“Okay, let’s get crackin’,” I told my reflection, and began flying through yams.
Amazingly quick.
Efficient.
Machine-like.
As the underdog at the World Yam Cleaning Finals, I’d gamely fought through the lower rounds. Despite a painful wrist injury and a lack of corporate sponsorship, I’d somehow, against all odds, continued to win. STAN! collectibles sold briskly at the concession booth. The crowd had, of course, adopted me as their favorite, oohing and aahing as I tore through the final pile, hypnotized by my sorting skills, the display of brazen tuber-handling. The clock was running out. A dropped yam would disqualify me, giving the championship to Chad Chilton, who smoked a cigarette, calmly working on his own pile. “GO, STAN!” the crowd chanted. Blond quintuplets, the co-presidents of my fan club, who coincidentally all looked like a bustier Uma Thurman and wore tight pink T-shirts that said STAN’S ARMY! (although it was hard to read because they were jumping up and down so much), cheered and danced in a choreographed routine, exhorting me to”GO FASTER!”
“Five . . . yams . . . left . . . ,” I told myself. “Must . . . concentrate. . . .”
Four yams.
Three yams.
Chad Chilton looked, for a split second, nervous. He was falling behind.
Two yams. I could smell victory.
One yam. I could taste it.
Then I dropped my brush.
It fell in the dirt.
A horn sounded and I was immediately disqualified. Chad Chilton was led to the medal podium. He lit a Marlboro.
The crowd cheered him.
The crowd booed me.
The quintuplets went home weeping.
“That’s more like it.” My reflection grinned.
I’d been beaten in my own fantasy. My hands were freezing and raw. Prarash still had not shown up. I threw the last yam at a fence post, wishing it was Prarash’s head, and missed. Then I stretched my back and started on the squash.
Was Fred a worse name than Stan?
Unlikely. There was no worse name than Stan. Still, Fred was bad enough to be in the running, which was a small consolation. Prarash’s real name, after all, was Fred Buckle.
Years ago (at least as he [frequently] tells it), Fred quit his job as a cell phone salesman in Manhattan, stormed out of his office, and handed his tie and Rolex to a cab driver. He gave away his other belongings, adopted his true name, grew his hair long, and thumbed out of the city. After a few weeks in his sleeping bag, under the stars (“Wondrous! Beautiful! Spiritual!”), he somehow ended up in Millville and was drawn, like a crystal magnet, to Smith’s Natural Foods, immediately striking up a conversation with my mother. Undoubtedly the word “karma” was bandied more than once. Certainly, the concept of Zen was discussed.
Then my mother invited Prarash to lunch.
In the span of one serving of bulgur and carrots he managed to thoroughly annoy my father (nearly impossible), who left the table midspoonful and retreated to his basement lair. Olivia cried and refused (almost never) to drink her milk. Chopper loosened (not that unusual, but still) a truly damning gust. I sat, with my arms crossed, amazed. My mother, oblivious to the mounting evidence, offered to let Prarash sleep on the couch.
And he just never left.
He built a yurt in the woods behind the arugula patch, bought a lifetime’s supply of white sheets and sandals, and within a year managed to convince himself he was Hindu. Or Tibetan. Or something. He also memorized many sayings and aphorisms, most of which sounded like he’d read them off a tub of margarine, but wasn’t shy about sharing them, especially with displeased customers. His method of staving off the clamor for returns and refunds was amazingly effective. He would smile beatifically and tsk-tsk and tut-tut and reel off a few sayings, “The force of Veda moves in one direction only, my friend,” and before long, the customer would be too embarrassed or confused to continue.
Prarash worked full time at the counter, assuming, of course, as part of the definition of full time you overlooked the innumerable hours he missed because he was late. It was just that, occasionally (three mornings a week), he was a bit slow making it out of the yurt. Prarash-time had a life of its own. I suspected Fred Buckle-time wasn’t all that precise either. I once suggested to my mother that ol’ Fred may not have walked out of his cell phone job so much as been pushed out. She gave me a look that could have withered a brick. It was amazing the blind spot my mother had, a woman who could spot a less-than--perfectly-cleansed yam from a hundred yards but at the same time so readily accepted his excuses. Prarash got away with more than Chopper did, which was really saying something.
