Boy Minus Girl

by Richard Uhlig

  “Don’t forget I sold Porsches in Arizona. . . .”

  “Why, Ray, I guess you’re a jack-of-all-trades,” Mom concludes.

  Uncle Ray grins and winks at Mom. “And, yes, Bev, a master of none. But if you’re gonna apply a cliché to me, I’d rather you go with ‘a rolling stone.’ No moss on me.”

  It’s so cool the way Uncle Ray handles Mom’s jabs—he just won’t let her get to him. He pulls his red duffel bag onto his lap and unzips it. “Have a little something for each of you.”

  “Oh now, you didn’t have to go and do that,” Dad says.

  Uncle Ray removes an antique toy airplane from the bag, hands it to Dad, and says, “I realize I’m only about thirty years late on this.”

  Dad breaks out in a wide grin as he marvels at the plane. “Ray, you son of a gun. Why, it’s the spitting image—where’d you find it?”

  “Wasn’t easy, let me tell ya.”

  Dad turns to Mom and me. “When I was a boy—around seven—my favorite toy was a model B-52, just like this one. Well, one day I did something that really irked Ray and he smashed it with a brick, just flattened the thing. . . .”

  “And I haven’t heard the end of it since,” Uncle Ray says. “Till now, hopefully.”

  “I couldn’t be happier, little brother. Couldn’t be happier.”

  Hearing Dad and Uncle Ray talk about the old days makes me wish I had a brother or a sister I could one day share growing-up stories with.

  Uncle Ray reaches back into his bag as he turns to me. “Your old man tells me you’re kind of an expert on magic.” Out comes a thick old book with HOUDINI’S SECRETS pressed into the tattered black binding.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to sound excited about receiving an old book.

  “Oh, wait, there’s one other thing.” He lifts a dark-brown leather jacket, with a sheepskin fleece lining, from the bag. “It’s a genuine bomber from World War II. Hope it fits.”

  “It’s awesome!” I say, tugging it on. “Thanks, Uncle Ray. Gonna go see how it looks!” I race into the bathroom and model it in front of the mirror for several minutes. I love the way it looks on me, with its worn, lived-in leather. Then I notice a white tag hanging from the bottom button: “$350.” I can’t believe Uncle Ray has spent so much. Is he rich? If so, why is he staying on my bottom bunk?

  When I return to the table, Mom is holding a small black-satin box, and Uncle Ray nods. “Go on, open it.”

  She does, and I watch her mouth fall open as she removes a bronze pin set with a red jewel.

  “It’s English,” Uncle Ray says. “From the 1880s.”

  Mom shakes her head, quickly returns the brooch to the box, and hands it back. “I—no, Ray, I cannot accept this.”

  “Well, why not?” Uncle Ray laughs, as if it’s the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard.

  “It’s far too . . . too extravagant,” Mom says. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Dad chimes in. “You deserve it, Bev.”

  “I won’t take it back,” Uncle Ray adds.

  “Well, then, it’ll just have to remain on this table.” Mom gets to her feet and starts collecting the dishes. “Les, please help me clear the table.”

  “Ray, you’ve got to see my new radio transceiver,” Dad says quickly. “Tallest antenna in town. Why, last night I talked with a fellow in South Africa—”

  “Uh, Dad,” I interrupt, “the Chinese vanishing box . . . ?”

  “Not tonight, son.” He turns back to Uncle Ray. “Anyway, that South African man sounded like he was right next door, the reception was that clear.”

  An hour later I’m lying on my bunk watching Uncle Ray—in pressed black jeans and dark-blue silk shirt—blow-dry, mousse, and sculpt his hair into cool-guy perfection.

  I study him carefully, making mental notes.

  “Uncle Ray, out of all the places you’ve been,” I ask, “which has the hottest women?”

  “Australia. No question about it. They’re all tanned knockouts down there. And here’s the best part: they go topless on the beaches.”

  “Get outta here!” My voice totally breaks.

  “Swear to God. Imagine the most gorgeous chicks in the world just walking in G-strings with their breasts hanging out. I’m telling you, it’s heaven on earth. You gotta see it for yourself. Maybe I’ll take you Down Under someday.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Sure, kid, why not?” He snatches his pack of Pall Malls and his alligator-skin wallet from the dresser, stuffing them into his pocket.

