had had the decency not to linger. A neighbor called her at work and by the time she got home her mother was already dead. A heart attack, the doctor said. Quick and painless.
Maybe it was the corned beef? She hadn’t eaten any. It could have been the corned beef. How serious was food poisoning? On the other side of the door the toilet was flushed. She listened intently. It was very quiet in the bathroom. Had he passed out?
“Please, Harold. I’m worried. Come on, darling, open the door.”
She tried the handle once more.
Harold sat on the floor with his back against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. He was sweating heavily, panting, trying to ignore his aunt and trying to remember what had happened the night before.
“OK, OK. At least tell me you’re alright, that you haven’t hurt yourself or anything . . . Harold?”
“Yeah, alright,” came the mumbled reply. “Alright.”
Harold had been outside the refreshment stand at the drive-in only a few moments when Earl arrived with the other boys. They’d been running.
“You alright, Harold?” asked Earl.
“Yeah, thanks, I’m OK.”
“Where are they at?” Garf asked, looking around for the opposition, tapping a tire iron against his leg.
“Dunno,” said Harold, shrugging his big shoulders. “Gone.”
“Oh shit! Fucking, cunt-licking shit!” fumed Garf.
He smacked the tire iron on the ground.
“Cool down, boy,” cautioned Earl, “you’ll do yourself an injury.”
“They didn’t wanna fuck with Harold is all,” said Tommy proudly.
Back at the pickup they treated Harold like a hero. It seemed that Tommy had embellished the story of the confrontation somewhat. In his version Harold had been trying to pick up this neat chick when he was jumped by five big guys in leather jackets. Harold’s protestations were brushed aside
.
“Come on, man,” said Jingles, laying a heavy hand on his arm, “have a drink. You deserve it.”
Harold had a drink.
After a few more cans of Country Club, Jingles became more loquacious. He patted Harold’s hand affectionately.
“You know something, Harold. You ain’t like them other Jews at school. No, not like ‘em at all. Why’s that?”
He put his face close to Harold’s and grinned. His breath smelled sickly green. His teeth were small and yellow; one of the front ones was missing. Harold tried to pull away.
“What?” replied Harold, increasingly befuddled by the booze.
He was trying to make some sense out of the movie. The little guy was living in a doll’s house and a giant cat was trying to get at him. Harold giggled.
“You know, Jews, Jews. Jews, you know? Huh? Like all those guys always being so smart in class and that. Christ!” he said punching Harold softly on the chin, “you don’t even look like a goddamned Jew.”
Through the alcohol haze Harold felt a tingle of fear. Jews? Why was the Tattoo talking about Jews? At Fairfax everyone was Jewish, except, of course, the Negro kids. He hadn’t really thought about not being surrounded by Jews or about being Jewish. His parents were what he thought of as Gefilte Fish Jews. They ate some of the food—Jewish, not kosher—and had a few words of Yiddish and on account of Israel they hated the Arabs. The Abelsteins’ Jewish didn’t make it as far as a Yorhzeit candle or a synagogue. Harold hadn’t even had a bar mitzvah. So for him what was a Jew? Did it matter?
“Leave him alone,” said Earl.
“I ain’t doing nothing,” retorted Jingles with drunken indignity.
“It’s OK,” said Harold.
“Sure,” Jingles said, draping a thick arm on Harold’s shoulder. “We’re good buddies. Ain’t that right, Harold?”
He gave Harold a hard squeeze.
“Right,” muttered Harold. “Buddies. Good buddies. Jew buddies.”
Jingles handed him another can of Country Club. He drank. It was starting to taste better or at least not taste as bad. After that, his memory faded out almost completely. He couldn’t remember how he had got home. He wondered what had happened to the little guy in the movie. He wondered what had happened to his socks.
