Yearbook (15 page)

“Attention, everyone. Please!” A squat girl with a loud voice clapped her hands until the room grew quiet. “Welcome to another Gadfly gathering. Tonight, in celebration of Thanksgiving, some of us have put together a little entertainment.”

Polite applause.

“Thank you. You’re very kind. Now if you’ll just shift around this way, you’ll be able to see the Gadfly players on parade!”

MORE APPLAUSE. A LANKY FELLOW CARRYING OAK TAG POSTERS ENTERED THE ROOM. HOLDING UP THE FIRST SIGN, HE DISPLAYED IT TO THE SEATED GROUP:

the gadflys present—uncensored news of the year

APPLAUSE. A SECOND SIGN WAS PLACED OVER THE FIRST.

act i international news

Two boys walked out. One wore a white rubber bathing cap. A pillow stuffed under his shirt made him very fat. The other boy had a long paper cone attached to his nose and his beard was darkened with burnt cork

Khrushchev and Nixon. Catching on, people applauded.

The politicians acted out the famous Moscow “kitchen debate/’ except Khrushchev exchanged ideologies in perfect English while Nixon enunciated only in Russian.

The skit ended. Everyone applauded and Guy gave Amy a short jab, letting her know what a good time he was having. She jabbed him back.

A NEW SIGN APPEARED.

act ii. national news

The boy who’d just played Khrushchev now came out in a floppy golf hat, carrying a golf bag. Eisenhower.

He was followed by a boy in blackface. The squat girl who’d introduced the show joined the act in silly, dark bangs which drooped to her nose. Mamie Eisenhower. She carried an oversized bottle of gin in both hands and wobbled about, drunk.

The skit involved the black fellow trying to convince Eisenhower to do something about integration. But Ike, with a golf ball to hit and a wife to sober, had no time.

Howls of delight.

The skit ended with Mamie collapsing on top of Ike’s golf ball.

ANOTHER SIGN.

act iii local news

The applause didn’t stop as the squat girl now entered in a blonde wig. She displayed, under the tightest of woolen sweaters, enormous falsies. Sticking these balloon breasts high in the air, she bent forward, assuming a Marilyn Monroe-type kissing gesture.

The audience loved it, yelling, whistling, laughing.

A football player barreled in. He wore an oversized helmet, outlandish shoulder pads and carried a deflated football.

People cheered as the athlete drooled on the floor. And on the front of the drooling football player’s jersey the numbers, though sloppily sewn on, were nonetheless unmistakable. 33. Corky.

Corky and Ro-Anne. It hit Guy like a slap in the face.

The football player now walked up to “Ro-Anne” and, placing a hand on one of her exaggerated breasts, stuttered, “Duh, someone flattened my f-f-football, Ro-Anne. I-I-I can’t go on wit-out it. What do I dooz?”

“Ro-Anne” responded by removing one of her breasts, which turned out to be a real football. Offering it to him she breathed heavily, a la Monroe, “Here, Corky. Take one of mine.”

That really broke everyone up. As the audience stomped and whistled, Guy looked at Amy. Unable to meet his gaze, she lowered her eyes and reached over, squeezing his hand, her way of apologizing for what was going on. He squeezed back, hard, his way of letting her know how livid he was.

The painful skit ended and everyone cheered.

Amy leaned over. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Guy could feel his face flushing red, and knew he’d explode any minute. He jumped up and ran out of the crowded room, into a bedroom.

Amy followed.

“Can we go?” he said, turning to face her.

“Go?”

“Leave! Get the hell out of here. I hate it.”

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“You can think any damn thing you like. Coming with me?”

“Hey, settle down.” Amy took a step toward him.

“I am settled down!” He backed away. “I just don’t like it here. Don’t like these people. You coming with me or not?”

“What’s gotten you so stirred up?”

“What the hell do you think?”

“It wasn’t meant to be taken seriously.”

“I might’ve expected something like this from them. The others. Your so-called jocks. They’re supposed to be the cold, vicious ones, aren’t they?”

“I suppose.”

“They’re the ones always making fun of you and me, right?” “Right.”

“So here we are and everyone pretends to be on some different plane of communication; some damn aloof awareness. Terrific. Well, I don’t care if Leonard Hauser can fart ‘The Lord’s Prayer.’ You’re all no better than the rest of them. They laugh at your ugliness and you laugh at their weaknesses and it all stinks!”

