Now Is the Hour

by Tom Spanbauer

  I grabbed the sharp edge of the broom handle, rolled the window down. Took the broom handle in my hands.

  Better than a poke in your eye with a sharp stick.

  The broom handle, with its jagged point at the end, was just big enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Something nice the way it fit. I slipped the broom handle end into the inside pocket of my suit jacket.

  My cigarette was lit, “Purple Haze” on the radio. If this was going to hell, then bring it on. I was escaping, showing off. I was eating her oatmeal cookies. I was making a spectacle of myself. I was Rigby John Klusener, and I was hauling ass.

  The sky was big, dark, gray rolling clouds. Thunderheads. A couple of raindrops hit the windshield. When I turned on the wipers, the wipers screeched and the windshield became one big smear.

  In the Snatch Out, Karen’s root-beer brown ’57 Pontiac sat off by itself. When I pulled up alongside, the driver’s window rolled down. It was Billie behind the steering wheel. She was wearing new rose-colored John Lennon glasses.

  My heart was still pounding. I couldn’t wait to tell Billie about Mom. But when I got a good look at Billie, I didn’t say a word. Something was up.

  Did anybody follow you? Billie said.

  I looked around for crazy maniacs. The Snatch Out was pretty empty.

  My mother hadn’t followed me.

  No, I said.

  Then: Let’s not talk here, Billie said. Follow me.

  Billie took off, and I followed the root-beer brown ’57 Pontiac through the parking lot to Ashby, then left on Ashby. People I passed by in their cars looked at me weird. I felt like Illya Kuryakin in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. About five blocks away, on West Herzog Street, under a big silver maple, Billie pulled the Pontiac over and parked. I pulled in behind her and got in the Pontiac.

  Billie was wearing her mother’s wedding dress. Weird, seeing that dress again. The splooge of red wax at the crotch. But I didn’t say anything. I pulled out George’s pack of Camels. A Camel for me, a Camel for Billie. But Billie shook her head.

  I can’t, Billie said. Cigarettes are making me sick.

  Weird not smoking with Billie. I rolled down my window, lit my cigarette, blew the smoke out the window. So much I was bursting to tell Billie, but what did I say?

  It looks like it’s going to rain, I said.

  Idaho, man, you can’t get away from it.

  From out of the ignition, something caught my eye. Connected to the ignition key was a large key ring with a bunch of keys. And something else hanging down. Attached to the key chain was a piece of lava rock.

  Billie’s tiny fingernails were painted red. She was rubbing her hands around and around. I thought it was because she needed a cigarette.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Billie said.

  What? I said.

  Billie’s hands, her little red fingernails, around and around.

  My father is really drunk, Billie said. He wouldn’t let me leave the house. He locked me in my room, Billie said. I managed to call Karen and then I crawled out my window.

  Billie’s voice was a deep Simone Signoret, and it sounded far away.

  What a sight, Billie said. Can you imagine? A pregnant woman in this dress trying to make it out her bedroom window.

  Billie’s mother’s wedding dress.

  White shiny silk. Billie’s boobs about to bust over the top. The red glob of red wax in the crotch. Red wax drips all the way down the front of the dress. The dress was big and took up that whole side of the car. I reached over and touched the folds of skirt, a long drip of red wax. When Billie moved, the slick sound of silk. Something once so shiny and clean, now shockingly dark and bloody.

  It’s a good metaphor, Billie said. Don’t you think?

  Can you really wear that dress to the dance?

  It’s all I could find to wear, Billie said. Before I jumped out the window.

  Billie looked down at the dress, the red wax splooge. She pulled her belly in, then put her hands up on the bodice. Billie moved one breast around and then the other.

  I swear, Billie said, I feel like any minute my nipples are going to boing out for the whole world to see.

  Billie’s red-lipped smile wasn’t much of a smile. The gray evening light, the way it hit the John Lennon glasses, mirrors of rose-colored clouds.

  Just then, above us, the silver maple went crazy. Wind, big gusts, blowing hard. A blast of hail, hail so loud you couldn’t think. Billie and I looked at each other, hail pinging off the Pontiac, and for a moment, all there was in the world was hail and the roar of hail. In no time at all the ground was covered. That quick, the hail stopped.

