Stoner & Spaz (2 page)

“The monster and Elsa Lanchester weren’t really compatible. Some critic I read said that Frankenstein and the blind hermit made the best couple.”

“You read about movies?”

“Uh-huh.”

“For a class?”

“No.”

Colleen lights a fresh cigarette off the old one. “Are you some kind of brainiac?”

“No.”

“Ever read
The Great Gatsby
?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me the plot, okay? Just what happens. I’m supposed to write a report or review or something.”

“Now?”

She scratches her head, using all five fingers. “You’re right. Call me and tell me the plot.” She digs in her purse, comes up with a gnawed-looking Bic, then writes her phone number on my wrist. I like how she holds on to me with her free hand. Grandma pats me a lot, but nobody ever touches me.

Then she yawns. A big yawn. I can see the fillings, all silver, in her molars. “I don’t feel so good. Give me a ride home, okay?”

“I don’t drive with, you know, the way I am. I’m waiting for . . . somebody.”

“So I’ll wait with you.” Colleen coughs hard, spits into the gutter, then leans to inspect it. “Man, is that supposed to be green?”

In a way, I can’t wait to climb into Grandma’s spotless Cadillac and get out of there. Go home and watch the late show like I always do. But I want to stand here in front of the Rialto, too. All night. And listen to Colleen. And have her talk to me.

“Is this it?” Colleen asks as Grandma oozes up to the curb. “Cool.”

She opens the back door and clambers in. I make the introductions as Colleen gropes in her bag for cigarettes. I mime a big
no,
then shake my head.

“Why not? This boat’s big enough to have a smoking section.”

Grandma glances into the rearview mirror and asks, “Have you and Ben been friends long, dear?”

“Actually, my mom won’t let me hang with Ben anymore. He does all this scary stuff like hand his homework in on time and read the assignments. I try to reason with him. I say, ‘Ben. Are you crazy? You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’”

All of a sudden, Colleen puts one hand on her stomach, taps Grandma on the shoulder with the other. “Pull over, okay? And I mean now.”

We are barely stopped when Colleen throws up out the window. She wipes her mouth with the back of one hand. “Fuck. I better walk the rest of the way.”

Getting out of a car isn’t easy for me. I have to handle my bad leg like it’s a big, dead python. So Colleen doesn’t wait for me to be polite. She scrambles out on her own, then leans in my open window. Her breath is sour. “Call me. I mean it.” Then she wobbles off down the street.

My grandma lets her forehead touch the steering wheel. “What a horrible girl,” she says to the speedometer. “I didn’t realize you even knew people like that.”

“I don’t really know her.”

“Why is she acting so peculiar?”

“She’s loaded.”

“On drugs?”

“Not Jujubes. Not anymore, anyway.”

“Why in the world did you invite someone like that into my car?”

“Grandma, we just bumped into each other at the movies. It’s no big deal.”

“Did she ask you for money?”

“No,” I lie.

“She didn’t recruit you to traffic in narcotics, did she?”

“Well, she did give me this big bag of baking soda to hold for her.”

“Ben, this is no laughing matter.”

“Grandma, Colleen won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m certainly going to try and banish it from my memory.”

Not me,
I think.
No banishing for me.

THE NEXT DAY IS SATURDAY. Like that matters. Like every day isn’t just about identical for somebody like me.

I do my homework in about two minutes, then watch
The Magnificent Seven
on Bravo. I usually love that movie — Yul Brynner all in black like the perfect Goth parent. He and Steve McQueen prowling the West looking for five more cowboys who are in the market for adventure.

But this time it just depresses me. Those guys — even sniveling Robert Vaughn — are everything I’m not. Not just tall and good-looking with arms and legs that work. Not just that. They at least do stuff. They get out of the house, if you know what I mean. I know they’re loners, but they’re loners with friends. Loners who aren’t always alone. They drift off with just a nod but eventually they run into each other again in Tucson or Tombstone.

What do I have? Lunch with my grandma. And after that?

“Some prunes, Benjamin?”

“I don’t want any prunes.”

“Are you regular?” she whispers. “Have you been regular today?”

“I’m sixteen. When you’re old enough to get a driver’s license, even if you’ll never get one, your grandma has to stop asking gross questions, okay?”

