You Don't Know Me

by David Klass

  Violent Hayes, why are you looking at me this way? Why have your eyes suddenly gotten so big and bright? You are a nice girl, and not unattractive, and more than a match for a monitor lizard, which is impressive in its own way, but surely you must know that Glory Hallelujah is my beloved. “Thanks,” I say. “Now I must head to chem lab.”

  This time I do manage to swerve around her, but then I feel something. A highly unusual sensation. Violent Hayes, did you just give me a friendly pat on the shoulder? Was it my imagination, or did your hand, after the innocent pat, slide all the way across the top of my neck, from right shoulder blade to left? Is it possible, Violent Hayes, that while running your hand across the back of my neck, you pivoted your wrist so that for a second your rather long fingernails raked lightly across my rather soft skin?

  Good God, Violent Hayes, what are you thinking?

  “See you soon, John,” she says as I beat a hasty retreat.

  “Sure. Thanks. Gotta run. Bye.”

  11

  In the War Zone

  I am aware from the moment I return home from school on Friday to prepare for my big date that something is wrong. My dog, Sprocket, is hiding in the basement. He is whimpering, and he won’t come out to greet me. I suspect that the man who is not my father has beaten him.

  The man who is not my father is not around. There is an open bottle of Wild Turkey on the dining room table, and a glass next to it that still contains a few drops of foul-smelling whiskey. The man who is not my father does not drink often, but when he does, it makes him mean.

  Our dining room is a mess. Sections of a newspaper and several magazines have been tossed onto the floor. A lamp has been knocked over, and the bulb is broken. A chair has also been kicked over onto its side. I do not know exactly what caused all this carnage, but I am glad the man who is not my father is gone.

  His truck, which he parks in front of our house, is also gone. It is not clear exactly what the man who is not my father does with his truck to earn the little bit of money he seems to make from time to time. He calls it “short hauling.” I confess I do not know what that means. But I am glad that on this particular afternoon he is away. I hope that this short haul is longer than usual.

  It is strange that my mother is not home. On Fridays, she usually finishes at the factory early and gets home before me. But on this particular afternoon, there is no sign of her.

  I take Sprocket some food, but he is crouched under the workbench in the basement and will not come out. I am sympathetic, but I do not have time to commiserate with him. This is my big night.

  I leave the food for him and walk back upstairs. The whole house is deserted and quiet, except for occasional dog whimpers that float up eerily from below. My house is no longer a house—it has the empty, ominous feel of a war zone after a battle.

  I attempt to focus on happy things.

  This is a very big night in my life that is not a life.

  I take a long, hot shower. I wash each and every part of my body twice. It is unlikely that Glory Hallelujah will have cause to smell certain hairy parts of my body at very close range, but it is not entirely out of the question. The man who is not my father has some aftershave called Sailors’ Musk. I borrow a few drops. He will not miss them.

  Smelling like a musky sailor, I attempt to dress for success. Since I have the world’s smallest wardrobe, this is not a difficult task. I put on my one pair of gray corduroy pants and my one good green sweater, which my mother gave me as a Christmas present two years ago, and my tan jacket with the flannel lining. I am now as good-looking, clean-smelling, and well dressed as it is possible for me to be.

  I look in the mirror. I am actually not myself anymore, which is not a bad thing. I am now cleverly disguised as the person I want Gloria to think of as me.

  The telephone rings. I do not choose to answer it. It cannot possibly be good news. The message machine picks up, there is a beep, and then I hear a familiar voice. It is the voice of Billy Beezer, my friend who is not a friend. “I know you’re there, John,” he says. “Don’t be a coward. Pick up the phone.”

  I hesitate for a few seconds and then pick up the phone. “I am not a coward,” I say.

  “No,” he says, “but you are a rat and a thief. I heard through the grapevine about your date tonight. You stole my date idea.”

  “I saw Gloria first and liked her first,” I remind him. ‘And did you or did you not say ‘tough eggs’ to me in the Bay View Mall?”

  “It was my idea to ask her to a basketball game,” he responds.

