by David Lubar
“Let’s get closer!” I shouted to Shelly over the blaring music.
She nodded.
I congratulated myself for my problem-solving abilities. Closer would put us on the dance floor, where I could legitimately join Shelly in a dance. We snaked through the crowd again. Up front, the music dominated everything, blasting us away even as it drew us forward.
“This looks good,” I said when we’d reached a gap in the sea of flesh. But Shelly kept going. She crossed the dance floor and went all the way to the edge of the stage. I’d missed my brief chance to start dancing. I felt like I was throwing baseballs at skinny cats.
Shelly kept dancing. Finally, I got up the nerve to point toward the dance floor and shout, “Wanna dance?”
Her head bobbed in an affirmative manner, and her lips formed a syllable that might have been, “Sure.”
We wedged into an open spot and danced. It was a fast dance, awesome for her, awkward for me. Her body moved like it had been strung together loosely but lovingly by a slightly horny and highly skilled marionette maker. My designer seemed more fond of Legos.
When the song ended, I was drenched. “Want a drink?” I asked. I figured, when I gave her the drink, I could put a hand on her shoulder.
She responded with a double nod.
I headed toward the refreshment stand and tried to picture the best way—or any way, for that matter—to carry out that casual act of first contact while juggling two full cups of soda in my hands and avoiding dozens of flailing arms. The line was brutal. By the time I bought the sodas, the music had stopped. The band was on break. At least I’d figured out I could give her a soda and then put my hand on her shoulder.
I made my way toward the front. Shelly was talking with Paul, who’d climbed down off the stage to join her. I was halfway there when he put his hand on her shoulder. It was casual—not like some sort of groping. He made it seem so natural, like they’d known each other for years. I tried to imagine myself doing that, but the imaginary Shelly flinched at my touch.
Paul said something. Shelly laughed.
He turned toward the rest of the band and called Zach over to the edge of the stage. They spoke. Zach nodded and said something to the other band members.
“We’re going to mix it up a little, and show you I’m not the only lead singer in the group!” Megan told the crowd. “Time for something slow and slinky. So grab whoever is close, hold them tight, and feel the music move your bones.”
She nodded to Tim, who hit a chord. It rose, then tailed out. He hit a second chord, bending it. Zach moved up to the floor mike and started singing a ballad. It was an obscure Dylan song called “Wallflower,” as I learned later in a totally unrelated moment of musicology. In the first line of the lyrics, the singer asks the wallflower to dance with him.
Juggling the sodas as I threaded through the crowd, I watched Paul put his arms out. Shelly, my date, my future partner in passion, fell into his embrace and merged with him. Flesh turned fluid. They gyrated, making love with their clothes on as their hands kneaded and caressed each other’s bodies.
I stood, feeling the weight of the soda in its waxed cardboard cups. The sweat from the humid air condensed on the outside of the cups and rolled across the backs of my hands, as if my fists were weeping.
They danced.
I, still the wallflower, died a little. Not because a girl I’d lusted after seemed to be dropping me. Okay, yeah, because of that, too. But also because my friend didn’t hesitate to snatch away my happiness. In five years, I’d asked out two girls. At this rate, I’d go on my next date in the middle of college. And then lose that girl to a professor.
When the song ended, Paul whispered in Shelly’s ear. She smiled and kissed his cheek. It was just a peck, but she followed it with a tongue flick against his ear. Then they unwrapped themselves from each other and Paul returned to his keyboard. Shelly remained pressed against the stage, as if her hips were reluctant to give up all contact with Paul.
What to do?
What I always did. Take the kick in the crotch, smile, and see if I could fit in another blow to the gonads before the evening ended. Might as well make sure both testicles had been thoroughly crushed, for the sake of symmetry.
I edged over to Shelly and handed her a soda. It wasn’t easy getting her attention.
“Thanks,” she said. She glanced at me as if I were a distant billboard, then turned her eyes back to the stage.