Then I stalk away. Oh, all right — then I limp away.

My room is just as tidy as the rest of the house: no socks on the floor, no underpants hanging from the doorknob. I look at my favorite poster, the one I wanted to put up with thumbtacks, the one Grandma had framed for me instead. James Dean looks back, clearly disappointed in me.

So I open the bottom drawer of my desk, frown at the number I transferred from my wrist, and dial.

“Is this Colleen?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Ben Bancroft.”

“Who?”

“We went to the movies together last night. And then you hurled out the window of my grandma’s car.”

“Jesus, how’d you get my number?”

“You gave it to me. You wanted to know the plot of
The Great Gatsby.
I thought you had to write a paper.”

She takes some time to process this. “Oh, yeah.” Then she says, “So, okay — tell me the story.”

I fill her in about Nick and Daisy and Tom, the yellow car, and the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock.

When I’m done she says, “Just write it for me.”

“Get serious.”

“I am serious, Ben. I’ll never remember all that. Just do it; it only has to be, like, one page. You’ve got a computer, right?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“So knock it out: why is Gatsby great, who shot who where? You know the drill.”

“But that’s cheating.”

“Right. And . . . ?”

“I barely know you. Why should I cheat for you?”

“Because then I’ll show you my tits.”

THE PIT IS REALLY THE HEART OF MY HIGH SCHOOL. Everybody turns up there to talk or smoke or eat or just hang out. The skateboarders like falling down the wide, amphitheater-type steps, the stoners like lying in the sun, the writers take turns reading from their journals, the cheerleaders prance around in their little orange-and-black skirts.

I find myself a spot on the top steps opposite the completely vandalized tables and the vending machines, each one in its own little jail.

I’m in a good mood. Okay, Colleen’s using me. But at least I’m in the soup, you know? In the mix. Anything is better than lying on my cowboy bedspread with the remote in my one good hand.

Waiting there I feel, I don’t know, anthropological, I guess. I just need a pair of binoculars and a field guide to watch Ed Dorn in his black jeans and black T-shirt make the rounds, moving from the gangstas in their huge pants through the Mexican tough guys and into the Asian kung-fu fighters. Each clique has a different handshake, and Ed knows them all. He knows which girl’s hand to grab and rub over his shaved head, which brother to joke with, which guy’s Pepsi to snatch and take a sip of, which one to lean into and whisper. Colleen walks a few steps behind. She wears knee-high silver boots and looks like someone from a different galaxy.

When Ed saunters toward his gym class, a few girls follow Colleen into the girls’ bathroom. I take my book bag and lurch to one of the tables facing the exit. When Colleen comes out, I want to be the first thing she sees: sitting down I look almost normal.

I’m stationed just a few yards from the resident anarchists — both of them done up in spiked hair, boots, and bondage pants — when Stephanie Brewer walks up to them. She takes out her notebook. “Can I ask you guys some questions for the
Courier
?”

Danny looks at Robert. Robert looks at Danny. They grin.

“Can I ask about your boots? Do those white laces stand for White Power?”

They glance down. “The laces keep our shoes on, man.”

“What are your outfits supposed to mean, then?”

“That we’re in revolt.”

“Exactly,” says Danny. “We’re in revolt against things like oppression.”

“By whom?”

“Well, duh — the oppressors.”

“I understand that,” she says, “but which ones? Men oppressing women, whites oppressing blacks, straights and gays, guards and prisoners, China and Tibet?”

Robert nods. “All that, man.”

She asks them to stand up and turn around then because they’re both wearing white shirts with the sleeves ripped off and something drawn on the backs with Magic Marker.

“So what,” Stephanie asks, “does the ghost mean?”

“It’s not a ghost. It’s a pirate’s head, like on their flag.”

Robert turns around. “It’s not a pirate, man. It’s a skull. That’s what was on their flag: a skull and crossbow.”

Danny points. “Look at your own fucking earring, man. It’s a pirate.”

Robert takes off his earring, makes a big deal of finding some glasses in his pants pocket, and peers through them. “It’s a skull. It’s got little eyes.”

“Pirates have got eyes, man. Otherwise they couldn’t see, like, their rum or the plank or anything.”

They fall all over each other laughing.

Stephanie scowls and shakes her head. “Thanks for nothing, you jerk-offs.”

