Give Me Some Truth

by Eric Gansworth

  “I’m supposed to be interested in this story?” Lewis added. “I mean, you’re hot for her, but if you’re too lame to ask her out, that’s not my problem, or even all that interesting.” He turned to go back to his room, but stopped. “Hubie’s right. It isn’t Marvin’s business, or ours.”

  “It might not be Doobie’s, but it is yours. Will you just come with me? I need your help.”

  “My help?” Lewis said, giving out the laugh that was really more like, You are insane! I wanted him to rise up and help Maggi. To help me, because it was the right thing. “Am I supposed to be your cheerleader?” he added, switching on a ludicrous pom-pom girl voice: “Come on, Maggs! Carson’s better than Jim! You should go! Instead with him!”

  What??? Carson’s better than Jim???

  “You already knew!” I yelled, forcing myself not to punch him. I’d hoped he might recognize the guy when we got there, because it seemed like the guy was someone Lewis worked with. But Lewis already knew which guy it was and knew they were doing something and he never said anything to me? I could picture that Bandit, the one Marvin said had Maggi’s name pinstriped on the door. It had been parked with those other hot cars at the garage. Lewis saw it every day. “How long?”

  “How long what?” he mumbled, pretending he hadn’t just mentioned the guy’s name.

  “Have you known this old guy you work with has been trying to get into Maggi’s pants.”

  “A while, I guess?” He seemed a little awkward, but not nearly enough. “Look, man, he’s not the only one checking her out. She’s a hot sixteen-year-old girl who goes out of her way to look like a hot sixteen-year-old girl.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Whatever, fifteen. She’s wearing clothes that shout LOOK AT ME! Just like you. Except she’s working around a bunch of horny middle-aged men who enjoy her choices. These guys have Hustler centerfolds up in their break room lockers. The place they eat lunch! The one woman on that crew warned those guys about getting too close to her.”

  “How come this guy’s ignored that advice?” Time was running out.

  “Works at the school. Just punches in and out and grabs his work truck at the garage. When he’s not being an asshole.”

  “Wait,” I said. Something Marvin said just clicked. This was a guy he said had been hassling Lewis. “It’s that guy! The one who used to pants you. The one who pisses on the floor instead of in the urinal so you gotta clean it up? The one who headlocked you and dragged your face inches away from his piss puddle. Right?”

  I’d been hearing about this guy for years, almost since Lewis got that job. The pieces were coming together, like a camera focusing.

  “Didn’t he punch you in the balls once? Like a real Wham-O! Punch? No wonder you don’t want to help me. You’re afraid of him.”

  “He’s not like that anymore,” Lewis whispered. “Since Maggi’s been, um, friendly with him, he’s kind of left me alone.” His cheeks got redder. “He even pisses in the urinal now.”

  “So you weren’t telling me, even though you knew I’ve been trying to get her to notice me. All because your life has gotten easier, since she’s been all nicey-nice with him.”

  “An easier life is no small thing,” he said, then screwed his face into a frown. “Has anyone ever pantsed you in a room full of people when you were carrying a bunch of stuff you couldn’t just drop? Nooo! That kind of shit doesn’t ever happen to the Great Carson Mastick.”

  “You ain’t got nothing worth checking out anyway. I’ve seen you in the locker room.”

  “Exactly what Jim says. And between the two of you? Lately he’s been the nicer one.”

  “’Cause Maggi made him stop.”

  “So what’s it going to take to make you stop this?” Lewis said. Doobie fidgeted. “Jim never claimed to be my friend, but you? We’ve been through a lot together. Why are you always such a dick? Even after we went out on the line for you, twice, you couldn’t bother to say thanks.” Doobie nodded. There was truth in what Lewis was saying. I had complimented him on his playing at the Battle of the Bands, but I hadn’t said thank you.

  “There’s your ma,” Doobie said when headlights flashed. “I’m heading out.”

  “You just … I don’t know,” Lewis said as Doobie headed upstairs. “Do you just expect that people owe you something?”

  December 8, 6:59 p.m.

