Pins: A Novel (14 page)

“Whaddaya want? I should ask you to the prom?”

Anthony tightened his grip on his steering wheel, shifted into reverse. Joey jumped back, but grabbed the door as his gym bag slid off his arm. He tripped. One foot landed in a puddle of half-frozen water.

“Shit.”
 
He pulled his sopping shoe back onto the curb. “Look. I, hey, come on, man. Stop the car.”

Anthony put it in park, dropped his hands from the wheel.

“Just ‘cause I don’t hang out with you…That dogpile thing was nothin’. I just don’t– You know, I thought you were okay with that.”

“That’s it?” Anthony hissed. “You think I’m afraida you tellin’ everybody?
 
I got news for you.
 
Everybody knows.”

“That’s not it. What I’m tryna tell ya is you gotta lighten up. This thing, this thing is not–”

“Don’t you tell me what is not. You’re the one with the problem. I am just biding my time. You know what that means? I go to a group, and I talk to people. I told my parents. I even told Coach. But that don’t mean you can go around tellin’ people.”

“What? I don’t. You think I told?”

“Yeah. And you know what else? Coach is okay with it.” Anthony fumbled with his clutch, yanking the stick a few times. “Which is what you are not.”
 

His clutch slipped into gear, almost by accident, it seemed. “I got a bit of advice for you, Joseph. If I were you, I wouldn’t hang out with those goons.”

“They are not goons. Where the fuck do you get off–”

“You know, I really thought we could be friends. I really thought that.”

“But…so you go out for the team just to–” Joey sputtered a moment, letting the depth of Anthony’s attachment to him sink in. “Look, you tryin’ to wrestle is not going to make us friends. I mean, jeez…“

 
“I’ll do what I do, okay? Whether we’re friends or not.”

“But, Anthony–”

“I gotta go now, so will you step back, please?”

Anthony tooled his Pinto down the street in a gurgling cloud of exhaust. Joey stood at the curb, dazed, panting, not even noticing as Troy and some other boys walked by. As Joey tried to ignore them, search out his dad, Troy reached out, brushed his hand over Joey’s frozen spikes of hair, dubbing them “wopsicles.”

15

“Well, you saw what he did to his nephew, the son of his dead brother. By what he did to him, he has now shown us he is the lowest form of human life! He’s out to destroy him!”

With the advent of cable, peer pressure, lack of porno, Joseph finally got into professional wrestling, but he drew the line at the soap opera.

Raul Klein collected the action figures. Lamar Stevens collected the magazines with Ken Shamrock, Ravishing Rick Rude in hot pink tights, Babes of Wrestling.

The Shiver brothers, Troy, Raul and Buddha Martinez even got on pay-per-view once, when they got shots of them in the stands of Meadowlands Arena, waving signs somebody gave them, their bellies painted C O L T S.

It was good clean fun.

After Dink lent him about a dozen tapes, he grew to appreciate it, particularly in slow motion for some guys, certain positions. Joey had to admit that pile drivers, flying leaps, huge muscle butts did intrigue him after all.
 

As they watched one ham-faced ringside guy barrel off on another about the ridiculous grudges that justified such silly violence, Joey excused himself to pee, ducked into Dink’s room. It looked the same, just a bit messier. He scanned, snooped, stole a brief glance at the Marky Mark poster. He saw books he should read. He knew he’d only have a few minutes before Bennie or Dink would drag him back to enjoy one more piledrive or chair whack before heading to Hunter’s party.

“Ooh, a drop kick right to the head!”

“Oh, I love that!”

“Down he goes!”

Hunter’s place was rumored to be on the large size. Dink had hinted about a walk in some nearby woods. In case that didn’t happen, he wanted a souvenir.

“…and sent him all the way out of the ring. . .”

“Dat has gotta hoit.”

“Ooh, not the chair!”

He quickly dug his hand under Dink’s mattress, the side against the wall, he figured, felt under the mattress, found a sock.

His hand went quickly to his varsity jacket pocket as he shoved it in. In a bounce on the rumpled bedspread, he stood, darted to Dink’s bookshelf, looking for nothing, when he heard someone behind him.

