He sat near the corner of the building and watched as the student body poured out of the main entrance.
‘He dresses like a circus clown!’ Demon dropped his chin and looked at his shirt and pants. ‘Plaids, checkers and stripes oh my!’
He didn’t understand. Not at first, but he saw. He saw what they had been saying. His pants looked like they had come out of a pack of Fruit Stripe gum. A very old pack of gum that is; faded stripes of the primary colors stretched from waist to cuff.
And above it, his shirt: An orange and black checkered flannel that could induce a migraine from its garish design.
“Circus clown.” He mumbled disgustedly. But he knew they were right. This was how Bozo and Ronald McDonald looked on TV. All he was missing was a red rubber nose and a pair of floppy shoes to complete the ensemble.
But how was he supposed to dress? Demon looked back over the vacating student body. Not a single student had striped or checkered pants. In fact, virtually every one of them were wearing blue jeans.
‘Jeans’ he mentally inventoried. ‘I need jeans.’
And with the exception of a few broad-striped rugby shirts, worn principally by guys who needed the horizontal advantage to help their anemic physiques, there wasn’t a checkered or plaid shirt in the bunch.
‘Plain shirts’ he added to his inventory.
‘Why?’ The question ran through his mind but not his lips. ‘Why didn’t they tell me!’
The tears were close, but this was not the place for crying. He stuffed the tears deep into his favorite hiding spot; the spot that was now getting rather crowded but still served its purpose.
And though the day was still sunny and warm, Demon would have given anything for it to be cold. At least he would have had his jacket to cover part of his shame.
He waited until most of the students left before retrieving his bike and slithering toward home. There he would see if he had anything plain to wear, at least until he was able to figure out where to buy clothes.
But there was also the issue of music. This whole mess had started because he didn’t know about the music that kids listen to. Where could he find out about music?
And that took him to money. Clothes and music didn’t come for free.
He received no allowance. What little money he did have had been invested in shampoo and toothpaste. He needed to get a job.
As he pedaled along Valley street, Demon realized that the art of becoming human had just become very complicated. That, and expensive. He could already hear his mother: “Why are you spending money on clothes! Vanity! Pray for Strength! You already have two pairs of pants! Such wastefulness!”
Maybe he could pretend that he bought just one pair of jeans and hide the rest. With the shirts it would be harder.
“Someone gave me the shirts.” He tested the lie and found it to be passable.
Pants, shirts, but still music. That would be the tough one. Wasting perfectly good money on records would never be accepted. Plus, there just wasn’t a lie good enough to explain a stack of 45’s and the new record player they would require. These were the thoughts that rolled through Demon’s mind as he hugged the shoulder of road.
As he puzzled over his dilemma a piece of shit 67 Ford Falcon shadowed his progress, inching closer and closer. The driver crept to within 30 feet of the brightly clad cyclist, then tossed the transmission into neutral and roared the engine.
Whipped out of his reverie, Demon snapped his head back and nearly dumped the bike. Heart pounding in his throat he tottered between: ‘Thank you god, I’m going to die – relieve me of my misery” and ‘no, not now! Right when I’ve almost got it all figured out!”
God, and the driver of the Falcon, decided to grant Demon another sunrise.
“Hey Demon! They really gave it to you in music class today.” The stealthy driver pulled up next to the breathless cyclist and leisurely swung an elbow out the window.
Demon looked over in apprehension…and then relaxed. At least a little. The face looking out of the driver’s side window was a safe face. It was the face of Jon Hemmingburg, otherwise known as Jon ‘Hummingbird.’
Or more simply, ‘The Bird.’
Chapter 2
1
Growing up, every youngster knows a Jon Hemmingburg. The Jon Hemmingburg’s of the world are the complete package. They are the ones who decide what games the neighborhood kids should play; when it’s cool to throw crabapples at cars and when it’s not cool to do the same with ice balls.
They’re the ones who aren’t afraid to get wet during water fights. “Come on you pussies! It’s only water. Attack those fuckers!”
They are as nimble with their physical abilities as they are with their good natured taunts. They are the playground champions at box hockey, the relay race and obstacle course. In backyard games of tackle football they innately know the distinction between when a player is feigning an injury and when a kid is truly hurt. And when that kid is truly hurt, they are the ones to respond. Kneeling beside them, sharing the right words, lifting them by the belt when they have the wind knocked out of them.
When targeted by upperclassmen during freshmen initiation, the Jon Hemmingburg’s don’t squeal, protest or run. They endure the wedgie, snuggie, or other indignity, then calmly drape their shirttail over the dislodged underwear and silently walk away, denying the upperclassman of the hoped for response.
And when Jon Hemmingburg’s are choosing sides for playground games of kickball or smear the queer, they have the stones to pick first the kids who are fat, wimpy, slow, awkward or any combination thereof. Not for the purpose of winning the game, but for the chance to lead a rag-tag bunch of misfits in an epic battle of David vs. Goliath.