  “Dating ideas are not private property,” I tell him. “If you wanted to keep control of it, you should not have bragged about it. You really have no one to blame but yourself.”

  A strange sound comes over the telephone. It sounds like the grinding of gears on a Jeep going up one of the steeper slopes of Mount Everest, but I believe it is actually Billy Beezer gnashing his teeth together in a kind of frenzy. “What kind of friend would move in on a girl when his buddy was grounded and couldn’t fight back?” he demands, his voice rising. “That’s betrayal! That’s stabbing in the back!”

  I do not like his tone of voice. Nor do I appreciate being accused of dishonorable behavior by a convicted egg roll felon who saw nothing wrong with moving in on the girl of my dreams, when I clearly liked her first. “Did you or did you not tell me that all is fair in love and war?” I remind him. “Those are your very words.”

  “Then it’s war?” he asks. “Is that what you want? Okay, then, I declare war on you! Let the hostilities begin. I will annihilate you, you dirt bag!”

  I am not afraid of Billy Beezer. I move the telephone receiver a bit farther from my ear to prevent deafness. “Control yourself, Billy,” I tell him. “Why don’t you cook yourself up a nice snack? Maybe an egg roll.”

  More gnashing of teeth. “Is that supposed to be funny? We’ll see what’s funny soon enough. We’ll see what’s hilarious. We’ll see who’s laughing last.”

  “I would like to discuss this with you further, Billy, but, as you know, I have somewhere important to go tonight, and I must finish preparing for my big date. I do not mean to rub it in, but it sounds to me like you have not learned the necessary lessons from your recent punishment. Rather than threatening innocent people, I suggest you concentrate on becoming a better human being. Goodbye.”

  “It’s not goodbye for long,” Billy Beezer rumbles ominously. “I’m now ungrounded. I’ll be there myself, tonight, at the Fremont game. Don’t think you’re off the hook. We’ll see who laughs last.”

  I hang up the phone. I am not fazed. I have never had war openly declared on me before by a friend who is not a friend, but I have survived many battles right here under my own roof.

  The man who is not my father is an enemy to be reckoned with. Billy Beezer does not frighten me at all. Kids from happy families should not declare war on kids who live in war zones.

  I am now ready for my date. There is only one small problem, but, unfortunately, it is a serious small problem. I have scrounged up all the money that I possess in the world, including the nickels and dimes that I have been depositing in a jam jar for nearly a year, two five-dollar bills that I received for mowing lawns last summer, and several one-dollar bills that I have kept hidden from the world by using them as bookmarks in the most boring book in my collection, a history of cartography, whatever that means. My total net worth comes to nearly eighteen dollars.

  But what happens if my date with Gloria calls for an expenditure of twenty dollars? Or even twenty-five dollars? I have never been on a date with a girl like Gloria before. To be frank, I have never been on a date with any kind of girl before. So I do not know exactly what to expect. But it strikes me that a girl who lives on Beechwood Lane, up near the golf course, and who owns half of a horse, is used to being treated a certain way.

  She did suggest that we should eat dinner together at the Center Street Diner, after the game. Gloria clearly has a healthy appetite, judging by
the way she gulped down my date proposal note. Perhaps she skipped lunch today, to be in top eating form. Perhaps, slender as she is, she will want a salad before her hamburger. She may even be in the habit of finishing off her dinner dates with a nice slice of apple pie.

  The conclusion is inescapable. I need reserve funds. This is not the first time this had occurred to me. I was planning to borrow some money from my mother, but she is still not home from the factory.

  I glance at my watch. If I am to pick up Gloria on time, so that we can get good seats at the basketball game, I should go now. I cannot wait for my mother.

  This leaves me with two alternatives. Neither of them is a particularly pleasant option.

  Among the Lashasa Palulu, when the tribe is threatened by a dire event, as, for example, an invasion of fire ants, an emergency council is called. The difficult options are debated. Should they abandon their village to their insect foes? Should they put on enormous shoes and attempt to stomp out the tiny six-legged invaders? Should they sacrifice to the gods, throw a big, drunken party, and trust that everything will work out for the best?

