Give Me Some Truth

by Eric Gansworth

  “Look,” he said finally. “I ain’t ignoring what you’re saying. I love you. I’m taking you seriously.” He looked directly at me. “I’m okay with the secret if you are. But it’s gotta be a secret. Just between me and you. Not me and you and whoever your current best friend is. Especially not if it’s that loser you’ve been forcing me to leave alone.” Lewis. Maybe Jim thought I’d been promising this night as a payoff, when I asked him to quit hassling Lewis. Like this was somehow a reward, a contract.

  I realized then, I didn’t have a best friend. It wasn’t Lewis, though he was a friend. And it wasn’t Marie now that her life was all Ben-Yaw-Mean, and it wasn’t Marvin anymore because we’d somehow lost each other when we weren’t looking. (I’d been spending more time with his fake voice in my head than in conversation with my real brother.) It sure wasn’t Carson.

  As I thought that, I looked around. I was in the crappy break room, where the main decoration was a cheesecake calendar featuring a bikini woman bending over a cultivating machine. Every day, I had to make coffee here for a bunch of guys who never said thank you.

  “Wish you’d told me you were fifteen before I had your name pinstriped on the Bandit,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I did! I told you two weeks ago, when you grabbed me at Custard’s Last Stand.” (The same day you let me know you knew my age, my Ghost Voice said.) “If it’s any consolation, it was really … sweet?” I said, hoping to ease the conversation forward.

  “It was on the Bandit that day. You just didn’t see it, I guess.” He started to smile and then abruptly didn’t. “You saw it tonight? In the dark?” I nodded. “Think your brother saw?”

  “Dunno. As soon as I saw it, I tried to block it.”

  “You are a smart girl,” he said, rubbing my thigh. Girl. Not Young Lady. Not Woman.

  Out in the gym, the MC came on. I could hear everything, clearly, but Jim stood up to shut the record player off. “I patched the PA to the mixing board,” he said, pointing to the ceiling speaker I heard afternoon announcements on every day as I mopped this floor after the final dismissal bell. “Technically, I am still working.”

  “Jim,” I said. “I know you really want to do this. I do too. I want you to be the man. I want to do this with someone I love,” I said, kissing him. Immediately, he pressed against me.

  “You know it. It’ll be super special,” he said, reaching to unbutton the top of my blouse. “Is that a red bra strap I see? You wanna show me what a bad girl you are?” His breathing had become rough again, and when he swallowed, his throat clicked a little.

  “But I don’t want to lose my virginity in our crew break room,” I said, buttoning my top.

  “Jesus!” he grumbled, suddenly red. His teeth clenched, like he was doing some sad ventriloquist act (which I guess maybe made me the dummy). “You’re the one who wanted this to be special, aren’t you? Look at all I did and now you’re just giving me friggin’ blue balls here!” His face scrunched in a way I’d never seen. I’d heard guys mention blue balls in the lunchroom, telling exaggerated versions of their weekends. Right now, I had a pretty good guess what it meant.

  “Can’t you understand?” I asked, hating the desperation in my voice. “I want it to be special. Is there something else we can do?” He was breathing heavy, but not the same way as when we’d held each other. Then he smiled. He tried to make it look like a nice smile, but there was something else underneath.

  “Sure,” he said. “Sorry, babe. It’s just, when you spend two weeks thinking all day and night about that one thing you’re sure is gonna happen … it takes a little adjustment. All I’ve been thinking about for two weeks is The Thing.” I said nothing. His smile softened. “But I get it. I get it.” He glanced at the table. “We can be like these two,” he said, holding up the album.

  “That sounds great, Jim.” They were kissing passionately, clearly in love. I was relieved.

  “They take turns. Each one relaxes, enjoying while the other works,” he said. “All right?”

  “Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t really sure what I had just said yes to.

  “Okay, first,” he said, leaning back, “you unbutton my shirt and take it off me.” That was nice, familiar. I’d seen him that way before. That cologne (O Savage?) changed the longer he wore it, and I smiled at the Binaca when I kissed him. He held his arms out, so I undid the cuffs.

