Pure Dirt

by Francis Adams

  “I don’t smoke,” he said.

  “Just try it,” Heather replied, “it won’t kill you.”

  Hank took the cigarette from her hand, and holding it to his lips, he sucked on the end. In a few seconds, he expelled a stream of smoke, and began coughing uncontrollably.

  “Don’t inhale so much!” she instructed. “You’re cute. Hand it to me.” He passed the cigarette to her. “Come here,” she said. “Stand closer.”

  Hank moved in front of her. “Have you ever kissed a girl?” she asked.

  “Once,” he replied swallowing hard.

  “Do you mind if we kiss?” she followed.

  He hesitated, “Sure. I mean, no.”

  Heather inhaled on the marijuana cigarette, planted her hips on Hank, and slowly exhaled the smoke into his lungs. His eyes grew wide. He inhaled holding his breath. When Heather pulled away, he blew out the smoke in a rush.

  “What was that?” he said gasping.

  “A kiss,” Heather said.

  They passed the cigarette between them until it had burned down to the fingertips. Hank felt a mild pleasing calmness wash over him. Heather reached for the portable cassette player on the floor and hit the play button.

  A rock drumbeat started, followed by a synthesizer introduction that buzzed the room in a syncopated repeating pattern, underneath the booming pulse of a bass guitar, as horns stabbed the pattern accenting the ensemble in bright, upbeat bursts. The music sounded enhanced. The buzzing synthesizer held Hank spellbound. Everything sounded won-der-ful, a-stound-ing to his senses. They sat in a trance listening to sounds.

  “Here, run to the market?” Heather asked, “take the cooler and get ice, and pick up munchies,” she instructed.

  “Munchies?”

  “Something to eat,” she said, “and Hank, use the kitchen door.”

  Hank grabbed the cooler and proceeded to forage for munchies. Walking along Jeremiah avenue, Hank noticed the sky, and then noticed it again. The clouds seemed to be the whitest billowing puffs of cotton that he had ever taken the time to notice. He entered the corner market and proceeded to the ice machine. The metal scoop was cold on his skin as he shoveled the cubes into the cooler. He carefully placed six bottles of Coca-Cola into the bed of ice. He put two back, and then took four more. Grabbing a plastic basket, he filled it with potato chips, pretzel rods, Milky Way bars, Razzles, Slim Jim’s. He paused wondering whether these items were considered munchies. He resumed. He picked up two readymade hoagies, mayonnaise, and because of the bright red color, a jar of maraschino cherries. He put the Slim Jim’s back and walked over to the refrigerator case. He reached in and grabbed a package of hot dogs, then put the mayonnaise back and grabbed mustard. He struggled from the weight of his foraging on the way back to the checkout counter.

  An elderly woman leaned over and spoke to him. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, but it helps if you make a list before you come to the store.”

  Hank smiled and handed her the money.

  The woman handed him his change and joked, “Are you sure you know your way home?”

  “Here!” he said dropping everything. “This should hold you over.” He said to Heather upon returning.

  “You’re an ace, Hank,” she praised him taking the bag full of munchies.

  “I got you hoagies and hot dogs, and…” Hank trailed off, “I got you some other stuff.”

  When Hank arrived home, he noticed his father’s work boots on the floor near the kitchen door.

  “Is Dad home?”

  Hank’s mother turned from the sink. “He had an accident.”

  “Accident!”

  “He’s OK. He was pumping gas and the hose bucked and fell to the ground dousing him with gasoline. He had to lock up and walk home.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the shower,” she replied, “Your father was nervous because all it would have taken was one spark and he would have gone up in flames. Thankfully, he made it home. I’m soaking his work clothes in the sink.”

  Hank sat down and waited for his father.

  “Dad!” he sighed when Joe entered the kitchen. His father’s face looked strangely different.

  “It’s alright,” Joe uttered, “I’m going to lie down.”

  “We’ll be having dinner in an hour,” Hank’s mother said, “Hank, clean yourself up and no snacking.”

