by Steve Bloom
Then I see a small ember light up in the darkness, glowing at the table. It’s Charlie in his pajamas, sucking on a blunt, clinically observing me. Wonderful. Just what I need. What the hell is he doing up? He’s never up.
“What?” I snap defensively, refusing to give him the satisfaction of me being embarrassed no matter how severely compromised I happen to be. “I saw Pacino do it once in a movie.”
Mustering my shredded dignity, trailing ice, I crunch to the sink and scoop out my glacial load into it. Charlie observes me in silence.
“You’re out late,” he finally says. “And it was De Niro.”
“Greek wedding in Parsippany,” I blithely lie, sticking to my catering cover story. “Those things go all night. The souvlaki was really flying.”
I shuffle awkwardly toward my room. Although frozen, my equipment’s still in an all too fragile state and I’m careful not to jar it more than absolutely necessary.
“Well, next time you’re out until three, call,” Charlie admonishes after me, asserting parental authority. This while he’s got a roach sticking out of the corner of his mouth. The guy’s pathetic. I haven’t been home before three every Saturday night for months and this is the first time he’s bothered to notice. I do what I always do and ignore him. All I can think about is the comfort of bed.
“This came for you today.”
He holds up a thin stamped envelope from the table. It’s embossed with a familiar crest on the upper corner. Columbia University. My official notice of Admissions Purgatory. Like most colleges, Columbia mails its verdicts as well as posts them online. Their way of providing you with the indelible experience of having your dreams destroyed twice for the price of one dime. I’d forgotten to intercept it.
Nothing like a little failure to make one go flaccid. The night’s woes vanish as the bigger, darker picture re-descends on me. And Charlie knowing just adds to the crushing burden.
“That’s mine!” I say, springing to him in one step, grabbing the envelope from his grimy hand. His very touch taints my chances.
“I’ve delivered enough of those through the years to know what’s inside,” Charlie says mildly.
This is why he stayed up. To personally revel in my latest defeat. Asshole.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Charlie,” I glare. “It says deferred, not rejected. I can still get in as a regular admission in April.”
Charlie nods to himself, scratching the stubble on his chin. He knows he should shut up, but he just can’t help himself.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, Brooks,” he counsels. “You’ll just get hurt.”
He wants me to give up. Just like he has. The old, raw rage rises within me.
“Screw you,” I say.
Then, storming into my room, I slam the door on him.
Winter Of My Discontent
Countdown.
Three. Two. One.
Midnight.
Happy New Year.
In Times Square, the ball drops and thousands of normal people my age cheer and carry on. Around the globe, transcending religion, culture, and time-old enmity, all of humanity’s united momentarily in celebration. But not here in Pritchard, New Jersey. Here, it’s Grimsville.
Graduation. College. The Future. This is the Big One. The calendar year my whole life has been leading up to. One way or the other.
I should be happy. First semester, the last semester that matters, is over. I’ve aced my courses, and my Mid-Year Reports, when they are sent to Columbia, will be golden. Although there’s been no word of or from Uncle Max, I should be delirious with the prospect of coasting through the rest of senior year, partying every chance I get, enjoying the fruits of my labor. And I would be if I’d only gotten in and hadn’t been Deferred like the piece of shit I am.
I’m alone in my room, getting blitzed on old malt liquor that I squirreled away so long ago I can’t remember scoring it. I hate malt liquor. That’s how crappy my New Year’s is so far. But then again, the holidays have always been kind of a drag for me. I mean, me and Charlie by the tree, which, incidentally, we’ve never once had, isn’t exactly a cozy greeting card like most everyone else’s Christmas holidays. There’s no exchange of gifts, let alone glad tidings. But these holidays are especially rotten. You see, since my little outburst, the battle lines have been drawn. Charlie’s room is enemy territory; the bathroom, the kitchen, and the rest of our shared quarters are a no-man’s land, of which we only avail ourselves sparingly and swiftly for the absolute essentials. And even though we’ve hardly seen each other, our uneasy truce casts a pall over any thought of festivity.
