by Tim Tharp
That broke the spell. We knew the old Doberman wasn’t really mean and he knew we knew. We’d still drink our beer down in the drainage ditch, but now the dog would sit there with us and let us stroke his head. It was September, the season of the dog. Our parents didn’t know where we were and they didn’t care. It was spectacular.
Chapter 5
I met Ricky in the fourth grade and we’ve been thick ever since. He’s Germasian. His dad’s folks were actual German immigrants and his mom’s from Malaysia—Kuala Lumpur, I think. They met when Carl was in the navy. But it’s not like you might expect—the big stern German dude bossing around the meek little Asian wife. Actually, his dad’s a little dude like Ricky, and he seems kind of gay. I’m not saying anything Ricky hasn’t said himself.
His mom’s little too—I mean, she can’t be five feet tall—but she is nowhere close to meek. She has this high-pitched, twangy voice, like an out-of-tune banjo, and you can’t go over to their house without having to listen to her lay into poor little Carl over some nitpicky thing like leaving the water running while he’s brushing his teeth. When she really gets going, you can’t understand a word she says.
Ricky himself looks a lot more Asian than German, and girls think he’s the cutest thing in the world. But he’s talked himself into believing they don’t see him as boyfriend material. Admittedly, they can be condescending sometimes, like when Kayla Putnam said she’d like to pick him up and carry him around in her purse, but Ricky’s got a lot going for him.
For one thing, he’s one of the funniest dudes you’d ever want to be around. And also he’s smart. Maybe his grades don’t exactly show it all the time, but that’s just because he doesn’t apply himself. If he actually studied, he’d have a 4.0. I make sure to learn at least one new word a day off the Internet just to keep up with his vocabulary.
I’m always reminding him of what all he has on the ball, but does he ever bother to assert himself and actually ask a girl out? No. He always has some excuse—either she’s too tall or she’s too into her looks or she’s a racist. Okay, the racist one I can understand, but somewhere along the line, you have to tell yourself, Hey, this is just high school. All I need is a girl to go out with, like a practice girlfriend.
So considering his track record with girls, it’s pretty ironic when he starts in giving me advice about Cassidy.
“Dude,” he says, “you can’t screw this up. I mean, really, it can’t be that hard just to show up to take your girlfriend to get a haircut.”
“Hey, there’s nothing I can do about that now. It’s like spilled milk under the bridge. I’m more worried that I didn’t exactly hear what she wants me to do from now on to save our relationship.”
“So, what, you weren’t listening at all?”
“I had other things on my mind.”
Ricky shakes his head. “Dude, if it was me, I’d be hanging on every word.” He’s very serious too. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t have a little bit of a crush on Cassidy himself.
“You can’t hang on every word,” I say. “There’s too much going on at any given moment. All you can do is absorb the general feel of it.”
Ricky opens another beer. It’s Friday night and we’re sitting on the hood of my car in a parking lot on Twelfth Street. “If I had a girlfriend, it’d be like church when she talks. She’d be the pontificator and I’d be the pontificatee.”
“You’re high.”
“No, really, dude. I’m the best listener in the world.”
He has a point there. He’s sure listened to a lot of my crap. “So why don’t you ask out Alisa Norman, dude? You like her, don’t you?”
He checks out a Mustang passing by, the really cool, old, fastback style from about thirty years ago. “I guess I like her all right, but she’s like almost engaged to Denver Quigley.”
“So? Ask her out anyway. Look, girls are transitional people. They don’t just break up with a guy and then sit around and wait to get asked out. They keep their boyfriend hanging on till they know somebody else is interested in them. Then it’s the ax for the old dude and hugs and kisses for the new guy. I’m telling you.”
“Right. Have you seen Quigley lately? He’s a caveman. All I’d have to do is say two words to Alisa and he’d pummel me into a thin paste. They’d have to take me to the hospital on a spatula.”
