New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  This time I didn’t argue.

  “What’s the special occasion, Spicoli? Got a date?”

  “Maybe. Howdja know?”

  “You’ve got that dopey grin of yours. Plus, you’re without your partner in crime.”

  “It’s Callie,” I said. “Callie McCarthy.”

  Mad Man nodded in approval. “The pretty girl from the car accident. Good taste, Spicoli. Just be nice to her. Seems like she could use a good guy in her life.” After that, he got quiet.

  Me too.

  All we could hear was the breeze whistling through the pines, and rippling across the lake. That breeze blew at Mad Man’s super Aqua-Netted hair. The ’do wavered back and forth, but mostly remained in place. Glancing at that crazy hair, and Mad Man’s hard-worn looks, I was reminded of something he’d once mentioned. How he’d been all around the country. Even to California. I didn’t know it then, but the main reason he’d returned was because his mom had contracted leukemia. “Must’ve been pretty wild,” I said. “All the traveling you’ve done.”

  He flashed a wicked grin. “T’was a blast.” Then that grin faded; his pockmarked face, more like those grim shotgun-blasted road signs. He looked down for a moment, scuffed one of his Docs through the dirt. Then he shrugged, looked back at me, a bit more at ease. “It’s not too bad being back. Blackwater’s got some righteous foot-funk going on.” He picked up a rock, whipped it toward the lake. Kept staring at the water as ripple after ripple bloomed from the place where the stone had met water.

  It was plain to see he was growing tired of all my questions, but in a genuine tone, he asked: “Do much traveling?”

  I shrugged. “Just a few trips to New York and Philly with my parents. You know, tourist crap.”

  Suddenly, Mad Man’s demeanor changed. He fixed me with a solid stare—his Pabst Blue Ribbon eyes grew brighter, as he said: “You got that bug, doncha, Spicoli? You want out.”

  “Was it hard?” I asked. “Getting out.”

  “Not at all. I just packed my bags and split. You can do it, too, when you’re ready.”

  I must’ve had one hell of a look on my face, because he laughed. “Trust me,” he said. “When the time comes, there’ll be nothing left to do but leave.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The next day, Friday, I hadn’t yet worked up the guts to break out of Blackwater. But I did manage to thank Baby for saving me from Terry.

  Just before second period, I was heading to French when I spotted her in her usual hangout in the woods behind school. It was one of those rare moments when she was alone.

  I bolted across the yard. At my feet, the grass glistened. Up above, big white clouds drifted through the April sky, a blooming blast of blue. I ran faster, across the soccer field and baseball diamond. No way was I all headspun like I’d get when encountering math word problems. I knew exactly where I was going and why.

  When I reached Baby, she was smoking and leaning against a maple tree that had her name carved into the bark along with Terry’s. She had crushed-up leaves and dirt stuck to the back of her sweater and jeans.

  Baby.

  She had a glow about her, like she was the earthbound version of moonlight. Just looking at her made my heart and eyes ache. She was everything I’d ever wanted in a girl—the intersection of Chrissie Hynde and Joan Jett. The exponentiation of every rebel girl I’d seen on TV after-school specials about drug or alcohol abuse. Had she given a shit about hanging out at the lake during the summer, she would’ve ruled the Third. For she was mind-numbing, heart-pounding, quadraphonic rock-n-roll cranked to ten. And she hadn’t even spoken yet. When she did, her breath reeked of Marlboro Reds, not Boone’s Farm Apple Wine. She didn’t start drinking until after lunch.

  “What’s up, kid?” She brought the Marlboro to her cherry lip-glossed lips, swiped a drag.

  Had that been Mom smoking, I would’ve snatched the cigarette away. But not with Baby. She looked too damn cool.

  As for me, I was light-years from cool. I could smell my sweat, could taste the Count Chocula I’d had for breakfast that morning. I jammed my hands into my pockets, stood tall, tried striking that Springsteen Darkness on the Edge of Town stance. What a mistake that was.

  Baby asked, “You okay, kid?”

  Doing my best to hold what I’d imagined to be that classic Bruce stance—slightly raised eyebrow, sort of open mouth, neutral gaze, I asked Baby what she’d meant.

