New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  As we continued tangling, some students stopped and stared. Most kept walking. They’d already witnessed our ritual.

  About our ritual.

  Back when Terry was seven he woke one morning to find his old man sitting in the kitchen, .22-caliber pistol in hand. When Terry asked what was up, his old man couldn’t even look at him. Couldn’t say a word. All he did was stick the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. After that, Terry began terrorizing kids throughout elementary, middle school, and into high school. Most would fight back. They didn’t give a shit about what Terry had experienced. As for me, I hated his guts, too. Hated all the times he’d punched me in the arm, the gut, slapped me upside the head, locked me in chokeholds, or fired off locker slams. In those days, whenever he’d knock the shit out of me, all I wanted to do was fight back. But then I’d flash on his dad’s horrible story, and I’d just let him continue abusing me.

  But our most recent tangle had taken things too far. “You know what?” Terry blasted. “I ain’t playing no more, faggot.” He seized me by the throat. He squeezed hard, harder than he ever had before.

  He was, in fact, not playing. I could barely breathe. The hallway spun. I struggled to break free, but that only made Terry angrier.

  “I don’t got all day,” he said, maintaining his grip on me. “And neither do you. So you gonna be a good little faggot and shut the fuck up?”

  More spinning. Things grew dim, cold. Dimmer and colder than Jimmy’s Dark Side of the Moon. I nodded.

  “I can’t heeeeeear you,” Terry said almost sing-songy.

  I barely managed to choke out an okay.

  He shoved me to the floor.

  I struggled to catch my breath, massaged my aching throat.

  Once I’d worked my way upright, I spotted this incredible girl walking toward us. I’d soon learn her name: Babs. Babs Kozlowski. But everyone would come to know her as Baby. She’d just transferred from Harborville High. Had moved to town with her mom after her father walked out on them. And while most girls at Blackwater High were 34Bs or less, slender-shouldered and small-backed Baby was a solid 36C. Her looks were straight from the Susan Dey Partridge Family–era songbook: long, straight brown hair; angel face; blue eyes you could drown in. What intrigued me the most, though, were her legs. Lean legs that poured into corduroy pants in a way that made you rethink the material. When it was wrapped around Baby’s twelfth-grade legs it wasn’t all sandpaper sounding, like it was on most students that cruised the halls. On Baby, that corduroy song was sleek and wistful. I heard that song loud and clear as she glided down the hall toward Terry and me.

  “Check her out,” I said, my voice all raspy from that choking. “She’s hot.”

  Terry glanced back over his shoulder. “Not bad.”

  As Baby approached, she locked eyes with Terry.

  Terry’s mating call: another locker slam.

  Baby smiled, kept walking.

  Noting the chemistry between the two, I told Terry: “You should go for her.” The way my crazy logic worked back then, if a guy like me didn’t have a chance with Baby, then at least someone I knew should, even if that someone was my dreaded enemy.

  Terry flashed me a greasy grin. “I’ll keep that in mind, faggot.”

  I kept it in mind, too, as a miracle happened: once Terry had fought off all the others—practically every junior and senior at Blackwater High, with the exception of the Chess Club and Drama Club males—to win Baby’s heart, he left me alone. For a while, at least. Finally, I could breathe more easily. In just a couple weeks, the bruises on my neck went through the color wheel of pain: faded from purple and black to a jaundiced yellow, then to nothing at all. Like a different type of Ouija board, I wondered if those bruises were sending me a message. Something I could rely on—a sign, perhaps, of better days to come.

  Chapter 9

  Because of Mom’s questionable mothering skills, any sign of protection a woman offered me—no matter how purposeful or accidental—genuinely felt like love. So it’s no surprise that once Baby’s legs and the rest of her had come between Terry and me, I worshipped her. Proclaimed her my savior. I spun mental movies of her in bed at night: everything from G to Triple X. At school, I sketched pictures of her in my textbooks and notebook while teachers blathered on about photosynthesis and the fall of the Roman Empire.

  One Thursday during math, while I was creating my latest Baby masterpiece, my teacher, Mr. Gibbons, said: “I don’t suppose that’s something you’d like to share with the class, is it, Mr. McDaniel?”