“Excuses, excuses.” I take a drink of beer and chase it with a shot of V.O. “But you know what? I’m tired of your excuses. This is it. Tonight’s the night. You’re getting a girlfriend.”
“Screw you.”
“No, really. You think you can third-wheel around with me and Cassidy forever? It’s ridiculous. Come on, get in the car.”
“Why? What do you have in mind?”
“Girls, that’s what. They’re everywhere.” I wave my arm toward Twelfth Street. “It’s Friday night, dude. The street is a cornucopia of girls. Every other car you see is full of them. Tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones, big tits, little tits, blondes, brunettes, redheads, wide asses, and asses you can fit in the palm of your hand. And you know what they want? They want a dude, dude. That’s what they want. Now get in the car.”
“Tits and asses, huh? You’re a real romantic, Sutter. You really are.”
He may be going all sarcastic on me, but he gets in the car anyway. He knows old Sutter’s got his best interest at heart.
And the fact is I am a romantic. I am in love with the feminine species. It’s a shame you only get to pick one, but since that’s the rule, I’m very grateful for the one I have, and I want nothing more than for my best buddy to have the same thing.
Chapter 6
Twelfth Street’s busy tonight. I wasn’t exaggerating either—the girls are out in bold numbers. I’m being picky, though. This is a girl for Ricky after all, the dude I played Justice League with in fifth grade. He had my back then and I’ve got his now.
“You’re not going to embarrass me, are you?” he asks.
“When did I ever embarrass you?”
“Do you really need me to list the times?” He pulls out a blaze and flicks his lighter.
“Dude, what are you doing?” I’ve got nothing against the weed—I just don’t happen to see it as a good social lubricant.
“You don’t have to smoke any if you don’t want to,” he says, taking a long drag.
“Just go easy on it, okay. I don’t want to round up a carful of girls and have you go quiet on me, spiraling off into weird cosmos land and shit.”
He exhales a rush of smoke. “Don’t worry. I’ll be entertaining.”
“Yeah, sure. But I don’t know how much girls like talking about the commercialization of God or whatever that was you were going on about last Saturday.”
“It was, What would happen if they discovered the actual physical existence of God? I mean, there’d probably be this humongous battle over the patent rights. Like this whole competition over whether you should get God on cable or satellite. And then they’d have to launch a marketing plan too. They’d have these commercials: ‘Call today and get God for $19.95 a month. Get the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost bundle for only $24.95!’”
“Right,” I say, chuckling. “And when you can’t pay your bill they come in and cut off your God connection.”
“See, dude,” Ricky says. “That’s some entertaining stuff.”
I have to admit he’s right. “But, still, what you and I find entertaining isn’t necessarily going to cut it with the female kind.”
“I know that. What do you think, I’m some kind of moron?”
There’s no time to debate that question. Suddenly, a gigantic SUV loaded with girls draws up beside us. I don’t recognize any of them, but the blonde in back rolls down her window, flashes her tits, and dies laughing.
Ricky goes, “Dude, did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw it. I gave her the thumbs-up.”
“Well, don’t let them get away. Follow them.”
“Relax, dude. Those girls ar
en’t even from around here.”
“So?”
“So, we could follow them all night long, but they aren’t going to pull over. You know why a girl like that flashes her tits, don’t you? Because she gets off on thinking guys are churning the chubby to her. Anyway, you need someone more natural.”
“She looked pretty natural to me.”
“She had me-me-me hair.”
“I wasn’t looking at her hair, dude.”
Ricky’s a little put out with me for not following them, but not really. I know him. The only reason he wants to chase after them in the first place is because he knows nothing will ever happen. It’s just make-believe—no real chance of hooking up or getting shut down, either one. But I won’t let him get away with that, not this time.
We make a couple trips up and down Twelfth Street with no luck until I see these headlights flashing at me from behind—Tara Thompson’s little gold Camry. At the stoplight, she sticks her head out of the window and shouts for me to pull over in the Conoco parking lot. This looks promising. I know Tara pretty well—we have English together—and while she’s not really right for Ricky, her friend Bethany Marks is.
