Summer of '42

by Herman Raucher

  “How much do you want for it?”

  Oscy was shocked. “It’s from my brother! It’s a fuckin’ family heirloom! You have to get your own, you stupid shit! You have to buy it!”

  Hermie’s senses were foggy. His head was a little fuzzy. He spoke dully. “How many food stamps?”

  “Food stamps?” Oscy was appalled. “What’re you gonna do—eat ’em?”

  “Aren’t they rationed?”

  “Why the fuck should they be rationed?”

  “I don’t know. I would think—don’t the soldiers get ’em all?”

  “No! They have to leave some for civilians; otherwise there’d be babies plopping out all over the place! Jesus H. Christ, Hermie!”

  “But—they’re made of rubber and—”

  “I don’t believe you! I just don’t believe you, Hermie! What am I doing with you?” He went to the window and wanted to jump out. Instead, he just looked through it until he found that he could control his anger. At which point he turned to face Hermie once more. He smiled wanly. “Hermie, you go to a drugstore and you buy ’em. Okay? Is that too difficult for you to understand? Hmmmmmmm?”

  Hermie was mortified. He had revealed a certain ignorance of the subject. He had been trapped into doing so by Oscy’s smooth talk. To cover his inadequacy, he immediately turned contrite. “I’m not gonna risk it. I happen to be underage. Also, for your information, I mean in case you didn’t know—women shop in drugstores.”

  “Where d’you wanna buy ’em, in a sporting goods store?” There was a limit to just how much of Hermie’s stupidity Oscy could cope with. That limit had been reached and surpassed more than ten minutes before.

  Hermie was losing the debate and rapidly. Besides, that little silver packet was becoming more and more important to his well-being than all the vitamin-fortified cereals in the world. He decided to embark on a little evasive action, a little Damon exerted upon a little Pythias. “If you were really a good friend, Oscy, you’d lend me that.”

  “What?” Maybe he imagined that Hermie asked that.

  “But I’m finding out you’re not really such a good friend.”

  “What?”

  Hermie became righteously indignant and pretty fucking mad. “Shit, Oscy, do you think I’d keep it? I’d return it!”

  Oscy could not reply immediately. He staggered as though shot. Then he held his stomach and doubled over and fell onto the bed in a heap, face to the ceiling and gasping. When the seizure subsided, he spoke with a touch of total defeat. “Hermie, I’m beginning to think that maybe you’re a homo.”

  “Swell, Oscy. Thanks a lot.” He kicked the bedpost, knowing that the tremor would reach Oscy’s head, wishing it would set off a TNT blast in his ass.

  Oscy quickly rolled off the bed and attacked Hermie vocally, his hands doing windmills. “Schmuck! A rubber is to be used once and only once! And by only one party! Not even the closest of friends can go halfies on a rubber!”

  Hermie took a step toward Oscy. “I don’t like you yelling at me. Forewarned is forearmed. Be advised.”

  Oscy was straining to understand Hermie’s resistance, reluctance, and general all-around pigheadedness. “I’m doing this for you, Hermie. I’m doing this out of friendship because, though you don’t know it, I do.”

  “Know what?”

  “That your time has come.”

  “Oh, bullshit.”

  “It’s true. Your time has come. Your cock knows it, but your stupid brain has been taking lessons from Benjie.”

  “Yeah? Well—forget it. Just forget it. Signals off.”

  “Signals are not off.” Oscy said that as though possessing some specially classified top-secret dossier information stuff that Hermie had no knowledge of.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s all arranged.”

  “What is?”

  Oscy tried to state it as an unalterable fact that had been chiseled into stone for all time. He wanted Hermie to accept it as being as completely irrevocable as ancient history. “The marshmallow roast. On the beach. Tomorrow night. Me and Miriam.” He stopped there for a moment, to make certain that Hermie was following. Which he was. Then Oscy added the coup de grace. “And you and Aggie.” Hermie started to say something, but the voice he heard was still Oscy’s. “Don’t try to get out of it because it’s all set.” He came over and put an arm about Hermie’s shoulder. “It’s fate, Hermie, I been watching you. You been mooning about that lady for God knows how long. You’re ready. But not for her. Not yet. I have to sharpen you up on somebody else. So just this morning, while you were in there getting kissed, I looked for Miriam on the beach and set it all up. Miriam said she’d tell Aggie and that it’d be no problem. Okay? Okay, boy?”

