by Steve Bloom
“Jesus!” exclaims Franklin, taking in bleeding-and-battered me.
“Where were you?” she demands.
“In the game room. Figured they’d have the new Walking Dead. Thing’s totally bitchin’,” reports Franklin, then he reacts as he gets a better view of me. “Jesus, you really should have that looked at.”
Franklin, being Franklin, has missed the whole extravaganza and, as usual, has no clue what’s going on with the rest of planet Earth. What Celia Lieberman sees in the doofus defies me.
“Want me to take you home?” Franklin asks, finally registering that she’s crying.
To my surprise, Celia Lieberman shakes her head.
“They expect me to just eat shit and die like always,” she says, swallowing back tears. “Well, not this time, not tonight. It’s my Prom and I’m going to enjoy it even if it kills me!”
Then Celia Lieberman yanks Franklin by the T-shirt and starts madly making out with him.
I don’t know why, but it’s like another body blow. I back away into the darkness. I turn. I run. Past block after block of baronial splendor. One mile, two—I don’t know—but a long way. I run like I’m on the run, like I’m being hunted. I run in my tux and good shoes down the sparkling sidewalks, past the glinting shops, through a gauntlet of guarded expressions that see right through me. Up I stagger all ten flights of stairs in the Hilton garage. To the refuge of the Beast hidden in the corner at the very top.
My hands are shaking so much it takes four fumbling attempts to fit the key in the lock and three for the ignition. Gunning the engine, I floor the gas, zooming back, smashing my rear bumper into solid wall, shearing it half off. Rusted steel scrapes against concrete as I scream off in a spray of sparks down the ramp.
Hurtling southbound in the fast lane on the New York State Thruway, I beep frantically for people to let me by. I’m hyperventilating like a dying man, just gulping air out and in. When I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, I’m more multi-hued than my most vivid apprehensions. All sweaty, puffy, and purple, I’m the guy who’s been beaten to a pulp by the hero at the climax of a third-rate boxing movie. You know, the bad guy.
Which, let’s not kid ourselves, is exactly what I am. I’m the villain of my own tawdry tale. It’d be one thing if I had something to show for my self-serving, craven deeds, but I have nothing. No Columbia. No Shelby. And now, no pride. Not a grain, not a particle.
I got what was coming to me.
I’m beneath my own contempt.
As the distance rapidly mounts from Green Meadow, so do the self-recriminations. Mute, accusing faces fly at me, dissolving into mist as they hit the windshield. The Murf, my oldest and bestest pal, who never did me a single bad turn. And how do I repay him? By stabbing him in the back, ditching him, almost getting him killed. Shelby. Hot, sexy Shelby. Classy, perfect, sexy Shelby. All she wanted to do was steal me away from Celia Lieberman and screw my brains out, albeit for mistaken reasons and suspect motives. And what do I do in return? I ruin what should have been the best night of her overprivileged, overindulged life. Poor baby. Well, tough shit.
Then, just as self-pity gives way to self-justification and outrage, yet another face confronts me. Celia Lieberman, inexpertly applied makeup splotched and smeared, eyes runny and raw. Celia Lieberman, whom I have most wronged. Celia Lieberman, whom I have abandoned to jeers, Franklin Riggs, and her own clueless devices.
The turnpike forks ahead. The giant road sign beckons: “NEW JERSEY.”
Back I speed to safety, to lowered expectations, to the preordained, to my own kind. Back I speed, soon to be an amusing anecdote, a blip on otherwise glorious, trust-funded horizons. Back I speed to the only place I can call home, tail between my legs.
Then suddenly, deep inside, something snaps. At the last possible instant, I slam the brakes, sharply jerk the wheel. The Beast shoots off the highway through a gap in the median strip. Horns wail as I fishtail around, just missing being flattened by a big rig and a bus, and plunge recklessly into the onrushing tide of northbound traffic, back to Green Meadow. Back where I don’t belong.
