I'm with Stupid

by Geoff Herbach

  “Uh-huh? No. Don’t have a beer,” he said.

  “That’s not good enough,” I said.

  “Are you at a senior party of some kind? Is there peer pressure involved?”

  “No. You think I’d worry about pressure from a bunch of numbnuts sitting in a damn cornfield with a keg of beer?”

  “Anger, Felton,” Andrew said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “So you really want to drink a beer because you’re mentally imbalanced and you think alcohol will make it better. You’re self-medicating.”

  My head hurt. I squinted. “Self-medicating?” I asked.

  Andrew paused again. “Have you asked Jerri about this?”

  “Jerri told me that I’m not like Dad at all. So she’s not worried, okay?”

  “Oh really?” Andrew said. “She’s stupid.”

  “Oh really?” I spat.

  “Yes,” Andrew said. “Grandpa’s with me at the Shells. You have to talk to him now.”

  “No!” I shouted, but Andrew had already taken the phone away from his ear.

  I glared at Abby. My heart dropped. Embarrassed. I swallowed. “Now my grandpa,” I said.

  She nodded.

  And my stomach turned hard. The hole in my middle opened. I heard him breathe. I heard him.

  “What’s this?” Grandpa Stan said on the other end.

  “It’s nothing,” I whispered.

  “No, Felton,” he said. Beach Boys music began playing in the background. “This is the beginning of the end for you.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “This is how your father gave up control, Felton. This is how he gave up. He didn’t drink in high school and he was sad sometimes because he was wired sad. He always bounced back though,” Grandpa said, speaking fast. “He never crashed through the floor. But in college, he found his drug. After he was done with tennis, he spent all his time with whisky in his hand. All the pictures of him in graduate school, he had whisky in his hand. And he went down, down, down. Nothing we could do to stop him. He knew it was terrible for him, but he couldn’t stop…”

  I knew it. There’s no path…no other way out.

  “Felton,” Grandpa said, “you are like your father in every way I can tell.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to die.”

  “He didn’t want to, Felton. Not when he was your age. He was funny and sweet.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone told me that?” I wheezed. Jerri called me sweet.

  “He would hold hands with his mother, even in high school, Felton. They’d walk holding hands…”

  The image of my young dad holding hands with my grandma opened in my chest.

  “He was a good boy, Felton. And I yelled at him for no reason. Yelled about tennis.”

  I could tell my grandfather was sort of crying. “Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry. But…”

  Grandpa’s voice got higher. Words caught in his throat. “Then the switch flipped. His brutality. He would destroy his opponents. There was no grace in this. He would make them lie down in front of him, like you did to those poor kids when I came up for your football game. It stopped being a game to him and it became destruction. A display of power. That’s all.

  “And that’s why I told you to love what it feels like to play. Do you see? It’s just a game. But after I saw you destroy on the field like your father, I told you to quit now, get away, before it becomes who you are. Go climb a mountain! Go be a swami! I saw him in you, Felton. I can see him! Please. Do you understand?”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “Because when he stopped playing, he started brutalizing everyone off the court. He brutalized himself with this alcohol. He brutalized me. He brutalized your mother. He brutalized everyone…”

  “I got kicked off track.”

  “No. Felton. Please. No. You stop. Booze makes it easy for people like you to forget everyone and everything.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  “It isn’t. You don’t want them to go away. You don’t want to go away. You’re kind. You’re funny. You’re sweet. That’s who you are. You want people with you.”

  “I want them to go…I want him to go away.” I started to lose it. I started to shake. I started to sob. “My dad did this to me, Grandpa. My dad did this. I have a hard time being alive, Grandpa, because my dad…”

  “I’d kill your father again if he ever hurt you…” Grandpa howled.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You leave him. Only him. You tell him good-bye! You get the hell away from wherever you are! I’ll be there tomorrow, Felton. I’m coming. Now, Felton. Go!” he shouted.

  Chapter 56

  I Am There for You

  Abby followed me out of the barn. I stumbled into the dark and turned back to look at that Schwinn Varsity, that bike like Dad’s. “No.”

  I turned away and saw the path past Cal’s, back to the car. I saw it and I followed it.

  “Where are we going?” Abby called behind me.

  “Out of here, okay? Now,” I said, shaking.

  I climbed into the passenger seat. Abby climbed behind the wheel. “Back to town?”

  “Home.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have to leave my dad behind. I have to. That’s what Grandpa said. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  She nodded and spun the Escalade around. She tore onto the gravel road and we headed for town.

  My muscles twitched. I sucked air.

  My brain began to shut down. I swear. I only vaguely remember Abby getting calls. I vaguely remember her saying, “Uh-oh.” I don’t remember anything else until we hit the driveway to my house back in Bluffton.

  When we got there, Abby said, “I…I don’t think I can hang out for too long, okay? Dad wants his car back.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Odd. My house was like a damn star. Every light burned bright. We pulled up the drive into the halo cast around the whole yard.

