Stotan! (11 page)

For a few minutes Elaine watched Dolan yucking it up and being cool with his buddies, then she said, “Excuse me a minute.”

She walked over to their booth and pulled up a chair. Dolan was resting his arm on the table and she elbowed it off. “John, you big stud,” she said. “How you doin'?”

Dolan just looked at her funny.

“Heard you think I'm pretty good in the sack,” Elaine said. “Couldn't get me off you, huh?”

Dolan looked at her, then back to his buddies, finding himself desperately short on conversational skills. I can't believe it, but I started to feel sorry for him.

Elaine said, “You know, it's funny, John, but I can't remember. Hard to believe I'd forget something that electrifying. You wouldn't happen to have a teensy-weensy little thing, would you? I can see how I'd forget that. Or maybe you were a little quick on the trigger. I
know
I'd forget that.”

At this point Dolan knew the only way out was straight up, and his cronies were starting to snicker and turn away.

Then Elaine stuck her index finger right in the
middle of his chest. Hard. She said, “John Dolan, you know as well as I do I wouldn't have sex with you if you were the nearest thing to a human being left on this earth. You should be really careful what you say, because you can end up looking like a fool.” Then she looked over to O'Brian and said, “Not in my worst nightmare, Marty. Not in my worst nightmare.” She scooted her chair back and came back over to our booth.

Lion stood up and clapped. A couple of the baseball players did the same and there was plenty of hooting. Dolan stayed a few minutes to see if there was any way to save face, found none, and split. When he got up to leave, O'Brian said in a voice that could be heard all over the restaurant, “See you later, you big stud, you,” and laughed like a hyena.

I didn't have as much contempt built up for Marty then as I do now, but I remember thinking I wouldn't like very much to have him as my friend in a pinch.

 

Nortie and I took off our running shoes and sweatsocks in the mudroom just off the kitchen and hustled through the house upstairs to the shower. The bottoms of our sweatpants were hard as rocks and Nortie was teasing about having to break his off. My folks were
gone wherever it is they go in the afternoons, so I cranked up the Kingston Trio till we could hear it in the bathroom. Just because I'd written Long John off didn't mean I had to write off the Kingstons. Nortie took the first shower and I sat on the toilet with the lid down, reading the paper and enjoying the warm steam.

“You think Jeff and Colleen sleep together?” he asked.

The headline on the front page was about some guys linked to the Aryan Nations who were running around the country knocking over banks and Brinks trucks to get money to gather weapons. They sounded like a bunch of loons, even though the quotes indicated they took themselves pretty seriously. I wondered if O'Brian knew what a jerk he looked like, being a delivery boy for them.

“I don't have a count on who's sleeping with who,” I said, popping to.

Nortie said, “I know, but just tell me about Jeff and Colleen.”

“Jeff
better
be sleeping with her,” I said. “I ran with him yesterday and he almost didn't make the full eight miles. He
really
slowed down after five. He's getting worn down
somewhere.
”

I was reminded that I'd actually been a little worried
about Jeff at the end of our run. He's in great shape; eight miles is nothing. But he really was sucking at the end. Not out of breath, just tired. Anyway, I ran with him again three or four days later and he seemed just fine.

 

So we're back in school and ready to start the season in earnest. We'll travel at least three weekends out of four until early March, which is when the State meet is held in Seattle. I'm going to try to let
nothing
interrupt my concentration on swimming between now and then. That is, I
was
going to try. Today in English class I heard that Elaine went to the Christmas dance with a guy named Peter Wilson, who's the student teacher in my Government class. They must have shown up after we left. I wonder why she didn't mention it. I sure didn't need to know it.

January 21

We got back into workouts, and back into school, no sweat. It's funny, we get our best grades in-season. I think that's because we know we don't have any time to screw around. We're working out four to five hours a day, and it takes another hour and a half to get the sting of the chlorine out of our eyes; we're all throwbacks—none of us uses goggles. Add to that the amount of sleep we need to operate at this pace and about all that's left is time for epic meals and schoolwork. Procrastinate on an assignment and you're lost. But when you get in this good a shape, I believe you think better. Your blood, stoked with oxygen and nutrients and brain food,
shoots through your head like a river and you get twice the work done in half the time.

We're way ahead of schedule in our workouts. Except for Jeff, everyone's times have been dropping like a rock, and it's looking like we may qualify our 400 free relay for State. Even though we're strong in different events, we're all strong 100 freestylers. What a coup that would be, to end the year winning something together. Of course, that depends on Jeff getting off his plateau. I'm sure he will; everyone hits one sometime—it's a curse of the sport—and Jeff's been a swimmer longer than any of us, actually, so he knows he can swim through it if he works his butt off and doesn't get down. He's as patient as they come. It's early in the season; the best time for it to happen if it has to happen at all.