  “Where you going?”

  “Gonna see if the hometown remembers ol’ Ray.” He turns and winks at me. “ ’Night, kid.”

  I wait until I hear his Corvette thunder to life and squeal off before I shut the door and lock it. I know what I’m about to do isn’t right. I check his dresser drawers first, but they contain nothing but his boxer shorts, socks, and a carton of Pall Malls. At the closet I pull out his overstuffed suitcase, set it on the floor, and try to open it, but it’s padlocked. Then I notice his duffel bag. I unzip it and see, in the bottom, a color photograph of a naked dark-skinned lady reclining on a sofa and smiling at the camera. I blink. Wowza! She is beyond hot: her long black, curly hair cascades around her naked boobies! And she’s smiling a perfect toothpaste-ad smile. A small silver ring protrudes from her belly button. One leg is draped over the side of the sofa—I can see her pubic hair! It’s a thin, manicured little strip of fur. Women shave down there?

  There are dozens of pictures of her in various positions—all naked, all fantastic.

  And right here in Mom’s house! In my very room! It’s like I found a secret passage to the Playboy Mansion. And to think that for the past two years I’ve been getting off on bra ads from nursing-supply catalogs.

  Is this Uncle Ray’s girlfriend? Can he introduce me?

  Dear Jesus . . . I know I said I wasn’t going to jerk off for an entire week, but You know I wasn’t expecting to find those pictures. I’ll try to control myself better next time and not look at those pictures ever again. I hope You can forgive me. In Your Name. Amen.

  As I return the pictures to the duffel bag, I see, at the bottom, a shining metallic curve sticking out of a small black towel. Carefully I unwrap it.

  The chrome-plated revolver fits perfectly in my palm, and there is a dusting of black—gunpowder?—on the nicked barrel. Glancing back into the bag, I see several stubby cartridges. Could this be the gun that killed that nightclub owner? A chill shimmies up my spine.

  Then, from the floor vent, I hear my mother’s voice: “Roger! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  I move closer to the vent and hear my father’s slurred reply: “Thought maybe you’d like to, y’know . . .”

  “You are drunk, sir,” she says.

  “Oh, c’mon, honey, it’s been so long since we’ve done it.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Roger, don’t be silly. Now just go to sleep.”

  I step back. I’ve never heard my parents make love, or even talk about sex in any way whatsoever. Strange and conflicted emotions bubble up inside me. Part of me is totally grossed out. And part of me is sort of happy for them—they’re normal, they have urges like I do, or at least Dad does. But he sounds so lonely and deprived, and Mom was so cold.

  “Les!” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs.

  I quickly return the gun to the duffel bag.

  “Time for Johnny Carson!” she yells.

  “Not tonight!” I yell back. “Too tired.”

  She denies Dad. I’ll deny her.

  The last time I look at the digital bedside alarm clock, it’s almost two a.m. and Uncle Ray still isn’t home.

  Seduction Tip Number 3:

  Developing Your Sex Sense

  The Seductive Man has a superbly developed tactile sense. To develop your faculties, gather together the following items: a piece of toast, a large marshmallow, a silk handkerchief, and a tomato. Lay them out on a table
and strip to the waist. With your eyes closed, slowly touch each item, then rub it on your body. Remember how each item feels. Repeat this exercise until each one’s unique texture imprints itself on your fingers and skin.

  The next morning at school I find it difficult to concentrate or to look any female in the eye. Who in my very own school is shaved down there? What makes a girl decide to shave or not? Is it just a matter of taste? Like how a girl styles her hair? Or is it a—a health thing? What does Charity Conners do?

  Keeping myself concealed is my biggest challenge this morning. By lunchtime I’m desperate for relief. So, while everyone is in the cafeteria innocently eating cabbage biscuits and peach cobbler, I sneak into the empty and dark gymnasium and stuff some napkins into my underwear. A double check to make sure I’m alone, then I proceed to the corner where the climbing rope dangles. Hoisting myself onto the thick cotton-and-hemp cord, I press my thighs together and strain to pull myself up.

  Up and down, up and down. That familiar warm, intense, and intoxicating pulsing starts, and then I hear: “Eckhardt?!”

