“I thought he didn’t get nervous,” Blondie remarked.
“That d-doesn’t mean he d-doesn’t f-fuck up.”
Dispatch reappeared shortly, wearing a smirk and carrying a brown cardboard box. He handed it through the window to Brick and then drove around town until he saw what he was looking for — an empty and secluded parking lot. It didn’t seem to matter to any of them that it belonged to the First Methodist Church. Dispatch pulled in behind the chapel and killed the motor.
Grouper, who’d said nothing to this point, let out a long sigh and extended his huge paw over the front seat.
“Can you wait a minute?” Brick fussed at him as he ripped open the top of the case. He pulled a can opener from his jacket and began puncturing the hard steel tops one by one.
Blondie was amazed at the way they attacked their beers. They poured the golden liquid down their throats as if they’d just crossed the Sahara. Blondie wasn’t about to tell the rest of them he could barely tolerate the stuff.
“One down, three to go,” Brick announced with a loud belch. He offered everyone another can.
Blondie’d barely started on his first, but he wasn’t about to betray his tardiness. He propped the can between his feet and reached for another. He began drinking it as fast as he could.
Every so often, Shakes would speak up and say something that everyone else ignored. Periodically, Brick would belch or fart and Feller would get on him for it. Otherwise, the P-mobile’s cavernous interior was silent. Was this how a sortie went? It didn’t seem very exciting.
Feller reached the same conclusion.
“What have we got here, a fucking graveyard? Blondie must think we’re a bunch of corpses.”
“Y-yeah, c-corpses,” Shakes repeated as Grouper wrenched open another beer and Brick belched again.
“Ah, hell, why do I even bother with you jerk offs?” Feller muttered. “Come on, Dispatch, let’s go to the game.”
“Fuck the game,” Brick said as Dispatch hit the ignition.
“Well, that should tide us over,” Blondie said after he’d finished his beer. He was already a little woozy.
“Tide us over?” Feller asked. “Oh, you mean until after the game.”
Blondie hadn’t meant that at all. Was Feller suggesting the case they’d bought was only the pre-game refreshment? No way could he drink any more without getting tipsy … and he couldn’t come home drunk. His parents would kill him.
As the P-mobile slid from its sanctuary, Blondie heard Grouper sigh again. When they passed under the next streetlight, Blondie saw that his eyes were closed. A beatific look illuminated his face.
“Grouper loves beer,” Feller said.
Despite a warm tingling in his head, Blondie felt a chill between his shoulder blades when they arrived at the parking lot. He was heading into uncharted waters. All the goofballs and good-for-nothings from school would be at the game, but under less control.
Cars were crammed from curb to curb: cherry red Chevy Bel Airs with air scoops on the hoods, low-riding Ford pickups with mud flaps, long-nosed Edsels, classic Dodge hot rods — every kind of medium-priced to worthless vehicle Blondie could imagine. Most needed immediate first aid, their rusty scratches, bent fenders, and chipped chrome crying for the ministrations of a body-shop wizard.
Dispatch gunned the P-mobile through two wooden barricades labeled “Keep Off Grass” and parked on it anyway. A stream of students, plus a fair portion of adults, funneled through a gate in the cyclone fence behind FHS’s bleacher section.
Mr. Farber guarded the gate, tickets in hand. He seemed as humorless and intense as ever, his short red hair aglow from the stadium lights. He scowled when he saw them.
“Fifty cents, boys,” he said.
“Be careful, the Bear’s watching,” Feller whispered to Blondie, tilting his head.
Vice-principal Bearzinsky, a shadow beneath the bleacher, scrutinized the incoming crowd.
Shortly after they’d all paid, a surf-like growling began at the far end of the field and built into a roar. Through a break in the crowd, Blondie saw the home team run onto the field through a cordon of cheerleaders. They shook red-and-white pompoms as the player raced past. Blondie peered down the line of short skirts and bare legs to see if she was there. She was! That she seemed less boisterous than her comrades made her even more appealing. He didn’t want her to be a mindless Pollyanna.
