by Ron Koertge
“Right. And . . . ?”
“I barely know you. Why should I cheat for you?”
“Because then I’ll show you my tits.”
THE PIT IS REALLY THE HEART OF MY HIGH SCHOOL. Everybody turns up there to talk or smoke or eat or just hang out. The skateboarders like falling down the wide, amphitheater-type steps, the stoners like lying in the sun, the writers take turns reading from their journals, the cheerleaders prance around in their little orange-and-black skirts.
I find myself a spot on the top steps opposite the completely vandalized tables and the vending machines, each one in its own little jail.
I’m in a good mood. Okay, Colleen’s using me. But at least I’m in the soup, you know? In the mix. Anything is better than lying on my cowboy bedspread with the remote in my one good hand.
Waiting there I feel, I don’t know, anthropological, I guess. I just need a pair of binoculars and a field guide to watch Ed Dorn in his black jeans and black T-shirt make the rounds, moving from the gangstas in their huge pants through the Mexican tough guys and into the Asian kung-fu fighters. Each clique has a different handshake, and Ed knows them all. He knows which girl’s hand to grab and rub over his shaved head, which brother to joke with, which guy’s Pepsi to snatch and take a sip of, which one to lean into and whisper. Colleen walks a few steps behind. She wears knee-high silver boots and looks like someone from a different galaxy.
When Ed saunters toward his gym class, a few girls follow Colleen into the girls’ bathroom. I take my book bag and lurch to one of the tables facing the exit. When Colleen comes out, I want to be the first thing she sees: sitting down I look almost normal.
I’m stationed just a few yards from the resident anarchists — both of them done up in spiked hair, boots, and bondage pants — when Stephanie Brewer walks up to them. She takes out her notebook. “Can I ask you guys some questions for the Courier?”
Danny looks at Robert. Robert looks at Danny. They grin.
“Can I ask about your boots? Do those white laces stand for White Power?”
They glance down. “The laces keep our shoes on, man.”
“What are your outfits supposed to mean, then?”
“That we’re in revolt.”
“Exactly,” says Danny. “We’re in revolt against things like oppression.”
“By whom?”
“Well, duh — the oppressors.”
“I understand that,” she says, “but which ones? Men oppressing women, whites oppressing blacks, straights and gays, guards and prisoners, China and Tibet?”
Robert nods. “All that, man.”
She asks them to stand up and turn around then because they’re both wearing white shirts with the sleeves ripped off and something drawn on the backs with Magic Marker.
“So what,” Stephanie asks, “does the ghost mean?”
“It’s not a ghost. It’s a pirate’s head, like on their flag.”
Robert turns around. “It’s not a pirate, man. It’s a skull. That’s what was on their flag: a skull and crossbow.”
Danny points. “Look at your own fucking earring, man. It’s a pirate.”
Robert takes off his earring, makes a big deal of finding some glasses in his pants pocket, and peers through them. “It’s a skull. It’s got little eyes.”
“Pirates have got eyes, man. Otherwise they couldn’t see, like, their rum or the plank or anything.”
They fall all over each other laughing.
Stephanie scowls and shakes her head. “Thanks for nothing, you jerk-offs.”
She turns away and scans the Pit. I’m almost right in front of her, and she doesn’t even see me. Not really. I’m just the resident spaz, invisible as the sign that says NO RUNNING, the one nobody pays any attention to.
Then she intercepts Colleen coming out of the girls’ room. I can’t hear what Stephanie says but I can sure hear Colleen.
“Are you nuts? Go ask somebody who gives a shit.”
She’s still shaking her head when she gets to me. “Unbelievable. Ed would never let me forget it if I turned up in the school newspaper with a fucking opinion.”
“I was watching Ed in action. He’s like Louis the Fourteenth, moving through the gardens at Versailles dispensing favors.”
“Louis better watch his ass,” says Colleen. “This is Ed’s turf.”
