She laughs as if I’m joking, and says, “That’ll come in handy if he needs to transport a lot of cargo.”
“Yep, that’s just what we were saying.”
“I’m sure it was.” She touches my hair and asks, “Are you really thinking of shaving your head again?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“You’ll look cute either way,” she says.
I lean in and kiss her on the lips. I better get what I can get while I can still get it. She pulls back before we can start any tongue action. She’s not looking at me, so I finally say, “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“Sorry.” She laughs nervously. “I think you’re going to be mad at me.”
“Only one way to find out.”
“I can’t go to homecoming with you,” she says.
“What?! Who’re you going with?”
“I have to go to New York that weekend,” she explains.
Her mom is written all over this! She must have found out that Bag is getting a hotel room after the dance, and I was thinking about booking one too. I try not to show my disappointment when I say, “Oh.”
“I have to check out the school and the dorms and stuff,” she says. “And the city too. I’ve never been, so I don’t know if I’ll even like New York.”
“You might hate it,” I say hopefully.
She nods. “Or the school might change their minds and be like, ‘You are uninvited, dork.’”
“I don’t see that happening. And if it does, who needs ’em?”
She kisses me and says, “Thanks.”
I love kissing Abby more than anything, but I’m so distracted that I’m kind of phoning this one in. The shadow of doom seems to be floating around us. I’ve always known that Abby was too cool for me…because people are always saying things like, “She’s too cool for you.” But I’ve allowed myself to believe that they’re wrong and that we’re meant to be together. She pulls back and says, “What do you think about coming to New York?”
“Instead of homecoming? With your mom? I don’t know, dude.”
She whacks my shoulder. “No, I think you should apply to the New York Drama School.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it, and I know they would take you. You’ve got the tuition covered with your movie money. It seems like your creativity could really thrive in a place like that, and we could have so much fun together!”
I instantly picture us having sex in a dimly lit, small apartment with brick walls, and then on an old metal fire escape.
She asks, “What are you thinking?”
“Uhhh, just that it’s a big step.”
“Yeah,” she agrees.
“I-I-I don’t even have a driver’s license.”
She says, “Neither do I, but you don’t need one in New York. You just take the subway or ride your bike.”
“That’s cool, but no…you’re smart and like, organized. I don’t even know how to make mac and cheese.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asks.
“Well, my mom still takes care of a lot of my life for me.”
Abby continues, “They have advisers to help you and a dining hall that feeds you.”
“I-I-I just don’t think I’m ready to leave home yet, Abby.”
“You wouldn’t even start until next year,” she adds. “And you’ll never be ready to leave your mom. She’s too awesome. I just thought that you don’t really like football or swimming—or school, for that matter. The only class you enjoy is drama…so—”
“And gym! They probably wouldn’t even have gym at performing arts school.”
“They have dance classes,” she points out.
Oooh, that would be cool. I do love to dance. I picture myself sashaying across a large open studio with tall windows, and no one makes fun of me for doing it. Abby interrupts my daydream to say, “I just wanted to plant the seed. I think you’d rock in New York, and it would be so nice to have you there with me. And since I can’t go to homecoming—”
I visualize us doing it in the back of a taxicab.…It’s a minivan so there’s plenty of space to—
Abby snaps her fingers in my face to regain my attention. “Huh?” I ask.
She says, “I said, what do you think about taking Amber Lee to the dance?”
“What?!”
She shakes her head and repeats, “I was just saying to you that since I can’t go, why not take her?”
“Uhhh, well, first off, she’s pregnant. And if you recall, I actually took her to that dance last year, and she ditched me.”
“Rusty won’t take her,” she whines. “He’s being a dick. He thinks everyone is going to stare at him like he’s a loser who got a girl pregnant, dropped out of school, and now works at a body shop.”
“I could see how that might happen.”
“But who cares? Amber is really upset about it,” she sighs.
“Going to a dance is her biggest concern right now?”
