They passed a dilapidated house between a used-car lot and a garden supply store. There were cracked panes in the windows and the rusting carcass of a car on the front lawn. Some boards had come loose, revealing tarpaper beneath. Blondie was sure the house was deserted until a grizzled old man stepped out of the door.
“Billies,” he muttered.
His mom heard him. She asked him what he meant. Blondie explained.
“That’s terrible,” she said when he’d finished. “Those people are just poor.”
“Poor doesn’t excuse their behavior,” Blondie retorted.
“Poor excuses a lot and you’d know it if you’d ever been poor. Ask your father. He grew up in the Depression. What am I saying? I grew up in the Depression. We didn’t have any of the things you kids have today.”
“Then how come you guys didn’t turn out to be billies,” he said when she was done.
“Maybe we were lucky,” his mom said. “You shouldn’t judge others.”
What? Was she kidding? That’s all anyone did at school, and over the most trivial things — the way someone looked, what they wore, how they styled their hair, what kind of car they drove, and on and on. Anyway, he wasn’t buying it. Shakes was poor and he wasn’t mean. Of course, he was awfully small.
It took forever to find a parking place. Crazed shoppers knocked into him all afternoon, while Christmas songs assaulted him in an endless and mind-numbing progression. He couldn’t find a thing he wanted. As far as he was concerned, the trip was a total bust.
Coming home, they passed a sign announcing the “Sherwood Forest Motel” in Medieval calligraphy. What caught Blondie’s eye was the large face of a goateed man in a crested hat — Robin Hood, no doubt. A look at the place convinced Blondie Sherwood Farce would have been more apt. There wasn’t a tree for a hundred yards … just a cluster of aging bungalows surrounded by an asphalt parking lot.
His eyes gravitated to a car parked in front of one of the bungalows — a red-and-white Ford Galaxie Skyliner. It looked a lot like the Bear’s. What reason would he have to be at a motel in the middle of the day? Even stranger was that the only other vehicle in the lot — a bright blue Nash Rambler — was parked right next to it.
His mom was still in a high state. She began hinting around at what Santa might bring him, as if Blondie were still fascinated by a fat elf in a suit. Blondie knew what he wanted for Christmas and his mom couldn’t get it for him.
“Dear Santa, could you please bring me a girl for Christmas. Make her skin clear and fresh, her lips full and red, her hair shiny and dark. Heck, skip the specifications. Her name is Tammy Hollander.”
Sincerely,
Blondie Reimer
* * * * * * * * *
“This place can be a real drag,” Feller said to Blondie on Monday.
“You’re telling me,” Blondie agreed, even though they’d only been back at school two hours.
“Let’s cut school tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Let’s cut tomorrow,” Feller repeated.
“Why? What’s special about tomorrow?”
“Nothing. It’s just one more day in the pen.”
The thought of playing hooky made Blondie nervous. He hadn’t skipped school once in his entire educational career. How could he? His mother was a teacher.
“What would we do?” Blondie asked.
“We could shoot pool at the bowling alley.”
“What if we get caught?”
“Tell you what. Come stay at my house tomorrow. Tell your mother I’m taking you to school and bringing you home. You won’t be running any risk.”
“How about your mom?”
“What will she know? We’ll leave and return at the normal time. We just won’t go to school.”
Feller seemed to have covered all the bases. Blondie still didn’t like it, but how could he wimp out in front of his newfound friend?
“Okay,” he agreed.
“I’ll see if anyone else wants to cut with us.”
Dispatch was the only taker. Brick said he didn’t like to shoot pool. Feller didn’t ask Grouper — “He’d never do anything against the rules,” he explained. Blondie found that odd. He considered him a free thinker.
“What about Shakes?” Blondie asked.
“I didn’t even ask. He’s in a funky mood because Janine dumped him.”
It must be awful to be rejected by someone as ugly and insignificant as Janine Raznosky, Blondie thought. Poor Shakes. But the scheme was set and three of them were players. Blondie took a deep breath. He was about to break the rules.
