by Julia Watts
The day goes okay until lunchtime, which I always dread almost as much as I dread gym, although that’s even worse. The cafeteria scene is just deadly. It’s maybe a little better now that I bring my lunch, but I still have to find a place to sit down and eat it, which assumes that the ice-knot in my stomach has settled down enough that I can digest my food. And in terms of the choices of where to sit, it’s like either the frying pan or the fire, the cafeteria itself or, if it’s not raining, at one of the tables outside, under the sweltering sun.
Today it’s not raining, so I sit outside—alone as usual. I try not to notice the snickering and pointing from the tables around me, and just concentrate on digesting my food. Some of the other loser kids at least have iPods they can plug into to avoid it all, but Mama and Daddy won’t let me have one, of course. They say it’s all nothing but “devil music” these days.
As I’m biting into my Red Delicious, having finished the tuna sandwich, Jimmie-Sue walks up to me, rolls her eyes, and asks if I overheard Ashley Jensen talking about Justin Bieber. “He’s such a pussy,” Jimmie-Sue says, and then she sashays away. I’m laughing now, and everybody’s looking at me because I’m alone and laughing by myself. They must think I’m a real perv. Well, let them think it, because the most important thing for me is that I’ve made it through another lunchtime at school unscathed, or have I? I don’t know that there’s really any way of calculating the effect of so much hatred on a person over time. Sounds like an Algebra II problem.
Which is my next class. For me, complex math—and particularly algebra—is like somebody hitting me on the head with a dull hammer for an hour. I really don’t get it. It’s so abstract! And the teacher, poor old Mr. Watkins—he’s tried so hard to help me, after school and everything. And I’ve tried too, because I like him and don’t want his effort to have been in vain. But, I don’t know, it’s like my brain is wired differently, so that it’s never going to make sense to me, and I really can’t see its relevance to my life either. Just about the only thing I am good at is drawing, which I’ve been doing since I was, like, five.
It’s pretty much the same cast of characters in this class as in World History, except that Britney Marshall and Cody Johnston, the aforementioned cheerleader and football player, are in here—always sitting in the back, always holding hands and making googly eyes at each other every chance they get; it’s nauseating. I can’t imagine that they’re actually learning anything.
And Malik King is also in here, one of only a handful of African American kids in the whole school. Unlike me, Malik does get Algebra II. As with Jimmie-Sue, I feel like there’s some kind of understanding between me and Malik—not that he’s gay. Maybe it’s just a recognition of difference or otherness, something like that. I don’t think we’ve ever said more than two words to each other, but I’m always glad that he’s here.
Now the dread builds to its height for the day, and that ice cube in my stomach refreezes into a knot so tight it won’t melt for hours, long after the school day itself is over. Gym. I’ll spare you the whole litany, but you can probably imagine what it’s like for me. Sports aren’t particularly my thing, although I can run pretty fast, which may very well be some kind of Darwinian adaption. But baseball and football—all the ball games (what is it with men and balls?), and weightlifting and all that bs—not so much, really. And that would be okay with me. I could honestly care less, except that it’s not okay with the majority of my male classmates, just entering manhood and feeling the need to prove it.
I’m their convenient foil, and they take advantage of every chance they get. It goes from fairly innocuous things like not choosing me to be on their team until the very end, as a last resort, because I’m the only one left, to wetting their towels and flicking them at me, which really burns and also creates welts on my body that I have to hide. Some days they hold out their dicks and balls, in the shower or even in the locker room, and say things like, “Hey, Doofus, come and get it, you know you want to.”
I think I could name every guy in my gym class, but not all of them are mean to me. I’d say it’s probably only about a third of them who actually do stuff to me (Cody Johnston being one of my main tormentors). Another third look on and laugh. And then there’s that final third who don’t participate at all, not even laughing. They just look away. But every single school day it’s something, and it’s pretty traumatizing if you think about it. So I try not to think about it, except when I have to live through it, which is five days a week, 270 days a year (I did the math, I’m pretty good at simple math).
