The project was to distill wood, which involved the use of a gas flame—Cassius did the work, while Art watched and wrote notes of encouragement:
I can’t believe you got a D− on this experiment when you did it last year—you totally know how to do this stuff!!
and
my parents bought me a lab kit for my birthday. You could come over and we could play mad scientist sometime—want to?
After three or four notes like that, Cassius had read enough, got it in his head Art was some kind of homosexual…especially with Art’s talk about having him over to play doctor or whatever. When the teacher was distracted helping some other kids, Cassius shoved Art under the table and tied him around one of the table legs, in a squeaky granny knot, head, arms, body, and all. When Mr. Milton asked where Art had gone, Cassius said he thought he had run to the bathroom.
“Did he?” Mr. Milton asked. “What a relief. I didn’t even know if that kid could go to the bathroom.”
Another time, John Erikson held Art down during recess and wrote KOLLOSTIMY BAG on his stomach with indelible marker. It was spring before it faded away.
The worst thing was my mom saw. Bad enough she has to know I get beat up on a daily basis. But she was really upset it was spelled wrong.
He added:
I don’t know what she expects—this is 6th grade. Doesn’t she remember 6th grade? I’m sorry, but realistically, what are the odds you’re going to get beat up by the grand champion of the spelling bee?
“The way your year is going,” I said, “I figure them odds might be pretty good.”
* * *
—
Here is how Art and I wound up friends:
During recess periods, I always hung out at the top of the monkey bars by myself, reading sports magazines. I was cultivating my reputation as a delinquent and possible drug pusher. To help my image along, I wore a black denim jacket and didn’t talk to people or make friends.
At the top of the monkey bars—a dome-shaped construction at one edge of the asphalt lot behind the school—I was a good nine feet off the ground, and had a view of the whole yard. One day I watched Billy Spears horsing around with Cassius Delamitri and John Erikson. Billy had a wiffle ball and a bat, and the three of them were trying to bat the ball in through an open second-floor window. After fifteen minutes of not even coming close, John Erikson got lucky, swatted it in.
Cassius said, “Shit—there goes the ball. We need something else to bat around.”
“Hey,” Billy shouted. “Look! There’s Art!”
They caught up to Art, who was trying to keep away, and Billy started tossing him in the air and hitting him with the bat to see how far he could knock him. Every time he struck Art with the bat it made a hollow, springy whap! Art popped into the air, then floated along a little ways, sinking gently back to the ground. As soon as his heels touched earth he started to run, but swiftness of foot wasn’t one of Art’s qualities. John and Cassius got into the fun by grabbing Art and drop-kicking him, to see who could punt him highest.
The three of them gradually pummeled Art down to my end of the lot. He struggled free long enough to run in under the monkey bars. Billy caught up, struck him a whap across the ass with the bat, and shot him high into the air.
Art floated to the top of the dome. When his body touched the steel bars, he stuck, face-up—static electricity.
“Hey,” Billy hollered. “Chuck him down here!”
I had, up until that moment, never been face-to-face with Art. Although we shared classes, and even sat side by side in Mrs. Gannon’s homeroom, we had not had a single exchange. He looked at me with his enormous plastic eyes and sad blank face, and I looked right back. He found the pad around his neck, scribbled a note in spring green, ripped it off and held it up at me.
I don’t care what they do, but could you go away? I hate to get the crap knocked out of me in front of spectators.
“What’s he writin’?” Billy shouted.
I looked from the note, past Art, and down at the gathering of boys below. I was struck by the sudden realization that I could smell them, all three of them, a damp, human smell, a sweaty-sour reek. It turned my stomach.
“Why are you bothering him?” I asked.
Billy said, “Just screwin’ with him.”
“We’re trying to see how high we can make him go,” Cassius said. “You ought to come down here. You ought to give it a try. We’re going to kick him onto the roof of the friggin’ school!”
“I got an even funner idea,” I said, funner being an excellent word to use if you want to impress on some other kids that you might be a mentally retarded psychopath. “How about we see if I can kick your lardy ass up on the roof of the school?”
“What’s your problem?” Billy asked. “You on the rag?”
I grabbed Art and jumped down. Cassius blanched. John Erikson tottered back. I held Art under one arm, feet sticking toward them, head pointed away.
“You guys are dicks,” I said—some moments just aren’t right for a funny line.
And I turned away from them. The back of my neck crawled at the thought of Billy’s wiffle ball bat clubbing me one across the skull, but he didn’t do a thing, let me walk.
We went out on the baseball field, sat on the pitcher’s mound. Art wrote me a note that said thanks, and another that said I didn’t have to do what I had done but that he was glad I had done it, and another that said he owed me one. I shoved each note into my pocket after reading it, didn’t think why. That night, alone in my bedroom, I dug a wad of crushed notepaper out of my pocket, a lump the size of a lemon, peeled each note free and pressed it flat on my bed, read them all over again. There was no good reason not to throw them away, but I didn’t, started a collection instead. It was like some part of me knew, even then, I might want to have something to remember Art by after he was gone. I saved hundreds of his notes over the next year, some as short as a couple words, a few six-page-long manifestos. I have most of them still, from the first note he handed me, the one that begins, I don’t care what they do, to the last, the one that ends:
I want to see if it’s true. If the sky opens up at the top.
