by David Ellis
We draw our share of attention. We are certainly the first representatives of the preppy-city-boys club, and I have a good feeling we will be the only ones. Typically, Tru is unfazed. I follow him through the crowd, past a group passing a joint on a dingy couch, a couple of guys who appear to be squaring off in one corner, into the kitchen. We raid the fridge for some beers but find nothing better than the lukewarm imports we carried in, again separating ourselves from the pack. As Tru is taking his first swig, he makes a noise and brings the bottle from his lips. “There he is,” he says.
His friend Rick, I presume. The guy looks our age, seventeen or eighteen. A mess of dirty blond hair, thick, dark eyebrows, narrow rounded shoulders covered with a black heavy-metal T-shirt. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He gives a sour smile and holds out a hand for Tru.
“Hello, Truman,” he says. “Let’s make some trouble.”
Rick navigates us through the party; I find myself squinting through the thick air that reeks of tobacco and marijuana. We reach a couple hanging in the corner. A girl with her boyfriend. He is completely bald, an egg-shaped head with a thick neck, a cigarette tucked above his ear. He is wearing a beer T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing freckled arms that are sizeable and well defined. One of his hands is parked in the back pocket of the girl’s cutoff denim jeans, the other propped against the wall as he hovers over her. They are laughing about something.
“Lyle,” says Rick.
Lyle and Rick. I’m more interested in the girl’s name.
“This is Gina.”
They turn to us. Lyle eyes us suspiciously.
“This is my guy Tru,” Rick tells them.
“This is Jon,” Tru says, nodding in my direction.
We salute each other with tips of the head. I pay particular attention to Gina. She is the best-looking girl in the room, though that probably isn’t saying much. She has bleached-blond hair that falls to her shoulders, perfectly round eyes with long lashes but too much dark mascara. Full lips. Long, lean, tan legs and a tight white undershirt that highlights an impressive chest. Two beers already in me, my hormones are in overdrive.
She brings a cigarette to her lips and blows the smoke upward. “Nice to meet you guys,” she says. She appraises us as Rick and Lyle talk.
“So let’s go up,” says Rick.
“Grab some cold ones first,” Lyle says.
I follow the crew back to the kitchen for beers, then to the stairs. Tru grabs Rick by the arm and whispers into his ear. Rick turns back and says, “Nah, man, later.” Tru holds out his arms and says, “What the hell am I doing here?” Rick pushes him gently and heads up the stairs. I don’t inquire; I’m still a little off-balance from meeting Gina.
We go to a bedroom that belongs, I assume, to whoever is throwing the party. A stereo rests in the corner, albums scattered haphazardly about. The walls are plastered with posters of either rock bands or women in bikinis. The closet is overflowing with dirty clothes.
Lyle goes over to the stereo to fish for a record. Rick walks into the bedroom last, carrying a couple of chairs from some other room upstairs. Tru and I take the chairs, Rick sits next to Gina on the bed. The room smells like mine, like dirty laundry, a faint odor of mildew. The lighting is poor, a three-pronged light fixture in the center of the ceiling with only one bulb operating, covered by a dingy globe.
Rick fishes in his pocket and pulls out a lighter. Then he goes back into his pocket and removes a joint. He sticks it between his lips and nods to Lyle by the stereo. “Nothing mellow,” he instructs, the joint bobbing in his teeth as he speaks.
Gina pops open the bottle of beer and takes a drink. Her eyes watch me as she takes the pull. I feel a stirring inside me.
Rick lights the marijuana cigarette and inhales, gripping the joint in his fingers as he holds his breath. He blows out and hands the joint to Tru. Tru follows suit and, holding his breath, hands the joint to me.
Not the first time I’ve smoked pot, but it’s up there. I’m not much for smoke of any kind, have never in my life tried a normal cigarette. But Gina is watching me, and what the hell, I’m on vacation.
I inhale deeply as the lighter burns the marijuana cigarette. The smoke is bitter and hot in the back of my throat. I grimace but hold it in as long as I can. My exhale is more like a cough. My throat burns, my eyes water.
Tru hands me an open bottle. “Chaser, my friend.”