They stood there, staring at each other, while he tried to catch his breath. Finally he sighed, “I think I’m starting to calm down.”

“Good. Good for you. I admire your loyalty and your passion for something you believe in.”

“I don’t need a review of my performance.”

“It comes free with the rest of the evening s entertainment.”

“I might’ve guessed.”

Walking over to Guy, Amy took his hand. “Come on, Slugger. Let’s go back to the party. Give us another chance.”

Guy quietly agreed. “But not for long. I’ve got an important football game to cover tomorrow.”

“Football? That anything like a casaba melon with an appendix scar?”

Guy chased her out of the room.

Across town, Corky was getting ready for bed.

“Leave the door open, son!” his father instructed from downstairs.

“Don’t worry, Dad!” Corky yelled back. “I won’t have trouble tonight.”

“Let’s not take chances, leave it open so I can hear!”

No sense arguing with the old man. Corky left the door open.

In his bathroom, clad in pajama bottoms, Corky took the small plastic bottle from the medicine cabinet. Coach Petrillo had given it to him that afternoon.

This season the nights before a game had become hell. Once asleep, Corky would bolt awake from a horrifying dream. Afterward, his anxiety compounded, the fear of another nightmare returning kept him awake, turning in his bed until it became light outside his window.

As the season progressed, his bad dreams had gotten more and more frightening. When he’d finally told Petrillo about it, the coach had said he’d take care of it.

Friday afternoon Petrillo had called Corky into his small office adjacent to the locker room. Closing the door behind his star player, the coach handed him the small container. “You mention this to no one, understand?”

Corky nodded.

“Listen carefully. Take a pink pill tonight, before bed. You’ll sleep real soundly, so be sure to set the alarm.”

Corky looked at the plastic bottle.

“When you get up in the morning,” Petrillo went on, “take a red one. Understand?”

“What are they?”

“The pinks will help you relax, let you sleep, and the reds are called amphetamines. Nothing to ‘em. Just like a few cups of coffee, only more energy. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now put it some place safe, hide them and get your butt outta here!”

“Thanks, I… “

Petrillo patted his ass and sent him on his way.

Corky stared at the pink pill in his hand. Oh, well, Coach must know what he’s doing. He popped it into his mouth, slurped some water from the faucet and then looked in the mirror. The image on the other side smiled back. Messing his hair, he growled his menacing quarterback sneer.

Brushing his hair back into place, he smiled again. Once more, the face of a movie star.

He flexed a bicep at his reflection and kneaded the round hardness.

Stiffening, he punched himself in the stomach. Tight as ever.

Having passed evening’s inspection, he sprinkled athlete’s-foot powder between his toes, went to bed and was soon asleep.

Courtesy of Petrillo’s pill.

TWENTY-ONE
 

AMY SAT CROSS-LEGGED
in a corner, arguing about modern poets.

Guy was on the other side of the room, listening to an oddly shaped girl strumming a guitar.

Bored, he waved to Amy, signaling that it was time to leave. The party was breaking up anyway.

After fetching their coats, Guy and Amy said good night. Leonard said he sure hoped they’d had a lousy time and they assured him they had.

It was snowing harder as they walked home. A windless snow with large flakes that stuck to everything.

Amy wrapped her arm in Guy s. “Well?”

“They’re kind of a strange bunch.”

“I suppose. Still, a lot more interesting than your snap-crackle-and-pop crowd at the Sugar Bowl.”

“I’m not so sure. “

“Don’t be asinine.
Their
idea of a stimulating evening is sitting around watching the ice cream melt.”

“And your friends would rather sit around trading insults.”

“Please! Once you realize most of that abrasiveness is only to sell you on how bright they are, you can relax, because they’re only trying, odd as it seems, to get you to like them.”

“You’re a great analyzer, Amy.”

“So why am I so confused?”

“Beats me.”

He kicked at the rising snow.

Corky had been asleep several hours when it started. Like a demon let loose, the dream crept out of his subconscious and played on his brain… .

Carefree, he sees himself running with a football toward some faraway rainbow.

Looking down, he sees the ground suddenly covered with snakes. Hissing, they coil around him, tongues spitting, fangs snapping for his legs. The faster he runs, the thicker they grow.

