Grouper's Laws

by D. Philip Miller

  “Real shit,” Blondie said.

  “Wh-what?”

  “This…” Blondie held out his fork, “what they call food.”

  “Oh yeah,” Jerry quickly agreed. “R-real shit.”

  “Who’re they?” Blondie asked, inclining his head toward the table Jerry had been watching.

  “A b-bunch of assholes.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Hey, you better w-watch what you say.”

  Blondie was surprised at Jerry’s sudden shift of sentiment. He could be a fierce little mouse.

  “I thought you didn’t like them.”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  “S-sorta.”

  What did Caldane mean by that? Blondie didn’t want to set him off again by asking.

  “Is that big guy their leader?”

  “Who? Gr-grouper?”

  “Grouper? I thought his name was Whipple.”

  Caldane snickered.

  “Why do they call him Grouper?”

  Caldane looked at Blondie as if he were an idiot.

  “After the fish?” Blondie realized he was losing face. “So who are they?”

  “They’re the B and F Club.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Just a b-bunch of assholes,” Jerry replied, returning to his earlier

  refrain. “Stuck up, too. They think th-their sh-shit doesn’t smell.”

  “B and F?”

  “Brick and F-feller. Feller’s that g-guy with the long c-curly hair. H-he started the Club.”

  Blondie scrutinized the young man with the Byronic air. He did appear to be the leader, talking and gesturing and drawing smiles in return. Blondie found his manner — graceful and self-assured — highly appealing.

  “What does this B and F Club do?”

  “Raises h-hell,” Jerry answered proudly.

  “How do you get into this club?”

  “Gr-grouper says it’s a matter of class. H-he says if you have any you c-can’t belong.”

  “There must be more to it than that.”

  “W-well, you c-can’t be a b-billy.”

  “A billy?”

  “You know … a hillbilly.”

  “You mean like the Hatfields and McCoys?” Blondie was mystified.

  “Gr-grouper says they’ve come d-down from the h-hills and th-threaten all of Western c-civilization.”

  What was Caldane talking about?

  “Gr-grouper says that you can t-tell billies by a three-part test. F-first, do they like triple f-feature Elvis Presley m-movies? S-second, do they think g-getting into a f-fistfight in a tavern is the b-best way to

  spend a Friday n-night? And m-most important, do they hang things f-from their dashboard mirrors?”

  “What kind of things?”

  “F-fuzzy dice. G-girls g-garter belts. You know.”

  Suddenly, what Caldane was saying began to make sense.

  “These people — the ones you call billies — do they like to pick on people for no reason?”

  “Y-you b-bet. B-billies are b-bullies.”

  Caldane smiled at his cleverness.

  “Have you heard of a kid named Buford?” Blondie asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  “B-buford B-barnwell? That t-turdbag. Are you k-kidding? Grouper calls him the k-king of the b-billies. Why?”

  “I heard he was a tough guy, that’s all.”

  “M-maybe h-he thinks h-he is,” Jerry said defiantly.

  “You wouldn’t be afraid of him then?” Blondie asked. He noted how thin Caldane’s arms were — not much thicker than hockey sticks — and how his head barely reached Blondie’s shoulders.

  “N-no way.”

  “Good, next time I see Barnwell, I’m going to let him know there’s one guy here who isn’t afraid of him.”

  “H-hey. Wh-what are you trying to d-do? N-nobody s-said anything about t-telling B-barnwell anything.”

  Blondie chided himself for yanking Jerry’s chain.

  “How about the big fellow?” Blondie asked, nodding toward Whipple. “Could he take Barnwell?”

  “The Gr-grouper? Grouper’s not a f-fighter. He wouldn’t f-fight anyone.”

  Blondie was disappointed. The guy was big enough.

  “B-brick could whip Buford’s ass, though,” Caldane said.

  Blondie scoped him out. His physique was neo- fireplug — no neck, just square head on square shoulders.

  “Would he, though?” Blondie asked.

