by Ron Koertge
I can’t back down now. “The sixty I loaned you that day we went over to Megan’s.”
He digs in his jeans, fumbles with a wad of bills, counts some out, and shoves them at me. “Here, now shut up.”
I look at them. “This is thirty-five.”
He gets hold of my T-shirt and pulls me right into him. “Will you stop busting my balls?”
I try to get a finger or two between my shirt and my neck, but I can’t. “Cut it out. That hurts.”
All he does is say it back all high and whiny: “‘Cut it out. That hurts.’ You little weenie.”
“Don’t call me names. I hate it when people call me names.”
“Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”
That’s when I hit him. And it’s a pretty good shot, because I hear him grunt, but the next thing I know, I’m looking at my hand, which I’ve just had to my nose, and there’s blood all over. It takes a few seconds for my face to start to hurt.
“Now get out of here,” he says.
“Go to hell. It’s my room, too.”
He grabs me by the scruff of the neck, walks me to the door, and shoves. A few seconds later the door opens again and my sneaks fly out.
When I get up, I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My nose and my lip are bleeding, but some cold water and a lot of toilet paper stop that.
Downstairs, Bob is watching TV. He doesn’t even look up when I tell him I’m going out, he just grunts. Barbara and C.W. are still on the back porch with Tupac, the dog. I slip out the front door and start walking. All the people I know on the street are in bed or getting ready for bed. There’s a light on every so often where maybe somebody is reading or taking an Alka-Seltzer. Not everybody is young or still has a partner. Mrs. Morgan is by herself, and so is Mr. Finch.
The closer I get to Wanda’s, the fewer people I know or even know about. It feels chillier. I’m the only one out, so I’m glad when I see Wanda’s light on.
I knock but I say, “Wanda! It’s me.” So she won’t get scared.
When she opens the door, she’s got a book in one hand and a pencil between her teeth.
“Teddy? What’s wrong?”
“I got into it with Astin.” I point to my face.
She opens the door wider, and I step inside. She says, “I just got off the phone with Megan. They broke up.”
“So that’s it.”
“Yeah, get used to it. They like to break up. Then they get back together and say, ‘Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.’ ‘No, no, sweetheart, it was my fault.’ And I think you know what happens after that.” She points to the couch. “Sit down. I’m either going to finish Leaves of Grass or get the lawn mower and run over it.”
The couch has flat cushions with corners and spindly legs with brass tips. Her TV is on, and a black woman is crying while a white woman in a spangly dress tells her everything will be all right.
“What are you watching?”
Wanda yells from the kitchen, “That’s Imitation of Life, the original. Claudette Colbert and Louise Beavers. Louise Beavers’s daughter, Peola, wants to pass for white and Claudette Colbert’s daughter wants her mom’s boyfriend.”
“Jeez. And I thought I had problems.”
“What’s cool is in the middle of all that, Claudette Colbert changes clothes about every ten minutes. The costumes are great. I’m almost done here. Get some ice out of the fridge and hold it against your lip. It’ll keep the swelling down.”
I do what she says, then wander back to the nearest bathroom and look at myself. I could even have a black eye. How cool would that be?
I’ve been at Wanda’s before, but not for long. Usually she picks me up and we do something like go to the movies, where all she looks at is the sets. Walking out, she always wants to know who shot who and what were all those zombies doing in the mall?
I pick up the remote. “Can I change the channel?”
“Absolutely. It’s not like I don’t know how it turns out.”
Oh, man. There’s 7th Heaven, the show my media teacher made us watch, the show he called Just Ask Dad. Then Friends, a kind of super-deluxe foster care without the Rafters. And on AMC an old Tarzan movie. I remember being six years old and wanting to go to the zoo so I could see Simba and Tantor. I didn’t want a little brother, either. I wanted Cheetah.
“You all better?” Wanda asks when I go back in the kitchen.