Suffocating, falling through the air, he screams. No noise comes out…

Next thing Corky knew, he was sitting up in bed, awake, shaking and clammy with sweat.

At least this time he hadn’t cried out, waking his parents and a sleeping neighborhood. Too drugged.

Groggy and confused, he soon fell asleep again. Fully at work, the Seconal had sealed off his terror. For now.

Ro-Anne wondered if the steaks would ever arrive.

She’d been stuck with Lester and her mother in the red plastic leather booth of the Cattle Car restaurant all evening, watching them wade through several extra-dry Beefeater martinis.

Lester was her mother s boyfriend of seven months. Big, surly and divorced, Ro-Anne assumed from his gruff manner and extravagant style that he was Mafia-affiliated. In truth, he owned a factory outside town that made air-conditioners.

Draped over her gentleman friend, Marian opened the top two buttons of his shirt, slipped her hand inside and massaged his hairy chest, telling him what a
hunk
he was. Ro-Anne was repelled by it all.

“Don’t look so unhappy!” Marian slurred. “She’s a football widow is what she is! Sixteen in a few months and already in mourning.”

“Cut it out!” Ro-Anne pouted.

“Here.” Marian eased a martini glass toward her daughter. “Have some of this. It’ll cheer you up.”

“Muth-thur
/” Ro-Anne pushed the gin away. “Can’t we eat?”

“Sure. Soon as we finish drinking.” Marian held a hand to her chest, stifling a hiccup. Then she gazed into Lester’s bloodshot eyes and twirled a lock of his thin hair. “Okay, handsome?”

“Whatever you girls say. Sky’s the limit!” This from the Diamond Jim Brady of Waterfield.

In time Marian and Lester downed their third “tinis” and the steaks were served. Ro-Anne concentrated on eating rather than watching her mother playfully cutting Lester’s meat and feeding him like a baby.

These were the times she wondered if Corky was worth all this celibacy. Girls had always meant competition to Ro-Anne. Since she had never sought their full trust, her girl friends were no more than telephone companions.

With no one special to play with this long football season, she’d been spending time with Marian and Lester. And Lester, dammit, was so revolting she didn’t even care to flirt with him.

Her mother, tall, youthfully attractive, blonde, with an ample figure and full smile, seemed too good for him.

Marian had grown up in Philadelphia and had been twice married before she met Allan Sommers. He was a workaholic twice her age, short, stout, and Marian would never have looked twice but for the fact he owned a chain of supermarkets around the central Long Island area.

Marian often said, “Good girls go to heaven. The rest of us settle for Palm Beach and mink.”

She and Allan got married after a five-week whirlwind courtship. They settled in Waterfield on his family’s estate there, and Ro-Anne was born a year and half later.

Marian was soon bored with domesticity. She was even more bored with the half-hearted affair she was having with a too-young, too-dumb—if gorgeous—check-out clerk from one of Allan’s supermarkets.

She was about to ask for a divorce when Allan suddenly cheeked-out himself. Collapsing from exhaustion at work, he knocked over an enormous Campbell’s soup display in aisle 5. As bargain hunters fled, Allan lay there, sprawled between rolling cans of green pea and chicken noodle.

After three days’ rest in the hospital, he was told he could go home. He was being escorted down the corridor, toward the elevator, when he died in his wheelchair. Marian and Ro-Anne were fixed for life

“Finally!” Ro-Anne thought as Marian and Lester downed the last of their after-dinner drinks.

Lester proceeded to drive them home in his new Cadillac Eldorado, proudly demonstrating the power windows, brakes, antennae and cigarette lighter. Ro-Anne could hardly wait to get home.

When they finally got there, Marian invited them both into her Las Vegas palatial living room for a nightcap. Unable to imagine anything more boring, Ro-Anne declined and went to bed with the latest
Glamour
, finding out what shades of lipstick were the coming rage.

An hour later, after several more brandies, Marian and Lester climbed into bed.

Ro-Anne heard their door close and put down her magazine. She waited a few minutes and then tiptoed down the hall, putting her ear to the door.

There seemed to be a great deal of sloshing about, a lot of heavy breathing, heaving and ho-ing. A verbal romantic, Marian was moaning, “Oh … baby… beautiful… too much…!”