Hermie was unsettled. For a moment he thought he felt his mother looking over his shoulder. He looked, but she was gone. She could do that. He looked back at the druggist. “Do you have to flash ’em around?”
There was still no expression on Mr. Sanders’ face. “Which is your usual?” Hermie was standing square at the Maginot Line. In front of him was a collection of dandy little packages, all neatly sealed and wrapped and alive with raw sex. Behind him was his callow youth. He had just been asked to make his selection from the Crown Jewels of England. With so little experience in those matters, he decided to go with his favorite color. “The blue ones.” He began to wonder if the color on the outside of each package was matched by the color of the rubber within. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten Aggie by confronting her with a huge blue pecker. But then, red might even be worse, not to mention green. And plaid could send a young girl screaming off into the night. He wished he’d gone with the flesh-colored package, but it was too late. The dye, as it were, had been cast. And the heat of his hand was beginning to do away with his ice cream as though a disintegrator gun were working on it. A few drops of melted strawberry plopped onto his sneakers. All of him was melting.
Mr. Sanders pushed the blue packages toward Hermie as if he were betting chips in a poker game. “How many would you like?”
Another question to boggle the mind. How many? Oh, well. Take a shot at it. “Oh, three dozen.”
The druggist almost smiled, but not quite. He was playing Hermie like a trout, in a shallow stream, in a net. “Planning a big night?”
“Just the usual.” It had gotten him this far, so why not try it again?
The druggist shoveled all the other packages under the counter and pulled out a whole carton of blue ones. Blue was obviously a big seller around those parts. The druggist counted out a seemingly endless number of them, and Hermie wondered how many Marines would have to go without because of his horny selfishness. “That’ll be twelve dollars.”
Twelve dollars to lay Aggie seemed pretty steep. Maybe he was being cheated. Those old Yankee traders just loved to take the city slickers. Hermie figured he’d better offer up a little resistance, or else he’d be sweeping out that drugstore for the rest of the summer, just to pay back the fucking money. “Twelve dollars?” God, his voice sounded tiny.
“And twelve cents. For the ice cream.”
“I see. How much for just a dozen?”
“Four dollars.”
“And how many for a dollar?”
“Three.”
“I’ll take two.”
“They come three to a package.”
“Can I owe you for the ice cream?”
Mr. Sanders became very stern. Yet he also became quite fatherly. “All right now, son, fun is fun, but how old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“How old?”
“Sixteen. We’re inclined to be small in my family.”
The druggist studied Hermie, watching him squirm and letting him. Watching the ice cream running down Hermie’s wrist. Tapping the package of rubbers. “What are you going to do with these?”
“They’re for my brother. He’s older. But he’s not much taller.” He was running off at the mouth again. “None of us are very tall. There’s even a couple midgets in the family.” He figured he’d better cut that stuff out because he was hanging himself pretty neatly. He licked the ice cream in a spiral motion because the damn stuff was quickly leaving town.
“Why can’t your brother come in and get them for himself? Too small to reach the counter?” Mr. Sanders laughed at his own dumb-assed Yankee witticism.
“He’s been a little under the weather.” Hermie was flying blind, but he still hadn’t been thrown out. Also, he sensed that the druggist was kind of enjoying himself.
“Then what does he need them for?” asked the druggist.
“He says they make him feel better.” Hermie was playing the stupid little kid. It seemed to be getting results.
“Is he going to eat them?” The old son of a bitch was really knocking himself out with all that high comedy. Meanwhile, Hermie wondered where he’d heard that question before?
“I don’t know what he’s going to do with them. He never tells me.” Hermie figured that stupid ignorance was the best approach, especially since all else had failed.
The old man was really beaming. Two teeth were missing. Two were gold. The rest were brown. Except one, which was a fang. “Do you know what these are used for?”
“They’re for servicemen, that’s all I know. My brother’s a Ranger. One of the smallest Rangers they have, but he still uses a lot of them.” Hermie tried to look like Benjie. If he could look like Benjie, he could get away with the whole thing.
“Care to take a guess what they’re for?”
“Well, I know what I’d use ’em for.”