  “Get your hands inside and slide them over my shoulders,” he said, leaning forward. He raised his arms and told me to lift the shirt over his head. His breath, inches away, warmed my belly, and I stepped aside. Standing, he kicked off his fancy boots. “So you can do the pants next,” he said.

  I unbuckled his belt, and as I undid the button, he sucked his gut in. I liked feeling that hair against my hands, and his warm belly inside the waistband. I did this slowly. The next step was the point of no return. “Go ahead,” he said. “It ain’t gonna bite.” I unzipped the fly opposite the bulge, but he made it surge, even without his hands. It pushed against my fingers. (I didn’t know guys could do this. I hated having been too chicken to ask Marie for details!) He laughed as I tugged his jeans down. He rested his hands on my shoulders (which pulled my hair some), and yanked his feet out of the cuffs, grinning wide. I quickly stood, handing the jeans to him. “Go ahead, give me a gentle squeeze.” His voice hitched. “A preview.”

  Somehow, this is not what you expected. Yes, there’s your handsome man, the man you’ve been imagining as your forever love. He stands in front of you, shoulders back proud, wearing just white briefs and short tube socks with racing stripes up top, a couple of scabs on his shins from some job scrape. He clearly thinks this is what you’ve been waiting to see. And by every indication he gives you, you’ve made the right choice in borrowing your sister’s lingerie.

  You don’t know what you thought he’d look like with his pants off. Maybe you’d never gotten that far in your Single Fantasy version of this night. You definitely didn’t count on his choice of underwear reminding you of your brother rolling off the couch, grumpily folding his blankets before getting dressed every morning. Or worse, your dad grabbing a coffee before going back to your parents’ room to get ready for the day. How did you ever imagine this moment as the greatest thing you’d ever dreamed of and not picture a boring pair of white briefs with the front pitching forward (a detail you’d somehow never arrived at on your own)?

  I had the hardest time not laughing at how ridiculous he looked, standing in those briefs and socks, designer jeans with the giant key ring in his hands. I did what he’d asked, which caused a reaction in him. It still felt strange to me. I didn’t want to ruin this for him, after he’d laid out roses and chocolate and wine and mixed nuts and the velour couch cover. I didn’t want to say Take those off. That would lead us in one specific direction I wasn’t quite ready for, and yet, I didn’t want to say Put your clothes back on either. That, I knew, would stop the kissing, the hugging, the holding, the ways only he recognized who I was becoming. I tried concentrating on him from the waist up, the way he’d looked shirtless, wrestling at the garage, the day I’d become aware of him as A Man (instead of a guy at work).

  “Could we blow some of these candles out, Jim?” I asked as he set his jeans on the table I wiped down every day. That stupid key ring jingled like chimes in a budget percussion array.

  “I guess,” he said, his eyebrows raising, making him look sad, disappointed, and worried. “I thought you’d like them.” He blew out the two on the table. “Least I can still see you in these hot red lacy things. You did that just for me, right? I want to be able to see.” He came closer, tugging my blouse until it hung loose. His fingers trembled against the buttons. “Good thing girls’ shirts button the opposite side of men’s. Feels the same and I’m still having trouble.”

  I put my hands up and tilted his jaw so he’d be looking at my face, where I wanted him to be looking. Even shoeless, he was still a lot taller than me. He smiled, moved his hands up, pushing h
is fingers through my hair. He hunched his shoulders and leaned forward to kiss me.

  “Next up, we have …” the MC boomed over the PA. There was a weird pause and then: “We have … the Dog Street …” I broke the kiss. “Devil? Devils?”

  “Wait, Jim,” I said. “Listen.” We could hear rustling and mumbling over the speaker.

  “What? There’s nobody out there. I’m the only one with the keys.”

  “No, it isn’t that.” The MC then introduced someone calling himself the Quarry Man, and I knew whose voice I’d hear, though I couldn’t quite believe it.

  “Thank you, Nyah-wheh, Mrs. Thatcher,” Lewis’s voice announced. “Good evening. I’m at a little bit of a disadvantage tonight,” he said, making a slight hiccup. “Some of my band couldn’t make it … well, all of my band, I guess. Please bear with me.”

  “Lewis,” I said. Jim listened, his hands bunching up my top’s bottom hem.