  Through the windows, the breeze was cool and smelled weird like burnt flowers. A magpie was making a fuss.

  Rig, I’m afraid, Billie said. I haven’t told Dad who the father is. Mom tried to tell Dad it isn’t you, but he won’t listen.

  Shit, Billie said. He’s so drunk.

  Billie wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Her nose was as red as her eyes.

  Dad thinks the father is you, Billie said. And he knows your pickup.

  He’ll be out tonight looking for us, Billie said. I just know it.

  Billie slumped down and a big sob burst out. I scooted across the seat, put my arm across her shoulders. Billie’s French smell mixed in with silk and the smell of wax.

  For a long time, we sat like that, Billie and me, raindrops spitting on the windshield. I thought about the time in the Shanghai when Billie’d cried, and because she cried she’d turned into something ugly and needy and it freaked me out.

  Billie was crying now. I didn’t feel freaked out, and crying didn’t make her ugly.

  Boyfriend and girlfriend hasn’t got much to do with friends at all.

  Billie snuffed up, blew hard into her torn-up Kleenex.

  I’m so sorry, Rig, Billie said. I didn’t mean for this to happen.

  Billie hadn’t really looked at me since I’d sat in the car. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she thought she looked ugly so she hadn’t looked.

  Just then, though, Billie looked up, and her eyes blinked, and the blue in them flashed out bright from inside all that red.

  What on earth happened to you? Billie said.

  What? I said.

  Billie reached up, pulled the rearview mirror around.

  Look at yourself, Billie said.

  In the mirror, blood under my nose, three big scratches on my cheek, a big bruise growing on my cheekbone, my hair sticking up like some guy crazy.

  What a sight.

  Into the mirror: Hello, Mother, I sang, hello, Father.

  Billie’s smile was smack all across her face. I loved it that Billie was smiling.

  Your mother and father did that? Billie said.

  Only mother, I said.

  Your father’s not the only one out looking for us tonight, I said.

  Oh fuck, Billie said.

  Oh fuck is right, I said.

  My money’s on Mom doing the most damage, I said.

  Right then, I wanted to tell Billie all about how I’d escaped from Mom. But I didn’t. She was too freaked out.

  A long Idaho moment with so much to say and saying nothing.

  There we were: Billie Cody and Rigby John Klusener.

  As fate would have it, all Billie and I were trying to do was go to the prom.

  Jeez, Billie, I finally said. Look at you and me. I swear, we’re so weird we’re moving into the ludicrous.

  Into the absurd, Billie said.

  The resemblance is phenomenal, don’t you think? I said, We look exactly like Yves Montand and Simone Signoret.

  Billie and I do exactly the same thing at the same time. Inside us first, down deep, something inside that has to come up and out, and when it does, my weird sound mixes up with Billie’s weird sound, and then both of us are sitting in this sound that we are making from the inside, and we are looking at each other in the eyes as we are making the sound.

  Weird thing, laugh
ter.

  Here Billie and I were again, a year and some months since we met, still laughing, holding our stomachs, our bodies slamming around inside the Pontiac, arms flailing, feet kicking, high screams laughing like a couple of damn fools.

  Billie’s whole body is rolling, rumbling, trying to accommodate the weird sound coming up and out, and sure enough, wouldn’t you know it, boing, out pops one nipple, then, boing, out pops the other nipple. Billie’s laughing so hard, she can’t even put her nipples back in. She just sits there, these massive, soft pink mounds of flesh, two brown nubs, two beings, bouncing up and down, alive themselves.

  My God, the laughter. Sore belly. Snot and saliva, then coughing because of cigarettes. Then just because we’re Billie Cody and Rigby John Klusener, because we’re so Yves Montand and Simone Signoret, as fate would have it, just to make the cycle complete, wouldn’t you know it, one of us has to fart. It was me this time. The oatmeal cookie dough. My fart was abrupt and real loud. Made a tent in my suit pants and traveled down my leg. Thank God it didn’t stink.

  It was too much.

  Really, the way Billie and I laughed, wasn’t like we’d ever laughed before.

  And I tell you, since then, nothing, never, nothing ever has made me laugh for so hard, so long. Never.

