by Acito, Marc
Then there I am, thinking there's nothing funny about impotency.
Then you'll see us in the Nudelman's kitchen busily making marijuana brownies, giggling like Keebler elves gone bad, and planning our mission to get stoned at every monument in our nation's capital.
And there we are: eating brownies at the Lincoln Memorial, at the Jefferson Memorial, at the Washington Monument—the music of the “Hallelujah Chorus” growing higher and higher as we do, too.
Then we're at the White House, where square-jawed young-Republican types hand out buttons that say JUST SAY NO and Ziba pulls a lipstick out of her purse to change hers to JUST SAY NO NUKES. One of the Secret Service guys seems to think it's funny so we give him the Brownie Award for Coolest Federal Employee.
Next you'll see Natie in our hotel bathroom, setting up the bar with the assurance of a professional as he mixes powdered lemonade with grain alcohol because grain alcohol has neither smell nor taste, and as such can't be detected by the chaperones.
Cut to the members of the Mixed-Up Choir lined up for the privilege of shelling out three bucks a pop for this swill. Demand is so great that when we run out of grain alcohol, Natie simply fills up the empty bottles in the tub, then sits back and watches everybody get bombed on tap water and powdered lemonade mix.
Then you'll see us the next day in competition, wearing our blue choir blazers, the boys with our striped ties in the school colors, the girls in blouses with Peter Pan collars, all of us looking alert and awake through sheer adrenaline as we belt out, “And He shall reign forever and eh-heh-ver,” except Natie, of course, who sings, “And pee shall rain . . .” Sure, it's unprofessional to perform while you're high, but once you've learned the tenor part in the “Hallelujah Chorus” you know it for life. It's just that kind of song.
We lose the competition anyway. Stoned or not, we don't stand a chance against a clapping, swaying, call-and-response gospel choir from Newark. We shuffle dejectedly onto the bus, the chaperones applauding us in that rah-rah, way-to-go way grown-ups do when they want to buck up your esteem even when everybody knows for a fact that you sucked. Ziba, who treats all mandatory activities like they're optional, slips away to meet up with an old boyfriend, the aforementioned U.S. senator's son. Kelly and Doug retreat to her room and put up the DO NOT DISTURB sign while the rest of us descend on the hotel pool, where Natie and I oversee the altos in a synchronized swimming routine.
When they make the movie of my life, the montage will end with the final notes of the “Hallelujah Chorus”: Halleeeeee-luuuuu-jaaaah!
Afterward, Natie and I do a little exploring, taking in the view of the city from the hotel roof and swiping a name tag we find in the hotel laundry that says HI, MY NAME IS JESúS. When we get back, I'm surprised to find Doug waiting for us.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“Sure.”
He glances at Natie. “Alone.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” Natie says. “Ziba said she'd bring Jordan Craig back here to meet me.”
Jordan Craig is the son of Senator Jordan Craig Sr., the dishonorable gentleman from one of the square states, I can't remember which. Senator Craig is well known for his support of Reagan's missile defense policy and for sleeping with women who are not his wife. Since it's Natie's fondest wish to either become a politician or to own one someday, he's very excited at the prospect of meeting Jordan Jr., who is a student at Georgetown.
I offer to show Doug the roof, which you get to by climbing a ladder and opening one of those porthole-type doors. We walk to the edge and look over because that's what people do when they're on the roofs of buildings. In the distance, the Washington Monument juts skyward.
“So what did you want to talk about?” I ask.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Not particularly.”
He frowns. “I'm serious, man. You can't tell anyone.”
“Okay, okay. What is it?”
He hoists himself up on the ledge and dangles his legs over the side. He sighs. “We can't do it,” he says.
“Can't do what? Who are you talking about?”
“Me and Kelly. We can't do it.”
“You mean you haven't . . .”
“We've tried. But I get it in like halfway and she's all, ‘Take it out, take it out, it hurts, it hurts.'” Doug slams his hands on the ledge. “It's not fair, man! Every chick I've been with takes one look at the cockasaurus and they, like, totally freak out.”
Maybe it's me, but I find it impossible to muster any sympathy for someone who complains that their penis is too big.
Doug looks down at his crotch, frowning like he's angry at it. “No one's even been able to suck it without totally gagging,” he whines. “I swear, if I don't at least get a blow job soon, I'm gonna fuckin' explode.”
Cue the “Hallelujah Chorus.”
Of course Doug is reluctant, but eventually I wear down his resistance by telling him he doesn't have to touch me and if he just closes his eyes then, well, a mouth's a mouth, right? I even go so far as to sing a little of Aldonza the whore's song from Man of La Mancha:
“One pair of arms is like another . . .”
I admit it's a bit much, but I'm determined to work any angle I can. To be honest, the thought of going down on Doug without any reciprocation makes me feel kind of sleazy and desperate, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Besides, what are friends for?