You’re probably wondering where the gym teacher is in all of this. I’m not going to demonize him. He’s not a bad guy, Coach Baker. He’s obviously a former jock who’s gotten older and likes his beer, which you can tell because of his small but still obvious potbelly. He actually almost never comes into the locker room, and so he hasn’t seen what goes on in there. What happens outside on the field is mild in comparison, and the couple of times that he has seen any of the other guys teasing me or whatever, to his credit, he calls them on it and makes them run laps or do push-ups or stuff like that. Not that that stops them. So I don’t hate Coach Baker—not at all. But I don’t get him either, and he definitely doesn’t get me.
Today is fairly mild as gym class goes. We’re doing track and field, and like I said, I can run, and I’m happy to run around the track for an hour, if only to avoid everything else. I’m talking about things like shot put and high jump and throwing the discus and all that Greek stuff, I’m lousy at all that, but I can see that the coach really tries to give me a break, and nobody else even really cares anyway, so it’s not a big deal to anybody except me. Also, I do catch a glimpse of Patrick in the showers today, which is pretty unusual. We’re hooking up later, after school.
So, the seemingly endless school day is finally over; I’ve survived another one. And a cup of coffee is my reward, that helps melt the ice. I’ve told Mama that I’m going over to Patrick’s after school to do our Algebra II homework together, and that I’ll be home by suppertime, which is always at 6:30 p.m. on the nose. It’s not a complete lie either, because I am going over to Patrick’s. I’m just not going over there directly, and Patrick and I aren’t going to be doing our Algebra II homework.
But first I’ve got to get from here to there. To escape school safely when Mama’s not picking me up, I run as fast as I can down Birdsall Road and turn right. Birdsall is the trap because it’s the only road to the high school. Once I’m off that, I’m usually safe, because most kids go in the opposite direction of downtown, which is just a few blocks away.
I walk into Mr. D’s and, as usual, the place is pretty dead this time of the afternoon. There’s one old guy sitting at the counter leaning on his elbow, but nobody’s behind the counter when I walk in. Mr. D has the front awning down to block out the afternoon sun, so it’s kind of dark and shady too. This is my kind of place, cool, light gray, and neutral. And the smell! It’s like everything that’s ever been cooked here, from eggs and bacon to grilled cheese sandwiches and burgers and fries—it’s all trapped in the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor. I don’t usually have to worry about running into anybody from high school here because most of them have cars or friends with cars and they hang out at the McDonald’s in the mall.
I like to sit in a booth—they’re cracked red leather, with red Formica tables. At almost exactly the same time as I sit down, two things happen: Mr. Demopoulos, the owner—who’s this big, hairy, friendly guy with a balding head—walks out of the back room, smiles, waves, and says, “Rufus!” in a booming voice; and in the front door comes Josephine Caldwell, who’s this older lady that I’m kind of friendly with. She’s pretty cool and fun to talk to because she used to live in Chicago, and she loves old movies like I do. They both come over to my booth and sit down, Mr. D across from me, and Josephine in the seat next to me. She’s wearing this big sun hat today, which she takes off and puts down on the seat between us, and her long gray hai
r spills over her shoulders.
“How’s life treating you?” Mr. D asks me, winking at Josephine.
I shrug and smile shyly, because it seems like there’s never anything new, and so nothing really to say.
“And how are you today, Tony?” Josephine asks Mr. D, as if sensing my discomfort and coming to my rescue. By the way, don’t think I’m being disrespectful or anything calling Josephine by her first name. She told me to.
Mr. D just shrugs too, but he does it in a way that suggests a lot more than mine did. It’s as if all of his life up until that moment is resting on his shoulders. Josephine has explained to me that Mr. D is Greek and that a lot of Greeks have this sort of world-weary, fatalistic view of life. It works for me.
“The usual?” Mr. D asks.
“Yep,” I say. Then “thanks.”
“And for the lady?” Mr. D asks Josephine.
“I think I’ll have some of your delicious iced tea, thank you, Tony.” Then she looks at me. “How about something to eat, Rufus? My treat. You need to put some meat on those bones.”
