Snow Job
Page 2
“In the back,” I said. “On the phone or something.”
“Outstanding,” Jay said, waving in Gordie, who sat behind the wheel of his rusted-out Maverick. “How much can we get for twenty-four bucks?”
I ran the numbers in my head, one of the few talents I had. “Two and a half cases of Bud. Or three of Miller.”
“That’s not enough. Can’t you give a discount?”
“I’m not supposed to sell it to you at all.” I nodded at Gordie as he came through the door. “Black Label’s on sale,” I said. “Six-pack for a buck and change. Cans. That’s four and a half cases. Plus tax.”
“Ugh. That’s crap beer.”
“It’s better than no beer,” Gordie said. He might have been flunking every class at school, but Gordie had plenty of common sense, which was uncommon for a banger.
I followed their reflections in the round mirror above the magazine rack as they walked to the coolers, watching to make sure they didn’t lift a pack of Twinkies on their way down the bread aisle or chug a Miller pony while they looked in the cooler.
It was the running joke with the bangers that I had never stolen a thing from the store. Not so much as a pack of gum. I wasn’t afraid of getting caught, and it had nothing to do with it being against the law—I just didn’t do it and that was it. You don’t need a list to tell you that stealing is wrong, but I thought it was cool how that one thing I knew was true fit with the four things I eventually wrote down. The stupid part of my attitude—to the bangers, anyway—is that I wouldn’t let them steal anything. They could empty the place out when I wasn’t working, but I made it clear that if they tried it when I was there, I’d turn them in. They didn’t like it, but they never tested me on it, either.
Jay and Gordie were at the counter with two cases and a six-pack each when George came out of the back room.
I gave George an I’ve-got-this nod, then said to Jay, “Gotta proof you.”
“Proof? You know I don’t have—”
“Here,” Gordie said, reaching around Jay to hand me his driver’s license.
I made a good show of examining the card, reading both sides and double-checking the birth date.
August 12, 1960. Seventeen years old, and eight months away from the drinking age.
“Thanks,” I said, handing the card back. “That’ll be twenty-two eighty-two. Want any ice with that?”
Gordie gave me a half grin. “For free, right?”
I shook my head.
“That’s bogus, dude,” Gordie said, scooping the change up off the counter.
Jay picked up his half of the beer. “You coming over later?”
I shrugged. “Afraid so.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, a light blue Trans Am pulled in fast to the parking lot, stopping with a screech in the lone handicap spot. The doors flung open and the thumpa-thumpa, thumpa-thumpa disco baseline shook the store windows.
Polys.
I knew the passenger, Frank Camden, a senior at Hently and, like every guy at the east-side private school, a total dick. He was wearing a gray and red silk shirt, unbuttoned down to the middle of his bony chest, and a pair of white polyester flares with a two-inch-wide red belt. His shoulder-length hair was parted in the middle, blow-dried to perfection, the feathered waves frozen in place by a half a can of hairspray. Around his neck he wore a strand of puka shells that had a turquoise stone the size of a quarter in the middle. His platform shoes put him over six feet, making him look even thinner than he already was.
The driver had his own thing going—a skin-tight silk T-shirt, Jordache jeans, and a pair of black leather fence climbers. Different uniforms of the same tribe. Every tribe had their own look. Silk shirts for the polys, polos for the jocks, band T-shirts under a jean jacket for the bangers. I had put on some accepted version of that banger uniform every morning since sixth grade, never questioning why. Then one day last summer, I did. At first the answer seemed obvious: It’s what I wear. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew that it wasn’t what I wore.
It’s what I was expected to wear.
I was a banger and that was the banger uniform, period, end of sentence. A lifestyle sentence, playing a role I didn’t remember picking. But does anybody? It happens so slowly that you don’t realize it’s happening, every tiny decision building the walls. This slang term, that band, this brand of jeans, that hangout. To study or not to study, drink or stay sober, to part your hair on the left, the right, the center, or not at all. Your kingdom-phylum-class-order-family-genus-species down until you wake up one day a banger. Or a jock, or a drama nerd, or a brainiac, or a whatever. And once you’re identified and classified and labeled, that’s it—you’re stuck with it.