Tara and Bethany are pretty much always together. They’re mid-level girls—not hot hot or super popular but way above the dank outcast level. Softball players. Tara’s a dyed-blonde and a little stocky but not in an unattractive way at all. Bethany’s a brunette and more wiry with these spanktacular long legs and kind of a disproportionately short upper body. Nice tits. Her only drawback is that her nose always looks a little oily. But the way she is with Tara reminds me of Ricky. She’s the quieter one next to Tara’s outgoing personality. Guys don’t notice her so much, but she’s got a good laugh, and for jocks, she and Tara like to get a party on.
I pull up on Tara’s side of the car and roll down my window.
“Sutter,” she says, “you’re just who I’m looking for. Know where we can get some beer?”
“Beer? Aren’t you girls in training?”
“We’re celebrating. My mom finally kicked my stepdad out of the house.” They both laugh.
I tell them to park, and I’ll see if I can help them out.
“Step around to my office, girls.” I lead them to the back of my car and pop the trunk to reveal a treasure trove of beer. We’ve lined the whole trunk with plastic, covered that with ice, laid down row after row of beer, and poured more ice over that.
“You guys rule,” Tara says.
“We were just getting ready to go cruise Bricktown,” I say, which we weren’t really planning to do, but we might as well now. “Why don’t you come with us?”
Bethany goes, “We’re on our way to Michelle’s house.”
So I’m like, “Hey, I’m ready to celebrate somebody’s stepfather getting kicked out of the house since my mom won’t kick mine out.”
That’s all Tara needs to hear. “Well, don’t just stand there. Open me a beer.”
I give her one and don’t even need to figure out a way to finagle Bethany into the back with Ricky. Tara heads straight to the passenger seat so that there’s nothing to do but for Ricky and Bethany to get in back. Now, you might think Cassidy would have a problem with this seating arrangement if she happened to get a look at it, but she’s at the movies with her girlfriends tonight, and besides this is all about hooking Ricky up with Bethany.
“Full speed ahead,” I say as I crank the ignition. “And damn the potatoes.”
Chapter 7
Bricktown is the entertainment district in Oklahoma City. It gets its name from all the brick buildings and even brick streets. It used to be a warehouse district or something. Now they have bars and restaurants, concert halls and arenas, coffee shops, a multiplex, and a ballpark. You can also take boat rides on a canal that runs between two long rows of buildings like a river at the bottom of a canyon. The boat rides aren’t real exciting, but girls think they’re romantic. All I have to do is figure out a way to get Ricky and Bethany on a boat together while I steer Tara off somewhere else.
I make sure to keep the girls in beer while we drive over and then cruise up and down past the bars and restaurants. At first, Ricky’s kind of quiet. He’s one of those people that might seem shy at first, but once you get to know him, he’s hilarious. He’s absolutely kick-ass at doing impersonations—movie stars, teachers, other kids at school. Once I get him started on doing some, the girls eat it up. He does a dead-on Denver Quigley that gets Bethany laughing so hard it looks like her face might fall off.
“Hey, let’s go on the boat rides,” I say, like it just occurred to me. I don’t have to say it twice either. The girls are all over it.
After finding a parking spot about a million miles away from the canal, we hike over, goofing on people and just in general laughing our way down the street. When we get to where the boat rides start, I tell Ricky to buy a couple of tickets, one for him and one for Bethany, but when I step up to the window, I’m like, “Wait a minute. I left my wallet in the car.”
Stupid Ricky volunteers to lend me some money, but I’m, “No, dude. You two go ahead. I don’t like the idea of my wallet sitting in the car in a dark parking lot. We’ll meet back here in thirty minutes.”
He gives me this suspicious look, but it’s too late now. The boat’s getting ready to shove off. Bethany wants Tara to come along, but I grab Tara’s arm and say, “No you don’t. I’m not walking all the way back over there by myself.”