The players huddled around Coach Warner in front of the bleachers as the cheerleaders executed a routine. At the end, they leapt into the air, kicking their legs outward, displaying dark blue panties.
“All r-right, sh-show us y-your privates,” Shakes shouted.
Blondie sighed. Was it his fate to keep company with Philistines? He realized he and Shakes were alone.
“Where’d the others go?” he asked Shakes.
“L-looking for D-delores.”
“Delores?”
“D-delores Clitoris.”
Delores Clitoris? That couldn’t be her real name.
“The guys always l-look for D-delores during a g-game. She’s supposed to be a r-real nympho.”
“Why?” Blondie asked.
“H-hormones, I g-guess.”
“No, dummy,” Blondie said. “I meant why are they looking for her?”
He hoped they weren’t planning a gangbang. He hadn’t signed up for anything like that. The thought of it tightened his stomach. If that was the kind of thing they did, they could include him out.
“D-dispatch always tries to t-talk D-delores into c-coming back to the c-car and g-giving everyone a hand j-job.”
That was just as disgusting to Blondie — and just as unacceptable.
“Would she do that?”
“She never h-has.”
Shakes giggled.
“Then why …?” Blondie started to ask, then quit.
“They’d h-have more l-luck with Flapping Fl-florence.”
“Who?”
“Florence G-goldfarb,” Shakes explained anyway. “Her f-father owns the h-hardware store. Brick c-calls her Flapping Fl-florence because she likes to s-sit between two g-guys and p-pull their p-puds. H-he says she l-looks like a b-bird taking off.”
What kind of girl did things like that? And why? It seemed gross beyond measure to Blondie.
“This Florence did that with Brick?”
“N-no. H-he just heard about it.”
“Isn’t there anything you guys know from firsthand experience?” Blondie asked, exasperated.
“Wh-what are y-you sore about?”
“Nothing. I’m going to watch the game. Alone.”
Blondie began climbing the bleacher so he could see the field better. At the top, he found the Grouper sitting by himself. Blondie was surprised. He’d assumed Grouper had gone off with the rest of them.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Grouper as he took a seat next to him.
“Watching the game, of course.”
“I thought you’d be with the others.”
“What? With that trollop?”
A look of contempt crossed his face.
Blondie felt relieved. They weren’t all mad.
Grouper crossed his thick arms and legs and peered out at the field. Blondie followed his gaze. The sight was magical: the lime-green grass encased by the high dark walls of the night … the colorfully dressed crowd tossing back and forth like exotic fish caught in the tide.
Brown scars in the earth marked where the two teams had battled. They were at the south end of the field, helmets down, facing each other for another ferocious charge. The cheerleaders were shouting, “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate?” despite the fact the other team had the ball. But so what? All Blondie cared about was that Tammy was there. He imagined she was performing just for him.
“You like that one, don’t you?” Grouper said.
Blondie felt like he’d been caught window peeping.
“Just enj
oying the cheers. That’s all.”
Grouper grunted.
An eruption of noise snapped Blondie’s mind back to the game. The opposition had fumbled the ball. Fenton High began to move. Unconnected as he felt to his new school, Blondie nonetheless felt a tremor of excitement as the Flyers made several first downs in a row.
Over and over, he heard the crowd murmur “Clements, Clements.” Blondie guessed he was the nimble halfback who kept carrying the ball. He was tall for a running back, but he had shifty feet and a powerful glide. Blondie saw Tammy watching him. He felt jealous.
A hand grabbed his ankle.
“What the …?” Blondie looked down. Shakes had climbed up the back of the bleacher and was perched between two support beams.
“Are you nuts?” Blondie asked him. “You could kill yourself.”
“Come on d-down,” Shakes implored him. “I’ve g-got s-something to show y-you. G-grouper t-too.”
Blondie glanced at Grouper. He was focused on the game.
“I’ll pass,” Grouper said.
Christ, Blondie grumbled to himself. He squeezed past knotty knees that pummeled his legs until he reached an aisle, then made his way to the underside of the bleacher.