Usually my chief joy and only consolation over the break is hanging and getting stupid with The Murf. But since I so wrongly ditched him without the courtesy of a word, I’ve been un’d on Facebook, Twitter, Skype, and various other apps I’m unaware of, and he won’t respond to my repeated amusing texts and goofy selfies. The Murf’s way pissed and I can’t say I blame him. Besides, even if The Murf was talking to me, which apparently he’s not, these days he’s always at The Gun and thereby unavailable for much needed companionship.
Oh, Columbia, why won’t you have me? I’ll do, I’ll say anything. Earthly existence could be so divine if only you would. Classmates with Shelby. Talk about an added bonus. But it cuts both ways. The concept of her there without me is extra torture. I must get in. I must. Because if I don’t, I’ll never again feel those lips wrapped around you-know-where.
Oh please, spare me the righteous indignation. Easy for you to say. You weren’t there, you aren’t me. It didn’t almost happen to you. I almost wish it’d never almost happened to me. Almost. That can’t have been it. It’s like I’ve been handed a lifelong sentence of psychic blue balls.
---
The next days and weeks are spent holed up, perfecting the Brand. According to all the guidebooks, a supplicant is allowed one last gasp of self-promotion to the Admissions Committee in the otherwise fallow period before April. In fact, all the guidebooks encourage it. But no more than one, all the guidebooks warn; don’t want to come off as too desperate. Usually it’s an update of some new meaningless honor, award, or foreign adventure, a gentle reminder that you’re still out there dangling, but others, I’ve been informed, can get quite creative. Baked goods have been sent, entire arias posted on YouTube, some have even tried nude pictures. Not the best idea. The Last Gasp is supposed to be the subtle expression of one’s unique uniqueness and a pledge of one’s unwavering commitment to their august institution—unless, of course, one gets into some place auguster.
Lacking a decent singing voice, culinary talent, and basic inspiration, I’ve decided that mine’s going to be an old standby—a video profile highlighting guess who. Unfortunately there’s not much to work with. As in, literally. Practically no baby photos, few candids of me playing Little League or anything else, a paucity of keepsakes from family vacations because there were hardly any. Though I’ve searched through shelves, drawers, and dusty boxes, there’s the scantest record of me, which is kind of depressing and stokes my festering resentment of Charlie. But I do what I can with what I got and, after countless hours and after much trial and error on my computer, come up with two tightly edited minutes of the Best of Brooks Rattigan.
Thoughtful Brooks Rattigan staring up silhouetted against a blazing sunset. Young responsible Brooks Rattigan, age nine, captain of safety patrol. Brooks Rattigan’s many Honor Roll certificates. Playful Brooks Rattigan banging the bongos. Outdoorsy Brooks Rattigan paddling a kayak. Brooks Rattigan, Renaissance Man, pondering at the art museum. Brooks Rattigan’s various trophies, most of which Brooks Rattigan picked up at various yard sales. I add twirling graphics and cool special effects recounting my many attributes: Brooks Rattigan, National Merit Letter of Commendation Winner. 3.83 Overall GPA, 4.14 Weighted. 720 Verbal, 760 Math. 680 Writing, but everyone knows that section’s bullshit. For inspirational music, I try everything from “The Star-Spangled Banner” to Ween to the theme from Rocky,
but nothing does the trick. I know I need more.
Let’s face it, My Brand is lackluster.
---
Another Saturday night. A huge one. I’m forty-seven minutes late picking up Gravity Dross for Winter Formal and I’m a nervous wreck. Not wanting to blow my last, best chance for Columbia, I’ve allotted myself a good two hours to make the foray from Pritchard to Westport, but with all the snow and ice there’s a big accident on the GW Bridge and so it’s taking almost three, and that’s with me driving like a maniac, screaming and yelling like the guy in The French Connection but doing him one better because I’m consulting Google Maps on my phone the entire time. When I finally skid up to the wooded manor nestled on its own meandering stream, I’m twitchy and foaming, in dire need of a prolonged time-out in a padded cell. You’d think Uncle Max might cut me just the teensiest bit of slack, but no. He’s ready to strangle me because Aunt Marion’s ready to strangle him. As for Gravity, she could care less, off in the adjoining spacious room absorbed in an old SpongeBob I’ve seen like six times.