  I twist around and look down at Coach Turkle framed in the doorway, his beefy hands on his hips. “What the hell’re you doing?”

  “Uh, hey, Coach.” God, my voice is so warbly. “I was just . . . practicing.”

  “You know better than to be in here without supervision.”

  I ease myself to the floor as Coach Turkle approaches. “Practicing, huh? I like to hear that, Eckhardt.” He pulls on the rope, as if making sure it’s secure. “Y’know, rope climbing is a terrific full-body workout, and it could save your life someday, too. Tell ya what, I got some time right now, let me show you a few things.”

  “Coach, you don’t have—”

  He reaches out, handing me the rope. “Go on now.” I moan inwardly.

  “The rope needs to go between your legs like so,” he says as he threads it around my knees and back between the insteps of my sneakers.

  My hands burn, my arms are shaking.

  “Now clamp your feet together.”

  I do, discovering that when I support my weight with my feet, my arms no longer shake.

  “When you clamp your feet like that, it functions as a brake, freeing up your hands and arms,” he says. “Now, I want you to start inchworming yourself up: bend your legs, loosen the brake with your feet, and pull yourself up about a foot. Let’s see you do it.”

  My heart pumps and my arms strain, but it isn’t too painful—tough, but manageable. Soon I have climbed higher than I’ve ever been. I glance down and feel dizzy, seeing how small Coach looks.

  “You got it!” he says. “Remember to bend those legs.”

  Looking up, I can’t believe I’m a mere few feet from the red line that marks the Monkey Club.

  “Go on up to that line, Les! You can do it!”

  My arms are starting to shake again. I think I feel a hernia forming.

  “You’re almost there!” he yells. “Take a breather, then do one more big pull!”

  I inhale deeply and heave myself up. Suddenly my nose is touching the red line. Coach claps and cheers. “You did it, Les! You did it!”

  I cling to the rope, catching my breath and laughing. I have done the impossible! Only the most in-shape jocks make it to the Monkey Club.

  “Now inchworm your way down—slow and steady,” Coach orders. “Just do the reverse of what I showed you.”

  When my sneakers touch the mat, I’m breathless but feeling really good. This is the most working out I’ve done in years, or ever. Coach Turkle pumps my hot and tingly right hand.

  “You’re stronger than you think, Eckhardt,” he says. “A little more refinement of your technique and we’ll have you clambering up to that ceiling like a three-toed monkey. What do you say I meet you in here tomorrow, same time?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “See you then.” He cuffs my shoulder before ambling out of the gymnasium.

  I collapse on the mat, my chest heaving from laughter. Who knew? What else could this Monkey Boy do?

  “Fact—or fallacy?” asks Howard. “The human eyeball moves one hundred times per second.”

  “Fact, but only when Charity Conners walks by,” I quip.

  Side by side we’re coasting down Walnut Street on our bikes while balancing Frosty Queen milk shakes.

  “Fact—or fallacy?” Howard continues. “Kangaroos have been sighted in North America—”

  “Hey, Leth-bian!”

  Shit-shit-shit. I begin trembling all over. Brett’s bike pulls up on my right. Misty, his skeletal stoner girlfriend, all long black hair and pale yellow roots, shares the banana seat with him.

  “Aw, look, Little Lord Leth-bian and hith lard-ath butt buddy are on a date.” Brett reaches over, snatching the shake from my hand. He takes a long suck, then hurls the cup.

  “Thanks a lot, Brett,” I say.

  Brett glares at Howard and growls.

  “I, uh, suddenly remember something I have to do,” Howard says, his voice quavering, as he turns and disappears down a side street.

  Dear Jesus . . . how about a lightning bolt through Brett’s head about now, huh?

  “Y’know why I hate’th ya, Leth-bian?” Brett rams his front wheel into mine. I keep control of the weaving handlebars until I hit the curb and catapult onto a lawn.

  I clamber to my feet, only to be met by Brett’s fist in my gut. Landing hard on my butt, I feel as if I’m going to vomit. Brett’s shadow falls over me.

  “I hate’th ya ’cauthe your dad’th a rich doctor and you’re an ugly faggot,” he says, and shoves me down.