“I guess that big tattoo on his arm is a marijuana leaf and not an ad for Vermont in the fall.”
“You got that right.” She leans closer and whispers, “You got the stuff?”
“I’ve got the book report.”
“When nobody’s looking, give it to me.”
“Colleen, it’s a piece of paper, not a kilo.”
“Like you know what a kilo is.” She grabs the folded sheet out of my hand and scans it. “This’ll do. Give me your phone number.”
“Why?”
“So I can call you.”
“Why?”
“Because I might want you to write another paper for me.”
“But you haven’t paid for this one. Remember?” I smile to show that I’m kidding. A little, anyway. “You’re going to show me . . .” I stare at her chest. “Your, you know . . .”
“My what?”
“It’s okay. I knew you weren’t serious.” But I point, anyway.
“I told you I’d show you my tits?” She holds up the essay. “For this?”
“Uh-huh, but it’s okay. It’s not that good, anyway.”
“Hey, if I said I would, I will.” She stuffs the page into her purse, shrugs that off one shoulder, and starts to tug at the shredded black lace she wears over an old Clash T-shirt.
“No! It’s okay.”
“You sure?” She reveals an inch or two of very pale skin. “Live half-nude girls. No waiting.”
I retreat. “It’s fine. Thanks, anyway. Really.”
Who is this girl? She is out of my league. Way out.
THE NEXT DAY I find myself prowling the halls. . . . Well, I don’t prowl the halls, but at least I’m in the halls. I don’t just go sit in my homeroom like a fungus.
Finally I spot Colleen, this time in boots that lace up to her bony knees, ripped painter’s pants, and a lacey, soiled top that looks like Madonna has been mining coal in it. I don’t even get a chance to say hi before she pounces.
“Did you call my house last night?”
“Yeah. I wanted to see if you liked that paper I wrote for you, if it was, you know, okay and everything.”
“Why did you talk to my mom?”
“Because you weren’t home.”
“She said you were the nicest guy who ever called.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I don’t want nice guys calling; I’m a total bitch, okay?”
“You’re not, either.”
“Like you know anything about me.”
“I know you’re honest. You said you’d do something if I wrote that Gatsby essay, and you were going to do it.”
“Oh, that. My tits aren’t my best feature, anyway, but you could have at least looked at them.”
“We were right in the middle of the Pit.”
“So?”
“We’d get in trouble.”
“So?
“They’d probably call our folks, and we’d at least get detention.”
“I’m always in detention.”
“I’ve never been.”
“What? You’re not just crippled, my friend. You’re dead.” Colleen’s grin fades as she slumps against the nearest wall. Her face goes from technicolor to black-and-white.
“Are you okay?”
“I just threw up. Like, a minute ago.”
“You throw up a lot.”
“I’m practicing for the Olympics.” She takes hold of my wrist like somebody grabbing the safety bar at Space Mountain. “Talk to me, okay?”
“What about?”
“Anything. This is not from bad acid, so spare me the big, warm dog routine. Just distra
ct me.”
I put my hand over hers, just casually, though. Like I do that sort of thing all the time. “Well, last night I watched this cool little sci-fi flick where some kid’s totally fine folks fall down into this sand pit where the aliens landed; next thing you know they’re not so fine. It’s a fifties movie where everybody’s scared of radioactivity and flying saucers. So there’s a lot of sameness going around. The first suburbs and all that. Thousands of guys in gray flannel suits.”
She has a can of 7UP in her purse, and she takes a swallow. “Is that all you do — squat in front of the TV?”
“Please, my life is rich and full: I also go to the movies and do my homework.”
“Why do homework? I get C’s for just showing up and not shooting anybody.”
“Grandma wants me to go to a good school.”
“Oh, Grandma. What big goals you have.”
When Colleen rubs her stomach and kind of groans, I point to the green can in her hand and ask, “Want me to get you another one of those? I will if you want me to.”