  The Seneca man worried about the contamination starts to travel across Manhattan. He intends to seek out the musician and the artist, though he does not know their schedules. He wishes to enlist their help again, hoping they will lend their voices. He is exhausted from traveling and decides he will head home, to the Onondaga Nation Territories, the place where they had become allies. Though his cause is urgent, he is not worried, believing there will be another day.

  The man who traveled across the continent waits. He has purchased a book during the day that he feels represents him. He writes in the book that this is his “statement.” The man talks more with the amateur photographer, who eventually departs. The man talks with a young woman who also waits. This is a common activity for local fans of the musician. The man asks her out, but she declines and leaves. He has several plans, but one overall goal. If his plan is altered by any interaction this evening, he is not worried, believing there will be another day.

  The musician and the artist are at the Record Plant, mixing a new song. It is called “Walking on Thin Ice.” The wife sings lead, and the husband declares this will be her first number one. He says they should do all their future projects together, supporting each other. The photographer plans to show them “proofs” and take more photos at the studio. Things do not go according to plan, and she doesn’t get there. She is not worried, believing there will be another day.

  December 8, 6:59 p.m.

  “All right, now,” Jim said, leaning over, inches from me. His cologne hadn’t started to mingle with him yet. “Make these last.” He dropped two rolls of quarters into my hand.

  “Why can’t you skip out on this?” I said. “I mean, it’s friggin’ bowling.” I kissed his sideburn. “Isn’t what we’re gonna do more important?”

  “Told you. Semifinals. This’ll decide our ranking, and …” he said, grinning with a weird pride, “we’re in the running to win the tourney.” He held my chin, his calluses, hard and tough. “If I missed, they’d know something was up.”

  I went into the bowling alley, giving Jim time to come in alone. I called Tami to remind her that I was supposedly staying at her place. I couldn’t even anticipate a time when Jim would be done with bowling and his stupid Monday Night Football. When our dad watched, it pissed Marvin off because they never ended when they said they were going to and he liked M*A*S*H reruns at 11:30, on a different channel. Our dad would say, “Wanna watch your own shows? Buy your own TV.” (As if we could just do that.)

  Some people were open-bowling. The front-desk guy (who rented out hideous shoes to people who didn’t have their own) reminded them over the PA that leagues started at 7:30, and they had to be cleared out by 7:15. I found a snack bar, lounge, and two sets of restrooms (near the lounge and snack bar). A bunch of photos on the walls featured past leagues. I was supposed to be in the arcade section before the league players started wandering in. The quarter rolls Jim had given me felt impossibly heavy and like nothing at all, two strips of silver minutes I’d have to spend until we were together again.

  December 8, 7:59 p.m.

  The arcade, such as it was, had three pinball machines, a pool table, and two boxy machines the guys in my school loved: Space Invaders and Pac-Man. I wasn’t any good and felt guilty spending Jim’s quarters. I wanted to save them, but the big NO LOITERING IN ARCADE sign was a direct signal that I needed to drop quarters if I wanted to go unnoticed.

  It felt weird to be the only person playing video games. I pictured other kids my age doing homework or watching TV or whatever regular high school sophomores did on a school night. I could have thrown my history book into
my bag to study for Friday’s unit test, but I didn’t want even the smallest reminder of that part of my life.

  A couple of guys wandered in and took turns on Space Invaders. We didn’t recognize each other, so we didn’t talk (our school’s stupid sports rivalry bled over into all aspects of school life, like I even cared). One eventually snapped a quarter on Pac-Man, laying claim to the machine as soon as I lost. It didn’t take long.

  I wandered down the lanes where Jim wasn’t playing (he’d told me not to hang around, since his league was made up of district workers we’d both know). This side must have made up a Rez league. The bowlers were mostly what Carson called ChameleIndians, like him. The kind of people he’d asked to be involved in his Custard’s Last Stand protest. They might not know me, since I’d only moved back so recently. I thought I was safe until I got near the snack bar.