  Chapter Four:

  The Red Team

  In August, the family moved to the neighboring suburb. The semi-detached house was the childhood home of Hank’s mother. Hank’s grandmother convalesced recovering from a long hospital stay. Hank’s family joined her and Uncle Phil in the three-bedroom house. Glad to move away from South Trenton, although apprehensive about starting over in a new school, he was calmed by the manicured lawns and open spaces of the suburb.

  Uncle Phil drove an Oldsmobile, and he had purchased the first color television console in the neighborhood. He worked the night shift at the factory building turbines that propelled Naval submarines. Phil had helped raise his four sisters after his father, a potter, had passed away at an early age. He never married but cared for his widowed mother. He lavished weekly allowances upon his grateful nephews. Friday nights were eagerly awaited, when Uncle Phil would run out for pizza, and return to watch the lineup in living color with his two nephews.

  In August, Hank drove to the public high school to register as a new student. The guidance counselor interviewed the new transfer, and he led Hank and his mother on a walking tour of the building. The school had been recently built and everything felt modern, unspoiled by the parading generations of adolescent youths. The counselor pointed out Hank’s homeroom where he was to report each morning for attendance. The greatest perk about public high school was the shedding of the starched white dress shirt with clip on tie, the grey blazer, blue dress pants, and black formal dress shoes. The dress code was casual, blue jeans in Sneaker Ville. Hank spent the remaining August sitting on the swings in the public park, lounging in the hammock in the yard, and practicing the guitar on the screened in front porch.

  “Aaronson?”

  “Here.”

  “Abato?”

  “Here.”

  “Abbott?”

  “Here,” Hank replied.

  “Morning announcements,” a voice boomed from the speaker above the door. “The Fall Intramural basketball season will start in October. Anyone interested in competing may sign up at the office. Student parking passes for seniors are ready to be distributed. If you have applied for a parking space, please see Mr. Updike. We’ll pause for our National Anthem.”

  The brass horns of The Star-Spangled Banner blared from the speaker followed by the period bell. Hank shuffled through the halls glimpsing the faces as they passed through his line of sight. He was the new kid, and he watched groups of students, who had known each other for years, chatter idly at their open lockers. Hank sat in the middle aisle, third seat back, in the beginning algebra class.

  “Good morning. Please open your books to page twenty. Today, we’ll learn how to solve simple equations. I know some of you may have math anxieties, but you will need to learn simple algebra if you plan on continuing in an academic career.” Miss Langley continued, “The simple idea is that we are trying to solve a problem where one number, a variable, is unknown. With simple manipulations of addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, we can isolate the unknown variable and derive an answer to the equation. For example,” Miss Langley picked up a chalk and wrote an equation on the board: 2X + 1 = 13. “In this simple equation, X is the variable or the unknown. We want to get X to stand alone. Does anyone know how to approach the solution?” Miss Langley scanned the faces of her students. A girl in the first row raised her hand.

  “Yes?” Miss Langley said, “I’m afraid I don’t know all of your names yet.”

&nbs
p; “Joan,” the girl replied, “X equals six.”

  “Six. Very good. Would you like to explain your answer?”

  “Put the one on the other side and divide by two,” Joan blurted.

  Miss Langley chalked the solution on the board. “Class, did you follow?”

  “I thought X equals three.”

  Miss Langley turned her attention to Johnny Lumens, “Three would be incorrect. How did you get three?”

  “Well, if X can be anything, then it’s three,” Lumens said.

  Hank stared at the X on the blackboard; his mind was out the window. The bell rang. The students clamored into the hall. Lockers opened and slammed shut.

  At the period bell, Hank changed into his gym shorts at the far end of the locker room. He listened to the athletes’ bantering as they teased each other. The not so athletic boys quietly observed this strange antediluvian breed of mind flexors. Coach Wisenheimer blew his whistle. “Everyone out on the field. Grab a belt. Five minutes.”

