Johnny Chesthair (The He-Man Women Haters Club Book 1)

by Chris Lynch

  “Wolf,” I yelled. “You hear me?” I blew the horn.

  “Yaaaaaaaaaa!” he wailed. I could see into the thin space just above the dashboard but beneath the open hood, as he dragged himself across the engine compartment and disconnected the battery. “There, Officer Stevie, your power’s been shut off.”

  “No it hasn’t,” I insisted. He ignored me and went back to work. “First,” I announced, “everyone is required to grow a mustache.”

  Wolf laughed hysterically, but kept on working.

  “Because I said so,” I said. Habit, I guess.

  “I didn’t ask why,” Jerome said. “How long do we get to grow this mustache?”

  “ASAP. We need to get our image hardened up. How often do you shave?”

  “Summer or winter?”

  “Huh? Jerome, what difference does that make?”

  “It’s a fact; a guy’s hairs grow stronger in the summer.”

  “Okay. Winter. How often do you shave in winter?”

  “Never.”

  “Summer?”

  “Once.”

  “Once? Once what, Jerome? Once a week, once a month?”

  “Once. Once last year, in summer. I found a hair. I shaved it. I’ve been fine since. It wasn’t a mustache hair, though. It was way over here….”

  He was trying to show me, but I was too disgusted even to look. I got out of the car and went up to see what Wolf was doing.

  “What is that?” I asked him as he hung there with some greasy hunk of engine in his hands like a doctor delivering a new baby.

  “It’s the starter. I removed it all by myself.”

  “Terrific, Wolf,” I said, as sarcastically as I could, which was a waste of time. Wolf was totally sarcasm-proof. “I thought the car had a fuel pump problem. Was there something wrong with the starter?”

  He shrugged; he smiled.

  “Isn’t the idea to fix the car, rather than break it?”

  He shrugged; he smiled. Wolf, for one, was getting his full money’s worth out of this club.

  “Wolfbang, you do know whose car this is, don’t you?”

  “That would be…your car, right, General?”

  The way he said it, the conversation was over. He was only going to get worse, because he was having too much fun.

  “Just put that back in the car,” I barked.

  “Yes, Captain,” he answered. Which would have been great, but he didn’t really mean it.

  I walked back to where Jerome was sitting in the car. I peeked in.

  “My mom wants to come down and see the club,” he blurted.

  “What!” I shrieked so loud that Lars screamed back at me from the far end of the garage.

  “I mean it!” Lars said. He didn’t have to specify. He’d been threatening to evict us since Jerome drew a full set of clothes on each and every month of his calendar girls. Very nice outfits, though.

  “She doesn’t want to stay long or anything. Just, you know, drop by, check out the facilities, maybe bring us a snack…”

  It was, without a doubt, time to make a stand. I couldn’t remember if I had made a stand in the last hour or so, but this definitely rated a stand. I climbed up on the roof of the car, felt it wah-wah under the weight of me, and I let him have it.

  “No! No! No! No! Jerome, holy smokes, if we stand for one thing here, it’s got to be No Mothers. This is not a mothers kind of a club. It’s a—”

  I stopped in midsentence when Jerome covered his ears with both hands and Wolfbang started simultaneously screaming as loud as he could.

  “He-Man, remember, guys? H-E M-A-N. Secret society, special place, exclusive. No girls. No non-members. Above all, no mothers, since they fall into every forbidden category, for crying out loud.”

  Then the door opened at the back of the garage and last-of-winter afternoon light poured in, blinding us for a moment if we looked straight into it. “And you,” I screamed toward Ling as I hopped up and down on the car roof for added power and intimidation. I saw my badge glimmer from my chest, and felt my authority surge. “We have rules here, and if you can’t even get yourself here on time…and I don’t even care if you cry your eyeballs out, I’m telling you…”

  The door closed, my sight returned, and my throat went bone dry. It was not Ling-Ling.

  It was my mother.

  “What?” Jerome asked after I slid like a raindrop from the top of the car to the garage floor. “What, Steven? Who is she?”

