Too Soon for Jeff

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you know. It’s not exactly like your sister was working on getting a life. She was spending about an hour a week in Independent Studies and the rest of the time watching ‘General Hospital’ and ‘Oprah’.”

  “So what? You learn a lot from that stuff. Not everybody has to be a brain like you. There’s a lot more to life than school, Narrow Shoulders.”

  “Whatever you say, BB Brain.”

  I’m only half listening, looking down on the 210 Free­way, now more crowded with cars than when we first got here. They move in and out, passing, changing lanes, as if all governed by the same rhythm, the same beat. It’s a dance. But if one car misses the beat, moves too soon to the next lane, there may be tragedy. That’s how life is—one wrong move and the whole thing is screwed up. One wrong move.

  “Earth to J.B., Earth to J.B. Come in J.B.” Jeremy is holding a beer as if it’s a walky-talky. I take it from him and open it, placing my empty can in the carton in front of Ben.

  “My mom went to school with this girl who had an abortion and she died from it,” Ben says.

  ‘Your mom died from her friend’s abortion?” Jeremy says in mock disbelief.

  ‘You know what I mean, dick nose,” Benny says, tossing a handful of dirt at Jeremy. “It really happened,” he says, turning to me.

  “Your mom was in school in the old coat hanger days,” I say. “People don’t die from abortions anymore.”

  “Sometimes they do,” Benny insists.

  “Well, Christy won’t because she’s not having an abor­tion. It’s stupid to talk about it,” I say.

  I slide off the rock and walk along the ridge a ways. Pine needles crunch under my feet, releasing a scent that makes the earth seem clean. I sit on the ground and finish my beer, then go back to where Jeremy and Benny are sitting. They’re arguing about God. Benny believes in God. Jeremy is a total atheist. As usual, I’m somewhere in the middle.

  “My sister had this wart on her little finger, and she prayed every day that the wart would go away, and it did.”

  “This is the same sister who watches ‘Oprah,’ right?

  “Yeah. But her wart went away!”

  “Listen, B.D. What you’re saying is there is this god who cures teeny, tiny warts while he lets twelve million chil­dren starve every year.”

  “Maybe he’s just a wart god,” I say. Then I laugh. And then I can’t stop laughing. Benny and Jeremy start, too.

  “He’s buzzed,” Benny says, and that makes me laugh harder. I’m laughing so hard tears are rolling down my cheeks. Jeremy has this snorting kind of laugh that makes things funnier still. We’re sitting here on this rock, watch­ing the lights come on in the valleys, and everything in the world is funny.

  Gradually we gain control. Benny opens another beer for each of us. I notice we’re on the second six-pack.

  Jeremy wipes his eyes. “Oh, my goodness, gracious,” he says, using another of his grandfatherly expressions. “Here’s a joke.”

  The thought of one of Jeremy’s weird jokes gets us laughing again.

  “No. Don’t laugh yet,” Jeremy says.

  We laugh harder.

  “If you don’t stop laughing, I won’t tell it.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, still laughing.

  Jeremy waits. When we are finally quiet he says, “This frog goes into a savings and loan place, hops up on the counter and asks for a loan from the teller. ‘I’m only a teller. I can’t give you a loan. You’ll have to see our loan officer, Miss Wack.’”

  “Miss Wack?” Benny starts laughing again. “Miss Wack-off?”

  “No. Come on,” Jeremy says. “Stop laughing . . . So anyway, the frog goes into Miss Wack’s office, fills out the loan papers, and says ‘Now can I get my loan?’

  “The loan officer looks over the papers and says, ‘These look fine, but you’ll have to have some collateral.’

  “‘What do you mean, collateral?’ the frog says.

  “‘You know. Something of value.’

  “So the frog leaves and comes back about an hour later with this little statue of a fly on a lily pad and offers it as collateral. The loan officer takes one look at it and says no way will she give a loan on that basis.

  “So the frog starts hopping all around, yelling in his hoarse voice, ‘I want my loan! I want my loan!’