  Abby parked the Escalade out front. Jerri stood in the picture window just like she did when I used to run and she’d watch me. She stared down at us.

  “That’s weird,” I said. “Why is Jerri home?” I mumbled.

  Abby breathed in.

  As we came up the front walk, Jerri left the window. I opened the screen door. Abby followed. She was breathing in sighs.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s okay,” Abby whispered.

  I opened the inside door and entered the living room. Jerri stood next to the couch, her arms folded across her chest.

  “I was just about to call you,” Jerri said.

  “Why are you here?” I mumbled. “Your study group?”

  She stared at my forehead. Her face was red. Her ears were red. “What’s your plan? Where you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Really, Felton?” Then Jerri focused on Abby. “Hi, Abby! How are you? Everything just great?” Jerri snapped.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Just then, the toilet flushed back in the house.

  “Uh-oh,” Abby said.

  Terry Sauter walked slowly down the hall and into the living room. His face was burning red. He smiled his big, fake, asswipe smile. “Look who’s here!” he said.

  “Shit,” Abby said under her breath. She turned almost purple. She stared at the wall to her right.

  “Have a good time, pumpkin? You enjoy Daddy’s car?”

  “Yes,” Abby said. “I enjoyed our car.”

  “Our car?” he said.

  “I enjoyed driving our car,” Abby said.

  “That’s not your car.”

  Abby turned to him. “No? Really?”

  “I told you no,” he hissed. “I
told you…”

  “So?” Abby said.

  “So?” Terry shouted. “So?”

  “So what?” Abby said. “That’s the family car. That’s not your car.”

  “Ask my lawyer. Ask him whose car that is,” Terry spat.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Your girlfriend stole Terry’s car,” Jerri said.

  “You can’t steal what’s yours!” Abby shouted.

  “You little shit,” Terry said.

  “Little shit?” I said. Adrenaline shot up inside me.

  “No,” Abby cried. “You’re the bad guy. You’re the thief.”

  “You little bitch,” Terry said. He took a step toward her.

  I took a step toward both of them.

  “You’re the one taking everything. You’re the one stealing,” Abby cried.

  “That is not your car. I pay your mother so you don’t drive that car. Do you understand? Give me the keys.” He took another step and inflated, stood tall, pushed out his chest.

  I felt a rush of color and light around me. This is how it feels.

  Abby fumbled around. She pulled the keys out of her bag. She threw them on the floor and they slid ten feet.

  Terry looked at them for a second. He shook his head. He hissed, “Just like your mother. Rude and nasty.”

  “Mom?” Abby shouted. “Rude? Are you kidding? She cowers around you!”

  Terry started whining, mocking. “Why can’t I drive the nice car? Why do you have to go to work so early? Why don’t you take Nolan with you?”

  “I hate you,” Abby said.

  “You people drive me crazy,” Terry said.

  “Asshole,” Abby whimpered.

  “You think you’re owed just because you were born.”

  Abby started sobbing. I moved a step closer to Terry Sauter.

  Terry didn’t even look at me. “Ignorant bitch just like your…”

  I slid toward Terry because I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Thieving little bitch,” he said.

  “That’s it,” I mumbled.

  “Get out of my house,” Jerri said.

  I stopped. We all looked over at her.

  “Get the hell out of my house.”

  Terry looked stunned. “Me?”

  “How can you speak to your own daughter like that? Get out right now or I’m going to let my son here tear you limb from limb. Do you understand?”

  For the first time, Terry looked at me. I was close. He immediately deflated. He got tiny. “It’s cool, buddy,” he said, putting his hands up like I had a gun on him. “It’s cool.”

  “Pick up your keys,” I whispered. I was trembling.

  Terry slid over to his keys. He kept his eyes on me. He bent and picked them up and jammed them in his pocket. He stood straight, exhaled, and looked at Jerri. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m angry.”

  “Go,” Jerri said.

  Terry stood in front of us, shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please.”

  I reached out and grabbed his wrist. I guided Terry to the door. “You can’t be mean to people like that, okay?” I said.

  He nodded. “I’ll let myself out,” he said.

  I let go. He left. We stood in this pressure, in this silence.

  Then Jerri wheezed, “Oh my God, I’m sorry.” She turned to Abby. “I’m so sorry.”

  And then Abby Sauter fell apart. She cried almost all night.

  If she hadn’t, I would’ve. I kept it together to keep Abby safe. I held her on the couch in the basement.

  Around 4 a.m., Abby finally fell asleep.

  I’d heard Jerri pacing upstairs for hours. When it was quiet, she came down.

  She whispered, “I got a message from your grandfather. He’ll be here in the afternoon.”

  “Good,” I whispered.

  Jerri shook her head. “I didn’t know this was happening to you.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “I’m going to sleep now, Jerri.”

  She nodded and left the basement.

