“Smells bad, Jeremy,” Mykel confirms. “Seriously, close that shit up.” He bends the edges of the tinfoil over my sandwich.
“I can’t sit here anymore,” Jimmy Two says. “Fucking sandwich is making me sick.” He stands and pushes out his chair, but it tips back and crashes to the floor, rolling sideways, rocking back and forth on its legs before settling into a cold silence.
This is when it begins—the entire cafe screams the word dork.
Starts small, at first, a few kids from the band table saying it into fists covering their mouths. The jock and artist tables follow suit. The stoners and debaters after that. The newspaper boys and computer and sad sack kids. Every table, all tables, joined in a total collaborative union. A choir of kids howling. The stoners and sad sack losers spit motherfuckingdoooooork. Half a dozen voices mix in a few high-pitched geeks, stretching the eeeee like bubbles rising up from the bottom of the ocean.
“Jimmy Two got dorked,” Mykel says, laughing.
“What’s happening?” I ask Mykel.
“How do you not know about dorking?” Mykel asks.
The cafe: doooooooooork, doooooooooork.
“I don’t know,” I say.
The cafe: geeeeeeeeeek, motherfuckinggeeeeeeeeek.
“Dork, motherfucker,” Mykel says to Jimmy Two, punching the air. “You got fucked up, son. Motherfuckinggeeeeeek.”
The dorking shifts again as someone yells faggot bitch beneath the other voices. It doesn’t have anything to do with Jimmy Two, I don’t think, but has everything to do with him. Jimmy Two climbs on to the table, standing on the table now, and throws his arms out like he is commanding an army. He looks terrifying up there, like a giant ready to crush us all.
Rightly so, the cafe goes silent.
“All y’all motherfuckers,” he says, grabbing his junk, turning to show the entire cafe his hand on his dick, jostling it for effect. “All of you, on my dick!”
The cafe is dead, everyone trying to act as though nothing ever happened.
Brother Lee stands on top of a chair in the middle of the room and slaps the side of a cowbell with the butt of a drumstick. How he has ready access to a cowbell and drumstick I’ll never know.
Jimmy Two hops off the table, picks up his chair and sets it upright. Brother Lee rushes to his side. He’s a full half a person shorter than Jimmy Two.
“Anyone interested in joining Mr. James in detention today can feel free to continue acting a hoodlum,” Brother Lee yells.
“Brother, the chair was an accident,” Jimmy Two says. “It wasn’t on purpose, I swear.”
“Mr. James, do you jump on tables at home?”
“No, Brother.”
“Two days of detention—one for chair and one for table.”
“Brother, Jimmy Two didn’t mean to knock over his chair,” Mykel says.
“I appreciate your concern,” Brother Lee says. “You have good friends, Mr. James. Now you have something to confess to today.” Brother Lee walks across the cafe, patrolling from table to table, doling out detention like food to the homeless, taking Jimmy Two with him, making him push in chairs along the way.
“What did he mean confess?” I ask, dropping my sandwich into my bag.
“Reconciliation, man,” Mykel says.
“Reconciliation?” I ask, completely unaware.
“A sacrament,” he says. He zips up his book bag. “Like marriage. And baptism.” Mykel hands me a sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s mandatory,” Mykel says.
“For what?” I ask.
“Mandatory to be forgiven,” he says. The rest of the BAC pack up their lunches, slide on their sport coats and leave the cafe for class. “Today is the first one of the year.”
And apparently this goddamn thing is madatory.
37
There are no new jokes in my bathroom stall, but there is some new graffiti.
A stick figure with big tits and a hairy vagina stands in front of a smaller stick figure with a large penis pointing in her face. A thought bubble above her head says, “I’m Jeremy Barker and I heart big dick.” I spit on the cuff of my sleeve and rub the picture, smearing the ink, making the tits and penis look bigger by accident. Fuck. Me.