  That was right. None of the guys had ever met her. She could be anybody. Perhaps there was a chance of escape.

  “Come on, get your coats, get your coats. We’re going for a walk,” I said as Ma disappeared into Lars’s office.

  “Sorry,” Wolf said. “I don’t do walks.”

  “Then do whatever you do, but let’s go. I’m the boss—”

  I had my jacket on and was already sweating, flapping my arms and tossing orders in every direction.

  “Well, I feel better already,” my mom said, putting her hands on my shoulders. I jumped like a cat.

  “What are you doing here…lady?” I growled.

  “I came to check out your club…boy,” she answered.

  “I heard that, Wolfbang,” I called, even though he hadn’t said a thing.

  “And I thought you boys could use a snack,” Mom said.

  Wolf was off the car, into the chair, and motoring toward us faster than an Indy 500 tire change. “Foooood. Yee-hah. Thank you, lady, whoever you are.”

  “Ahhhhh,” Jerome deduced. “Your mom. I thought we had a strict rule against—”

  “Shut up. She’s not my mother.”

  “Steven!” my mother gasped. Not the mock gasp like when my father says something dirty, but the real, gaspy gasp. Mothers get all bent out of shape, I guess, when you say they’re not your mother.

  “Ma,” I said. “What are you doing to me here? You’re killing me in front of my boys. Killing me.”

  “Sorry, son. I didn’t mean to be killing you.”

  “No, don’t kill him, ma’am,” Wolf said as he wolfed a thick tuna sandwich. “Don’t kill him, ’cause we can’t be left without our fearless leader.”

  Ma looked down at me with new pride. “That is so nice,” she said. “That is such a great thing for a mother to hear. I guess you are doing pretty well with this, then. They respect you.”

  This just made it more embarrassing. “He was being sarcastic, Mom. Wolf doesn’t say nice things about anybody unless he’s lying. That’s how he gets his kicks.”

  “Is that true?” she asked Wolf directly.

  “Not at all,” Wolf answered. “But what is true is that this tuna sandwich isn’t too watery at all, and that’s a great hat you have on.”

  I walked right over and slugged him in the chest. “That’s my mother, you animal.”

  “Well, at least you’re acknowledging me now,” she said. She still looked a little confused. “But I can see you guys want some space, so I’ll just get on out of your way now.” As the other guys dug through the huge bag of sandwiches and cookies, she called me over and whispered, “I suppose this isn’t so bad, since you and your friends play way down here and Lars and his friends play way up there. And it’s very nice that he’s put clothes on his calendar this year. That’s a good sign.”

  I just nodded, and smiled. She turned to go, and walked right into Ling-Ling, who was just as tall as she was.

  “Oh dear.” There was that gasp again. But this time, we all did it. Because this version of member Ling-Ling—who was an eyeful to begin with—was surely gasp-inducing. He had already slipped out of his jacket, revealing the getup underneath: olive green army pants; tight camouflage T-shirt that revealed every one of his bumps and rolls and squishies that we all could have lived without seeing; black sweatbands that were so wide they ran from his wrists all the way up over his elbows. He had a fanny pack strapped around his whole lotta waist, and when he moved, something inside jingled. Something inside the pack, that is.


  “I’m his mother,” Ma muttered in an apparent attempt to defend herself.

  “Acknowledged,” Ling acknowledged.

  “What is this?” I asked, pointing at…all of him.

  “It’s gear,” he said flatly.

  “Yo, Ling,” Wolf called. “Want a sandwich?”

  Ling-Ling held up both hands in front of his face. “No. I never eat in front of people. Never eat within range of others who are eating. Never eat out of community food sources.”

  “You took a whole clawful of Chips Ahoys out of my bag last week,” Jerome protested.

  “That was before,” said Ling.

  I noticed that Ling-Ling’s usual stack of magazines was about twice as thick as it used to be. And that now he carried both kinds.

  My mother slipped quietly, rapidly away.

  “So, then,” Jerome said as soon as she was gone. “When can we book my mother?”

  I ignored him to concentrate on Ling. “How come you’re late?” I asked.