  “Finally, the bank president comes in to see what all the commotion is about. The loan officer explains the whole thing and holds up the little statue. ‘This is supposed to be his collateral. What is it anyway?’

  “And the bank president takes the little statue and examines it carefully, then he tells her, ‘it’s a knick-knack, Patty Wack, give the frog a loan.’”

  Jeremy doubles up with laughter. Ben and I look at each other.

  “Don’t you get it? It’s a knick-knack Patty Wack, give the frog a loan!” Jeremy shouts. “C’mon you guys. Laugh! It’s funny!” He sings the punch line to the tune of “This Old Man,” and Benny and I sit and look at him. Finally though, we can stand it no longer and we both burst out laughing at the same time. And then we all sing it together.

  It’s dark now, and the stars are out. It’s a full moon, and Jeremy is going on about gravity and the moon and tides. When we get tired of Jeremy’s scholarly lecture, Ben and I sing at the top of our lungs, “It’s a knick-knack, Patty Wack . . .” which prompts uncontrollable laughter from the three of us. Then Jeremy gets the hiccups, which really makes us laugh.

  There are two more cars parked in the turn-out, but we haven’t seen any other people. We’re on our last can of beer. I slide down from the rock.

  “Gotta take a leak,” I say, walking down to the closest tree.

  Benny lets out a big burp, then yells, “Hey, keep that thing in your pants unless you’ve got a rubber handy.”

  I hear them both laughing, then drown out the noise by letting go with a steady stream against the tree trunk. I’m down to the last drop when suddenly I’m blinded by a flashlight shining in my face. I turn my head.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “Hey, yourself,” a gruff voice says. The flashlight is aimed away from me, and I get a good look at a ranger. He’s so big, if it weren’t for his uniform I’d have thought Bigfoot found me.

  “Oh, shit,” I say.

  “You want to do that, too? Go ahead. I’ve got time.”

  I zip up.

  ‘You boys been having a little party up here?”

  “No, just talking,” I say.

  “Right.” He shines the flashlight back in my face, look­ing into my eyes. Then he has me do that thing where you put your head back and touch your fingers to your nose. I keep missing my nose.

  “What’s your name?”

  I tell him. He asks for an I.D. and I hand over my wallet.

  “Okay, Jeff, come along with me,” he says, flashing an official-looking badge. My heart is pounding so hard I think he can see it, but I try to stay cool.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You and your friends got to go back to the ranger station,” he says.

  I notice that’s he’s carrying a club, and although he hasn’t been nasty, he’s scary looking. We walk back to the turnout. Benny and Jeremy and another ranger are crowded into the back seat of an old, beat-up Jeep.

  “You boys been drinking some, I see,” the ranger who’s driving says.

  “Not much,” Benny says.

  “Three six-packs of twelve-ouncers? I’d say that’s enough to get drunk and disorderly on.”

  “Disorderly?” Benny says.

  “Yep. We got a call about noise up here.”

  Jeremy says, “So, is it against the law to laugh up here? I saw the ‘No smoking’ sign. Did I miss the no laughing sign?”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” the ranger says, “or you’ll find yourself booked officially down at the sheriff’s sta­tion.”

  I turn back to look at Jeremy and Benny. Please keep
your mouths shut, I think.

  We bounce along over a dirt road until we come to this little house kind of place. There are two chairs, two desks, and some ranger paraphernalia—binoculars, maps, a compass.

  “Where’s Smokey Bear?” Ben says, then he does this fake kid cry, “Smokey, Smokey, I wanna see Smokey, Ranger Rick.”

  I really wish Ben would shut up.

  The Bigfoot ranger walks over to Ben and stands real close, looking down at him.

  “Listen, Buddy, you got caught by the good guys. We want everybody to be safe and happy up here, and not to misuse their national resources. But you’ve broken the law, and if I hear any more of this Ranger Rick, Smokey Bear crap we’ll drive down the hill and let the sheriff hold you three knick-knackers in a cell for a while.”

