The Stand-In

by Steve Bloom

  “What did happen, Charlie?” I blurt. “You had everything. How’d you fuck it up so completely?”

  It’s the question I’ve been waiting to ask my whole life. The same question he’s spent my whole life avoiding answering. We’re both equally stunned that I’ve actually asked it.

  Charlie gets up and leaves. I slam the door after him and lock it, too beat to feel rotten about what I just said, though I know I should.

  What a night.

  Taking Stock

  So now you know why a mere week after the Great Bloodbath, I’m in Hackensack on a Saturday night in May with Gabby Dombrowski. Regrouping in the back of a stretch limo at the tail end of what’s proven to be a very long, very arduous evening, I again reflect on my litany of misdeeds. And what it comes down to is this. I’m a jerk, basically. What they call a heel, a cad, a total scoundrel. I should be tarred and feathered, run out of town on a rail. And yet there must be some tiny morsel of good in me. Because even in my reduced circumstances, I can’t bring myself to stand up somebody who’s been stood up for Prom, which Mrs. Dombrowski has confided in me Gabby Dombrowski has been. Twice, in fact. I hope the collective Dombrowskis have a pleasant memory to savor, because I have one more I want to forget. Every nerve ending, joint, and muscle in my already tender carcass is aching after hours of Gabby’s over-strenuous exertions. I mean, the girl’s a regular Energizer Bunny. She just goes and goes.

  “PARTY!” Gabby shouts out her open window to nobody. “ROCK ON!!”

  She whacks me enthusiastically, so hard my teeth jar. How did it all come to this? Where did I go wrong? Or rather, where didn’t I? I can’t stop thinking about all the bad choices I’ve made. There are so, so many. The people I’ve hurt. A lot of them too. But mostly I can’t stop thinking about poor little me, alone and friendless in a cold, cruel universe.

  “Brooksie, I’ve got this teammate, Tina, in Teaneck,” Gabby prattles. “Heckuva power forward. Her Prom’s next week . . .”

  I manage to focus through the haze of self-inflicted misery.

  “Thanks, Gabby, but after tonight, I’m hanging up the tux for good. You’re my final gig.”

  Gabby’s face drops, making me realize how it could sound. “Was I that bad?” she asks timidly, the usual complexes returning.

  “No, you’ve been terrific,” I assure her. “Uh, very invigorating . . .”

  She smiles, relieved.

  “It’s me,” I say. “I just can’t anymore.”

  ---

  Four days and counting ’til Graduation, and the entire Pritchard senior class has pretty much checked out. By Friday, I’m practically the only person who makes an appearance in homeroom. Seems while I’ve been off doing the Greater Metropolitan Scene, my own scene’s moved on without me. As a result of my prolonged absence, I’ve turned into a marginal presence, the odd man out, no longer involved, invited, or even registering on the social radar. So, while I’m single-handedly forcing disgruntled teachers to come up with lesson plans, everyone but me’s out partying at the beach, getting stupid at Six Flags, or, if of the female persuasion, prepping for Prom.

  Prom. If I never hear that word again, it’ll be too soon. Just the thought of another night of confining cummerbunds, accessorized females, gratified parents, oily maître d’s, fatty food, crushed toes, and mindless excess makes me want to join a monastery and take a vow of eternal silence. I am so Prommed out. Thankfully, there’ll be no more Proms after high school. This is it. My last one. And, as the wise man once said, “Include me out.”

  Cruising in the now-bumperless Beast down Main Street, I can’t help noticing the line of customers snaking out the doors to The Gun. Under The Murf’s inspired weekend supervision, what was a misconceived, dying enterprise has become the happening spot with regular events like Karaoke, Open Mic, All-You-Can-Eat Spaghetti nights, even Bingo. Next thing you know, they’ll be taking reservations. But for me, for months now, The Gun’s been forbidden territory, exiled as I am from the bestest-pal-any-guy-could-ask-for’s good opinion. But not anymore, I impulsively decide, nosing into a space across the street.

  It takes a full ten minutes to reach the front of the line. Like I said, the joint’s unrecognizable since I slaved here. Mood lighting, checkered tablecloths, laminated menus. The Murf, all decked out executorial-like in a natty pin-striped suit and vintage fedora, is performing register duty. He ignores me when my turn comes up.