  Each boy grabbed a belt and proceeded to the field. The belts had either red flags or yellow flags attached on the sides with Velcro. Coach Wisenheimer was a muscular man with a blond crew cut. “We’re going to play touch football. Listen up! There is to be no tackling, no pushing, no pile ups. If a player is running with the ball, simply grab a flag from his waist and the play is over. OK, let’s toss a coin. Call it.” Red won the flip.

  Hank loathed playing football, so he took a tackle position at the line of scrimmage opposing a black student in red flags. Hank knew that his job was to rush the quarterback and tackle him before he had a chance to pass the ball. The ball was snapped and passed to the safety who tried to run it through the line. Hank rushed the opposing tackle. The whistle blew. The flag was pulled.

  The opposing black player, who was surprised by the body contact, looked Hank in the eyes, “Oh, this one thinks he’s tough,” he barked out loud, “you’re mine. I’m playing against you.” After the huddle, Hank moved to the other end of the line, taking the end position. The black student moved down the line facing Hank again. “I’m playing against you,” he said in a threatening tone. The center hiked the ball to the quarterback, and Hank’s opponent slammed him with great force. The whistle blew, but Hank continued to suffer open handed blows to his head from the left and right. The black student moved away as Hank looked over at Wisenheimer who ignored the conflict. “Pharo! Take it easy. He didn’t mean anything,” a teammate shouted.

  Hank dreaded the Dred Scott decision in third period American History. Mr. Patrone lectured a half drowsy gaggle of gossipers. “The Dred Scott was a landmark decision of the U.S. Supreme Court in which the Court held that the U.S. Constitution was not meant to include American Citizenship for black people, regardless of whether they were enslaved or free, and so the rights and privileges that the Constitution conferred upon American citizens would not apply to them.”

  “What year was that?” a girl asked.

  “1857.”

  “And that was before the Emancipation Proclamation?”

  “Correct. Racism was the major conflict between the southern plantation owners and the northern abolitionists.”

  “Worse than the Jim Crow laws.” A boy added.

  “Both violated the basic Civil Rights of the individual. Jim Crow lasted about one-hundred years and is just ending now. The riots you hear about are in protest of segregation.”

  “Who was Jim Crow?” the same girl asked.

  “Jim Crow, for which the law is named, was a white actor who wore black face in a black minstrel show.”

  Hank headed to the cafeteria the following period for Independent Learning Time. Students were free to pursue any interest. Some used the time to do homework, some read their assignments, most spent their time gossiping. Hank sat at an empty table in the cafeteria and was soon joined by three neighborhood boys. The Ohio Park gang were known each by their nicknames. Ferret, a short statured leader with a hairpin temper, was gifted at procuring the weekend libations. Rollo, the friendly paperboy, had an infectious laugh that was contagious. He won his nickname when he accidentally rolled his Volkswagen three hundred and sixty degrees off an embankment and landing it back on its tires unscathed. Mugs, the tall accomplice, had a broad smile that infused harmless amusement into the gang. They most always traveled together and sat down at Hank’s table.

  “Did you catch Laurie in her gym shorts?” Ferret asked. “I’ll bet she could crack a walnut with those thighs.”

  “Her breasts are too small,” Mugs said. “if she had bigger breasts…”

  “Nice skin, though.”

  “You’re a breast man.”

  “What about Andrea?”

  “I’d date her. She is hot. Nice legs.”

  Hank listened while they critiqued the girl’s gym roster.

  “We have to come up with a senior prank,” Ferret said.

  “What kind of prank?” Mugs asked.

  “Something that they’ll never forget,” Ferret intimated, “something that will never be topped. It’s tradition. They expect it.”

  “I can’t think of anything,” Rollo said.

  “Like what?” Mugs asked.

  “I have an idea,” Ferret replied, “I just need to think it through.”

  The period bell rang, and the senior class rushed the cafeteria grabbing trays.

  Hank and Rollo left the school in Hank’s old Buick. The senior class was privileged to leave the premises during lunch hour. They drove to the shopping center and parked in front of Big Boy’s restaurant.