  Once all the options have been put forth and debated, they take a vote, and choose a course of action. After that vote, it is forbidden on penalty of death ever to mention again any of the alternatives that were considered but not chosen.

  The salient point here, whatever that means, is decisiveness at a time of crisis.

  Here are my two options. I can go on the date with Gloria knowing the whole time that I may run out of money and be disgraced. Or I can borrow some money, just in case it is needed, and return it later.

  The only other money in the house belongs to the man who is not my father. He keeps it in a secret stash, a hiding place that he believes I do not know about.

  My body is primed for my big date. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. In my gray corduroy pants, I feel worldly and masterful. I am afraid of nothing.

  I walk down the hall. I enter the bedroom shared by my mother and the man who is not my father. I walk directly to his bureau. Open the upper sock drawer. Carefully I move at least two dozen pairs of socks to one side. I do not have time to consider the question why a man who has only two feet needs so many pairs of socks.

  At the bottom of the sock drawer is a knitted bootie. It is heavy—crunchy to the touch. I open it . . . and see more money than I have ever seen before. The man who is not my father has an impressive stash. Clearly, he does not believe in banks. Or maybe he is planning to start his own bank. There are many twenties. There are fifties. I even glimpse several crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  I take only one twenty. I start to replace the bootie . . . and then I feel something beneath it. Something small and hard that clearly does not belong in a sock drawer.

  It is wrapped in a blue towel. I know I have no business looking at it, but there is a very good reason why I am curious. Whatever it is, it must be even more valuable than money, since the man who is not my father has buried it at the very bottom of his sock drawer, beneath his secret money stash.

  I need to find out what is more valuable than money.

  I carefully lift the blue towel out of the drawer. It is unexpectedly heavy. I unwrap it. Metal glints. I feel myself shiver.

  It is a gun. To be accurate, it is a pistol.

  12

  The Bonanza Ranch House

  Who is this young man who strides so purposefully along Beechwood Lane, checking his watch every time he passes under a streetlight? I do not recognize him. He is dressed in gray corduroy pants and a green sweater—my pants and my best Christmas sweater—and with his hands tucked into the pockets of his tan jacket he is doing a very good impersonation of me.

  But he cannot be me. Because I would never have the nerve to cross Highland Avenue and head the final block along Beechwood Lane toward Gloria’s house. And there the one-story house is, less than a hundred yards away, all new and white and luxurious, spread out across a large lot of tall maple and cedar trees like the splendid ranch of a wealthy cattle herder.

  This cannot be me, this handsome young man who pauses, takes a deep breath, and forges bravely on toward the house. He looks like me. He walks like me. He is even whistling a stupid little song that I know. But he cannot be me. I would never have such nerve.

  It is bad enough that nobody knows who I am. Now I don’t even know who I am. Someone who looks like me, but is dressed better than me, and is braver than I am, although an equally bad whistler, is trying to steal my big date.

  The young man who is not me stops in front of the Great Bonanza Ranch House. It is, of course, not a real ranch house, and it has nothing to do with any bonanza, but for the purposes of this optimistic chapter I will call it the Great Bonanza Ranch House, for three reasons. It is easily the largest house I have ever been this close to entering. It is so spread out, and occupies so much land, that it looks like a ranch house to my untrained eye. And dwelling inside its comfortable walls is the greatest bonanza I can imagine—this is the house where Glory Hallelujah rises every morning, dew-fresh from her satiny bed linen, to shower and dress for school.

  The young man who is not me lingers in the shadows for a moment. Has he heard something? Perhaps he has the strong feeling that someone is following him, and watching his every step.

  A unique and eerie bird trill suddenly breaks the small-town silence. It sounds like the battle honk of a wild Javan parrot. But since there are no wild Javan parrots in my town that is not a town, the young man who is not me looks around nervously.

  Is there a Beezer afoot? If Billy Beezer is indeed behind the ominous birdcall, he is well hidden. The night holds only deep shadows.