  “Did some visiting,” he answered, taking his usual seat in the back of my Lincoln. He spread out his magazines across the backseat. There were at least as many American Survival Guides as Wolverines.

  “Visiting the other club, right?”

  “Oooohh,” Wolf called, now eating and working on the car at the same time. Filthy. “He’s getting jealous now, Ling. Don’t get Steven all feisty there. He’s got a wicked jealousy thing going on these days.”

  “Ya, I was at the other club. They’re pretty interesting guys.”

  “Ya,” Jerome said. “They’re interesting. Kind of like death row is interesting.”

  Ling was unfazed. “Boss, can we get a TV in here? I think we’re missing out on a lot of important stuff in the world when we’re sitting around all the time doing nothing.”

  There were several elements in that question which I probably should have addressed. There was only one that really stuck, though.

  Boss. Boss? What an excellent club member Ling-Ling was blossoming into.

  “Sure,” I said. “If you can find a TV, we can have one.”

  Ling went back to the front of the garage, lifted his jacket from where he’d left it in a heap, and pulled out a cube with a handle. As he walked back our way, it became apparent it was a TV. The TV we’d seen at the nutso club.

  “They got a new one, so they said we could have theirs. Cool, huh? They’re kind of like our sponsors.”

  “Ya, that’s cool,” Jerome said. “Hurry up and turn it on so we can watch our sponsors on America’s Most Wanted.”

  Ling-Ling had hooked up the TV and was finagling a station. “Look, I got her, I got her,” he said, all excited. He’d located the talk show Boo and company had been watching the other day, the Wendy Wightman Show.

  I shrugged at Wolf, who shrugged at Jerome, who shrugged at me. We picked up the bag of snacks and hunkered down by the TV, all of us flopping in or on the car.

  Our car.

  Lying there, we were finally coming together as a team. Awesome.

  “Anyhow,” Ling slipped in, cool as could be, “we needed a TV here so we could all be together when we watch ourselves on that.” He pointed. At the program.

  “When we’re on that, Ling?” I asked. “What that?”

  Ever see a panda grin? Neither had I. Till now.

  “That that,” he said. “We’re going on the Wendy Wightman Show.”

  12.

  All the Rage

  HOW IT HAPPENED WAS, Ling’s buddies over at Patriot Central answered one of those on-screen ads. You know, during the commercial break while the People Who Married Their Pets or Survivors of Childhood Male-Pattern Baldness rest their tired lungs, where they flash the info up at the home audience to invite guests on future shows. If you have had four or more organs removed and would like to be on our show…If you weigh more than your car…If you have been buried alive more than once…

  But we were going on for a much more normal reason. We were going on the show they were calling “The Men’s Movement, and the State of American Manhood.”

  Sounds about right, doesn’t it?

  Boo and his Captains America Club had answered the ad a couple of months back, and when Wendy’s people called to give them the green light, he pitched them us as the future of the movement.

  Sounds about right, doesn’t it?

  They interviewed He-Man Ling-Ling and were reportedly much impressed.

  Now, does that sound right to you? Me neither.

  No matter. We were going on the Box.

  We sat in the green room—where all the celebs hang out before the show—which was not green at all, but a creamy peach color. “They say that’s the best color to keep our guests calm and nonviolent before they go on,” explained the girl who led us to the room. “But usually it doesn’t seem to work.”

  We were there with Boo and Kevin from the Captains America, and Leon and Zeke from some group called Rebel Yell. The Rebs looked an awful lot like fat bearded Hell’s Angels, but they did wear patches on their jackets that said they were not. And they wore ties.

  Ling-Ling was the one guy in the room who looked like he could have belonged to all of the clubs. He was in full nut-boy gear—black beret, dark sunglasses, fingerless leather gloves, baggy fatigues tucked into high black boots. Ling was ready for showtime.

  A long buffet table was laid with potato salad and chicken wings and lasagna and fruit and chocolate-chocolate-chip cookies. Wolf, Boo, and both Rebels spent the entire half-hour preshow chomping at the buffet. Ling paced and looked suspiciously at the food. I paced. Jerome curled up in a chair, hugged his knees to his chest, and trembled.