But what if you’ve got this feeling that you aren’t your label, that there is more to you than your stereotype, that you don’t have to be what everybody says you are? And what if you realize that the same step-by-step path that led you down this dead-end could get you out of it, put you on a whole new road? What do you do then?
I don’t know about you, but I made a list.
The polys pushed open the glass doors of the Stop-N-Go, and as they strode past, I was hit by the reek of Jovan Musk for Men, then, smoldering underneath, the faint aroma of pot. They ignored me and I returned the favor, but I kept an eye on the mirror, hoping for a reason to call the cops.
All right, a reason to pretend to call the cops.
But no, they just grabbed a couple bottle six-packs of Coors from the cooler. When they put them on the counter, Frank said, “And a pack of Kools. Box.”
Just to be a jerk, I said, “Got ID?”
Frank gave a pissed-off sigh that said he was so bored by this punk kid in the white shirt and tie, but he took out his wallet and held out the card for me to see. It was a police ID from California, with Frank’s picture and a San Diego address and a birth date that made him nineteen, and other than the picture, it was identical to the one I had in my wallet. He’d obviously seen the same ad sandwiched between the album reviews in the back of Creem magazine that I’d seen, sent his $19.95 in just like I had done, getting the same type of plastic-coated, official-looking ID card that I used to buy beer. It was a good fake, and it usually worked in places like the Stop-N-Go where teenage clerks didn’t care what you bought. Usually.
“It’s fake,” I said, struggling not to laugh.
Frank straightened, then leaned in. “It’s legit. Just ring it up.”
I looked past Frank to the driver. “You got ID?”
“It looks like his,” the driver said. Then he shrugged and said, “Come on, give us a break.”
What the hell, I thought, why not, and was turning to get the cigarettes from the rack when Frank said, “Don’t piss us off, asshole—just ring it up.”
That sealed it. “Sorry,” I said. “I can’t sell beer or cigarettes to minors.”
Frank rabbit-punched the back of the register, making the bell inside ring. “I ought to bust your face.”
I ran a hand under the counter, all easy-like, feeling for the emergency buzzer that would alert George to a problem, but as my fingers bumped against the plastic switch, I remembered that George had taken the batteries out to power the desktop Christmas tree in the office.
Then I remembered the second thing on my list.
I reached down and curled my fingers around the taped end of the broken broomstick we kept under the counter. I heard somebody—me, I guess—say, “Try it,” and the next thing you know, there I was, holding the stick out to the side like it was a light saber.
For a second, no one moved. I was sure Frank would swing and it would get ugly fast, ending with me getting beat with my own broken broomstick. Then the driver said, “Let’s go. This guy ain’t shit.”
Frank did a half turn to follow the driver out, then spun back, flinging a six-pack off the counter, three of the bottles shattering, spraying the aisle with glass and beer.
The car was gone before I made it to the door.
It wasn’t the way she was dressed. Lots of girls wore designer jeans and boots, and long leather coats were in that winter. And there wasn’t anything special about her looks. A Joan Jett haircut and heavy eyeliner. A hundred other girls just like her within ten miles.
But damn, there was something.
Maybe it was the way she carried herself—confident, a little dangerous—or the way she looked into my eyes.
“Can I get a pack of Virginia Slims, please?”
Or maybe it was her voice. A smoker’s voice, gargled with whiskey, rough around the edges.
“And some matches, if you got ’em.”
I rang it up, watching her as she rummaged through her black leather purse. “Seventy-seven cents,” I said. “The matches are free.”
She put a buck on the counter. “Nice tie. That come with the job?”
“No. I just like it.”
