Stoner & Spaz (4 page)

“Because,” she says, “I’ll get high and do anything.”

That night I don’t answer the phone immediately, because I like the idea that a girl is calling me. The ringing is music to my ears.

“Just hang on,” Colleen says when I pick up, “while I light this thing. And don’t tell me not to. I’m not some all-star, okay? I’ve just got a little ice-cream habit.”

“Get serious. You were loaded at lunch today.”

“And you’re so fucking perfect.”

I shift the phone to my other ear and fall back on the bed. “I didn’t say that. And, anyway, my drug of choice is celluloid.”

“Yeah, what is it with all the movies?”

I sit up and drink the last of some lemonade. I try to think of a cool answer, something with the word
noir
in it, but I settle for the truth. “I was never like other kids. Obviously, right?”

“Because of your CD.”

“C.P., but yeah. Like when guys are getting out their bats and gloves and stuff for spring training, I’m renting
The Natural
and
Field of Dreams.
They’re signing up for tae kwon do, I settle for
Karate Kid.
Their folks take them to Raging Rapids, I watch
Water World.
My whole life was like that.” I hesitate, then add the lonely verb. “Is.”

“Like that.”

“Yes.”

“Vicarious.”

“Oh, yeah!”

But she hears the surprise in my voice and busts me on it. “I also,” she says, “count to twenty with my hoof if you give me treats.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve got a fucking vocabulary, okay? When I want to.”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

Then we just breathe for maybe thirty seconds. Or I breathe and she smokes. Then —

“You were saying?”

I sit up on the bed, which, of course, takes a little doing. “Right. I was saying. So the vicarious stuff explains part of why I watch so many movies. But when Mom ran away from home is when I went to the hard stuff.”

“Porn?”

“No. Ambient light, day for night, why a close-up here, why a tracking shot there.”

“You lost me.”

“I got deep into the movies. Really into them. I wanted to know how they make me feel the way they do. See, if I thought about stuff like that, I didn’t have to think about why Mom kidnapped herself or if it was my fault.” I take a breath.

“So now you’re, like, an expert.”

“Yeah, right. I’m a legend in my own bedroom.”

“So you’re going to make movies someday.”

“I’m going to major in business. Starting at Stanford.”

“That’s bullshit. You should make movies if you want to make movies.”

“I never said I wanted to.”

“But you do?”

“I owe my grandma a lot. She takes really good care of me.”

“And you’re easy to take care of, right? No drugs, no tats, all A’s, and you brush after every meal.”

“Yeah.”

“And she likes having you around. You’re good company.”

“I guess.”

“So you’re even; your turn to do what you want.”

“I’ll bet she doesn’t think so.”

“Yeah, well, tough shit for Grandma.”

FOR THE BRUNCH WITH OUR NEW NEIGHBOR, I wear a shirt with a little horsie on the pocket, pressed khakis, and Bass loafers.

“You look very nice.” Grandma nods approvingly.

“For a guy who took ten minutes to get his socks on.”

She just checks her watch, the silver Omega she always wears with the rose-colored silk blouse. “Do you think Ms. Sorrels will be prompt?”

“Beats me.”

“When we chatted she had on gardening gloves from Restoration. Did you notice if she was wearing a wedding ring?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Were there pictures in the living room?”

“Actually, yeah. One of her and some little bald guy in a yellow robe.”

Just then the doorbell rings and I go to answer it. Marcie stands there cradling a bottle of wine like a baby. She wears khakis, too, kind of a blue smock, and black gardening clogs she’s just hosed off because they’re still shiny.

“If it isn’t the orphan,” she says, wiping her feet. But she has a nice smile, so I smile back.

I wait until Marcie and Grandma shake hands, then I sit on the couch. Like a good boy. Our guest roams the living room, touching Grandma’s things and making all the right noises. I start thinking about Colleen. What she’s doing. Who she’s with. Smoking dope, probably. With Ed. And they’re not sitting with their hands folded waiting for the lunch Bristol Farms delivered. Ed’s probably speeding and scarfing down greasy burritos that turn into even more muscles.