Hemmingburg’s are the trendsetters. They are the first to start collections. Stickers! Too cool! STP, Valvoline, and the elusive Champion Spark Plugs peel off decal. And then after every other kid has started his own sticker collection, the Jon Hemmingburg’s have moved on; being the first to collect beer cans; and not just the regular stuff, but prized rarities like the seven ounce Coors can or the new 16 ounce tallboys.
Always the first.
First to smoke and openly pass around butts to new nicotine recruits. First to try beer; and then having the moxie to declare that it tastes like llama piss. First to toke up, and wisely recognize the necessity to keep the knowledge, that it fucking rocks, limited to a discrete few that share the sentiment.
The Bird leaned back in the Falcon’s driver’s seat and grinned much like the TA had in music appreciation class. The brick of Columbian gold that had arrived from the twin cities last week was now selling nicely to a wide variety of patrons at a nickel, dime and in one special case, a dollar a bag. After school he had wasted no time in getting wasted.
The Bird looked at Demon, and involuntarily tugged at the pack of Kool’s in his shirt pocket. He started to shake one out of the deck when he realized that he already a lit grit in the other hand.
“Ha! Yup, guess I got plenty.” He covered the guffaw with a charade of taking inventory. “Just checking to see what I got left.” He re-parked the pack and then took a satisfying draw from his active stick.
Even stoned on the good stuff-- check that, on the great stuff, the Bird was one cool customer.
“You need a ride Demon? I got 45 minutes to kill before work and you ain’t handling that bike too well.” The words came out with miniature jets of menthol smoke between each syllable. He smiled again like an egg-suck dog nosing through his third nest.
Demon eased considerably. He knew that the Bird wasn’t messing with him. He had never been unkind and had even showed streaks of being friendly at times. The fact that he had used the “D” word didn’t carry the same sting as it had when he had heard it from his classmates. Coming out of the Bird’s mouth it had a tone of understanding. Besides, he was smoking right in front of him. It conveyed an element of trust, being able to do something and know that the other person wouldn’t tell on you.
The offer of a ride was tempting, if not a little scary even with the completely safe Hummingbird. He shook his head, looked down, and then formed four words:
“Where do you work?”
“Mother fucking-A! I’m a busboy at the Prospector restaurant. Kick-ass job! The waitresses clear most of the plates and shit off the table while the customers are still sitting there on their fat asses. By the time they leave, all I have to do is dump the ashtray, pick up a few glasses and wipe down the table. Other than that, I hang in the prep room and drink free cokes all night! And they pay me to do this shit Demo—“ (He halted at the hurtful name and amended. “They pay me to do this shit. Fuckin’ easy money! Why, you lookin’ for a job?”
The manic/depressive that is marijuana casts 90 percent of its users into lethargy, but for a select few, and that included Jon Hemmingburg, (and not that he needed it) weed was a social stimulant.
Demon was stunned. Only an hour ago he had endured utter humiliation at the hands of his classmates. Thirty minutes ago the self realization of his abhorrent appearance had sunk in. Three minutes ago he had been agonizing how to resolve it.
And now, he answered: “Yes.”
“Well you better get your ass out there!” The Bird rallied his new recruit with all of the enthusiasm of an Amway representative closing the deal on a new agent. “Cause they’re hiring!” He reflected by taking a healthy drag on the Kool, and then offered kindly:
“Listen, the Prospector is an upscale place. Most of the customers have diamond rings stuffed up their fat asses. If you go in there lookin’ like that…” he nodded earnestly at Demon’s attire. “You won’t even make it past the hostess station.” Bird reached into the back of the Falcon, then turned and held something out the window. “I keep an extra set of workpants in the car, just in case some moron decides to dump a 55 gallon drum sized Slurpee in my lap. We’re about the same size. Try ‘em on and if they fit, wear them when you go apply.”
Demon accepted the pants awkwardly. A small part of his mind revolted. ‘It’s a trick! He’s making fun of you!’ But it was a chance he had to take.
“Also, wear black shoes, not tennis shoes. And they want each busboy to wear a yellow short sleeve shirt.” Bird tugged at his collar as if to offer further clarification, he then released it and tapped at his noggin with an index finger. “Think you can remember all that? Pants, black shoes, short sleeve yellow shirt. You show up dressed like that and the job is in-the-mother-fucking-bag!”
Demon nodded to indicate that he had absorbed all of the instructions. He eyed the pants in his outstretched hands, then looked up and into the eyes of the Bird and said: “Thank you.”
“Anytime! You are De man!”
The Bird froze for a moment, then lit up with inspirational delight. He laughed: “Ha! Fuckin’ A! From now on you are no longer Demon, you are De man! The Demon is dead! Long live De man!” He notched the gearshift into drive and gave a healthy romp on the gas. “Nobody messes with De man! See ya at the Prospector!”
