“It’s gotta be Shakespeare this time,” Brick murmured to Jerry, “I’d bet all the money I have.”
“Shakes … Shakes … Shakespeare!” Caldane cried out, triumphant at squeezing the treacherous name from his lips.
Bucky clapped her hand to her forehead in disbelief. Grouper groaned. The class roared. Jerry fell to his seat in uncomprehending disrepair.
“Why do I even try?” Bucky muttered.
“Dumb shit!” Dispatch hissed at Caldane from behind.
That set the class off again, even louder.
Bucky jumped up, knocking her desk askew. Fury pinched her face.
“Dismissed!” she shouted.
“But the bell hasn’t rung, Mrs. Buckley,” Mary Cherry reminded her.
“The hell with the bell!” Buckley hissed at her. “Dismissed,” she repeated loudly to the milling class, “Go to gym class, go to study hall, go to h …. ”
“Mrs. Buckley!” Mary gasped.
“I don’t care,” Buckley’s eyes were growing moist, “just get out.”
The bell rang and students exploded into the hall, buzzing and clamoring. Caldane chased after Brick still berating him, a terrier snipping at the heels of a mastiff.
Grouper ambled slowly out of the class, wiping his nose with a handkerchief and sniffling as if to clear his sinuses. Blondie had been impressed by Grouper’s knowledge of literature and wanted to tell him so, but he’d never spoken to him before and didn’t want to come across as overly familiar. As if he’d read Blondie’s mind, the Grouper cast his small eyes his way and, after putting his handkerchief into his back pants pocket, beckoned to him.
“To survive,” Grouper said to him throatily when Blondie approached, “one must be aware of certain universal principles … shall we call them laws?”
Blondie gazed at him in anticipation of some revelation, but Grouper turned and waddled away. Blondie was disappointed. He felt he’d been on the brink of being taken into the Grouper’s confidence. The incident in Bucky’s class, however, gave Blondie an idea of how to score some points with the B and F Club.
The next time he saw Feller in the hallway, he called to him. Feller gave him a curious and appraising look.
“Do you remember Jerry Caldane’s episode in Bucky’s class?”
“Of course,” Feller replied.
“Is that the kind of performance that might qualify him for full membership in your club?”
“What do you know of our club?” Feller asked sharply.
“Caldane has filled me in a little,” Blondie answered defensively, before recovering and asking in an aggressive tone, “Why, is it a secret?”
“Not really.” A small smile creased Feller’s lip. “To answer your question, we would certainly give strong consideration to any situation in which someone makes a complete asshole of himself.”
“I recognize that I’m not a member of your group,” Blondie said more respectfully, “but I thought if Caldane was being considered for full membership, you might need a nickname for him.”
“I’m in charge of names,” Feller shot back at him.
“Yes, I know, and you’re obviously quite good at it.” Blondie hated the unctuous tone in his voice. “I had an idea, that’s all, and I thought you might be interested.”
His servile manned seemed to soften Feller.
“We’ve never solicited for names, of course, but I suppose we should be big enough to accept suggestions from outside. What is it?”
“Shakes,” Blondie answered.
“Shakes? Hey, that’s not bad. Of course, we’ll have to consider the matter as a group.”
“Of course.”
The next morning, Jerry came up from behind and grabbed Blondie’s shirtsleeve. His face was scarlet with anger.
“Sh-shakes, huh? You th-think that’s a g-g-good name for me. Well, it st-stinks.”
“I thought you wanted a nickname.”
“S-something with d-dignity. Not Sh-shakes.”
“So, tell them you don’t like it.”
“I d-did.”
“Well?”
“It d-didn’t matter. They g-gave me the n-name anyway.”
Despite Jerry’s ire, Blondie was pleased. They’d used the name he’d suggested.
Thursday was the day for experiments in chem. class. For the first time, Blondie would be engaged in a common enterprise with Feller. The task: heating sulfur to see how it changed states with the rise in temperature. Farber pranced around the room like a martinet, scolding those who hadn’t properly lit their Bunsen burners or placed the proper amount of powder into the glass cylinders.
“Worse than a fart,” Feller said as the odor escaped from the container.
“Yeah,” was all Blondie could think to say.
Feller pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and scrutinized him.
“You wouldn’t be looking for a group to join, would you?”
“Not necessarily,” Blondie quickly replied.
“Too bad.”
Feller turned his attention back to the burner. He didn’t say anything more. After they’d completed their experiments and cleaned up their equipment, Farber launched into a lengthy lecture on the many uses of sulfur and all its compounds.
Blondie felt he had to take a chance.
“You do seem to have an interesting collection of characters in your group,” he whispered to Feller.
“That’s exactly how I think about it.” Feller rubbed his cheek and gave Blondie an appraising look. “You strike me as pretty perceptive … creative, too. ‘Shakes’ — that was good. And you’ve got a certain style.”
A certain style? Blondie started to probe further but thought better of it. He wasn’t sure he’d like the answer.
Farber had moved on to the role of sulfur in military armaments.
“Without sulfur,” he told the class enthusi-astically, “World War II wouldn’t have been possible.”