After much discussion of the merits of only a guy knowing what feels good to another guy, I finally find myself on my knees ready to be of service. I reach for the button on Doug's jeans. He stops me.
“Let me do it,” he says.
He unzips his pants and pulls his boxers down to his thighs and there in front of me is Ol' Faithful, ready to blow. I glance upward to make sure Doug has his eyes closed, then move my hands up his firm, taut legs in as gentle and feminine a manner as I can, the hair on his thighs going all static-y as I do. I lean in, open my mouth, and am about to lick the love lollipop for the very first time when I hear a voice behind me.
“Edward?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Doug lunges away from me, yanking his pants back up, while I wheel around to see who has interrupted us and, in all likelihood, ruined my life forever.
From across the roof I can just see his little cheesehead peeking out from the porthole like Kilroy.
“You guys gotta come right away,” Natie says.
We were about to, goddamnit.
As we dash down the hallway, we see Ziba pacing outside our room, wiggling her fingers like she wished she had a cigarette in them.
“He won't leave,” she says.
“Who?” asks Doug.
I open the door and there on the bed, watching some sports thing on TV, is Jordan Craig Jr.
One glance at the bloated, bleary-eyed slab in front of us immediately confirms to me that the senator's son is just another frat boy majoring in beer bongs and gang bangs. Natie must be really disappointed. In a voice that sounds just like belching, Jordan says, “Who the fuck are you?”
“These are my friends,” Ziba answers, “Doug and Edward.”
“This is our room,” Doug says, taking a step forward.
Jordan stands, his buzz cut seeming to graze the ceiling, and grabs Ziba with one of his big, meaty hands like a bear swatting a salmon out of a stream. “Why don't you pussies get the fuck out of here before I kick the shit out of you?” he snarls, then reaches his paws around Ziba, pinning her arms against her sides. “C'mon, baby, gimme a kiss,” he gurgles. It's all very Perils of Pauline.
Doug lunges forward, but I intervene to stop things from escalating into a fight. “Listen,” I say to Jordan's brick wall of a back, “a chaperone's going to be coming around to do bed check any minute, so why don't you just say good night and . . .”
Jordan whips around and backhands me across the face, just like that, sending me flying into a bureau. I've never been hit before, managing to have survived element
ary school and junior high with only the psychological scars of verbal abuse, but I'm here to tell you that, at least in the short term, the physical kind hurts way more. I sink down onto the floor, the knobs of the bureau digging into my back as I do. Ziba reaches for me, but Jordan shoves her to the floor, then turns and actually head-butts Doug.
I thought they only did that in professional wrestling.
Doug lunges for Jordan, body-checking him in the gut. But the senator's son raises his knee and clocks Doug right in the chin. Doug winces and stumbles backward onto the floor, his mouth bleeding.
Pleased with himself, Jordan turns around and laughs as if to say, “That was fun, now what should we do?” then lets out a big, hearty “Hah!” as he pounces onto the bed. He grunts and is just about to leap on top of Ziba when we hear Natie call out from the bathroom.
“Break time!” he chirps. From around the corner Natie waddles in, a tray of plastic cups in his pudgy hands. “Who wants a cocktail?” he says, as if there were nothing unusual about the son of a senator smacking around three of his best friends.
“What's that?” Jordan grumbles, his rheumy eyes trying to focus.
“Grain alcohol,” Natie says. He speaks slow and loud, like he's talking to an elderly deaf relative. “Try it, it's good.”
Jordan bounces off the bed and swipes at a cup, making the others on the tray wiggle and spill a little. Behind him, Ziba slides slowly across the wall.
Jordan sucks down the lemonade in one long, revolting gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing. Ziba reaches for the first heavy object she can find on the desk, which is a table lamp. She motions to Doug, who's slumped on the floor, to pull the cord out of the socket.
Jordan exhales a satisfied “Ahhh,” grinning stupidly at his accomplishment. “I'm the chugging champ of my frat,” he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Senator Craig must be so proud.
“Have another,” Natie says.
Ziba grips the lamp in one hand.
“These are good,” Jordan says. “You can't even taste the grain alcohol.”
Ziba tries to lift the lamp, but it doesn't budge. It's fucking bolted to the desk. Goddamn hotels. She looks around for something else.
Natie hands Jordan another lemonade. “Y'know,” Jordan says, trying to focus, “you're okay for a little fuck.”
“Thanks.”
“Watch this.” Jordan tilts his head back and chugs the next glass down whole, punctuated by a noisy “glug” at the end.
Then, as if the air had been let out of him, he crumples in a heap. “That one didn't go down so good,” he says, then belches, then belches again. By the third belch there's no question what's coming next. He starts spewing right there, before he can even make it to the bathroom door. We all back away from him, partly to clear a path, and partly because that's just what you do when somebody starts to hurl in front of you.