I hand the joint to Gina, who smiles and says “Thank you” in a way that probably would be described as courteous and nothing more, but which holds a more provocative inflection for me. I somehow enjoy the fact that her lips are touching the cigarette after mine.
“Breathe it in,” she says to me. “Then swallow, like there’s nothing in your mouth at all.” She lights the joint and inhales. Slowly, she blows out smoke over my head. She hands it back to me. “Then blow out.”
I’m not exactly ready for the second try, but there’s no way I’m passing this up. I light the joint, inhale and swallow, like she said, and hold the smoke in my mouth.
“Easy, right?” she says. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot from the alcohol. She smiles lightly.
I smile back as I blow out the smoke. My gaze falls on her crossed legs. Her cutoff denim shorts leave little to the imagination, but plenty enough for me. “Easy,” I say.
Lyle has settled on heavy-metal music I don’t recognize. He has it turned up too loud, but lowers it after protest from the group. He pushes himself off the carpet with his muscular arms and sits next to Gina. His presence is like a cold shower, but a guy can fantasize, can’t he?
“So what brings a couple city boys out here?” Gina asks me.
“Getting away from the city,” says Tru. That’s close enough. Tru is a pretty heavy partier, but he likes to keep a low profile in the city when it comes to using drugs. People can talk, and he worries about that sort of thing. It makes me think that Tru, separated from the gossip out here in Summit County, is ready for a big night. It also occurs to me that there is twenty miles of driving ahead of us when the night ends. But Tru is right when he always tells me that I worry too much. I do worry. I have little to complain about with my life, but still, I don’t seem to travel on the same road as Tru. He is as carefree as they come, doesn’t sweat the details, and manages to attract the popular crowd. Hell, he is the popular crowd. He doesn’t have spectacular looks, little athletic ability, but he is blessed with this confidence, a certain recklessness that draws people. Me, I have above-average grades and a decent sense, but I’m not destined for greatness. I’m not one of those guys who gets out front. I can walk into a room without anyone noticing. I can’t tell a story. I don’t turn heads. I am in the middle in every sense of the word, and it isn’t any easier watching Tru glide through life.
But Tru is right. I won’t worry. I watch Gina grab Lyle’s bicep, whisper something to him but shoot a glance in my direction. I have caught her eye. It won’t mean anything at the end of the day, but she noticed me, not Tru. I accept the joint and take my third toke. For once in my life, I won’t worry.
14
ALL FIVE OF us are on the bed. Rick is leaning against the wall, sitting Indian style, singing with some angry song. Punk music, I think. I’m in the middle, between Rick on one side and Tru on the other. Lyle and Gina are lying horizontally on the bed. Their feet are dangling off. Lyle looks over at us and says something like, “The preppy boys are getting stoned.” I laugh surprisingly hard. Tru calls Lyle “egghead” and all of us laugh. Gina asks me if I’m ticklish and I lie, I say no. She tickles my foot and it doesn’t tickle. So I guess I wasn’t lying. Rick pronounces the third joint “dead” and flicks the stub over Gina and Lyle to the floor. I try to follow its flight pattern but I lost it. I lost it. Maybe that was the fourth joint. Lyle says he has to take a piss and he gets up. Rick tells him to get more beers. I don’t know if Lyle answered. He may have but I didn’t hear it. Gina is looking at me again. Her eyes are really round. Her body is unbeliev
able. I realize that I have an erection but I’m not embarrassed. I kind of laugh. Gina laughs, too, and her white T-shirt creeps up a little. I can almost see her navel. I really want to see it but I can’t. Gina gets up and walks over by the stereo. There is a beer there. I didn’t know that. But she gets up and I watch her butt move in those jeans-shorts, and I think she knows I’m watching. We all are watching. Tru leans into me and whispers, “We gotta get rid of Lyle,” which makes me laugh. Tru says, “She wants you, Jonathan.” I guess he means Gina. I say, “True, that’s true.” Then I point at Tru and say, “That’s Tru.” I laugh, and Tru laughs. I think he’s laughing at me. Rick asks Tru, “What’s your major?” and he laughs. I’m pretty sure Rick isn’t going to college. Tru says, “English.” I say, “You haven’t learned English yet?” and everyone laughs. So I keep going. I say, “What do you speak now? Russian?” Rick says, “German?” Then Rick says, “How’s it going, Adolf?” Gina is laughing so hard that beer spills out of her mouth. She is still standing by the bed, and she puts her hand over her mouth, but some of the beer spills onto her shirt. Rick lights up another joint. I’m laughing pretty hard but I still manage to take a drag on the joint. It’s easy. Just suck in and swallow, like there’s no smoke at all. Then just sit there awhile and then blow out. I do it and bow my head to Gina, because she’s the one who showed me how. But when my head comes back up it’s kind of woozy, and I can’t see Gina too well.
