“Well, I just want you to know that I’ve got no hard feelings over how you guys flubbed the posters,” Danny went on. “And I intend to give you and Sean full credit in my speech.”
“Except that you’re not making a speech,” Raymond finished for him.
“But I always speak.”
“Well, you see,” Raymond explained pleasantly, “this time you decided that since you did absolutely nothing for this party, you have absolutely nothing to say. Right, Delancey?”
Sean was not listening. Through the mist and flashing lights he had caught sight of a girl dressed as a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. As his eyes followed her on the strobe-lit dance floor, it suddenly hit him like three hundred pounds of wet cement that he was looking at Nicolette Delancey. Purposefully, he pushed his way through the crush and insinuated himself between her and the werewolf she was dancing with.
“Nikki!” he hissed. “Where do you get off wearing an outfit like that?”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it?! It’s — it’s — if Mom saw you like this, she’d kill you!”
Nikki laughed. “Mom picked it out for me.”
“Well — what about Dad?”
“He liked it, too. It’s Gramp who reacted just like my modern brother. Oh! There’s Raymond! I’ve got to go tell him how great he looks!” She darted away, abandoning both her brother and her werewolf.
Mortified, Sean slunk off into the mist. To take his mind off his sister, he danced with Amelia Vanderhoof, who had come as a very tall, very skinny Queen Victoria.
Under the magical direction of Zeke Decibel and his mist, the party was shaping into a great success. It had everything — excitement: the dancing at fever pitch, the music incredible as twenty-five hundred watts of sound electrified the air; love interest: the Sapersteins, dressed as they were every year, as teeth (she an incisor, he a molar), cooing at each other in a foggy corner; conflict: Nikki, trying to break up the fight between her two best friends, Marilyn and Carita, who had independently come up with identical black cat costumes, each one positive that the other had stolen her idea; humor: the Boeing 747 and their boyfriends, the horse, finding dancing extremely difficult; political statement: Howard kneeling on the dance floor, inviting all others to “hoof the windmill in the behind”; machismo: Steve Semenski, arriving fashionably late in a suit of gleaming armor (sleeveless, of course).
“Look at him!” muttered Raymond in disgust. “Cementhead!”
This time Sean didn’t even snap at his partner. He was not at all pleased that he kept seeing Ashley glancing in Steve’s direction as she danced. “I didn’t know there was such a thing as sleeveless armor.”
“There isn’t,” Raymond scowled. “He probably spent all afternoon cutting the sleeves off with a can opener. But you’ll notice he’s wearing the gauntlets. That’s to make it easier to scratch away any weeds that grow up through cracks in the cement!”
As the song that was playing ended, an oppressive silence fell, and Raymond and Sean looked at the deejay’s booth to find Mindy O’Toole standing at the microphone, with Danny Eckerman right behind her.
“Attention, everybody. Before we go back to the dancing and the fun, let’s have a warm round of applause for the person who made this party possible, our student body president, Danny Eckerman!”
Sean looked to see Raymond’s reaction, but Raymond was no longer beside him. What the students then saw happened so fast that many of them weren’t sure what to make of it. As Danny stepped up to the microphone to speak, a gangster carrying a violin case snatched a helium balloon from midair and fiddled with the knot. Then he put down his case and, with his free hand, grabbed the president’s head, shoved the balloon in his mouth, and pressed hard, forcing all the helium inside. Danny staggered backward, then spat out the empty balloon and shouted, “What did you do that for?” in a high-pitched munchkin voice somewhere in the range of D above high C.
All at once, the shocked students broke into laughter, and the music started up again.
Raymond reappeared at Sean’s side. “Anything happen while I was away?”
Sean had to laugh. “It was the best speech Danny ever made.”
It was a great party. Even Sean Delancey, who thought school social events were boring, was forced to admit that he would have been having a good time had he not had so many things on his mind, like who Raymond might offend next, Nikki’s costume and Ashley’s burning looks in Steve’s direction.
