Vision Quest

by Terry Davis

  Although she denies responsibility, I’m blaming Carla for some embarrassment I suffered this afternoon. Actually, it was the fault of general fatigue and my often intractable libido, but it’s more fun to blame Carla.

  I was really, really tired last night. I puzzled over Balldozer’s comment until I fell asleep. I vaguely remember him waking me in the school parking lot and Carla driving me home. I remember flopping into bed and Katzenburger licking my face, or maybe it was Carla taking advantage of me. Anyway, I was dog tired.

  I got up around nine and ran three miles and came home and did a workout in the laundry room. I started my laundry-room workouts again because without school and work I was afraid I wouldn’t burn enough energy to keep my weight down. I start the school year with my laundry-room workouts and only give them up when I feel really in good shape. I take my tape player in and put on a special workout tape. I keep the tape player in a plastic bag so the moisture doesn’t get to it. I dry a load of laundry so the room’s good and hot and I wear my rubber sweat suit under my cotton one. I’ve got ten songs on my tape. I skip rope through one song, stop the tape, do a hundred pushups, then a hundred sits, then turn the next song on and do it till the tape is over. Sometimes, between the music and the exercise and the heat, I really get spacy. I start out skipping to “Dancing in the Moonlight,” which always makes me think of drinking beer on summer evenings down under the Hangman Creek bridge. Then I go through “Family Affair,” “Treat Her like a Lady,” “Respect Yourself,” and five other good ones, so that by the time I get to the long version of “Layla” I believe myself to be the toughest, meanest, most in-shapest, baddest-ass kid on the block. I’m also near death.

  Anyway, I finished my laundry-room workout and took off my soggy clothes and was headed for the shower when I saw Carla reading in front of the fireplace and decided to bedevil her some. I tiptoed up behind her and lay my wasted cock gently on her shoulder. She didn’t respond for a few seconds; then she turned her head a little and glanced down at the thing. “What’s that look like?” I asked.

  She studied it a bit. Finally she responded. “Well,” she said. “It looks like a cock, I guess . . . only smaller.”

  I hadn’t expected it was quite that wasted. I began to whimper and crept over to the davenport and curled up in a fetal position. Carla cast aside her book and kitten and hurried over to me. After a minute or two she sat up and faced me. “It’s beginning to look more like a cock all the time,” she said very sweetly.

  We hadn’t made love for two and a half days. We slid along the linoleum like brazen bobsledders. We did the monkey in the banana tree, the grasshopper and the leaf, we practiced our tandem bearwalk. We ended up on the bed.

  I tried to sit up afterward, but one workout on top of another was just too much. I rose to a sitting position but couldn’t hold it and fell backward the other ninety degrees. Before my eyes Carla’s rusty muff glistened postcoitally. We fell asleep, each pillowed on the other’s thigh.

  I awoke in a spasm of guilt. Coach had scheduled a practice just for my benefit at three thirty. It was 3:25, so I didn’t have time to shower. I jumped into my clammy sweat suits, laced up my boots, and made a run for it.

  I burst through the locker-room door in a sweat. Coach was the only one still downstairs. “Sorry, Coach,” I said. “Went running without my watch.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. He smiled big and patted me on the shoulder. I grabbed my wrestling shoes and followed him upstairs. Coach turned into the film room to set up the films on Shute for tomorrow.

  In the wrestling room Kuch and Doug and Smith and Balldozer and Otto lay around the mats in various attitudes of repose. I flopped down on my back and began to bridge up on my neck to get loose. Right away Kuch began to sniff loudly. He sniffed and sniffed. He crawled over next to me and sniffed along my back and down my arm all the way to the ends of my fingers. He called the guys over for a consultation. Full of curiosity they tumbled across the mats. I quit bridging and just sat down and rested my chin in my palm.

  “It’s possum,” Kuch said.

  Otto poked his head close and sniffed loudly. “Good thing Sausage and Little Konigi aren’t here, Swain. They’d chew your mustache off.”

  Bowden sniffed long and looked at Kuch. “Is that really what it smells like?” he asked.

  “That’s the scent, all right,” Kuch replied. “But usually you’ll find it more attractively wrapped.”

