Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  “Wow.”

  “I know—crazy, right?”

  “I was thinking more like courageous.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Cut her some slack, Hank. She’s just a mom who wants to be a mom again.”

  “I guess.” I hand Laura her bottle of Sea Breeze. “Is this the last of them?”

  “I think so,” Laura answers.

  I’ve spent most of our last night together before spring break helping Laura pack. For the last hour, we’ve emptied and washed a large assortment of shampoo, mouthwash, and hair gel bottles, which we then refilled with an even greater assortment of alcohols in the clear family: schnapps, vodka, gin. The Sea Breeze bottle is filled with tequila, its amber color passing for the skin astringent. Laura’s suitcase comprises these dozen or so bottles, two pairs of frayed jean shorts, three pairs of underwear, three T-shirts, and a white bikini. She modeled the bikini top for me earlier, her large breasts overwhelming the white cups. At least it isn’t red.

  The opening chords of “Moving in Stereo” ring again in my ears. “This all you taking, honey?”

  Laura bats her eyes. She softens her smoky lilt down to a feminine and sexy tone. “I was thinking about packing just my bikini and the booze.”

  I don’t see the humor in this, and Laura notices. “Come here, sweetie,” she says, her hand extended towards mine.

  I step cautiously toward her. She grabs my hand and pulls me into her. She gives me a deep kiss, one of those kisses that’s so long and intense you start gasping through your nose to breathe.

  “What was that for?” I say.

  Laura puts her head on my shoulder. “Reassurance?”

  I want to be comforted, but I can’t tell if she’s talking to me or herself.

  Chapter eight

  “I’m not going on no fucking retreat.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Mom says. “I already paid for it, and you don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s with some kids from East Catholic up at the CYO center in Indianapolis. It’ll do you some good to meet new people. Get out of the Ridge social circle for a few days, get your mind off Laura.”

  “I don’t want to get my mind off Laura.” I stare at the television. For the last week, MTV has been broadcasting live from Panama City Beach, and I’ve spent every waking hour since Laura left watching the coverage in lieu of eating, showering, or engaging with the world on even a rudimentary level.

  “If I have to watch you mope around this house for even one more day, I’m going to go nuts. It’s pathetic.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but going on a three day religious retreat for my spring break isn’t much of an upgrade on the pathetic scale.”

  Future Cardinal Joseph E. Ritter started the Catholic Youth Organization back in the thirties or forties. The “CYO” supports a variety of youth activities—anything that keeps our dicks in our pants. And nowhere is this brainwashing more acute than the retreats.

  Retreat. The word carries with it a certain connotation in Catholic circles: rebirth, resurrection, renewal…retarded. You disappear for a few days, get all hopped up on Jesus, then spend the next few months trying to clear him out of your system. Jesus is like bad lunchmeat, I guess.

  I went to my first retreat last year as a sophomore. They corralled a thousand of us into the East Catholic High School gymnasium. The motivational speaker was a “rock ’n roll priest,” a guy who tried to validate his coolness by using contemporary music during Mass. Father Don was his name. He played Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie” as an entrance hymn. I made out with a girl who had a Mohawk and smelled like peaches and marijuana, which, come to think of it, wasn’t a totally horrible experience.

  “You’re going,” Mom says. “End of discussion.”

  Chapter nine

  I enter the house. Mom is huddled over the stove in the kitchen, coffee mug in her left hand, sharp knife in her right. She looks up at me.

  “There’s our good Catholic boy,” Mom says. “Glad to have you back.”

  I smile. “Glad to be back.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, leans back, and points at my face with the knife. “Haven’t seen that smile around this house in more than a week. Nice to have you back. How was it?”

  “It was okay.”

  Mom’s eyes perk up. “Okay?”

  “Kind of fun, actually.”

  “Tell me about it,” Mom says.