The dancing continued steadily until ten-thirty, when the spotlight shone on the trampoline in the gym corner, and it was time for the contest to begin. Zeke Decibel put on some “funky Halloweenin’ Careenin’ Trampolinin’” music as background, the four safety spotters moved into place, and the contestants lined up to take their turns. Raymond and Sean were the judges, and Ashley stood with them, radiant with the success of her efforts.
“This is an awesome party!” she said reverently. “Look at Steve’s costume! Isn’t it the cutest?” She got no reply.
There were thirty-three entrants, each one of whom was allotted ninety seconds in which to strut his/her stuff while Zeke convulsed the audience with his hilarious patter. There was cheering, laughing, screaming, and chanting as the contestants, most of them hampered by bulky costumes, bounced comically through their routines. By this time, even the staff was paying attention and joining in the goings-on, having totally ravaged the buffet tables. Some of the jumpers put on great shows; others spent their ninety seconds scrambling not to fall off the trampoline; still others couldn’t even manage that. Steve Semenski in particular took a spill that would have flattened a rhinoceros, only to leap athletically back onto the trampoline to finish his routine in spectacular fashion. The ball of string attempted the same maneuver, but he was starting to unravel, and had to withdraw. Marie Antoinette was another scratch, as she was unable to see the trampoline beneath her enormous skirt. The contest was such an unparalleled success that, by the time the last entry came up, there were only twenty minutes left before school rules were to close the whole business down at midnight.
A bit of a dispute was in progress over whether the Boeing 747 would be able to enter, since that would be placing two people on the trampoline at once. However, the front end of the aircraft complained she couldn’t bounce without the back end, and vice versa, and soon both girls were in a spirited argument with Raymond, who figured if they killed themselves while he was judge, this could jeopardize his chances of going to Theamelpos. Zeke Decibel put an end to it all by declaring, “Boeing 747, this is the control tower! You are cleared for takeoff!”
As the airplane began to bounce gingerly on the trampoline, there came a strange flickering from Zeke Decibel’s two giant arcs of lights. The music slowed, and sped up again, warbling in time with the waxing and waning of the lights. Everyone looked around.
“It’s me!” screamed Howard. “The windmill! I’m lousy! I don’t work! I’m screwing up again!”
The flickering was much worse now, and the room went from complete darkness to blinding light in erratic intervals, as the lights were fed pulses of three times as much power as they were meant to handle. Zeke Decibel ripped his stereo needle from the record it was chewing, but the lack of music only revealed another sound — a loud grinding throughout the school that the students all recognized as SACGEN’s little way of saying, “I Quit.” The big spotlight sparked, sizzled, and began smoking. Zeke pulled and twisted madly at his control panel, but to no avail.
“Do something!” he shouted to the student standing nearest him. With a free hand, he pushed his ladder out from the deejay’s booth toward the boy. “Get up to the light bars and pull the plug!”
The boy scrambled up the ladder and stood illuminated like an angel in a halo of sparks as SACGEN spat out one final gigantic power surge. Then both light bars went up in smoke and the gym went dark. Unfortunately, the school’s fire alarm was not hooked up to SACGEN, so a wild ringing split
the air. This set off the automatic sprinkler system, and a heavy spray rained down on the screaming crowd.
Total chaos reigned. The Boeing 747 made an unscheduled landing on its two pilots’ heads as the partygoers stampeded for the door. Normally, the exodus would have been fairly quick, but the bulky costumes made movement awkward, and the students were falling and bumping into each other in the dark. The water coming down from the ceiling drenched everything, causing cardboard and papier-mâché to come apart, and making the hardwood floor as slippery as a skating rink. Raymond had the soggy baggage compartment hatch of the 747 broken over his head as the pilots evacuated the disabled craft. Sean was stuck in the gym doorway, jammed between Marie Antoinette and the ball of string. The bottleneck created a pushing scene worthy of the Sack of Rome, until finally the pressure from the back ranks proved too much, and the students literally exploded out of the gym and into the night in a matter of seconds.
