by Sam Munson
After school let out I went with Digger to the Dump. Technically it’s called Trash Facility 10, or so the clattering sign on its chain-link front gate says. But the attendant’s shed, a compressed-looking house with green-and-white siding and a fake dormer and everything, never holds any attendant, and you can breeze right through the yawning gate without comment or opposition. It’s down by the Potomac, near its eastern border, touching Maryland. It juts out into the water a bit, so there are always cadres of seagulls flinging themselves back and forth above it. You could fish from the edge, if you wanted. There’s this retaining wall, gray with birdshit and vivid with graffiti. We never encountered its writers. Going there was our Friday ritual. It had no name, and she’d introduced it, as she’d introduced me to most of the innovative, freeing things I participated in. We would go there to break glass and ceramics and scream. It started as a test of the Dump’s isolation. Daring—I guess—whatever authority existed to come and chastise us. No one ever showed up. We have performed this test on one hundred of the past one hundred and four Fridays, by my calculations. Which made the Dump, by far, the most reliable thing in my life. This time, with a breeze kicking from the scummy river, we destroyed a gleaming toilet with rebar rods drawn from the sucking earth. We fenced with them for a while, after the destruction, shouting, “En garde.” And then lay panting on the hood of her car.
“I had to listen to another one of Noel’s stories today,” I groaned. She was the only person who knew about that side of my commercial arrangements.
“And you want sympathy?”
“No, I’m just like, I don’t really know what I can do. Right? Get it from some other guy? Right?” I flopped onto my side to look at her face. She was wearing, again, the bright, hard smile she’d flashed after the assembly.
“Don’t complain to me about that senseless shit. Don’t be like obtuse. You’re not obtuse. I mean, you’re kind of obtuse but not that obtuse,” she said, voice pitched low and steady. I taught her that word, I tell you with regret: obtuse. From the past participle of obtundere, “to beat something against something else hard and resistant.” She was not wrong, however. The rubble of the toilet—an American Standard, the most glorious brand—glittered in the afternoon sun.
You’re harboring all kinds of suspicions about my supposed real feelings right now, aren’t you? Digger and I may not have been dating, but I was still concerned for her honor. A concept that also comes in for a lot of ridicule these days. As do most of my beliefs. And maybe I failed in my desire to protect her honor, and I often did stupid things to her myself. Witness the above little conversation. But by and large we stuck to our agreement, which was founded on those principles of honor. We had no emotional involvement. Either of us could leave at any time. Sex is natural and necessary to people our age. And in case you think that Digger or I dictated the terms unilaterally, or that it was some kind of tyrant/sycophant relationship: we came up with them together, right after the first time we fucked, which was about two years ago, this soft-aired night in June. We leaned out of her bedroom window smoking cigarettes and arranging the terms. And we’ve stuck to them ever since. I still don’t know why Noel bothered her so much, though. Especially in light of our agreement, and in light of the fact that she smokes just as much weed as I do, and it has to come from somewhere, and better it come from someone you know, right? Someone you even have an investment in? We saved the night, though. We got over my explosion of nonsense. Digger, responsibly, took the lead. She’s going to be a great woman someday. I mean a senator or whatever. She can always just read you, which is terrifying, but comes in handy for getting out of awkward situations. She knew I would just sit there, not saying anything, forever, if she took no action. So she said, with a sidelong, shy look, “I got one for you. A good one. What’s brown and hides in the attic?”
This was the beginning of a joke about the Holocaust. Once you set aside your moral reservations about telling such jokes, another problem confronts you: what is the purpose of the Holocaust joke? It’s obscure, yeah. Ninety-seven percent of people will offer you a platitude, something on the order of, It’s a way of managing the tragedy. Oh, is it? There’s no way to manage tragedy, any more than you can manage the law of gravity. It can’t be redeemed or transfigured; it persists and persists without rest. Think of a phone book, of the text in a phone book, but it’s a list of names, and it goes on and on without end, without even the prospect of an end. And some claim it’s an expression of Jewish self-hatred. That’s at least what the psychological counselor who Ms. Arango forced me to see after my initial run-in with Alex said, in his office thick with the soul-murdering smell of paper and ink. That’s nonsense, too. Holocaust jokes are one of my central forms of expression. And only non-Jews consider me a Jew. Though that, once, could get you sent to the camps!
