Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  It was easier this time. He found the munchie aisle and pondered his selections. With the Bird busy at the pumps he had the time he needed to make his choices. Last time it had been an overwhelming experience. Everything scared him. This time it was the opposite, everything appealed to him. He grabbed life savers and red licorice, milk duds and a Butterfinger bar.

  “Ha! You got the munchies bad!” The Bird walked by him on auto pilot and snatched a can of honey roasted nuts.

  They hit the counter and paid. Munchies: $2.27. Twelve gallons of gas: $3.60. Total $5.87.

  Fortuitously, Bob found a five and a one among the first three bills, collected his change and started to walk out. “You may want these!” the clerk echoed.

  Bob turned back, retrieved the sack of munchies and laughed to himself. ‘It makes you forget.’

  3

  The drive to Mankato was the most awe-inspiring and scariest adventure Bob ever experienced. Never had he been beyond the city limits in the daylight, his longest trek prior had been at night with the Bird.

  Again the drive was a slow motion wonderland of lines rising off the road and vibrant plastic landscape rolling by on either side in make believe animation.

  The Bird triggered uncle Ted who blazed through Dog Eat Dog, Street Rats, and Free for All.

  It’s a free-for-all and I heard it said, you can bet your life.

  The stakes are high, and so am I, it’s in the air toni’-i’-ight’!

  Bob took in the show, eyes, ears and taste. He started with the Butterfinger, until this moment the closest he had ever come to one was on television. The sensation was exquisite. Soft creamy chocolate, then an easy crunch that crumbled fragments of sweetness throughout his mouth. He wavered between chewing and just letting the sweet mass melt on his tongue.

  He advanced to the licorice, not a disappointment by any means, but less than he expected. The milk duds started with promise, but soon his inexperienced jaw protested from over-masticating. He set them aside after going through only 5, promising himself to save them and the lifesavers for later.

  “Just about there!” The Bird had polished off his nuts long ago, the empty tin joining the collection on the back floorboard. (Dropped back carefully this time, protecting the new audio equipment perched on the back seat)

  Bob observed the change in scenery. More billboards, far more! Heavier traffic, and now even what could be considered a skyline. Not just broadcast and electric towers, but buildings that created a bumpy little ridge on the horizon.

  The immensity scared him. So large, so foreign. Thirty thousand people lived there; three times the size of Elmwood!

  He put confidence in the Bird’s ability to guide them through and pledged that he would not let him out of his sight. Being lost, so far from home, he wouldn’t know what to do.

  Just beyond the city limits, the Falcon swung briefly south, then again east. Bob stared at the passing homes and buildings and nearly came out of his seat when he saw KMKO - Channel 12.

  “Channel 12!” He shouted. “KMKO!” He clung to the doorframe like a kid watching a parading line of circus elephants.

  The Bird shot him a goofy glance. “Yeah, it’s for real. Somethin’ funny. You know that guy who does the Casey the Engineer shtick?” Bob returned his full attention to the Bird. “Well he’s a drunken moron!” The Bird laughed and Bob tried to validate the rift that had just occurred between his real (Bird) and TV (Casey) idols.

  “How do you know?”

  “Hell, I was on that stupid show once when I was a kid. You know how he goes around and asks everyone their name?” Bob sat stunned. “Well he comes up to me reeking of booze! And then in 6th grade, you know that Playground Champions thing? Well I qualified to be on the show for box hockey. Guess who’s the host? And guess who was liquored up like a lush! He’s a total fuckin’ drunk!”

  The Bird laughed at the revelation and Bob sat silent, absorbing the immensity of the new found knowledge. His mind was spinning fast but going nowhere faster. Channel 12 was real! The Bird had actually been on Casey’s show AND on playground champions. Casey was a drunk…was that a bad thing? The big city could indeed be a scary place.

  They rolled a few more blocks, the Bird craning his neck, and then the announcement: “There it is!” ‘Utopian Pipe Dreams.’ He found an open meter and occupied the space.

  Solid black walls adorned with psychedelic posters. Black lights, dozens of them, suspended from the ceiling, wall-mounted and strategically aimed, all bringing the interior of the shop to mystical swirls of living color.

  Lava lamps, lined in rows above the back counter, releasing colored globules of mysterious fluid that rose, congealed, sank and rose again.

  Display tables with prized offerings, hookahs that resembled miniature bagpipes, their slender tubes tipped with ornate stems for drawing communal smoke.

  Bongs, so many bongs big and small, they commanded three tiers of shelving, the overall image resembling the world’s biggest calliope.

  And at the display case, the object of their quest: the pipes. Glass one-hitters with alternating convex and concave moldings, crafted to accommodate and steady the fingers. Metal pipes with slender stems, their mouthpieces and bowls threaded for easy detachment and cleaning. Clear open-ended tubes, crowned with larger bowls, their carburetors strategically placed for operation by any callused thumb.