Raymond was one of the last to burst through the breach, his suit sodden, his white fedora flattened on his head. He sloshed out of the crush to some free space, fumbled open his violin case, pulled out the machine gun, held the barrel to his temple, and squeezed the trigger. There was a weak rat-a-tat sound for a moment, then nothing. Water oozed out. Raymond looked up at the sky accusingly.
Howard stood in the center of the swarm of students, howling, “Windmill failure! Windmill failure! Windmill failure!” Gleefully, he tore his costume to shreds and threw himself dramatically to the ground, coughing and gasping, a dead windmill.
At that moment, the DeWitt Fire Department came roaring up the drive, sirens blaring. Each carrying a massive hose, two firemen burst into the gym, sprayed everything, and then stopped to peer into the gloom, activating high-powered flashlights.
“Hey!” one of them cried suddenly. “There’s someone still in here! On a bar at the ceiling!”
“It’s some kind of animal,” said the other fireman.
“No, it isn’t,” came a feeble voice from above. “I’m wearing a bear suit.”
Quickly, one fireman ran for a ladder while the other stayed with the stranded partygoer. Outside, the word spread quickly, and a crowd gathered at the gym door.
Overcome with guilt, Sean grabbed Raymond, who was still talking to the sky. “Now are you satisfied? Huh? We had to have a party to get you to Theamelpos, and now some poor guy’s life is in danger!”
“They’d have had the party with us or without us,” Raymond reasoned.
“Yeah, but if it was without us, this wouldn’t have been my fault!”
“It isn’t your fault, Delancey.”
“Yes, it is! It’s my fault! And it’s your fault that it’s my fault!”
“He’s down!” shouted someone from the front as the group broke into applause and cheers.
Sean allowed his heart to beat again. Disaster or no disaster, at least the party would have no death toll.
“See?” said Raymond triumphantly. “It’s nobody’s fault.”
“Listen,” said Sean wearily. “It’s after midnight, and there’s nothing anybody can do about anything anymore. Let’s just give someone the prize and go home.”
Raymond nodded. “Good idea. And there’s only one person who deserves this fabulous prize.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tire gauge. “Cementhead.”
“Aw, Raymond, why do you have to stir things up? Just give it to Randy. Or the werewolf. He was pretty good.”
“No way,” said Raymond firmly. “Jardine is going to get some satisfaction out of this lousy night by seeing the look on Cementhead’s face when I hand him this beautiful piece of automotive equipment.”
Sean sighed. “Oh, all right. But remember, you can’t call him Cementhead. You have to say, ‘The winner is Steve Semenski.’”
Ashley, who had overheard this last bit, came up to them, eyes shining. “I’ve just thought of how we can improve the prize! Throw in a night on the town with a New York City model!”
“But Ashley,” Sean protested, “where are we going to get a New York City model?”
“Me, silly!” said Ashley. “I’m a New York City model!” She moved her head closer and continued in a confidential tone, “That way you don’t have to give a lousy prize, and I get to go out with Steve!” She gave them the thumbs-up signal, and joined the crowd to await the announcement, leaving Raymond and Sean staring at each other in true pain.
“‘Give it to Cementhead!’” Sean mimicked savagely. “Nice going, stupid!”
His face a thundercloud, Raymond stepped forward to address the swarm of ex-partygoers. “The judges have reached a decision for the trampoline contest. The winner of the Special Mystery Prize of a tire gauge in addition to a night on the town with a genuine New York City model is Ce — Ce — the winner is Ce — the winner is —”
Suddenly, Sean jumped in front of him, eyes wild. “The guy who was stuck up at the top of the gym ceiling for — for his incredible portrayal of a bear on the flying trapeze in the rain! Congratulations, uh — man!”
Ashley’s face drained of all color. “Sean!”
Raymond looked deeply moved. “Delancey, I love you.”
Six
“‘ … When the DeWitt Fire Department arrived on the scene,’” Sean read aloud from the next day’s Newsday, “‘they found no fire, but one student, Sheldon Entwistle, stranded atop the disc jockey’s lighting bar, suspended twenty-five feet above the floor.’”
“Our grand-prize winner,” said Raymond, nodding wisely.