  I covered the drawing with my hand, glanced up from it. Noticed the day’s word problem on the dusty chalkboard—the one I hadn’t been able to solve since first walking into class. It had concerned a cell that divides into two cells every thirty minutes. At that rate, the problem asked, how many cells would there be after ten hours. That word hours got me to days. Days got me to songs with Monday in the title: “Blue Monday,” “I Don’t Like Mondays,” and one of Jimmy’s favorites, “Monday Morning.” There was also Saturday: “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting” and “Almost Saturday Night.” Immediately following Saturday: “Sunday Morning” and “Sunday Morning Nightmare.” A Nightmare on Elm Street. Streets got me recalling postmen, and how I never receive letters in the mail. Blackmail. Mail fraud. Sigmund Freud. Fred Astaire. Lighter than air. Then there was that word cells, which got me spinning on red blood cells. White blood cells. Words like canceled, cellar, and cell blocks. Cell blocks got me to Terry. Terry got me, once again, to Baby.

  Then there was my math teacher—a photocopy of that goofy TV cartoon character Mr. Magoo—repeating his question, and walking straight toward my desk. He passed student after student whose bodies and faces puberty had transformed into war zones of acne, scraggly mustaches, blossoming breasts, periods, and uncontrollable erections pressing against jeans.

  Looming over me, Mr. Gibbons slid my hand away from my notebook, spotted a naked Baby sporting a halo and devil tail. With his rental car–smelling breath, he said: “Let’s stick to the work at hand, shall we? Otherwise, I’ll have to call your father. And you don’t want to end up in jail, do you?”

  A stinging ripple of oohs ran through the class.

  Those oohs were cut short by our regular afternoon announcement.

  Over the intercom came that familiar and soothing voice: “Good day, fellow students. Welcome to Eye on Blackwater High.”

  Eye on Blackwater High was fellow tenth-grader, Callie McCarthy. She’d provide the student body with daily motivational speeches and updates regarding sporting events, after-school programs, and extracurricular activities.

  “After school in the library today,” she said, “there’ll be a meeting of both the junior and senior student councils…”

  Many students figured Callie got the job because the administration pitied her after she’d lost part of her right leg in a car crash the previous year.

  “Girls’ cheerleading tryouts will take place in the gym…”

  But I disagreed. She got the job because of her voice. It was a bit like that siren song from the Odyssey. Once I heard that voice I couldn’t escape her.

  “Drama club tryouts for West Side Story will take place in the auditorium…”

  Something else about her voice: it was a bit like Mom’s, soft and sweet around the edges, while deeper down lurked something sad.

  “Don’t forget, French Honor Society, it’s picture day tomorrow…”

  Sure, Callie and I had a history. Back in elementary school, she’d always rat me out to teachers whenever I’d curse or draw dirty pictures in textbooks. But every time I heard her speak, I forgave her for everything.

  “And that’s been your latest edition of Eye on Blackwater High,” she concluded. “Have a great day.”

  At the end of that day, just after I’d dumped my math book in my locker, I again heard that special
voice, but this time right behind me.

  “Hi, Mark.”

  Callie McCarthy. Beneath the fluorescent lights—lights that made most students look like pale, washed-out suspects in a criminal lineup—her sad, watery hazel eyes sparkled. Her long, straight blonde hair shimmered. Never mind the scar that ran from the right corner of her mouth to down beneath her chin. It was merely a small crack in her finely polished alabaster beauty. Had she ever allowed herself to sunbathe during the summer she would’ve reigned queen supreme at the Second Lake. For she was Ophelia repackaged: made saner, stronger, less suicidal.

  “I liked your announcements today,” I said.

  Callie’s lips turned up into a smile; the left side a little more than the right. As she continued speaking, her hands moved in front of her, as if she were playing a game of Cat’s Cradle with invisible string. “Yeah,” she said, “what with student council, Drama Club tryouts and all, it’s gonna be a busy day.”

  Up until that year, Callie had rarely spoken to me. But now she’d often say hello and ask about school. Maybe she was genuinely interested. Or maybe she was trying to make amends. Or maybe that fake leg of hers had brought her down to my level.