  Hermie listened to Oscy’s monologue with controlled fury. By the time he had a chance to speak the fury had turned to something more resembling desperation. “Aggie? Jesus. I’m not interested in Aggie. I thought, all the time, you were talking about…her. You know—her?”

  Oscy shrugged helplessly. “Like I said, Hermie, you’re not ready for a main event. You have to start with a preliminary. And Aggie’s all I got.” He once again took Hermie’s copy of the Twelve Steps to Stardom and pressed it into Hermie’s pocket. “You’ve got your instructions. You’re on your way.”

  Hermie was numb. “You’re crazy.”

  “Yes. Crazy. Mad. Mad!” He laughed insanely. “A-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Then he came out of it. “Hermie, I’m not asking you to get all the way through Point Twelve because I don’t believe in miracles. I’ll be thrilled if you get through Point Two. All I want you to do is give it a try.”

  “Forget it. I’m not sticking my neck out for Aggie. She’s a freak. I don’t even know if she can talk!”

  “She can talk.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I asked Miriam. I don’t think Miriam would lie. She said that Aggie definitely had the power of speech.”

  “You were worried about it, too, then, weren’t you?”

  “Let’s just say that it occurred to me that she didn’t do much talking. Hermie, please. Believe me. One day, soon, you’re gonna thank me. Meantime, tomorrow night—I’ll bring the marshmallows. And you bring a rubber.”

  How does one resist a steamroller? With cries and shouts? Does one call a cop or his mother? No. One gets out of the way. But what if the steamroller follows one around, turning when one turns, climbing a tree when one climbs a tree? Hermie went to bed that night with a steamroller named Oscy barreling around in his dreams. And yet, it wasn’t all that bad. For after the preliminary there’d be a clean shot at the green-eyed champion. In the middle of deepest night, Hermie switched on his bed lamp and began heavy training by carefully studying his “notes.” So what if it was in Latin? By applying himself he could become a fucking whiz in Latin. He might even become a Latin whiz at fucking. Veni, vidi, vici. Yaaaaaaaa, Sheena.

  15

  Hermie and Oscy, the young devils, sauntered up to the drugstore the next morning feeling very très gai and serenely confident in their plan, needing only a certain piece of rubberized madness to launch Hermie properly into the warm recesses of all the world’s femininity. Oscy wore his usual sweat shirt, for he was to wait outside, having revealed himself to be unwilling to make the difficult purchase since he was already equipped for the night’s outing. Hermie, on the other hand, having failed to get Oscy to volunteer for the hazardous condom caper, dressed himself in clothing that might work wonders in making him appear older. He was therefore not merely the only man on Packett Island wearing a tie; he was also wearing the longest tie ever to find its way to the island primarily because it was his father’s, and no matter how many double Windsor knots he tied in it, it still came down three inches below his belt buckle. It was also a very loud tie, red and green leaves on a pale-yellow background, a Christmas gift to his father from a color-blind enemy. For those reasons he tucked both tails of the tie into his trousers and pulled his jacket front so clo
se that, unless you had been with Hermie when he got dressed that morning, you had no way of knowing that he was wearing a tie.

  It had all been carefully worked out. Oscy took up a position just outside the drugstore, where he casually produced his harmonica and played “Old MacDonald’s Farm” in a manner that would curdle all the milk thereon. It may have seemed odd to have Oscy serve as a sentinel when no shoplifting had been planned, but it was a special request from Hermie who feared that The Mother Who Walked the Night might be dropping by, and he didn’t want her to catch him buying rubbers, no, sir—ma’am. Hermie took a deep breath that brought air all the way into his toes; then, with a nod to Oscy, he nonchalantly entered the drugstore, a difficult maneuver to perform since the bell on the door announced his presence like Big Ben.

  Hermie winced at the clang and began to perspire like a truck horse. But there was no danger of offensive perspiration because he had put such lumps of Mum under his arms that they kept slipping behind him when he walked, making him look as though he were about to perform a racing dive into the Erasmus pool. Unable to control his slithering arms, he plunged both his hands into his pockets, and looking as guilty as they come, he professionally cased the joint.