“Gravity, he’s here,” trills Aunt Marion, trying to make the best of it but giving me the stink eye.
“OK,” answers Gravity, dutifully turning off the TV.
Being Celia Lieberman’s cousin, she’s not what I’m expecting. First off, she looks nothing like Celia Lieberman. Gravity’s tall, whisper-thin, very pale. You could say she has a calm, ethereal quality about her, which Celia Lieberman definitely does not. And she dresses a hell of a lot better. In a sleek, stylish gown that accentuates her assets, she’s actually striking and, unlike Celia Lieberman, seems to possess a remarkably agreeable disposition, which again makes it hard to believe they’re related.
“Say hi to Brooks,” Aunt Marion beams at her daughter, adjusting a stray strand of Gravity’s otherwise perfectly done locks.
“Hi,” Gravity greets me, smiling pleasantly.
“Brooks is your date tonight. He’s going to show you a good time.”
“Okay,” Gravity says.
“He’d better,” adds Uncle Max too meaningfully, giving me the instant impression he hasn’t had his little chat with his buddy the Director of Admissions about me quite yet.
“How about a few snapshots for the Dross family album?” I hurriedly suggest, trying to pick up the pace and make up the clock.
“Great idea, Brooks!” enthuses Aunt Marion. I must say she’s surprisingly pretty and well-adjusted to be married to a grump like Uncle Max. If she wasn’t so stressed she might even be nice.
“Okay,” says Gravity.
Okay’s pretty much the extent of the conversation on the ride in Uncle Max’s battery-underpowered Tesla (more oompf than the Prius, but still not close to a good V6, let alone a V8) to the naturally superexpensive restaurant that practically had to be bribed to hold our reservation. Gravity’s smiling and in good spirits, but I’m not exactly sure that she knows what’s going on or what she’s doing with me. She’s got this vacant look in her eyes that I find unnerving, until I remind myself that many of the finest-looking babes do.
But when Gravity orders a grilled cheese sandwich and potato chips off the menu, which is all in French, I’m getting the sense that somebody hasn’t been telling me the whole story. Because Gravity’s not all here or there or anywhere on this temporal plane. She’s in her own head, what’s known in the brain trade as on the spectrum. I think maybe she’s autistic. No joke.
Parents, I brood as I saw into my Chateaubriand, which is getting to be not such a novelty. Poor dumb rich parents. They think if they spend enough money they can fix anything for their kids. But there are some things that can’t be corrected, like crooked teeth or an extra-large proboscis, some things beyond even their purchasing power. And sweet, happy Gravity’s one of them. And maybe even if she could be repaired, she shouldn’t be. What the fuck do I know.
By the multitude of strange, curious looks of which I’m on the receiving end as I escort Gravity into the plush auditorium, my suspicions are confirmed, but I decide to just roll with it. It’s all good. Bowing gallantly, I ask Gravity if she’d care to trip the light fantastic, and of course she’s amenable. What the hell, I figure I’ll teach her a few simple steps, but guess what? If anybody can teach anyone a thing or two, it’s her. Gravity’s an amazing dancer. Like a prodigy, even. Gracefully she follows where I lead, anticipates my every move, takes me where I’ve never been. We spin, prance, and twirl almost without stop, with abandon. She laughs. So do I. We go for hours.
It’s late as we drive back in contented silence through a frosted landscape softly glowing in the night. For the first time in a long time, I’m at peace with myself. I’m feeling like I’m the one who should be doing the paying.
Aunt Marion and Uncle Max are waiting, faces drawn and anxious, in their bathrobes by the front door as we come up the walk. Aunt Marion emotionally hugs her daughter.
“So how was it?” she asks benevolently, as if she’s bestowed some great gift on us, which she just might have.
“Okay,” Gravity answers brightly.
Aunt Marion lets out this big sob and breaks down crying and I think I kind of know where she’s coming from. There is no magic, no miracle cure. Pretending Gravity’s normal, whatever that means, doesn’t make it so.
“Good-bye, Brooks.” It’s the first time Gravity says my name. Then she gives me a kiss on the cheek, goes into the other room, and switches on the wide-screen, resuming SpongeBob where she left off.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Uncle Max whispers to Aunt Marion, who just keeps sniffling. “Why must you keep torturing yourself?”