  I met Billie Cody laughing.

  And that evening, in the root-beer brown ’57 Pontiac, under the silver maple on West Herzog Street, hailstones covering the ground, laughing is how we parted.

  And despite all the shit that came down later on that night, that’s how I plan to remember it.

  Remember her. Billie Cody.

  The problem was, when we quit laughing, we still had the problem. Billie was still pregnant. Billie’s father was out to kill me. And my mother was out to crucify Billie and suck out my blood.

  Then there was the problem of the joints.

  Billie had promised a bunch of people she’d have joints to sell them that evening before the dance. The problem was she told them she’d meet them in the Snatch Out.

  If we stay in this car, Billie said, we should be safe. My father doesn’t know this car, and neither does your mother.

  Saturday night, the end of July, heat lightning and intermittent rain and hail, Pocatello, Idaho, the Snatch Out. It’s about eight-thirty, and the place is buzzing.

  Billie and I are parked in the root-beer brown ’57 Pontiac. Billie’s behind the wheel, and I’m sitting on the passenger side. Billie is back to wearing the rose-colored John Lennon glasses. She’s also wearing a wide-brimmed felt cowboy hat, and I’m wearing a porkpie hat. We got the hats from Karen.

  Karen and Cheryl are driving Cheryl’s parents’ white Buick Riviera. They’ve come and gone and bought two joints.

  Still to buy joints are four people, all girls. Liz and Diane and Kathy and Carrie.

  I don’t know any of them.

  The joints are in my shirt pocket.

  By this time, Billie is smoking. Her cigarette is a windshield wiper. Then a straight dive to the ashtray.

  Billie, I say, so far we’ve seen two cop cars.

  Rigby John, Billie says. It’s your Catholic sense of doom again. Everything’s going to be fine. What we’re doing is completely safe.

  Just act like everything is perfectly normal, Billie says.

  Perfectly normal, I said. We look like Laurel and Hardy, and everything’s perfectly normal.

  At least it’s different, Billie said.

  Differnt, I said. It’s pronounced differnt.

  Then it’s rain so hard you can’t see out the windshield. It was like when you’re in a car wash, the windows. The neon of the Snatch Out sign, the headlights of cars, smeared ghostly lights, running in together.

  A knock on Billie’s window.

  Billie looks over her glasses at me first, then rolls down the window slow. Under the black umbrella is a girl in a red shiny dress. Her hair is black, and curly like the girl on the good ship Lollipop.

  Hi, Billie, she says, can I get in back till the rain stops?

  Sure, Billie says, and reaches around and unlocks the back door.

  The dome light goes on, and the girl with the black hair ringlets and the red dress collapses her umbrella and gets in the back seat.

  Liz, Billie says, this is Rig. Rig, Liz.

  Liz and I say hi. Liz is wearing lots of mascara and auburn eye shadow. Her hair bounces every time she moves. She looks at my porkpie hat and the iron burn on my collar. My untied red tie. She looks at Billie’s Hoss Cartwright hat.

  I thought you guys were going to the Senior Summer All Night Party? Liz says.

  We are, Billie says. We’re incognito.

  I turn my head around.

  My mother, I say. Her father.

  Oh! Liz says. Right.

  This Liz person doesn’t know what the fuck, so she says: How much was it for one joint?

  Two dollars, Billie says.

  Billie goes to pat me on the shirt pocket, but I already got the joints out. I unroll the plastic sack. My fingers aren’t shaking. Seven fat joints lying in the palm of my hand.

  Liz looks at me like I’m the coolest guy she’s ever seen.

  Take your pick, I say.

  Liz points with her index. Her fingernail, red, the same red as her dress.

  I’ll take the fattest one, Liz says. The one in the middle.

  Two dollars? Liz says.

  Two dollah, Billie says.

  Another knock on the window. This time it’s on my side. The rain is still coming down hard. There’s no way I can see out.

  A flashlight shines in the window. The flashlight beam is right on my crotch. I quick close my palm over the joints.

  A man in a dark hooded coat with shiny gold buttons is standing outside the window. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure that Liz and Billie can hear. A squeaky noise out of Liz in the back seat. Billie whispers a low shit. I don’t look at Billie because my heart has stopped beating.