  At the far end of the far counter was the druggist, Mr. Sanders, a crusty New Englander, thin and wiry and craggy and everything you’d expect him to be. On occasion he could even be heard saying “A-yuh” to the lady customer he was attending to. Another lady was just kind of looking around the store, plucking random items from the shelves. Other than those two ladies, Hermie was alone. He moseyed about, kind of checking out the shelves. The Band-Aids caught his eye. He knew a good deal about Band-Aids because, in any given summer, he could consume up to three or four hundred of them.

  He noticed the lady at the counter pay Mr. Sanders and leave. The bell on the door chimed her exit, and as the door swung open, the sound of Oscy’s miserable harmonica trailed in. It meant that Oscy was still at his post. Good man, that Oscy. The door shut. The bell rang. The harmonica was stifled in the middle of a chord they’d never find again.

  Hermie moved over to the toothpaste section. A placard there announced that empty tubes should not be discarded. The other lady, the silent stroller, was still on the premises, showing no inclination to leave. It unnerved Hermie to have her around. Especially since Mr. Sanders was walking toward him and saying, “Can I help you?”

  “Help her. She was here first.” Hermie pointed to the strolling lady, who just smiled and continued to be a strolling lady. Maybe she was some kind of guard. Hermie made a mental note to tell Oscy that there was a Pinkerton woman on the premises and that the drugstore therefore was not a good place to attempt any kind of shoplifting in. Mr. Sanders returned to the far counter and hurled himself into inventory. Druggists did that a lot, took inventory. It was a way of life.

  Hermie ambled along, aimlessly whistling “Jingle Bells” to keep cool. He edged his way gradually toward the door, where the irritating tones of the harmonica grew louder, sounding like a strangling chicken. Hermie opened the door. The bell chimed, and Mr. Sanders looked up to see Hermie leave without buying anything.

  Oscy stopped strangling the chicken when he noticed Hermie standing alongside him, taking the sea air in big inhalations and casually inquiring, “Everything all right out here?”

  “Yeah,” said Oscy, wondering what the hell was going on.

  “Good,” said Hermie. And he studied the sky. He always made people out of clouds when he had the time. And up there was either Dick Haymes or Maria Montez or Carmen Miran—

  “Did you get ’em?” Oscy knew a stall when confronted with one.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Well, get ’em.”

  “There’s a lady in there.”

  “Oh.” Oscy seemed to understand. The bell chimed as the door opened, and the strolling lady came out, on her way home. The door shut behind her, and the bell went off again only not so loud because it was inside where Hermie was supposed to be. “That her?” asked Oscy.

  “Yeah.”

  “Any others inside?”

  “Maybe. They could be bending down.”

  Oscy shoved him. “Go on, Hermie. For Chrissakes.”

  Hermie reentered the drugstore, the bell blasting in his ear, telling him there was no way back, especially since Mr. Sanders, more than just curious, was striding toward him. “Yes?”

  “It’s me”—Hermie smiled—“same guy as before. Just stepped outside for a little air.” He kept talking like a fool. “Nice air out there. A lot of very nice sea air. This whole island has nice air. Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Sanders grew apprehensive at the jabbering little fool with his clothes all drawn in tight on such a warm morning. “Just what is it you’re looking for? Maybe I can help you.” Only he didn’t look as if he wanted to help. He looked more as if he were going to make a citizen’s arrest.

  “Oh, I’ll know when I find it.” Fat chance. Rubbers were kept under lock and key. And in a back room. Or a cellar. Or a vault. Or a cave that there was no access to at high tide.

  “Perhaps if you’ll tell me—”

  Hermie had to come up with something—and, soon. “Ah, I just remembered.”

  “A-yuh?” And he waited to hear Hermie’s request. Except it didn’t look as if he were planning on waiting too long, so Hermie took a flier.

  “A strawberry ice-cream cone.”