  “May I take your order?” he politely asks the woman in line right after me.

  “Hey, what about me?” I squawk in protest.

  The Murf taps a printed sign on the wall.

  “Sorry, but Management reserves the right to refuse service to anyone.”

  “On what grounds?” I challenge, indignant.

  “On the grounds that you’re a total dirtbag!” He registers my still slightly puffy jaw. “And who rearranged your face?”

  “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d still like to shake his hand,” The Murf declares. Snapping two fingers to a minion to take over, he rolls a mop and bucket on wheels right at me from around the front counter so quick I have to hop out of the way.

  “Remember that superhot chick at the Pixies concert?” I volunteer in his wake.

  “Faintly,” he says bitingly. “We were never actually introduced.”

  I follow him into the men’s room. And I must confess, I’m way impressed. They say the true test of a fine culinary establishment’s not its chicken stock but its men’s room. And take it from moi, I’ve been in some pretty iffy johns in some pretty snooty restaurants. You’d be surprised how even the ritziest skimp on the paper towels, one of my pet five-star-dining peeves. I ask you, is there anything worse than wet, soapy hands and nowhere to dry them? But here the towels are plentiful and abundant. And the floors—I could rhapsodize about the floors. They’re shiny, virtually spotless, a far cry from the putrid swamp we used to enter at our own risk.

  “Drizzle,” states The Murf, steering the bucket into a stall. “I hate drizzle.”

  Standing clear as he mops around the toilet basin, I summon the fortitude to go on. Because what I have to say is going to be painful to all parties.

  “The real reason I ditched you at the concert was because I didn’t want that superhot chick to know we were friends . . .”

  “Oh, that makes me feel much better!” I hear him say sarcastically.

  “I was afraid if she met you she’d find out I’m from Jersey.” I look down at my feet. My palms are sweaty. This part is the hardest of all. “I was ashamed.”

  A long, ominous pause. Then The Murf’s head pops from the stall, staring at me.

  “Ashamed of Jersey?” he asks, the concept inconceivable to him.

  I can’t look him in the eye. I feel like the spineless worm I am. Because we both know it’s not just my home state I’ve been ashamed of, but him.

  “I don’t know who I am anymore, Murf.” Truer words I have never spoken. Not only who I am, but what I am, what I’m about. I don’t know anymore, if I ever did. “It’s like I’m a stand-in in my own life.”

  “That’s fucking beautiful, Brooks.” To my surprise, The Murf laughs, but harshly, in a way I’ve never heard him laugh before.

  “You think so?” I say, hopefully.

  “But you’re still a total dirtbag!”

  Back in the day, The Murf calling me a dirtbag would have been funny, a witty riposte of sorts, and I would have responded in kind. But that day has come and gone, because The Murf’s totally and completely serious. His normally good-natured face is tight and rigid, his jaw set, his expression blank. Like we don’t know each other. Like all the history we have together never happened. Like we’re strangers, even.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I mumble feebly.

  The Murf marches to the door and swings it open for me to leave. As far as he’s concerned, even the crapper’s too good for me.

  “I may just be the we
ekend manager of a piddly-ass sub shop, Rattigan,” he says with great dignity. “But I wouldn’t take your job for all the money in the world.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I flee, walking faster and faster, until I’m running from The Gun, from The Murf, from yet one more humiliation, but mostly from the awful reality of me. I’m watching a movie of myself scuttling down the sidewalk for cover. I’m like a cockroach.

  “GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!” The Murf shouts out the entrance after me.

  ---

  Get my shit together. If only I could. My shit’s so un-together that I don’t even know what my shit is anymore. The days pass slowly, the last of high school existence. Slumped in bed, I dejectedly lob another dart at the sheet of paper pinned across the bulletin board mounted on the wall, my mind laboring to excuse the inexcusable. Again I ask you, what was my real transgression? The bottom line: I wanted More. Is that really so terrible? To not just accept the hand that’s been dealt, to not just settle for Less? Is it a sin to desire a Shelby Pace, to aspire to a Columbia? So I cut a few corners along the way. Okay, a giant steaming heap of them. But everybody does. Pushing, striving, taking no prisoners. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? That’s the American Way, right?