  “Sounds like the Loser. Didn’t you say he got shit-canned from this thing?” Jim stepped back to look at the lacy bra, a tiny red bridge between the sides of my blouse. Someone in the audience said something. Jim puckered his mouth, like he was going to whistle, but just a breath came out. I fought the urge to close my blouse. This was the sight Jim expected.

  “Yes,” Lewis echoed on the PA. “Of course.” I felt like he could somehow see me. And then I heard him sigh and start the strumming pattern for “Working Class Hero.” When he began singing, he sounded clear but vulnerable, but as he went on, he grew stronger with each line.

  The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, Derek and Sheila were out. My deficiency sat in the kitchen, which was thick with aromas from tomorrow’s dinner. And in all my privacy, what was I doing? Just playing “I’m So Tired,” on my acoustic. I cursed Lewis for infecting my head with the Beatles, but they somehow always captured what life really felt like. How was that possible? That a Rez Rat like me could be touched by songs by these tight-ass British guys?

  Lewis. What a case. When I finally found him and told him what happened with Marchese, he didn’t even seem pissed. His tone was all I Knew You Would Fuck This Up for Us. But we hadn’t spoken much since—he hadn’t even mentioned the Lennon 45 I’d left for him. When I called him earlier, he said he had things to do.

  I heard someone come in the house. Maybe my mom lugging groceries? I decided to help her. Downstairs I found Albert instead, studying our kitchen pegboard. He nodded and grabbed the Chevelle’s keys.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m taking these out to your car, isn’t it?” he said. “And then you’re gonna get your coat on and follow me, and then you’re gonna drive.” He headed toward the front door, keys in hand.

  “I’m not going anywhere, and you sure ain’t taking my keys.”

  “Wrong on both counts, there, Junior.”

  “I’m not a Junior. There’s only one of me.” Albert must have popped a big rivet in his already screw-loose head. I grabbed my boots and jacket to at least snag my keys.

  “Lucky for us,” he said, holding the door for me. “Listen, we can argue and I can try to teach myself how to drive after I throw you in the backseat, or you can listen while you drive.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I had hand-to-hand combat training. You?” He opened the driver’s side door, keeping the keys. “Good boy,” he said, grinning. I wished I could say it was warm, but I didn’t see Albert smile much, so I had no idea. Was this as close as it got to natural? “High school gym, Jeeves. Drive on.”

  “You kidding me?” He shook his finger like, Get going! “Why are you doing this?” He refused to say anything more. When we got to the school, I considered parking and running for it, but what Albert had said was true. He’d been drafted and shipped off to Vietnam, and these days, worked his ass off as a laborer. He was a man, all wiry muscle. I still didn’t really know what level or kind of nuts he was either. But I could at least know what we were doing.

  “Well?” I asked as we settled in a parking spot.

  “Payback,” he said. “Gimme those keys.”

  “You crazy?” I said, like I had a million other times to a million other people.

  “Little bit,” he said. “Not much to worry about … most days. Keys?” I shook my head. “Look, I know you way better than you think. I know that if I get out of this car, you’re gonna slam the door, lock it, and peel out, isn’t it? I can’t let that happen. You’re gonna give me those keys, and we’re gonna go in there. I’m gonna buy your ticket, and when I’m ready, I’ll give you the keys back.”

  I didn’t see a way out, so I held my hands up and he took the keys out of the ignition.

  We entered the building, Albert with his arm around my shoulders. No one gave us a second look. Of course, they wouldn’t. There’d be tons of family here, fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters. Even aunts, uncles, and cousins. Bands were encouraged to bring their own hype. The music boosters wanted to move tickets, and that only happened with family member coercion.

  “You know,” I said. “I might not be able to kick your ass, but my dad still can.” Pathetic. I squeaked like a kid, and he laughed a tiny laugh. We passed through the lunchroom atrium, where each food vendor stand was several people deep, workers on their toes, just to keep up.

  “Well, maybe you can ask him to do that a little skinny bit later,” Albert said, guiding me to one of the lines. “For now, let’s get us some pizza, maybe some of that secret marinade chicken, and then when we’re done, we should grab a seat in the bleachers before they fill.”

