by Chris Lynch
“Ya,” I said, trying to ho-hum her into submission. “I guess he’s a decent ice-cream man.”
“Yup. A go-getter. I’m gonna be like that, Oakley.” She paused, then spoke more directly to me, like I needed remedial pep-talking. “I’m going to be go-get. You wanna be go with me?”
“I’m having enough trouble trying to be understand you, Lilly.”
She laughed. “You’re the funniest guy, Oakley.”
The baseball players had all been served when one straggler came on up.
“No he’s not. I’m the funniest guy,” Pauly said.
“She doesn’t mean that kind of funny. Scram, Pauly.”
He wasn’t even looking at me. He knew her from school, but only by sight. They never spoke.
“Do I know you?” he said. He was looking at Lilly, so he could have meant it either way. The straight way, where you ask a person—Lilly—if you’ve met before. Or the jerky way, where you ask a person—me—to please buzz off. Coulda been both, now that I think of it.
“I’ve seen you around,” Lilly said.
“You don’t play baseball,” I reminded Pauly.
“I’m just here heckling,” he said. “Can I have a Coke please? And a Hoodsie? But only if you have the real Hoodsies, with the wooden spoons. Don’t waste my time with those plastic spoons.”
Lilly was about to get it when I intervened. “No, you can’t.”
“Oakley,” she snapped, getting the stuff anyway. “Why are you being like that?”
“He’s my best friend. I can be like that.”
“I thought I was your best friend,” Lilly said. A joke that wasn’t.
“I’ll be your best friend,” Pauly said to her.
I had this sudden, mad, sweeping feeling of losing. Of losing big things, of losing everything. Stupid, yes. But very real and very very saddening to me.
Until Lilly started laughing. And my things came right back to me.
“That’s so nuts, isn’t it? The way we do that? Who ever invented that anyway, best friends?”
“Barney Rubble,” Pauly said authoritatively.
“Come on, let’s go,” Stan called from the front.
“Oh, your order,” Lilly said to Paul.
“He doesn’t have the money to pay for it,” I said. “I can tell by the way he asked.”
“Stop that now,” she scolded me.
“Ya, stop,” he said. Then he got his refreshments, made sure to open up both very quickly so we couldn’t take them back.
“Buck fifty,” I said.
He leaned over the counter, sad, sweet, repentant. “Jeez, I had no idea you people were so expensive. Can I borrow a buck forty?”
Lilly started laughing.
“Don’t do that, please,” I said to her. My turn to scold. “It’ll just make him worse.”
“It’s fine,” Lilly said to Pauly. “Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t even really work here.”
“Come on,” Stan said, starting up the truck and cranking the radio. “I finished my cigarette. If we’re parked longer than one smoke then we’re wasting time.”
“Yo, Stan,” Pauly called.
“Yo, Pauly,” Stan called back. “Don’t be comin’ around my truck without no money.”
“Got it covered,” Pauly said confidently, winking at Lilly. I whipped my head around to see if she winked back, but I was too late. Her smile said she had, though.
Off we were, and music blasting, Mountain Dew flowing, we started chatting about you-know-who.
“He’s nice,” Lilly said.
“No he isn’t,” I said.
“Really I am, but people don’t understand me,” Stan said.
Lilly laughed, then excused herself. “Sorry, Stan, we were talking about that boy Pauly, not you. But you’re nice too, of course.”
“No he isn’t,” I whispered close by her ear.
It was starting to seem like Lilly found everything I said amusing. She just laughed, shook her head, and slapped my arm.
“Okay, well what about Stan then? You must admit Stan is cool.”
“Hell, Lilly, he ain’t so great.”
“But he is, in his way. He is kind of wild, and at the same time he’s serious about stuff. He seems to enjoy himself, and at the same time he pays his bills.”
“Even if his bills are probably for heroin or something.”
For the moment, she was not amused by me. “What has gotten into you?” she asked.
At which point, I made it worse. “Us,” I said. “I get a little jealous, is all.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, my …”
Which was not what I wanted to hear.
She reached over, lightly touched both of my cheeks with both of her palms. “You can’t be my boyfriend, Oakley.” She looked desperate, her regular confidence drained away. “I really need you to be more than that. You’re my best friend. You’re already my best friend. Ever.”
And what, I ask, could I say about that? Has it ever happened, that your ears heard one thing and your heart and lungs and fluttery buttery belly heard a whole different story?
Stan must have felt like he had to say something. “I got a bump on my head, shaped like a number two. Wanna feel it?”
“No,” I said.
“Wasn’t asking you.”
“Sure, I’ll feel it,” Lilly said. I glared at her, to very little effect.
“Kids!” I hollered, pointing out the window like I was up in the crow’s nest of the Nina.
“Rich kids!” Stan yelled, straightening and pulling the truck right up onto the sidewalk. “Great neighborhood. Next to the stoners, this is my biggest bread-and-butter. Every time I pass through here without my truck somebody calls the cops. Now that’s a nice neighborhood.”