  “Probably n-not. B-brick mostly d-doesn’t get involved in d-disputes. H-he doesn’t like to be b-bothered.”

  Blondie was disappointed. He wanted revenge — and, he realized a trifle shamefully, he wanted someone else to get it for him.

  There was only one guy left, the mop-haired fellow next to Brick. He appeared disinterested in the furor around him, scanning the lunchroom from beneath his thick bangs. Though short, his body seemed solid.

  “How about the guy with the funny haircut?” Blondie asked.

  “D-dispatch? I d-doubt it. He can be shitty s-sometimes, though.”

  “Why do they call him Dispatch?”

  “F-feller says it’s b-because h-he can n-never get a second date with any girl.”

  Blondie gave him a quizzical look.

  “H-he always g-goes for all the c-cookies on the f-first date. He d-dispatches them, g-get it?”

  Blondie thought it was a stretch.

  “Do all of them have nicknames?” he asked Jerry.

  “All except F-feller. He says h-he’s too c-cool to need one.”

  Blondie looked at Feller again. He could imagine him saying that.

  “How about you?”

  A sour look crossed Caldane’s face. His jaws clenched. Blondie could tell he’d hit a nerve, so he eased off.

  “This Barnwell guy. How come I don’t see him in any of our classes? Isn’t he a senior?”

  “H-he’s a senior all right, b-but he’s not r-real bright. H-he’s vocational. You kn-know, shop and auto mechanics … courses like that.”

  “Are there many billies here?” Blondie asked, returning to their previous topic.

  “Y-yes.”

  “Are they one of the groups you mentioned?”

  “Th-they’re not a gr-group. At least, n-not l-like the others. Gr-grouper says th-they’re a subspecies of Homo Sapiens and n-not to be c-confused with real p-people.”

  According to Jerry, the “real” groups were the jocks (athletes), the pols (student leaders), the brains (intellectuals), and the chops (cheerleaders).

  “Where does this B and F Club fit into the scheme of things.”

  “Feller says w-we’re the f-free spirits, the unconventional ones. The Grouper says w-we’re just misfits.”

  Blondie laughed, while noting Jerry’s inclusion of himself in the club.

  “At least there’s one honest man among the group.”

  “Br-brick doesn’t like him to s-say that. He t-told him to c-cut it out.”

  “So why are you so pissed off? You seem proud to be associated with

  them.”

  Caldane’s face reddened.

  “F-feller says I’m j-just a pledge. That’s wh-why I don’t have a nickname. F-feller’s the club p-poet, the n-namer of n-names. H-he says I haven’t d-done anything n-noteworthy enough to qualify for full membership.”

  “Like what?”

  “W-well, D-d-dispatch got in for g-getting caught w-with his hand up a g-girl’s skirt in church. By the priest. And Br-brick got in for p-pissing in the f-football c-coach’s shoes.”

  “Noteworthy accomplishments, to be sure,” Blondie commented dryly. “What did Grouper do?”

  “Gr-grouper never h-had to do anything. F-feller says h-he’s a c-curiosity the Club n-needs.”

  The bell rang and the cafeteria erupted into a stampede of gang
ly adolescents. Caldane followed Blondie to fourth-period English and took the seat next to him, displacing a slight kid with glasses, braces and pimples.

  Blondie was beginning to find Caldane’s company tiresome, but he wasn’t about to push him away. He viewed him as a potential link to the mysterious B & F Club, and, much as it sounded juvenile from Jerry’s description, it sounded like one group he might stand a chance of joining.

  This afternoon, Mrs. Buckley — Caldane called her “Bucky” because of her large front teeth — spent almost the whole period deploring the lack of recognition Alexander Pope had been accorded by literary historians.

  “He’s every bit as important as Shakespeare,” she concluded, staring out at the class, daring someone to dispute her. She then assigned the class a chapter on Pope as homework for the weekend.