  Behind the counter sat the antithesis of JC Penney’s Mr. Snot grass; a man who had saved fortunes on haircuts and razor blades over the last decade. He was draped in an oversized flowery shirt, laced by lines of Corona beer bottles ringing the collar, sleeves and untucked tail. Threadbare jeans and trendy moccasins completed his attire, and glassy red-lined eyes signaled his chronic disposition. He nodded at the new customers. And even through all that hair, with a head somewhere beneath it, you could read the message. ‘Welcome, browse, take your time, enjoy.’

  Bob’s fear of losing sight of the Bird evaporated. In this place, there were people who understood him, who could help him if he needed help. Any questions about the morality of getting stoned were erased. You can’t have a store like this right out in the open and still believe that smoking pot was bad. To the contrary, this showed all that was good about pot. The magical imagery, the dark, quiet environment. Somewhere hidden in the darkness was a pair of speakers, from them emanated sounds of Asian music, little bells, sitars and gentle wooden blocks that tickled his ears. A light scent of some sweet flower permeated his nostrils.

  Bob greedily absorbed Utopian. These people understood. They knew about the sights, the sounds, the smells, and had there been free honey glazed peanuts, even the taste enhancing abilities of pot.

  The big city might be a scary place, but not here. Bob felt completely at ease. This was home.

  “You likin’ this place?” From the Bird, softly at his side.

  “Whhoooaa.” From Bob.

  Chapter 2

  1

  For Bob, the summer of 1976 was his season of change.

  His priorities had changed, or more accurately, were created. His only priority in the past had been television, not by choice, but by default.

  But things were different now. He had discovered music, and now had a music habit to uphold. He had discovered pot, another financial obligation to feed. Clothes, munchies, all the things previously denied, he now surrounded himself with.

  Bob’s mother caught wind of the changes. A heathen music system and heathen music to go with it in his bedroom, candy bar wrappers in the garbage, she even took notice of the ever growing inventory of clothing in his closet.

  Each new discovery prompted a screaming fit of hell, damnation and wastefulness. Bob endured these flatly. He was now constantly flat out stoned; the pot an effective barrier for the rants of his mother that he had come to despise.

  Once, when confronted with a discarded Snickers wrapper, he responded by planting his headphones on his ears, ramming Foghat into the socket and then laying back on the bed in u
tter defiance of this mother who stood in the doorway – rendering her speechless; utterly speechless.

  The message got through. His mother retreated to the sanctuary of her kitchen. She felt at risk, the boy now reminding her of the tormentors of her own childhood. She could no longer pray for his soul. She feared him, and whatever Satan-inspired thing he may do next.

  She turned to her comfort. Cups needed to be counted. Soup cans needed to be checked, their labels perfectly forward and with an equal amount of space between each. Door handles, stove handles, cupboard handles, locks, drawers, curtain cords, - touch, touch, touch, touch.

  Bob didn’t care. When he should have been celebrating liberation from his psychotic over-bearing mother, he felt nothing.

  Thanks to the pot.

  The panacea had been everything for him. It had brought good things into his life. It even helped him find the happy medium at work, no longer racing around like a demon and no longer stuck in lethargy counting and recounting spoons. He found his pace, did his work, cashed his checks, and spent every last nickel appeasing his straining pleasure receptors.

  For a while he had limited his pot smoking to encounters with the Bird. But the Bird wasn’t always available and other times when he was, he was in the company of stoners that took disdain in Bob’s presence, calling him ‘son,’ ‘Bobbie’ or the old throwback Demon.

  Again bob felt the angst of not being able to respond to the torments. And oddly, the Bird did nothing to stop it, sometimes even laughing at bob’s expense.

  Eventually, the Bird fluttered out of Bob’s life. With no other options, Bob resorted to smoking alone.

  Part 6

  Loser

  Chapter 1

  1

  Loser was a pathetic case. At the age of 18, almost 19, he had all that mattered to chronic burnouts. He had pot, what more could you want.

  As he was on most days, Loser was up late. Banging and re-banging the snooze alarm on his alarm clock or having forgotten to set it in the first place. He awoke to emptiness, both around him and inside. Where there should have been adventures of Junior legion baseball, the senior class prom, or even the pending release of “Star Wars” there was merely a black bottomless pit. The emptiness inside him was not unpleasant; it just was just what it was.

  Having glanced at the clock for the first time with any meaningful thought, Loser threw off his bedding in disgust. He saw that he had slept with his clothes on – again. He thought about changing, then decided that the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders wouldn’t be in town today, so fuck it.

  Blowing off another day of school was an enticing option but his grades were already bad; potentially repeating his senior year, bad. The guidance counselor had made it crystal clear that he would have to work diligently to meet the minimum criteria to graduate.

  “Suckwads.” He hissed. He fumbled around the shambles of his room, kicking away dirty clothes, fast food wrappers and empty soda cans in search of his car keys. “Fuck me running!” he agonized. “Where are my fucking keys!” His hands went to his pants pockets. Pipe and baggie in one, and on the other side…keys. “Christ” he muttered pathetically. He bailed directly out of the house, bypassing the bathroom and his mother who had long ago learned to keep her distance.

