How I Learned to Hate in Ohio

by David Stuart MacLean

  In conclusion, the billboard of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg is less than a common literary symbol but rather a signpost to Fitzgerald’s narrative strategy. And it’s through this signpost that we see the bigger issue that Fitzgerald is up to, that of the limits of covetousness. You can spend your life trying to impress other people but Gatsby could have been better served to realize that he didn’t ever really see Daisy, even when she was right next to him. I think the whole book would be better if it was narrated by Tom and Daisy’s kid.

  Because that kid is probably really and truly fucked.

  (I think this is 750 words. But if it’s not, oh well. My title should count as part of the 750 words. I’m just saying. How many kids know how to do a colonated title? Also I didn’t use any sources because I wanted to write something original. Also I hope you get better.)

  CHAPTER 9

  On the Monday before Thanksgiving break, I was called out of English class to come to the office. We had been watching a version of A Christmas Carol partly because it was originally written by Charles Dickens and partly because none of us gave a shit about school because it was so close to break. I looked at Mr. Morris to see if this was going to be about my essay. But he was too busy trying to find a dry spot on his handkerchief to blow his nose into to even notice.

  In the office sat Mr. Singh. He was wearing a navy turban, a pink shirt, and a scarf so loudly printed that my eyes were deafened.

  “I thought we could take a drive to Columbus,” he said, with the vice-principal standing there, his head bobbing like a buoy in placid water. “We can buy your mother a present.”

  It was a little too easy for someone not my parent to take me out of school. The scandal of my family had become common enough knowledge to make the administration numbly compliant with any fresh new outrage.

  Ohioans are like that. So polite in the presence of obvious sin, so nasty when it’s just rumored.

  I got my coat and my backpack from my locker. It hadn’t been vandalized in months—a shiny place from where it’d been scrubbed so many times. Maybe that was the final vandalism. Something done so often that the marks of cleaning had permanently scarred it. I missed the vandalism. It was such easy drama.

  I met Mr. Singh in the parking lot. His red Saab had been freshly washed, just light marks of slush and salt on the wheel wells. Against the snow-covered football field, the car looked like a zit on an albino.

  As soon as I got in the car, Mr. Singh stood on the gas pedal. The car took off so fast I was pushed back into the seat. We both sat there quietly as he danced through the half dozen or so intersections between school and the highway. It wasn’t until we got onto 23 South and he levered the car into fifth gear that he began to speak—almost as if he couldn’t speak unless he was free of shifting gears.

  “I thought we should get some lunch and speak man to man,” he said.

  “I didn’t think we were really going shopping.”

  “Your mother is quite heartbroken that you won’t speak to her.”

  “Do you have to drive so fast?” I said. “It’s icy out.”

  “I used to drive in Canada.” He waved his hands dismissively at the world outside the windshield. “This is simple.”

  He gunned the engine to make his point.

  “I need you to know something about me. I think it will be helpful as we all come to terms with this new situation. I am not the sort of man who comes and snatches women from their husbands. I am not that man. I love your mother and she loves me.” He downshifted right before we hit a hill and the car flew for a moment before wiggling down on its suspension. “And she has for a long time.”

  He then told me the most amazing story.

  He had been an engineer with the Indian Air Force, modifying and maintaining the Folland Gnats for combat. “Terrible hydraulics on those things, absolutely the pits. I have scars on my hands from staying up late fixing the damn things.” He had been a part of the war of 1971 against Pakistan.

  “It took thirteen short days. The shortest war ever. Took out the Butcher of Bengal, a very very bad man.”

  He told me about the great pilot Nirmal Jit Singh Sekhon, who held his own against six of the Pakistani Canadair Sabres, scoring hits on two of them before being shot down.

  “The Sabres started strafing the base and he got in his Gnat, took off, and he engaged them. Took off during an attack. The man was fearless. The whole battle was done at treetop level. Do you understand? Skimming the trees. Outmaneuvering six other planes. Defended the Srinagar air base, by himself.”