“Oh?” That stopped him.
“Yeah. I’d fill ’em with water and throw ’em off a roof.” He had heard that a lot of kids did that. From a six-story building they could make quite a splat. “I think maybe the Rangers fill ’em with nitro and throw ’em at enemy tanks. My brother told me that. I think he can curve ’em.” Hermie knew he had the dumbest look on his face imaginable. He had succeeded in looking like Benjie. Wait till he tried it on Oscy.
Mr. Sanders had to smile at the dumb kid. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you knew what they were for.”
Hermie was getting so good at playing dumb, he couldn’t resist taking it a bit further. With wide eyes he said, “Is that what they’re really for? I thought maybe my brother was kidding me.”
Mr. Sanders was finding a plain brown bag. “Well, different people fill ’em with different things.” He chuckled. He had always figured he was a jocular type; now he knew for sure. He couldn’t wait to tell the gang around the fucking cracker barrel about the dumb Brooklyn kid and the rubbers. That would be a real thigh slapper, yessiree bob.
“Be pretty wild thrown out of a B-17 at twenty thousand feet, wouldn’t it?” Hermie wanted the snaggle-toothed old ferret to have a lot of real yoks around the rhubarb. Yessir-ee-rube.
The old man smiled. “Technically, son, I shouldn’t be selling these to minors, but seein’ as how they’re for someone in service, well, I’ll close my eyes to it.” He rang up the cash register. “Let’s call it a dollar even, okay?”
“A-yuh.” Hermie handed him the dollar, which, as it turned out, was all he had; only originally he had expected some change. Still, he was glad to be done with it and lucky at that to have outcrafted the wily old druggist. And so, with the rubbers in one hand and the fast-fading ice cream cone in the other, he walked toward the door as a magnificent advertisement for adolescence. Ice cream and rubbers, there was a song in there somewhere, best sung by Bobby Breen.
Just as he reached the door, it opened and the bell tinkled, and of all people, Aggie walked in. Oscy was still at his post, blaring dissonant harmonic warnings, but Hermie had been too deep in battle to hear the blare. The door closed, and Oscy was out of it again. Aggie smiled at Hermie. Also, she spoke. That was new for her. “Hi, Hermie.”
“Hi, Aggie.” He clutched tightly at his bag of blue rubbers. No sense in her seeing them so early in their relationship. He put away the last vestiges of his leaky ice cream by chomping on the empty cone.
“I had a very nice time at the movie the other night.”
“I did, too.”
“We never really had a chance to really discuss the film, did we?”
“I guess not. How’s the old arm?” He thought he’d better ask. At least to let her know that he knew it was an arm all along.
“It’s fine, thank you.”
“I do that a lot. I don’t like to offend so, I just…squeeze an arm. Lets a girl know I like her and she doesn’t have to panic that I’m getting fresh.”
“Sure. Arms are all right.” She shrugged. What the hell else could she say to such sexual theorizing?
“Yeah. Nothi
ng wrong with arms.” He was running out of sparkling chatter. “Well—there you go.” He smiled like a drip.
“It was very nice of you to ask me to the marshmallow roast tonight. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.” He could smell the rubber burning in the paper bag. In a minute there’d be smoke, then the fire department, then his arrest. And old man Sanders could go to the hoosegow with him. Hermie smiled. “Well, Oscy’s outside. He’s bringing the marshmallows.”
“And what are you bringing?”
“So long.”
He went out through the chiming doorway, sweeping past Oscy, who fell immediately in step with him, slapping his harmonica against his palm and getting a load of spit there in a hurry. Which he then wiped on his sweat shirt, often referred to as the city dump. “Did you get ’em?”
“Yeah. They’re blue.” He rattled the bag as if to demonstrate the color to Oscy.
“Blue?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”
“Blue’s okay.” What the hell did Oscy know? “They in the bag?”
“Yeah.” He rattled the bag again. For emphasis.
“How many’d you get?”
“They come three to a pack, you know.”
“I know.” The hell he did. He looked very excited. “How many packages did you get?”
“I figured I’d hold it down to one.” Big shot.
“Yeah.” Idiot.
