Grouper's Laws

by D. Philip Miller

  “Oh Christ, here comes Turley,” Dispatch said, turning the key in the ignition.

  Blondie followed Dispatch’s gaze and saw a police cruiser turn off Front Street and head their way. His stomach seized up. What if they got busted? He could already feel himself turning into a spineless noodle under their condemning eyes.

  Dispatch kept the P-mobile idling until the bubbletop slowed and disappeared behind the front of the diner.

  “He’s circling,” Feller said.

  Dispatch eased the P-mobile out and around the diner. Just as it rounded one end, the taillights of the police car disappeared around the other.

  Feller congratulated Dispatch as he turned south on Baltimore Pike.

  “H-hey l-look…” Shakes shouted, pointing behind them.

  The black Meteor was crossing the pike on Flynn street, a hundred yards behind.

  “Where are they going?” Feller asked.

  “They must be going to Susan’s,” Dispatch answered. “She lives just around the corner.”

  “It’s not even ten-thirty,” Brick said. “Johnson wouldn’t be taking her home now.”

  “Maybe she’s more resistant than we thought,” Feller responded. “Let’s find out.”

  Dispatch turned around at the first place he could. By the time they reached Flynn, the Mercury was already parked halfway down the block. It appeared deserted.

  Dispatch eased the Dodge alongside the curb across the street and killed the motor.

  “You dickhead,” Brick said, “You stop right under a streetlight.”

  Dispatch reached for the key.

  “Don’t move now,” Feller said. “You’ll draw attention.”

  “There’s no one in the car,” Brick said. “This is a fucking wild duck hunt.”

  “Wild goose chase,” Feller corrected.

  “Whatever.”

  “GET DOWN!” Grouper ordered.

  Two shadowy heads had surfaced from the Meteor’s depths.

  Everyone ducked but Grouper, who was in shadow and, with his bulk, had nowhere to go.

  “What’s happening?” Feller asked him from a crouch.

  “They’re apart. She appears to be talking to him. Or arguing with him.”

  “I told you she was tough,” Dispatch said. “You’d need a backhoe to get into her snatch.”

  “Yeah, well, what were they doing a minute ago, when we couldn’t see their heads?” Feller asked.

  Dispatch didn’t respond.

  “Wait a minute,” Grouper said portentously. “She’s moving toward him. He’s putting his arm around her. THEY’RE DOWN!”

  Slowly, five heads rose in the P-mobile. All peered intently at the car across the street.

  “God, they’ve been down five minutes,” Feller said after a while. Blondie didn’t think it had been anywhere near that long.

  “Y-yeah. I w-wonder what they’re doing,” Shakes said.

  “Maybe Johnson’s playing hide-the-salami with her,” Feller said.

  “Or m-maybe h-he’s m-muffdiving,” Shakes giggled.

  “Come on, you guys,” Dispatch pleaded. “She isn’t that kind of girl.”

  “At least not with you,” Feller replied evenly.

  What were they talking about, Blondie wondered. A guy putting his mouth between a girl’s legs? Now, that was gross.

  “THEY’RE UP,” Grouper announced. His voice was like a klaxon sounding on a submarine … dive, dive! Everyone but Grouper slumped from sight again.

  “They couldn’t have done anything,” Dispatch said. “They didn’t have time.”

  “Give me a break, will you?” Brick responded. “He could’ve reamed her out good by now.”

  “THEY’RE DOWN,” Grouper thundered.

  “Give me another beer,” Brick said as the group slowly inched up into sitting positions. Feller handed out another round. Blondie took another, although he already was having trouble making out the shapes in the car across the street.

  Another beer went down before Grouper said, “THEY’RE UP!”

  They slid down on curved spines.

  “God, Johnson must’ve taken her around the world,” Feller remarked.

  . Blondie wondered what that meant.

  “They’re probably just snuggling,” Dispatch said.

  “Yeah, and Santa Claus lives in my basement,” Brick retorted.

  “Aw, shut up,” Dispatch snarled at him.

  “WHAT?”

  “Forget it, Brick,” Feller said. “You gotta remember that Dispatch has feelings.”