No, the purpose of the Holocaust joke is identical to the purpose of the joke as a larger proposition: the infliction of cruelty on the reason-inundated mind. It’s just more naked in the case of jokes about the Holocaust. As in everything else, the fuckers responsible for our conventions of thought have mistaken a difference in degree for a difference in kind. That’s why I tell them. That’s the cause of my telling them. A sampling of my greatest hits: Why was the little Jewish boy sitting on the roof next to the chimney? He was waiting for his parents! What’s funnier than ten dead babies in one trash can? Six million Jews dead in the Holocaust! There’s no business like Shoah business! Where was the highest concentration of Jews during the Holocaust? In the atmosphere! Ketchup is just the Auschwitz of tomatoes! “My grandfather died in the Holocaust …” “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” “Yeah, he fell off his guard tower!” What’s the difference between a ton of coal and a thousand Jews? Jews burn longer! Have you heard about the new German microwave? It’s got ten seats inside! And, of course, What’s the difference between a Jew and a loaf of bread? The joke that started it all.
So Digger told me the joke she’d dug up. “What’s brown and hides in the attic?”
“I don’t know! What is brown and hides in the attic?” This is the correct ritual response. She paused to collect herself. I held my breath.
“The diarrhea of Anne Frank.” The way she delivered it, in this coy, quiet voice, a conciliatory voice, just destroyed me, that and the fact that we were also pretty stoned, and after I stopped laughing I told her, “Excellent job.” Thus disaster was averted. She’s going to achieve greatness, and this is the proof. Do you know how easy it is to give in to resentment under these circumstances? Everybody does it. Not her, though. She even agreed to come back to my house then, even with the brick of weed stowed under the passenger seat. I was still darting paranoid head turns as I drove. But we made it home unarrested, and I did an invisible celebratory dance on my way inside. Then it was time to deal with the pot. I know I promised to spare you the details of my routine, ladies and gentlemen. But many of you have never witnessed this procedure. So I thought I would give you a glimpse.
The weed was dense, almost springy to the touch, fragrant. Furred with faint red hairs. Noel has a very reliable and high-quality connection. Fibers from the glans-shaped (think of the head of your dick; glans is the Latin word for “acorn,” I shit you not) nuggets clung under my nails. Now, I had a customer base to maintain. And in this, as in any small business, you have to have something that distinguishes you from your competitors. The weed Noel sold me was always good, and sometimes even better than good. Good enough to justify my 50 percent markup on it. Unjust, you gasp. But that’s what the market will bear. And the pussies who buy from me! They have no other real sources, falling as they do in that unclear zone between middle-classness and true wealth. Actual rich kids can afford to be decadent, can buy in bulk. Poor or desperate kids buy retail. Good stuff, or shwag whose lack of quality is compensated for by additives: low-grade coke, PCP. Et cetera. Sometimes H2C(OH)2, or formalin, embalming fluid. Sometimes a well-known and popular insect spray, which causes nausea, vomiting,
and eventual blindness. I never had to use these, which helped ensure my good reputation. But clean weed is not sufficient. You have to be creative. You have to have an identity. This can reside in your personality or person: Noel Bradley. Or in your quiet, confident scariness: David Cash. But I have no personality to speak of, and my physical weakness is pretty apparent. So I had to resort to cosmetic measures.
What were they? Orange peels. These, according to the lore of my schoolmates, help to keep the weed moist, which helps to keep it potent. This has always seemed like pure voodoo to me. Don’t they have to dry tobacco leaves before you smoke them? And isn’t dried sage or whatever, doesn’t it have more flavor than its fresh counterpart? At least, you’re supposed to use less of it. In cooking, I mean. My father is very insistent on this fact about dried sage, although to my knowledge he’s never deployed it in any circumstances. But whatever. Every bag I sold came with a little twist of orange peel. I also made sure to use the type of Biggie bags where the little strip of plastic across the lips of the bag turns green when they’re closed. On those weak props was my success founded.