She narrows her gray eyes. “Ed would kill you if he caught you coming on to me.”
“I would be so stoked if Ed thought that. I never came on to anybody in my life.”
“Oh, bullshit. Isn’t there, like, some spaz dating club or something? How about that blind chick, Doris? You guys would be perfect. She can’t see you limp, and you could feel her up whenever you wanted.”
“I think you’re serious. Do you know who Doris is hot for? Ed!”
“My Ed?”
“Your Ed. Nobody who’s disabled wants to go out with anybody else who’s disabled.”
“Just chill for a minute, okay? I gotta pee.” She gets a good strong grip on my right arm and pushes off, tottering toward the bathroom.
I love it that Colleen touches me! And if that isn’t enough, I also get to chill. I’ve never done that. At least no girl ever asked me to. So I lean against the wall, sort of like the other guys. If anybody wants to know what I’m doing I can say, ‘I’m chilling. What’s it to you?’”
FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS I don’t see Colleen. Which disappoints me. Which reminds me of why I am what I am: a bit player in the movie of life. Listed at the tag end of the credits: Crippled Kid. Before Thug #1 but after Handsome Man in Copy Shop.
Then my phone rings and I lunge for it. It has to be her. Nobody calls me. I mean that. Nobody. My answering machine probably has cobwebs in it.
Without saying hello or anything, she asks, “I was talking to some kids at school about you. What happened to your mom?”
I fall back on the bed, relieved and excited. “Nobody knows. She just split.” I roll onto my side. “Turn on AMC. Check out how John Ford shoots this scene so it looks like John Wayne is about a hundred feet tall.”
As I watch, I hear the raspy sound of a Bic lighter, then her quick intake of breath. “I thought John Wayne actually was a hundred feet tall.”
“The Searchers is still really popular. Do you know the story? Ethan totally devotes his life to finding this niece of his that the Comanches kidnapped. I guess most people like the idea of somebody who’ll just look for them and look for them and never give up no matter how long it takes.”
“My father disappeared, too.”
“When?”
“Like about a second after I was born, I guess. Even John Wayne couldn’t find that son of a bitch.”
“You don’t want to go look for him ever?”
“No way. Do you want to find your mom?”
“Sometimes. Around the holidays, usually. When it’s just Grandma and me and a turkey as big as a VW.”
“Do you know Ms. Johnson?”
“The sociology teacher?”
“And resident feminist. She says sometimes women split because they have to. She says sometimes they have to be true to themselves.”
“So it’s not always because some kid is dragging his foot around the house?” That’s when Grandma knocks softly on my half-open door. I turn my back on her and whisper into the phone, “Looks like I better go.”
Colleen whispers back, “Me, too, if I want to keep up with my regimen of self-destructive behavior.”
Grandma leads me into the living room. This is never a good sign. “I hope I didn’t disturb you, Benjamin.”
“That’s okay. I was just talking to a, uh, friend.”
“How nice!”
I can almost see the exclamation point, and it means she’s surprised I have a friend. I’m not getting into that.
“Did you want to talk to me?”
“Yes, I spoke to the new neighbor this morning. She seems very pleasant, and I thought it would be a nice gesture if we invited her for brunch.” She holds out an envelope, one of her ritzy cream-colored ones. “It’s a bit on the short-notice side, but I’ve got leukemia next week, then UNICEF, and before you know it the whole Tournament of Roses thing begins in earnest. Our phone number’s right at the bottom in case she isn’t home, but I believe she is.”
“You want me to take this over now?”
“It’s barely dark. I don’t think she’d be alarmed.” Then she looks down at my sweats, the ones she sends to the cleaners.
In old-fashioned cartoons there are always rich women looking at things through these glasses-on-a-stick. That is my grandma. She pretty much looks at everything like she has glasses-on-a-stick. Including me. Especially me.
“Would you mind changing, dear, since you’re going to go out-of-doors?”