“Sure.” I stood next to her. Apart.
“Hey,” she said a moment later, putting her hand on my arm. Her touch was electric in a submolecular way, sending my nerve endings into erratic behavior. I couldn’t help imagining her tongue flicking at my ear in that same hungry, promising way.
“What?”
She stroked my arm. “If it’s okay with you…”
I waited. Nothing truly requiring my permission, or even my acquiescence, would be okay with me. And, fuck me, I wanted to absorb every pico-second of that touch, even though I knew it was a brush-off.
“Pat said he’d give me a ride home after the concert.”
Pat? That threw me off.
“The band’s going to the diner,” she said. “Pat invited me.”
Oh. “You mean, Paul?”
Even hearing the name as a correction made her smile. “Right. Paul. He’s awesome. Thanks for introducing us. You’re really sweet.” She put her soda down on the stage. Her other hand grabbed my other arm. The lingering chill from the cup gave her palm and fingers a corpselike coolness. We were face-to-face, but worlds apart. “So, do you mind?”
“I guess not.”
The hands unclenched; the arms withdrew. I took a step back, away from her. She didn’t notice.
I walked outside, where I dropped my soda in a trash can by the curb.
A week later, when Paul and Shelly strolled past me in town, his arm draped across her shoulder, her arm locked around his waist, their hips in intimate contact, he nodded and smiled as if all were right with the universe. I guess it was, for him. Shelly acknowledged my existence with a stiff, slight nod. No smile. I thought I could detect a hint of a whisper of the remnants of a shred of a faded scent of guilt, but that might have been my imagination.
Paul dated Shelly for about two months. Then they broke up. She moved away during the summer. I still hung out with him once in a while. He didn’t seem to have a clue what he’d done to me. Maybe being a rock star—even a small-town one—makes you less aware of the vulnerability of the people around you. I guess, if I had any real self-respect, I would have told him how I felt. Or at least stopped hanging around with him. But sometimes I’m with the band fills a bigger need than I have principles.
Away Game
I ENDED UP going to the dance after work, Saturday. Mostly because Robert and Butch picked me up at Cretaro’s when I was leaving. Cannibal Gazpacho Clots, fronted by Diego Sanchez, who’d graduated two years ago, was playing. They’re probably the best local band. Right after we went in, we ran into Nicky, who’d gone there by himself. He didn’t seem to care about being a loner.
But he came over when he spotted me. “How’s it going, muscles?” he asked. Or something like that. It was hard to tell for sure. The volume was somewhere between pulverize and ionize. But that’s what we came for.
“Painfully slow,” I said. I’d lifted a couple more times, but hadn’t run into him in the weight room. I pointed at my friends and shouted, “Robert and Butch.”
Nicky said hi. Butch dragged Robert onto the dance floor. They both dance a whole lot better than I do. So does my refrigerator. After Robert was worn out, Butch dragged Nicky to the floor. She left me undragged. She knew about my experience here with Shelly. I guess Butch knew most of my secrets, though I hadn’t told her the depths of my obsession with Jillian.
After about an hour, I needed a break. I got my hand stamped, then stepped outside to grab a breath of quiet air. There was a bit of haze in the night sky, but the brighter stars were still visi
ble. I leaned against the wall of the Crab Locker and felt the thump of the bass frequencies against my back, punching rhythmically at my shoulder blades through the bricks.
There were two guys and a girl outside, smoking. They went back inside soon after I got there. A short time later, I spotted someone walking toward me from far off. I wondered where he was coming from. There wasn’t much in that direction except the state park. When he got closer, I saw it was Lucas, the Calculus neighbor with whom I did not rub shoulders. I noticed that his clothes looked especially rumpled, like he’d grabbed them from the depths of an overloaded hamper, or fallen asleep on the couch without changing for bed. When he reached me and the wind shifted, I revised my simile from a hamper to a sewer.