“Yeah. I like knowing it’s not me Astin’s really mad at, but I’m not sorry I hit him.”
She closes her book with a thump. “Last poem I’ll ever read in my life, slugger. Let’s make popcorn.”
She wants nothing to do with hot-air poppers, so there’s oil to measure out and a big, clumsy thing to shake over the stove. I start to think about only talking to Wanda on the phone when she’s in New York.
Once we settle on the couch, I leave the movie on but hit MUTE. “I saw those boxes with that East Coast zip code.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow they go to an address I’ve never been to where a girl I’ve never seen will store them in my half of the bedroom. Oh, man, this could be such a big mistake.”
I put one arm around her, and all her curly hair makes me have to close my eyes. “It’ll be fine.”
“God, I hope so. It’s just so much like starting over.”
“I did that. Sort of. You sure can. You’ve got a job and everything.”
She sighs. “I know.” She grabs the cold washcloth and dabs at my lip.
I sit up so I can see her. “Do you know what’s weird? These guys in my old high school used to pick on me, but I never hit them back. So then I meet Astin, who turns out to be a pretty good guy, and I end up punching him.”
“Guys are always punching each other.” She points to the screen. “Look at this. You can always tell the bad natives because they’ve got bones in their noses, and the good natives always hide the baby elephant.”
While I watch the inevitable stampede, I can’t help but think about all those animals I used to talk to. Did that really happen?
Wanda turns off the TV, stands up, and yawns. “Do you want to stay here tonight? Sleep in my parents’ room? Astin will be on the phone with Megan, anyway.”
“Sure, okay.”
“Do you want pajamas or anything? My dad wore pajamas, or at least he got them for Christmas every year.”
“No, I just . . . you know. Take off my pants.”
“Yeah, me too.”
We walk down the hall together. Wanda’s room is first. I can see her poster of Barbarella on the west wall.
“I like it,” she says, “that you’re not all over me. I like how uncomplicated this is.”
“I didn’t plan it or anything.”
“That’s another thing I like.” She gives me a sisterly kiss and closes the door.
I wander around her parents’ room. There’s some kind of grit on the floor, maybe sand. Most of the dresser drawers are standing open; there are two or three hangers on the floor of the closet and a pair of those rubber flip-flops with the rubber daisies.
The bed smells funny. Not bad, exactly, but like somebody else. When I lie down, I slide toward the center.
I touch my lip, which is really starting to throb, find my phone, and dial.
Wanda sounds a little groggy when she answers.
I ask, “How fast did your parents get out of here, anyway?”
“Ted?”
I can hear her tussle with the sheet, and I wonder if she’s sitting up.
“They floated a loan,” she says, “the day after they knew they won, and that was that.”
“There’s like a trough in this mattress.”
“You’re on my dad’s side. Switch around.”
“I am switched around, but I slide down anyway.”
“Why are we talking on the phone, Teddy?”
“We talk on the phone all the time.”
“But that’s when you’re at the Rafters’ and I’m here.”
; I look around the room again. There are two or three dark rectangles on the wallpaper. Where do you hang pictures in a motor home?
“Do you ever come in here?” I ask.
“God, no. It’s probably haunted.”
“This place makes me think about packing stuff. Did you have to help your parents?”
“A little.”
“I had to pack everything. Is there anything worse than your mother’s underwear? I mean even Goodwill didn’t want it, and there it just was.”
She says, “After my folks disappeared into the sunset, I trashed things. I was so mad that sometimes I’d just go find something I thought they might like or that they’d want when they came back, and I’d throw it away. But I promised myself that the minute I got to New York, I’d stop being pissed off.”
I switch the phone to my other ear. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
“Do you think about your folks every day?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Do you dream about them?”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s always me hitchhiking and they just blow right by in that Winnebago or they throw things at me.”
“In mine their car’s on fire, and my legs weigh about a ton.”
