Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  The prospect of his manic mother seeing him washing his hair felt vastly obscene. The consequence of her questioning his privacy could be dealt with. That, or ignored.

  He closed the door. And then locked it.

  Now the water.

  Greaser recalled the process Ms. Bagner had employed and ducked his head under the unsteady stream of water coming from the faucet.

  Next came the shampoo, far too much in his inexperienced hands, but for this job, more was better. He pushed the glob around on his head, tentatively at first, and then with ever increasing force. “Look out for the oil slick!” He dug harder at his scalp. “There’s grease coming off of your skates!” A hitch came up in his throat and he fought back the tears. “Eeeew! No! Gross! I’m not touching that Greaser’s hair!” He clawed manically at his head as if by scraping away the sludge he could also scrape away the voices.

  Greaser lifted his eyes and volumes of foam sluiced off his head and plopped into the sink. In his mind he heard the offending voice of his mother: ‘So wasteful! Vanity thy name is Georgie Porgie girl!’

  Enough. He had to get this stuff off and down the drain.

  Greaser ducked under the water for what he thought would be long enough; all of ten seconds, and risked a glance in the mirror. He looked absurd. Except for the barren strip of black, where the rinse water had been concentrated on the front of his forehead, swirls and spikes of froth still covered his noggin.

  He felt he had made a horrible mistake. He had looked bad before, but now he looked ludicrous.

  More water. He needed more water.

  Greaser lowered his head again and this time cupped his hands to direct the water to the sides and back of his head. Over and over he rinsed, not daring to risk another look in the mirror until all of the telltale shampoo was gone.

  As he cupped and rinsed, he watched the drippings in the sink become less foamy and more liquid. He ran his hands through his hair again one last time and was relieved to see no lingering bubbles. Finally, he raised and looked. The foam was gone. He hadn’t expected miracles, but he did expect more than what he saw. His hair didn’t look a bit different than before. The sheen of grease had simply been replaced with the sheen of water.

  There was no towel, but a crumpled washrag lay on the back of the toilet tank. With this Greaser was able to ring out most of the water until the rag was saturated.

  He dared another look in the mirror.

  At school, Sue Hespen had dried his hair with a comb and a hair dryer. He didn’t think that they owned a hair dryer but he was pretty sure he had once seen a comb. The assumption was correct and he found the modest black comb in the medicine cabinet behind his father’s shaving gear.

  A healthy debate could have been waged over which teeth were filthier, the teeth in Greaser’s mouth or those in the comb. It mattered not, Greaser dragged the clotted preening tool through his wet head. Another look in the mirror, and this time it was better, at least there was now some symmetry to the project. Perhaps when it dried… well, that remained to be seen.

  With the washcloth he also scrubbed away at the oil pools of his face, an incomplete, amateur job to be sure, but definitely an improvement. For his teeth he had no immediate answer, but it was Saturday and it was still early. He could bike over to the Red Owl grocery store. He knew exactly what he would buy. Not ordinary toothpaste, but Pearl Drops Tooth Polish “For whiter, brighter teeth.” That; and a tooth brush.

  The whole process of hair and face took no more than ten minutes, but Greaser stood longer, staring in the mirror, willing himself to look different, to be different. He began to connect with his own inner ego, but only on the most cursory of levels. A heavy mesh screen filtered his thoughts and memories, allowing only the most benign to find their way through. His glimpse into his own being was fleeting, and then the mesh began to congeal into a solid wall. Emotions and memories that were not to be allowed to escape, ever, were again pushed back into the blackness.

  The few minutes of self realization were enlightening. Then Greaser startled in brief panic. How long had he been in here? He had finished his duty and the door was still closed. And locked! That would raise even more suspicions.

  He looked at the shampoo and washrag which still sat on the basin. Should he leave them out to provide evidence should anyone question what he had been doing in the bathroom? Or should he put them away to prevent any questions about what he had been doing in the bathroom.

  Postponing the decision, he turned and unlocked, then opened the door.

  From the kitchen he could hear his mother still obliviously clanging the cookware. A good sign. Very likely she hadn’t noticed at all that her son had been stowed up in the bathroom for the past 20 minutes.

  In fact, she wasn’t even aware that he had come home at all.

  Greaser acted.

  He re-capped the shampoo bottle and parked it back in the medicine cabinet; fitting it into its original spot, a job made easier by the crusted outline of shampoo that lined the shelf. The washrag he tossed back on the toilet tank. It wasn’t right. He then took pains to mold it into its original crumpled shape as best as he could remember.

  He allowed himself a final look in the mirror, wondering why he had never realized the need to look at himself before. Suddenly an inner voice raged. The voice came without words but the meaning was monstrously clear:

  (You don’t want to go there!)

  It was dangerous. Whatever it was that was inside him was dangerous. So dangerous that it had prevented him from seeing who he was for so long.