  “It appears you’ve been playing the drooling clarinet,” observed Balldozer.

  “You guys ate nothin’ but spinach all the time, you’d smell funny, too,” I declared.

  They made me take a shower before they’d start the workout. They told Coach I just ran downstairs for some nose stoppers. Only he had been gentleman enough to ignore it.

  * * *

  The dance is at the Spokane Club, which is a pretty spiffy place. We’ve risen to it, though, at least in terms of apparel. Carla’s in her long soft white dress with the little ducks and I’m in my white denim suit. It’s fun to dress up sometimes.

  Mom wanted me to have a suit so I’d look decent when I visited the University of Oklahoma last spring. She said I could charge it on her account at the Bon Marché. It’s pretty racy. The pants are pleated and flared wide and it’s got a white vest with pockets I stick my fingers in and look dignified. Mom wished she’d gone with me to pick it out. She said I looked like a pimp.

  It’s snowing like crazy. It started as I was running home from practice. We’ve got about six new inches already. Carla looks ethereal in her mad dash to the door. She says none of her coats go with her long dress, so she’s not wearing one. In the white dress she seems to float through the falling snow. Her hair is rich and warm and it shines in the light. I sit watching her until she’s inside. She turns and waves. I wave back, thinking just in a flash how beautiful she is and how lucky I am. Some impatient creepo jolts me out of my brief reverie with a couple strong blasts on his horn. I churn politely off in the DeSoto. My great blue boat, my grand hotel, my time machine.

  I couldn’t find a parking place closer than two blocks, so my suit droops a little by the time I reach the door. Right away Carla sends me to the men’s room to towel off. My hair is lightly frosted with snow. I don’t have a nice coat either, but at least I should have thought to bring an umbrella. In a little while I’ll work up a good dancin’ sweat and nobody’ll know the difference.

  Off in the corner we spot Schmooz and Karen and Kuch and Laurie. Schmooz is president of the social club that’s cosponsoring the dance. Besides wrestling and selling clothes part-time at the Klothes Kloset, he makes time for the club. He invited a lot of the guys on the team to join, but most of us just have other priorities, I guess. Also, Schmooz is about the only guy in the club I feel like I have much in common with. They’re not bad guys or anything, although I can’t say I’m crazy about their initiation rites. Belle is in the girls’ club that’s the other cosponsor. She was after Carla to join for a while. But Carla finally convinced her she’d had her fill of that sort of thing in Chicago. I think the girls’ club is a little more exclusive than the guys’. I belong to the Lettermen’s club at school. I’m not against clubs or anything. Dad kind of is now, though. He dropped out of the Moose Lodge because they wouldn’t let me in their gym when my hair was long and geodesic.

  We say hello all around. Carla grabs Schmooz and gives him a vigorous head rub. Schmooz is short and broad. He swoons against Carla’s braless breast. Because of the double lures of his curly blond mane and the animal onomatopoeia of his name, Carla is unable to keep from fondling him.

  Toward us walk Romaine and a girl I don’t know and Otto and Rayette. Otto and Rayette look like they come from heaven they’re so beautiful. In his rented blue suit Otto looks like the world’s biggest, toughest stockbroker. Rayette looks like an African angel in her long, sky-blue robes. Her eyes are huge and brown and remind me of deer’s eyes. Otto is self-conscious because she’s so young, but I
guess he couldn’t resist.

  Mike and Keiko arrive and head in our direction. Behind them Belle and Tanneran stand in the doorway. They spot us and wave. “Hi, folksies!” Belle shouts. Tanneran is a chaperone. They walk upstairs to join Leeland and Joretta Wain, who are chaperones, too. They all sit at a table on the balcony that surrounds the dance floor.

  I’ve been very nervous lately, thinking of the match, but I feel it slipping away now. It’s fun to dance and laugh and forget it all for a while, even though I know I’ll wake up to it again in the morning.

  The first band is called Soul Food. They’re a bunch of older guys, mostly black, who used to be the house band at Rollie’s Ribs. They get into “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” and lure Leeland and Joretta down from the balcony. Carla and I just stand awhile and watch them dance.