We don’t say anything for a while, but we know each other is there. A car goes by outside, and those long bars of light slide across the wall and bend when they hit the ceiling.
“Teddy, if I let you come in here, it’s just to sleep, okay?”
I get right to my feet. “Sure.”
“I’ll just never get any rest thinking of you trying to crawl out of that dent in the bed my fat-assed father made.”
“I’ll sleep on top of the covers. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“We can’t do anything because I’m going away, right?”
“I know.”
“But you should want to. You should want to a lot. I should be almost irresistible.”
I tell her, “You’re totally irresistible.”
“And the only reason you don’t just ravish me is because you’re sweet and considerate.”
This kind of reminds me of doing the dozens with C.W. except that it’s more true, and it’s an easy way to talk about something that’s hard to talk about.
I tell her, “I don’t want to be sweet and considerate, though. I want to climb up some vines onto your balcony and jump right into your bed.”
“It’ll be torture for you lying beside me tonight, right? You won’t sleep a wink.”
“I’ll never sleep again.”
“Okay, then. You can come over.”
When I get next door in my underwear, she has the covers pulled up to her chin and she’s grinning.
“Skinny legs,” she says. “I love guys with skinny legs.”
I unfold the quilt at the end of her bed, lie down, and pull it over me.
“Closer,” she says.
I scoot over until I bump into her. It’s such an amazing feeling.
“You know what I was just thinking?”
“Uh-uh.”
“That the last thing my mother said to me after they won that money was, ‘Wanda, you only live once.’ And then she put on her sunglasses and got in the motor home.”
“The last thing my mother said to me was, ‘Feed the cats.’”
I feel her turn away, grope for a Kleenex, and blow her nose. “Put your arm around me, okay?” she asks. “I’m cold.”
When the phone rings, Wanda rolls over. “God,” she mumbles, “who’s that?’
I grope for my cell.
“Ted, get over here before Bob wakes up.”
“Astin?”
“You know what? Never mind. Just meet me outside in five minutes.”
“You know where I am?”
“Are you kidding? Where else would you go?”
I hit the red button. I say, “I better get out of here. I’m not supposed to be out all night.”
Wanda stretches. She’s under the sheet; I’m not. I look around for my pants. “Did you sleep?” she asks.
“Will you get mad if I say yes?”
“Very funny. Do you want anything? I’ve got milk and cereal and bread and all that stuff.”
I find one shoe. “No, I’m fine.” I already think I can hear Astin’s bike.
She props herself up on both elbows. “Call me, okay? I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
“I’ll be all right if Bob’s not up and around.” I lean in and kiss her on the forehead. She pulls at the covers and turns over.
It’s early and it’s Sunday. A little kid is the only other person awake, and he’s sitting on his porch waiting for the day to start. I remember doing that — roaming the house, looking in cupboards, stepping over animals, sneaking into my parents’ bedroom to watch them sleep. I didn’t hate them or love them. I just wanted them to wake up.
A minute or so later, Astin comes rumbling up. I take my helmet off the sissy bar, then climb on behind him. We’re in the middle of a wide turn when he says, “Sorry about last night. I was out of line. Megan drives me crazy sometimes.”
“Just tell me next time, okay?”
“Teddy, you hit me first. My side still hurts.”
I lean forward so he’ll hear me for sure. “Good.”
He’s going awful fast for just six blocks, but I still don’t hold on to his jacket.
“Your lip okay? Did Wanda kiss it and make it better?”
“Like I’d tell you.” And I slap the side of his helmet hard.
“You want me to hit you again? Just keep that shit up.”
We’re home in two minutes. I help Astin put the tarp over the Harley, and we go in the back door. Tupac, who’s lying at C.W.’s feet, doesn’t bother to bark.
“Ever vigilant.”
“He knows you, Teddy.”
Barbara’s at the sink, her long hair in a braid hanging outside her pink robe. “Where have you two been?” she asks.
Astin and I look at each other.