The two were sitting side by side on the Long Island Railroad, bound for New York City, intent on hitting the big Forty-Second Street library to research Gavin Gunhold for their poetry assignment.
Sean slapped his knee. “I still can’t believe Ashley bought that load of garbage you fed her about how it was morally right to give the prize to Entwistle.”
“I had to. She looked like she was about to rip out your liver. It was the least Jardine could do after that service you performed for mankind — stopping me from setting up Ashley and Cementhead.”
“Don’t call him Cementhead,” Sean said mildly. He laughed. “Before she left, she told me that, in her opinion, we’re the most sensitive and considerate guys she’s ever met.”
Raymond shook his head. “Terrible judge of character, our Ashley. But I couldn’t very well tell her that we would rather be dissected than hand her over to Cementhead on a silver platter. And you’ve got to admit that that Entwistle guy deserved a break, even if it came just because you’re in love with Ashley.”
“Hey!” Sean snapped indignantly. “I’m not in love with Ashley! I’m just sort of …” he paused, “in like with her.”
Raymond shifted in his seat. “You don’t have to explain anything. I feel the same way you do.”
Sean’s face was red. “Well, you’ve got it just as bad as I do, so don’t talk!”
“Let’s not take it personally, Delancey. Jardine is just pointing out the facts.”
“There are tons of girls I could go out with if I wanted to,” said Sean.
“But they aren’t Ashley,” Raymond returned cheerfully.
Frowning, Sean turned his attention back to Newsday. “‘According to Engineer Claude Sopwith of the Department of Energy, the incident had nothing to do with the Solar/Air Current Generating System in use at DeWitt. Said Principal Q. David Hyatt, “That nonsense must have come from the students, who have some immature desire to blot the record of the SACGEN project.”
“‘In fact, those allegations came from Mr. Zeke Decibel, disc jockey for the party, who claimed his equipment was overloaded by a series of power surges. Engineer Sopwith dismissed this as “utter claptrap.”
“‘“The thirty-three-million-dollar SACGEN project has been heralded as an unparalleled success for the Department of Energy. His [Decibel’s] equipment was at fault,” added Sopwith.’”
Sean threw down the paper in disgust. “I can’t believe it! Those people absolutely refuse
to admit that their precious windmill doesn’t work! They’re blaming Decibel for something that happens every day at school!”
“Shhh, Delancey. Let them blame Decibel. Let them blame the Kremlin, private industry, fluoridated water, sunspots or Mother Teresa. Just so long as they don’t blame Jardine. Be grateful. We were the organizers of that party.”
“But Raymond, it’s such a snow job! If we were real men, we’d waltz in there on Monday and tell Q-Dave what we think of it!”
“But we’re not real men; we’re real mice,” Raymond reminded him. “And we hope to be having our cheese on Theamelpos this summer. That’s the beauty of it. They have to cover up for the windmill, so they can’t come after us for practically wrecking the place with our party.”
Sean made a face. “Every time I think of SACGEN, I think of all those stupid gadgets my father buys. I can’t handle it. I’ve got a big windmill at school to deal with and fifty little ones at home.”
Raymond nodded sympathetically. “Still,” he said, “good old SACGEN. It made the difference between two Theamelpos candidates with a successful social activity on their records, and two disgraced schnooks with a room reserved in their names at the Secaucus Hilton.”
Sean made a face. “Yeah, I guess so,” he mumbled. “But it’s not fair.”
Raymond shrugged. “You can’t make life fair. But if you get to Theamelpos, you can make it worth living.”
Soon the Manhattan skyline appeared on the horizon, and Sean watched it grow as Raymond sat back in a trancelike state, intoning calypso music about Theamelpos to the rhythm of the train wheels.
***
It took the poetry specialist twenty minutes to locate anything on Gavin Gunhold. Finally, she led Raymond and Sean to a small cubicle and handed them a file folder marked “Canadian Poetry: Gunhold, Gavin.”
Raymond rubbed his hands in anticipation. “I can’t wait to read some more of his stuff. ‘Registration Day’ is the best poem I ever saw!”
A Semester in the Life of a Garbage Bag Page 8