I stole a Vogue from my dentist’s office last month and am reading it now. Every model looks tall and skinny, practically naked, high heels, never smiling. I look through the advertisements like a scientist for a photo of a model smiling. The only one I can find is of a man smiling. He sits on the edge of the bed, naked, a white bedsheet pulled over his lap. Behind the man is a naked woman, who rests her hands on his shoulders, pressing her tits against his back in bed as she whispers something in his ear. He is looking at a silver wristwatch on the nightstand. She is not smiling, but he sure is. The advertisement is for some expensive-looking brand of watch, but the tag line at the bottom says, “A man never needs convincing.”
The door opens and two guys enter, standing at the urinals, one urinal open between them. I lift my legs to the toilet seat, holding my breath.
“I’ve heard rumors that this is the bathroom where dudes come to get it on.”
“Who told you about that? You know what? Never mind.”
Both urinals flush. Water sprays from the spigots as they wash their hands. The kids pull paper from the dispensers, wiping their hands like they’re trying to rip away their skin before tossing the crumpled towels into the trash and leave. The bathroom resumes a quiet state as the flushed water fades away inside in the tiled walls.
I slip Vogue into my bag next to the remnants of my pepperoni sandwich and walk towards the door to leave just as it opens. For some reason, I’m startled and turn around and walk back towards the urinals, like I had just come in here. It’s Zink and he stalks a urinal into submission. I approach the line of urinals, dead focused on urinal etiquette, something I learned from Dad years ago. Urinal etiquette dictates at least one open urinal should exist between each man—the buffer urinal. I settle on the urinal closest to the wall, leaving two open between us, and unzip my fly, locking my stare on the words Stop Looking At My Dick, Faggot scratched into the wall in front of me.
“Given Friday’s mixer any thought?” he asks, arching his back, hosing the urinal cake.
I’ve done well at avoiding Zink since the bathroom incident, that is, until now.
“Got to be there, baby.” Zink shakes his dick. “It’s like religion. It’s like a sacrament—fraternization.”
“Will you be there?” I ask.
“Everyone will be there,” Zink continues. “Chicks and dicks. Fights and dikes.” Zink flushes the urinal, pressing the silver handle with his elbow. He walks to the sink and washes his hands, leaning into the mirror, peering at the pores of his nose.
I flush the handle with my elbow too.
“Have you given any thought to what you’re going to wear?” he asks.
“I have this red sweater.”
“Barks. A sweater? No. You have to wear something awesome. Don’t wear khakis. Khakis are for holidays and hospitals.” Zink shakes the excess water from his hands and then wipes them on his corduroy pants. “A button down shirt unbuttoned with a wife-beater underneath. Or a polo shirt. Spike your hair up. Open your clothes up. Throw a necklace on. Glow stick. Something. But for God’s sake, no sweater.”
I wash my hands.
“If you have a pierced ear, that’s good too,” he says. “I don’t have my ears pierced, but I know guys who do and they say it works like gangbusters.”
“Gangbusters?”
“If you decide to get your ear pierced, make sure it’s your left ear. Not your right. Left is right and right is wrong. It’s this whole thing.”
“Someone is a homosexual if they have their right ear pierced and heterosexual if they have their left ear pierced?” I ask.
“I have my left nipple pierced,” Zink says.
“Nipple?”
“Nipple.”
&nbs
p; “Does the left and right thing apply to nipples too?”
“Don’t be a dick, Barks,” Zink says, thumbing his fly to be sure it is closed.
“Do you know what people are saying about this bathroom?”
“Yes.” Zink’s smile lights up his face. “Funny how a fear-based rumor will not only make them believe it, but also encourage them to perpetuate it. Curiosity is killer. It’s this whole predictable thing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They were just in here. Together. And everyone saw them. They came in together and they left together.”
“But they didn’t do anything in here like that.”
“No one else knows that.”
Neither of us says anything. No follow-up questions.
We walk to the sinks next to the urinals and stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at the other’s reflection in the mirror.
“How the hell do you get your knots so perfect?” I ask, pointing at his necktie knotted perfectly in a Windsor.