  I’m relieved that Ben doesn’t come up with any more smart-ass remarks. The three of us sit on a wooden bench and listen while the other ranger, the smaller one, makes phone calls.

  Benny’s mom is home and so is Jeremy’s dad, so they get picked up in about thirty minutes. But my mom isn’t home, and I end up waiting and waiting. It’s cold in the ranger station. I have a nasty taste in my mouth. Nothing seems so funny anymore. Finally, the ranger reaches my mom. It is after midnight when she comes to get me. Steve is with her. She doesn’t look happy to see me.

  Chapter

  8

  “You better try to get a grip on yourself, Jeffrey Dean Browning, or things are going to get worse and worse!”

  Mom clenches the steering wheel tightly as she maneu­vers the curves of Angeles Crest Highway.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she says. “It seems like it’s been one crisis after another with you lately. I’m worried sick about you—drinking in the mountains? I suppose you were then going to get in your car and attempt to drive home?”

  My head is spinning.

  “It’s lucky Steve was still at the house when the rangers called so he could come up with me and drive your car back. You sure as hell couldn’t.”

  My palms are clammy. Sweat is dripping from my forehead.

  “Pull over, Mom.”

  “Why?” she asks, then glances at me.

  She pulls abruptly to the side of the road. I barely have time to open the door when I barf up beer, lunch, breakfast, my toes, it feels like.

  Steve, in my car, screeches to a halt behind us and comes sprinting up.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  I’ve still got my head hanging out the car door.

  “Karen?”

  I hear him open the door on Mom’s side. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and sit up. Steve has his arms around my mom and her back is shaking with silent sobs.

  “It’s okay, Sis,” he says. “Remember your prom?”

  Mom stiffens and pulls away from him.

  “The mess this boy’s in is hardly an innocent dance with one bottle of champagne poured into eight gallons of Hawaiian Punch,” she says.

  “I’ll take him home with me tonight,” he says.

  “Gladly,” she says, sounding tired.

  Steve looks over at me. “Come on, Jeff. Let’s give your mom a break.”

  I get out, walk back to my car and climb in on the passenger side.

  I pull the pillow over my face, blocking light. I’m not ready for morning. There is a foul taste in my mouth and a dull ache in my head. My feet hang over the end of the couch, exposed and cold. I turn over, first one side then the other. No way can I get comfortable, but I’m not ready to get up and face the day, either.

  The phone rings and Steve answers.

  “Still sleeping,” he says softly.

  “No . . . okay . . . sure . . . Shall I have him call you?”

  I can tell it’s my mom on the other end. I pull the pillow back over my head, blocking the sound, trying to block out my thoughts, my feelings, my messed-up life.

  “What time do you have to be at work today?” Steve nudges my shoulder.

  “Two. I’ve got the afternoon shift.”

  “Well, get up and move around. You’ll feel better.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost noon.”

  “Okay,” I say, not moving.

  “There’s an unopened toothbrush in the medicine cabi­net. I imagine you need one.”

  Steve’s voice has an edge to it that I’ve not heard before. I drag myself off the couch and into the bathroom—brush my teeth, brush my tongue and take a long, hot shower. The scalding water feels good against my chest. I tip my head back under the shower, get a mouthful of hot water, and rinse. Yuck! The taste of stale beer and vomit doesn’t go away.

  “Here are some clean loaner clothes,” Steve says, open­ing the door and dropping old sweats, a tee shirt and underwear on the counter. “I’ve dumped your clothes from last night in with a load I’ve got going.”

  “Thanks.”

  If my clothes smell anything like how my mouth tastes, I hope he used plenty of soap.

  On the kitchen table there is a box of granola, milk, bananas, and a couple of bowls. Steve’s apartment is kind of like a second home to me but today I don’t feel so comfortable here. I sit at the table, across from him, and stare at the milk-soaked kernels of granola that lay un­eaten in my bowl. Finally, Steve drops the sports section on the chair next to him and says, “Talk to me, Jeff.”