Uncharted Waters
I can feel from more than half a mile away the heavy bass vibrations of the trance music pounding from where I know the after-party is being held. Dragging the now barely attached rear bumper, my dented, rusted-through Electra clanks up the long driveway, which is lined with stretch limousines and the little people who get paid peanuts under the table to drive them. I skid in a cloud of exhaust right in front of the lavish entrance to the main house, all lit up, the size and style of an imperial fortress. A pimply valet, same age as me, darts up to take the key.
“Keep the motor running,” I say, vaulting past him. “This won’t take long.”
My leaking, bashed-in face tells him it’s best not to mess with me. As I start up the front stairs, I hear:
“Oh my God, Brooks?”
It’s Celia Lieberman, forcibly tugging Franklin behind her. What’s she doing here? Making some futile gesture like me, no doubt. In any case, she’s just what I don’t need as I struggle to maintain the momentum and muster the courage to re-enter the arena.
“Celia, this is Fallick’s house,” whines Franklin, resisting each step of the way. “We can’t go in there!”
Then a mostly naked girl in her bra and thong panties bursts from the bushes and scampers by, giggling naughtily.
“On the other hand,” Franklin reconsiders, “perhaps a quick walk-through might be in order . . .” He starts ahead, but Celia Lieberman yanks him back.
“Not this time,” she declares through clenched teeth. “You’re sticking with me.”
But I have no time for such childishness. Bracing myself, I charge into the compound and the Great Unknown. Instantly, I’m immersed in flashing lights, deafening sound, and teenage debauchery on a monumental scale. Kids in various stages of undress, drunk, stoned, totally fucked up. Kids making out, pawing each other. Kids having fancy food fights. Kids swinging from the chandeliers. I mean, literally.
Celia Lieberman shoves up beside me.
“Are you crazy?” she shouts over the racket. “What are you doing here?”
Ignoring her, I plow through the mayhem until I’m outside again in the backyard, where there’s a giant tropical lagoon slash swimming pool, complete with artificial jungle vines, gurgling streams, and spouting waterfalls. Boys and girls, more than a few topless, grope, splash, or frolic, some all at once. And there’s the man of the mansion himself, Fallick, taking a victory-over-me soak in the bubbling Jacuzzi grotto, basking in Vicuna’s fawning, buxom glow. He does a double take as I march past and then frog hops out from the grotto in a bulging red, white, and blue American flag G-string. What’s with these water polo guys and their burning need to exhibit their junk?
“HEY!!” he yelps, too astonished by my return to be suitably outraged by it. Gladly I halt and turn back to him.
“Don’t get cocky, punk,” I warn. “It was a sucker punch.”
The party jostles for position around us like vultures to feast on the bloody spectacle of SLAUGHTER II: The Rematch. Somebody turns off the sound system. The thunderous music becomes ringing silence. Fallick, bare-chested, buff, and dripping, fists clenched, swaggers over to me. And in the red corner, the challenger: smaller me, bruised and battered. It’s not fair. But Life isn’t.
This is an invitation-only party, Rattigan,” he snarls. “And you ain’t on the list.”
“I’ll leave as soon as I talk to Shelby,” I reply grimly.
I turn to resume my mission. Fallick takes a wild swing at me, but this time I know what’s coming and I’m more than ready. I mean, normally I’d never stand a chance with the troglodyte. But he’s way wasted and I’m way amped. I duck and deliver a devastating uppercut to his nose. Seventeen-plus years of lower-middle-class resentment, seventeen-plus years of striving for no good purpose, of ceaseless angst and hopeless confusion combine into one lucky, brain-rattling, cartilage-crunching pun
ch. Fallick windmills backwards, crashing on and over a buffet table, crumpling in a soggy, sashimi-covered heap on the other side. I dust my hands. I’m probably facing major legal action.
“That’s how we do it in Jersey,” I announce to one and all.
I barrel ahead. The cowed pack parts for me like the Red Sea, clearing a ragged path to Cassie and Shelby, both in string bikinis, doing shots and bumps at a round glass table. Smoking a cigarette, Shelby regards me coolly, a party girl again.
“I just want to say one thing,” I stammer, lost as always in her exquisiteness. “Celia Lieberman never asked for any of this. It was her parents’ doing.”
Shelby flicks an ash, mildly interested. “Her parents. And how’s that?”
She just doesn’t get it. How could she? Despite myself, I grow exasperated.