“It’s pretty badass,” he says, reaching his hand up and unclipping the tie from his collar. He holds the mutant, pre-knotted, clip-on tie in his hand like a recently caught fish and shakes it. There is no loop at the top, holding the knot. The knot simply stands alone, allowing the rest of the tie to dangle down. “Clip-on, Barks. Motherfucking clip-on.”
“Did your Dad ever teach you how to tie a knot?”
“He was always more interested in teaching me how to block penalty kicks.”
“It’s pretty easy, if you would like to learn.”
“How can it possibly be easier than a clip-on?” he asks, and flicks the clasp at the back of the knot.
“Tying a really good knot is way more important than a goddamn clip-on. It’s this whole thing,” I say, stealing Zink’s phrase.
“I like the knot you’re wearing. Teach me that one.”
I look at my Limp Dick and undo the knot, pulling it from around my neck.
He hands me his clip-on and I snap it over my collar—perfect fucking Windsor knot.
Zink says, “Everybody has a thing. Everyone has at least one thing. This is your thing.”
I say, “According to me, there are three types of necktie knots: the Windsor, the Half-Windsor, and the Limp Dick.”
38
In our religion class, Christian Awareness, a band kid in front of me, the one with all the acne, says my loafer’s look like moccasins. He calls me Pocahontas.
“Where are your braids, Pocahontas?” he says, picking a zit on his chin.
“Pocahontas liked to suck fat dick,” a soccer player says.
“Pucker those lips, Pocahontas,” a stoner kid says.
Mr. Vo stands at the front of the room filling in for Brother Larry who, we are told, has come down with the bug. No one is sure what that means.
“Language,” Mr. Vo says, pointing a fist at the stoner. “I don’t want to hear it anymore. Let’s be mature, okay, gentlemen.”
“Poor Pocahontas,” the band kid says, and kicks my chair.
“Mr. Jeremy Barker.” Mr. Vo looks at the classroom chart of names and points to an open seat in the back. He wears a light yellow tie with blue sailboats knotted in a Windsor. His vest is buttoned up and a gold clip holds his tie to his shirt. “Back of the class.”
I straighten my posture like a Marine, fearless-like, collect my belongings and switch seats. Semper Fi and all that shit.
“I will say this only one time,” Mr. Vo says, soft and low. “We don’t have a whole lot of time before you men go off to Reconciliation. I see here in Brother Larry’s assignment book that he asked you each to write a one-sentence statement beginning with the words: I am.” He walks along the back wall of the classroom as we turn in our seats to track him. “I want to hear what you men came up with.” He points with a fist to the first kid in my row. “You. Go.”
“I am the Orioles,” a student council kid says. “And I badly need relief pitching and better batting deep into the lineup.”
“I am the Ravens,” a football player says, punching the student council kid in the back. “Fuck baseball. Pussy sport.”
“I am doing your mom,” a lacrosse player says.
“I see we are taking this seriously,” Mr. Vo says. “Brother Larry will be thrilled.”
“I am laying a lot of pipe these days,” a drama club kid says, adjusting his knot, a Windsor.
“I am writing a novel,” a newspaper kid says.
“You are a fucking nerd,” the band kid with the acne says.
“I am a big time dealer,” a stoner kid says.
“I dealt your mom last night and she liked it,” a lacrosse player says.
“Lovely.” Mr. Vo rubs his eyes. “Gentlemen, this is unbecoming of a Hall man.”
“I am your biological daddy,” a football player tells the stoner.
“I am tripping my balls off,” the stoner says back.
“Let’s try you,” Mr. Vo says, pointing to Mykel. “What do you have for us?”
“I am chopography,” Mykel says.
No one says anything to Mykel.
“Chopography,” Mr. Vo says. He leans against the chalkboard, white dust covering the back of his vest. “What is that? Clearly, it’s not photography?”
“Chopography,” Mykel says. “I take pictures and then cut them together.”
“Like collage,” Mr. Vo says.