“Out,” he says. “I’m teaching Teddy how to handle a chopper.”
“Well, this is the last piece of bread,” she says. “If you want toast, you’re going to have to go back to the store.”
C.W. starts to give the dog a potato chip and Barbara says, “Outside with that animal!”
“If we go now,” Astin says, “can we take the Saturn this afternoon? I need to get stuff for my party. You only graduate once.”
Barbara drops the rest of her toast in the garbage. “Do you have twenty dollars? It might need gas.”
Astin wants to price steaks at Bristol Farms, and C.W. thinks we ought to have real, honest-to-God party hats and a banner. But first we stop at the ARCO station on Orange Grove.
Astin leans in and asks, “Got twenty bucks, Teddy? I’ll pay you right back.
“Oh, bite me.”
He starts pumping gas, and I ask, “You guys want something to drink?”
I don’t have to say that twice. I walk in, score three cans and some jerky for Tupac, and start back toward the car. I’m wearing a sport coat that Wanda and I found on sale, and I like the way the Coke cans make the pockets sag. It’s when I stop looking at myself in the big glass door that I see him — Scott McIntyre. Sitting in his Mustang, which I’m glad to see looks a little worse for wear.
He’s got his check register propped on the steering wheel, and he’s frowning at it. If he sees me and if he gets out and starts something, we’ll take care of him. Astin, C.W., and me. Me first, though.
It’s a big station with a dozen of those pump islands. It’d be easy to just walk around him. Tack windward and eventually heave to. Take the low road. Slink away.
I walk right toward him. I come at him from the front. I stop by the open window. I say, “Hey, Scott.”
He looks up. “Hey, man.” He points to his checkbook. “Where’s the money go, huh?”
“No kidding.” I watch him add, then say, “Well, see you.”
“Yeah.”
It’s either my new clothes or my new haircut, or he just doesn’t care anymore.
I’m almost to the car when C.W. points out the window. “Look, Tupie, it’s Ted. Oh, my God. What’s that in his hand? Is it a treat? Is it a treat for the best dog in the world? I bet it is.”
I climb in, break the jerky in pieces, and start feeding Tupac. Astin knocks on the window. “Don’t get Coke all over that upholstery!”
Then he drops the squeegee, grabs his receipt, and gets in. I hand him the cold, wet can as McIntyre’s Mustang pulls out. Astin points. “Who’s that, anyway?”
“Remember the football player I told you about, the one who wouldn’t leave me alone? That was him.”
“Scott McIntyre, the quarterback? Really? Let’s follow him, and when he gets out of the car, we’ll kick his ass.”
“He’s just going to Kinko’s.”
“How do you know that?”
I point to my chest. “He’s got this stupid name tag on. He’s just a stupid guy with a stupid name tag.”
“I could still hold him while you hit him.”
I reach for my seat belt. “Nah, I’d rather go buy stuff for your party.”
Los Angeles is great in the summer. Warm — okay, hot sometimes — but cool at night, even in my attic. Which I’ve got to myself now, and Barbara bought me a fan to replace the one Astin stole.
I love my job at the zoo. It’s just twenty minutes on the Gold Line to Union Station, then fifteen more on a DASH bus. At six in the morning, the guys I work with and I are just about the only ones dashing anywhere. We’re for sure the last to get off at the end of the line. Rodney’s always wired on coffee and talking to his girlfriend; Jesse sleeps the whole time; Will and I talk about animals because he’s nearly as into them as I am. I rethink my future about every ten minutes. One day it’s lions and tigers; the next it’s sled dogs in Alaska. They’ve even got an internship right here for grad students in zoology. But basically, I just don’t know.
I like walking in through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. I even like the locker room, which is totally different from the one at high school. Nobody’s snapping towels at me, for one thing. Nobody’s calling me names. The other guys talk about a movie they’ve seen or some girl they got to flirt with up by the reptile house. They plan things and ask if I feel like going along.