“Aggie’s in the drugstore.”
“I know.”
“Think she’s getting some, too?”
“I don’t think women use ’em. It’s the man’s job.”
“Seems we have to do everything.”
“How do you think you feel, Hermie?”
“Okay.”
“Think you’re up to it?”
“I think so. You?”
“Sure.” Oscy played his harmonica again, and the two boys went down to the grocery store to buy a couple hundred marshmallows.
16
The rest of the day Hermie spent in heavy training. The Twelve Fabulous Steps he thoroughly committed to memory. He could even recite them aloud better than he could handle the Pledge of Allegiance. Still, he figured he’d better bring the “notes” along just in case his mind went blank. In the privacy of his room he did push-ups to get his muscles in tone. He did fifty push-ups without effort and could have done a lot more except he kept seeing Aggie lying beneath him with her eyes closed and she was counting his push-ups. It was hardly a romantic conversation. Nobody wanted to screw a girl who was saying, “Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight…” He studied the movie stars on his walls, trying to convince himself that Aggie had the same basic equipment they had. But that was like saying a bluebird was a P-47 because they both had wings. He figured, if things got rough and if it was dark enough, he’d pretend that Aggie was Penny Singleton, no law against that. But Aggie had dark hair, and that was quite an imposition on his imagination because Penny Singleton was so blond and flaxen. So instead of Penny Singleton, for Aggie he selected Dorothy Lamour, who, though a lot better-looking, in the right light and counting push-ups, might just pass. Hermie was getting himself all a-twitter with stupid fantasies like that, which was the last thing he wanted. Also, it occurred to him that if he was going to imagine that Aggie was Dorothy Lamour, Aggie might just retaliate by imagining that he was Freddie Bartholomew, and the thought of Freddie Bartholomew screwing Dorothy Lamour seemed somehow outlandish. He could, of course, make a deal with Aggie whereby she could be any woman she liked and Hermie could be any man he liked, subject to both their approvals. Hermie figured he’d go with James Cagney, not because there was a resemblance, but because they were both kind of cocky. He wondered who Aggie’d pick. Any number of beauties were available. Like Joan Bennett. Hermie hoped that Aggie wouldn’t pick Joan Bennett. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Joan Bennett, not at all. It was just that Joan Bennett looked so much like Hedy Lamarr, and Hedy Lamarr, Hermie had heard, though John Loder probably hadn’t, was Austrian born and very likely a Nazi. And Hermie’d be goddamned if he’d screw a Nazi while his cousin Ronald was up in Kiska getting his nuts shot up. Hermie quickly divorced himself from all that kind of thinking because it was getting him so confused between politics and sex that, if he didn’t watch himself, he could easily end up screwing Conrad Veidt, who was not only a real German but much more charming than Hermie, as witness his portrayal of the sub commander in U-Boat 29. Hermie switched on the radio, and goddammit if the Songbird of the fucking South wasn’t singing “God Bless America.” He didn’t listen long for fear that he wouldn’t be able to get Kate Smith off his mind and that as a result, instead of Aggie or Dorothy Lamour or Conrad Veidt, he’d end up with Kate Smith, which would be like screwing a building and what if she wanted to get on top, as so many women, he had heard, liked to do? They wouldn’t find his remains until low tide. Why couldn’t Penny Singleton sing “God Bless America”? He looked at her photograph which he had so neatly autographed. “To Hermie, with devastating affection and great yearning, Penny ‘Sexpot’ Singleton.” “All my love, forever, Pete.” And the woman’s face was swimming in space before his eyes, smiling that everlasting smile of hers. She was the one he wanted. Why was he getting himself all involved with Aggie? Why couldn’t he make love to the woman he most desired instead of a dumb substitute? Why? Why did his mother decide to have chicken for dinner that night? Didn’t the condemned man have a right to have steak before he went to the wall? And could the condemned arrange to keep his blindfold on while screwing Aggie? And did his sister have to stand in the hallway and keep screaming that he was using up all the hot water? Didn’t a guy have a right to use all the hot water he pleased before going out to lay a girl who, if nothing else, looked as if she bathed? And why didn’t he and Oscy buy potatoes for the roast instead of marshmallows? He hated marshmallows as much as he hated cutlets. He hated Aggie and Oscy. He hated Mr. Sanders for selling him the rubbers. He hated the way the part came out so stupid in his hair. He hated the sweater he picked out to wear. He hated the way the screen door slammed and how pleasant the night was. He hated the sound of the ocean as he got closer to it. He hated himself for having allowed Oscy to get his balls in such a wringer. And he walked along the beach as though going to his own execution. And he knew that it was the blasted waiting that was driving him crazy. The waiting, waiting…