What time is it? Gina is sitting next to me. One leg is tucked under her. It’s just the two of us. I ask, “Where did everyone go?” She laughs, kind of gently. She says, “They went for a score.” I say, “What’s a score?” She laughs again and nudges me. She says, “They went to get some blow.” I say, “Oh.” She says, “So what’s your full name?” I say, “Jon Soliday.” She says, “Nice to meet you, Jon Soliday. I’m Gina Mason.” I say, “Tell me about yourself.” She shrugs her shoulders and the bottom of her T-shirt raises up. She says, “I’m a waitress. Live with my little brother and mom.” I say, “What does your mom do?” She says, “She drinks.” I laugh but Gina doesn’t. She says, “She’s a waitress like me. She works the midnight shifts. She drinks during the day.” I say, “How old’s your brother?” She says, “Eight.” I say, “Is he home by himself?” She says, “No, he has a babysitter until I get home.” I say, “You’re not leaving, are you?” She says, “No, the sitter will spend the night if I’m late.” I say, “Oh,” because I can’t think of anything better. She says, “Why, do you want me to leave?” I say, “No, I want you to stay.” She smiles. Then she says, “Tell me about yourself.” I say, “Nothing to tell. Going to the state university this fall.” She says, “What’s your major?” I tell her, “Poli sci.” She says, “What’s that?” I say, “Fuck if I know.” We both laugh. Then I say, “It’s about politics.” And she says, “Are you gonna be a politician?” And I say, “Sure, why not?” She moves a little closer to me. Why the hell can’t I be a politician or some big shot? Tru isn’t the only one who’s smart. I can figure it out, too. Gina says, “I’d vote for you.” She puts her hand on my foot. My mouth is really dry. I try to swallow but there is no saliva. I say, “I’d vote for you, too.” She makes a face. She says, “What the heck am I ever gonna run for?” I say, “You could run for anything you want. It’s a free country.” She says, “Yeah, right,” and she takes a hit from the joint. “So Lyle’s your boyfriend, huh?” I say. She eyes me. Smoke drifts from her mouth. She makes a perfectly round “o” with her mouth and blows the smoke out. After the smoke evaporates, she asks me, “Why?” I say, “I don’t know. If he wasn’t, I might ask you out some time.” She smiles and says, “It’s a free country.” She holds her stare on me. Then she jumps off the bed and goes to the stereo. She says, “I hate this music.” She pulls the album off the record player. I think about getting up but I can’t, not very easily. Then the three guys all walk back into the room. Lyle, Rick, and Truman. Lyle tosses me a beer and I take a long drink because my throat is dry and hot. Lyle is talking to Gina. Political science is a good major for starters, my dad said. He said a liberal arts program is a good solid background. Maybe he was just being nice, because I didn’t get into the business program at the university anyway, so I went for liberal arts. Poli sci seemed as good as anything else. Tru says, “The snowman cometh.” I laugh for no reason. Rick drops a mirror on the floor and then I understand. That’s why Tru wanted to come all the way out here, to do some coke. Rick is his supplier. He doesn’t want to do it back in the city, where people might whisper. Then Tru and Rick and Lyle and Gina sit down on the floor around the mirror. Rick says, “C’mon, Jonny.” Tru says, “Only if he wants to.” Then he says to me, “You don’t have to, Jon.” I look over at Gina. She pats the floor next to her. So I get up and sit down next to her. She looks over at her boyfriend, Lyle, who is busy opening up the cocaine from a little packet. Gina puts her hand on my leg a second. It seems like she’s running it up my leg. But then she moves it, just as Lyle turns around.