  But that was over now. He had been Greaser. Fine. But it was finished, done, all in the past. And that strong voice? Well that was just a lingering memory of what he had been.

  Now he would remember to wash his hair each day. And the other kids, well, they would forget… in time. Or they would find someone else to pick on.

  Already he could see the edges of his hair drying out, becoming light, fluffy, like the other kids. The oil slicks on his nose and cheeks had been scrubbed away. He would remember to wash his face each day too. His teeth? He was savvy enough to know that that would not be an overnight job, but he could easily avoid smiling for a few weeks or months. Yes, everything was now in order.

  That is, from the neck up.

  Had he expanded the scope of his vision beyond his face and took in his full image he would have seen and perhaps even become aware.

  Clad in flaming checkered pants and a pullover shirt with broad orange and green stripes, he was unaware that he had identified only part of the problem. Greaser might be gone, but a new name was waiting.

  Part 4

  Demon

  Chapter 1

  1

  As we have learned, if Demon was one thing, he was socially clueless. Throughout his life he had been oblivious to things like the basics of hygiene and the most fundamental level of social interaction. Sure, he could recite the weekly program lineup on channel 5, but engage in any type of conversation? Fat chance.

  And so he had to learn the art of becoming human, not from his peers, parents or teachers, but by unrelated events of extreme misfortune; markers of Demon’s high school career. That, and of course, television.

  He had become adept with the practice of washing his hair, forgoing the morning television test pattern for a blot of Suave shampoo and a head dunking in the bathroom sink. His face may not have cleared up entirely, but at least it no longer resembled the oil-stained driveway of a clumsy mechanic.

  And his teeth? Those too had vastly improved thanks to a first, second and soon starting on a third bottle of Pearl Drops.

  Still, he did not bathe, save for the obligatory 30 seconds in the shower once a week following gym class. But despite this one omission of hygiene, he eventually shed the old moniker. And as freshman gave way to sophomore and winter made room for spring, and no longer hearing the taunts of “Greaser!” he felt confident that he now fit in.

  2

  It was a Friday
afternoon, warm and sunny, far too nice of a combination for anything scholastic, and likely the reason that Mr. Leonard, the music teacher, had called in sick after taking an inordinately long lunch.

  Scrambling, the school secretary called a young teacher’s assistant, who was more than happy to help out on short notice, to rush in and cover music appreciation class.

  The grinning longhaired TA had swaggered into the classroom, and, to the students delight set up a portable record player and uncrated a healthy stack of 45’s. He smiled a little too broadly while slowly choosing his words. Each student would get to pick one record to be played on the turntable and class time could be used as ‘study hall’ while listening to the music.

  The class was ecstatic. Outwardly they maintained the composure that is reserved for the appearance of a new classroom authority figure. Inwardly they were stoked about spending an hour grooving to some tunes.

  And although their smiles were not reefer induced (most of them that is), the students grinned along with the hip TA. Damn! What a great way to spend a spring afternoon in school!

  Demon did not smile. He sat in trepidation. He knew nothing about popular music.

  To his chagrin the TA started the passing of the milk crate on Demon’s side of the room.

  Picking out a popular record to be scrutinized by his classmates would be like a galley slave arranging the entertainment for the captain’s ball.

  As the crate approached and the songs took their turn in the queue, Demon wondered how he would know his record when it actually played. He watched jealously as Bronwyn Poe rapidly flipped through the offerings, plucked out 4 potentials and then confidently narrowed her choice to one.

  He saw her confirm the title: ‘Crimson and Clover.’ He would remember that; and maybe it would help him identify his selection when it came up next in line.

  Bronwyn grimaced as she passed the tray of vinyl to her right. The kid had finally bought a clue about soap and water but he was still a weirdo. God! Who picked out his clothes for him, Helen Keller? For the past week he had been wearing the same orange flannel shirt and striped pants that could only have come out of a thrift box from the land of Oz.

  “Here.” She handed the records over, grateful that she was on the delivering and not the receiving end of the creep.

  Demon took the records soundlessly. Within moments, he knew that the task was out of his league.

  Flipping through the records Demon realized that he didn’t have a clue as to what he should select. The names and titles were all foreign to him. The Jackson Five? Tony Orlando and Dawn?

  Several records had already had their spin and he had observed how the class had responded to each, congratulating each other on their selections. Choosing the wrong record would expose him, make him a social outcast.

  The Rolling Stones?

  Demon continued through the stack and considered his options. He could make a random choice and hope for the best, or he could skip his turn and pass to the next person.

  He would have been better off with the pass.

  He flipped to the next disc and discovered a name he recognized. “The Beatles.” He had seen the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show and they had been received with favor. It seemed safe so he chose. He passed the stack to his right and then ferried his selection to the front of the room to be placed in the queue after Crimson and Clover.

  It really was a shame that class didn’t end before the set list was complete.