  “What are you up to today?” she asked, stepping closer.

  Her hair always smelled like she’d washed it a couple days prior—a hint of sweet strawberries laced with a natural oily scent that drove me wild. That scent eclipsed the hallway’s usual stench.

  “Not much,” I replied. “How ’bout you?”

  She reached down, knocked on that fake leg beneath her jeans. “Gotta go get refitted. Growing pains.”

  As she turned to hobble away, I said: “Wait.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder.

  I took a deep breath and let fly: “I was wondering if…you know…if maybe sometime you’d like to—”

  Callie brightened. “Yeah?”

  Suddenly, I couldn’t muster up the courage to finish asking her out. I grew dry-mouthed, tongue-tied. In a cracked voice—a voice like I’d had when going through puberty—all I could manage to eek out was: “Can I carry your books?”

  Callie’s brightness dimmed slightly. “That’s okay,” she said, holding them close to her chest. “I can manage.”

  On the bus ride home from school I eventually decided to tell Jimmy about my Callie encounter. I left out all the stuff about me not having the balls to ask her out—an intentional omission my old man would’ve called it. I tapped Jimmy on the shoulder.

  He continued staring out the window.

  I tapped again. “Yo, Sleeping Beauty. Wake the fuck up.”

  Jimmy spun around, wiped a sweep of curls from his eyes. Normally those eyes appeared sad and dozy. Now they were that times ten.

  When I asked if he was alright, he first said yeah. Then he flashed his nervous smile, where only his bottom lip joined in, sunk down below his gum to reveal slightly crooked teeth. I’d first noticed that smile back in fourth grade. Through the years, the smile would come and go, depending on the weather or how much Jimmy had been partying. That smile broke my heart if I stared at it too long.

  “What gives?” I asked.

  Jimmy shrugged. “Just thinking about my pops.”

  Back then, that’s all Jimmy did. Especially since his dad’s doctor had recently told him his lungs sounded awful and that he wanted to take more tests and X-rays. But Mr. Gigliotti had refused. He’d refused to quit smoking, too, no matter how many times Jimmy asked.

  After that Jimmy and I fell silent: Six Feet Under Silent. Not Knowing Why Your Parents Do The Things They Do Silent. All we could hear was the wet, sputtery hum of the bus’s diesel engine, and white-noise chatter of the surrounding students.

  Jimmy broke our silence by saying: “Whadja wanna tell me?”

  “Forget it,” I said. “It’s not important.”

  “Go ahead. Tell me.”

  “Guess who I saw today?”

  Jimmy’s nervous smile eased into a genuine one. “Better not be Stevie Nicks, you fag. She’s my future wife.” He proceeded to take other wild guesses that got us both smiling: “Cookie Puss? Boy George? Richard Simmons?”

  I finally told him: “Callie.”

  His eyes grew as wide as a Smurf doll. “That freak? I thought you hated her.”

  I shrugged. “She’s not bad.”

  Jimmy got quiet. That’s what he usually did whenever I’d mention girls. Then he’d change the subject. “Wanna come over? I got some killer weed.” It was a mindbomb batch he’d just harvested. Created from seeds he’d scored from a Trekkie classmate, and some sleazy disco creep he’d encountered at the Seaside Heights boardwalk, he called it The Wrath of Chaka Khan.

  “Lemme think about it,” I said. I eased back into my seat, surveyed the other students on the bus. Many were members of various cliques: jocks, cheerleaders, nerds, burnouts, metalheads, video arcade gamers, guys into Rush and D&D, girls that wore Spandex, and others that collected Cabbage Patch dolls.

  Jimmy and I borrowed certain elements from certain cliques—a love of loud music, martial arts, and getting wasted—but we never belonged to any one particular group. We were our own.

  “Hey,” I said to my one and only clique member. “When’re you gonna get a girlfriend?”

  “Fuck off,” Jimmy said. “You always ask me that.”

  He was right. Even during times when I didn’t have my own girlfriend, I’d often tried to help him score to stop him from spending so much time alone in his room. But each and every time he seemed more interested in sucking on his bong than a tit.

