Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  “But I’ll still have to…” the words ‘touch him’ almost betrayed her, but she caught herself in time and redirected. “I mean, I’ll still have to… do Schroeder’s make up.”

  Ms. Bagner wasn’t buying the deflection. “No, you’re exclusively Charlie Brown tonight. Now go find a hair dryer and comb.”

  Charlie Brown was not used to all of the attention. He enjoyed it, a little bit, but mostly it made him uncomfortable.

  When he arrived on opening night he had sat quietly on one of the locker room benches and waited to be instructed. Everyone around him was animated, chatty and full of energy. Occasionally a student of good intent would ask if he were ready for tonight or if he had all of his lines down. Yes, he was ready. Yes, he had his lines down.

  There was a slightly odd moment when Ms. Bagner had told Sue Hespen to wash his hair and she had squealed: “Eeeew! No! Gross!” But he heard girls saying things like that all the time. The odd part was the conversation that ensued between the woman and the girl, and then there was the way the room had become quiet. It seemed to Charlie Brown that there was something there, something that he was missing. But then Ms. Bagner was washing his hair and the odd feeling drifted away.

  The hair washing was exquisite. Charlie Brown felt Ms. Bagner pour cupful after cupful of warm water on his head as he hovered over the sink. Then came the shampoo which his drama teacher drove into his scalp with her long sturdy fingernails. The sensation caused him to break out in gooseflesh on his neck and back. But when Ms. Bagner leaned in to scrub the top of his scalp, gooseflesh became the secondary sensation. What he thought were her breasts, were brushing against his left arm.

  The scrubbing lasted a good long time and then was followed by several more cupfuls of warm water. A towel then landed on the back of his neck, and Ms. Bagner shimmied up and over the sides and top of his head applying more and more friction to force out the water.

  “Okay, why don’t you have a seat at the first makeup table and Sue Hespen will finish your hair.”

  ‘Finishing the hair’ amounted to Sue Hespen maintaining a safe distance from Gre -- uh, Charlie Brown and aiming a hair dryer in his general direction. From time to time she would take a comb, the one with the longest handle she could find, and make a few quick token strokes before retreating out of the range of jumping cooties.

  Opening night passed.

  On the second night Charlie Brown again arrived on time and waited to be instructed. And when Ms. Bagner directed him to the makeup station, he asked honestly “Don’t you need to wash my hair first?”

  It may have been part lust for feeling those knockers brush against him, or it could have been earnestly informing his teacher that she had forgotten that part of the preparation.

  The question arrived unexpected. “I think that – well, it should be fine.” Ms. Bagner was dancing between white lie and full disclosure. “We need to spend more time on your makeup tonight.”

  She hadn’t expected her star to arrive on the second night having shampooed in advance (he had not) and she felt that her scrubbing on opening night would be good enough to last through four nights of performances (it would). What she hadn’t anticipated was his completely innocent question.

  ‘God, the kid really doesn’t know.’ She mused. ‘I really should have a talk with him about it, but now? Before a performance? He could become totally conspicuous about how he’s looked all semester and why people call him Greaser. He might walk right off the stage. No, not now.’

  And so Greaser completed his role flawlessly, a little more sheen and snarl creeping into his head each performance, but still passable by the time closing night arrived. In fact the only mistake he made occurred two weeks after the performance.

  When he showed up for the cast party on the wrong night.

  Chapter 3

  1

  “Greaser, you’re moving too slow!” A pair of twelve year old twerps skated past Greaser with reckless confidence.

  Yes, Greaser was moving too slow. He had only been roller skating twice before (back in grade school) when the entire class had been invited to some rich kids birthday parties. But it wasn’t the reference to moving slow that surprised him, it was that these young kids had called him by that nickname. That, and the fact that it was not customary, in fact it could be downright dangerous, for a young punk to sass off to a high school kid. Not that Greaser was the type to react in such a manner, but curious just the same.

  Saturday night at the Roller Rink was almost exclusively reserved for the junior high crowd and below. Greaser kept looking for more people his own age, specifically members of the Charlie Brown cast who were supposed to be here tonight. But that had happened last night. Tonight the cast members were at the unofficial cast party at Judy Zimmer’s family cabin getting blistered on Boones Farm Red and Columbian Gold. Somehow Greaser had gotten the date wrong. Or maybe he was misled on the dates to prevent him from crashing the proprietary guest list for Ms. Zimmer’s soiree. Regardless, he was here, it was the wrong night, he was skating, and to leave before the 90 minute session was up would be a sin.

  “Greaser! Don’t be slippin’ and falling!” The twerps again. They could make three circuits of the rink to every two of Greaser’s. Each time they came in fast, spouted out their taunt, and then cut in front for another lap.

  Again they made the circuit. “Greaser! There’s grease coming off of your skates!”

  This time, it made sense. The junior high punks weren’t messing with him. They had merely observed grease coming off of his skates and had been trying to tell him. Greaser looked down but couldn’t see any telltale signs. He risked a quick glance back but could not detect an accusatory double trail of oil in his wake. But the sharp eyed youngsters had caught it, and they had shown the courtesy to bring it to his attention.