  The young man who is not me moves forward. Trips on a curb. Flails his arms around wildly. Falls to the neatly manicured lawn. Gets up quickly. Checks to see if there are grass stains on the knees of his gray corduroy pants. Glances up at the house to see if anyone has witnessed this act of colossal awkwardness.

  Ah, so it is me after all.

  I recover my balance. Head up the front walk.

  On the door is a lion’s-head knocker. To one side is a lighted doorbell button. Do I ring or do I knock?

  Faced with this difficult question, I take several last seconds. I check my fly. It is zippered to the top floor, so to speak. I put my palm up in front of my face and smell my breath. It is not exactly lemony fresh, but it also will not wilt rose bushes at ten paces.

  Another odd birdcall sounds behind me, so loudly that it nearly knocks me off the porch. This time it is no wild Javan parrot. I believe what I have just heard is the blood-hungry death hoot of the Giant North American Sheep-Eating Gray Owl. This ferocious member of the owl family has been thought by bird experts to be extinct for more than a century, but apparently there is at least one surviving specimen, and he sounds like he is within fifteen feet of me, and hovering.

  Clearly there is no more time to waste.

  I ring the doorbell.

  Footsteps approach. The big wooden door is opened inward and I find myself looking at a very beautiful blond woman in a blue dress, who is smiling at me with sparkling white teeth. No, this is not a movie star. This, I realize, is Mrs. Hallelujah, Glory Hallelujah’s mother, and one day Gloria will look like this, and that is not such a bad thing.

  I have never been smiled at by anyone this elegant before. My nose has never encountered anything like the expensive perfume she is wearing. I do not know what to do, so I, in fact, do nothing. I do not move a muscle. I do not identify myself. I do not blink or tremble or even open my mouth to breathe. I just look back at her like an idiot.

  “You must be John,” she says. “I’m Mary Kay Porter.” She extends her right hand and enfolds my own in it, for a heartbeat. It is not a firm handshake. Her hand is not really a hand at all. It is really a puff of cloud—a warm, soft bit of sun-warmed vaporous sky. “Please come in,” she says.

  I follow Mrs. Hallelujah into the Great Bonanza Ranch House and the big wooden door closes b
ehind us. We are now protected from whatever North American Sheep-Eating Gray Owls happen to be hovering in the vicinity. We are in a zone of luxurious peace and security.

  Heavenly music is being pumped in, seemingly from all directions. The plush carpet beneath my feet is several inches thick, so that I sink into it with each step, as into cottony quicksand. Even the air is redolent, whatever that means, with a sugary aroma of fresh-baked dainties that wafts in from the kitchen and makes my mouth water.

  I find that I have stopped walking. I am standing in the hallway of the Great Bonanza Ranch House, momentarily paralyzed by pleasurable sensory overload. My central nervous system congratulates my brain, and at the same time delivers a stern warning: “Listen up, dunderhead. You have finally blundered into paradise. Pitch your tent here. Begin a new life. Do not go back to that house that is not a house and that life that is not a life or I warn you, I will remain here, and all your nerve fibers, synapses, and sensory organs from your nose to your toes will do likewise.”

  My brain has never before been threatened with a revolt by its own central nervous system. It freezes and locks. I am aware that I am standing there, stock still, inhaling the sugary smell and listening to the choir of angels, and the only sign of life that I am giving off is an occasional blink.

  Mrs. Hallelujah also stops walking, and studies me. “John? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I manage to whisper. “This music . . . It’s very beautiful.”

  She smiles. “Some people find the harmonies and dissonances a little unusual. But I like the adventure of musical impressionism. Don’t you?”

  Mrs. Hallelujah, I wouldn’t know musical impressionism if it flew down from the chandelier and spat in my eye.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Do you listen to much Debussy at home?”

  Mrs. Hallelujah, not to be gross, but at my home the closest we get to unusual harmonies and dissonances is when my dog barks and the toilet flushes at the same time. “Of course. When we have the time.”