  There was the Battle of Boyra with PT-76 tanks invading East Pakistan and the Gnats providing air support.

  “We called them the Sabre Slayers.”

  Mr. Singh had emerged with medals and was promised a prestigious posting. There were politics at work though that he’d been unaware of.

  “Probably did not shake the right hands at parties, did not flirt enough or flirted too much with a boss’s wife. Badmaash and dacoits, the lot of them.”

  He never got to assume the post. And then an old subordinate turned on him and spread vicious rumors about him, saying he was incompetent and an idler. The rumors had curdled the opportunities even with the private aeronautical companies. When Indira Gandhi’s government announced their Emergency, he decided he had to flee the country.

  “Gurbaksh was coming home from school spouting such nationalist nonsense. I could not envision a future for him in a country run by that woman. My wife refused to even consider leaving. She didn’t believe Nehru’s daughter could do such evil.”

  The rush of the world suddenly stopped. Mr. Singh was out of the car and putting his coat on before I realized we’d parked.

  “I’m sorry I never asked. Do you like Chi-Chi’s? It’s Mexican.”

  Inside the restaurant, Mr. Singh ordered the chicken fajitas. For two. Without consulting me. The waiter snapped the menus from us before I realized what happened.

  “We arrived in Toronto where I had some family members who hadn’t turned their backs on me for abandoning my wife.” He folded his hands in front of him reverentially. “It is the greatest regret of my life leaving her.”

  In Toronto, he couldn’t get an engineering job because he couldn’t produce his transcripts so the first job he got was as a caddy at a golf course.

  “I knew nothing of the game. A friend of a friend made the connection for me. I worked strictly for tips. For the first week, I thought the names on the players’ balls were their own. I was saying, ‘Good shot, Mr. Titleist.’ ‘Excellent work, Mr. Slazenger.’ And one day I was working for a young woman who I thought was named Mrs. Callaway.”

  When he said this, I remembered the notes that came with the flowers and the food the night of my dad’s party. The ones my mom clutched in the shower.

  “That was my mom.”

  He looked surprised. “You are quick, little Baruch. Yes, it was your mother. I was taken with her immediately. I used every excuse I could find to draw her into conversation. She was a terrible golfer and I was a miserable caddy so we had plenty of time to talk.

  “I had never fallen in love before, you need to realize. My wife and I were a match that made sense and while we were fond of each other and were good partners, I’d never known this . . . hunger for another person’s company.”

  Our drinks came—mine a Dr Pepper, his a hot tea into which he dumped five packets of sugar and half of his creamer tureen. Mr. Singh reset himself. Maybe realizing talking about his hunger for my mom might have been a skosh inappropriate.

  “We had dinner that night. As well as the next night. She’d have business dinners each night but she would not eat at these affairs in order to eat with me. She left before I ever learned her real name. I always called her Mrs. Callaway, to which she always laughed and never corrected me.

  “I knew she worked for Marriott. So Gurbaksh and I emigrated to America and traveled to Marriott cities, spending time in each searching for a woman whose name I didn’t
know. In America I was able to get engineering jobs and I built on each job each time we moved to a new city.”

  The wild sizzling of our fajitas came through the restaurant, quieting all the enchilada-and quesadilla-eaters into paroxysms of envy. The mad presentation and spectacle of the Chi-Chi’s fajita cast iron with Sterno underneath was one of the most hedonistic things I’d ever seen. It made everyone in the restaurant want to be you. It was weird to think of my mom in love. I’d thought Dad and her—actually I’m not sure I ever thought of them being in love. They argued a lot and Mom was gone a lot. How much does anyone want to know about their parents’ marriage? It was like the weather. It affected your whole day but you’ve got no control over it.

  “Careful,” our server said. “It’s hot.”