  On the way to school he hit the pipe – hard. Having mastered little in his lifetime, the one thing he had become an expert at was loading, lighting and hitting the piece while driving with his knees. By the time he hit Jefferson drive, the pot was doing its work; he was feeling normal again.

  “Gawd, what a fucking loser.” Bronwyn Poe was on the athletic field doing morning stretches with the rest of the varsity Spirit Squad. They watched as the rusting Chevy Vega labored into the parking lot, blatting out plume vectors of gray and blue exhaust. “Don’t worry, next year he’ll be gone and we’ll be at college.” Dee Schuster had already been accepted into the nursing program at Notre Dame University. She took every opportunity to bring up ‘college’ to anyone who had not yet been accepted, especially thrift store trash like Bronwyn Poe, who had the nerve to think that she belonged with the cool people.

  Loser found a spot and pulled in. He yanked on the handle. The door flew open, leaving a healthy door nick on the car to his left. “Fuck em” he muttered, slamming the door and stomping off to class.

  World history had started 10 minutes earlier. The students were now absorbed, hunched over their mimeographed semester final exams. Mr. Stonehoecker sat sentry. He had made the exam surprisingly easy, there were three members from last fall’s district football champs and one highly talented member from this year’s marginal basketball team in the class. Each of the young men had good prospects at the next level and he didn’t want to compromise their chances.

  The door opened.

  Several heads popped up cautiously and curious. The last of which was Mr. Stonehoecker. He knew who it would be and he knew how he was going to handle it.

  Rising, he made a declaration to the class. “Keep working on your tests. I’ll be right outside that door and I want no monkey business.” Several heads bent back to work, a few though followed his progress as he stepped outside…and closed the door.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Stonehoecker, my car wouldn’t ---“

  “Save it.” Mr. Stonehoecker held out a piece of paper. “Here’s your final exam. Done. Graded. Finished.” He put extra emphasis on the last.

  Loser took the paper. Scrawled in heavy red strokes across the face:

  Score: 0

  Grade: F

  Final Grade: F

  “You.” He was now poking a practiced finger into the tender meat spot of the chest. “You, are nothing more than a loser. Let me give you some advice loser. Get off the pot, you reek of it. Look at you, you look like you slept in your clothes and haven’t taken a shower in weeks. You are worthless. You’re going to end up in some dead end job, living in a rat infested flophouse just so you can keep frying your brains out every night.

  Now get over to the administrators office and then clean out your locker. You’re done!”

  Loser searched for a rebuttal, then gave in. He was done. At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about the impossible calculus final that awaited him after lunch.

  He would do what needed to be done: Take his lumps from administration, clean out his locker, and then have his day free for cranking up some tunes and getting royally stoned.

  2

  Had it been another day and a different car, it may not have mattered. But Dee Schuster had been watching the loser. And when the loser had pulled in next to her new car, a pre-graduation gift from her gregarious father, and had put a healthy ding in the side, she went ape. “Oh my gawd, no!” she wailed. Pompoms tossed aside, she ran first to the chain link fence surrounding the field, then the long way around to access the parking lot. By the time she got to her victim, the perpetrator was long gone.

  “You’ll pay you loser! Oh how you’ll pay!” She bent down and soothed the damaged paint. If cars were patients, she had chosen the right career path. She was born to be a nurse.

  Fuming, she turned toward the rust-bucket Vega, half tempted to perform an eye for an eye, however one more mark on the piece of shit would hardly matter. What did matter though, was what she saw in the Vega’s passenger seat. Her eyes lit up. “Oh yes, you will pay!”

  To save time, she used the phone in the athletic office.

  Loser endured his additional chidings from both the principal and the guidance counselor before being dismissed to clean out his locker. What little was his he stuffed into an old backpack that rarely had made the trip between school and home. He left the building, uncaring, and embarked on what had routinely become his most challenging duty each day; trying to remember where he had parked his car.

  Today, it wouldn’t be a challenge at all.

  In the geometrical symmetry that characterizes all large parking lots, the sight of a Elmwood police cruiser angled behind a pair of cars was blatant.

&nbs
p; More blatant was the sight of three figures lined between the cars. One, a miss Dee Schuster, two, Mrs. Albin, head of girls athletics and the cheer and pep squads, and three, and most ominous, a tall, meaty member of Elmwood’s finest. True to her nickname, Canyon was spouting off rants that were more emotionally charged than factual. The officer took the important bits and noted them on a metallic clip board.

  Loser gave the trio a wide berth. It only dawned on him where he had parked when Canyon screamed: “There he is! You hit my car! I saw you do it! It’s a new car! A graduation present, I’m going to college! And you hit my car!” She was almost weeping with madness. “Oh but you’ll get yours!”

  “Suppose you let me handle this.” The officer took the reins. “Is this your car?” He motioned toward the Vega.