“She thinks everything is going to be different when she has the baby,” she says. “Like she’ll never go to prom and all of that, and she’s pretty depressed. I just know that getting dressed up and dancing and hanging out with you would make her feel so much better.”
“I am pretty awesome.”
She kisses me again and says, “Just think about it. No pressure. If you ever wanted to recue a damsel in distress, this is your chance.”
“Okay…I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you!” she cheers. “You’d better catch up with your friends. But be good, and don’t do anything you don’t want to do.” As if she didn’t just ask me to do a bunch of junk I clearly don’t want to do.
5. SHAVING YOUR WIENER
Abby goes back into the halls. She’s editing some video for the school newspaper. This place is going to fall apart without her. I peer out of the field house windows and survey the parking lot. These days, I like to make sure no psychos are waiting to take me out before I exit a building. My boys are waiting for me by the bike racks. It’s nice to know that people have your back (even if they want to shave your head).
I don’t tell them about Abby’s ideas, but I do make the mistake of flipping the hair out of my eyes, twice, as I’m unlocking.
Bag asks, “Can we get you a scrunchie, Floppio?”
“Enough! Do you ever just stop?!”
Dang it. My boys can smell the weakness in me. They have shark DNA. EJ puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Don’t you think it’s time we got rid of this thing?”
Bag adds, “You’ll feel better if you just clean the slate.”
“Fine,” I sigh.
They roar with excitement. I don’t blame them. We enjoy watching one another go through painful situations, and love to participate whenever possible. As we take off, I tell EJ about Abby asking me to apply to the New York Drama School.
“What are you gonna do?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
He nods with empathy. “What do you want to do?”
I shrug my shoulders with indecision, so he pushes me into the drainage ditch at the edge of the parking lot. I avoid a wipeout, because this happens to me a lot. I have to really hustle to catch up with the pack, and I realize that they’re riding faster than usual. They’re also bunny hopping every crack in the road and they’re giggling like girls. It’s easy to see that my boys want this haircut way more than I do, so I decide to have some fun.
As we turn onto Merrian Lane, I exclaim, “Naahhh, I can’t do it, guys; I’ve changed my mind!”
They wail like babies who’ve had a toy ripped out of their hands. I slyly add, “Well, maybe if I had some company…”
They look at me as if they don’t get it, so I go ahead and spell it out for them: “I will only shave my head if everyone of you does too!”
How many terrible things have been unleashed on the world after hearing or saying something like that? Most rational humans
would say no, because it’s absurd to shave your head just because someone dares you, but no one has ever used the word “rational” to describe fifteen-year-old males. We are the guys who get the “If your friends are jumping off a cliff” speech from an adult on a regular basis. But we’re sans grown-ups at the moment, and we don’t talk each other off of cliffs…we push!
Andre yells, “Done!” because he’s already got short hair, but the other guys drop their heads in defeat as we roll into EJ’s neighborhood. They don’t want buzz cuts just as it’s starting to get cold, but they’re powerless to say or do anything that will stop it from happening.
We ride in silence until Nutt asks, “Did you know that those sensors on auto-flush toilets are measuring your penis?”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” EJ asks.
Nutt replies, “Bart’s writing a research paper about testosterone, and he stumbled onto these government reports that are documenting the shrinking of the American wiener. Think about it. No one is going to volunteer to get his dong measured.”
“Especially if they’re going to tell you it’s too small,” I add.
“Exactly!” Nutt says. “The government doesn’t care if a urinal is flushed; that’s just a bonus. The little red light starts flashing when you unzip your jeans. That’s a camera, dude.”
Levi says, “No way. That would cost billions.”
“Why do you think our country is in so much debt?” Nutt asks.
No one says anything, so he continues. “Bart says they’ve been working on it for years. During World War II, the military conducted the same study on GI’s because they’d noticed such a decline in size since the First World War.”