  One night when Carla and I were babysitting their little girls, Leeland and Joretta came home really high from dancing somewhere and put on some of their old records and taught us to do the Boogaloo, which is a dance they said they used to do in college. They’re doing it now. So are Romaine and Rayette as Otto and Romaine’s date look on. It looks an awful lot like a mating ritual. They move and turn and do everything together, but they don’t touch. It’s no cliché or ethnic slur to say black people have great rhythm. I’d call it one of the eternal verities.

  We sit on the balcony while the bands change. Everybody is psyched to see Sausage play. He really is something of a prodigy. The band he plays with is all college guys except for him. They travel all over the Northwest and make some pretty heavy bread. Sausage wants to go on the road with them when the season’s over, but his folks won’t let him. Not even just weekends.

  I notice Belle is hanging on to Tanneran for dear life. She looks about half in love.

  Otto is demonstrating to Leeland and Joretta how to dance like a New Guinea mud person. He assumes the attitude of a spear-wielding orangutan and grunts a lot and thumps around in a circle. Everybody laughs. I notice Rayette’s big brown eyes seem only for Otto, which makes me happy. Otto says if he can’t play pro ball he wants to be a bartender or go to New Guinea and be a mud person.

  Sausage is just blowing his head off on the flute. He’s weaving in the flashing lights and blowing sweet bird sounds. His band seems to be influenced by Chicago and Santana, with Sausage adding a flavor of Jethro Tull. They’re kind of hard to dance to, but people are dancing anyway. Carla and I just stand close and watch. She leans back against me. I hold her lightly around the waist. She bangs her head against my chest softly, like a baby will. Sausage turns our way and we take a few steps back. Against the red-and-blue lights tiny sparks of spittle fly.

  The band takes its break ten minutes before midnight. The lights come up and Sausage comes down and says hello. We tell him how great he’s doing. He’s all smiles and sweat. Shute and his girlfriend come over. It’s interesting that she’s not especially good-looking and a little taller than he is. We introduce all around. They both tell Sausage how much they like the music. Gary looks at his watch and sees it’s almost midnight. We wish each other a Happy New Year.

  The noise level rises inside, and from outside horns honk and a few firecrackers explode. It’s 1973. I shake hands with Sausage and wish him a Happy New Year. Carla kisses him a friendly one on the lips. The Sausage Man blushes. “My first groupie of the new year,” he says, beaming. He asks us when we’re leaving for Konigi’s and I tell him twelve thirty. He’s got to stay till two.

  Otto and Rayette come over to say Happy New Year. I give Rayette a little peck. She’s slightly surprised, but quickly regains her composure. I’ve never kissed a black girl before. It’s fun, but no different.

  Kuch and Laurie come over. We wave up to Leeland and Joretta and Gene and Belle on the balcony. “Happy New Year, folksies!” Belle yells down.

  We dance slowly into the new year, holding tight. The band plays Santana’s “Samba Pa Ti.” We just float around in the beautiful music. Carla’s hair smells like herb tea.

  Sausage and the lead guitar player take turns with the melody. They both play it so clean and sharp. It’s funny to see Sausage do something with so much poise. You’d never guess that most of the time he’s just a dumb kid like the rest of us. It makes me proud of him. We clap a lot when the song is over and wave Sausage a good night.

  * * *

  The Konigi house looks like a shopping center with all their Christmas lights and all the cars. Mrs. Konigi greets us at the door. Many dark shapes stand around the long dining room table. They seem to stare obliquely at the assortment of good eats. I guess we’re last to arrive. Sushi, teriyaki, rice balls wrapped in seaweed, almond chicken, and other as yet unnamed yummies quaver in the soft candlelight. Behind us Mrs. Konigi switches on the lights revealing Coach, the David Thompson varsity wrestling team, and assorted girlfriends. Some people laugh, some people cheer. Mike Konigi leads me to the head of the table. He seats me before a plate heaped with steaming spinach. A small gold flag protrudes from the green glob like a buttercup from a cow pie. On the gold flag is written in green: “Good luck, Louden!”

  * * *

  I think Carla’s finally finished throwing up. She had an allergic reaction to the ginger in the teriyaki. She knew she was allergic to ginger, but she didn’t know they put it in teriyaki sauce. She stays kneeling at the toilet while I get a glass of cold water and a wash cloth for her face. She’s weak and shaky and her nightie sticks to her sweaty back. Throwing up is hard work. Katzenburger peeks out of the wastepaper basket. “Poor Katzen.” Carla gasps. “I scared the Katzen.”