* * *
—
At first my father didn’t like Art, but after he got to know him better he really hated him.
“How come he’s always mincing around?” my father asked. “Is he a fairy or something?”
“No, Dad. He’s inflatable.”
“Well, he acts like a fairy,” he said. “You better not be queering around with him up in your room.”
Art tried to be liked—he tried to build a relationship with my father. But the things he did were misinterpreted; the statements he made were misunderstood. My dad said something once about a movie he liked. Art wrote him a message about how the book was even better.
“He thinks I’m an illiterate,” my dad said, as soon as Art was gone.
Another time, Art noticed the pile of worn tires heaped up behind our garage, and mentioned to my dad about a recycling program at Sears, bring in your rotten old ones, get twenty percent off on brand-new Goodyears.
“He thinks we’re trailer trash,” my dad complained, before Art was hardly out of earshot. “Little snotnose.”
One day Art and I got home from school, and found my father in front of the TV, with a pit bull at his feet. The bull erupted off the floor, yapping hysterically, and jumped up on Art. His paws made a slippery zipping sound sliding over Art’s plastic chest. Art grabbed one of my shoulders and vaulted into the air. He could really jump when he had to. He grabbed the ceiling fan—turned off—and held on to one of the blades while the pit bull barked and hopped beneath.
“What the hell is that?” I asked.
“Family dog,” my father said. “Just like you always wanted.”
&nbs
p; “Not one that wants to eat my friends.”
“Get off the fan, Artie. That isn’t built for you to hang off it.”
“This isn’t a dog,” I said. “It’s a blender with fur.”
“Listen, do you want to name it, or should I?” Dad asked.
Art and I hid in my bedroom and talked names.
“Snowflake,” I said. “Sugarpie. Sunshine.”
How about Happy? That has a ring to it, doesn’t it?
We were kidding, but Happy was no joke. In just a week, Art had at least three life-threatening encounters with my father’s ugly dog.
If he gets his teeth in me, I’m done for. He’ll punch me full of holes.
But Happy couldn’t be housebroken, left turds scattered around the living room, hard to see in the moss brown rug. My dad squelched through some fresh leavings once, in bare feet, and it sent him a little out of his head. He chased Happy all through the downstairs with a croquet mallet, smashed a hole in the wall, crushed some plates on the kitchen counter with a wild backswing.
The very next day he built a chain-link pen in the sideyard. Happy went in, and that was where he stayed.
By then, though, Art was nervous to come over, and preferred to meet at his house. I didn’t see the sense. It was a long walk to get to his place after school, and my house was right there, just around the corner.
“What are you worried about?” I asked him. “He’s in a pen. It’s not like Happy is going to figure out how to open the door to his pen, you know.”
Art knew…but he still didn’t like to come over, and when he did, he usually had a couple patches for bicycle tires on him, to guard against dark happenstance.
* * *
—
Once we started going to Art’s every day, once it came to be a habit, I wondered why I had ever wanted us to go to my house instead. I got used to the walk—I walked the walk so many times I stopped noticing that it was long bordering on never-ending. I even looked forward to it, my afternoon stroll through coiled suburban streets, past houses done in Disney pastels: lemon, seashell, tangerine. As I crossed the distance between my house and Art’s house, it seemed to me that I was moving through zones of ever-deepening stillness and order, and at the walnut heart of all this peace was Art’s.
Art couldn’t run, talk, or approach anything with a sharp edge on it, but at his house we managed to keep ourselves entertained. We watched TV. I wasn’t like other kids, and didn’t know anything about television. My father, I mentioned already, suffered from terrible migraines. He was home on disability, lived in the family room, and hogged our TV all day long, kept track of five different soaps. I tried not to bother him, and rarely sat down to watch with him—I sensed my presence was a distraction to him at a time when he wanted to concentrate.
Art would have watched whatever I wanted to watch, but I didn’t know what to do with a remote control. I couldn’t make a choice, didn’t know how. Had lost the habit. Art was a NASA buff, and we watched anything to do with space, never missed a space shuttle launch. He wrote:
I want to be an astronaut. I’d adapt really well to being weightless. I’m already mostly weightless.
This was when they were putting up the International Space Station. They talked about how hard it was on people to spend too long in outer space. Your muscles atrophy. Your heart shrinks three sizes.
The advantages of sending me into space keep piling up. I don’t have any muscles to atrophy. I don’t have any heart to shrink. I’m telling you. I’m the ideal spaceman. I belong in orbit.
“I know a guy who can help you get there. Let me give Billy Spears a call. He’s got a rocket he wants to stick up your ass. I heard him talking about it.”
Art gave me a dour look, and a scribbled two-word response.