He kept his head low the next morning as they drove through the outskirts of town in Feller’s dad’s Fairlane. They were fugitives from high school. Blondie was sure Bear would call the police to request an all-points bulletin. He listened for the siren’s wail. Save for the P-mobile, the parking lot was empty when they reached Shady Lanes. As soon as they stopped, Dispatch came out and dashed over to them.
“It doesn’t open until 10:30,” Dispatch grumbled when Feller rolled down his window.
“It opens at nine on Saturday,” Feller said.
“It isn’t Saturday.”
“It opens at nine every day during the summer.”
“It isn’t summer, either.”
“Well, shit!” Feller said.
Feller suggested they cruise around town in the P-mobile until the alley opened. Blondie balked at that — someone might see them. Dispatch suggested the quarry. Blondie had never been there, but it had acquired mythic proportions in his mind from the stories the guys told about it: the drinking, the lovemaking, the fighting.
Blondie was disappointed. The legendary quarry struck him as no more than a big hole filled with brackish water and dead leaves. Feller insisted it was more romantic in the summer when there were the trees were full and the moonlight bounced off the water. All Blondie could think of was some kid falling in and drowning, his bloated body rising to the surface days later covered with slime.
They shot the shit until 10:15 — growing colder by the minute so Dispatch could save gas — then headed back to Shady Lanes. Another car was there when they arrived: a puke-yellow fifty-eight Mercury.
“That’s Fred’s,” Feller affirmed. “He’s the day manager.”
Blondie pulled up his collar as he went inside, just in case Fred might someday run into his mother. Once he saw Fred, he quit worrying about that. He was a greaser from way back, with a ducktail straight from a mallard and enough pockmarks on his face to rival the Badlands. He was fiddling with the soft drink dispenser. He nodded at Feller and returned to his labor.
“Can we get some balls?” Feller asked.
“Need some balls, huh?” Freddie said, cracking a grin. He went over to a gray metal cabinet and removed a plastic tray of striped and solid-colored spheres. Feller took it and led Blondie and Dispatch to the poolroom, where they began playing “Screw Your Buddy.”
Dispatch was the first one eliminated every game. After each loss, he concentrated even harder the next game, staring at each shot as if he were trying to frighten the ball into the pocket. He stroked each shot with a fury, now and then knocking balls off the table.
Feller’s approach to the game was more effective. He assumed a relaxed position over the table, lined up each shot with care, and never struck the cue harder than necessary.
Blondie realized his own game was like every other part of his life — prone to excess effort, uncertainty, and fear of failure. Nevertheless, by studying each shot and taking his time, he found he could beat Dispatch most of the time and Feller every now and then.
After an hour or so, a young man stalked into the billiard room. He was big — Blondie guessed 240 pounds — and most of his heft was muscle. He looked like he’d arrived in the world in a piano crate. An apprehensive look flitted across Feller’s face. He missed his shot. Dispatch, intent as always on his immediate task, seemed o
blivious to the newcomer’s arrival.
Under his denim jacket, the man wore a tee shirt with the words “Rodney’s Fix-It” hand-lettered across the front. He dropped his tray of balls on the next table and ambled to the wall rack to select a cue. Feller’s eyes were glued to his every movement.
“Who’s that?” Blondie whispered to him.
“Sh-h-h, he might hear you,” Feller replied.
When the man returned to his table, he nodded their way. Feller relaxed.
Blondie and Dispatch and Feller began another game. Dispatch wound up with a long shot. He let fly with a mighty stroke, propelling the cue ball off the rail and high into the air. For an instant, the ivory orb hung against the paneled wall like a miniature moon. Then, as the three of them watched in terror, it began to fall toward the unsuspecting skull of the newcomer. At the last minute, the man moved to his left and the ball smacked down at his feet.