  It could be handled. There was a place and a person for skate repairs; the attendant staff member at the skate rental counter.

  Greaser worked his way along the cement wall that separated the skate/no skate zones. He hesitated for just a moment as he rolled onto the carpeted area, caught his balance and mentally thanked the junior high kids for alerting him to the problem.

  Near the end of the cement divider he rolled up to the stall designed for skate adjustments. For skaters young and old it was a ceremonious event to come to this stall and be serviced for a loose stopper or a jammed wheel. You placed each arm on the shelf to brace yourself and then lifted your skate into the pre-cut trough. When the attendant looked up from where he was shelving skates he would drift over to the stall to service your rolling footwear.

  “What do you need.” More declarative statement than question. The attendant had seen the grease-baller earlier in the evening (God, how could you miss a sight like that) and figured him to be retarded.

  The attendant, 20 year old Nick MacInturf, had worked at the roller rink since he was 15. During those five years he had feigned adjustments for thousands of skaters whether they needed adjusting or not (many did not). The less time he would have to deal with this slimy loser, the better.

  “Some kid told me that I had grease coming off of my skates.”

  ‘You have got to be fist-fucking me.’ Nick MacInturf needed a moment to absorb what he had heard. Some punk-ass kid tells this sorry sap that he’s got grease coming off of his skates and he buys it? The attendant looked at his customer, then at the skate, and then back at the customer with a ‘what are you stupid’ expression.

  He would have liked to tell this dork that he was a blithering sap-sucking idiot, but he also wanted to keep his job. He supposes that he could scramble up a rag from someplace and pretend to wipe down the nonexistent grease; but if anyone were to see him, he’d end up giving shoeshine jobs to every brat in the building.

  Finally Nick MacInturf takes one final look at his client, rolls his eyes, and wordlessly returns to his duty of shelving skates; leaving the retard to sink or swim on his own.

  At first, Greaser stays p
ut; thinking that the attendant has gone to fetch a rag or tool of some kind. But when the attendant resumes shelving a third, then a fourth pair of skates, he has been abandoned. Ignored.

  Greaser maintains his ready position in the service stall and tries to connect the dots. The eye rolling suggests that he has been sapped, there was no grease, the attendant will not be coming back, the junior high punks have probably been watching and laughing.

  Conspicuously, Greaser extracts himself from the stall and turns toward the skate floor. He ponders what has just occurred but only for a moment as his thoughts are interrupted by the roller rink announcer:

  “IT’S TIME NOW FOR OUR MULTIPLYING COUPLE SKATE. ALL THE BOYS LINE UP ALONG THE BLUE WALL, ALL THE GIRLS ALONG THE PINK WALL.”

  The multiplying couple skate was one of Greaser’s favorites. The skate begins with just one pre-selected couple on the floor, after 20 seconds the referee would blow his whistle; the couple would break and select new partners. Two would become four, four became eight, eight, sixteen, and upward until everyone in the building (sometimes forming groups of three to accommodate the extras) was skating as a couple.

  During his two grade school visits, Greaser had been chosen early in the multiplying couple skate, mostly because, as the quiet kid, he presented little risk to the reputation of any grammar school princess. This shocked him and pleased him. The fond memory overshadowed his rental counter experience and he made his way hurriedly to the blue wall.

  The multiplying couple skate began to the sounds of Maureen McGovern singing “The Morning After.” A wise choice of music; love song appeal for the girls and favorite scenes from the movie The Poseidon Adventure for the boys. The whistle would blow (tweet!) the couples would split and double; split and double again.

  Maureen McGovern cross-faded into Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen” and at the lyrics ‘we all play the games and when we dare, cheat ourselves at solitaire’ Greaser began to feel that something was terribly wrong.

  He hadn’t expected to be picked in the first few rounds, he knew that he was older than most of this crowd and that they had their own friends. By now there were perhaps 40 couples skating, and only a handful of boys and girls were left without partners. One more toot of the whistle…there it was!...and he along with everyone else would be skating under the colored Chinese lanterns.

  The couples broke, reformed, some in twos, some in threes, and everyone had been picked. Everyone, that is, except for Greaser.

  Greaser looked the length of the blue wall and saw it barren. He watched as dozens of sets of eyes rolled by and stared at him freakishly. Panic began to crawl out of his lungs and clench his heart. Conspicuously isolated, he tried to---

  “Hey Greaser! Why aren’t you skating!”

  The two junior high twerps, with a pretty junior high girl between them, skated by as a threesome, laughing at the lone Greaser abandoned at the blue wall.

  The whistle tooted yet again. A long last plea of sympathy for the awkward loner. No one honored the command. The last partner remained unclaimed.

  Greaser could bear no more. He skated into traffic, alone, and hurried to the no skate area in front of the bathrooms. He hit the carpeting hard, banged into the boy’s room door and clattered inside.