“No thanks,” I say with a smile.
As Mr. D gets up from the booth and steps behind the counter to prepare our drinks, the old guy who had been sitting there leaves. Now we have the place all to ourselves. I guess Mr. D let Brandy go home early.
Josephine immediately launches in, talking to me about a movie called In the Heat of the Night that she’s just seen. She says she missed it when it first came out, but she’s been reading this great book about five movies made in 1967, including, she tells me, Bonnie and Clyde, one of our favorites, The Graduate, and also In the Heat of the Night. She asks if I’ve seen it, which I haven’t. It’s set in a small Southern town, she says—“it could be Vermillion,” and it’s about racism. She mentions some of the actor’s names—Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger—and right about then, Mr. D comes over with my coffee and her iced tea. He sits down in the booth again, something he’s never done before.
“You talking about In the Heat of the Night?”
Josephine nods, as I sip my coffee. Ah, bliss!
“I know a guy in that movie,” Mr. D says.
Josephine and I both look at him kind of incredulously, like we don’t believe him.
“No, it’s true,” he says, and then he tells us about the phenomenon of Greeks owning restaurants in the south. He says it’s almost a joke it’s so common.
“Which one?” Josephine asks, stirring sugar into her iced tea.
“The bad guy,” Mr. D tells her.
“I know the actor you mean,” she says.
I’m looking back and forth between them like a spectator at a tennis match.
“He played character parts and did a lot of TV?” Josephine goes on.
“That’s right,” Mr. D says, “and always the villain.”
Josephine nods.
“So anyway, let me tell ya the story,” Mr. D says. “He grew up as James Anthony in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, the son of Greek immigrants. His father owned a restaurant. The father died when Jimmie was still a boy, and after Jimmie finished high school, he and his mother took the train to LA to fulfill his dream of being an actor. And before long he was cast in his first movie, In the Heat of the Night.”
Josephine looks ready to interrupt, but Mr. D holds up his finger, as if he has one more thing to say.
“He had to change his name because there was already a James Anthony in the actor’s union. And so for the next thirty-some years, Anthony James supported himself and his mother as a working actor.”
“That’s a great story,” Josephine says, knocking her glass against Mr. D’s fist in a kind of toast.
Whereas all I can say is “Wow!” Because it really is a great story, and also because it makes me feel something like hope about getting the hell out of Vermillion eventually, and having a life.
I glance over at the smudge-faced art deco clock on the wall over the cash register and see that it’s almost 4:30 p.m. I’ve got to get to Patrick’s!
I drink the dregs, pull out a dollar for my coffee plus tip, thank Josephine and Mr. D, then excuse myself with the word “homework,” and race out of there.
Syd
IN THE mornings I ride the bus to school because I’m barely awake. But most afternoons I walk. It would be more accurate to say I wander since I don’t follow a straight route from one place to another. Today I’m wandering downtown for a cup of coffee at Mr. D’s. Then, if the caffeine does its job, I might wander over to the Hair Affair. Sometimes if the shop’s busy, the owner, Darlene, will slip me a little cash for sweeping the hair off the floor or shampooing customers. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep me in my vicious cycle of addiction: I drink Mr. D’s coffee to get energy to help at the shop so I can earn money to buy more of Mr. D’s coffee. But as addictions go, at least coffee’s a cheap one.
If downtown Vermillion was a hospital patient, it would be on life support. The only signs of life are a couple of grim-looking offices and Famous Florists, which is run by this guy who dresses like a walking bouquet. Sometimes you’ll see him in lilac, sometimes in primrose pink, and sometimes in the bright yellow of black-eyed Susans. His outfits and his store’s elaborate window displays are the only things that give downtown any splashes of color.
I guess before it got old and faded, the inside of Mr. D’s was colorful. Now, though, the red leather booths are dull and cracked, but there’s something about Mr. D’s that always puts me in a better mood. It’s my favorite place in Vermillion. Not that that’s much of a compliment.