“For the same reason they all do,” I heatedly reply. “Because they love their precious darlings. Because they all want their little princesses to be cool and popular like they once were or weren’t. To be able to do all the stupid high school stuff they did or never got to do. But you’ll never understand what it’s like way out there in orbit. You’re always at the center of it all.”
“How sweet. Brooks Rattigan, defender of the downtrodden. Oh, please,” says Shelby, downing a shot, sucking on a lime.
“And another thing,” I press on. “I’m not from Manhattan, I’m from Pritchard!”
Puzzled murmurs and stumped shrugs ripple around the lagoon. Nobody at Green Meadow Country Prep’s ever heard of it.
“It’s in central Jersey,” I add, going all in.
Gasps. Jersey. Now that is shocking. Shelby looks at me, incredulous. Jersey. It can’t be true.
“More lies,” she says dismissively.
“No one lies about being from central Jersey. And actually, the part about my father going to Harvard’s true. For a brief second in time, he was a writer, but now he works as a letter carrier in Hoboken . . .”
Another round of gasps. A mailman. In Hoboken. The horror. Could it get any worse?
“Tell her why you’re a stand-in!” butts in Celia Lieberman, emerging with Franklin beside us.
It could. And just did.
“Celia, would you please let me handle this?” I hiss under my breath, determined to keep up my brave front.
Exhaling smoke rings our way, Shelby eyes Celia Lieberman and Franklin with detached bemusement.
“Celia, I see you have a date,” she says dryly. “Are your parents paying for him too?”
Zing! Bam! Man, that’s gotta sting. But Celia Lieberman doesn’t flinch.
“Nobody paid me a cent!” protests Franklin, who has a rep, warped though it is, to protect.
“I can definitely believe that,” says Cassie, laughing.
“As I was saying,” I glare, annoyed at the constant interruptions.
Snickers. Celia Lieberman, ignoring them and me, fixes on Shelby.
“I just want to tell you why Brooks works as a stand-in.”
“I’ve heard quite enough about Brooks Rattigan for one night, thank you.”
“Me too!” chimes in Franklin.
“He got into Columbia but doesn’t have enough money to go,” Celia Lieberman loudly declares.
Jesus! That was the one bean I wasn’t planning to spill. I mean, the last thing I want is their pity, not that they’re giving that or anything else away, for that matter.
“You should appreciate Brooks for who he is!” continues Celia Lieberman on some kind of deranged roll.
“Oh, and what’s that?” Shelby asks derisively.
A decent, hard-working guy who’s always had to struggle for everything you, me, and every other spoiled brat at this stupid party take for granted!”
After all I’ve done, Celia Lieberman is defending me. I’d be touched if I wasn’t so appalled. Whose big scene is this anyway?
“If Brooks is so terrific,” Shelby asks sarcastically, “why aren’t you with him?”
“Because she’s with me!” Franklin pipes, indignant.
“Do you mind?” I snap at Franklin, then spin back to Shelby. “Uh, where was I?”
I can’t remember. I’m derailed, off the tracks. My offensive, such as it was, has been thoroughly blunted.
“It’s bad enough you’re a stand-in,” Shelby jumps in, quietly furious. “But why would you lie about who you are, where you’re from?”
“I was afraid if you knew the real me, you’d bail.”
And there I am—the person I try my best never to be. Vulnerable. Putting it all out on the line. Exposing myself to universal ridicule and certain rejection.
“That’s not true!” she says vehemently.
“Isn’t it?” I ask softly. Could it really be? Could I have misjudged her? If I hadn’t so completely blown it, could I have really had a sliver of a chance? Somehow that only makes it all the more tragic.
Then she glances away, averting my persistent look. And I have both my crushing answer and dim worldview reconfirmed.
“I never meant to hurt you,” I say dumbly, as if intentions matter. “Sorry for wrecking your big night.”
In one swift motion, she springs up and slaps me. Hard. Right on my already sore, swollen kisser. The pain’s sharp and blinding. More exploding stars, more crazy electric patterns.
“Go to hell, Rattigan.”