Nortie's getting pretty used to living at our place. He had a hard time with it at first—always wanted to drive by his house to see if everything was all right. After a few midnight passes he finally figured out there's no way he can tell if everything's all right by just driving by, and no way he can make things all right under any circumstances. He meets with his mom downtown once a week for lunch and that helps some, though he
says he'd like to contact his dad too. Mr. Wheeler's too pissed at him to make that possible; in fact, if he knew Mrs. Wheeler was seeing Nortie, he'd probably kick her butt. So, slowly but surely, he's getting used to the fact that nothing is going to change at his house and the best thing he can ever do is stay away and not fan the flames.

Nortie has also decided on a new and different life's work, now that he's convinced he's too dangerous a dude for the teaching profession. Nortie's now going to be a psychologist; and from what I've seen so far, someone should warn serious members of that profession that he's coming.

He caught me after we finished our homework last Tuesday night and wanted me to go over to school with him.

“What for?” I asked.

“Gotta go make Richard Nixon smarter,” he said.

I said, “Better men have tried. What are you talking about?”

“Take me and I'll show you.”

I got up. I'd finished a report for Government class on the Watergate affair and, clearly, any attempts to make Richard Nixon smarter couldn't hurt. I busted my butt to make the paper a good one to impress Mr.
Wilson, the student teacher who took Elaine to the Christmas dance. Actually, “impress” might be the wrong word. I wanted him thinking I'm as smart as I am big and mean and good-looking, so if he ever has reason to mess with me, he won't. That's the grown-up way to handle romantic wars.

“This better be good,” I said, putting on my coat.

“It's good,” Nortie said.

Nortie had talked Mr. Redden, the Psych teacher, out of a key to the school so he could get in at night to do lab work. Since we spend so much time out of school during swimming season, Nortie thought it would be a good idea to work after hours and stay caught up. Getting the key took an act of the School Board; there probably aren't three other kids in school who could have gotten it, but Nortie's one of those people everyone takes care of, and somehow Mr. Redden or Mrs. Stevens, the vice-principal, presented it right.

“We talking about Richard Nixon the fallen president?” I asked as we got out of the car and started down the hill toward the front entrance.

“Richard Nixon the rat,” he said. “Jeff says they're one and the same. I'm missing two lab periods for the Montana road trip, so I need to get ahead. Come
watch, it's kinda neat.”

I said, “Hell, yes, I'll come watch. I didn't drive you all the way over here to wait out in the cold. Besides, not many people get the chance to educate a former President, though it might have done more good back in 1968.”

Our feet crunched over the frozen snow covering glare ice. Nortie wore slick loafers and he handed me his notebook and took off running and skating to the bottom of the hill, screaming, “Henny Youngman!” as he tried a little pirouette. He landed on his butt.

“That's Sonja Henie,” I yelled, “and she's a girl.” “Really?” he yelled back. “Dick Button, then.” In the Psych lab it smelled like maybe Richard Nixon and his cabinet had staged a poop-in. Nortie flipped on the light, went over to a stack of cages by the far wall, reached inside the one marked
RICHARD NIXON
—¾ and pulled out a little white rat. He petted Mr. Nixon a minute and talked politics, then placed him in a glass cage with several switches on the outside, a steel-gridded floor, a lever and a small receptacle inside at one end, with a closed container for pellets feeding into the receptacle.

“Your basic Skinner Box,” Nortie said, peering through the glass at his rat, which impatiently pressed
the lever and checked the tray. “He should have been a smarter president,” Nortie said. “He remembers everything I taught him yesterday.”

Richard Nixon pawed the lever a few more times, without result because Nortie wasn't ready yet, and sniffed around the Skinner Box. I looked around the lab at the other cages. Each rat's name was taped to the outside of its cage. There was Billy Sol Estes, Adolf Hitler, Macbeth and several other well-known scoundrels from the worlds of history and literature. “Named after other famous rats,” Nortie said. “Mr. Redden's a funny guy.”

“How come he doesn't have Percy Cerruti?” I asked.

Nortie's eyes brightened and he laughed out loud. He walked over to Richard Nixon's cage and tore the taped name tag away, brought another tag out of Mr. Redden's desk and wrote Cerruti's name on it with a felt-tipped pen. “I'll make it legal in class tomorrow,” he said.

He went back to his rat, which was sniffing aimlessly around the box, stopping to push the lever every so often without result.

“You taught him to hit the lever for food?” I asked.