  The breath. When I roll the window down, it’s loud rain.

  And it’s Diane.

  Billie says, Diane! so I know it’s Diane. Diane is wearing a man’s black hooded parka with gold buttons over her prom gown.

  Groans and moans all around.

  Jesus Christ! Billie says.

  You scared the shit out of us, Liz says.

  It’s just a flashlight, Diane says.

  Then: Any illegal drugs in here? Diane says.

  I reach around and unlock the back door on my side.

  When Diane gets in, the dome light goes on. She pulls off the coat. Her hair is short and brown. She’s wearing a diamond tiara. Her prom gown is silver white with spaghetti straps.

  Love the hats, the dress is appropriate, Diane says. Anybody got a cigarette? I’ve got a thermos here of gin and tonics.

  Diane unscrews a black thermos of gin and tonics, hands the thermos to me. I take the thermos, tip it up, take a long swig.

  Gin and tonics with lime in the summer, you can’t beat it.

  I take out George’s pack of Camels, offer one to Diane, one to Liz. Billie takes one too. We all light up, four on a match, and there’s the joke about three on a match and we’re four. We’re smoking, passing the thermos around. Billie isn’t drinking. Billie turns the radio on. “Purple Haze” comes on, and we all scream a little. We all say, Ooh, this is my favorite song. We all sing, ’Scuse me while I kiss the sky real loud.

  Outside the windshield, headlights and exhaust fumes. The rain has stopped. Everything wet and shiny. Passing by is an endless parade of kids in their cars.

  I have my hand out with the joints in my palm. Diane has just taken her joint, just laid the two dollar bills in my hand and is looking at me as if I’m the coolest guy in town.

  Just as Diane says Carrie wants to know if you got any hash, there’s a loud cough out of Billie.

  When I look, Billie’s white as a sheet. Her hand is covering her mouth.

  In front of us, the endless line of cars. Behind a white
’60 Chevy that’s just inched past, there’s a white pickup truck with CODY PLUMBING on the side of the door. Billie’s dad is honking his horn, and yelling really loud, Fuck you, you little cocksuckers! Get the fuck out of my way!

  Billie pulls her hat down, ducks low, quick puts out her cigarette. I put the joints in my shirt pocket, duck down too.

  Who is that asshole? Diane says.

  My father, Billie says.

  Oh! Liz says. Then: Well, I got to go. My date is waiting.

  When Liz opens the door, the dome light goes on.

  Billie can’t go down any farther because her belly’s up against the steering wheel.

  Fucking Liz! Billie says.

  Holy shit! I say.

  Billie’s dad looks across the cab right over at us. For a moment, my eyes and his eyes meet and stay locked on each other. I swear Billie’s dad has got me nailed.

  Liz slams the door. The dome light goes off.

  Bye-bye, you guys! Liz says.

  Time for me to go too, Diane says.

  Diane goes to open the door.

  The dome light! Billie and I jump to stop Diane.

  Ha-ha, Diane says, her diamond tiara twinkling. Fooled ya.

  Then: You don’t have to worry about that old fart, Diane says. He can’t see past his nose.

  Billie’s dad opens the door to his pickup and gets out. When he comes around the front of his pickup, one hand is on the front hood of his pickup and his other hand is on the back end of the ’60 Chevy. The bald spot on the top of his head. As he walks between his pickup and the Chevy, the headlights of his pickup are bright once, then twice, against his red T-shirt. He manages to take three steps our way, then falls flat on his ass. Horns start honking, and everybody’s headlights go on. Kids are pointing at this drunk guy who’s on the ground. Across the seat from me, Billie is not Billie. She’s a photograph of Billie. She’s not moving a muscle, not making a sound. Mr. Cody gets himself back up. When he’s standing, he isn’t looking our way. All the headlights of the cars flashing on and off make him look like a zombie. His red T-shirt is up, and his butt crack is poking out. Mr. Cody starts yelling and waving his arms. He picks up some gravel, starts throwing gravel around. Horns honking, headlights flashing. Plus, now the white CODY PLUMBING pickup is blocking all the traffic.