“Whadda ya doin’?”

Bennie stood in the door, wearing the T-shirt Coach said he couldn’t wear in practice, since it was “in poor taste.” A cartoon grim reaper hovered over a skeleton wrestling a guy, with the word NEXT!

“Looking through the Dinky’s CDs. He’s gonna make tapes for me.”

“That’s sweet. Think fast.”

A beer can flew into his arms.

Dink seemed comfortable having the guys over, even though Joey knew he really wasn’t allowed. Maybe that one beer the few times he’d been over, but a party for the party? No way.

“Yer mom out on a date?” Joey muttered as he caught Dink alone in the kitchen. Dink’s hair lay flat, darker in wetness, so Joey figured it must have been the shower water that made his eyes so red.

“What do you care?”

His remark stunned Joey. Weren’t they friends? Didn’t they tell each other stuff? What was with him? Or was he just nervous because Bennie was there? What did he expect?

Joey decided to let it pass, let the evening move on its own. Dink played a Helmet CD. Metal guitar thuds blasted the room, making things vibrate.
 

Bennie stood in the middle of the room, taking in the sounds. Dink danced with his beer can, in jeans and a Columbia University sweatshirt. Joey sat on the floor, sipping, afraid the thuds he heard were neighbors banging on the walls, afraid they’d notice him watching Dink’s hips buck as he danced. Dink turned the volume down a little after a few minutes so they could talk.

They’d made jokes about Helmet’s name, which led to war, which got Bennie talking about his dad. “Killin’ gooks was his profession. Blew into Danang with his buddies an’ tore it up. Won the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

“He must have been old,” Joey thought. “My grandfather went to Vietnam, but he was only fifty when he died.”

Bennie’s glance implied that he was not to be interrupted. “My dad, my real dad, was in Nam. I kept his name, though. Skaal. Know what that means?” No one offered a guess. “It’s the name of the wolf in a Norse myth, Skaal the wolf that eats the world come the Armageddon. ‘Cept I think it’s spelled different.”

“So why’d it change?” Joey said.

“Same reason your grandparents prob’ly were named Niccerello or something. Got chopped off in Ellis Island.”

“Like a tail.”

Bennie and Dink laughed. Joey didn’t.

“So anyway,” Bennie continued.

It seemed Dink had heard the story before, but he sat silent, reverent. Bennie was a little weird, that much was obvious, but it was his benevolence, his being friends with Dink and Joey, that made them like him; that and it being a pretty unsafe proposition not to.

“My mom took up with this other guy, a lot younger, total asshole who I fought with. Me, ten years old and startin’ fights with this weasel. A stoner. They gave me up. Then I got dumped into the house of holy hell, but now I’m with Phyllis and Lars. They’re nice. They taught me a lot. They don’t hit. Ja ever get strapped with a belt, Neech?”

“Huh? Naw, my dad don’t hit me.” He couldn’t remember doing anything to make his dad hit him. He was the oldest. Joey had been good, real good. He had to be.

“Maybe you’ll deserve it if you don’t keep winning. A little corporal punishment never hurt a guy!” Bennie went for him. Joey giggled as Bennie lifted him up from the floor, grabbing him around the torso, swinging him around.

“Hey, hey, watch the lamp!” Dink yelled. Bennie let Joey down halfway, holding him sideways like a suitcase.

Bennie would never hurt him. Besides, Joey liked it, the feeling of being toyed with by this big crazy guy. Joey worried more about Dink’s sock falling out of his pocket.

Bennie dropped Joey, who landed silent as a cat, then stood. “For Joseph was Benjamin’s brother and his bowels did yearn upon his brother.”

Joey gave him a look. “You toss me around like that again and my bowels’ll do somethin’, brother.”

Bennie laughed, so everybody else did.

“So, are we goin’, or are we gonna play Neech Toss all night?” Dink stood, impatient.

“I thought a little art appreciation would be in order.”

“Huh?” Dink looked confused. “I thought it was babe party. House o’ Babes.”

“You draw, right?” Bennie asked Joey.

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

“Like anything.” Even you, dude.

“Can you draw horses?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Like colts.”

“What, like the mascot?”