  “Pizza,” I said. “And chicken.” I smiled wide. Each food vendor had a banner taped behind them. Custard’s Last Stand was not here. “She wasn’t lying, but why did she care?”

  “Why did who care?” Albert asked, holding up two fingers when we got to the counter.

  “Not important. You ever gonna tell me why you’re doing this?”

  “Got me. Your dad called today, said there was a hundred bucks in it for me, to make sure you got here. And another fifty if I got your keys. So a Nyah-wheh is in order, isn’t it?” He dangled my keys in front of my face and then pocketed them. I held out my hand, and he shook his head. “Your dad said I’d know when to give them back to you. He’s maybe giving me too much credit. All I know is we’re supposed to meet your dad and the Hamburglar in the bleachers. I’m going.” He stopped, looking at his belly. His hands were in his jacket pocket. Taking my keys out, he looked me in the eye, something Albert never did. “You do what you feel you should.” He handed me the keys and walked in. I did the only thing that made sense.

  “What are we waiting for?” I asked Albert after the second band had played. We sat in the bleachers with my dad and Derek. “Is Lewis coming?”

  “He’ll be here,” Albert said. “Bet on it. Just wait and enjoy the show.”

  “Enjoy,” I said. “Right! I’m supposed to be up there!” The third band started. Each had been decent. Artie’s hadn’t gone on yet, but Tami claimed they were good. If they were so good, how come his parents hired my band for their party? We would have had this locked, I told myself, but as I looked around, I wasn’t all that sure. I’d been cocky. I hadn’t sold a ton of tickets, or even pressured the rest of the band to. I’d thought, after what we did at Custard’s Last Stand, a bunch of Rez folks would be here. “Where is everyone?” I finally asked my dad.

  “Right here,” my dad said, spreading his arms to indicate the large crowd.

  “You know what I mean. Like from the Rez?”

  “Skins?” he said, laughing. “High school bands and no bar? Gotta do better than that.”

  “But after the Cascade articles? The protests? I mean, look out there. No Custard’s Last Stand! I did that!” I said, sticking my pointer finger into my own chest. “Me!”

  “That was a success,” he said. “Right, Hamburglar?” My dad whacked Derek’s shoulder. He looked at us, eyebrows raised. “Never mind.” Derek hadn’t been out much in
months, except for night trips to Moon Road parties. He seemed glad to be anywhere, but maybe a little worried. His roots were growing out, and he didn’t want to wear a cap for obvious reasons.

  The bleachers were filled with bored dads and moms. You could tell band families easy. They’d whoop and cheer for a band’s set, and then settle in and yawn. On the gym floor, where the people we knew stood, they crowded and moved and sweated, like they were at a club show.

  “All right,” the MC said, running out. “Another hand for Springheel Jack!” She spread her arms, clapping like she was a robot. The MC was one of the music teachers, but not the guy we called Mr. Tromboner, with the tiny, pointy jazz beard and the mustache with the stupid gap down the middle. This MC wasn’t even a guy. It was Mrs. Thatcher, our seventh-grade chorus teacher, who had single-handedly flicked a switch inside Lewis, making him a Beatlemaniac.

  “Next up, we have,” she glanced down at her sheet, and then back at the black curtain behind the amps and drum set. It ruffled a little. “We have … the Dog Street …”

  What? Both my dad and Albert grinned. These bastards had set me up.

  “Devil? Devils?” The curtain opened and Mrs. Thatcher went back to consult with whoever was there, then ran back to the microphone. “Sorry. A last-minute change. I didn’t see the note,” she said, showing her clipboard. “Please welcome the Quarry Man!” she shouted. She’d gone from hyped to uncertain, to scared, to befuddled, and back to hyped in thirty seconds.

  Lewis Blake stepped out, wearing a beaded trucker cap and one of my silk-screen T-shirts. On top of it, he had the satiny shirt I’d made him wear at that Labor Day party. As the spotlight came up, I saw the painter pants I’d sewn piping onto, the ones he’d refused to wear. Quarry Man. Lewis had decided, with that name, to be a one-man Beatles cover band. He was using a twist on the Quarrymen, the first name John Lennon had ever come up with for his band, a name I’d already banned for our group. Sly bastard.