I'm with Stupid

by Geoff Herbach

  “Should we call Tovi so she can talk to her mom about this?” I asked.

  “I called Evith this morning. She said she’d talk to him, but she hasn’t called yet.”

  Freaking adults! “What’s he doing now?”

  “Well, sleeping. It’s night. But he spent the evening listening to Wagner music in his study,” Andrew said. “You know Wagner didn’t like Jews?”

  “No.”

  “Grandpa Stan knows. I’m very worried, Felton.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled, trying to think what I could do. Then my dry German beer throat cracked and I started coughing and my eyes watered and my head swam. I had to put a pillow on my head, just to have some pressure on my face, because my face pounded after I coughed and coughed. The stupid, stinky Sauter German beer blew up my sinuses.

  What’s with this stuff? Why does Terry love it more than Abby? Maybe a minute later, I got back on the phone, not even sure if Andrew would be there still.

  He was. “What’s wrong with you?” Andrew asked. “Are you dying? Answer me.”

  “No. I drank beer last night. Weird beer. Too much,” I said.

  “What?” Andrew snapped. “With who? Gus?”

  “Abby,” I said. “It’s no big…”

  “You jerk. You stupid ass face jerk!” Andrew shouted.

  “What? Jesus, Andrew.”

  “Is that why you won’t go to a therapist because you’re worried he’ll tell you that you can’t drink beer? Is that it? Are you that stupid?”

  “Calm down. I just had some beer with my girlfriend.”

  “Emily told me you’re with Abby, and Abby is freaking out because of the divorce and you’re mentally unhealthy, of course, and now it sounds like you’ve signed some kind of suicide pact. Are you going to buy a convertible and hold hands and drive off a cliff, Felton? Is that your plan? I am so mad I could…I could puke on your face!”

  “Andrew!” I shouted. “Stop. Dude! I’m okay!”

  “Our father had alcohol problems and now…”

  “Wait.”

  “And now you’re going to spend all your time with some kind of fallen Satan angel girl who wants the town to go up in a big nuclear…”

  “Wait!”

  “What?” Andrew spat.

  “Dad had an alcohol problem?” I had this glimmer of recognition. I knew this. Grandma Berba had said something about this, but Jerri, in all of her wild inability to tell the whole truth, had never really talked to us about it, so what was I doing? Was I falling into my dad’s trap? Thinking I was getting along fine because suddenly booze made me think I was in love with a Russian swimsuit model who pretended to want to have sex?

  “He got drunk and did stupid, mean things to people and then he couldn’t fix his problems when he wasn’t drunk and then he died, you idiot!”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “Oh crap. Shh,” Andrew said.

  “What?”

  “I woke up Grandpa. Apparently I’m screaming at you.”

  “You are.”

  “I have to go, dickhead,” Andrew said. He hung up.

  I sat stunned in the dark, my throat aching. A minute later, Andrew texted:

  You have a completely addictive personality. Look how you run in circles around the yard like a sheepdog. Around and around. Can’t stop running. Idiot.

  He was right.

  I called Abby immediately. No answer. I left a sort of psycho voicemail. “I can’t drink anymore. Alcoholism is a major factor in people hanging themselves in my garage. So stop it!”

  I called Andrew back. He didn’t answer. I left a message. I said, “Don’t worry. I’m done. I won’t drink. Not ever. We’re good. Great. Gotta stay positive. About Grandpa too. He’s going to be fine.”

  Oh holy balls, my sense of potential world peace (nice snow outside, no Facebook, taking care of Pig Boy) totally exploded and I was scared as hell and how could I not dream of my poor dad?

  Terrible dreams. Dad was dead in the room with me. Dad was drinking German beer. Dad had sex with Abby. Then Grandpa died in a head-on car crash.

  The dead don’t stay buried. I have a very real, very big problem. That tweak in my stomach. I had that tweak.

  Chapter 38

  Jerri Denies There Are Chickens

  I woke up at eleven on Sunday. Apparently I’d finally exhausted my ability to shoot adrenaline through my body, so my nightmares stopped waking me. When I woke, my phone was locked in my hand, like I’d been grabbing the stupid thing so I could call and stop shit from happening I didn’t want to happen.

  It was dead. Battery gone.

  I pulled myself out of bed and went upstairs, where I found Jerri reading the paper. She was dressed for the day.

  “Jerri,” I said when I entered the living room.

  “What?” she said.

  “You can ground me if you want,” I said. “I don’t want to go out into the world and break anything.”

  She stared at me for a second, then said, “No. See that? You’re mature enough to rein yourself in. You know what’s what.”

  I shook my head at her. “No,” I said. “Not true.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “I’m younger than you when Dad got you pregnant,” I said. “I’m not mature.”

  “Jesus. Where did that come from?”

  “My gene pool. My terrible, alcoholic, suicidal genes.”

  Jerri squinted. She sighed. “More Dad stuff, huh?” Jerri said. “Come here.”

  I crossed the room and sat down next to her. She put her arm around my shoulder. She said, “You’re not like your dad. He had these problems…but how many times do I have to tell you? You’re sweet and gentle…”

  “You didn’t know Dad in high school,” I said. “Maybe he was sweet.”