FIVE BETTER NAMES FOR PRARASH:
1. RumpleNeckSkin
2. The Mollusk
3. Curly Sue
4. Gonzo
5. Special Ed
Anyway, I stocked the chard and kale and mustard greens. I washed off the counter and counted in the register and worked out the bank deposit slips. (Picture Depression-era cartoon of Bugs Bunny opening his wallet and moths flying out.) I dusted the dried apple-head dolls and the incense sticks and the ginseng vials. There was only one customer, if you counted a lost couple in a convertible Saab stopping in to ask directions back to the highway. The woman felt guilty and bought one (1) zucchini, 62 cents of pure profit. I pointed the way for them, and then watched her drop the mushy vegetable out the window as they drove off the lot.
Prarash rolled in about noon.
“Stanley, my friend,” he said, hands rustling under the sheet that was cinched around his belly with a friar-like length of rope. “Namaste.”
He took his time getting to the counter, and then settled onto his vinyl stool by the register, letting out an enormous sigh of relief. I showed him what had been done (everything), and then what he needed to do (nothing but sit on his vinyl stool by the register), and got ready to leave.
“The ant is a fine worker,” he intoned, “but it takes an enlightened bee to embrace the past.”
“That makes no sense,” I said, trying not to breathe his scent, which was more aligned with organic fertilizer than a neighborly swipe of Ivory.
He smiled generously at my inability to understand higher concepts. “Or perhaps, my friend, does it make all sense?”
His chubby fingers smoothed his sheet, after which he sniffed them, confident he’d made his point. We stared at each other.
“Fred, you have Twinkie crumbs in your beard. Are Twinkies enlightened?”
Prarash’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes, following me to the door, were definitely a harder shade of gray.
Outside, Uno, Dos, and Tres saw me cutting across the rutabagas and began singing “Eleanor Rigby,” badly, in Spanish. I gave them the thumbs-up. My mother said something and they went back to their lettuce. I had twenty minutes before my shift at Happy Video.
CHAPTER NINE
SPLENDOR or something equally as unlikely IN THE crumb-strewn GRASS
On Sunday morning I stood in the sun and scratched myself in a pair of uncomfortable pants. Why had I worn uncomfortable pants?
Dr. Felder would have said I was mentally willing myself to fail.
Miles would have said, Stop scratching and think of something cool to say.
My father would have said, Why aren’t you wearing the Teflon pants I invented?
Chad Chilton would have said, You think THAT hurt? Try THIS.
“What’s her name again?” Olivia asked, a pair of spelt loaves under each arm. She had on a frilly white dress and black Mary Janes.
“Eleanor. Ellen,” I said nervously. The ducks milled around our feet, ignoring the bread. They also milled around Chopper, whose leash was tied to the bench post. Neither tooth posed much of a threat. After a while, a bird landed on Chopper’s head, casually pecking around. He looked up at me, tired, long-suffering. I pictured him wearing a toga and an olive branch.
“Maybe she won’t come,” Olivia said.
“Entirely possible,”
I agreed.
Chopper woofed. Not a single bird moved. It was already hot at eight in the morning, the sun low and strong. It was also very late, as far as prime duck time was concerned. By nine they generally huddled in the center of the lake and more or less ignored people, bread-laden or otherwise.
“Stanny?”
“Can you call me Stan, hon? At least in front of Ellen?”
“Sorry,” Olivia said. “I forget.”
“Forgot. It’s okay.”
“What’s okay?” Ellen asked, emerging from behind a pair of oaks, carrying a loaf of Wonder Bread.
“You’re here,” I said. A statement.
“She’s here!” Olivia yelled, and then did a little jump.
“This is the Big O,” I said, introducing Olivia.
“No, it’s not! That’s not my name!” she cried.
“Hi, Big O,” Ellen said, and gave Olivia a big hug.
I wanted a big hug.
Chopper woofed softly. He did, too.
Olivia gave me the thumbs-up, over Ellen’s shoulder.