“I mentioned you to the guys,” Feller murmured toward the end of the hour. “They’re not opposed.”
“Opposed to what?”
“Why, picking up your contract, of course.”
After the bell rang, Feller invited Blondie to join him and “the guys” for lunch. Blondie didn’t attempt to hide his glee. He was being brought in. What else could it mean?
When Blondie exited the cafeteria line, he saw that Feller was sitting with all the B and F Club members. Caldane was with them; apparently, he’d been embraced back into the group. Blondie assumed a confident air and strolled over to the table. Feller had saved him a seat.
“Fellows, this is Bernard Reimer,” Feller said. “His nickname is Blondie.”
“It took me s-six months to get a n-nickname,” Jerry protested.
“Would you jack down? He already has a nickname.”
“H-he’s not even a m-member.”
“Well, we’ll make him an apprentice member if he likes …”
Feller looked toward Blondie.
“Sure,” Blondie said.
“Good. Then it’s done.” Feller looked around thoughtfully. “Okay now, let’s see …. You know me and Caldane. How about the Grouper?”
Grouper nodded.
“And Brick?”
Blondie allowed as how he’d seen him around.
“This other fellow here is Dispatch.”
Blondie looked into the round face beneath the mop of dark hair. Dispatch didn’t appear to notice. He stared straight ahead with a look of mild displeasure. Feller told Blondie his real name was Darrel
Kendall and that Brick’s was Howard Brickowski.
“Why don’t you have a nickname?” Blondie asked him.
“I’m the namer of names. I don’t need a nickname.”
Feller looked around as if to see whether his explanation would be accepted, then he continued.
“We especially wanted you to be here, Blondie, for the enunciation
of a new law, since you were a witness to the events which led to its discovery — to be specific, Shakes’ fiasco in Bucky’s class.”
Blondie nodded.
“One of our functions as a group is to uncover the true laws that govern human behavior,” Feller added. He turned to Grouper.
Grouper looked solemnly toward Caldane.
“Obviously, there was a law at work in Bucky’s class yesterday,” he said. “I believe it’s a new one. But how to properly phrase it …. ”
Grouper took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose, although it was dry.
Everyone looked toward him expectantly.
Finally, his deep voice boomed forth as if God himself had chosen to speak: “Only an asshole takes advice from an asshole.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rain strafed the windowpane in machine-gun bursts as Blondie stared out the window, forlorn. Another Fenton Saturday with nothing to do and rain to boot. He listened to Sarah Vaughn sing about another September in the rain. She almost made it sound romantic. Maybe if he were ensconced in some mountain cabin with a fire going and a girl in his arms ….
Blondie had hoped after his acceptance into the B and F Club that he’d be invited along with them this weekend. All day Friday, his antennae had been straining for any hint of an invitation. All Feller had said was, “Be ready to go on a sortie with us some time.” Blondie hadn’t known what to make of that. He’d only heard the word “sortie” before from his dad and then in the context of an attack of some kind.
“Blondie,” his mother called.
He opened his door.
“I’m going into town to get my hair done. Do you want to come along?”
She had to be joking. Did his mom think he’d want to spend Saturday with her — or be seen with her? Cool guys didn’t hang out with their mothers.
He declined. But when he heard the front door shut, he changed his mind and went running after her. The alternative was sitting around the house watching Captain Kangaroo or Shari Lewis and Her Puppets.
His mother gave him a knowing smile when he opened the car door.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Blondie hated that smile. Sometimes, she acted like she could read his mind. Well, one of these days he was going to surprise her.
The rain eased as they headed into town. Before they reached the rusty sign at the town limits, the sun broke through. Blondie perked up.
Fenton’s main drag was Front Street, a gauntlet of ticky-tack two-storied structures, relieved only by a small park and the granite bulk of the Mayhew County Courthouse. The park’s only feature was a tarnished copper statue of Fennimore Fenton, the town father. Honoring the founder of Fenton struck Blondie as equivalent to celebrating the discoverer of earwax.
The Hustler was playing at the Marylander Theater down the street. Blondie had seen it at the post theater in Percy just before they’d moved to Fenton. He wondered what it would be like to be Fast Eddie Felson, pool hustler … being so good you could win close against lesser talents without them even knowing they’d been taken … traveling from town to town, making money as you went, completely self-sufficient. But then, even Fast Eddie had needed a girl.
Blondie thought of Tammy. He wondered if she’d be attracted to someone like Fast Eddie. If so, he’d spend more time at the pool hall. He scanned the streets in case she was out and about.
“What are you looking for?” his mom asked.
He ignored her.
His mom turned left into an alleyway beside Maxine’s Hair Salon, her destination.
“You’re awfully quiet today, Bernard,” she said after shutting off the motor. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” he mumbled. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
He appreciated her taking an interest in him, but not with that look … like he was about to drown.
“You were looking for someone back there, weren’t you? A girl, I bet.”
She could read his mind. It was spooky. Blondie pursed his lips. He wasn’t going to bite. No way.
“It wouldn’t be Susan Feldman, would it?”
Ugh!