  The only noteworthy occurrence in Buckley’s class, in Blondie’s view, was when the Grouper looked over at him just before the bell and gave him a wink. Blondie realized he’d been acknowledged and, even though he didn’t know what he’d been acknowledged as or for, he took it as a good sign.

  Again, Caldane followed him from class, seemingly intent on forging an alliance with him.

  A familiar motion snagged Blondie’s eye and his brain zoomed to red alert. Coming straight for them was his dark-haired idol and her pigtailed friend. A tremor pulsed through his body, wobbling his legs. He willed them to stop shaking and forced himself to hold his chin up. Stand tall, walk proud, act as if you don’t even see her.

  Blondie remembered Caldane. How could he be cool with Caldane by his side? He moved a step away, so she might think he was walking alone.

  “Wh-what are you d-doing?” Caldane asked.

  That ruined it. She must have seen Caldane talking to him. She’d think they were buddies. Oh God!

  As soon as they’d passed, Blondie asked Caldane as casually as he could who she was.

  “W-which one?”

  “That dark-haired girl.” Blondie gestured with his head.

  “T-tammy H-hollander?”

  So that was her name.

  “Who was she with?”

  “Ph-phyllis Scarff. Why?”

  “I don’t remember seeing them around.”

  “They’re j-just j-juniors. That’s why.”

  Caldane gave him a suspicious look.

  “You’re n-not interested in th-them, are y-you?”

  Them? Certainly not them. Was Caldane brain-dead?

  “No, just curious. The Hollander girl is kinda cute.”

  Caldane looked back.

  “Y-yeah, I g-guess. But she’s pretty flat ch-chested.”

  Blondie barely managed to stifle his outrage. Where did this twerp get the nerve to judge his queen? So what if she didn’t have big tits? He didn’t like big-breasted girls. They were too mature or motherly or female or something.

  The day slid to its end, with only the humiliation of his first group shower in P.E. — what could be worse than a bunch of naked guys all standing around subtly comparing peckers? — to interrupt its otherwise unremarkable course.

  It was incredible! He’d done it. He’d survived a whole week at Fenton High. Of course, there were thirty-eight left. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that. He’d been sprung for the weekend.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By eight, Blondie paced his room like a caged tiger, periodically pressing his face against the windowpane. Now and then, cars passed beyond the streetlights at the end of their cul-de-sac, stealing from the development like panthers. He imagined them filled with guys and girls his age, off to evenings of pleasure beyond description.

  It was Friday night. The whole weekend loomed before him like a promise and he had nowhere to go. He had no friends. He had no hangout. He had no girl.

  He’d never had a girlfriend. He’d made out with a couple girls, but he had never gone with any. It was his looks. He knew it was. He was too boyish, too wholesome, too clean. He craved a rugged jaw and cleft chin like Kirk Douglas. Or a dark shadow of whiskers like Humphrey Bogart. Any mark or feature that would say he’d been around, that he was a man of substance, that he wasn’t to be trifled with. Instead, his face was as smooth and white as an egg, his hair fine as swan’s down, his eyes as powder blue as a spring sky.

  “He who blooms last blooms best,” his mom had told him once. In Blondie’s experience, it was just the opposite. The guys who grew muscles first, whose voices changed first, who shaved first, got the girls. Girls wanted a guy who was mature. It didn’t matter if he had mattress ticking between his ears or if he sweated like a fat man at a free dance.

  Blondie turned off the light and lay back on his bed in despair. He wanted — he needed — someone to love. He caressed the pillow beside his head. He could be loving. He could be gentle. He knew it. All he needed was someone worthy of what he had to offer. Someone beautiful.

  “Bernard, what have you been doing up there?” his mom asked him when he went back downstairs. She was across the living room rearranging the figurines in her hutch.

  “Just thinking,” he said, as he walked over to her.

  “Thinking about what?”

  “You know … just stuff.”

  Christ, why was she quizzing him?

  “I think something’s bothering you. Tell me what it is.”

  She sat down on the divan and patted the seat next to her.