“L-look,” Shakes said, holding up a prophylactic. Blondie could tell it had been used. He gagged.
“You brought me down here to show me that?”
Shakes acted hurt.
“There’s m-more,” he said. He tugged at Blondie’s sweater and pulled him further beneath the bleacher.
“L-look up,” he said.
Blondie glanced up at the people standing above.
“So?”
“W-wait’ll there’s a b-big play.”
A few minutes later, the crowd bellowed like a bull lanced by a picador. It rose in a wave.
“Now l-look. Y-you can see Mrs. Fogarty’s snatch.”
Blondie had no idea who Mrs. Fogarty was. He could make out several women overhead and he could see part way up their skirts, but then everything went dark. The furor ended and everyone sat down.
“D-did you s-see it?”
Blondie shook his head.
“I d-did. I’m sure I d-did.”
“It was dark.” Blondie said, not wanting to argue.
“She w-wasn’t w-wearing any panties. It w-was a great squirrel sh-shot. I w-want to tell Brick.”
“Then tell him.”
“Y-you’ve got to b-back me up. He never b-believes me.”
“How about if I say you might have seen it?”
“N-nobody ever b-backs me up,” Shakes complained.
Blondie heard a low scraping noise behind him. He turned and saw two shadows mounting the fence. When he recognized their shapes, he stepped back into the shadows.
“Oh, sh-shit,” Shakes said. “It’s Barnwell and Purdy.”
“I thought you weren’t afraid of them.”
“They’ll k-kill me if they c-catch me alone,” Shakes said.
Despite his own trepidation, Blondie was annoyed by Shakes’ comment.
“You’re not alone,” he said. “Now, why do you think they’re out to get you?”
“Sh-sh-sh.”
The figures dropped to the ground and briefly looked in their direction. Blondie felt his heart speed up. Then, soundlessly, they sneaked off. When they were out of sight, Shakes answered Blondie’s question.
“I m-mooned them.”
“What?”
“Y-yeah. I m-mooned them. Last weekend. They were p-parked down by the B-burger Palace and Brick m-made me m-moon them.”
Blondie was growing wise enough not to ask why. He was also beginning to tire of Shakes’ company. He went searching for the others.
Blondie found them in a semicircle on the far side of the gym. Leaning against the wall in their midst was a semi-cute girl in a black leather jacket and tight black skirt. She had to be Delores.
At first, Blondie thought she was seventeen or eighteen, but closer, in the pale reflection from the gym’s windows, he could tell that, despite layers of makeup, she was no more than fifteen.
“How about just me, then?” Blondie heard Brick ask her.
For a moment, Blondie imagined something sinister in the tableau before him … a gang rape. But as he approached, he noticed that Delores was laughing. It was all an act. The guys were teasing her and she was teasing back.
“I wouldn’t touch any of your things,” Delores declared.
“Not even Goliath?” Brick asked her.
“Goliath? Is that what you call it?” She laughed. “I bet I’d need a microscope to find any of your little dickies. If I even wanted to, which I don’t.”
Feller began to chuckle. Blondie could tell he found the whole scene grand theater. Blondie heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Grouper and Shakes approaching.
“I wondered where you guys were,” Feller said.
The rest of group turned toward them as well. While Shakes recounted how Buford and Purdy had jumped the fence, Delores walked away.
“Billies getting in for free?” Grouper said. “Unacceptable.”
“Ah, this whole scene sucks,” Brick said in disgust. “Let’s get some more beer.”
Grouper readily agreed: “Girls are okay, but a beer is a man’s best friend.”
“Hey, isn’t that a law?” Blondie asked Feller.
“You bet. It just isn’t a new one.”
With Grouper leading the way — his huge torso rocking forward with each stiff-legged step from his stilt-like legs — the Club made its way back to the P-mobile.
Just before they reached it, Blondie heard a rasping sound. Brick was dragging his can opener along the side of a red-and-white Ford Galaxie Skyliner.
“What are you doing, you moron?” Feller yelled at him.
“It’s the Bear’s car,” Brick answered.
“I know, I know. Jesus. Get in the car.”