“What a cute dog!” Ellen said.
Chopper was not cute. He was the mathematical opposite of cute. He was ugly. As sin. Or uglier. I began to question Ellen’s taste (quick analogous formula: If Chopper is to Cute as Stan is to Datable, then Stan = ____ ).
“C’mon, Ellen!” Olivia yelled, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her toward the water. Ellen looked back, allowing herself to be led, and gave me a smile. It was a smile that dispelled all doubt. It was a smile that caused car accidents and inspired sculptures and made grown men gnash their teeth. It should have been illegal. I was officially ruined.
So, we fed the ducks (Wonder Bread was a huge hit, spelt, on the other hand, was widely dismissed), and then walked around the lake. Ellen and Olivia played and Chopper and I just sort of stood and watched, trying to force ourselves to believe it was actually happening.
At noon, I bought us franks and sodas from a vendor ($11.14 with tax. I had $12.00 on me).
“These aren’t tofu!” Olivia cried with delight, wolfing hers.
Ellen raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.
“I didn’t know that was your parents’ shop, the natural foods place?”
“Good,” I said.
“They sell a lot of . . . umm . . . interesting stuff.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” I said. “Believe me, I know just how interesting it is.”
Ellen smiled and leaned against me, in a Ha-ha we’re all in this ludicrous parents thing together sort of way. I leaned back in an I’d donate my liver to science if you’d let me kiss you sort of way.
“Mom’s going to be mad,” Olivia said. “I think I got mustard on my dress.”
Her little face looked so tragic, a big splotch of yellow on her chest, I almost laughed, which would really have made her cry. But then Ellen went into action. She bought a soda water and poured it on the stain and wiped it with napkins and Chopper licked at it, and between them, they almost got it all off.
“Thanks. Thanks. THANKS!” Olivia said.
“You’re welcome, welcome,” Ellen answered.
Olivia ran down to the water in big happy relieved circles and Ellen and I sat on a bench, alone, finally.
Saysomethingsaysomethingsaysomething.
“So you went out with Chad Chilton, huh?”
Nonononononononononono!
Ellen laughed. She wiped her brow and wiped her lips and shook her head and coughed. “I cannot believe that’s still going around.”
“What?”
“That rumor . . . it’s like the guy with a hook for a hand grabbing on to the couple’s car when they’re making out, you know? Some kind of legend?”
Makingout?Didshesaymakingout?
“So you didn’t?”
“That guy?” Ellen laughed. “He’s, like, older than my dad. . . . Wasn’t he in eighth grade five years in a row?”
“Maybe,” I said, trying on the idea that she was telling the truth. It fit pretty good.
ChadbadChadbadChadbadChad.
“Okay, he comes up to me in the hallway once, right? Not twice, once, and asks a question like ‘Are we having potpie for lunch’ or ‘Is this the way to detention? or something, and then all of a sudden I was dating him . . . all these people coming up to me, ‘So you’re going out with Chad Chilton, huh?’ . . . I’m like, no, but it didn’t matter. The rumor started and that was that. It’s actually pretty hilarious.”
Yeah. Hilarious. Hahahahahahahaha.
Relief washed over me. And under me. It was like six Christmases, all at once. It was like an Easter morning where the bunny actually showed up with baskets and eggs and then we hung out in the backyard tossing a ball around or working on geometry proofs.
“Well, I bought it,” I said, feeling stupid.
“You and everyone else.”
“I think he wants to beat me up,” I admitted. “Or run me over.”
She laughed. “Chad? I doubt it. He’s a pussycat.”
“I thought you didn’t know him.”
She played with the buckle of her shoe. “Well, you can just tell.”
“You can?”
We watched Olivia, down by the water, demonstrating proper crust-tossing form for a little boy whose bread arcs almost immediately improved.
“I’ve heard some things about you, too,” Ellen said.
“Some things? Like what?”
“Hmm . . . lessee . . . ,” she said, drawing it out, making me wait. “You’re the sneaker kid, right? Duckfoot?”
The sneaker kid?
I nodded.