  “C’mon, don’t hurt him, Brett!” Misty pleads.

  “Shut up, bitch!”

  He body-slams me, his full weight crashing into my midsection and knocking the air from my chest. A million little white dots swirl in front of my eyes, and the earth feels like it’s pitching. I lie waiting for oxygen to refill my lungs when I hear a rumbling car engine and the squealing of brakes.

  “What the hell?!”

  I sit up on my elbows and watch Uncle Ray hop out of his Corvette and charge over to Brett, who jumps to his feet and raises his hands. “No harm done, thir, no harm done.”

  Uncle Ray violently grabs Brett by his shirt collar, gets in his face, and hisses, “You so much as sneeze in his direction again and I’ll reach into your ugly mouth and pull your asshole up through your throat. You understand me, you worthless piece of shit?” Brett, who is on his tiptoes, nods vehemently, his butt-ugly face the color of milk.

  “Now fuck off while you can still walk!” Uncle Ray releases Brett, who scrambles to his bike and tears off, Misty chasing after him and yelling, “Hey, wait up!”

  Uncle Ray extends his hand, pulling me to my feet. “You gonna let him get away with that?”

  “C’mon, you saw how big he is!”

  “He bullies you ’cause you let him,” he says. “One good blow to the tip of his nose and he’ll leave you alone.”

  “Yeah, but first I’ll get killed.”

  “Not if you do it right.”

  Uncle Ray holds up his flattened hand. “Make a fist and hit me with all you’ve got.”

  “Look, Uncle Ray, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the physical type.”

  “You’re perfectly capable, just need to develop your upper-body strength. Now shut up and hit me!”

  I punch him as hard as I can. Ouch.

  “You call that a punch? Try it again. C’mon, faster and harder.”

  So I hit again.

  “Faster!”

  I fire away, remembering what Coach Turkle said earlier today: “You’re stronger than you think, Eckhardt.”

  Uncle Ray drops his hand. “Not bad. You have potential, kid.”

  I blink at Uncle Ray a moment. “You serious?”

  “I’ve known a hundred guys like that idiot. The only thing they respect is pain. If you want him to leave you alone, you gotta take no prisoners. C’mon, let’s put your bike
in the trunk.”

  I’ve never ridden in a convertible before. It’s low to the ground. The leather seat feels good against my legs, and the wind whips my hair as the sun blasts my upturned face. Used to riding in my mom’s high-up Buick, I feel as if I’m sitting in the cockpit of a jet fighter. I gaze in awe at the glass-covered dials of the instrument panel and the big black-and-white fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror. With his right hand on the marble-like blue-and-white gearshift, Uncle Ray, sitting way back in his seat, steers with just his left index finger. If I had this car, I know I could land Charity. I sit up tall so everyone can see me.

  “Didn’t your old man ever teach you how to defend yourself?” Uncle Ray asks as he heads out of town on Tripp Street.

  “This is Doctor Dad we’re talking about.”

  “I know for a fact that your dad was taught how to use his dukes. When you do retaliate, try to do it in front of that moron’s girlfriend or his buddies—maximize the humiliation. Remember, take no prisoners.”

  Uncle Ray downshifts and spins the wheel to the left, pulling into the Frosty Queen and Sleep Inn Motel lot. In front of the café he switches off the engine and turns to me. “Have a favor to ask you.”

  “Sure.”

  In a low voice he says, “If anyone you don’t know should ask about me, tell them you haven’t seen me and you don’t know where I am. Got it?”

  “Why? Are you the Kansas City killer?” It shoots out of my mouth before I realize it.

  Uncle Ray looks at me a moment—perhaps startled, but it’s hard to tell behind those Ray-Bans—then grins. “Yeah, I’m a killer all right.”

  I swallow hard. Okay, he isn’t the Kansas City killer.

  “C’mon, Magnum, P.I.” He opens his door. “I’ll buy you a Coke.”

  The Frosty Queen is thick with grease and cigarette smoke. A couple of farmers in seed caps hunch at the counter. On the juke Waylon Jennings twangs on about Luckenbach, Texas—Waylon and Willie, and the boys. A hot young waitress with blond hair and bright green eyes sashays on over.

  Uncle Ray smiles his killer smile. “Well, well, well.”