  Spring

  Chapter 57

  I Could Tell You

  I could tell you that Coach Knautz didn’t tell me the whole truth. I could tell you that by rule because my infraction was out of season, I only received an eight-week suspension. Knautz was a wreck when he found out I’d been hospitalized for an anxiety disorder. He’d tried to scare me straight! Not the best approach for this student-athlete, Coach! I could tell you about the Internet rumors of my drug use (I didn’t show up at early invitationals) or how I worked as the team manager until April.

  I could tell you about how good it felt to run with the team when I could finally run. The act of running (not running away) is reason enough to live. I could tell you about winning the 200 meters and the long jump at State. That was cool. Or how the team won State because that was great. Or how I raced Roy Ngelale just once at the meet, in the 100 meters final, and how I beat him but was beaten myself by a skinny blond dude in purple shorts, Jonathan Schindler, a sophomore from Waunakee. The kid was stunned. He was like, “I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry.” He totally made me laugh. Where do all these dorky kids come from?

  I could tell you about how I apologized to Karpinski and he said he had it coming and that his stupid dad actually loved the video because people talked about him in bars. I could tell you about Ryan Bennett’s email, where he said he’d protect all the weak kids. I could tell you that Cody apologized to me and I hugged him and told him not to be an idiot because he’s the best.

  I could tell you about Cody’s dad crying when he said he’d been the one to turn to turn me in. He’s a cop. Of course he had to turn me in. He said, “You’ve been on the wrong side of a stacked deck so much.” I told him thanks, and I meant it because this shit was coming for me. This shit was going to happen sometime. I’m glad it happened while Abby was around, while Bluffton, Wisconsin, was there to pick me up.

  Or I could tell you about Mercy Hospital in Dubuque and Grandpa and how we sat in the cafeteria one afternoon and he asked me to call him twice a week, minimum, to give him updates so he could monitor me and give perspective on my dad. He said I should never be ashamed. Once, he cried because his wife, my grandma, died before she could help me.

  Or about how I have both a “potentiating” background and have exhibited multiple warning signs in “action” and “ideation” that made doctors call me a suicide risk. Isn’t that weird? But I did have thoughts. But I don’t want to die. Did Dad really want to? I won’t ever know. That’s okay.

  Or about my psychiatrist, Dr. Green, who thought I should take meds to combat my problems. Andrew was with me on this one. We both said, “No way.” If it ever happens again—a break like that—I’ll consider medication, okay? But I feel like I learned something. That talk therapy can work. It has worked. I still go twice a week (as well as calling Grandpa).

  I could tell you about the time I complained to Dr. Green that I’d made my Stanford decision when I was a dickweed who couldn’t think straight and she asked me to bring in my reasons for choosing Stanford, so the next time I brought in the list I wrote for Gus in the fall, thinking she’d see how messed up I was.

  1.Dude in dress served me iced tea.

  2.Cute guide didn’t try to grab my wang.

  3.Library had leather couches.

  4.Kicker discussed Louis C.K.

  5.Frisbee players were very good.

  6.Fog on mountains.

  She laughed while reading. She smiled. “You knew yourself pretty well, didn’t you?” she said.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “You were looking for something specific from a school: accepting, ethical, intellectual, physically active, and beautiful.”

  I thought for a moment. I said, “Yeah. That’s right, I
guess.”

  “You wrote all that in this list, you know?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Maybe those are your values?”

  “Maybe?” I said.

  “You’re doing great,” she said. “Trust yourself. I love this list.”

  I could tell you about the fire I had in May, when I asked Jerri to come out to the pit in our yard with me, where I intended to burn Dad’s “I’m with Stupid” T-shirt. But she stopped me before I could do it. She said, “Haven’t we made this mistake before?”

  I looked at her, glowing orange in the same fire she’d made when I was little, in the fire Andrew used to burn his clothes a couple years back, and I nodded. “Holy balls, Jerri. We do this crap all the time, right?”

  “We can’t erase your dad. We can’t fight him,” Jerri said.

  “We should let him go.”

  “Let him be a memory,” Jerri said.

  “I bet he’d want me to remember not to be like him.”

  “Right,” Jerri said, “He had problems, but…” Jerri swallowed. “He loved you.”

  “I don’t know, Jerri. That’s okay.”

  I folded up the shirt, walked with Jerri into the house. I put it back in my drawer. A month later, I put it in a box that was shipped to Palo Alto.

  I could tell you that my barber, Frank, refused to cut my hair because I’d apparently cut him off on my bike in February. I’d apparently flipped him the bird when he honked. My Jewfro is wicked right now. I’ve gone six months!

  I could tell you that Gus decided to break up with Maddie. The next day, they got together again, then he left for college in Massachusetts.

  I could tell you that Andrew quit his Beach Boys cover band because he wants to concentrate on Buddhist meditation and thinks performance serves his ego (weird kid).

  I could tell you that Aleah will be in San Francisco. She’ll study music composition at the conservatory there. That’s why she wanted me to call her. She wanted to ask my permission to go to school near me. Crazy. Of course I want her to go to school near me. Now we’ve talked. We’ve held hands. Fifteen days ago, we walked a trail to the top of Buena Vista Park.