  “Hey, isn’t your Prom tonight?”

  Charlie stands tall in the doorway. He looks different, more defined-like. Then I realize that he’s clean-shaven, his hair neat and cut short, his jeans and collared shirt new, still creased from the package. Most amazing are his eyes. They aren’t bloodshot or droopy. Even so, I’m too immersed in the depths of despair to comment on the remarkable transformation.

  “I’m not going,” I grunt, flinging another dart. The target’s my official acceptance letter from Columbia, now riddled with pin holes.

  “How come?”

  “Couldn’t find a date. Poetic justice, don’t you think?”

  I am being for real. Earlier, I accidentally-on-purpose neglected to mention that, in a brief moment of weakness, I did ask Gina Agostini, but she was already going with—get this—Burdette. The thought of them hooking up—well, it makes my stomach turn. Actually, the thought of Burdette coupling with any living, breathing creature makes my stomach turn. Rising, I yank the darts from the corkboard to begin the masochistic ritual over again.

  “Charlie, I’m fine about going to Rutgers,” I announce, remarkably calm, almost magically drained of bitterness and anger. Now that it’s finally over, I’m strangely resigned to my life’s sentence. “It’s a great school. I’m lucky I got in.”

  “That’s all true, Brooks, but you’re not going to Rutgers.”

  I halt in mid–dart throw. Wait a minute, this isn’t in the script.

  “What are you talking about?” I say.

  And Charlie, he grins this lopsided grin, which I distantly recognize from another time.

  “Sorry, kiddo, but it’s too late,” he says, offhandedly. “I’ve already put down your deposit at Columbia and if you think I’m giving that up, you’re crazy.”

  It doesn’t register. Because it doesn’t add up. The numbers are too daunting.

  “But the tuition,” I stammer. “We can’t afford—”

  “I sold the comic book collection.”

  “You sold your collection?” I can barely get out the words.

  His collection? His whole life, his whole reason for being is that collection. For Charlie, it’s the ultimate sacrifice, one I’d never ask of him. As incredible, selfless gestures go, it just doesn’t get any bigger. And I’m moved to a core I never knew I had.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he cautions, coming into my room. “It’s only enough for three semesters. But I figure we’ll take it as it goes . . .”

  My universe is spinning off its axis, and I have to sit back down.

  “Dad . . . ,” I rasp.

  It’s the first time since I can remember that I’ve called him that. And it feels good to say it. In fact, it feels terrific. It feels right.

  He reaches out, squeezes me by the shoulder. His eyes glisten brightly.

  “I know I’m not much, Brooks, but damn it, I can do this!”

  I stare back at him, dizzy with possibility, awash in expectation.

  I will go to Columbia. I mean, let’s skip the obligatory bull, shall we? We all know it’s worth the extra money and it does make a difference, a super-huge one. But however it goes, it’ll all work out. And if it doesn’t, that’s fine too. Because for the first time there are two of us battling the Forces of Darkness. At last I belong to something bigger than me, part of something solid to lean on and to be leaned on. I’m half of a family. At a loss for words, I suddenly embrace my father, who fiercely returns my grip.

  “I just didn’t have it, Brooks,” he says in hoarse voice. “Only had the one book in me. That’s the God’s truth of it. But you should have your chance, like I did. Just make sure you go to college for the right reasons. For the best education in becoming a decent human being. Because, in the end, that’s all that really matters.”

  I nod, all choked up. I will take his counsel to heart. And I will read his book. I will try to understand.

  As we both blink back tears, wouldn’t you know it, the doorbell buzzes.

  “Hmm, wonder who that can be?” Dad asks a bit rhetorically, giving me the distinct impression he’s in the know. “Better go answer it.”

  The bell sounds again. I look at him, bewildered. It’s almost seven thirty, well past the time for FedEx or UPS, not that they ever visit our door. Probably some idealistic nut job begging for a handout. Well, sorry, Mack, not at this garden apartment.

  “Would you answer it?” Dad says, giving me a little push.

  Stumbling, reeling from my suddenly unlimited prospects, I unbolt the succession of locks. The bell buzzes once more.