Doc suspiciously interjects, “Wouldn’t they have better things to do in a war?”
“I haven’t noticed this chapter in my American history book,” I add.
Nutt retorts, “It was top secret! They don’t want other countries to find out how small we’re getting! They think it’s happening all over the world, but no one will talk about it. But it’s like: why did dudes start wearing skinny jeans all the sudden? Old-time guys only wore baggy pants and they pulled them up real high so their meat couldn’t fall out. Ancient men rocked kilts and robes because they couldn’t handle pants at all.”
I don’t think trousers were even invented back then, but Hormone adds, “The Spartans sure would’ve blown out the crotch of some Emo-pants!”
We’ve all seen the movie 300 about three hundred times and it’s obvious that those guys were tougher than us (even though they wore miniskirts). It stands to reason that they’d have bigger wangs too.
“Pee shooters started shrinking during the industrial revolution because of pollution and because we stopped hunting and fishing for our food,” Nutt explains. “Dudes start working at desks and pushing paper, so their testosterone levels drop. Women are taking control because brute strength is basically useless in the modern world. So our king-size Snickers are shifting into minibites!”
We roll up to EJ’s house and finally see IT parked under the basketball goal. FREEDOM!!! A poop-brown 1969 Dodge Dart, Swinger edition! EJ’s great-aunt Jenny died last month, and his dad bought this car from her estate for a dollar! EJ’s mom thinks they got ripped off, but the boys and I think we got the deal of the century. His mom wanted to get EJ a convertible Beetle, but that dream died when Aunt Jenny kicked the bucket, and EJ was able to retain his dignity for a while longer.
According to EJ, the Dodge Dart came with a 426-cubicinch Hemi-powered engine. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I try to seem impressed along with the rest of my boys. I gather that this car is very fast and we’re going to become some of those people who bitch about gas prices (and speeding tickets) soon.
I love that it’s got a chrome emblem on the side that says “Swinger”! It’s just a special edition of this type of car, but it’s also what my grandpa would say when he wanted to call someone a player.
Doc explains, “This car was made for free love, in the height of the Swinging Sixties! The backseat is just a twin-size mattress with safety belts!”
“Take it easy,” EJ warns. “Nobody is getting any ‘free love’ in this thing except me.”
Everyone laughs at him because we all know that EJ would never enforce a rule that caused the rest of us to not get laid. He’s aware that this isn’t just his car. The Johnsons may have some paper that says they own it, technically, and EJ will probably be the one that wrecks it, but this thing is public property. We’re all going to take part in its destruction. It still smells like an old lady’s perfume, but it’ll soon stink like a locker room (a combination of Axe body spray and a homeless dude’s armpit) and have a lot of questionable stains on the vinyl seats.
We’re giddy with the thought of never having to cram into Hormone’s CRX again. Bag pets the plush seat like it’s a cat and gasps, “I’m gonna have so much sex in your grandma’s ride!”
EJ clarifies. “She was my great-aunt! And at least let me be the first to use her.”
We all seem to agree that this is a fair arrangement. J-Low shakes EJ’s shoulders and yells, “Make Aunt Jenny proud, E!”
Just like that, a car that could be nicknamed so many things will be forever known as “Aunt Jenny.” Good nicknames work like that.
We don’t have her keys, so we can only give her a virtual test drive. We work out the geometry of the car (in our own way)—she can handle eleven dudes at once, and that’s not including her massive trunk (the lewd jokes are endless).
Nutt is sitting in the driver’s seat when EJ’s dad pulls into the driveway. Nutt is wearing Aunt Jenny’s old sun goggles, and he honks the horn and asks, “Hey, sonny boy, you wanna go fo’ a ride?!”
EJ’s dad seems happy that we like the car, but also a little nervous. It doesn’t help that his son and four of his friends are climbing out of the trunk, and Doc asks him, “Do you know why they called it the Swinging Sixties, Mr. Johnson?”