He turned and gave them a peevish look. Feller blanched, but Dispatch stuck out his lower lip and shot the man a defiant look. The little guy had balls.
“A guy could get killed down here,” the man said. His face looked like the front of an old Packard — wide, cold, hard. He picked the offending ball from the floor. Blondie expected him to squeeze it into chalky dust. Instead, he walked purposely toward their table. Just when Blondie thought he was going to shove it down Dispatch’s throat, he softly set it down.
“I do the same fucking thing … ” the man said, ” … hit the son of a bitch too hard.” A smile flitted across his mouth. He went back to his table.
“Let’s get a Coke,” Feller said to Blondie. Feller’s voice was small and rough, as if it had been pulled through a cheese grater. He pulled Blondie past the lunch counter and into the men’s room. He leaned against the door.
“Do you know who that is?” he asked Blondie.
Blondie shook his head.
“That’s Mountain Pulaski. He graduated four years ago. Went to North Dakota State on a football scholarship. Played left tackle. Hurt his knee his junior year.”
Blondie wondered why Feller was giving him this biography.
“They say he threw Paddy Conroy over a car,” Feller said, building up to his punch line. “He’s the toughest guy in the county.”
Blondie didn’t contest Feller’s conclusion, though he had no idea who Paddy Conroy was. He didn’t need to. One look at Pulaski told Blondie he ate tire irons for breakfast.
“Don’t say a word to the guy,” Feller warned. “It might be your last.”
When they returned to the poolroom, Blondie and Feller were astounded to find Dispatch shooting a game with the brute.
“Oh fuck,” Feller whispered to Blondie. “Dispatch won’t have the sense to lose to him.”
“Dispatch couldn’t beat a one-armed epileptic,” Blondie reminded him.
While Blondie and Feller looked on, Mountain trounced Dispatch seven games in a row.
“How about one for money?” Pulaski asked. “I’ll take three of my balls off the table to start with. Make the four that are left and the eight ball and you win. For a buck?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Dispatch said.
The game was on and Dispatch bore down with his usual intensity. As usual, it failed to compensate for his lack of skill. Soon, Mountain was lining up a shot on the eight ball.
“Corner pocket,” he called.
With a smooth stroke, Mountain sent the cue ball straight to its target, where it met the eight ball and propelled it into the corner pocket. For a moment, the cue ball remained motionless, then it began spinning backward. It bounced off a rail and banked into a side pocket.
“You scratched,” Dispatch gloated. “You owe me a buck.”
Mountain looked at him with eyes of flint. Then he reached into his back pocket and tossed a dollar bill on the table.
“You owe me a rematch, mop-head, but I gotta go.” He flicked out his hand and mussed Dispatch’s hair. “You’re a feisty little pecker,” he said, grinning at him. He started for the doorway.
Almost as from someone else’s mouth, Blondie found himself addressing Pulaski.
“Excuse me, sir … ”
Mountain turned and scrutinized Blondie.
“Have you ever heard of Buford Barnwell,” Blondie stammered.
“Yeah,” Pulaski answered with a puzzled expression.
“Is he very tough?”
Mountain gave Blondie an astonished look and began to laugh. He was still laughing as he clomped from the room.
“Jesus, that was dumb,” Feller said. “Mountain would chew Barnwell up and spit him out without even thinking about it.”
“Well, then why are we all so scared of Barnwell?”
“First of all, none of us are Mountain Pulaski. Secondly, I’m not sure we’re all as scared of him as you seem to be.”
Blondie felt rebuked.
“This is boring,” Dispatch announced.
Feller gave him a vexed look.
“Well, then, why don’t you suggest something more interesting?”
“Why don’t we go down to the Celestial Arts?” Dispatch suggested.
Feller looked at Dispatch more respectfully.
“Not bad,” he said.
“What’s the Celestial Arts?” Blondie asked.
“It’s a nudey show down in Baltimore.”
“You mean naked girls?”