She turns away and scans the Pit. I’m almost right in front of her, and she doesn’t even see me. Not really. I’m just the resident spaz, invisible as the sign that says
NO RUNNING
, the one nobody pays any attention to.

Then she intercepts Colleen coming out of the girls’ room. I can’t hear what Stephanie says but I can sure hear Colleen.

“Are you nuts? Go ask somebody who gives a shit.”

She’s still shaking her head when she gets to me. “Unbelievable. Ed would never let me forget it if I turned up in the school newspaper with a fucking opinion.”

“I was watching Ed in action. He’s like Louis the Fourteenth, moving through the gardens at Versailles dispensing favors.”

“Louis better watch his ass,” says Colleen. “This is Ed’s turf.”

“I guess that big tattoo on his arm is a marijuana leaf and not an ad for Vermont in the fall.”

“You got that right.” She leans closer and whispers, “You got the stuff?”

“I’ve got the book report.”

“When nobody’s looking, give it to me.”

“Colleen, it’s a piece of paper, not a kilo.”

“Like you know what a kilo is.” She grabs the folded sheet out of my hand and scans it. “This’ll do. Give me your phone number.”

“Why?”

“So I can call you.”

“Why?”

“Because I might want you to write another paper for me.”

“But you haven’t paid for this one. Remember?” I smile to show that I’m kidding. A little, anyway. “You’re going to show me . . .” I stare at her chest. “Your, you know . . .”

“My what?”

“It’s okay. I knew you weren’t serious.” But I point, anyway.

“I told you I’d show you my tits?” She holds up the essay. “For this?”

“Uh-huh, but it’s okay. It’s not that good, anyway.”

“Hey, if I said I would, I will.” She stuffs the page into her purse, shrugs that off one shoulder, and starts to tug at the shredded black lace she wears over an old Clash T-shirt.

“No! It’s okay.”

“You sure?” She reveals an inch or two of very pale skin. “Live half-nude girls. No waiting.”

I retreat. “It’s fine. Thanks, anyway. Really.”

Who is this girl? She is out of my league. Way out.

THE NEXT DAY I find myself prowling the halls. . . . Well, I don’t prowl the halls, but at least I’m in the halls. I don’t just go sit in my homeroom like a fungus.

Finally I spot Colleen, this time in boots that lace up to her bony knees, ripped painter’s pants, and a lacey, soiled top that looks like Madonna has been mining coal in it. I don’t even get a chance to say hi before she pounces.

“Did you call my house last night?”

“Yeah. I wanted to see if you liked that paper I wrote for you, if it was, you know, okay and everything.”

“Why did you talk to my mom?”

“Because you weren’t home.”

“She said you were the nicest guy who ever called.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want nice guys calling; I’m a total bitch, okay?”

“You’re not, either.”

“Like you know anything about me.”

“I know you’re honest. You said you’d do something if I wrote that
Gatsby
essay, and you were going to do it.”

“Oh, that. My tits aren’t my best feature, anyway, but you could have at least looked at them.”

“We were right in the middle of the Pit.”

“So?”

“We’d get in trouble.”

“So?

“They’d probably call our folks, and we’d at least get detention.”

“I’m always in detention.”

“I’ve never been.”

“What? You’re not just crippled, my friend. You’re dead.” Colleen’s grin fades as she slumps against the nearest wall. Her face goes from technicolor to black-and-white.

“Are you okay?”

“I just threw up. Like, a minute ago.”

“You throw up a lot.”

“I’m practicing for the Olympics.” She takes hold of my wrist like somebody grabbing the safety bar at Space Mountain. “Talk to me, okay?”

“What about?”

“Anything. This is not from bad acid, so spare me the big, warm dog routine. Just distract me.”

I put my hand over hers, just casually, though. Like I do that sort of thing all the time. “Well, last night I watched this cool little sci-fi flick where some kid’s totally fine folks fall down into this sand pit where the aliens landed; next thing you know they’re not so fine. It’s a fifties movie where everybody’s scared of radioactivity and flying saucers. So there’s a lot of sameness going around. The first suburbs and all that. Thousands of guys in gray flannel suits.”

She has a can of 7UP in her purse, and she takes a swallow. “Is that all you do — squat in front of the TV?”