Lying around Art’s house in front of the tube wasn’t always an option, though. His father was a piano instructor, tutored small children on the baby grand, which was in the living room along with their television. If he had a lesson, we had to find something else to do. We’d go into Art’s room to play with his computer, but after twenty minutes of row-row-row-your-boat coming through the wall—a shrill, out-of-time plinking—we’d shoot each other sudden wild looks, and leave by way of the window, no need to talk it over.
Both Art’s parents were musical, his mother a cellist. They had wanted music for Art, but it had been let-down and disappointment from the start.
I can’t even kazoo.
Art wrote me once. The piano was out. Art didn’t have any fingers, just a thumb, and a puffy pad where his fingers belonged. Hands like that, it had been years of work with a tutor just to learn to write legibly with a crayon. For obvious reasons, wind instruments were also out of the question; Art didn’t have lungs, and didn’t breathe. He tried to learn the drums, but couldn’t strike hard enough to be any good at it.
His mother bought him a digital camera. “Make music with color,” she said. “Make melodies out of light.”
Mrs. Roth was always hitting you with lines like that. She talked about oneness, about the natural decency of trees, and she said not enough people were thankful for the smell of cut grass. Art told me when I wasn’t around, she asked questions about me. She was worried I didn’t have a healthy outlet for my creative self. She said I needed something to feed the inner me. She bought me a book about origami and it wasn’t even my birthday.
“I didn’t know the inner me was hungry,” I said to Art.
That’s because it already starved to death.
Art wrote.
She was alarmed to learn that I didn’t have any sort of religion. My father didn’t take me to church or send me to Sunday school. He said religion was a scam. Mrs. Roth was too polite to say anything to me about my father, but she said things about him to Art, and Art passed her comments on. She told Art that if my father neglected the care of my body like he neglected the care of my spirit, he’d be in jail, and I’d be in a foster home. She also told Art that if I was put in foster care, she’d adopt me, and I could stay in the guest room. I loved her, felt my heart surge whenever she asked me if I wanted a glass of lemonade. I would have done anything she asked.
“Your mom’s an idiot,” I said to Art. “A total moron. I hope you know that. There isn’t any oneness. It’s every man for himself. Anyone who thinks we’re all brothers in the spirit winds up sitting under Cassius Delamitri’s fat ass during recess, smelling his jock.”
Mrs. Roth wanted to take me to the synagogue—not to convert me, just as an educational experience, exposure to other cultures and all that—but Art’s father shot her down, said not a chance, not our business, and what are you crazy? She had a bumper sticker on her car that showed the Star of David and the word PRIDE with a jumping exclamation point next to it.
“So, Art,” I said another time. “I got a Jewish question I want to ask you. Now you and your family, you’re a bunch of hardcore Jews, right?”
I don’t know that I’d describe us as hardcore exactly. We’re actually pretty lax. But we go to synagogue, observe the holidays—things like that.
“I thought Jews had to get their joints snipped,” I said, and grabbed my crotch. “For the faith. Tell me—” But Art was already writing.
No not me. I got off. My parents were friends with a progressive Rabbi. They talked to him about it first thing after I was born. Just to find out what the official position was.
“What’d he say?”
He said it was the official position to make an exception for anyone who would actually explode during the circumcision. They thought he was joking, but later on my mom did some research on it. Based on what she found out, it looks like I’m in the clear—Talmudically speaking. Mom says the foreskin has to be skin. If it isn’t, it doesn’t need to be cut.
“That’s funny,” I said. “I alway
s thought your mom didn’t know dick. Now it turns out your mom does know dick. She’s an expert even. Shows what I know. Hey, if she ever wants to do more research, I have an unusual specimen for her to examine.”
And Art wrote how she would need to bring a microscope, and I said how she would need to stand back a few yards when I unzipped my pants, and back and forth, you don’t need me to tell you, you can imagine the rest of the conversation for yourself. I rode Art about his mother every chance I could get, couldn’t help myself. Started in on her the moment she left the room, whispering about how for an old broad she still had an okay can, and what would Art think if his father died and I married her. Art, on the other hand, never once made a punch line out of my dad. If Art ever wanted to give me a hard time, he’d make fun of how I licked my fingers after I ate, or how I didn’t always wear matching socks. It isn’t hard to understand why Art never stuck it to me about my father, like I stuck it to him about his mother. When your best friend is ugly—I mean bad ugly, deformed—you don’t kid them about shattering mirrors. In a friendship, especially in a friendship between two young boys, you are allowed to inflict a certain amount of pain. This is even expected. But you must cause no serious injury; you must never, under any circumstances, leave wounds that will result in permanent scars.
* * *
—
Arthur’s house was also where we usually settled to do our homework. In the early evening, we went into his room to study. His father was done with lessons by then, so there wasn’t any plink-plink from the next room to distract us. I enjoyed studying in Art’s room, responded well to the quiet, and liked working in a place where I was surrounded by books; Art had shelves and shelves of books. I liked our study time together, but mistrusted it as well. It was during our study sessions—surrounded by all that easy stillness—that Art was most likely to say something about dying.
The Big Book of Modern Fantasy Page 130