Bennie’s eyes glimmered. “Something like that.”

16

“It’s the Doritoes.”

“No, it’s not. Sniggaz is.” Hunter, up in shotgun, countered Bennie’s words.

“Sniggaz fo’ life,” Dink echoed, dumped in the back next to Joey. They would never ride shotgun. It was hard to lean forward in Bennie’s Mustang. The seats were so low they could feel the asphalt grumbling away under their butts.

They were debating over who made New York City the worst. They’d crossed off homeless people, dubbed “moving garbage.” They knew about New York, since they’d all been there a few times.

“Doritoe Sniggah half-breeds,” Joey added, grinning at Dink, since he’d outdone him.

Dink shouted, too close to Joey. “No, no, Doritoe Sniggah half-breed hookers!”

“Dorito Sniggah half-breed drag queen hookers!” Joey shouted and immediately blushed. Even though the cassette player in Bennie’s car blasted the Meat Puppets, the way everybody reacted, it felt like silence.

“Whadda you know from drag queens, pissant?” Hunter turned to Joey from the shotgun seat. Bennie glared at him from behind the wheel, his eyes framed in the rear view mirror as he steered his Mustang along the offramp leaving the Jersey Turnpike Northbound. They were in Teaneck. Enemy territory.

“Yeah, whaddaya know ‘bout drag queens?” Bennie asked.

“‘Cause that’s all he gets a blow job offa!” Dink bellowed from the back, elbowing Joey.

“Ha!” Everybody laughed, except Joey, who scowled.
 
How dare Dink make such a crack, especially after that night watching wrestling tapes, what Joey secretly called The Boner Incident.
 
He landed a punch on Dink’s shoulder, thinking maybe it was cool for Dink to make that joke, to get him off the hook.

Joey only said such words in the company of Bennie and Hunter. Joey never said “pussy” or “muthahfucker” or “fagityassbitch” or any of the new words he learned from the posse. His parents never said them. His brother tried “muthahfucker” once, but never twice.

Joey had pored over the pages of his Marky Mark book, the solemn faces of the Funky Bunch, comparing his own thick lips to that of the black band members. They were handsome guys, strong and cool.

They all liked Lamar Stevens. They even dressed like black guys, with their baggy pants, long shirts, baseball caps and angled buzzcuts. It was as if they dissed anybody who was different, but first they stole what they liked about them.

“Hey! Fag.” Dink punched back, light though.

“Shut up, Dink.”

“Shut up, Neech.”

“Dinky Dick.”

“Neech the Leech, he’ll suck ya till ya screech!”

Joey punched him again. Dink punched him back, but it didn’t hurt. His fist barely landed through the leather sleeve of Joey’s jacket. He didn’t want to think why Dink was being such an asshole. Joey knew the reason why, the same as his own behavior. It was for show, to act tough in front of Bennie and Hunter, who probably didn’t care about either of them.

Even if they didn’t, Joey felt honored to go out with them. At first they went to a Sylvester Stallone movie, which Joey was excited about, but they got there late since Willowbrook’s parking lot was jam-packed, but he wasn’t about to tell Bennie to hurry up so he could catch a peek of Stallone’s butt.

They got kicked out when Bennie and Hunter started making noises, throwing popcorn. Joey wanted to watch Wesley Snipes have fun, but walking home didn’t seem like a good idea. So they drove around, played music.

Bennie drove them back toward Little Falls to his home, a tiny rundown split-level in Meadow Village. A pile of stuff lay next to the garage. Bennie didn’t invite them in.

“What’s he doin?” Joey asked as he watched Bennie disappear into the garage.

“I dunno,” Hunter said. “Think I can see through walls or something?”

“He could butt his head through a wall,” Dink said.

“Huh?”

Hunter’s face locked, as if he couldn’t decide whether Dink was complimenting or insulting him.

“Of course he’s modest about it, aren’t ya, Hunt?”

“You weasel.” Hunter turned to change a cassette on the tape player, ignoring the other two.

Bennie came outside through the garage door with a small cardboard box, which he put into the trunk, then returned to the driver’s seat. “The wicked have waited for me.” He backed the Mustang out of the driveway as Hunter’s tape blasted, some hard metal Joey’d never heard.