I’d developed this whole little routine to deal with packages from Noel. I broke it down into eighths, quarters, half ounces, and ounces. I knew from experience that Biggie-brand baggies weigh between .029 and .032 of an ounce, and so I measured, making adjustments as I went. My method was simple: weigh out; add the famous Addison-identifying scrap of orange peel from the bowl of such scraps I keep in my minifridge; thumb the zip-seal 90 percent closed, leaving a vent; roll up the bag, the air escaping through said vent; complete the seal to its full piss-greenness; secure with a tag of invisible tape. And you’re done. The floppy cylinders go back into the safe, to be drawn out, modularly, as needed. I could, at the height of my industriousness, bag and seal a pound in under an hour. You develop horrible neck cramps; your hands ache. The one unpleasant drudgery I faced in my occupation. I raced myself, to keep it interesting. That day I shaved seven seconds off my previous best.
Digger had stalked upstairs when I started my process. She doesn’t like to be around while I do that kind of work. I heard her wander around, opening and slamming cabinets, looking for food. Her steps have a recognizable, martial time signature: 2/2. I shit you not. She clipped downstairs as I finished—she knew how long it took me to deal with a package; she’d been through this with me before—already talking. “I had to go to this thing for my mother, like a surgery-appreciation thing. Did I tell you?”
“No, did she like win the Joseph Mengele Lifetime Achievement Award or something?” I’m a funny guy! Digger ignored this, as she pretended to ignore the handfuls of bags I was shoving into my safe. I keep it in my closet, hidden in plain sight. It’s not like my father ever inspects my room, anyway. She whipped out her blood-colored pipe, which I packed with some loose weed, making foppish hand gestures. And then we got high. A rhomboid of the day’s last sunlight tracked its way across my counterpane.
“What up, Mr. Money,” Digger asked. She makes this remark every time I resupply. I never have a retort. Digger’s voice, if you heard it without seeing her … I mean, she’s feminine. I mean in her character. And also she has gigantic tits, for someone as short and small-framed as she is. But her voice is ambiguous. It can carry real overtones of hurt and anger, just because it’s so throat-heavy.
Today, at last, I had something for her. I mean Noel’s story about Mike Lorriner. I wouldn’t have told her if she hadn’t made that Mr. Money remark, which is unfair. She knows I haven’t spent any of it on myself, or on anything else, other than resupplying. I now had some kind of countercharge to offer, to demonstrate my potency.
“Come on. Noel said that? And you like believe it? Noel said it. Noel,” she crowed. I told her I did. Believe it, I mean. Just to tweak her. And suddenly I did believe. At least halfway. She—to my shock—stopped scoffing and started challenging me. Why didn’t I just tell the cops? What was I going to do about it? I tried to calm her down. But here was this opportunity to satisfy this urge that I’d made a whole speech about, and I was paralyzed! (Her sentiment, not mine.)
“But it’s just Noel, man,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s either true or it’s not true, even if Noel says it. And you just said you believed it.” Her sudden partisanship of his theory bewildered me. Which shows how little I understand women. And the triteness of the story was suspicious. It made too much sense. Some bulky, black-hating cracker, on the town for the weekend and desperate to prove his credentials, a booze-powered party, shoving, shouts, slurs aplenty, Kevin being heroic and stolid in the face of persecution. Et cetera. But Digger persisted: “At least check it out,” she said, “at least check it out.”
My subsequent decision, if it can be called a decision and not an act of drug-induced lassitude, not a proof of my inability to resist her, could be marked as our fulcrum moment. Yes, something that blank-faced and ordinary. Calling Information! Oh, you can convince yourself to do anything. It doesn’t even require any real effort. Just a moment of weakness or distraction. According to the 411 lady, there were nine Lorriners living in Maryland with listed numbers. Five of them lived in Baltimore, which Noel’s statement that Lorriner was a redneck ruled out. Two lived in Bowie, and though I remembered Noel saying Severn, I took down their info anyway. One was named Jason and one was named Brandon. So no good. One lived in Groton Woods. Her name was Kaneia. But one of the listings, in a town called Brander’s Hollow, seemed meaningful. No full name, just an initial: M. Lorriner, 9780 Fork Lute Road: 301-927-1124. “Thanks, just thank you,” I gushed. And the operator’s fuzzy “You’re welcome” sounded charged with delight.