For somebody with C.P., changing clothes is no piece of cake. The good side has to help the bad side, so it takes a little while. And if I’m not careful, I’ll get all my clothes off and see myself in the mirror. And that is something I try never to do.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing on the curb, still sweating from the struggle. God, I hate getting dressed. It always reminds me of how I am.
A couple of SUVs glide by, both of them driven by the littlest mommies in the world, like there’s some place called Inverse Proportion Motors and the smaller you are, the bigger the car you have to buy.
Lurching across the empty street, I wave at Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong, who sit on their porch every evening and stare at the Neighborhood Watch sign with its sinister cloaked figure.
I make my way up the walk of 1003 between borders of purple lobelia. The lights are on. Music seeps out from under the oak door.
Just in case the doorbell’s broken, I tap with the little bridle that hangs from the brass horse’s head. When I hear footsteps I announce, “Hi, I’m a neighbor. From across the street.”
The door opens. A woman in a striped caftan says, “Yes, can I help you?” Her black hair is short and shot through with gray. She has quick-looking eyes and sharp features. If some people look smoothed by hand, this lady is machine made.
I tell her my name and why I’ve come.
“Marcie Sorrels.” She’s holding a drink with her right hand, so she sticks out the other one.
I show her my bad arm, the fingers curled into a pathetic little fist.
“Not a stroke, I hope.”
“C.P.”
“But not dyskinetic.”
“No, spastic.”
“Ah, well, you were lucky.”
“That’s the title of my autobiography: Ben, the Lucky Spaz.”
She opens the door wider. “Why don’t you come inside and be hard on yourself?”
All of a sudden, I just want to throw Grandma’s envelope at her feet and get out of there. What does she know? I think. Who does she think she is, anyway?
And then I wonder if I’m having a heart attack, because I’ve never thrown anything at anybody in my life, not even a baseball. Well, for sure not a baseball.
Where does all that emotion come from? Is it just from hanging around Colleen, who’s so famous for going off on teachers she has a permanent seat in detention?
I hand over the message. Marcie opens the envelope by tearing off one end, not like Grandma, who would hav
e pried at the flap with a silver blade.
“How do you know about C.P.?” I ask.
“I used to volunteer at the Huntington Hospital.” I watch her fingers caress the notepaper. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I had stationery like this”— she does this thing with her eyebrows —“in my other life. Actually, in my other other life. In any event, thank your mother, and tell her I’ll be there with bells on.”
“It’s grandmother. I’m an orphan.”
When I get back to the house, Grandma is sitting in the living room, her spine absolutely straight, the crease in her gray slacks sharp enough to cut your hand on.
“She’s coming. Next Sunday, just like you wanted.”
“Excellent.” She pats the sofa beside her. “Sit down, dear. This will just take a minute.”
Oh, man. I settle onto the dark leather.
“I’d like you to make some room in your schedule this week for the Philharmonic and the new play at the Taper. It means two late evenings, but this is the kind of exposure that’s good for your future.”
“God, Grandma. Do I have to?”
“No. But I’d rather you did. It may be hard for you to believe, but Beethoven matters.”
“Well, okay, I guess. Now can I ask you something?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Do you think Mom left to be true to herself?”
My grandmother sighs. “Benjamin, we’ve talked about this many times. I told you, she was unstable.”
“Do people do things like leave people they love because they just totally have to?”
“Besides being unstable, your mother was not a success at her chosen profession.”
“It wasn’t a profession. She sold real estate. It was a job.”
“If you say so.”
“She told me once she thought it was her fault that I’m the way I am. Because she drank martinis while she was pregnant.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“She cried.”
“Delia cried about everything.”
“You could find her if you wanted to, couldn’t you? I mean, there’s enough money.”
My grandma takes a deep breath, the kind she does in her yoga class, probably. “Have you changed your mind? Do you want to find her?”
“I think I should want to, but I don’t.”