  She swiped another Marlboro drag, turned her head to blow out smoke, then said: “Looks like you just ate cafeteria food or something.”

  I desperately gave it one more go. “Merci de m’avoir sauvé la vie.”

  When Baby didn’t respond right away, I figured I’d totally blown her away with all my French cool. Instead, she tapped ashes from her Marlboro, while saying: “Look, kid. I didn’t save your life. I just told Terry to go easy on you.”

  In a rush and jumble of words, I told her all about my years of Terry abuse, and how she’d been the only one to make it stop. Right then, I must’ve looked completely ridiculous—some gangly guy in green cords and a Springsteen sweatshirt, babbling on and on about how I hadn’t been able to deal with my own shit. Still, Baby just stood there, patiently smoking, always turning her head to the side to exhale.

  When I was finished, she said: “I’m glad I could help you, kid. But really, it was nothing.”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about. In my mind—the mind of a lovestruck, hormone-driven, starry-eyed tenth-grader—what she’d done had been everything. It was no wonder that, despite her protestations, I still held tight to the idea that a miracle had taken place, and she was, indeed, my savior. Yet the longer I marveled at my savior, the more I noticed a more vulnerable and human side. Slightly more moon-faced than Susan Dey, Baby sported a smattering of pimples beneath her jaw line covered in barely matching flesh-tone concealer. Her left eyebrow was plucked a little farther away from her nose than the other. Tiny clumps of mascara were lodged in her eyelashes. She tugged at the frayed hem of her black sweater with fingers that had purple polish chipped off bitten nails. Had Mary Kay Mom been there she would’ve had a heart attack over how poorly Baby managed her appearance.

  Yet, imperfections and all, I wasn’t shocked or disappointed. Those imperfections made Baby even more holy.

  Right then, I recalled a Bible passage I’d once heard in church: “Remain in me, and I in you. As the branch can’t bear fruit by itself, unless it remains in the vine, so neither can you, unless you remain in me.” The way I interpreted it, that’s how I wanted to be with Baby—the two of us blooming wildly together. I reached out a hand to touch her.

  She smacked it away, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and rocked slightly on her feet. “You got a lot to learn, kid.”

  Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. Still, I had to figure out whether or not a guy like me would ever have a chance with her. “You think someday we might be able to…you know.”

  Baby laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Looks like you’re doing all you can to survive. Besides, you’re not my type.”

  “What type’s that?”

  “A real man.” She swiped a final drag off her cigarette, then tossed it to the ground, crushed it with the toe of her fiery red Converse. “Get back to class, kid. Go learn a thing or two.”

  I did as she said. And later that day, just as I’d swiped my math book from my locker, I caught that familiar scent of strawberries and naturally oily hair. I wheeled around, was face to face with Callie McCarthy.

  Her hazel eyes sparkled more golden brown than green as she said: “Hi, Mark. What’s up?”

  I was about to respond when I spotted Baby down the hall. As she drew closer, she flashed me a look: C’mon, kid! Grow a pair already!

  Had I taken her look the wrong way, it could’ve easily ha
d me feeling as small as the midgets up in Midgetville—an area in North Jersey where P. T. Barnum had once housed the little people that worked in his circus. Instead, quite the opposite occurred. In response to Baby’s daring glance, I did what I hadn’t been able to do before. I didn’t even need to strike a Bruce pose, was just totally myself when I asked Callie: “Would you like to go out tonight?”

  “Really?” she beamed.

  “Absolutely,” I said. I glanced back over my shoulder, noticed Baby continuing down the hall, but glancing back at me. She blew a teasing kiss. I looked back to Callie. “Well?” I said, feeling ten feet tall. “Do we have a date?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I was hoping you’d ask.” Then again, she said my name: “Mark.”

  About my name.

  Originally, Mom had wanted to call me Ty, after the old movie star, Ty Power. My old man had wanted to call me Kilian. Neither parent liked the other’s name. Mom said Kilian sounded too Irish and violent. My old man thought Ty was way too light in the loafers. An odd thing, though: hardly anyone ever called me by my first name—mainly just my old man and Callie. Whenever my old man called me Mark it sounded like its Roman origin: Mars, the God of War. That made sense. Back then, I was constantly battling him to prove my strength, and that I could ultimately amount to something more than a loser. In Callie’s case, whenever she called me Mark, it sounded much different. Like X marks the spot, I’ve found treasure. Or that one day, I’d make my Mark on the world.