  “In a pig’s ass he does.”

  Blondie briefly flashed on a pig’s backside … pink and round with a corkscrew tail. The tail began to spin, then his head began to spin. He leaned forward on the back of the front seat.

  “Are you all right, Blondie?” Feller asked.

  “Um-mm,” Blondie replied through clenched lips. He felt a warm column of something soft pushing up into his throat.

  “THEY’RE DOWN.”

  “They’re up, they’re down,” Brick repeated sarcastically as he sat back up. “Push-ups in a cucumber patch. They’re doing it, I tell you.”

  “You don’t know that,” Dispatch said, still resisting.

  Someone stuck another beer in Blondie’s hand.

  “What do you think, Grouper?” Feller asked him.

  Years cycled by in Blondie’s mind before Grouper finally spoke.

  “A woman’s virtue is often a matter of circumstance.”

  Blondie didn’t remember anything for a while after that. The guys must’ve grown tired of debating Johnson’s and Susan’s behavior, because the next thing Blondie saw was a large neon sign that said “Burger Palace.” He was on his back with his head across Shakes’ lap.

  “He’s gonna hold it,” Blondie heard someone say.

  “No, he’s not,” someone answered. “He’s going to lose it.”

  “Please, n-not on m-me,” Shakes begged.

  “Well, now, look who’s arrived.”

  Blondie recognized Brick’s voice. Then he heard another voice that sounded familiar …. an unpleasant one.

  The neon sign began to turn black and the night sky began to turn white. The world was turning into a photo negative. A buzzing in his head kept him from making out the words being spoken, but Blondie thought he detected angry tones.

  Like a geyser of oatmeal, the warm column in his throat began pushing into his mouth. Blondie knew there was no holding it this time. With a surge of energy born of compassion for Shakes, Blondie flipped over on his stomach and opened the door. He just managed to push his body forward and get his mouth over the pavement before he blew.

  The last thing he remembered as he lost his cookies were someone’s feet beneath his erupting maw.

  * * * * * * * *

  A muffled clanging echoed through the chambers of his skull — someone building a boiler deep within his brain. At first, Blondie could see nothing but black. Then, slowly, a pattern emerged … cross stitches of white, like sutures. As the clanging continued, he seemed to float upward in the void until the objects ratcheted into focus. He found himself face-to-face with a pair of black canvas sneakers.

  His mother’s voice calling him to breakfast yanked him from the last clutches of sleep. His head was pounding and the taste in his mouth was ferocious. Sand filled his eyes. The door eased open.

  His mother peeked in and said, “Time to get up, dear. You’re going to be late to school.”

  Blondie stumbled into his pajamas and felt his way to the kitchen. Everything — walls, stairs, furniture — was fuzzy and indistinct. Worse, things kept moving before his eyes.

  His mom and dad were already dressed. His mom smiled pleasantly at him. His dad smiled pleasantly at him. They seemed to know something he didn’t.

  Blondie sat down and placed his elbows on the Formica tabletop. He dropped his head into his hands.

  “I
s everything okay, son?” his mom asked.

  He looked up through half-opened eyes. She was staring at him.

  “You don’t look good, son,” his dad said. He smirked at him in a malevolent way. “I think you’re hung over.”

  His mom froze, mouth agape. Everything was too bright, but Blondie couldn’t shut his eyes.

  Then his dad winked at him and said, “The best thing for a hangover is a stiff belt.”

  He reached under the table and brought up a bottle of Kentucky Turkey. He poured three glasses. His mother licked her lips as she reached for one.

  Blondie woke up in a sweat, his sheets stuck to him like flypaper. He looked over at the clock: 9:26. Why hadn’t his mom come for him? He remembered. It was Saturday. His parents let him sleep as late as he wanted on Saturday.

  Blondie forced himself to get up. While shaving, he rammed his big toe into the portable heater and cut it. Drops of blood spotted the cold tile as he searched for some bandages. He spilled them on the floor opening the box. He couldn’t find one to fit his big toe. When he put shaving lather on his toothbrush, Blondie decided he wasn’t ready to face the day. He went back to bed.