And where there once sat two birds, a Falcon and a humming, there now was just a pair of tire tracks and a blend of dust and exhaust fumes that expanded, faded and settled. That, and a boy on a bike clutching a pair of pants.
De man. Yes, he could be de man.
And then as if to prove the point, he splayed the work pants in front of his fruit stripe slacks. The solid dark trousers camouflaged most of his shame.
“Fuck demon.” It was said quietly and safely, as the nearest residence on this stretch of Valley street was half a block away.
Surely you wouldn’t burn too long in purgatory for saying the ‘F’ word when no one else could hear it. “Fuck demon.” Again and more forcefully. “Fuck demon, hello De man.”
Good intentions, poor expectations.
The job, money, and new clothes would help. But he would still be Demon.
When it comes to being hurtful, kids just don’t forget.
2
Elmwood’s Prospector restaurant’s success was the result of a zoning law exemption that placed it handsomely between the Rolling Greens Country Club and the exclusive Thunderbird estates subdivision. The location was ideal for accommodating the silver spoon socialites that had made, or had brought, their fortunes to southern Minnesota.
Any golfer who would gladly cough up $25 in green fees or the lady of the house who casually peeled off a pair of 20’s for a beauty makeover, could easily crown their day with a Prospector food and bar tab for twice that amount. And the Prospector eagerly took their money straight to the bank, but only after serving up food that cost a fraction of the price that appeared on the menu.
It was all about ambiance. It was all about atmosphere. But mostly it was all about jacking up the prices so high that people actually bragged about how much they paid for a meal.
The Prospector’s interior was exquisitely sophisticated. The exterior, by design, was far more modest, a conciliatory point to avoid overshadowing the proud mansions of Elmwood’s upper crust.
Demon coasted into the generous parking lot and made one circuit searching for a bike rack. Seeing none, he rolled his wheels past a low hedge and leaned it against the face of the building. He thought nothing more of it as he walked into the restaurants front entrance. Work pants, black shoes, and short sleeved yellow shirt (a fortuitous find at Goodwill), he was ready to apply.
In the foyer, a tall shapely woman stood at a lectern making notes in a black Day-minder. She lifted her face and radiated her best “Welcome to the Prospector” glow for the customer coming through the door.
She saw Demon. The glow evaporated.
Glancing around quickly to see if any ‘real’ customers were within earshot, the words came out in condescension: “You know the busboys are supposed to come in the back entrance.”
Demon puzzled over this and then formed the words. “Where is the back entrance?”
The hostess wavered toward exasperation; then caught herself. She was on-duty, on-stage, any steady customer with a soft spot for stupid kids could easily share what they saw with management.
Was this kid messing with her? If so, she would report him to the GM and get his ass fired. But that was for later, she needed to maintain her professional demeanor.
“Do you work here?” she asked skeptically and more than a little harshly.
Demon had an easier time with this one.
“No. But I want to.”
The hostesses’ expression eased with recognition of the situation as did her tone. The kid had come looking for a job and had even done his best to dress the part. Good for you kid.
“I see. Please come with me.” She was back to hostess mode.
Demon was led past the bar, through the two dining areas and back through the kitchen. They reached a narrow hallway and the hostess paused. “That’s the back entrance” she pointed to an industrial steel door. A few more strides and they arrived at a more conventional looking door.
It was open and they both stepped in.
“This gentleman would like to apply.”
A portly man behind a desk looked up and beamed. If there was one thing Boone Merrill practiced it was to paste his face with sunshine bubbles. It didn’t matter if you were talking to a $600 suit or the guy who delivered the produce. Everybody was related somehow and everybody talked. This kid could be the son of the town drunk or he could be the nephew of one of the country club fat cats. It mattered not. One misstep and he would be out looking for another $20,000 a year job.
He nodded knowingly to the hostess and she silently withdrew.
“Let’s start by having you fill out an application. But first, I must say that I’m impressed. You came dressed for the part. Do you know someone who works here?” The sunshine bubbles oozed from his face.
“Jon Hemmingburg.”
Pop! A single sunshine bubble evaporated and several more shimmered alarmingly.
Jon Hemmingburg. Boone Merrill knew that he was a smoker, the ki
d had made no effort to hide that fact. Had even applied for his job, (what 4 months ago?) with a deck of smokes in his shirt pocket. And where there’s a smoker there’s also usually a pot smoker. And while it was hard to detect red eyes in the dimly lit restaurant, had he noticed just a wisp of burning rope on the kid? Difficult to tell in a business that was saturated with all sorts of smells.
“Of course, Jon Hemmingburg. Did you drive out here with him?” Boone Merrill was trying to determine just how chummy these two might be, but the answer he received alarmed him even more.
“No, I rode my bike.”
Pop! Pop! Pop! This time it was all of the bubbles. Mr. Merrill’s face drained.
Alter Boys Page 17