  “Cool your jets, I’m coming!” I holler, opening the door.

  And there, hand on her hip, posed demurely on the landing, is none other than Celia Lieberman. Hair styled and piled high, in high heels and a slinky cocktail dress that’s snug in all the right places. A total babe.

  “Word is on the street, you’re in need of a stand-in for Prom.”

  She smiles shyly, uncertain.

  “Hi, Mr. Rattigan,” she waves demurely behind me.

  “Hi, Celia,” Dad beams, knowing who she is without being introduced, an obvious co-conspirator in on her secret plot, the dog.

  I’m beyond stunned. By the way Celia Lieberman looks but mostly by the fact she’s here in Pritchard. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Celia Lieberman has ventured from her cloistered fantasyland to where the other 99 percent–plus of us wage to just barely make ends.

  And she’s here for me. It’s mind-blowing.

  “Franklin . . . ,” I stutter like an imbecile.

  “For somebody who’s supposed to be a genius, Franklin’s kind of an idiot,” Celia Lieberman shrugs. “I mean, I think I look tons better than before. And the Backstreet Boys, come on.”

  “For sure,” I agree. “Not that appearances matter . . .”

  But they do. And I can’t emphasize enough how hot Celia Lieberman is looking.

  “Well, get changed. Can’t go to Prom like that.”

  Hot diggity damn. I’m going to Prom! Okay, twist my arm, I admit it—I’ve wanted to go all along. I mean, it’s the last blowout, the end of one road, the start of another. And this one’s Mine. The occasion demands to be commemorated. Grinning, I head to my room when I see a sight over Celia Lieberman’s bare shoulder that you don’t see every day, at least not in Pritchard.

  On a street lined with rusted clunkers and unwashed compacts, an elegant black Lincoln Town Car eases up along the curb behind Celia Lieberman’s parked Prius. She turns and sees it too. We’re both mystified. A chauffeur in a brimmed hat and calf leather gloves hustles out and ceremoniously swings open the gleaming back door.

  A shapely tanned leg in a sexy stiletto heel steps out. Attached to an impossibl
y perfect body and an even more impossibly perfect face. Shelby, in a sheer, racy designer gown. The vision of nubile loveliness. More breathtaking than ever.

  “Shelby?” I whisper. What in the world is she doing here? I look at Dad, who shrugs, this time as mystified as me. Spying me, Shelby waves up, supremely comfortable in her flawless skin. I watch, transfixed, paralyzed. I look at Celia Lieberman, then back at Shelby, then back at Celia Lieberman again. I don’t know what to do. I’m telling you, I can’t take any more of these sudden reversals of fortune.

  I don’t move. I can’t. The three of us just stand there.

  “Brooks!” Shelby calls, standing her exquisite ground at the curb. She’s gone as far as she’s willing to go. She’s not coming up and won’t leave until I do something.

  “Go ahead,” Celia Lieberman says softly. “It’s your night.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I promise. Then I’m off like a shot. Drums are pounding, heavy metal guitars are thrashing. I windmill around landings, leap down stairwells in a single bound.

  Suddenly, there she is right ahead of me. Her long silky tresses and sparkly wisp of a gown flutter in the gentle night breeze. The gray drabness of Pritchard melts around her, her golden aura of privilege prevailing wherever she goes. Before I can get out a syllable, she pounces like a tigress and kisses me. I struggle to resist. Her hips grind against mine. I can feel there’s not much, if anything, under there, which isn’t helping matters. Finally, we both come up for air.

  “Shelby, what are you doing here?” I wheeze, almost doubling over. “How did you know . . . ?”

  “Cassie overheard Celia tell that Franklin dip they were history because she was going to Prom with you,” Shelby explains, reapplying gloss. “Then we Googled your school, saw when Prom was, and did a search for your address. It was easy.”

  Shelby’s here because she knows Celia Lieberman is here. Would Shelby be here if Celia Lieberman wasn’t here? Should I care? Because Shelby’s impossibly here, mine for the asking. And this time without false pretenses.

  “You really live here?” Shelby surveys my graffiti-marred complex with tangible repugnance. “Do you own or do you rent?”