  There, near the far lanes, I saw Carson’s parents. I peeled back and ducked into the front ladies’ room. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. I couldn’t stay there all night. I’d brought a cap (one of Marie’s beadwork jobs, so no disguise whatsoever). I did have an enormous pair of gradient sunglasses Jim had given me, calling them my Yoko Ono glasses. He joked that he’d buy me hot-pants outfits like hers if I let him take them off me.

  I tied my hair with a little purple elastic into an explosion on top, to go with the glasses. Not flattering, but no one from the Rez would expect an Indian girl making this hair statement. I headed to the snack bar on Jim’s side, studying the plaques and photos so I didn’t face the bowlers. All along, laughter burst from every lane. I just didn’t see how bowling could be that fun. Maybe it was something that happened to you when you got older.

  December 8, 8:59 p.m.

  If anyone paid attention to me, wandering, they’d notice I was LOITERING. Those boys had the two arcade room video games monopolized with their marathon games, and eventually I got sick of all this dodging. I placed a snack bar order for fries in Jim’s name, asking them to page him over the PA, and went to the back ladies’ until his name was called. He stomped in a little later, slightly drunk and irritated, ready to insist he hadn’t ordered any damn fries. “I had to get your attention,” I said, stopping him. “I know you didn’t want me going where you’re playing. But the other side must be a Rez league. I can’t stay there either.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he grumbled. “I can’t leave. No one can think anything weird.”

  Jim had told me the few times we’d been out in public locally that if we were recognized, he’d flee the scene and leave me hanging wherever I was, then circle around later to meet up again. Tonight didn’t feel like that. No matter what, he wasn’t going to ditch me and come back acting vaguely guilty. That was when I knew for sure this was going to be it. No teasing. No maybe. We weren’t just going to see where the night took us. He had definite ideas. We were planning something trickier than a secret between two people.

  “Then just give me your keys,” I said. “I’ll stay in your car until you’re ready to leave. I’ll listen to the radio, but I won’t start it up except to run the heat when it gets too cold.”

  “They’re in my jacket!” he said. “Go hang in the shelter. It’s gonna take a few minutes to meet you. Gotta change my shoes.” He had on those weird multicolored shoes bowlers wore. (Worse, his name was embroidered onto them—he owned them!) Like Carson’s parents.

  I went out. In the reflected glass of those framed photos, I could see Liz, the garage woman who’d taken a dislike to me. Her eyes followed me. I had to fight the urge to speed up. I couldn’t let her think I was me, running away from her.

  The bowling alley had been built into a hill and stuck out, held up by pillars. This area was the “shelter” (which wasn’t much of one as far as I was concerned). The wind whipped me, and I stood against a pillar near Jim’s Bandit. He finally showed and unlocked the car, starting it up. “Get in,” he said. “Brought you these,” he said, handing me the little boat of fries I’d ordered.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he continued with a murmur as we got in. After glancing around the shelter, he reached over and kissed me hard. He slid his left hand up under my top and stroked my boob through the bra. “Oh, yeah, that silk one again. Just a little while longer. I’m gonna take that off with my teeth.”

  For the first time, Jim didn’t taste like Binaca. It was a combination of beer and cigar with a little bit of french fry grease and ketchup on top. He pulled away, doing that weird lip-puckering thing.

  “Man, I want you so bad I could take you right here and right now.” He kept rubbing on me and then took my hand and placed it on the crotch of his jeans. It was firmer than I expected. “I gotta get back in there, or I’m gonna pop,” he said, grinning. “What you do to me!”

  He rammed his head into the driver’s side headrest and exhaled jaggedly. Then he looked over and smiled. “I filled the Bandit this morning. Run it as long as you want. Just watch the temperature gauge. Don’t let that get too hot.” He pointed to a dashboard dial with a cartoon thermometer on it.

  “Oh, here’s something for you to do, while you’re waiting,” he added, reaching under his seat with a grin. He held out a flimsy brown bag. “I picked it up today. Brand-new interview with your friends John and Yoko.” He pulled out a shiny, brand-new issue of Playboy, and handed it to me, flicking his eyebrows up and down. “Ignore the nudie pics. I do. I buy it for the articles,” he laughed.