Back at our station.
“You’re embarrassing,” I said to Lilly as she handed out ices to one polite kid after another. They all wanted napkins. “Don’t touch a person’s head-bump just because he asks you to. I don’t care what number it’s shaped like.”
“Loosen up, will you, Oakley? I was just having fun.”
“Ya but, what’s he gonna think? When a girl starts feeling the bumps on a guy’s head … Hey … what are you … hey, stop laughing at me.”
“How old did you say you were, Grandpa?”
I was about to defend myself but came up empty. “Okay,” I said, finally getting a small laugh at myself.
“Come on, Oakley, don’t you, just for a second, wonder what it would feel like to kiss a mouth like Stan’s?” As she said this, she went into a sort of pantomime gimp kiss, tilting her head to the side, trying to do the trick of puckering only half of her mouth.
“Not for a second,” I said sharply, perhaps underscoring the point about my tightness. “I’ll loosen up, but I’m not gonna loosen up that much.” I turned away from her, started jamming, forcing change into the children’s weak little hands.
Then all at once even these well-mannered, well-entertained kids let out a great collective “Ooohhh,” as Lilly kissed long and loud, sloppy and slurpy, on my unguarded cheek.
I stopped moaning, whining, handing out change, and breathing.
“You are funny, and yet you are a bit of a stiff, aren’t you,” she said into my ear as I stared into the giggly faces before me.
“I may be a stiff, and I may not be your boyfriend, but I can still try to steer you away from freakish guys.”
“Too late,” Pauly blurted, parting the crowd and practically flopping himself on the counter.
Lilly laughed.
“Wouldja stop laughing at him?” I barked. “Pauly, for cripes’ sake, what are you doing here now?”
“Just in the neighborhood,” he said, cheesy-smiling at Lilly.
“This neighborhood? You got no business in this neighborhood. You got no friends in this neighborhood—”
“Ya, but I got money to pay for my ice cream now,” he said, slapping two dollar
s on the counter. I noticed all the other kids had scrammed. “And I got myself awful thirsty in the process. Howsabout a Coke?”
“My cigarette’s nearly out,” Stan called, and the truck growled into action. As he looked back our way, Stan fixed Pauly with a stare and, with crack marksmanship, flicked the last of his cigarette at his head.
“Take me with you,” Pauly said.
“No,” Stan said, putting the truck in gear.
“Then come hang out with me,” Paul called, trotting alongside us. “This looks boring as hell anyway.”
“Can’t,” I said.
“Didn’t mean you, numbnuts. I meant her.”
Lilly marveled at us. “Between the two of you … you guys must laugh all day long.”
“All day long,” I said, and went to sit up with Stan. Lilly hung back to wave to Pauly, as he ran along with the truck.
I watched out of the corner of my unconcerned, unjealous, unboyfriendy eye. Watched Lilly watching Pauly. She liked him, no question, in a way … well, in another way. The rat.
Then I looked at the rat himself, chugging along after us like a nutter.
She had every reason in the world to like him. I knew that. Most people didn’t. Now Lilly did.
“He says he wrote me a poem,” Lilly called to us.
Lilly smiled. Stan did not. Not even a half of a half of a smile. He gunned the engine. Gunning the engine of the Good Humor wagon was not exactly heading into hyperspace, but it was jarring enough, looking at Stan’s pale face go pink, listening to the motor strain and groan and slowly overtake the tinkling ice-cream-man music, then the blast of the radio. The whole machine rumbled and shook, made worse by Stan’s jagged little jerks of the wheel and inexplicable pattern of gear shifting. I looked back to see black smoke billowing in Pauly’s face.
“Can you stop, Stan?” I asked.
“No, I just got it into third—”
“Please,” I said, and though he remained in his fringes of society-slanted, hard-guy glower, he worked us back down into second … first … park.
Pauly was winded but couldn’t wait.
Whatsername #1
All day I follow
Bad Humor Man
Freak Albino Burnout
Stan
Just so I can meet
The Girl
Let’s just say her name is
Pearl
The one who’s gonna change
My Luck
Get close to me
and lose the Duck
It must have been some serious effort to pull that off smoothly, because as soon as Pauly finished reciting, he went into spasms of wheezing and coughing like he would die.
“Come here, come here, come here,” Lilly said, cracking open a Coke and nearly pouring it into him. Pauly slurped at it like a baby being bottle-fed. Lilly shook her head as she watched and, no doubt, replayed the words in her head.
“What is it about this town?” she said. “All these, like, good-sir-knight kind of guys. I never met anybody like you people. It’s like Camelot around here.”
“Hey,” Stan yelled. “Bad Humor Man Freak Albino?” He tried to sound mad, but he came off more like, proud. “I have a very good humor.”
“So who’s the duck?” I blurted. “Huh, Pauly? Is that me? I’m the duck then, is that it?”