  “Not a chance. No way,” Jerri said. “Never.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was born mean. Some people have a defect. It’s hardwiring.”

  “Really?”

  “Just relax, honey, okay? You’re great.”

  I nodded.

  “You better?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. I have to go to the library. My professor wants two book sources in our midterm paper. I need to read some business books. Sounds great, huh?” She laughed like she was a mom on TV who’d just done her job.

  “Probably does to you,” I mumbled.

  “Relax, Felton. Kids drink sometimes. I did in high school a little. It’s not the end of the world. Just don’t do it again, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You got it,” she said.

  Five minutes later, she was gone.

  Thanks for nothing. Worst mother. I might as well be a crack baby.

  Chapter 39

  Cody and a Giant Chicken

  A while later, while I ate cereal in the kitchen, I thought: You have to parent yourself. You are your own parent. You don’t need any other parent. What would you tell you if you were your own kid?

  Then I thought of Gus in the faculty bathroom back in the fall.

  WHO. ARE. YOU?

  Shit!

  Loser.

  Addictive personality running circles in the yard.

  Don’t answer Aleah’s texts because you’re a jerk.

  Protect fallen Satan angel who wants to blow up town, wants you dead?

  No. Abby’s not a bad person. Abby has problems…You help people, right?

  Breathe, dude. Breathe.

  The doorbell rang, which caused me to jump because nobody rings our doorbell ever. I stood so I could see out the little slot windows in the door. Cody’s red baseball cap (Wisconsin cap) bobbed in one of the glass panels.

  Oh man, I was relieved to see him there. Cody is abou
t the sanest person on the face of the planet.

  “Come in,” I called. He didn’t come in.

  I got up and went to the door. Opened it.

  “Hey, man,” I said.

  Cody, in the bright, iced February air, shook his head at me, said, “Dude, I did everything I could to help you. Brought you into weights. Called you to meet for drills. Got you okay with the football team. Made it easy.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “I know. Thanks so much, man. I wouldn’t be anything…I wouldn’t be okay without…”

  He shook his head. “No. No, dude. If I had known you were such a low-class scumbag, I would never have done that crap…”

  “What?” I said.

  “Yesterday, Dad tells me you were drinking at Kwik Trip.”

  “Oh no.” Cody’s dad is a cop.

  “This morning, I see a video where you totally destroy my friend.”

  “Dickinski. You saw it?”

  “Reinstein…” Cody said. He actually had tears in his eyes. “I don’t want the football season, the state trophy, all the time driving around…”

  “Cody, man,” I said.

  “You’re such a…such an asshole. You’re the worst, Felton. I don’t want any of that shit because…Screw you.”

  He turned and walked to his truck fast. I ran out in the new snow in my bare feet, which killed. I shouted, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what I’m…I didn’t know alcohol turned me crazy. I didn’t…”

  Cody paused before he got in. He said, “No. No more excuses. Stay away from me.”

  I stood in that snow, my feet burning. Cody spun the truck back and took off down the drive. Then I ran swearing back into the house. I ran downstairs and plugged my phone into the wall. I turn it on and waited. I had to talk to Abby or somebody. Gus?

  When my phone came on, I saw there were texts and voicemails not filled with hate from Wisconsin but laughing like crazy and all from Bluffton.

  The first was from Gus from three in the morning:

  It’s too hilarious. I couldn’t stop until I finished. Vid is up. I posted on Facebook and YouTube.

  Then, beginning at 8 a.m., there were slews. Almost all said something like hilarious vid man or you nailed karpinski’s dad…awesome.

  People were watching “The Polish Fist” in droves.

  Chapter 40

  Hamlet Had Chickens

  The rest of the day Sunday, I didn’t move. It felt like I’d break the world if I moved at all. Will Cody tell Coach Knautz? Don’t move…

  I only turned on my phone once, to tell Andrew to leave me a message about Grandpa as soon as he heard anything. A text from Aleah came through while the phone was on. Composing is what I want to do, Felton.

  Aleah! You are not part of my life!

  What the hell did composing have to do with me? Really? I had tragedies unfolding all around.

  Otherwise, the phone was off, the computer was off. I stayed in bed.

  After staring at the ceiling for hours, I reached in my backpack and pulled out the Shakespeare book we were using in Linder’s class. For the first time in weeks, I read our assignment. I read more than our assignment. I read two weeks in advance. All of Hamlet!

  HAMLET? Story of a kid obsessed with avenging his father’s death.

  It was hard to read—but Jesus Christ. Suicidal thoughts? Bad choices? Trying so hard to sort it all out, to the point of driving himself crazy, harming those he loved, and then everybody dies in the end? This play spoke to me.

  I read parts three times. I read one part four times. That “To be or not to be” part. I wasn’t sure I got it completely. This is suicide he’s talking about, right?

  Chapter 41

  Chickens Land on Abby

  You turned off your phone?” Abby said. “Why?” We stood at my locker between first and second hour Monday morning. Her face was red and her eyes were sort of bloodshot. She looked haggard, worn out.