  I humor my mother. I tell her the retreat began like any Catholic retreat, with a procession of pep talks, a Bible study, a group sing, and a daily Mass that numbed the brain and cleansed the soul. I tell her about our retreat leader, this guy in his mid-twenties who in the span of an hour fought drug addiction, dropped out of high school, was ostracized by family and friends, found Jesus, went back and got his GED, and was now in his second year of trade school where he was studying to become an electrical engineer. The second speaker, months removed from his last “Christian Awakening” retreat and still pretty much Lorded up, gave his own stirring account of how the Holy Spirit had changed his life for the better. He interspersed Top 40 songs in with his presentation to keep us interested. He was an ex-jock, just turned twenty, who had turned his back on the four S’s—“Stroh’s, Smoking, Sex, and Satan.” He played “I Won’t Back Down” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and “Calling on You” by the Christian rock band Stryper. Seriously, fucking Stryper? All the girls thought he was deep. I wanted to punch him in the face, or else buy him a beer.

  What I don’t tell my mother is how on the first night in the dorms we stole the Gatorade cooler out of the rec room, spiked it with vodka, and hid it in a broom closet. Or how after we ran out of dirty jokes, I read from the Book of Leviticus.

  With all due respect to Orthodox Jews, the Book of Leviticus is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever read, an inane list of do and do nots that reads like a long practical joke from God:

  “When a man has an emission of seed, he shall bathe his whole body in water and be unclean until evening.” (By my rough calculations, I’ve been unclean since the invasion of Grenada.)

  “You shall not disgrace your father by having intercourse with your mother.” (Don’t fuck your mom. Good advice.)

  “If a man has carnal relations with a female slave who has already been living with another man but has not yet been redeemed or given her freedom, they shall be punished but not put to death, because she is not free.” (As always in the Bible, slavery is cool. Got it.)

  “If a man commits adultery with his neighbor’s wife, both the adulterer and the adulteress shall be put to death.” (Yeah, but have they seen my neighbor’s wife?)

  “If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed…” (Love your neighbor as yourself, but kill him if he’s a goddamn homo. Understood.)

  “A man or a woman who acts as a medium or fortune-teller shall be put to death by stoning…” (I’ll have my pile of rocks at the ready next Halloween when some six-year-old dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West comes to my door and tries to get her satanic paws on my Reese’s Pieces. “Trick or treat,” she’ll say, with that cute, sugar-edgy voice. “Happy Halloween,” I’ll reply in kind, only to raise my rock-filled fists of vengeance, shouting, “Death to the infidels!”)

  The Book of Leviticus’s sage advice notwithstanding, I still thought about Laura.

  Our group leaders woke us up at dawn on the last day of the retreat, April Fool’s Day. Most of us had less than four hours of sleep under our belts. They were still pushing us nineteen hours later.

  After midnight, they separated us into our small groups, sending each group into a private classroom in the old Latin School building. Our classroom was illuminated by a small circle of candles, with a crucifix in the middle of the circle. Our group leader asked every
one to take turns holding the crucifix and talking to Jesus. Slap happy and defenseless, we coughed up some serious shit.

  The girl across the circle had a bad experience when she lost her virginity and had sworn to give up sex forever. Given that she was hot, I thought this was a rash decision. The guy to my left buried his infant brother two days before he got there, and this made me cry because I thought about Mom’s miscarriages.

  I was fucking exhausted. They broke me. I devolved into a lovesick pussy pining away for Laura. None of the guys in the room liked me for the rest of the night, while I was certain all the girls wanted to fuck me.

  We had an extended farewell Mass the following morning, which pissed me off because Saturday morning was too early to count as Sunday service. Two priests, three guitars, and a triangle—they pulled out all the stops. We were each given a medal—a cheap chain that ended in a medallion resembling a German Iron Cross—and an American Bible Society mass market paperback edition of the New Testament entitled Good News New Testament: Today’s English Version. We all signed each other’s New Testaments, like a yearbook, adding a cliché sentiment or two.