  “I’ll have a Big Boy Deluxe with a Coke,” Hank ordered.

  “A Big Boy with Cheese. Iced Tea.” Rollo added.

  “Do you have plans for Saturday?”

  “Nothing,” Hank said.

  “We’re meeting in the park. You want me to ask Ferret to pick up something for you?”

  “I guess so. Boone’s Farm?”

  “I’ll ask him, apple not strawberry right?” Rollo said. “You know that overgrown field next to the tool garage?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They grabbed some wood panels from the factory and constructed a fort. The weeds are so tall, you can’t see it from the road. We’re going to meet there,” Rollo explained.

  If I’m around,” Hank said. “I may be out.”

  The waitress placed the plates on the table, “One Big Boy and one Big Boy with cheese,” she said. “Anything else?” she asked setting the soft drinks on the table.

  “We’re good. Thanks,” Hank replied.

  “What classes do you have this afternoon?” Rollo asked.

  “Film study,” Hank replied. “You?”

  “I took my second I.L.T. at the end of the day. I leave early and fold newspapers.”

  “I collect on Friday. I should be finished by six,” Hank said.

  “If I see Benny Grass, I’ll pick something up.”

  “Where are you going to find him?”

  “He always drives his Charger down Ohio Avenue. He parks at the park.”

  “Ever been in that car?” Hank asked. “It smells like a French whorehouse!”

  Rollo smiled, “It’s his chick mobile.”

  The young boys, who were signed into the work-study program, assembled in Mr. Clyburn’s wood shop. They were learning a skilled trade as opposed to following a college bound academic career. Mr. Clyburn spoke, “Jones, you and Pharo will measure and cut two-by-fours. The plans are on the table. Martin, O’Hara, Thompson and Goldstein unload and stack the plywood next to the building. Anderson, grab the tar paper, Schultz check the inventory list. Angelini, you carry tools with Ortiz. We’ll meet on the field in fifteen minutes.”

  The class was tasked with putting a new roof on the concession stand next to the football field. A couple of wooden horses were spaced evenly apart,
and Pharo began measuring the studs marking the lengths with a lead pencil. Jones called out the measurements from the list that he was holding. Another group tore the old shingles from the roof while others huddled around Clyburn who laid the blueprint across the tailgate of the pickup truck. When the two-by-fours were all pencil-marked, Pharo grabbed a hand saw and began sawing through the wood. He applied pressure with his right hand, keeping the wood stud stable on the horse, and sawed with his left hand until the end piece fell to the ground. Jones watched while Pharo cut through several studs.

  “Maybe you should use a jigsaw. It might make your job easier,” Jones commented. “In fact, you’d cut a perfect line using a JIG-saw.” Pharo ignored the remark and continued sawing through another stud. “Let me saw a few, or do you plan to cut up the whole jungle? What would you swing from?” Jones asked. Pharo dropped the saw and lunged towards Jones knocking him over backwards. Pharo straddled Jones pummeling the boy with his fists. The class ran over forming a circle. Clayburn broke through the circle of boys pulling Pharo off Jones. “Break it up! Stop!” Clyburn pulled Pharo to his feet. “To the office!” Clayburn commanded. “Boys, I’ll be right back. Back to work.”

  Hank sat through Film Study reading critiques. Mr. Malloy’s film class was a popular English elective. Each semester, students watched two or three films, and read critiques of those films from the New York Times or the New Yorker magazine. The students were taught to write their own. Mr. Malloy was prematurely grey, smoked cigarettes incessantly, and possessed a razor-sharp sarcastic wit. He supervised the extra-curricular filmmaking club known as the filmnuts. The filmnuts congregated in the teacher’s prep room adjacent to Malloy’s classroom. They met there during their free periods to listen to music, watch homemade movies, or sneak cigarettes. Drifters, who did not belong anywhere else, usually drifted to the nutroom as it was sardonically nicknamed.