  There was something suspicious about that boy, thought Mr. Sanders. One thing was for certain: he was not to be left alone, out of sight. “All right,” he said. “Come with me.” He went behind the fountain counter, making certain that Hermie was following close by. Hermie slid up onto one of the stools, and Mr. Sanders confronted him across the marble counter. “One dip or two?” He had the ice-cream scoop ready. It looked like a microphone. Hermie wished the old son of a bitch would stop pressing him and just sing.

  “Better make it a double.” He tried to avoid the eyes of the weather-beaten old Yankee. With guys like that around, no wonder the British ended up with all their fucking tea in Boston Harbor.

  Mr. Sanders constructed the double dip and pushed it across at Hermie. “Okay. That’ll be twelve cents.” Ming the Merciless. Killer Kane. The whole bunch of ’em rolled into one. Hermie had picked for himself some adversary. He wanted to bolt for the door and get out of there, but there was too much involved. It was still far off, but there was a championship at stake. He decided that the bull had to be taken by the goddamn horns. So he leaned across the counter, looking at the Yankee via his reflection in the marble countertop and said, “There a—there’s something else I need.”

  The countertop answered, upside down. “A-yuh?” It came as a menacing growl. Sylvana, the evil scientist, had spoken, and Hermie backed off, gutless, and said, “Sprinkles.”

  The Yankee thrust the cone into the chrome bowl of chocolate sprinkles. Then he handed it right across to Hermie, who silently figured that he could ask for nuts and a cherry and still be within his rights. “Anything else?” snapped the druggist.

  Once more into the fray, another summoning of courage, one last crack at the moon as he balanced the ice cream in his tiny hand. “I hate to bother, but—” He took a lick at the cone. Good. Strawberry. Not surprising since strawberry had been what he asked for. Still, it was a fine-caliber strawberry, rich with little chunks and tasty seeds.

  “Speak up, boy!” That was a bark. A definite bark from behind clenched teeth. Not easily done.

  “How about a napkin?” Hermie was surprised at how readily he could turn tail. It was a gift. But he was fast running out of deceptive tactics.

  The paper napkin came flying at him; good thing it wasn’t a manhole cover. “Anything else?” That was sarcasm.

  “How about some rubbers?” That was quick. Hermie wasn’t even sure he’d said it. Maybe it was Oscy standing behind him. Or Edgar Bergen. Or Tokyo Rose.

  “Pardon?” The Yankee had a surprised look on his face. The son of a bitc
h was off-balance. Hermie knew he had the opening he needed. He waded in like Henry Armstrong. Hit the son of a bitch again. But with poise and carriage. Shit, it had to have some poise and carriage or else where was he? “I understand you carry them.”

  “Carry what?” Aha. Evasive action from the other side.

  “Come on. You know what.” What poise. What fucking carriage. He took another lick at his ice cream. What strawberry.

  “Do you mean contraceptives?”

  “Right.” The old bastard caught on fast.

  “You want to buy some?”

  “Right.”

  “What for?”

  What for? The guy had to be some kind of fuddy-duddy nincompoop. Hermie delivered a half-smile, as if he and the old codger were school chums. “Come on, you know what for.” He buried his face in the ice cream because the heat of his hand was causing the strawberry shit to run down his wrist. The trick was to not look at his opponent.

  The Yankee took a moment to assess the situation. Then he walked down to the far end of the marble counter and over into the drug section, the place where the hot stuff was dispensed. Kotex. Pills. Rubbers. He signaled for Hermie to come over. Hermie slid off his stool, feeling like a gangster about to pick up some protection money. He shuffled over, in no particular hurry. All was moving well. Oscy was posted outside. And he was about to make his purchase. The Yankee looked squarely at him but with an expressionless face. “What brand?”

  What brand? That was news to Hermie. “Brand?”

  “Brand and style.” Mr. Sanders was sure playing it cool.

  Hermie wondered if the old fart wasn’t just toying with him. A diplomatic response was called for. “Oh—the usual.” That should do it. Now another lick of the ice cream.

  The druggist’s hands disappeared from the counter. Then they reappeared. They disappeared and reappeared two, three, four times. And soon Hermie was looking at a collection of different-sized and different-colored little packages that his mother could make one helluvan afghan out of. There were enough rubbers there for the entire Second Marines. “There’s a number to choose from, you know.” The old man said that flatly, as if everyone in the world knew it.