  Chapter 10

  Once the school bell rang, I made a beeline home, dusted, vacuumed, then whipped up one of my old man’s favorites—mushroom pork chops. After he’d eaten and was sitting at the table polishing off a cup of coffee, I told him I was heading over to Jimmy’s to do homework, wouldn’t be out too late. I made sure I’d said all that while I was in the kitchen scrubbing dishes; wanted the running water and Brillo scritch-scratch to obscure any flutter my old man might’ve detected in my voice, and to also make sure he didn’t have a direct line of sight with my eyes, or any other body parts that could rat me out.

  Then I grabbed my schoolbooks, bolted through my neighborhood, out to Route 9. I promptly hopped a bus to Mom’s place. From what my old man had told me earlier in the week, she wasn’t even home. She and her latest boyfriend were off on another Mary Kay expense-paid trip to the Bahamas. I didn’t need Mom anyway.

  For my Callie date, all I needed was her car: Mary Kay Pink Cadillac. Sure that white-trimmed Hostess Snowball on Wheels was a lame choice for a first-date vehicle, but it was all I had available.

  As for my old man, he had his own opinions about that car. He’d say it was the hit-and-run that had driven right over his marriage. Represented all the cash he’d sunk into helping Mom launch her cosmetics career, in addition to all the years Mom had shirked on wife duties—spending day after day selling lipsticks, moisturizers, and recruiting new sales reps—just to score that Caddy. If you asked Mom, she’d say it was payback—the dues she had to pay for all the years of my old man being a bastard.

  For sure I could understand Mom wanting to ditch my old man and Blackwater. But when she left without me that was another story.

  Once at her place—a modest, gravel-yarded, boxy two-bedroom, one bathroom house at the end of a cul-de-sac—I scanned the block. In most homes, lights glowed warmly through living room windows. Happy families were seated around dinner tables; others were huddled together on couches, glued to the tube, ready for an evening of The Dukes of Hazzard, Knight Rider, and Miami Vice. I crouched down by the Caddy’s front driver-side tire, recalled that before leaving home, Mom used to keep a spare key stashed in a magnetic box inside the wheel well. It was still there.

  While I’d never taken the Hostess Snowball out for a spin, driving wasn’t a problem. Starting when I was six, my old man would occasionally strap me into his off-duty ride, and drive me through the Dump, showing off various cop driving techniques: skid pan, controlled braking, evasive simulator, and serpentine. Between that and the R-rated car chase movies I’d snuck into—Vanishing Point and Bullitt—in addition to the racing car video games I’d played—Pole Position and PitStop—I figured myself a regular Steve McQueen. Once again, I scanned the block. Then I scraped the dirt from my ratty black high tops, clicked my heels together three times, said a quick Hail Mary Kay, and unlocked the door. I tossed my schoolbooks on the back floor, hopped behind the wheel. I turned the key in the ignition, adjusted the seats, and flipped on the radio, but not too loud. I eased out of the covered driveway, and down the street. And though that Hostess Snowball was nowhere near as cool as Bessie with her black interior, 80-watt in-dash speakers, and stainless steel skull gearshift knob, she got the job done. At the end of the block, I cranked the stereo. Punched the gas. Made those Caddy whitewalls squeal. Made those 350 horses under the hood rear up, go wild.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Callie’s neighborhood was filled with unadorned one- and two-story cedar and aluminum-sided homes. Their yards—some grass, some gravel, some dirt—were littered with children’s bikes, toys, plastic flamingos, and goofy ceramic gnomes, like the one Jimmy owned. Sedans, station wagons, and other nondescript cars—nowhere near as classy as Mr. Gigliotti’s tricked-out Bessie—were parked on dirt lawns, and in oil-stained driveways. The heady aroma of pitch pine filled the air. The bright chirp of crickets mixed with the throaty hum of the Caddy’s finely tuned engine, and Bob Seger on the radio singing “Shame on the Moon.” And standing on a shadowy corner, a few blocks away from her home, was Callie.