  His folks were gone when he woke. A note taped to the refrigerator read, “Gone to buy groceries, lazy bones. Fend for yourself.” Blondie poured some cereal into a bowl before he discovered the thought of milk made him sick. He scrounged around in the fridge until he found a couple small winter tomatoes from Florida. He ate them raw with salt.

  He picked up the newspaper his dad had left on the dining table and turned to the sports page. Roger Maris hadn’t hit a home run the night before. Good. He was still tied with the Babe. Blondie didn’t want Maris to get the record. The Babe had been a Baltimore boy.

  A large photograph of President Kennedy and the first lady graced the front of the next section. Blondie admired JFK. He was like a god — so handsome, so confident. He fantasized himself as a young Jack Kennedy. He bet Tammy would go for him then … probably all the way. Despite his reverence for her, an image of her lying naked on a bed popped into his mind. Her dark triangle of femininity was aimed right at him. The thought of it made him shiver. Were other guys this nuts? No wonder girls had such immense control over them. Thinking of Tammy stirred a thought in his muzzy mind.

  “This is the night of the CYO dance …. “Blondie tried to trace the idea further by adding, “That means…” He couldn’t remember what CYO stood for. After a few moments of concentration, it came to him — Catholic Youth Organization. The dance was in the basement of a church, Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart or something like that. Shakes had told him the whole club was going.

  “Big deal,” Blondie’d replied.

  Shakes had given him a sly look.

  “T-tammy’s usually there.”

  What a scumbag she’d think he was if she saw him now. He had to finish shaving, then shower and get dressed. Had to.

  Blondie was proud of his transformation by the time his parents returned from their trip into town. Tight, appropriately faded jeans. White shirt with collar turned up. Sand-colored Hush Puppies. Except for roadmap eyes, he looked pretty good. He hid them behind a pair of sunglasses.

  “Why are you wearing sunglasses in the house?” his dad asked.

  “Really, Bernard. It’s not good for your eyes,” his mother added.

  Blondie donned a sweater and went outside on the porch. Sharp light etched his retinas. He squinted and forced himself to focus on the sharp outline of a just-framed house on a far hill. He wanted to use it like a knife to whittle away the haziness inside his head. But staring at the house gave him a headache.

  He went back into the house and joined his dad, who was watching a football game in the family room. He never said a word to Blondie, although he griped about a couple bad calls in a way that seemed to include him in his disaffection.

  Dinner that evening was a struggle because his mother kept trying to get him to eat more, unaware that what he’d already eaten had driven him to the verge of nausea.

  “Do you have plans for tonight, Bernard?” she asked.

  “Going to a dance,” he mumbled.

  “A dance. How nice.”

  How could he tell her? He didn’t want nice. He wanted action.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the time 8:00 p.m. rolled around, Blondie was going stir crazy. He’d started to watch Perry Mason, but he couldn’t get into it. His mind kept jumping from one thing to the next. He felt there was something he should be remembering, but he couldn’t get a fix on it. His heart leapt when he heard the hammering engine strokes of the P-mobile.

  Dispatch’s eyebrows were knotted together when Blondie got in the car. The corner of his mouth jerked when he put the car in gear. Blondie could tell he was agitated.

  “Something bothering you?” he asked.

  “Nearly got in Kathy Ricardo’s bra last night,” Dispatch said.

  “Nearly?”

  “She had on this fucking double hooker. I couldn’t get it undone. When I asked her to help, she said her mood had passed.”

  “Tough luck,” Blondie said.

  “What’s wrong with the people who make those things? I mean, they oughtta put the hook in front.”

  Blondie couldn’t suppress a grin. No wonder he liked this bunch. They were at least as fucked up as he was.

  “Cheer up, Dispatch. Things could be worse.”

  “Yeah, I know. I could be you.”

  Blondie didn’t like the sound of that.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “You threw up all over Buford’s shoes.”

  A fault line opened in his consciousness.

  “Barnwell?”

  “Yeah, how many other Bufords do you know?”