17
It got to be 11 p.m. without any help from any of them. The fire was a fine one, crackling in the heady summer night. It had been magnificently constructed by Hermie, who, in a former life, had undoubtedly been a great outdoorsman as well as the first man to write “shit” on a cave wall because that, more or less, was just about the way he felt. The rushing sound of the breaking surf came as intermittent whispers that leaned in and then laughed out. And a few generous sprinklings of stars made the whole scene too painful for an unwilling Romeo to cope with. Hermie had consumed by then, oh, perhaps thirty toasted marshmallows, and he felt like a candy bar. Oscy and Miriam had split off over an hour before, giggling as they dragged their blanket off into the darkness to do only God knew what. That, of course, had left Hermie with Aggie, the Sphinx. She was wearing a loose sweater, obviously a hand-me-down from Kate Smith. Also, it had sleeves. Unmistakable sleeves from shoulders to wrists. She had taken careful pains to guard against any navigational errors Hermie’s wandering hand might make. And she had also avoided any open flesh if, in truth, Hermie really got his kicks from squeezing arms. All that Hermie’s hand would have to contend with was a boat-neck opening around the neck of the sweater that was so large that an elephant could get in. Or, if it so desired, his hand could come up under the sweater from below, via an unelastic waistband that couldn’t keep out a dinosaur. Hermie knew that, somewhere within the loose-fitting garment, two breasts hung silently like meat on a hook. And, very likely, they were complete—nipples and everything. As for any action below the belt, Hermie, a realist, hadn’t planned on it, not really. In spite o
f his learning the Twelve Hot Steps, he pragmatically knew the odds against his going beyond bare boobs. Aggie was wearing dungarees as was everyone else that summer. As for her belt, it looked rather formidable. For all Hermie knew, it had a lock on it. And a seal. And an alarm. Hermie was fairly certain that Aggie would let him have some boob, but that would be as far as he’d be allowed to go. Very few young men on the island ever got beyond boob, even though, if you listened to their stories, they were getting laid more often than the ancient horny Romans. Still, Hermie knew that the complete man should make at least a half-assed attempt at some action below the belt. So he didn’t close the book on it. He’d see how things went. He’d play it by ear.
“It’s a very nice fire.” That was Aggie. She was on his blanket, making conversation. It was good to hear her voice because it meant she wasn’t dead. Once or twice it occurred to him that she might well be dead and that it would be tricky getting her corpse home without looking as if he’d screwed her to death.
“I can throw on more wood if you like.” He had been throwing on wood as if he were stoking the Yankee Clipper. The fire was so hot they could have roasted a boar on it.
“It’s a bit chilly,” said Aggie, as she kind of hugged herself. Never again would Hermie get so strong an invitation to move in. He looked over at her. Even in the firelight he could see the hot passion building in her eyes. And as he watched he saw that her legs, they kind of moved. And her knees, which but a moment ago were touching each other, were now a few inches apart and spreading rapidly. Her whole body, which had been sitting upright when last he looked, was slowly bending backward, more and more until—plunk—she was lying flat on her back, looking at the sky, one knee bent for the sake of being demure, but the rest of her afire with Latin desire. She was his. All his. All he had to do was lean over and get it. So he leaned over and hovered above her, one arm supporting him on each side of her, suspended in his world-famous push-up position—and she slowly lowered her bent knee until there was nothing between them except for what he could muster. No words were necessary, but they came out anyway. Out of Hermie. And he’d never know why. “Tough to find good firewood on a beach.”
Summer of '42 Page 15