She gets up and pushes though the crush. I gingerly touch my again-bleeding wound, swivel my now even more throbbing jaw, and straighten my black bow tie. Everybody’s quiet, a single super-attractive entity, staring at me. I have no idea what they’re thinking, but then I never have. Not really. What is it that F. Scott guy wrote in AP English? The rich are different from you and me.
“Show’s over, folks,” I announce to my riveted audience. “Have a good life. Don’t worry about us peons.”
The haves part for the have-not. As I leave, this time for the last time, I overhear Franklin whisper to Celia Lieberman.
“Hate to say it, but that was way cool.”
---
My chariot awaits me right where I left it, idling in front. I tip the kid a twenty.
It’s only money.
---
It’s not until well after two that I roll into Pritchard. The dark, deserted streets are no longer familiar. The boarded-up windows, the long-shuttered storefronts, the tattered homes have become phantoms of an unrecoverable me. I’m a stranger in my own forlorn land.
I trudge up the three endless flights of stairs and down the dingy walkway to the place I reside, the place where I can at last rest my weary bones. But when I creak open the door, there’s not the usual darkness but the flickering glow of the TV replaying the Yanks game.
“Hard night?” Charlie’s voice calls out from the couch, all casual-like, breaking what was supposed to be my refuge of silence.
He’s sitting up in his clothes, wide awake. I want to cry. After weeks of mutually agreed-upon disengagement, this is when Charlie chooses to ambush me? I can’t deal with it, with him, especially now when I’m a mental and physical wreck.
“Where is it you say you work again?” his silhouetted figure says when I don’t respond.
“What do you care?” I shield my face as I hurriedly shuffle past him into my room. Before I can kick it shut, he’s in the doorway, which surprises me. I’ve never known the old guy to move so fast. I turn, forgetting too late not to, and Charlie gasps as he takes me in.
“Sweet Jesus, Brooks. What’d you do, walk into a door?”
“No, just a Cold Dose of Reality.”
I’m so tired I can’t keep putting up a front. I just want to burrow under my blanket, curl up like a fetus, and nod off forever. Only I know Charlie’s not going to let me. I flop onto my side on my bed. A heart-to-heart with Charlie, the one we’ve so far managed never to have. Will this torture never end?
Charlie flips on the overhead lights. I squint in the harsh brightness. He flinches again as he fully witnesses my black and blue glory.
“Brooks, you mind enlightening me on what the hell’s going on? And please don’t insult what’s left of my brain cells by telling me you’ve saved over ten grand bussing tables at bar mitzvahs.”
“I take girls to social functions,” I mumble into my pillow, every fiber of me screaming for sleep.
“What kind of functions?” I hear him say.
“Homecomings. A few Sweet Sixteens. Semi-Formals. Formals. I’m very versatile.”
Charlie slowly sits on the bed beside my dead form.
“They pay you?” he asks shakily. It’s a lot to take in.
“Their parents. Look, I’m beat, so could you please spare me the paternal lecture? You’re hardly qualified.”
Usually that would be enough to get him to back off, but tonight, after what I’ve just disclosed, my missiles just deflect harmlessly off his force fields.
“You didn’t sleep with them? I mean, you used protection . . .” He trails off, aghast.
Even in my deep torpor, this gets to me. Does he really know me so little? Unlike him, I do have some standards, low as they may be. Fueled by outrage, I scramble past him to the door, motioning him out.
“If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a little privacy,” I say hotly.
He doesn’t move but just keeps sitting there.
“Brooks, it may not seem like it, but I’m trying my best to understand . . .”
“Well, it’s like this, Charlie. Short of robbing a bank or hitting the lottery, it seemed like my best chance at getting the money for Columbia.”
Charlie looks up as if seeing me for the very first time.
“Good God, Brooks, you really want it that bad?”
I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. All I know is that I want him to get the hell out of my room, to just stop it already, but he won’t.
“It really doesn’t matter where you go to school, Brooks. Nobody’s out there keeping score. I mean, I went to Harvard. Look what happened to me.”
There he goes again. My whole life he’s been using himself as a shining example of what not to do and be, and I’m so sick of it. I’ve had it with his great failed promise, which hangs like a poisonous black mist everywhere.