  We loaded up our flour tortillas with meat, peppers, and onions, heaping on shredded cheese and tomatoes. We were three bites into our second helping before I got up the nerve to ask him the question I’d been meaning to ask him the entire drive but somehow never found the perfect place to ask.

  “So how is my mom doing?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Mr. Singh dropped me back at school in time for eighth period. I had the fajita leftovers in one plastic bag and the birthday gift Mr. Singh had helped me buy for Mom (I’d suggested a nightgown, he showed me these lacy numbers that he thought she might like, I got her a stuffed Garfield). It probably wasn’t the best gift but Mr. Singh was rushing me, saying that we needed to be getting back and my thoughts went all muddy. My mom had no use for a stuffed Garfield but then I never really had any use for South Korean haute couture punk rock T-shirts.

  Also she wasn’t much of a mother. Not to me at least.

  The bell had rung and the halls were filled with people. I went straight to study hall with my bags of presents and fajitas and homework. It was like being famous. I felt like one of those fancy ladies in movies during a shopping spree, awkwardly laden with bags. I slid down the aisle to my seat. I waited for someone to whisper at me the question of where I’d been.

  “Lunch and a little shopping in Columbus,” I was ready to say.

  Jennifer McComber sat next to me. She had a nose that could slice deli meat and an overbite that could open a pop bottle but she was still really attractive. I don’t know how people like her do it. Be a beautiful ugly person. Most good-looking people were ugly beautiful. Somehow she was able to do some corporeal alchemy and in her jean jacket and gummy bracelets she was radiant most days in braces and sprayed-stiff bangs.

  “Hey, Yo-Yo Fag,” she whispered to me, like I had willed it to happen.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Keep it down, morons.” The guy up front was the baseball coach and this was his job: study hall monitor. Everyone called him Coach Study Hall, even to his face. There were at least three girls he was rumored to be fucking, which was totally unfair. How could any of us compete with a year playing AA-ball and a Datsun 300ZX? Anyway, he was notorious for sending kids to Saturday school on the most minor infractions so neither Jennifer McComber or I talked for fifteen minutes to let the storm pass. I used the time to practice my line. “Oh, just lunch and a little shopping in Columbus.” “I jetted to Columbus and back, y’know, lunch and some shopping. Did I miss anything?” “I dashed out to Columbus for some Mexican food. Did a little shopping too while I was there.”

  “Hey,” she hissed at me. “You’re leaking.”

  She pointed at my Chi-Chi’s bag. The corner was dark brown with liquid. I jumped up to throw it out.

  “Do you need to ask for permission for something?” Coach Study Hall shouted.

  Out of my seat with the leaky bag clutched to my chest, I froze. While I searched for the words I needed, laughter started rolling through the room. I felt warmth spreading across my belly and down my pants as the fajita liquid drizzled down my body.

  “Jesus, man. Have some self-respect,” Coach Study Hall said.

  The wet spot on my clothes was continental in proportion. “It’s fajita juice,” I said to the laughing room. “It’s fajita juice. It’s from my lunch.”

  “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up,” Coach Study Hall said, throwing the hall pass at my chest so hard I got pushed back. I tripped on my backpack and fell on my ass. The laughter got louder.

  I stood up and ran from the room. But in the hallway, teachers and students who had heard the laughter and poked their heads out of their rooms started laughing when they saw me. I ran to the bathroom and stayed there until the final bell rang. When I figured the halls would be empty, I left and went to pick my stuff up. On my desk was a note from the coach telling me to show up at 9:00 a.m. for Saturday school after break, on account of not returning the hall pass in a timely manner. I grabbed my backpack and fled the scene.

  I don’t know when I realized that I left the bag with my mom’s present in it.