  “Crimson and Clover” went over huge with the group. Bronwyn Poe proudly accepted her accolades while several class members sang along or tapped out the beat on their desk tops. “Over and over, Crimson and Clover, over and overrrrr.”

  Even before the record changer dropped his selection on top of Tommy James and the Shondells, Demon began to feel the edges of panic creep in. Bronwyn Poe had stolen the show and now he had to follow.

  The tone arm lifted the stylus from the groove and retreated. The spindle clicked and dropped Demon’s record in placed. The arm swung back, gently lowered and began tracing the single continuous circuit of vinyl.

  Anticipation lasted a moment. Mortification a millennium.

  A sick harmonica brought heads up from their desks and mouths open in gag. Eyes looked around accusatorily to identify who had chosen this hillbilly crap.

  The Beatles compounded the aberration by singing:

  “Luv, luv me do. You know I love you. I’ll always be true. So pleeeeease, luv me do.”

  Infantile lyrics. Caveman drumbeat. And that harmonica from hell.

  “Gawd! What is that?” from Dee Schuster. She scowled; eyes scanning the room to assess the blame. “Burn!” She punctuated. “Burn!”

  “That is where it came from!” Bronwyn Poe, overly confident after her victory with Tommy James, nodded at Demon. “Gawd, burn is right!”

  Classroom ‘burns,’ ‘what the hell’s,’ and ‘kill me please somebody just kill me’ were now liberally competing with John, Paul George and Ringo.

  The TA took no notice. He sat and smiled, spacing out on the chalkboards that rolled like ocean waves.

  Sergeant Denker, always ready to capitalize on a skirmish, worked the mob. “Psychological warfare! Every man for himself!” He clasped his head. “Demon’s in my ears! Demon’s in my eyes! Look! It’s the devils camouflage!” He bravely risked uncovering one ear to alert his troops to Demon’s clothing.

  Demon shrunk in his seat and wished for death.

  “The demon is among us! He appears in many forms and shapes! Plaids, checkers and stripes oh my! Plaids, checkers and stripes oh my! Turn away or go blind!”

  The tone of the class was now a blend of musical revolt and military amusement.

  “The demon is too powerful for a mortal army. Gabriel sound the trumpets in heaven. Only an army of angels can stop the demon!”

  Mercifully, Luv me do eventually faded out and made room for Bad, bad Leroy Brown. The mob, visibly relieved, turned their attention to Jim Croce. But Sergeant Denker was still in full command. He pillaged the lyrics:

  “And he’s bad, bad, Demon Brown. He dresses like a circus clown.” Sergeant Denker was truly in top form today. The class took up the refrain. “Bad, bad Demon Brown….”

  Throughout this the TA grinned and took in the show. Damn! What a kick ass gig! Get totally buzzed on some grade A Columbian and then listen to tunes. He could do this job lying down the rest of his life. And even though his buzz was just starting to wear off, these little dudes were having a hell of a party singing about demons and clowns or some shit. Damn! What a great gig!”

  For Demon it was not a great gig. Eventually Jim Croce gave way to Jim Stafford who told a story about spiders, snakes, frogs and a girl named Marylou. Sergeant Denker made a few token attempts at altering the new lyrics, then aborted the mission in lieu of an emerging spitball skirmish at his flank.

  The records continued to spin, the class continued their study hall of doodling and spitballs, the TA grinned endlessly and fingered his advance ticket to this weekend’s Foghat concert; discretely tucked in his breast pocket in front of his pack of “E-Z” rolling papers. And the newly named Demon shrunk in his chair in shame.

  So different. He was still sooo different. He felt the rest of the world zoom away and out of focus. “They” were all together. ‘They’ knew about music. ‘They’ made fun of his clothes. (His clothes?) ‘They’ could laugh and talk and poke fun as if it were something easy, something normal.

  ‘He’ was none of those things.

  After class, no longer in his ears, but torturing his mind, the music and words cycled over and over just like the Shondells and their OCD lyrics. “Burn! Demon! Dresses like a circus clown! Luv, luv me do. Gawd! Burn is right! The demon! Plaids, checkers and stripes oh my! Crimson and clover, over and over and over.

  Thankfully, Music appreciation was the last class of the day. Demon deposited his books in his locker and headed toward the exit.

  “Beware the demon appr
oaches!” A random voice ahead and to his left. “The demon circus clown!” A fellow contributor.

  And from Andy or Randy Bushnell (who at his best could barely remember his locker combination from one week to the next) an easily recalled old taunt: “He’s a kilt! You’d be better off wearing dresses you demon thing!”

  Conspicuously Demon bailed out of the building and made a hard left. Away from the bike racks, away from the parking lot for upperclassmen. Away, it didn’t matter where, it just had to be away. He had a lot to think about but few skills with which to perform it.

  He happened upon the faculty parking lot by chance. Even the smokers avoided this outer part of the building for risk of earning a demerit. And since it would be another half an hour (even on this beautiful spring day) before the first teacher exited the building, Demon was alone.