  “Right,” I said. “The articles.”

  “They do great interviews. You’ll get to catch up with your idols. All right, see you soon.” He ran in, and I switched to the driver’s seat. The fries were cold and rubbery, but I ate them. It was nearing ten o’clock. At least another hour, maybe longer, to go. The car heater was drying my eyes out but was luxurious, so I closed them to doze a little, slinking down to enjoy the dark and warm heater fan. If I had imagined correctly, I was going to have a later night than usual, and I wanted to be fully alert, for when my whole life changed.

  Even drowsy, though, my curiosity started nagging at me. I sat up and grabbed the Playboy, looking at its cover. Their names were there, with a promise that they were going to talk about love, fame, money, and sex. It stressed the Beatles were going to be a major topic too. That other magazine Jim had given me, that Avant Garde art magazine, had also featured them on the cover. I wondered what life was like when you were so famous, every little thing you did became the cover story. I guess that’s what Carson was shooting for, while I had to slink around, trying not to be noticed by anyone. It was a good thing I didn’t want that fame life.

  I wasn’t so big a fool that I could pretend this relationship wasn’t going to be tricky. If Jim and I stayed together, we were going to have to do it in private, at least for a few years. He was white and in his thirties. He could blend in almost anywhere he wanted, but if you put an underage Indian girl next to him, people were going to notice, and it wasn’t going to be in a good way. We would have to be strong enough to face that together. We were.

  The cover also mentioned Stephen King, the guy who wrote The Shining, and some other science-fiction people. Maybe I should take it home so Marvin could have some thrills. He’d be mortified if I gave him a naked-lady magazine (mostly because we both knew he’d check it out when he was alone). The model on the cover was Barbara Bach, who I thought was dating Ringo Starr. It really was a Beatles issue. I opened the Playboy and found the interview. It was long.

  Flipping through, I tried ignoring the “pictorials.” (They weren’t as outright in your face as John’s drawings of Yoko had been, but these were real people! Real women who’d known they’d had a camera pointed at them and they took off their clothes anyway!)

  Yeah, imagine some pervy old guy, standing there, staring at you while you took your clothes off in front of him, Ghost Marvin contributed.

  I found myself studying the women’s faces, and then looking in the rearview mirror. It still wasn’t easy for me to make those expressions.
Definitely not natural. Mostly I looked like a dork (or more accurately, a constipated duck). Maybe you could only make that face turn into something sexy after you were a woman. I’d have to look in the mirror at the end of the night to discover if I’d learned a new expression.

  December 8, 10:49 p.m.

  One West Seventy-Second Street, Manhattan, New York City: The musicians, husband and wife, skip dinner plans. They return to see their five-year-old son before he goes to bed. The weather is warm for early December. They decide to be let out of their hired car at the sidewalk instead of behind the gates, inside the secured courtyard. The musician walks to the building’s entrance. Maybe he sees someone who seems vaguely familiar, but he moves on.

  The man who had held out an album hours ago now holds a different object. It is an object whose name is linked to the musician, from a different marriage, a different life. The musician and his group of three other musicians had, during their ten-year marriage, once named an album for this object. They said they named the album because albums spin on a turntable. Albums are revolvers. Billboard hits are “Number 1 with a Bullet!” Bam! The man who traveled across the country did not make this trip to meet the musician with an album in hand. He planned all along to meet the musician with a different Revolver. A .38. The man fires at the musician’s back five times, at close range. Four of his hollow point bullets, used for maximum damage, find their target. The musician falls and says he’s shot. The doorman calls the police. When they arrive, the doorman points at the man with the Revolver. He tells them the man shot John Lennon.

  The Seneca man gets home. He discovers that the world keeps revolving, but not for everyone.

  December 8, 10:59 p.m.

  “Thank you, Lewis,” I said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. There! Better?”

  “No, it’s not better,” he said, and I frowned, impatient. “You don’t mean it.”