  There was the requisite exclamation point overkill:

  Hank,

  You know you’re such a special person! I say that because you opened up to total strangers! That takes guts, and I admire you! Stay as special as I know you are!

  Love! Leanne

  The not-even-close-to-subtle flirting:

  Hank,

  You’re such a charmer and sooooo cute. I only wish this wasn’t the only time we could hang out. Good luck in whatever it is you do. Keep that charming personality.

  Peace & lots of Enjoyment, Samantha

  The lone person with perspective:

  Hank,

  What’s up, dude? Whew, glad we’re done with this. I hope we’ll go party together because I think it will be a unique experience. I need your phone number.

  Friends, Pete

  And then of course the big-breasted girl who read way too much into something I said to her during last night’s séance because it afforded me multiple hugs and therefore multiple exposures to her enormous rack:

  Hank,

  I’m really glad I got an opportunity to get to know you because you’re one heck of a person. If you ever need someone, I’m here and I hope we can keep a friendship going even after we leave here. It helped to know that you were going through the same thing with your girlfriend that I am with my boyfriend. We both obviously love them very much and I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that by myself. Thanks a lot for being yourself.

  Love, Theresa

  P.S. I need to get something cleared up with you as soon as possible, OK? OK.

  Yeah, about that. After the séance, Theresa and I may have snuck into Holy Rosary and made out in an empty confessional booth. And I may have gotten her top off and fondled her breasts for a solid half hour.

  “Sounds like you had a good time despite yourself, Hank.”

  I hover over Mom’s shoulder, peering down at the breakfast spread. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “Good,” Mom says. “How does ham and eggs sound?”

  “My favorite.”

  “I know.”

  I notice Mom is using leftover grilled ham steak, from last night’s supper, no doubt. The ham harbors a distinct pineapple odor from the marinade. For me this is usually, to borrow some recently reacquired Vatican parlance, victus non grata. I don’t mix my salts and sweets, ever. I make it a point to eat all my bacon or sausage before I put syrup on my pancakes, so as not to get syrup on the meat. I consider things like grapes in chicken salad and salt on watermelon affronts to my existence.

  But I don’t mind the pineapple flavored ham in my eggs, at least not today.

  I watch as Mom cuts the ham into little squares and drops it in a skillet with a couple tablespoons of butter. She pauses every so often to stretch her back and give a slow, mournful rub to her belly. She thinks no one notices.

  While the ham is sautéing, I beat three eggs and a quarter-cup of milk together. I hand the egg mixture to Mom, and she pours it over the ham. Ham and eggs was the first thing I ever learned how to cook. I was seven years old when I made it for Mom and Dad. I remember the harvest gold appliances, the ornate vinyl flooring, the trash compacter, and Mom and Dad not complaining about the large pieces of egg shell.

  The phone rings. Mom points her spatula at me. “Can you get that? I’m guessing it’s for you anyway.”

  I pick up the phone. “Hi, Hank.”

  “Laura? Hey there, baby.” I try to temper my enthusiasm. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this early.”

  “Yeah, well we drove straight through. Got in about three this morning. I couldn’t really sleep.”

  “Poor thing,” I say, more sarcastic than sympathetic.

  We exchange a few forced pleasantries. I give her a hard time for not calling me since Wednesday and sending me one postcard the entire week. She talks about the days getting away from her and how she already wishes she could go back.

  “Go back? But aren’t you glad to—”

  “Can you meet me in front of the library this afternoon?” Her tone is impatient.

  “Not any sooner?” I ask.

  “Look, Hank…” A pause on the other end of the line. “I’m going to try to get some rest, clear the cobwebs. I don’t think my body can figure out whether it’s hungover or still drunk.”

  “Three o’clock, then?”

  “How about five thirty?”

  “I guess I can wait ’til then. I love y—”

  Laura hangs up on me.