None of us moves while we listen to him puke his guts out in the bathroom. It's one of those horribly endless barfing sessions, the kind where the moment you think it's over, it starts up again. Finally we hear him moan, followed by a long silence.
“And the Swedish judge gives a 9.5 for that projectile vomit,” Natie whispers. The four of us tiptoe to the bathroom and peek in to see the senator's son lying on the floor like a beached walrus. A beached walrus lying in his own puke. We turn on the fan and shut the door.
“What the hell was in there?” I hiss.
“Rubbing alcohol,” Natie says. “I use it to clean my skin.”
“Natie! You might've killed him.”
“What was I supposed to do? Stand by and let him rape Ziba?”
None of us say anything, because we all know he's right. Ziba leans over and kisses him, not her usual European two-cheek thing, but a soft, gentle peck on the lips. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Natie's face turns the color of his hair.
There's a knock at the door. “Bed check!” a voice yells.
Now adrenaline is a funny thing. You'd be amazed how quickly you can get vomit out of a rug if you're motivated. I spray the air with Right Guard and open the door.
“Hey, guys!”
It's Chuck Mailer, the band teacher who plays piano for the chorus. We call him Chuckles behind his back because he's always trying to be palsy-walsy with the students when in fact he's a total cheesehead. The band kids love him.
He winks at Ziba. “Now listen here, young lady, just because you sing tenor doesn't mean you get to stay in the boys' room. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Chuckles says everything like it's a punch line, whether it's funny or not. Usually, it's not.
Ziba slips past him. “I was just leaving,” she says.
Chuckles gives her a quick little shoulder rub the way male teachers sometimes do to female students. “Now you go straight home,” he says, “ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
“Good one, Mr. Mailer,” Ziba monotones. “Good night, boys.” She blows us a kiss and slides out the door.
Chuckles claps his hands together. “Okay,” he says, “everything A-Number-One-Super-Duper here?”
“Just duper,” I say.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Say, what's that smell?”
You wouldn't mean the vomit of a U.S. senator's son, would you?
“What smell?” says Natie.
Chuckles sniffs again. “It's kind of like . . . air freshener.”
Thank you, Lord.
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” I say. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” says Chuckles.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” say Natie and Doug.
“It's nice to see you boys so calm and quiet,” Chuckles says. “Some of the baritones are getting pretty wild tonight. I shouldn't tell you this, but there was a water-balloon fight that got a little out of hand.”
“Really?” I say, looking suitably shocked. “We don't have the energy for that kind of thing.” I make a big show of stifling a yawn.
“Well, then, I'll let you boys get to sleep. Say, mind if I use your bathroom?”
“No!” we all scream.
Chuckles flinches. “Why not?”
“It's broken,” I say.
“It stinks,” says Doug at the same time.
Chuckles looks bewildered.
“Edward took this totally toxic dump,” Natie says, “and it . . . uh . . . broke the toilet. That's why we sprayed the air freshener.”
“Really?” Chuckles says. He puts a hand on my shoulder to show his tender concern. “You all right there, Eddie boy?”
I don't appreciate having been cast in the role of the smelly dumper but, trouper that I am, I go with it. “Onion rings,” I say, rubbing my belly. “I like them, but they don't like me.”
As soon as Chuckles is gone we open the bathroom door to check on Jordan, who is dead to the world though not, mercifully, actually dead.
“Do you think we should clean him up?” I ask.
“Let him sleep in his own puke,” Doug says, rubbing his jaw. “Serves the fucker right.”
“The whole room's going to reek by morning,” says Natie. “We better hose him down.”
We wet some towels in the tub and mop up the mess while Jordan lies there, completely unaware of all the activity around him. “We should do something to him,” Doug says as he lifts up Jordan's shoulders so I can pull off his puke-covered Izod. “Once, when Boonbrain passed out, some of the guys from the team put him in a rowboat in the middle of Echo Lake without the oars. Man, it was comical.” Doug looks down at his own shirt, which now has the senator's son's vomit on it. “Aw, gross,” he says, tearing it off and throwing it in the tub.
Natie walks out of the bathroom.
“Where the hell are you going, Nudelman?” Doug says. “We could use some help here.” Jordan's khakis are also packed with puke.
“We're going to have to take his pants off, too,” I say.
“Lucky you,” Doug whispers.
“Bite me.”
“You wish.”
H
e's right.
I undo Jordan's pants and then we each take a leg to pull them off. Even his boxers are soaked.
“He's all yours,” Doug says, patting Jordan's thigh like he was a used car.
I bend down and shimmy them off, taking note of Jordan's nasty-looking prick, which is all wrinkly and uncut, like a wonton. I've just pulled off his shorts when I'm blinded by a flash of light.
“What the hell are you doing?” I say, blinking to get my vision back.