We give them the bon voyage as the boat starts off, and they do look good together, even though she’s about three inches taller than he is. After they’re gone, I volunteer to buy Tara some ice cream, and she’s like, “I thought you forgot your wallet,” and I go, “I just remembered I have it in my other pocket.”
She looks at me and grins. “You’re evil.”
“I’m not evil. I’m Cupid. They make a cute couple, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
On the way to get ice cream, we change our minds and decide to go to a bar instead. After trying about four places and getting rejected, I figure there’s nothing to do but go back to the car, get a couple beers, and drink them over at the Botanical Gardens.
“Is it safe to go there after dark?” Tara asks.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re with me.”
I load four beers into a plastic bag, and off to the gardens we go. It’s beautiful out. Light-jacket weather. The city lights are shining down on us, and the weight of the beer feels very satisfying, like a promise of plenty.
The only thing about being down here in the evening is you’re always likely to run into a panhandler, and of course we do. Tara grabs my arm and stands a little behind me, but there’s nothing scary about this guy. He’s got the typical faded ball cap, the thrift-store clothes that could stand a good washing, and a face that looks like it’s made out of the leather from an old catcher’s mitt.
I slip him a five and he’s grateful as all hell, tipping his cap and giving me this look like I’m some kind of young lord or something. After he limps away, Tara says she doesn’t think I should’ve given him any money. “He’s just going to buy liquor with it,” she says.
“Good for him.”
“You might as well have just given him a beer.”
“Are you kidding? We only have two apiece here. Let him go buy his own.”
The Botanical Gardens consists of several walking paths that wind around through a bunch of different kinds of trees and plants and cross over little streams and ponds. At one end, you have the Crystal Bridge, which isn’t just a bridge but a big cylindrical greenhouse for the more exotic plants. They even have one of those big stinky plants that only bloom like every three years or something and smell like a rotting corpse. I’ve actually never been in the gardens after dark, but when you’re with a girl, it’s always best to act like you’re an old hand at everything—not to impress her, but just to make sure she feels safe.
So we’re walking along, drinking beer
and talking, and she starts in on the deal with her mom and her stepfather, Kerwin.
“Kerwin?” I say. “You mean his name is really Kerwin?”
She’s like, “Can you believe it?”
At first the story’s pretty funny. Kerwin is a real character. For one thing, he’s a big slob, only shaves about twice a week, sits around watching the Food Network in his underwear, peels off his socks and tosses them in the general direction of the bedroom, and farts when her friends walk through the room. He has even been known to eat a TV dinner while taking a dump.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think I kind of like him.”
“You wouldn’t if you had to live with him.” She takes a drink.
“My stepdad’s a fucking robot.”
“Kerwin wasn’t bad at first. I guess I did like him then. They got married when I was like nine so I thought it was fun that he was sloppy. My mom and him and my little sister would lie in bed and he’d tell us stories and then he’d go, ‘Put your head under the covers. I’m going to spit in the air.’ And when we’d stick our heads under the covers, he’d fart. It grossed my mom out, but my sister and I would just giggle like it was the funniest thing in the world. I guess when I was little I thought he was kind of a great guy. Other than the farting, he made my mom laugh. We were pretty happy.”
There’s a little amphitheater right next to the Crystal Bridge that looks down onto a stage in the middle of the pond. We walk down a few rows and sit there with our beers. “So what happened?” I ask. “One fart too many?”
She laughs. “More than one too many.” She pauses and looks at the empty stage. “But it’s really the painkillers.”
“Painkillers? Like what, Vicodin or something?”
“Worse than that. OxyContin.”
“Dude, that’s hardcore.”
“Tell me about it. At first, he just started out with Loritab. His neck used to kill him after he was in a car wreck. Now, he has this sock full of OxyContin in his dresser—like me and Mom don’t know about it. It’s not even about pain anymore.”