“Ben?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

In the kitchen Grandma opens a bottle of chardonnay (C.P. and corkscrews don’t go together) for Marcie. I manage to pour the spring water Grandma likes. While I take a little relish tray into the dining room, Grandma gets the brunch together, zapping stuffed baby eggplant, portabella mushrooms, and twice-baked potatoes in the microwave. Then I help her transfer everything to platters and bowls.

As we carry things in and out, Grandma asks where Marcie went to college. Like it’s a foregone conclusion that she did. Like she’s that sort of person. Our kind of people.

“Pitzer.” She points east, toward Pomona.

Grandma watches me sit down and unfurl a napkin. “Ben’s going to Stanford, aren’t you, dear.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And then where?”

“I’ll take Harvard Business School for a thousand, Alex.”

Marcie scrutinizes me. “You look the part, but that doesn’t mean much. I looked like a dutiful wife.”

That takes me by surprise. I think,
Man, I know what you mean. This is just a costume. I’m only pretending to be dutiful, too.
But before I can blurt out anything, Grandma darts into the conversation like someone catching an elevator just before the door closes. “Do you live alone?”

“I’m divorced.”

Grandma looks down at her perfect fingernails. “I’m sorry.” Then she fingers the damask tablecloth.

Marcie takes a long swallow of wine. “Don’t be. I wasn’t merry enough for Tom, so we agreed to go our separate ways.”

That stops Grandma for a second. Then she rallies. “How do you stay so thin, dear?”

“I have to watch what I eat. I had bypass surgery before I was forty.” Marcie touches her smock. “I look like the bride of Frankenstein under here.”

Reaching for some parsley potatoes, I say, “That was just down at the Rialto.”

Marcie nods. “I know; I saw it. I love that actress with the original big hair.”

“Elsa Lanchester. Do you like the movies?”

“Enough to make one. Or to try, anyway.”

That makes me stop chewing. “You’re kidding.”

Marcie sits back. “When Tom left me I had one of those episodes that some call a dark night of the soul. So I did two things: I prayed and I took classes. I now know the difference between a sestina and a villanelle; I can tell a Warhol from a Lichtenstein, and I can use a Sony three-chip.”

“What kind of movie did you make?”

“A little documentary. About people who’d had heart transplants. I was in Cedars recovering from this”— she points to her chest again —“when I heard these two middle-aged men talking. One of them said, ‘I hope I didn’t get some queer’s heart. I don’t want to start looking at sailors.’ And the other one said, ‘I was thinking maybe I got mine from some Chinese kid, because all of a sudden I can balance my checkbook.’”

“And you made a movie about that?”

“Uh-huh.” She drains her glass of wine. “When the teacher told us to start thinking about a semester project, I remembered those two men. Their new hearts meant a new life for them. But it sounded to me like they were still operating inside the traditional norms of class and gender.

“I thought I’d investigate that. All I had was a bypass, and I couldn’t be the same afterward. I didn’t want to be the same. I wanted to know if that was unusual. So I talked to a lot of people, shot the whole thing in about a month, and edited it on my iMac. Got a B minus.”

“Can I see it?”

She waves half a roll at me. “Oh, I don’t think you want to do that. It’s not very good.”

“I don’t care. I never knew anybody who actually made a movie before.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Tomorrow night at Caltech my teacher is showing his new class three or four of the films from last semester.”

“And one of them is yours?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t know if mine’s an example of what to do or what not to do, but you could come if you wanted to. The class is just Basic Film Techniques, Ben. Don’t expect too much.”

“Let’s go, Grandma, okay?”

She presses her thin lips with a napkin. “I’m afraid I have AIDS tomorrow night. But you may go, Benjamin.”

I’m supposed to be getting Marcie’s coffee, but I dart (well, you know what I mean) into my room and call Colleen instead. “My neighbor made a movie, and I want to see it. Go with me, okay?”

“If Ed finds out, he’ll kick your ass.”

“You know, I think we’re more liable to see somebody walking a Chia Pet than we are to see Ed at Caltech.”

I hear her cross the kitchen linoleum, hear the refrigerator door open, then the hiss of a soda can. “What’s the movie about?”

“It’s a documentary. That’s pretty much all I know. And it’s tomorrow night.”

“I thought nice boys like you were supposed to call at least a week in advance.”