Pauly started laughing, then wheezing.
“Pearl,” Lilly said. “Pearl. That’s lovely, isn’t it? You’re really good at that … poetry. Turning ordinary things into special things. That’s how it works, isn’t it? You are really good….”
“I can’t carry you all,” Stan said. “If that’s where we’re headed with this. That’s too much.”
Paul was catching his breath, and backing away from the truck now.
“No,” I said, and got down. “I really don’t want to ride anymore.” And it was true, I didn’t. And besides …
“Get up there,” I said hard into Pauly’s ear.
“I’m coming with you, Oakley,” Lilly said.
“No, you have to work. And also … you should take this guy. He can’t even breathe.”
Stan started the truck and jammed it into gear. “Whoever’s coming, come now,” he said.
“Really?” Lilly mimed to me.
Pauly had no such hesitation. He was already on board and digging around in a cooler.
I went up to her. “You nervous, going with Pauly?”
She shook her head. “Nope. You think he’s okay. So he must be okay.”
“Yup,” I said quietly. “You’re gonna love him.”
So they saddled up and headed out. I walked along, in the scorching summer sun, enjoying the toasted feeling coming over my face. I closed my eyes to it, continued walking, and listened to the goofy tinkling Good Humor music. I wondered what I had just done.
“Cast thy bread upon the waters …” an old comforting voice came back to me.
Until half a block away, Stan skidded to a halt. Out popped Lilly. Walking back my way and waving over her shoulder at the truck. But no Pauly. The rat.
Until one hundred feet further … another skidding stop. The rat.
And then there were three.
Horse
WHEN WE WERE KIDS at this school,
we were famous for this,
me and Pauly.
We stunk the joint out
every time we took to the court,
and in spite of that,
we took to the court
every chance we got.
Crowds would gather.
We’d go an hour
without either of us sinking a shot.
Still all true.
Clang, my shot goes off the rim.
Points were never the point
of shooting.
Clang.
’Tsamatter with you? Pauly.
Pauly knows, because he knows me,
and he knows stuff,
and he knows the world,
and he has this keen perception thing going,
the way maniac people do.
He’s not nuts, however.
But I don’t want him to know.
Nothing, I tell him.
I lie because I’m afraid he might help.
The Lilly is the death flower did you know that,
Oakley?
It is Saturday morning,
sun shining,
air biting in a nice
October morning kind of a way,
and we are shooting
baskets in the school yard
of Edna St. Vincent Millay
Middle School,
which we attended as kids.
Vince,
we called it then and now.
Lilly’s the death flower, well, yes,
I suppose I did know that. That is,
I knew the lilly showed up at funerals a lot.
I walk behind the basket, and attempt a shot
right over the backboard.
It’s a game of horse.
A twelve-year-long
game of horse.
I think we’re on
the letter O. Possibly I have an R.
Ever seen one of them? he asks.
Those funerals where they’re all
deadly dramatic
and put a lilly flower
in the dead guy’s
hands?
Ever seen one of them?
He is not within range of the basket.
He has to throw the ball
like a football for it to even come close.
He does,
and it doesn’t.
You went out without me, he says,
watching me retrieve and square
up for another shot.
His hands are on his hips, and he walks
toward me without any sense
of purpose at all.
Defense is not really an issue with us.
You know I hate that, when you go out without
I know you do, I say, and throw the ball
clean over the backboard.
And still, you do it anyway, he says,
in such a sincere voice
I could laugh or bow my head
in shame.
As a compromise
I bow my head
and laugh.
Unamused,
arms akimbo,
he lets me chase
my own miss.
I pick up the ball, rest it on my hip,
and look back across to where my friend waits.
He stares at me,
I stare at him.
I sit on the curb.
He sits on the court.
Time
out.
To think about what I’ve done.
Or to think about what I haven’t.
This is what he wants. My all.
Because that is what he donates. His all.
Time out.
I don’t need a lot.
I get back up and walk over.
No Pauly, I say, I have never seen one of those
funerals
deadly dramatic
where they place in lilly-white hands
a bone-white lilly.
And neither have you.
Okay I haven’t, he says, but I have thought
plenty
about being buried with Lilly.
Christ Pauly,
is all I say
and all I should have to say.
Even he should know.
We have set up about ten feet apart, and are
just passing the
ball back and forth,
first easy, gradually with more pepper.
Like, you want to be buried alive with her, or will one of you be dead
and the other one’s supposed to just
jump in?
He sighs, whips me the ball.
Oh, I don’t know, he says. Just more
the spirit
of the idea that I like,
more than the
practical side of it.
Know what I mean?
Well, I whip it back, and tell him I do. He truly
can’t see
life post-Lilly.
But I still don’t think the answer
is Lilly post-life.
There is no practical side, Pauly.
Pauly withdraws, backs away,
stretches his hands out toward the sky.
He wants the ball.
I pull back and heave it.
Passing, we do fine.
We are excellent passers.