  “Those were his black sneakers?” Blondie blathered, fighting the truth of it.

  “Well, they were black. Now they’re all kinds of colors. If Brick hadn’t been there …. ” Dispatch’s voice trailed off.

  “Was Buford real mad?”

  Dispatch’s jaw dropped. He stared at Blondie.

  “He said you were dead meat.”

  DEAD MEAT. It sounded so ominous, so final. An image: a tangled mass of blood and hair on the highway … roadkill. His fate.

  “Why didn’t he go after me last night?”

  “Are you kidding? You had puke all over your shirt.”

  His shirt. What had he done with his shirt? Oh yeah, he’d dumped it in the laundry hamper — right where his mother would find it! Well, at least she wouldn’t beat him to a pulp like Buford would.

  “He still might have killed you if Brick hadn’t have told him to lay off,” Dispatch added.

  “Buford’s afraid of Brick?”

  There was hope after all.

  “Some, but Brick said he wouldn’t want to tangle with Buford either.”

  “What was Buford doing beside the P-mobile?”

  “Just giving us some gas. Nothing serious.”

  Dispatch headed south out of town, past the bowling alley and Shain’s used car lot. Just past Shain’s, Dispatch turned left onto a gravel road bounded on one side by a rickety fence. The homes were father apart than in town, but smaller and more run down. Some had rusting appliances on their porches.

  Shakes’ home was a ramshackle bungalow behind a stunted willow. A tire leaned against the front stoop, apparently a castoff from the aging Studebaker in the drive. A pane in one of the front windows was missing, the glass replaced with a dark rag … a house with a black eye.

  A light flared inside when Dispatch honked the horn. A few minutes later, Shakes shuffled out in a flimsy wool jacket and dark pants. He affected a jaunty walk as he approached the car, but his smile seemed feigned. A shadow fell across his left cheek. It failed to disappear when he opened the door and the light came on.

  “What happened to you?” Blondie asked him.

  “I r-ran into the dr-dresser
.”

  “You aren’t that short,” Blondie said, attempting humor.

  “I s-said I d-did, d-didn’t I?”

  “Hey, no need to be sore. I don’t give a shit if you’re clumsy.”

  Dispatch drove on, picking up the rest of the gang — Brick, Feller, and the Grouper. Blondie whistled softly when they arrived at the Whipples. Class: fieldstone with gables and wainscoting on the second floor, set back from the road in a grove of trees. A mansion by Fenton’s standards. Blondie wondered what Grouper’s dad did.

  All aboard, Dispatch directed the P-mobile back toward the outskirts of town, where, on a small hill a block off the highway, they arrived at a gray stone structure with a white spire — the “Church of the Bleeding Martyr” according to the sign in front. Halfway down the hill was a parking lot full of cars no self-respecting adult would have owned. Dispatch added the P-mobile to the collection.

  Music blared from an open door beneath the sanctuary. Guarding the entrance was a balding, mild-mannered-looking man in gray slacks and an argyle sweater. Behind him was a sign: “Alcoholic Beverages Forbidden.” In longhand, someone had added “Ditto for Drunkenness.”

  Inside, kids were milling about like barnyard fowl seeking feed — fluttery, disordered. A turntable and records were stacked on a card table at the far end of the cavernous room. The deejay, a gangly youth with glasses and an unfortunate complexion, slapped a record on the turntable.

  Elvis began belting out “Little Sister.” A few girls looked hopefully around. Boys avoided their looks and talked with friends or leaned against the wall, smoking.

  With a start, Blondie saw that one of the wall-bound smokers was Buford. Blondie ducked behind a support beam. He looked for Purdy but didn’t see him.

  He turned to find himself facing Bobby Clements, star halfback. Bobby appraised him in a non-threatening way.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked. He was wearing a burgundy sweater vest over a white shirt. Blondie noted his powerful, sloping shoulders and confident gaze. He was glad Bobby hadn’t asked him why he was hiding behind the post.

  “Yes, new,” Blondie answered.

  “You hang around with Feller and his group,” Bobby said in such a neutral way Blondie couldn’t tell if hanging around with them was good or bad.