She leaned back, studied my tie-and-shirt combo, and nodded. “Me too.”
Pay attention. Here’s where it got interesting.
I put the cigarettes and her change on the counter. She pulled out a twenty. “While you got the drawer open, can you break this for me? A ten, a five, and some ones.”
I counted out the bills, put them on the counter, and picked up the twenty.
“Thanks,” she said. She was putting the bills in her purse when she paused, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I already have plenty of ones.” She held up a thin stack. “Can I swap these for a ten?”
I gave her a ten from the register and she put it in her purse. I took the ones and flipped through them. “There’s only nine here,” I said.
She looked up, all surprised. “Oh, sorry.” She dropped a one on the counter, then counted out another five ones and a five-dollar bill. “Just give me twenty for all this instead.”
I gathered up the bills, putting them all in order and fitting them in their designated compartments in the drawer. When I was done, I held out a twenty. She said thanks and reached for it, but I didn’t let go.
“Pretty good,” I said.
She looked at me again, something different in her eyes this time.
“If you’d started with a fifty, I would have been suspicious,” I said. “But doing it with a ten? That’s smart. Most clerks aren’t looking to be shortchanged when they see a ten. But if you do that three, four times a night, it adds up fast.”
She kept her fingers on the twenty, her eyes on mine. And she smiled. “I believe I’m supposed to say, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’”
Yeah, definitely her voice.
She leaned in and glanced at my nametag. I could smell her cherry lip gloss. “So tell me, Nick. How’d you know? Somebody tip you off to this scam?”
“No,” I said. “I did the math.”
“Impressive.” She smiled at me and gave the bill a tug.
I held on a second longer. Then I let go, too busy watching her to see the line I was crossing. The register would be ten bucks short that night and I’d have to lie my way around it, something I’d never had to do before. Right there that should have told me something.
She took her time putting the twenty in her purse. Then she stood there, hip cocked a bit to the side—damn—and ripped the cellophane off the cigarettes, dropping the wrapper in an empty Slim Jim box. “What, no matches?”
I reached under the register and tossed a pack on the counter.
She picked up the matches and put them in her coat pocket, pulling out a set of car keys. “Have a nice night, Nick.”
I watched her walk away. “Thank you for shopping at Stop-N-Go.”
She waved over her shoulder as she headed out the door.
I STRETCHED THE phone cord around the corner and into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind me. Trying not to shout, I said, “I’m at Jay’s house.”
“What’s all that noise?”
“It’s the stereo.”
“Does it have to be that loud?”
“Mom, it’s not that loud. I’m just close to the speaker.”
“Are his parents there?”
“They’re coming home now,” I said. It was true. But they were coming home from Hawaii, and it would be late Sunday night before they arrived.
“What time will you be home?”
“I’m going to crash here tonight,” I said. Now, that wasn’t true—I didn’t know where I’d be sleeping—but Karla told me to plan for an all-nighter, and saying I was at Jay’s was as good a lie as any.
“Will there be beer?”
“Not much,” I said, and, sadly, that was the truth. Jay’s cousins had stopped by and walked out with two cases, Jay declaring it no problem. I saw a problem, but then I hadn’t paid for any of it, so I let it go.
“You better not come home with your clothes smelling like marijuana.”
The way she said it—mary-ju-wanna—made it sound like some exotic, Middle Eastern, mind-altering hallucinogenic instead of the weak homegrown stuff Jay usually had. It didn’t matter that I didn’t imbibe—everyone else did, and even if you were in the other room, you took the smell home with you. That’s why I kept a box of dryer sheets in my room. A couple of those in the hamper and you’re all set.
“Will there be any girls?”
Arlene and Vicki were watching TV when I walked in. Frenchy was upstairs making out with Dan-O or Sperbs or whoever it was that month. I could hear Geralyn’s insane laugh, and that meant that Cici would be there too. Plus, OP had some girl with him I didn’t recognize. So yeah, there were girls there, but not really.