“Well?” Digger asked. “It makes sense,” I said. “He’s listed in Brander’s Hollow. Or M. Lorriner is. You know. Brander’s Hollow. They have that like Little League world series there? And there was that cross-burning lawsuit?” These statements might have been true. They might have referred to some other, similar town. To this day I don’t know. I keep forgetting to look them up. I jabbed the numbers in. The line rang three times. Then someone, a man, answered. With a quack.
Rural flatness is not just a geographical feature. It comes out in the voice, too, and it came out in his. Made him sound young. That much I remember. No criminal would talk like such a hick, I reasoned. Right? No aesthetic coherence there. Digger was lip-asking something of me, with exaggerated round precision: Is it him, is it him? Her mouth looked enormous. I swatted my hand in dismissal, and she punched me in the biceps. Not her strongest blow—and she can throw a punch—but enough to distract me, so that I almost lost Lorriner. But I managed to retake control of the situation. I’d give Lorriner a fillip and let him go. No danger there. I’d never felt more secure, my after-weed cigarette bleeding smoke, Digger lying next to me, a victim on the phone. Why not exercise power if you have it? And so I spoke.
“Uh, yes, uh, is, uh, is this Mike Lorriner?”
“Who is this?” the man breathed. My lungs tightened.
“I know what you did to Kevin,” I mumbled, suppressing a giggle.
“Ixcyuse may?” he twanged.
“No, I like know, man,” I asserted. “And I’m like going to tell the cops. You like can’t get away with that shit, man.” (What?) And then I hung up. Slammed down the receiver. Digger and I laughed ourselves into exhaustion. It took two full minutes, which is an eternity of laughter.
“Oh, my God it was just some like baseball hick. You could just like hear it. Noel was like wrong. I admit it. You could just hear it. Oh, my gawd,” I gasped. I sounded, now that I think about it in retrospect, like Alex Faustner.
“You idiot, man, you idiot, you idiot,” Digger kept groaning. And we lay there in the afterhaze of hilarity—provoked by the pointless murder of one of our classmates. That’s real empathy, right? The human race is disgusting. You can guess what we did next. At least some of you have been through similar things. It’s amazing how mind-clearing a simple physical event like clumsy and enthusiastic sex
can be. Does this go away with age? Literature says yes. That’s a depressing prospect. What am I going to do with myself when I get old? You think eighteen is too young to suffer over your own mortality? Fuck you, ladies and gentlemen.
And in the service of ignoring mortality, Digger and I could have gone on for the whole afternoon. We did that sometimes, on weekends, engaged in marathon sessions. But the phone started ringing again, just when we’d barely gotten going, and I spasmed my way to the receiver. Digger burrowed her fingertips into the spare flesh of my forearm and muttered, “It’s nothing, Addison, don’t get all absurd.” Her voice came from low in her throat. I picked up. I’m not that big a coward. It was the same guy, of course: Lorriner. He sounded less breathy, sure of himself.
“Schacht, right?”
My lips went numb with fear. “How do you know my name?” Thoughts of some globe-spanning, anti-Addison conspiracy choked and thrilled me.
“Yew motherfucker. Yew can’t tell me sheeeit. You forgit about caller ideee?” His vowel dragged and he continued. “Mayn, I am going to like fuck yew up. Put yew in the daymn hospital. Put yew in the daymn graveyard.” Then the dial tone uncoiled, gray-green, infinite. Digger—provoked by my hanging lower jaw—asked me what the fuck was wrong, as she covered her marmoreal tits. “He has caller ID,” I muttered. “He knows my name. My last name.” Stoned as I was, I had completely failed to reckon with this possibility. “Oh, fuck.” She groaned. The rhomboid of sunlight wandered off my bed and fell onto the cold stone floor.