“Yup. But I can teach him a lot more than that. Just watch. Spring term last year, Mr. Redden taught Benito
Mussolini to press the bar, turn three full circles to the right, two full circles to the left, then hit the bar twice. He'd do that up to six times for one pellet. Mr. Redden said he could have made him do it a hundred times, but it was boring him to death. Benito willed his brains to science.” Nortie activated his hand-held switch. “Watch, I'll show you how this works.” Percy Cerruti had moved over to the other side of the box and Nortie waited for him to approach the receptacle. When he did, Nortie pressed the button and a pellet appeared. Percy recognized the click and was on the pellet like stink on poop, then immediately hit the lever. Another pellet. “I can make him hit it any number of times I want, just to get one pellet,” he said. “I just gradually work up the number of times it takes to get one. If I put him on a Variable Interval Reinforcement Schedule—not let him know how many times he has to hit it—I can make him bang on that thing till his paw falls off.”

“Maybe you should change his name back to Richard Nixon,” I said. “Sounds like presidential material to me.” I watched him for a couple of seconds, totally engrossed in what he was doing. “Nortie, you sure you want to do this for a living instead of teach? I mean, who you gonna work for, Barnum and Bailey?”

“I'd teach if I could,” he said, “but this isn't so bad.
I mean, a psychologist doesn't spend all his time training rats. This is how people learn too, you know.”

“Really? Funny, I can't remember my time in a Skinner Box.”

Nortie laughed. “Pretty cute. But really, Walk, the pellet is just reinforcement. It's something the rat really wants. You keep him hungry all the time so you know that. That's what the ¾ on the cage means; he's at three fourths his natural weight. When you get him in the box, if you're patient, you can teach him anything just by knowing what he wants. If you can figure out what reinforces somebody, you can know a lot about them. Mr. Redden says we're just sophisticated rats.”

I watched Cerruti jump through his hoops while Nortie recorded it all in his lab book and I couldn't help but wonder at the nature of the reinforcement that keeps Nortie wanting beyond anything to please a dad who beats him up and a mother who never protected him. I didn't ask.

“Mr. Cerruti's got you going pretty good too,” I said after a while. “Look at you, stuck here at nine o'clock at night, pushing that button every time he hits the lever.”

Nortie didn't even look up. “Yup,” he said. “We
both have to do it right if it's going to work. This here operant conditioning is mutual.”

 

So Nortie has discovered the meaning of life and that's given him new focus. Sometimes I think any focus would do—that he just needs something to believe in and hungry white rats are as good as anything. Anyway, he's attached to his new life's work; and it sure isn't hurting his swimming any. He's been absolutely unbeatable the first two weeks of the season. So far he's swum different events in each meet—we've had three to date: one the first weekend and two the second—and in anything farther than 100 yards he's out of the water and half dry before the number-two man finishes. Lion's been amazing too. He's far ahead of his old times, particularly in the 'fly, and far ahead of where anyone would have predicted. Lion seemed to add all kinds of new fuel to his tanks the first day back to school when he walked up to Marty O'Brian and told him he couldn't care less what his political or religious beliefs were, but that if one more of those stupid Aryan papers showed up on our campus he would hold O'Brian personally responsible and would hurt him in ways O'Brian didn't know existed and after that would hand-deliver him to the Conners brothers, a couple of black linebackers on
the football team, who would more likely than not spread his body parts evenly over the vast Inland Empire. O'Brian gave him some lip, but it was weak. My guess is that he'll cool it.

It's interesting: O'Brian uses his affiliation with those guys to express his distaste for blacks, but the Aryans spend most of their time on Jews and I don't think O'Brian knows enough about Jews to know what he's supposed to not like. I wonder how many people who hang out with them are just unconscious peckerheads who need someone to hate.

Anyway, the point was that Lion is getting
fast
and will probably qualify for State in the 100 'fly. Everything in Stotan land is perfect except for the fact that Jeff is stuck. He actually slowed a couple tenths of a second in the last meet down in Pullman, but I think that was due to a bad start and one mediocre turn.

This next weekend is Montana, and even though it's a driving marathon—we go to Billings, clear across on the eastern side of the state, and then up to Havre, close to the Canadian border—Lion and I are both going to try to qualify for State there. Because the high schools and colleges share the pool in both towns, we swim at Eastern Montana State's pool in Billings and Northern Montana's pool in Havre: both
fast pools—particularly Northern's.

I think the Montana road trip, more than any other, makes us family. We're together from mid-afternoon on Thursday until way late Sunday night non-stop. That's like being in a sensory-deprivation tank with friends of Jabba the Hutt for three days. Swimming just wouldn't be the same without the Montana road trip.