“One would hope,” Feller answered sarcastic-ally.
“Can we get into something like that?” Blondie asked. He noted a squeak to his voice. “I thought you had to be eighteen.”
“They don’t care. Brick goes all the time. What do you think?”
Blondie didn’t know what to think. He’d never been to a “nudey show.”
“Who’s there?” Feller asked Dispatch.
“Pam and her Playful Python.”
“That could be rich. What do you think, Blondie?”
“Can we get back in time?”
“Sure, we could be back by four and still see a whole show.”
Feller and Dispatch were waiting for him to respond. The very idea of what they were contem-plating turned his insides to pudding. What if they got caught there? Underage. Looking at naked women. What would his mother think?
“What the hell!” Blondie answered.
It was time to draw the line. He couldn’t worry about what his mother thought every time he needed to do something to advance his development as a man. He couldn’t — he wouldn’t — be a pussy forever.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Snow polka-dotted the air when they left the lanes. Clumps were sticking to the concrete.
“Maybe we should reconsider,” Feller said.
Blondie could live with that.
“Through rain, sleet and snow the P-mobile will go,” Dispatch countered.
Feller looked at Blondie, shrugged, and got in. Blondie had no choice but to follow.
“Looks like Christmas out there,” Blondie said as Dispatch began plowing down Baltimore Pike, his windshield wipers barely keeping up with the white fluff.
By the time, they entered the endless brick tenements of North Baltimore, the snow had subsided to a few desultory flakes. As they proceeded into the heart of the city, white faces gave way to darker ones. The row houses petered out and the high walls of downtown closed about them in a sooty embrace.
They parked in a side street near the shot tower, from whence union troops had dropped globs of molten iron during the Civil War, watching them cool into cannonballs before they hit the ground. A short walk brought them to The Celestial Arts was just around the corner. Its neon marquee blazed the inscription: “Pam and Her Playful Python. Erotic Dance of Serpentine Proportions.”
“Pretensions of art to keep the cops away,” Feller scoffed.
Blondie was apprehensive as Dispatch approached the ticket window. What if they had to show identification? What kind of a crime was
it to look at naked women if you were only seventeen?
The crone in the booth didn’t flinch when Dispatch dropped the bills in front of her. She kept reading a copy of True Romances as she handed him the tickets.
Blondie followed Dispatch and Feller through glass doors painted black. He plunged into a vestibule barely lit by a red bulb and bumped into something soft that mumbled … Dispatch. Feller grabbed Blondie’s arm and pulled him in the opposite direction. Heavy velveteen curtains brushed against his body and then a stage appeared from the darkness. A shabbily dressed man was standing on the stage holding onto his fly as if trying to control a giant erection. A halfhearted chuckle echoed off the far walls.
Blondie rammed his leg against the metal side of an outstretched seat and then was shoved into it. He hunched down a little in case someone was sitting behind him. When Blondie’s eyes adjusted, he realized the theater was almost empty. Only the first row was fully populated.
The comedian on stage continued his lewd slapstick, now and then zinging an insult at someone in the audience. He kept talking about a woman’s “snapper.” Blondie had never heard the term before, but he knew what the comedian was talking about.
“Is this it?” Blondie asked Feller. He felt disgusted with himself for agreeing to come.
“Be patient. This is one of the comedy acts.”
“It’s a barrel of laughs.”
“See those men on the front row,” Feller said.
Blondie nodded.
“They’re always here. They all bring hats. When the lights go out, they put their hats in their laps and jack off into them.”
Blondie’s stomach heaved.
“Why do they do it?”
“They’re old and poor. This is their sex life.”
After the comedian, there was drum roll and a fat lady appeared on the stage wearing a gold-colored G-string and a matching bra. As a hidden band played strip music, she removed her bra and then the G-string. Blondie was shocked.
“I thought they had to keep something on,” he whispered to Feller.
“They do. See. She tied it around her thigh.”
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