“There’s my girl!” Mr. D calls from behind the counter. Mr. D’s real name is Demopoulos, but apparently his name’s too long for most people around here to pronounce. He used to run the diner with his dad, but then his dad died. Maybe all the grease he cooked with over the years worked its way into his arteries. Young Mr. D has a fatherly quality too, though. I always kind of liked it when he called me his girl. But then one day when I was drinking my coffee, another teenaged girl came in, and he called her the same thing. It’s silly, but I was a little jealous.
“Hi, Mr. D,” I say, sliding into my usual duct-taped booth in the corner.
“Just coffee?” he calls.
“Yes, please,” I say.
The waitress in Mr. D’s, pours me a cupful. I don’t think I’m very popular with the wait staff here. The only thing I ever order is coffee, which doesn’t lead to much in the tip department. And I ask for a lot of refills. I never stiff her, but nobody’s going to get rich on 15 percent of the price of a cup of coffee.
I sip my coffee and doodle on my paper place mat, Marilyn Monroe lips and beauty mark. I stare out the smeared, spotty window. Downtown Vermillion was probably livelier in Marilyn’s day. Her movies probably played at the Ritz, the old movie theater across the street. It’s boarded up now, and the boards are spray painted with stupid graffiti like “Travis + Brittany” and “The South will rise again.” The theater’s old marquee is still there, but empty, and most of the lightbulbs surrounding it are broken or missing. The old theater was probably a beauty in its day, but now, like Marilyn, it’s gone, never to rise again.
Three cups of Mr. D’s high-octane coffee later, and I’m ready to wander. The Hair Affair’s a ways from downtown, but in Vermillion, a ways isn’t far. There’s nowhere you can’t walk to in thirty minutes. I wander past downtown, past the brick ranch houses on the outskirts where people with more money than Mom and me live, and finally to where the sidewalk ends and the houses get plainer and fewer and farther between. If I kept on walking a half a mile or so, I’d get to the tornado-trap trailers and even a tar-paper shack or two, but I don’t. I stop at the first trailer on this stretch of road, the double wide that is the Hair Affair.
I swing open the screen door, and as soon as I step in, Mom says, “This girl don’t need to be coming into a beauty shop! She’s already so beautiful I can’t stand it.” Mom’s got an old lady in the chair with her hair rolled in tiny
curlers against her scalp. She’s scowling, but I don’t know if it’s because of me or because her hair hurts. “Miz Gibson, that’s my daughter,” Mom says. “She gets her looks from her mama.”
Mrs. Gibson directs her scowl clearly at me. “Kind of a bony little thing, isn’t she? She could stand to put on a pound or two.”
You can’t say the same for Mrs. Gibson, and I can tell Mom’s thinking so too because of the look she gives me.
Darlene’s got a customer in her chair too, a Holiness woman who’s having her long hair arranged in a “the higher the hair, the closer to God” updo. It’s funny because, even though Darlene’s supposed to be the best in town at doing Holiness hair, her own graying hair is cut as short as a man’s. She wears shapeless smocks over sweatpants and no makeup. For somebody who makes a living at beauty, she doesn’t care a thing about her own. She puts out her cigarette before she blasts her customer with hair spray. Between the hair spray and the perm and hair color chemicals, I always figure the Hair Affair would beat any local business besides the meth labs in the category of “Most Likely to Go Up in Flames.”
Darlene looks at the floor, then at me. “Well, hon, these gals are just getting a shampoo and set, so there ain’t much to sweep up. But there’s a woman supposed to be coming in for just a shampoo and blow-dry in half an hour. Says she hurt her shoulder and can’t do it herself. If you want to take care of her, that’ll earn you five bucks plus a tip if she gives you one.”
“Okay,” I say. I’ve never blown anybody else’s hair dry before, but how hard can it be?
“Well, look at you,” Mom says, helping her customer get settled under the old-fashioned helmet-like hair dryer she says all the ladies prefer to the newfangled ones. “You’ve got yourself a paying customer!”
She sounds like a madam trying to encourage one of the less popular girls in the brothel, but of course, I don’t say this to her.