“Susan doesn’t even live in Fenton, for Pete’s sake,” Blondie snapped. “Anyway, this girl is much prettier than her.”
Now he’d done it.
“Why don’t you ask her out?”
“She’d never go out with me.”
“Why not? You’re a nice boy.”
Nice? That was a synonym for “eunuch” to teenaged girls.
“Mom, she’s beautiful,” he said in exasperation. “She could have anyone.”
“Then why not you?”
Blondie groaned.
“I’m no star.”
“You are to me.”
Why couldn’t his mom ever get what he was saying? She’d been young once.
“Pretty girls get lonely, too. I know. I was pretty once myself.”
How many times had she told him that? He’d seen the photos and, yes, she’d had been pretty once, long before she’d gained so much weight — but she hadn’t been gorgeous. She hadn’t been perfect like Tammy.
“Girls have the same feelings as boys, you know,” she added.
Now that was preposterous. Girls weren’t even the same species as boys! They thought buying new shoes or changing hairstyles were major life events. They never ran, even when crossing the street. Besides, they didn’t need it as much as guys — and that was major. How could his mother be so naive?
Blondie told his mom he had “things to do” and bolted from the car. He decided to check out the records at the Bonanza Variety Store. He found them in the dim recesses at the rear of the store. It was so dark he could barely make out the names. He was looking for the Bristol Stomp by the Dovells, but he couldn’t find it, so he wandered over to the bookstand. His enthusiasm picked up when he found a copy of The Carpetbaggers. He’d heard there were some juicy parts in it. He skimmed page after page, looking for a key word that would tell him he was onto something — an expletive or a body part. But he couldn’t come up with anything.
Vexed, Blondie crossed the street to Rexall’s. Blondie looked around the store trying to find out where the rubbers were kept … just in case he ever got real lucky. He’d seen some of their names in a men’s magazine a friend had shown him once — Love’s Glove, Ecstasy and such. They almost sounded sexy, but Blondie couldn’t imagine what a girl would find attractive about a guy wearing one of those. Of course, he couldn’t imagine what a girl would find attractive about a pecker.
“Can I help you?” the pharmacist called to him.
Blondie shook his head and hurried out.
“Bernard!”
His mother was heading his way. What was she doing out of Maxine’s so soon? His cover as a cool guy was under full parental attack.
“Are you sick?” she asked when she reached him.
“No. Why?”
“I saw you coming out of the pharmacy.”
Oh yeah. What could he say he was doing in there?
“I thought I needed some toothpaste.”
“Where is it?”
“I remembered I didn’t need any after all.”
“Well, no matter. Didn’t you say you needed some underwear? Why don’t we pop into Cunningham’s and get you some.”?
Buy underwear with his mom in broad daylight? He’d rather get his nuts checked by a woman doctor.
“No way,” Blondie said.
His mom grabbed his arm and began tugging him toward the store. Just as they reached the entrance, Feller came strolling out. There was nothing to do, nowhere to hide. The leader of the B and F Club had caught him red-handed with his mom. He saw his chances of being embraced into the group flying into oblivion like the last passenger pigeon.
“Hi, Paul,” he said, feeling like a fool. “This is my mom.”
His mom looked at Blondie and lift
ed her eyebrows.
“Mom, this is Paul Feller,” he quickly added. “He’s in my class.”
“Mrs. Reimer, I’m pleased to meet you.”
Blondie couldn’t help admiring how smooth Feller was. Nothing seemed to shake him. He, on the other hand, felt his insides squirming like a sack full of snakes. As he began contemplating the mechanics of seppuku, he heard a high-pitched cry.
“Paulie! Yoo hoo, Paulie.”
Paulie?
A petite dark-haired woman in a gray wool coat and high heels came racing toward them.
“Mrs. Reimer, Blondie, this is my mother,” Feller said when she arrived.
Now it was Feller’s turn to dance. Blondie was happy to see a flush appear on his face.
“I don’t know why Paulie wanders off when we come to town together,” she said.
Maybe this wasn’t so bad, Blondie thought. They each had something on the other now. All the same, Blondie was pleased when Paul and his mom trundled on down the street. Jesus, parents were embarrassing.
Halfway home, his mother gave him a pensive look.
“You weren’t in the pharmacy looking for something besides toothpaste, were you?”
“Like what?” he asked innocently.
“Has your dad ever talked to you about sex?”
Was she kidding? His dad hardly talked to him at all.
“It’s best to wait,” she said.
“Mom!”
It was absurd. He didn’t even have a girl and his mother was warning him about sex. If only she had reason ….
“Sex can be good, though,” she continued after a long pause. “I’ve always wished your father was more passionate. I guess it’s because of his religion.”
She began to sniffle.
Blondie sighed and looked out the window. He didn’t want to hear about her sex problems. The idea of his mom and dad having sex — anyone their age having sex — was both incomprehensible and distasteful. Sex was for young people with attractive bodies. People his age … like him.
“Thank God I have you, Blondie. You have feelings. Your father has never really loved me, you know,” his mom said, her large mobile face beginning to quiver. “He’s always put his family first.”
Grouper's Laws Page 5