  “I just ain’t found the right girl yet,” he said. He went back to staring out the window.

  So did I. Over the next few miles, I watched Duffy’s Bar, the Blackwater Diner, and the cemetery drift by.

  About the cemetery.

  Some of its tombstones dated back to the late eighteen-hundreds. Over time, many of the markings on those decrepit headstones had worn away. Dying in Blackwater was bad enough, I thought. But to do so without a name seemed far worse. It was no wonder why flowers rarely grew there. Still, fading flowers and faded tombstones aside, Jimmy and I had snuck in there many late nights over the years to bury various hedgehogs, parrots, and frogs—all animals that had been victims of our unfortunate pet curse. I tapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “You ever wanna get out?” I asked. “Out of Blackwater.”

  “Dude,” said Jimmy. “You’re such a broken record.”

  It was true. Pretty much ever since I was twelve, all I could talk about was heading out to LA at some point and leading a life full of action and adventure like I’d seen in those movies: Grand Theft Auto and To Live and Die in L.A. There were also bands like X and T.S.O.L. wailing livin’-on-the-edge songs like “Code Blue” and “Johnny Hit and Run Paulene.” And those Pepsi commercials I’d seen as a kid, where everyone’s on Venice Beach playing volleyball, skateboarding, lifting weights, and looking beautiful. “I’ll get out someday,” I said. “What about you, Hobbit Lover?”

  “Just because Frodo Baggins left home,” said Jimmy, “doesn’t mean I have to.” He shifted in his seat, then added: “Guess I never really thought about it anyway.”

  He went back to staring out the window. Ditto with me. A busted-up and abandoned pick-up floated by. The words Everything Lost, Everything Broken had been scrawled into the dirt on the hood. Jimmy and I saw that pick-up every day that week, until it was towed away. There was also the huge, scarred, and scary white oak—Satan’s Tree. Every time we passed that tree, either while on the school bus or with our parents, Jimmy and I wondered if that would be the day we’d end up the next photo on it. Most days the two of us, along with everyone else on the bus, including the driver, would shrug it all off, claiming it was just another one of Jersey’s weird, old legends like Dempsey House or the Gates of Hell. We’d all be lying, though, if we said there
’d never been a day when we’d held our breath, said a quick prayer, or gripped the edges of our bus bench seats a little tighter until we’d passed safely beyond its reach.

  Whether or not it was truly haunted, it occurred to me that before Satan’s Tree or the rest of Blackwater erased me off the map, I needed to work up the guts to ask out Callie. But I’d need date cash.

  “Gotta go take care of some business,” I told Jimmy. I hopped off at my stop, bolted to my place. Once there, I rifled through my sock drawer. Grabbed what few ratty ones I had available, then rushed to my old man’s room. His drawer was an Ellis Island of socks: casual, dressy, sporty. Mid-calf, crew, over-the-calf. Acrylic, wool, cotton. Browns to whites, blues to golds. Every style, every material and color imaginable were all right there. I grabbed a couple pairs of each, shoved them into a Shop-Rite grocery bag, and Speed Racer’ed.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “Julie’s Been Working for the Drug Squad!”

  Mad Man was his usual sweep of blond hair, ripped and safety-pinned jeans, and Doc Martens. Some new additions: a Dead Kennedys T-shirt beneath a white suit coat that made him resemble an older, burlier, more punk, less pastel version of Miami Vice.

  “How’s it hanging, Spicoli?” he asked.

  “Not bad.” I handed over the sock bag.

  He rifled through the contents, produced a pair of my old man’s freshly washed ribbed black dress socks. “Going uptown on me?”

  “They’re my old man’s,” I said.

  “Ah, cop socks. That’s a first.” He tossed them back into the bag. Then he held up a few that had been clumsily stitched together. “What’s with these?”

  I shrugged. Even if the rumors had been true, that he’d actually created a radiation vest from socks, I was too embarrassed to reveal that one night while stoned I’d attempted to do the same. But all I’d ended up with were needle-stuck fingers covered in Band-Aids, and a vest that didn’t resemble a vest, but a huge mess when I’d tried it on.

  After careful inspection of the footwear, Mad Man said: “Twelve.”