  He wasn’t about to sit down next to her. He wasn’t a little boy. But he could use some consolation.

  “I’m bored,” he said.

  “Well then, why don’t you go down and watch television with your dad.”

  “That’s not what I need.”

  His mom’s large mouth rounded into a sympathetic pout.

  “I know. It’s difficult starting over, making new friends.”

  “It’s not about friends,” he blurted, before he could stop himself.

  “What then?”

  Her dark eyes warmed with concern.

  “Is it a girl?” she queried.

  He couldn’t tell her, could he? That would be just too dumb.

  “More like the lack of one,” he admitted.

  His mom chuckled.

  “Your day will come,” she said.

  “Yeah, like when? I’m already a senior and I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

  “How about that Susan Feldman you dated last year?”

  Blondie groaned. He’d taken the little pest to the movies twice because he’d been desperate for company. All she’d done was talk about clothes and makeup and stuff like that.

  “I’m just too weird-looking.”

  “Why Bernard, you’re a nice-looking boy.” Although he knew mothers were duty-bound to say such things, he liked hearing it anyway. “You just need a little more confidence when it comes to girls.”

  O-o-o-h, why had she added that? What if it wasn’t his looks? What if he just didn’t have enough confidence? That would be even worse. It would make his loneliness his own fault.

  “Francis told me there was a time when he thought he would never have a girlfriend either,” his mom said. “And now look, we’ve been married almost 18 years.”

  She was comparing him with his dad? That was supposed to buck him up? His dad was so square he wore white socks to work. He couldn’t imagine him ever romancing anyone, including his mom.

  “Go on, Blondie, go down and watch TV with Francis. It’ll cheer you up.”

  “Nah, I think I’ll read.”

  Soon he found himself back on his bed, contemplating his sorry state. He bet no one in the B and F Club was lying around by himself on a Friday night. Even if they didn’t all have girls, they had each other. That was more than he had.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Schizzt … schizzt … schizzt. Jesus, what kind of nut was making so much noise so early on a Saturday morning? Blondie stomped to his window. The day was clear and the sun was already halfway up the sky. Blon
die could see no one. Schizzt … schizzt … schizzt. There it was again, coming from the back of the house.

  Blondie opened his door and strolled across the hall in his pajamas. His parents’ room was empty, bed already made. What time was it?

  From the rear window, Blondie saw Mr. Potter stabbing a shovel into the gravely earth. Behind him were small burlap sacks crowned with thorny branches. Roses. Potter was planting a rose hedge between their two yards. Just because he’d hit a golf ball into his yard? It was possible, of course, that Potter just liked roses, but he hardly seemed the type.

  Blondie couldn’t take his eyes off Potter’s enormous back as he placed each rose bush into the ground, or the size of his forearms. What did he do for a living? Shoe horses?

  Potter turned his head toward his house. Blondie followed his gaze past the 1959 black Buick Invicta parked in his carport to a woman standing on the back porch. She was cut from the same mold as Potter, but smaller and with white hair. What kind of guy would live with his mother at his age? Maybe a homicidal maniac like that fruitcake motel-keeper in Psycho. The thought gave Blondie a chill.

  When he’d dressed and made his way downstairs, Blondie found his dad fixing an old radio on the kitchen table. He liked to do things like that. He hated to get rid of anything.

  “Good morning, Bernard,” he said.

  Why did he always have to be so formal? Why couldn’t he just be a regular guy?

  “I left you some bacon.”

  Blondie thanked him, got some milk from the fridge, and sat down across from him. Blondie watched his father work as he chewed on the bacon.

  “What are you going to do with that when you’re done?”

  “I don’t know. Put it on the shelf in the utility room. We don’t really need it right now.”

  Blondie tried to think of something else to say, something that might spark a genuine conversation between them. He didn’t know what that might be. Blondie waited until Potter finished his planting, then he got out his wedge and his golf balls and practiced his chipping. This time, he aimed away from Potter’s yard.