  “You sick?” I asked Jerome. No response. “You should go home then.”

  “No way.”

  “You look like death. Probably you’ll look even worse on TV. Go home.”

  Jerome unclutched one bony little hand from one bony little leg. Pointed a crooked little finger at me. “I hope I do look like death. Maybe that will look tough on TV. As long as I don’t look like squirrely little Jerome, that’s all that matters. I told everyone in the entire world about this. I told my mother. I told my brother, who I don’t tell anything. I told my father, who went out and bought six cases of beer and invited all six of his friends over and took the day off to watch this, like it was the Apollo 13 moon launch. I told every single kid in every single class in school. I posted fliers. Steven, I am going on TV as the future of manhood in America! Do you have any idea how often I get called something like that?”

  “I can probably guess,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Which is why I’m going out on that set even if I puke my guts out for the crowd, even if going on that set is the very thing that is making me sick!”

  There really wasn’t much to say to that. But as group leader, I figured I should try. “Piece of fruit, Jerome? I think maybe a piece of fruit will help you feel better.”

  He gagged. He retched. He recovered. He shook his head and waved me away.

  “Two minutes,” Ted, the assistant director, called from the doorway.

  “Hey you!” yelled one of the Rebel Yells. “Where’s the security?”

  “Excuse me?” Ted asked.

  “The security. They made us give up our weapons at the door, and they swore there would be heavy security to compensate.”

  “Well, you can relax. This is a very safe and secure building. As you could see when they disarmed you.”

  “Not good enough,” Leon snarled.

  Ted had apparently been snarled at by worse than Leon. “It’s going to have to be good enough,” he said, smiling.

  Leon looked at Zeke, who mumbled something and gestured at—gulp—me.

  “Ya,” Leon said. “Good point. Why are we outnumbered? We were told we were only allowed to bring along two members, and they got four. We don’t like this sneaky stuff, not one bit.”

  Ted looked at me and my crew. “Them? You’re afraid of being out
numbered by them?”

  Ted laughed in their faces. I myself didn’t see what was so funny. Wolf did, and laughed along.

  “Get a load of yourselves, ya big babies,” Ted taunted. “As a matter of fact, they were supposed to bring only two, but so what. They’re so…little. Who’s even going to notice?”

  “So, we want them cleared out of the building, right now,” Zeke insisted.

  “Shut up,” Ted said. “You two are up first, so you better pull yourselves together.”

  “Or pull you apart,” Zeke growled.

  “Boohoo,” Ted said, checking things off on his clipboard, checking the buffet, taking a sip from his bottled water. “This week you’re going to kill me. Last week it was the Nazis, the week before it was the National Organization of Pro-Life Women Priests. How dead can I get?”

  The Rebel Yells were getting awfully frustrated trying to bully Ted. They regrouped, huddled.

  “Then we quit,” Zeke said mightily. “We’re out of here.”

  “Okeydokey smokey,” Ted said. “Captains America, please follow me.”

  They followed, marching like out-of-shape tin soldiers. Boo turned to Ling and gave him a salute. And a wink. Nice touch, Boo.

  There was a big monitor up on the wall over the food, and as the show started, the fiery theme music and Wendy Wightman’s perfect porcelain face came into our little lives there in the green room.

  And then there they were, the Captains America.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Jerome said in that unmistakable voice that bubbles up just before a person upchucks.

  “Don’t,” I commanded as I watched. I stood far back from the screen, but Ling-Ling and Wolfbang were pulled toward it like madmen are to the moon.

  “Today’s surging men’s movement.” Wendy announced. “These men-only social clubs appear to be all the rage. They call themselves Real Men. They call themselves Promise Keepers. They call themselves patriots and survivalists and separatists and they call themselves He-Men.”

  Wendy had a great voice. No wonder she was on TV. She made us sound so…grand, so mighty, so significant.

  “They’re so big,” she continued, and the crowd started egging her on. “They’re so strong. They’re so smart and determined and united and…THEY’RE SO AFRAID!”