“Not really.” Mykel stretches back in his chair, extending his arms over his head, kicking his long legs out to the chair in front of him. “It’s more like dissection.”
“Interesting,” Mr. Vo says, rubbing his temples now, then points his fist at me and asks the same question.
Many things cross my mind. My women’s magazine collection hidden away in my closet, tucked away in the shells of empty board game boxes. Mom leaving me for pills and leaving Dad for Carrefour. Dad and his knots. Rembrandt and his video. Dad disappearing. The great Zombie Apocalypse. And all the shit at school.
I say, “I am not who I used to be.”
V
THRILLER
(Released Date: December 2, 1983)
Directed by John Landis
Written by John Landis and Michael Jackson
39
The line for Reconciliation crawls out from the lecture hall and on to the sidewalk outside, funneling along the school. It reminds me of the dance sequence in Michael Jackson’s fourteen-minute music video for “Thriller”—a zombified, undead, shuffle of bodies. There is a leader, but it’s unknown to us in line, moving along as instructed. Following orders. The sky is overcast, symptomatic of an approaching rain, that sweet rain smell carried in on a sharp wind. I button up my sport coat. A teacher holds his hand palm up, checking for drops, but none found. Some kids wear their jackets over the shoulders on the hook of a finger. Some wear them like rich old ladies, draped over their shoulders. The teachers patrol the line, enforcing the dress code in that respect, zapping kids to attend detention after school with Brother Lee. Detention, as described by Jackson, is two hours in a classroom listening to Brother Lee lecture, nonstop, completely in Mandarin—the lecture topic unknown. Which sounds more like Hell than detention.
A teacher hands me a prompt—this tiny sheet of paper, a script that reads:
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been (say a number) (say one of the following: days/weeks/months/years) since my last confession. I am sorry for the following: (insert sins here). Father, please forgive me for these sins and the sins unspoken. Amen. (Sign of the Cross and exit Lecture Hall immediately, QUIETLY).
I look for the nearest teacher or brother or priests or someone, anyone, a Catholic at the very least, to flag down and explain to me in detail what I’m about to participate in. Questions come fast, questions about sins and confessing these sins to a complete stranger, in order to be prepared for Heaven. It reminded me of a body being prepped for surgery. The line snails forward. When I’m about halfway through, a door opens. Rembrandt.
He adjusts his blue-rimmed glasses, exposing his fucked-up hands to me. He could be flashing his deformed hands or his penis; it’d feel no different. Mr. Rembrandt, the smug fuck, checks the sky again, before stepping out onto the sidewalk. We smile. We remember. Passing each other by the teacher’s parking lot. He looks down on me, but only because he’s taller.
“Mr. Barker,” he says. “Glad to see you outside when you’re supposed to be outside.” Mr. Rembrandt steps in line, excusing himself to the computer geek behind me who’s done nothing but recite his script from memory since we’ve been outside. The sweet pre-rain breeze picks up again, but this time delivers a sharp chemical stench. Same heavy antiseptic smell as Dad. It’s Rembrandt. “When your little script says insert sins here,” he says, pointing to the script, “what do you think you’ll say?”
“To be honest, I haven’t given it much thought. But one thing’s for sure, whatever sin I say, it won’t be any worse than what the priests have already heard at this school,” I say and fold the script in half, sliding it into my pocket.
Two jocks in front of me—one football, one soccer, both as indicated by the athletic letters on their letterman jackets—spontaneously trade punches like sparring partners. The jacked-up football jock pounds the soccer kid in the upper arm, which the soccer jock absorbs only to return with appropriate force, hitting him in the same location. This continues for a few more rounds in an organized fashion, before Mr. Rembrandt intercedes.
“My dear, dear boys,” he says, startling them, unaware that they were under surveillance. “Why must two educated and talented young men, such as yourselves, succumb to physical violence?” He makes a tisk-tisk-tisk sound, like my mother used to do when I was a child. “Oh, absurdity of absurdities.”
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