“Hey,” I said, giving him the sort of nod you give someone you know only superficially. Even though he sat next to me in Calculus, we rarely talked. I realized he’d been out on Thursday and Friday. Maybe Wednesday, too. Between the pressure of Nola and the presence of Jillian, my mind never strayed toward his quadrant of the room.
He paused, as if I’d pushed a reset button on his master control unit and he was sorting out his prime directive. I guess he knew me about as well as I knew him.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing.” His gaze moved past my shoulder, toward the door. He looked kind of lost.
“Cannibal Gazpacho Clots,” I said. “Diego Sanchez’s group.”
“Oh … They’re playing tonight?”
“Yeah. They started a while ago, but they’ll probably go for at least another hour or two.”
He stuck a hand in his right front pocket. “Cover charge?”
“Yup.” I could tell by the way his hand lingered that Lucas was probing an empty well. I thought about offering to pay his way inside. It wasn’t a lot of money, but I worked hard for everything I made, and didn’t even get to keep control of most of it.
He pulled his hand out. “I’m really not in the mood for music.”
I shrugged. “No loss. They aren’t playing all that great tonight.” That wasn’t true—they were rocking—but I didn’t want him to feel bad about missing them.
He stared toward the door for a moment, and then back at me. It looked like he was about to say good-bye and head off. But before he could say anything, or I could have further thoughts about offering to pay his way inside, we both turned toward the street as a Beamer heading uptown squealed through a tight U-turn and pulled to a hard stop against the curb. For a crotch-clenching moment, as sidewall met concrete, I thought the car was going to hop the curb and crush us against the wall of the Crab Locker. But it didn’t.
“Oh, fuck.” Lucas said. He deflated in front of me. Rumpled and deflated isn’t a good combination.
A guy got out of the driver’s seat. He was big. Maybe six-two or -three. He didn’t even bother to close the car door. He locked his eyes on to Lucas with laser targeting. I seemed to be invisible. For once, I was not unhappy about my apparent transparency.
I figured he’d start shouting. That’s what angry adults like to do. Wrong. When he reached us, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he punched Lucas right in the face. It wasn’t a long, hard swing. It was a short jab. But it was backed by a lot of weight, and it was effective. Lucas staggered into the wall behind him. The punch was so violent, and so unexpected, I staggered back, too.
The guy grabbed Lucas by the collar and dragged him toward the car. If this had been an abduction, I’d like to think I would have done something the instant I recovered from my initial shock. But the guy and Lucas had enough of the same face that it was obvious they were family.
Give him thirty years of angry living and bad nutrition choices, and Lucas would morph into the image of his captor.
Lucas got shoved in the passenger side of the car. He didn’t show any signs of resistance.
The guy spun back to me. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought the show was over. But it looked like I’d somehow been upgraded from spectator to participant.
“What’s your name?”
“Huh?” Why did he care about that?
“Your name!” I saw his fists clench. Memories of that violent punch lubricated my jaw. I had no doubt he still had rage to spend, and would be happy to spend it by placing his fist in contact with my face. Like anyone who’s survived middle school and most of high school, I knew what it looked like when someone was willing to take a swing at you, and unafraid of any consequences.
I told him my name. It didn’t even occur to me, at the time, to toss out a lie. Good thing. I probably would have tried to be too clever and given away my attempt at deception with an obvious fake. My name? Norm de Plume. No, I’m Sue Donim. Just kidding. I’m Juan O’Deguys. That would definitely have earned me a smack.
He extracted a single finger from his clenched fist and pointed it at me. “Don’t think I don’t know he had help running away.” He walked back to the car and got inside. As he did, his shouts rolled out, crashing against the brick-filtered music that held me up from behind.
“A week! That’s how long I’ve been looking for you!” he screamed. “You think it’s better out there? Look at you. You stink. Probably been eating out of garbage cans and shitting in alleys. We’ll have to burn your clothes.”
The car peeled down the street, sparing me from hearing any more parental wisdom or tough love.