“We actually had a really good time. Gravity’s an incredible dancer,” I say, thinking it might give them a lift.
But they don’t hear me. And I realize that I’ve been the unwilling subject in an ongoing experiment with the same heartbreaking result. The evening’s been more about the two of them than the one of her. Uncle Max is in a sour mood as he wordlessly pays up. There’s no tip, not one red cent, not that I really care, but I take it as an ominous omen. It’s like it’s my fault Aunt Marion’s a wailing puddle.
The drive back to New Jersey is long and sobering. Uncle Max is supposed to be my edge, my big benefactor. As the miles pile up, so do my doubts that his chat with his pal the Director of Admissions will ever happen. Back to Square Zero, Brooksie.
---
Meanwhile, The Murf’s boycott against me continues without letup. He must have gotten a sizeable bonus or substantial raise at The Gun because The Murf’s bought a used pickup—a cherry 2004 Ford F-150 with a V8 that rips—and now chauffeurs himself to school. We don’t have any of the same classes, and on the rare occasions when we pass each other in the hallways, he makes a point to cross to the other side. At lunch he gets up and moves to another table if I sit down next to him. After a while, all the cold shoulder treatment gets me ticked off right back at him. I mean, I’ve admitted I was in the wrong, made repeated attempts at amends and redress. What more can a person do? What does he want? Fucking flowers? Hmmm, not a bad idea. A guy giving another guy flowers? Am I really that far gone? In any case, I ask you, is my crime so grievous that it’s worth chucking a lifelong friendship over it? Evidently The Murf thinks so, and that makes me that much madder.
But despite the fact that he’s being a complete dick, I still miss my bud.
So maybe that’s why one frigid afternoon I find myself at the Reservoir with my old blue bucket drum. The Reservoir’s where The Murf and me used to convene jam sessions of the Pritchard High Ethno-Percussion Society. The landscape around the parking lot’s patchy, bare, and bleak, reflecting my flagging spirits. This winter seems especially brutal and endless. I’m hoping a good pounding, even if solo, might be therapeutic. Nothing else is working.
As I tread down the path through the somber woods to our spot, I hear something ahead. A lone, hollow thumping. Sounds like . . . hands beating on plastic. Could it be? Quickening my step, I soon come upon the large
rock outcropping overlooking the vast frozen expanse. And sure enough, there’s The Murf, swaddled up like an Indian chief, nursing a Guinness, listlessly whacking his blue bucket. A forlorn figure if there ever was one.
He sees me but doesn’t react, just takes a deep sip of his stout.
“You’re not at The Gun?” I observe in surprise.
“I gave myself the afternoon off,” he answers gruffly, continuing to beat his instrument.
“Mind some company?” I inquire tentatively.
“Free country,” he replies tersely. “Or so they keep telling me.”
I perch on the rocks opposite him, position my bucket between my knees, and begin pounding along. It’s not much of a duet. Neither of us is feeling it.
“Murf, it’s been over two months,” I finally offer.
“Seven weeks, three days,” The Murf corrects.
“You’re going to have to talk to me sometime.”
“You ditched your best friend for some superhot chick, man,” The Murf says, brushing me off. “Nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, but don’t you want to know why I ditched my best friend for some superhot chick?”
The Murf stops banging and looks straight at me. “I’m all ears.”
This is it—the moment when, if I had any balls or speck of character, I should come clean, confess my many hang-ups, deficiencies, and insecurities. Problem is, the truth hurts. Him. More importantly, me.
“She was superhot,” I declare, not meeting his eyes.
Like I said, normally according to the Unspoken Code that would be ample explanation. But The Murf, whatever his College Board Scores, is no dummy. He senses there’s something more because there is something more.
“That’s all?” he asks, still staring right into me.
“Swear to God.” I’m such a lowlife scumbag. He knows I’m lying and I know he knows I know. But good, simple soul that he is, The Murf gives me the benefit of the doubt and takes me at my word. That’s part of the Unspoken Code too.
“Did you at least score?” he smiles, resuming thumping.