“All right, Mom, I gotta go.”
“If you change your mind, you know where the key is.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
“And don’t you do anything stupid.”
I smiled at that. “I’ll do my best.”
IT WAS THE part of the night I hated most.
Lights low, windows open for the icy cross-breeze.
Dark Side of the Moon on the stereo. Again.
Empties on the floor, on the steps, on the end tables, the counter. Beer cans, bags of chips, lighters, Zig-Zag packs, McDonald’s bags, a pizza box.
Geralyn and Cici on the couch, staring at the album cover like they’d never seen it before, studying every inch in case some secret message that wasn’t there last week had suddenly appeared.
Gordie and OP sitting on the floor, talking—like really talking, man—about governments and the Bermuda Triangle and this whole Bigfoot conspiracy thing.
Jay at the table, separating the stems and seeds from the weed he bought that day, as focused as he could get on the mindless task.
Karla on the phone, cord stretched down the hall like a twisted orange tightrope.
The Roach, a foot away from the muted TV, giggling, some cop show rerun bouncing colors around the room.
All of them glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, stoned.
All of them but Karla and me.
The first time I got high was in the summer after ninth grade, in the woods out back of Gordie’s house. I was a third of a joint in when the panic started, rolling my gut into a knot, kicking my heart into overdrive, seconds stretching into minutes, a moment growing into an impossibly long afternoon of cold sweats and jump-starts, my head crowded with every bad thing that could ever happen, my friends laughing their asses off as I puked, my terror absolutely the most frickin’ hilarious thing ever.
It was just your first time, they all said.
Happens to a lot of people.
Well, some.
You’ll get used to it.
So a week later, I tried again.
Same results.
It was just your second time.
Happens to a lot of people.
Well, some.
You’ll get used to it.
Then it was just my third time, just my fourth, fifth, sixth time.
That was your tenth
time, they eventually said. You better stick to beer.
I spent a whole year going to parties but not partying, hearing the same jokes but not laughing, watching the same movies but not freaking out, eating the same junk food but not wolfing down the whole bag. At some point, my lack of tolerance became a lack of interest, and then one day I realized that even if I didn’t get sick, I didn’t want it. And all the fancy bongs and complex pipes and pictures ripped out of the latest issue of High Times weren’t going to change that.
Because something else had changed.
Me.
And if I could change my peer-driven party-animal self, maybe I could change everything.
As obvious as it sounds, it took me a couple of years to put it all together and come up with my list. The idea, anyway. First in my head—all the things I’d rather be doing than what I always ended up doing; then in the back of a notebook during class—the things that would have to change, starting with the way I dressed, my unofficial uniform, then going deeper, pages of things that I combined or crossed out, distilling it all down to four lines. A new life in eight words. And here I was, ignoring every one of them.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the others sit around, feeling stupid. And boring.
Then Karla came down the hall from the bathroom and hung up the phone, the cord springing back into shape. She looked at Jay sitting at the table, looked into the living room at the others, none of them noticing her, then she looked at me and said, “Let’s go.”
KARLA WAS NOT a good driver. She didn’t drive fast or recklessly, and she never drove drunk. She just wasn’t any good at it. She kept one foot on the gas, the other on the brake, took the corners too wide, and didn’t always signal. The most unsettling thing—for the passenger, anyway—was how the green ’73 Ford Pinto tended to drift to the right when it should have been going straight. The car was four years old and it had 90,000-plus miles on it, but those who had ridden with Karla knew that this wasn’t why it drifted.
She bought the car in August, and right away she had me install an eight-track player so she’d have something to listen to besides the god-awful AM radio. It hung below the dash, and when she hit a deep pothole, which she did a lot, the tape would pop to another track, landing in the middle of a random song. The floor behind the driver’s seat was littered with eight-tracks, but at night it was always Frampton Comes Alive!