  She feels a lot better and falls asleep almost the second her head hits the pillow. Katzen sits on my chest. She idles smoothly and her tiny eyes catch the slip of light from under the door and reflect it in a green-gold glow.

  Dad was worried and wanted to take Carla to the hospital but between barfs she talked him out of it. He’s back in bed now. Cindy and Willa were here. Dad said they watched TV and babysat Willa while she babysat the cat. I didn’t realize Dad was such a sucker for little kids. I thought guys his age were over that. He gives Willa roller-coaster rides on his knee and horsey rides on his back. He buys her animal books with lots of pictures and reads them to her on his lap.

  A couple months ago when I was in the very most agonizing stages of my diet, Carla ran upstairs one morning and fainted in the kitchen. Dad and I had just the day before commented that she seemed to be losing weight. As she sat in a kitchen chair getting some of her color back, Dad began to ask her questions.

  “Carla.” He bent to look her in the face. “Have you been losing weight?”

  “A couple pounds,” Carla replied.

  “Have you been feeling sick in the mornings?”

  Carla and I looked at each other. Dad thought she was pregnant.

  “I’ve been dieting,” Carla explained in a reassuring voice. “I can’t stand to eat while Louden starves himself.”

  That was a surprise to both Dad and me. I told Carla please to eat and assured her that in a couple months I’d be eating like my old pig self again.

  Dad wanted to pursue it. “Look,” he said to both of us. “You two have a home under my roof as long as you want and you can live here any way you want. But you’ve got to be careful about your futures. Don’t let things get out of control.”

  He looked like he was going on, but Carla interrupted. “Dad,” she said. “I’m not pregnant and I’m not going to get pregnant.”

  “Well, you’ve got to be sure to use—”

  “Condoms,” I interrupted. Carla had been taking pills but I’d convinced her to stop.

  “Rubbers.” Carla smiled.

  “Prophylactics.” Dad nodded.

  “Worth a pound of cure.” I smiled at Carla.

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  * * *

  I’ve just realized a funny thing. This is the first New Year’s Eve in my life I haven’t either been with Mom and Dad at midnight or talked to them on t
he phone to wish them a Happy New Year. My first impulse is to run upstairs right now to tell Dad Happy New Year and call Mom. By God, I’m going to.

  Katzen squeaks as I lift her off my chest and tuck her under the covers. Carla is dead to the world.

  Dad’s door is closed and I don’t hear the TV. He must be asleep. It’s nearly two o’clock. I guess I can tell him in the morning. I should probably wait till then to call Mom, too.

  XXII

  It’s still snowing as I run back from practice. I can’t believe it. It started on my way running home from practice yesterday, so that makes about twenty-four hours of straight snow. Everything is deeply covered and there’s a great softness even my running bootfalls can’t break. Shoveling the walk will be a perfect way to begin tomorrow. It’ll loosen me up without making me real tired. I hope Dad hasn’t already shoveled.

  We watched a couple films of Shute and had a brief workout, in which I was absolutely unstoppable. Probably because everybody but me was still filled with Japanese food from Konigi’s. I tried wrestling without anything in my nose and it didn’t bleed a bit. Coach and I figured that maybe the nose stoppers have been irritating the inside of my nose and making it bleed rather than protecting it. I won’t use any tomorrow.

  Coach showed a film of Shute’s match last week against Palouse and then another of him at last year’s state tournament. Then he showed the first one again. Kuch and Otto and I thought Shute looked better in the film from last year. But Coach said not to count on it, because Shute was probably a lot more psyched for the state tournament than for a duel meet with Palouse. That’s probably true. The Palouse film didn’t show much, anyway. Shute pinned his man in the first round. “That guy is faster than a fart on an oilskin,” Balldozer said. I think the French have an inordinate concern with flatulence. Bowden and Smith couldn’t come today because their families were out of town for New Year’s dinner. I made sure to thank Coach and the guys again for last night and for coming on New Year’s to watch films and help me work out.