I didn’t even know Lucas had run away. I guess he didn’t run far enough. I felt stunningly stupid. Between his rumpled clothes, that sewer-tinged smell, his absence from school last week, the fact that he was probably walking from the state park, and the way he’d acted when I saw him just now, I should have figured out immediately what was going on.
Sometimes I think I see the world on a five-minute delay. No, that’s not right. I see it in real time, but I understand it on a delay of five minutes, five weeks, or five years. Maybe that’s why I feel so out of synch with most of the girls in school. Whatever clues or cues they’re sending, I fail to receive the message. I’m freakin’ cue-blind.
Poor Lucas. I could call someone. Report it. I guess that was the right thing to do. He’d definitely been abused directly in front of me. But alerting the authorities was a pretty serious step. It could set a whole chain of events into unstoppable motion. I pictured myself testifying in court. I even imagined Lucas cursing me out for getting his father in trouble. I’d read enough teen novels to know there’s some strange psychology going on when family violence is involved. I needed to think it through. I went back inside and let the noise of hyperamped music wash over me and rinse away some of the shock.
“You okay?” Butch asked. “You look weird.”
I tried to tell her what had happened, but the music was too loud for any real conversation. I saved the story for the ride to Robert’s house, where his mom was rumored to be awaiting us with mouthwatering treats.
When I got to the point where Lucas’s father punched him, Butch flinched. Robert barely blinked. I think girls, and women, feel the impact of things that they hear more viscerally than guys. I can see that when my parents watch the news. Mom is always making sympathetic sounds. Dad doesn’t react at all to stories of tragedy or disaster, except to show approval when the injured person was a criminal or a member of a football team he doesn’t like—or both. I don’t really react much at all unless the story involves a kick to the groin.
But I sure flinched when I saw Lucas get hit. And, empathetic or not, Robert, Butch, and I all agreed that it sucked.
“Did you know he ran away?” I asked.
Robert shrugged. “I didn’t really know him.”
“I noticed his empty seat, but I didn’t have a clue it meant anything more than strep throat or an out-of-state funeral,” Butch said. “Wish I’d known. I guess we could have helped him, somehow.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We could have.”
“It’s over,” Robert said. “Until he runs off again.”
“You think he will?” I asked.
&nb
sp; “Would you stay with a dad like that?” he asked as we pulled up in front of his house.
“Good point,” I said. I couldn’t help picturing a fist crunching into my face. Poor Lucas. “I wonder why his father is such a bastard?”
“Does it matter?” Butch asked.
“Of course,” I said. “There has to be an explanation.”
“When my dad gets angry, there’s a reason,” Robert said.
“I’ve never seen your dad get angry,” I said. Robert’s dad was a cool guy. He played guitar. He and his wife sang songs together.
“That’s because I’m the perfect son,” Robert said. “But if he ever got angry, I’m sure he’d have a reason.”
“We waste too much time looking for neat, clean explanations,” Butch said. “If we find out that the guy’s mother decapitated his teddy bear when he was a child, does that make it okay that Lucas’s father is a piece of shit?”
“Not okay. But at least it makes more sense,” I said.
“It can’t make sense. That’s my point,” Butch said. “The bottom line is that Lucas got punched in the face. There’s no excuse. There’s no explanation that makes it acceptable. Don’t drive yourself crazy looking for one.”
Maybe she was right. But that didn’t keep me from thinking about it all evening, and trying to find a way to make some sense of the violence.
Dead Wrong
SOMETIMES BAD STUFF unfolds right before your eyes.
When I was twelve, I saw one of my classmates get hit by a car.
Sometimes the bad news gets broadcast soon after it happens.
Last year, around the end of October, I heard my mother gasp while she was watching the news. It sounded a lot more personal than her usual sympathy cries. I was in the kitchen, hunting down an elusive slice of pie in the fridge. A second later, Mom called me with the panicked scream of someone who’d just had a bad encounter with the wrong end of a large kitchen knife.