What time is it? Lyle says the “eight-ball’s finished.” That’s the second one done. Lyle asks if there’s any more. Tru says, “No way, man.” I’m more awake now. It’s weird, way weird. I’m all foggy but I’m wide awake. Tru’s on the bed, talking to Lyle. They’re whispering. I can’t hear what they’re saying. Gina left a minute ago. Or I think it was a minute, it could have been half an hour. She smiled at me when she walked out. I’m on my feet now. Rick is holding up Tru, helping him walk out of the room. Lyle leaves ahead of us and goes down the stairs. Rick says, “The night’s young, Jonathan,” and he grabs my shoulder and shakes it. I don’t really care what we do because I’m wide awake. It’s weird because I’m wide awake but I’m confused. But I hope whatever we do includes Gina. We’re walking down the stairs now. I have to hold on to the railing. The stairs are shifting on me, coming in and out of focus. My legs feel like they aren’t attached to my body. When I get downstairs, Gina is not there. There aren’t that many people down here at all. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. I don’t know. The floor is sticky and smells of alcohol. It reminds me of the night Tru and I spent at his brother’s college fraternity before his brother died. The room is not fully lit, it’s sort of a hazy lighting. I turn behind me and keep turning until I’ve gone in a full circle. Rick puts a hand on me and laughs. He slaps me on the back. Tru says, “Let’s go!”
We’re walking to the car. We’re splitting up. Tru is going to a different car; he’s being held up. I yell to him, what’s going on, Tru? He says he’s going home but to have fun. I tell him to come along but he just waves me off. Somebody grabs my shirt from behind and I almost fall over but I keep my balance, and I get into a car. It’s not Tru’s car.
Where the hell are we? I get out of the car and start to walk up the lawn. But it’s not my house. “No, Jonny, go around. What the fuck did I tell you?” That’s right. I’m supposed to go to the window on the side. I knock on the window like it’s the door. I start to walk away and then I’m walking in a circle and then I walk back up to the window and look in. It’s Gina. She’s sleeping in her bed. I knock on the window again and her head rises off the pillow and she looks out at me. I wave at her. She looks at me for a while and then she walks over to the window. She pulls up the window and says, “Jon?” I say, “Yeah.” She helps me climb into her room. It’s not easy, I almost fall backward into her yard, then I almost fall forward onto her bedroom floor. It’s dark in here but light enough that I can make out that face. She says, “You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.” I try to say something to her, to tell her that I want her very much, but I can’t find the words so I just bring my hand to her face, then her hair, and show her.
15
THE SUNLIGHT CAN be your worst enemy when you’re working on a roof, slapping black tar. By noon, I’m over halfway through a workday that began at five bells. The sun is at its peak, raining heat down on a beaten body.
I spent all of yesterday in bed, following the all-night binge in Summi
t County. Most of that night was a fog. I spent Sunday vomiting and trying unsuccessfully to convince my parents that I wasn’t hitting the sauce the night before. Christ, I don’t even remember how we got home. Literally. The last thing I recall vividly is climbing out of Gina Mason’s window after staying for more than a few minutes and falling back into the car. I woke up in the morning with the scent of Gina’s perfume on my shirt, which I slept in. However glorious the smell, it was drowned out by the smoke and alcoholic odors that infested my clothing. First thing I did, however painful, was strip my clothes and hit the shower. The shower water struck me like acid, especially on my knee, where I had a pretty ugly scrape, source unknown.
Lunch break. I need liquids badly. First time it’s taken more than twenty-four hours to recover from a party. I take the ladder down to the ground and find two men. One of them is coming out of the elementary school where I’m working. The other one is standing there, awaiting me. They are in police uniforms, brown ones, not the blue ones local cops wear.
“Jonathan Soliday?” The taller of the two men is talking. He’s bulging from his uniform, thick biceps, arms on his belt, reflective sunglasses. The other guy is black, shorter, a bit of a stomach, arms folded.
“Yeah,” I say. I look at the car in the parking lot. An all-white sedan with gold lettering.
“We’re sheriff’s deputies, Mr. Soliday,” he says. “Some people in Summit County want to talk to you.”
“What about?” I’m squinting in the sunlight, acting clueless.