He just walks past in silence. EJ asks, “Dad, where are the hair clippers and the old boxing gloves?”
Fathers are like natural-born detectives. He smells trouble, and stops to ask suspiciously, “Why?”
EJ assures him that it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “We’re just gonna shave our heads and start a fight club.”
His dad peers into Aunt Jenny’s rear window as if we’re a pack of aliens that has landed in his driveway. You’d think he’d shut this whole operation down, and you would’ve been right last year. But EJ’s family has been going to counseling for the past few months. I guess the therapist laid into his mom pretty good for “overparenting” and not allowing her kids to fail. This doctor lady warned EJ’s parents that their kids might never leave the nest, because they give out the gold stars too easily. So both his mom and dad have been giving EJ a lot of freedom lately. (Notice the race car in the driveway. The one that says “Swinger” on the side.) Mr. Johnson just walks into the house without telling us where the clippers or gloves are.
EJ says, “I gotcha, Dad, we’ll find ’em!”
I also think Mr. Johnson needs an excuse if anybody’s parents (mine) want to bitch him out when they learn at whose house their son shaved his head and got a black eye.
We rip the basement apart for ten minutes before EJ remembers that the clippers are in the emergency kit (a plastic tub that holds a flashlight, duct tape, pudding, beef jerky, Band-Aids, and hair clippers). I guess the Johnsons worry about snacking and grooming during a crisis.
The shears are almost as badass as Aunt Jenny. They’re big, old, and loud. We clean them with some bleach and an old toothbrush, and get to work.
EJ cackles as he shaves a tic-tac-toe board into the side of my skull and then “HI” into the other side. On some level, I’m being tortured, but on another, I’m having a blast. This is the junk I missed over the summer, and what I’d miss out on if I went to some private boarding school in New York City. Abby would be there, but there would be nothing
like this going on, I’m sure.
I hate seeing the locks fall before my eyes, but I feel light as a feather when I’m back to stubble all the way around. We take turns with the barber duties, and J-Low gives EJ a rat tail that looks awesome. We almost convince him to keep it, but he eventually shaves it off himself.
I’m just finishing Bag’s haircut, stripping the last bits of fuzz off his oddly shaped skull and wondering if he was dropped as a baby. I’m also wondering how much barbers get paid when Bag suddenly whips around and says, “Yo, Carter—”
That’s all he gets out before the old shears gobble up most of his right eyebrow. It sounds like a garbage disposal grinding up a baby bunny. Even the clippers seem to know they’ve done something they shouldn’t have.
I scream, “Ohhhh, noooo!” before pointing at him and laughing my ass off.
“WOOOWWW!!!” EJ gasps.
Bag sprints into a tiny half-bathroom under the stairs. He looks in the mirror and cries, “DUUUDE!!!” before he starts moaning like a wounded dog. The rest of us are hysterically laughing on the floor. He’s obviously not seeing the humor yet (probably won’t until after Christmas). There are only about four hairs left toward the middle of his brow.
“You look like a mad scientist about to come up with a plan!” Doc says.
“You look cross-eyed!” J-Low adds.
EJ says, “Yo, you gotta shave that little patch off.”
I remind Bag of the challenge he issued to me about an hour ago. “Clean the slate, bro!”
Bag is trembling with frustration. He wants to blame me, but everyone saw him turn right into the clipper’s path.
“Okay, I’ll shave off the rest of my eyebrow if you guys shave one of yours!” he yells out, like it’s the best idea ever.
That trick seems to work only once a day and doesn’t apply to essential face hair. So Bag raises the shears to his forehead and strips off what’s left of his right brow. It doesn’t help the crazy factor. Now he just looks very suspicious of everything.
We giggle like a pack of skinhead schoolgirls. We all look strange, but Bag looks ri-dic-ulous!
“I’m not gonna get laid for months!” he whines.
Carter's Unfocused, One-Track Mind Page 6