  Sanctuary.

  More out of need for maintaining balance than by intent, Greaser clung to the porcelain sink and stared at his face, reflected by the polished sheet metal plate that served as the boy’s room mirror. He search for answers; they arrived in the form of voices:

  “Look out for the oil slick!” Doug Hennesy.

  “Too late. I’m trapped in the spill!” Varsity quarterback Brad Anderson.

  “What dija ‘xpect. The thing was covered with grease. Thanks a lot Greaser!” Grant Dohmeier.

  “Greaser! There’s grease coming off of your skates!” Some kid.

  “Eeeew! No! Gross! I’m not touching that Greaser’s hair!” Sue Hespen.

  Recognition unfolded in the memory of that final voice. ‘Hair.’ ‘Greaser.’ ‘I’m not touching that---Greaser’s---hair.’ Before the play; Sue Hespen had said that. And then Ms. Bagner had washed his hair.

  ‘My hair,’ Greaser observed. ‘It looks different.’ Even in the tinny reflection of the sheet metal, the less-than-casual relationship with soap and water was plainly evident. Greaser looked at himself as if for the first time. He had never had use for mirrors before. He was just…well, he was what he was.

  He thought of the kids on the skate floor and his classmates at school. No, none of them had hair that looked like this. That’s why they called him Greaser. He needed to wash it.

  His self revelation should have been gratifying. If not for his past reputation; abhorring.

  2

  Unwilling to be subjected to anymore taunts, yet perfectly willing to commit the sin of leaving early, Greaser exchanged his skates for his shoes, mounted his bike and rode furiously toward home.

  He took back streets to stay out of sight as much as possible. Whenever a car drove by he hunched and turned away. The conspicuous feeling made him pump the pedals harder, moving ever faster in his quest to wash himself of his stigma.

  ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me.’ His thoughts went first, not to his parents, but to the influential people in his life, his classmates and teachers. He thought of Craig Thompson offering him a dollop of shampoo in gym class with no more than a single word: “Here.” And Ms. Bagner, washing his hair for him but not telling him ‘this is something you need to do every day.’

  Yes, they had tried to help, but he could not view their help with gratitude. Why hadn’t they done just a little bit more.

  Home.

  He threw his bike down in the front yard and looked at the house. It had a different look about it. But that had to wait. Right now he needed to get inside, away from the staring eyes of the neighbors, away from the… “Hey Greaser! Why aren’t you skating?”...silent voices that tormented his ears.

  Inside, the TV was on and his mother was clanging cookery in the kitchen. For the first time he could ever remember, Greaser ignored the television and headed to another part of the house. The bathroom.

  The metallic Roller Rink mirror had been a revelation. The glass bathroom mirror (albeit streaked and dirty) was a harsh affirmation.

  Greaser saw with anguishing clarity the bane by which he had earned his moniker. Black clotted strips draped limp from his scalp to his eyebrows. His hair lay flat, filthy and ugly.

  But it was more than just his hair. Glistening pools of oil and flecks of white skin and pus ran along the sides of his nose and cheeks. Another moment of clarity, and Greaser bared his lips; revealing the most unsavory of grins. His teeth were as yellow as corn nuggets and covered with growth that could have easily been mistaken for fur.

  The recognition of the vile appearance of his teeth pushed him over the edge. Painful emotions: confusion, uncertainty, shame and humiliation flooded to the surface from deep within. The feelings were just the top layer of scum that floated on a vast pool of foul blackness. Deeper, much, much deeper were buried complex mutant creatures of torment. Spindly monsters of unspeakable terror had witnessed the escape of their baby brother emotions. They crashed against their cages, desperate to be exhumed to inflict torture on their captor.

  The tears fell hard. Silent, but hard.

  He gripped the basin with one hand and with the other he rapped his knuckles on the porcelain. An act that he was personally unfamiliar with, other than for the television characters he had seen using the technique to deal with their emotions.

  “Why?!” The question ran through his mind but not his lips. ‘Why didn’t they tell me?!’

  Greaser crammed his unresolved feelings back into their hiding place and willed himself to stop crying.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had brushed his teeth, or even owned a toothbrush for that matter. But that would have to wait. Right now he needed to do something about his hair.

  While
the front of the bathroom mirror held grief, the back of the mirror held redemption. Here Greaser found a nearly full bottle of shampoo. Based upon the way the bottle had to be cracked out of the crystallized scrim that had fused it to the shelf, the product had not seen use for a very, very long time.

  A similar crack occurred as Greaser untwisted the cap and placed in on the basin.

  First: water.

  No.

  First, the door.

  For fifteen years he had performed every private function in this room in not so private fashion. Now things were different. The act of washing his filthy hair, in this house, in this bathroom, while leaving the door open, would be on par with stripping naked for the glee club. But it came with a risk. Closing the door might raise suspicions. ‘What are you doing in there! Find strength in the lord you dirty Corky, Georgie, Porgie, Greaser girl!’