  CHAPTER 11

  I took the shortcut along the train tracks. People said there were Satanists that partied up there on the trestle but I kind of couldn’t believe that they’d be partying at 4:00 p.m. on a Monday. Also with the grease stain on my pants walking home along the main road was not going to happen. I saw an abandoned bicycle lying beside the tracks and had enough time to formulate an ethics model that allowed me to steal it before I saw that there were two people lying together in the weeds and then it took me a little too long to realize that they were having sex. And too long after that to realize that it was Holly Trowbridge and Randy Colton and way too long before I realized I should stop staring. I walked by as ninja-silent as I could. But I was either going to go on the ties or on the chunky gravel. The ties were quiet but too close. The chunky gravel was farther away but too noisy. And there was no way I was getting out of this.

  I walked on the farthest side of the ties away from them. I tried not to look but I also needed to monitor them. If they chased me I was going to need every last sliver of a head start. Randy’s big white bottom was flexing and releasing and Holly had one of her hands grabbed onto his ass, with one of her fingers jammed up his butthole. I only half saw this. But Randy kept on saying, “Up my ass. Up my ass. So good up my ass.” I let his words fill me in on what she was doing back there. I didn’t believe that you could talk a girl into doing something like that. Or that you’d want a girl to do something like that. I only knew my own butthole from wiping, washing, and a distant memory of thermometers. Also wasn’t Holly Trowbridge Porky Boxwell’s girlfriend and wasn’t Randy Porky’s cousin? I shut my eyes hard and tried not to breathe.

  Just as I was about halfway past them, how could I not look? I mean, sex was a complete mystery to me and I had Cinemax. It was the animating subtext of my life and there it was by the side of the train tracks, fifteen feet away from me. Also there were two of the scariest people I knew and they were totally vulnerable. Totally wrapped up in some cocoon of their own making. Oblivious to the snow, the cold, the exposure.

  I tripped on a tie. I just staggered a little but I was so convinced they’d heard me that I said, “Sorry.” And then I ran. I never looked back so I don’t know how long they chased me for.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next day on the bus, Holly didn’t look at me, even though I tried to give her a little wave that meant, “I am so not going to say anything about you tickling your boyfriend’s cousin’s asshole near the train tracks yesterday.” I wanted her to know that I wouldn’t rat them out.

  When Porky got on three stops later, she said, “There’s my lover-boy,” and kissed him so hard and for so long that the bus driver yelled at them three times to get them to stop.

  “There’s no PDA on the bus, children. Keep it in your pants,” she said to the long rearview mirror above her.

  I turned in a slip about the Garfield doll to the main office to be read over the PA during morning announcements but my mind couldn’t really focus past the fact that I was going to get my ass beaten by Randy Colton. It was going to happen in gym. It was going to happen in the locker
room. If I skipped gym, he’d beat me up after school. If I skipped school, he’d just wait until I came back. If I switched schools, he’d weaponize his vast inbred family to come after me. Everyone that is except Porky. Porky might beat my ass just because I was the witness to his betrayal. And maybe Randy would help Porky kick my ass because they’d heard that line about blood being thicker than water and they wanted to test the viscosity of my blood.

  We got to school and my head was oscillating so much that my neck started to hurt. I would have no chance against Randy so I don’t know why it was so important for me to be on the lookout. Maybe I just wanted to see it coming.

  “Barry,” someone behind me yelled. I bunched my shoulders so hard that I heard a pop. “Barry,” the person said again. I opened my eyes. Gurbaksh stood in front of me; his face in that expression that’s tired of me being so weird.

  “Did my dad take you to lunch yesterday?” he asked.

  I nodded while peeking around him.

  “In Columbus?”

  I nodded again.

  “Next time, say no,” he said, while punching my shoulder with his index finger. “He tell you about being a war hero? You know he lies, right? Why can’t anyone see this? You and your mom are such suckers.”

  “I’m sorry,” I heard a voice a lot like mine saying. It didn’t continue so I don’t know if I was apologizing for going to Chi-Chi’s or excusing myself from the conversation or saying that he had the wrong person—I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. I really don’t know what I meant by it. And I didn’t have any time to find out because a giant hand dropped on my shoulder.