  I look up and sigh, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about saying what’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing’s on my mind.”

  “Yeah, right. Your girlfriend’s pregnant, you got de­tained by rangers last night as a result of being shitfaced, and nothing’s on your mind?”

  What can I say? I sit, silent, feeling Steve’s gaze resting heavy on me.

  “Listen, Jeff. I’m on your side. Remember me? Uncle Steve? You’re like a son to me. I want to help.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . there’s nothing I can do, that’s all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well . . . I don’t want Christy to have the baby. She won’t even think about an abortion. So that’s it. I mean, I’m not the kind of guy who’s gonna go kick her in the stomach.

  “And you’re sure this is your baby?” Steve asks.

  I nod my head yes. Christy flirts around sometimes, but I’d be lying if I said she’d ever been with anyone else. I know she hasn’t.

  “I hear Christy’s dad wants the two of you to get married.”

  “Christy’s dad is a nutcase. I don’t want to get married.”

  “What about Christy? Does she want to get married?”

  “I don’t know. When she first told me she was pregnant she was all happy, like we were going to live happily ever after or something. Then when I told her I didn’t want a baby she got totally wigged out—called me a baby killer— that stuff. She wouldn’t even talk to me.”

  “But you must be talking now, if she’s staying at your house.”

  “Yeah. Something happened. We sort of made up.”

  “You don’t seem real happy about it.”

  So I tell Steve how I’ve been wanting to break up with Christy, and just as I had my nerve up to tell her so, she dropped the baby bomb on me. And I also tell him the reason I’d stopped using condoms was because Christy was on the pill.

  “Oldest trick in the book,” Steve says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A guy starts to lose interest, the gal gets herself pregnant, then she’s got him. They’re connected forever.”

  “You mean you think Christy did it on purpose?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But that’s not fair!”

  Steve laughs. “But it works.”

  “But Christy wants to go to college, be a teacher for deaf kids, stuff you can’t do with a baby.”

  “Maybe she wants that. Maybe she wants you more.”

  I go to the sink, get a glass of water and down it. I’ve been super thirsty all morning.

  “I
don’t think so, Steve. I don’t think Christy would do that.”

  “Maybe she didn’t exactly do it on purpose. Maybe she started worrying about losing you and just thought she’d leave things to fate—if it was meant to be, then it would happen.”

  My heart sinks. Christy is big on that what’s meant to be will be stuff. When Steve puts it this way, I can see where she might just let things happen. God. Why? And why wasn’t I more careful?

  “When I was in high school,” Steve says, “if a guy got his girlfriend pregnant he automatically married her as soon as possible, unless she moved in with a relative in some other state and put the baby up for adoption.”

  “Adoption?”

  “Yeah. The girl would show up six or seven months later, back in school, as if nothing had happened.”

  I’d never thought about adoption! Maybe that’s the answer! Steve must be thinking along the same lines.

  “That might be a good thing for Christy,” he says. “She’s not going to have a way to take care of this baby, is she? It doesn’t sound like her parents will help her out and I know your mom doesn’t plan on adding major baby-sitting tasks to her life just as she’s getting ready to start a new job at the hospital.”

  “Christy’s mom might want to help, but her dad’s the big boss in that family and he’s wacko. He kicked her out of the house—she had to sneak back when he was at work so she could get some clothes. She doesn’t really have anywhere to stay but with us.”

  “I know. Your mom says things are kind of crowded at your house now. It must be a bit awkward for you.”

  I nod, thinking of Wednesday night, and how Christy and I ended up in bed together. Although it felt good at the time, it had complicated things.

  Steve and I talk on and on. He lectures me about drinking and driving.

  “I know all that,” I tell him.

  “You knew to wear a condom, too,” he says.

  We talk about the debate tournament coming up, and the Lakers, and Steve’s job, then after lunch we jump in the pool. I love California—riots, fires, earthquakes, smog, carjackings and all—because in the middle of February you can go for a swim and even, sometimes, have an outside barbeque in the evening.