  “I can’t deal.”

  “With everybody loving that video?” she asked.

  “In part.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s so funny. It’s mean though. It’s really mean.”

  “Really,” I said. “I don’t want to watch it.”

  “I tried to call you over and over,” Abby whispered. “I had a rough weekend.” She exhaled hard and grabbed my hand. “And you left that message about alcohol…”

  “Jerri found our beer bottles,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Abby said. “Dad called me. He totally screamed at me. He talked to Mom last night. He screamed at her too.”

  “About the beer?”

  “That and he got a progress report from the college Saturday that I’m flunking cell biology…he’s paying, you know?”

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “Mom freaked at me and I called her a stupid bitch and she slapped me and Nolan had to hold her arms so she wouldn’t hit me more.”

  “Oh shit,” I whispered. “Abby, I’m…”

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “I’ve been a wreck for months. I’ve been a mess…Mom flipped. She broke every bottle of alcohol in the house. There’s glass all over the back patio.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No. I need quiet. Things are…things are breaking…” She nodded.

  “I know,” I said.

  “I have to stop. I’m going to stop. I’m not going to flunk that class, Felton.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding.

  “Yeah,” Abby said. “And you left that message about people who hang themselves and then I cried for five hours.”

  I nodded. “My dad. Alcohol. Andrew told me.”

  “Why does Andrew know everything?” Abby asked.

  I shrugged.

  Then something. Abby leaned her forehead toward me. She locked eyes with me. She said, “You will never fall. Not on my watch. I’m serious, Felton.” She grabbed my shirt in her fist. “I’m going to protect you.”

  I almost cried for some reason.

  Abby isn’t a drunken Russian swimsuit model by nature. She’s a really tough person.

  Chapter 42

  One Chicken Makes the Dipshits Happy

  Something weird happened at school the next couple of days (not as weird as it would become).

  The Dickinski effect…

  In English on Monday, Gus, out of his mind excited, told me the Dickinski video had been viewed 1,100 times.

  “Weird,” I said.

  “Yeah, whoa. My best YouTube video otherwise has nineteen views and probably seventeen are me.” He tried high-fiving me, but I wasn’t looking. “Dude, high five.”

  I looked at him and he was holding his hand up. Gus is not a natural high-fiver. “Oh. Okay,” I said.

  By the end of the day, I could totally feel it. That video totally changed the energy in the school. The orchestra geeks (Bony Emily’s crew) and the general dipshits (the spattering of humanity represented by Pig Boy) walked the halls with their heads held a little higher. It was like: Watch out. You can kick us in the ass. But we’ll come back and crush your balls 1,100 times over!

  The masses of balloon heads who’d been whispering “traitor” and “homo” behind my back stopped. Instead, they said, “Hey, Felton. You were awesome in that video!”

  I nodded. I’ve always wanted to be a comedian. People laughed at me a lot when I was young but not because I’d made any good jokes. (I flinched a lot and dropped my books and crap.) It felt sort of good to be recognized for being funny.

  Did I feel bad for Karpinski? Yes and no. He wasn’t in school. He stayed home. I felt bad about Cody. He avoided me like death, so I avoided him. He’d told me to stay away and I had to because what if he told Coach Knautz about the Kwik Trip Dumpster beer? I had to do what he said.

  I didn’t think I
could make it through spring without track.

  Monday night, I lifted weights and ran stairs. The basketball team practiced on the gym floor below me. Cody didn’t look at me once. I mean, I could tell he was avoiding looking at me.

  On Tuesday morning before school, I saw Pig Boy. He looked like a different person. He wasn’t wobbling when he walked. He passed me in the hall near the choir room and offered his fist for a bump. “Dude,” he said.

  That was a kid feeling pretty good about himself. How could I feel bad for Karpinski? Hadn’t Karpinski walked through school feeling awesome his whole spastic life? Shouldn’t Pig Boy, who had suffered so much, get the chance?

  By the end of the day, I saw why Tommy was feeling so good. Bony Emily wore a “Bully Me” shirt like Tommy’s but with “Cello Girl” written underneath it. Tommy had drawn my number 34 on the back of her shirt too.

  Not all chickens are bad. Good chickens you send out can make larger good chickens happen. Is that karma?

  I don’t know. Ask Andrew.

  I felt good when I saw Bony Emily’s new shirt. But then feeling good made me feel bad for Karpinski and about Cody. Then I got angry at Karpinski for being a dick. Karpinski is an athlete, so people put up with him all these years! He should feel what it’s like to live Pig Boy’s existence!

  Then I felt bad for everybody.

  Then I ate a monster cookie I bought from the band’s bake sale and I forgot about everything until after school. It was a pretty good cookie.

  Chapter 43

  Hamlet and Mr. Linder

  After school, instead of going to run right away, I visited Mr. Linder to talk about Hamlet.

  Linder was a little surprised when I walked into his room.

  I knocked on the doorframe and said, “Can I ask you some questions?”

  “Reinstein? Really? I’m not a coach, you know. I can’t help you with your footballs.”