  I park the Subie in front of the Empire Ridge Public Library. I’m early, so I wait in the lobby. As soon as I walk in, the receptionist, who I don’t know but who of course recognizes me as “John’s boy,” says hello. Another loyal Oldsmobile driver. A Delta 88 looks about her speed.

  I flip through the sports section of today’s Empire Daily, and then glance at my watch. Laura is late. She’s never late for anything. I’m already bothered that she hung up on me. And my cock still hurts from masturbating in the shower this morning. Twice.

  I have this waterproof poster of a bikini-clad Brenda Dickson, the original Jill Foster from The Young and the Restless. With its special self-adhesive backing that sticks to wet surfaces, the poster has been my on-again, off-again bathing companion for a while now. The combination of Brenda’s cleavage and knowing Laura was getting back from spring break gave me the rare dual orgasm—once early on, after having popped an erection the moment the oscillating spray hit me, and a second time a half hour later after I’d drained the house of all hot water.

  Multiple single-session ejaculations in the shower, waxing sentimental about waterproof posters of soap opera stars…these things beg the question: why haven’t Laura and I had sex yet?

  I guess at some point in time over the last couple months, the awkwardness between us became safe. That line I was once all too ready to cross became a wall—a comfort zone behind which I retreated when things got too intense. We always got most of our clothes off. I always got my mouth on her breasts or my fingers inside her. And yet the nights always ended with me alone in a bathroom, trying to rub out a debilitating case of blue balls, my chastity preserved.

  My chastity preserved? What the hell is my problem? I accrued more “hands-on” sexual experience by the time I was ten years old than most teenagers. I am the ultimate hormonally dysfunctional example of a Catholic upbringing that did not take. And I can’t pull off something as simple as fucking a girl? What does my penis see in my left hand that it doesn’t see in my girlfriend’s vagina?

  “Hey there, Hank.”

  Laura startles me. I smell traces of aloe and suntan lotion on the hand that grabs my shoulder. I turn to her. Her skin is bronzed, her cheeks sunburned, her nose peeling.
Her hair is windblown, bleached sandy blonde by a week in the Panama City sun. She looks fresh off the beach: hair pulled back in a half ponytail, minimal makeup for her, no jewelry save for a large, white hemp bracelet on her left wrist. She’s sexy as hell.

  “Laura,” I say, embracing her. She hugs me back, but it’s cursory and cold, more like how my sister would hug me. As she backs away, I see him standing about ten yards back.

  “You bring a friend?” My question is rhetorical. There’s a lump in my throat. I feel sick.

  “Hank, I’m sorry. It just kind of happened.”

  The “it” in our discussion is the asshole standing behind Laura. His name is Lee Barnes. I fucking know him! She didn’t just hook up with some random guy—she hooked up with a Prepster.

  “Lee Barnes?” I shout his name as if he isn’t even there. “Lee fucking Barnes?”

  “I couldn’t just come back home and pretend nothing happened.”

  “Sure you could,” I respond. “I did.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t think I went to a retreat for my fucking salvation, did you?”

  Laura seems offended by my candor. “What was her name?”

  “Miss None Of Your Goddamn Business,” I say. “I was in a church confessional with a pair of needy Catholic breasts in my face. You were with Lee Barnes. The end.”

  Truth is, I don’t really know Lee Barnes. He’s stocky, but still leaner than me. He has a square jaw and coal-black hair that looks to be permed rather than naturally curly. He used to date Tammy Dwyer, one half of the Dwyer sisters, gorgeous fraternal twins who rule the junior class at the Ridge. I had a crush on Tammy for the first two years of high school, although not so much now that she’s become a chain smoker and whiskey drinker who dates guys partial to ripping out your spleen for even looking at her. Sammy is the sweeter of the two, the shrinking violet you’d throw yourself in front of a bus for. I’m protective of Sammy, even though we aren’t all that close, at least not as close as I pretend we are. She was in my sophomore English class. We flirted. We still flirt, now that I think about it.