  I pulled over.

  As she stepped carefully toward the car, I noticed her blue and black striped skirt, over-the-knee socks, buckle-up shoes, and Go-Go’s T-shirt beneath an unzipped sweat jacket. Nowhere near as sexy and rebellious as Baby’s cranked-to-ten looks. And while I couldn’t express it so clearly then, I’d later realize Callie’s song was softer, sweeter, something I could easily listen to while sleeping, incorporate into my dreams, then wake up in the morning with the song of her still floating through my head.

  I hit the electronic switch, cranked down the passenger-side window. Got a refreshing blast of salt-air from the nearby Barnegat Bay. “Climb in,” I said.

  Callie stuck her head through the open window. Half laughing, half not, she asked: “Where did you get this?”

  “It’s my mom’s. She sells Mary Kay.”

  Stepping away from the car, Callie’s once sweet looks turned sullen. She glanced down at her fake leg.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  I tried putting myself in Callie’s shoes. Since her accident, it must’ve been difficult to get in a car—especially a stranger’s car. Each ride must’ve constantly brought up so much anger, so much shock and pain. That and the constant reminder of how, in an instant, a charmed life could suddenly vanish. “Look,” I said, “if you don’t wanna that’s fine. I’ll just park and we can talk.”

  Across her face flashed a series of emotions—shame to fear, then full-blown giddiness. It was when she was at her calmest that she asked: “Will you be careful?”

  I chimed in with a lame response that still makes me wonder why she ever put up with me: “You’re in good hands with Allstate.”

  Callie flashed her wobbly smile. “If anything goes wrong I’ll never talk to you again.”

  “Won’t happen,” I said. “I plan on hearing your voice for a long time.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  For the next half hour or so, we drove around our dumpy little town. Nowhere to be found were the stunning vistas I’d seen in those LA movies; where people would drive high into the late-night Hollywood hills and in less than a blink of an eye could witness a stunning view of downtown then, far across that jeweled and glittering city, behold starry-skied Santa Monica. In Blackwater everything was grim, flat, box
ed in. Maybe it had been a different story in the eighteen hundreds when the town was founded. Dense groves of pines, crystal-clear creeks, lush farm lands. Back when I lived there, though, my little town was just strip malls, gun shops, radiation, and funeral homes.

  Callie and I held our breath as we passed Satan’s Tree, rolled our eyes as we cruised by the high school, and shook our heads as we passed Piney shacks with concrete-reinforced bomb shelters dug deep into backyards, in preparation for the power plant’s eruption, or World War III. Had I been alone, or with Jimmy, I might’ve pounded a couple brews, smoked a fatty, or downed some cough medicine to make the ride more interesting. Not that night, though. I wanted to stay clean for Callie.

  At one point, I noticed her good foot pressing into the floorboard. I motioned toward that foot. “Brake or gas?”

  “Gas,” she said.

  “You wanna go faster?”

  She nodded.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Just a little.”

  “No problemo,” I said. “But only a little.” I inched the car up to fifty. We sailed past Duffy’s Bar and the place I’d eventually come to love and hate—the Rainbow Casket Company.

  We ended up out in the Dump. I killed the lights and engine, but left the radio playing low. Normally, I would’ve popped a tape into Mom’s cassette player, but I was so nervous about my date that I’d spaced on bringing any tunes.

  About my tunes.

  Ever since I was a kid, bombarded by K-Tel Records ads I’d seen on TV, I’d learned early on the power of rocking tunes. The right tune at the right time could totally make a date. Take a song like The Kinks’ “Give the People What They Want.” It got girls’ libidos moving faster than a Corvette engine flywheel. And another: Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.” It was great for wooing slinky stoner chicks. Aerosmith’s “Toys In the Attic” could tame the most rebellious, feather-haired rocker babes.

  That night, however, all I had was WMMR, the Caddy, and the Dump to provide my Callie first-date soundtrack—Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me” playing low, the ticking of the car’s cooling engine, cricket chirps, the burble of frogs, along with the whoops and hollers of distant partiers drifting in through the open windows.