“If you go, I’ll bring you a single rose, okay, but half-dead so it’ll go with your tattoo that says Born to Lose.”

“Very funny.”

“Go with me and I’ll say more funny stuff. Your sides will ache from laughter.”

I hear her inhale before she says, “This is not a date.”

“I know that.”

“This is a good deed, okay? I’m helping the handicapped.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?”

IN THE MOVIES, usually bad ones, when somebody goes on a date, there’s almost always a Changing Scene. Somebody in front of a mirror, clothes everywhere. Or popping out of a closet, each time in a different outfit.

I don’t do that. For one thing, all my clothes are pretty much the same: preppy. For another, I’m ready for something a little more radical.

I’m on my way out the door for my nondate, when Grandma stops me.

“What happened to your hair?”

I take off my cap. “I stopped by Supercuts. They bleached it. And cut it a little.”

“But why?”

“I just wanted to look different.”

“There’s different and then there’s peculiar. A cat and a dog are different; a cat is not a peculiar dog.”

“If you’re saying I was a dog before and now I’m a cat, that’s fine by me.”

“It was an analogy, Ben.”

“I know what an analogy is, Grandma, and it wasn’t a very good one.”

“There’s no reason to be rude.”

I let my backpack drop to the floor. “Oh, Grandma, all I did was make my hair different.”

“Don’t you have enough to contend with without making yourself more conspicuous?”

“It’s my hair.”

“But it’s in my house.”

“Fine, I’ll leave my hair outside. Or at least put it out at night like a cat. If we had a cat. Which we don’t since Mom left, because of your precious furniture. Man, I can’t believe you gave away Mittens.”

“The cat was unhappy without your mother.”

“I was unhappy without my mother. Did you think about giving me away, too, or did I just not shed as much?”

Grandma settles onto a Stickley chair and looks down at her folded hands. I look up at the light fixture.

Then I turn to my grandmother. “Let’s not fight, okay? You don’t like my hair. Fine. I know that; I even understand it. But I’m not going to change it back.”

“This is very upsetting. It’s that Colleen person, isn’t it?”

“What does that mean?”

“Remember that absurd video you made me buy for your ninth birthday, that
Devil Girl from Mars
?”

“Is that what you think Colleen is?”

“It’s not that far-fetched. That character, that . . .”

“Nyah.”

“. . . came down to Earth to get men for her planet. And that awful girl is after you.”

“I wish.”

By the time I get out to the car, Colleen is standing on the passenger’s side of her beat-up convertible with the door open. I try not to stare at the tattoo on her stomach — a mushroom with a dazed-looking elf on top of it.

I point at the door. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be helping you.”

“And you would, too, if I was the spaz.”

It’s funny how different that sounds when Colleen says it; it’s not so much a name as a fact. Or maybe coming from her, it isn’t like the brickbat people usually hurl at me.

I turn sideways, fall back into the seat, and haul my gimpy leg in as Colleen walks around to her side. The tiny skeletons hanging from both ears dance.

She turns the engine over and glances at me. “You okay?”

I reach for the ratty-looking seat belt. “Yeah.”

“I was going to suggest we rob a bank, but you’re not exactly up for the quick getaway.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Cool hair, by the way.”

“My grandma hates it.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

We park on San Pasqual Avenue, walk half a block or so, then turn into the campus. The first girl we pass has broccoli-green hair and a T-shirt with Black Uhuru on it.

“I know her,” Colleen says. “I sold her some dope.” Then she puts her hand on my arm. “Speaking of dope, is anybody around?”

“Not really. Why?”

Her right hand dives into her purse and comes up with what is almost for sure the dead end of a joint.

“You’re not going to smoke that, are you?”

“I thought I might.”

“Somebody might see.”

“That’s why I asked you if there was anybody around!” She leads me to a bench, fires up her yellow Bic, takes a hit, then offers the joint to me.

“Are you kidding?”

“Don’t tell me you never wanted to.”

I glance around warily. “I don’t even know how to smoke a regular cigarette.”

“Sip at it. And let some air in to, like, water it down.”

I take the joint from her. “If I cough, don’t laugh at me.”

“I can’t believe you’re such a lightweight.”

“I’ve led a sheltered life.”