“You don’t really have webbed feet, do you? Is that why we’re at the lake? Do you live here?”
“Well, I . . .”
She laughed and grabbed my arm. “I’m kidding . . .”
“Oh, right,” I said, blushing.
“And you’re also the math kid.”
The math kid?
What was the square root of “loser” again?
“And the chess kid.”
“Oh, boy,” I said. “Guilty on all counts.”
“So what’s five thousand one hundred and nineteen times sixty-two?”
I resisted the urge to show off.
For a second.
“Three hundred and seventeen thousand three hundred and seventy-eight.”
“Wow,” she said.
“Yeah, wow. Math.”
She frowned. “Why put yourself down?”
I shrugged. Dr. Felder would have said my shrug was the product of an unconscious need for martyrdom. I would have said my shrug was the product on an unconscious need for a long period of Sunday afternoon Frenching.
“You shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s actually pretty amazing.”
“It is?”
“Of course,” she laughed. “Don’t you know how lucky you are?”
Lucky? I thought about Chad Chilton. I thought about my mother, and my name, and my failed entry into the collegiate application process. I thought about my webbed feet and how I’d choked in the finals of the Yam Bowl.
“Okay, but if you know about all the other stuff, why are you here with me?”
“What’s so wrong with the other stuff?”
I didn’t know. I held up my hands.
“So how’s Miles?” she asked.
I was about to answer when Olivia ran up, holding some dandelions that had mostly fallen apart. “Ellen?” she said, all easy and straightforward and normal. “I like you.”
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of that. So simple. Just say it. See what happens.
“Thanks, Big O.”
Ellen picked Olivia up and put her on her lap. They goofed around for a while. Chopper looked at me, annoyed, wondering why I didn’t pick him up and do the same.
“Take one guess,” I told him. He licked a snaggletooth and resumed sniffing my leg. I wanted to be with Ellen alone. More. I decided we could drop Olivia off and then go somewhere. Any
where.
“Okay, ready?” I said, looking at my watch, which I wasn’t wearing, so really, I was just sitting there looking at my wrist. “Time for your nap, Olivia.”
I was expecting her to protest, some feet kicking, maybe some crying. Instead, Olivia said, “Okay, Stanny” and, when Ellen turned, gave me a wink. It was too much. It made me want to put her in my back pocket and run away to Burma so we could live on the beach (with Ellen, too) just being smart and funny and understanding each other all the time.
But then, of course, the other shoe fell.
The yang to my yin.
The cross to my skull.
The chute to my ladder.
Because when we got to the parking lot, parked right in the center, was the Fry Mobile.
“Oh, no.”
“What?” Ellen asked.
“Grrr . . . ,” Chopper said.
“Mom!” Olivia cried, and ran and hugged my mother’s leg as she stepped out the driver’s side door. She was wearing tie-dyed overalls and her hair was up in some enormous work scarf. She wore big mud-spattered boots and knee pads and looked like some crazed escapee from a lumberjack camp. Of course, she immediately began inspecting the mustard stain on Olivia’s dress. “You didn’t have a hot dog hot dog, did you?”
“Let me handle this,” I whispered.
Ellen nodded, unconvinced. I didn’t blame her. My mother was a monument of organic righteousness. She was a pillar of vegan zeal. Also, as we got closer, the Fry Mobile hefted and wheezed and made all the odd inscrutable gurgles it always made. Chopper immediately began licking the bumper. There was no way I was going to let Ellen get in that car.
“Hi, Mrs. Smith,” Ellen said brightly.
“What are you doing here, Mom?” I asked.
My mother gave Ellen a big smile. “Your mom called, hon. She was worried you’d forgotten your insulin.”
Ellen blushed.
“Insulin?” Olivia said. “What’s that?
“Shhh,” I said, picking her up and snapping her into the car seat.
“Ellen’s a diabetic,” my mother confirmed, to no one in particular. I looked at her with genuine awe. Not even five minutes and she’d already broken the sound barrier for obliviousness. I had the urge to give her a leather jacket and a medal and sign her up as a spokesman for Quaker State.
Going Nowhere Faster Page 6