“So, what’s the mystery?” Dink shouted.

“Art Class,” Bennie shouted back.

They headed into Paterson, home of Washington High, where the team would compete in two weeks.
 
Bennie said he wanted to “get a little turf encroachment going.” Hunter had made a stupid joke about there being a St. Joseph’s and a St. Anthony’s school in Paterson. Joey ignored it, but then the question popped up.

“You go to church with Lambros, doncha?” Hunter asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you friends?”

“No.”

“You hung out with him, though dincha?”

Joey didn’t have to answer. Bennie had cut the engine off. “Out.”

Orange, black and white, with fire red for the eyes.

Joey stood before an old brick wall of a parking lot somewhere in Paterson. Bennie shook the spray cans, laid them out as Joey surveyed his color choices. Hunter and Dink were about ten yards off in either direction, watching for passing cop cars.

Joey had drawn on notepads, book covers, construction paper, even plastic once, but that didn’t work. He only had a few tablets of real drawing paper. He was shy about asking for more supplies from his parents, since they always bought him wrestling gear when he asked.

But he’d never drawn on a building. It seemed too huge, not just some little scribble.

He’d tossed his jacket in the car. Bennie even brought little rubber gloves so Joey wouldn’t get paint on his hands. “I don’t know where to start,” Joey sputtered as he held a can of black paint.

“Start where Coach tells us not to start.”

“Huh?”

Bennie pointed to his eye.

“Oh.” Joey switched to a red can and sprayed a dot, then surrounded it with black. “Here.” Bennie held the front of his own jacket close for Joey’s inspection.

Once the copied outlines were done, Bennie stepped back. Joey filled the body in with white, then shaded the lower flanks with orange, making the horse look creamy, a sherbet sunset burning under its belly. He redid the legs, which were a bit off, then striated the mane in black and orange and white. It was sloppy. The cans sputtered out of paint, but he felt so fluid, drunk on the beers, wild with the action of painting. He stripped off his gloves while Bennie stowed the box. Dink and Hunter came running at the sound of Bennie’s trunk slamming shut.

“Man, that is so cool.”

Hunter added, “Fuckin’ A.”

“Awesome,” Bennie said.

“What?”

“‘Awesome is this place. It is the house of God and the gate of heaven.’” Joey’s beer buzz or the paint fumes almost made him see something. His mural shimmered, grown from his hand, caught mid-stride, still wet on the brick wall.

“That looked so cool,” Dink said as they drove away. “Hey, we shoulda brought a camera!” Dink shouted.

Bennie said, “There’ll be more, boys. We got a busy season after New Year’s.”

“The artist,” Dink joked as he shoved closer to Joey.

“Shut up.”

“Leonardo da Nicci!”

It was all a rush, a joke, something special, ridiculous, yet immensely fun, something Joey’d become privileged to be a part of, cooler than anything.

 
The orange and black. Wearing masks like it’s always Halloween.
 
But Dink had said it differently. “Like, it’s always Halloween.”

Now he wore those colors, shoving playfully with Dink in the same soft armor.

“Shut up, the both a yas,” Bennie growled. He pulled into the parking lot of a 7-11. “Bucks for brews.” He shut off the engine and held out his hand while his three passengers dug in their pockets for money under the glare of the store’s lights.

“Rocks or Heinies?”

“Rocks.”

“Get bottles. They smash better.”

“Fine, you vandals.” Bennie twisted his keys out of the ignition. The radio went silent.

“Hey! The tunes!” Hunter whined.

“So sing as angels,” Bennie quipped before slamming the car door.

But Hunter followed. Dink got antsy, saying he wanted some chips, but Joey felt Dink feared being alone with him in the back seat, not like back in his home, where it was warm, and they shared, settled, got along so well.

Joey sat alone for a few minutes, watching his buddies ghost about under the 7-11’s fluorescent haze. His pride about the painted colt drained as he wondered if he’d have to keep drinking to be their friends. He was smaller. He couldn’t keep up. He saw them as friends long before he arrived, how if he’d never been a wrestler they would never have noticed him. They would do this whether he were there or not.