Feller shoved Brick toward the P-mobile. Dispatch already had started the motor and as soon as they were all in, he gunned the motor, sending up a rooster tail of grass and dirt.
“Christ, can’t any of you do anything right?” Feller screamed. “Dispatch, just give it a little gas.”
The P-mobile lurched forward, tipping Blondie’s leftover beer. He felt the cold liquid settle into the bottom of his shoes.
“What’d you do that for?” Feller yapped at Brick.
“Bearzinsky’s an asshole,” Brick replied.
“That’s not good enough. We don’t do things like that in this group.”
“Ah, blow it out your ass, Feller,” Brick mumbled.
Blondie was glad Feller was on Brick’s case. He couldn’t condone vandalism.
As they were leaving the parking lot, they saw another car speeding from a nearby exit. A black Mercury Meteor.
“Hold it!” Feller commanded.
Dispatch stomped on the brake.
“What’s up?” Brick asked.
“That’s Jump-em Johnson’s car,” Feller said. “And Susan Conner was in it.”
“Not Susan Conner, Dispatch’s steadfast virgin?” Grouper asked.
“The very same. Can Johnson succeed where Dispatch failed?”
“No way,” Dispatch said.
“The question seems to be,” Grouper said, “what happens when the unstoppable member meets the impenetrable hymen.”
“Why don’t we find out?” Feller said. “Hit it, Dispatch.”
“Y-you m-mean a c-car chase?” Shakes asked.
“CAR CHASE!” the rest of them shouted.
CHAPTER TEN
Up Front Street and west on Home Street, south on Horace and east on First Street. The P-mobile’s cat eyes lasered through the darkness — subjecting drunkards and derelicts to blinding light — while its rubber paws pulled them forward in gut-wrenching lunges. But their quarry eluded them. The black Meteor had been swallowed by the night.
&n
bsp; “Way to go, Dispatch, you lost them,” Brick sniped.
“Feller didn’t even tell me to follow them until they were nearly out of sight,” Dispatch defended.
“The true warrior never waits for orders,” Feller declared.
“Ah, get fucked,” Dispatch growled.
They were all nuts, Blondie decided. They were the Three Stooges, the Bowery Boys, the Marx Brothers. They barked and bit at each other like a pack of wild dogs. They cursed and blasphemed like candidates for hell. They were his kind of guys.
“What about the beer?” Brick demanded.
“B-beer, b-beer, b-beer …. ” Shakes began chanting.
Brick and Dispatch joined in … a group mantra. Grouper boomed out “beer” in final punctuation.
“All right,” Feller agreed. “Back to the Suds Cellar.”
Soon, another case of Pabst floated from the Suds Cellar astride Dispatch’s chunky shoulders. Four more beers each, Blondie thought in dismay. He still felt a little unsteady from the can and a half he’d downed so far.
The group killed off another two beers each in the diner parking lot, Blondie struggling to keep pace. With each swig, the mood inside the P-mobile gravitated further toward the manic.
Dispatch flicked on the radio. Dion was belting out his new hit, “Runaround Sue.”
“Hey, isn’t that your girl Susan?” Brick taunted Dispatch.
“She’s not my girl.” Dispatch grumbled.
The song jazzed them even more. Soon, everyone was shouting the words.
“H-hey Blondie, h-have y-you ever heard Brick’s f-first law of s-sexual dynamics?” Shakes shouted above the din.
Blondie shook his head. He thought Grouper was the only one who made laws.
“Brick, t-tell Blondie the f-first l-law of s-sexual dynamics.”
“Eat me,” Brick responded.
“Ah, go ahead, Brick,” Feller urged. “This is a chance to show everyone that you’re not a complete ignoramus.”
Brick scowled at Feller.
“Okay,” he grumbled. “The heat of the meat is directly proportional to the angle of the dangle multiplied by the mass of the ass, so long as the square of the hair remains constant.”
Shakes giggled.
“What d-did I t-tell you?” Shakes said to Blondie, who had no idea what his point was.
Grouper's Laws Page 7
