Wise Young Fool

by Sean Beaudoin

  “Ritchie?”

  “What?”

  “You wanna, like, make out?”

  She’s lying on my bed. I’m lying next to her. How did that happen? Here’s how: I’m in the backyard mulching Mom’s dead tomatoes. The wheelbarrow is heavy and I’m sweating my ass off. Her car just pulls in the driveway, no call, no nothing. I’ve got my shirt off, torn shorts, stank-ass yard Nikes.

  She gets out and leans against the fence, watching me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Why, you want me to go?”

  I open the gate and hold it, watching her shake on through.

  Lacy Duplais is wearing an Indian uniform. Like, Native American. She’s on the cheer squad, which somehow isn’t the same thing as being a cheerleader. She’s got the Pocahontas thing going, tight and turquoise and brown. There’ve been protests about it, some tribe holding signs outside football games. It’s like, what, they got a problem with short skirts? They got a problem with the fact that the Sackville High Redskins stubbornly refuse to change their name or mascot even if it’s totally mouth-raping their culture every time someone scores a touchdown and twelve girls in stripper/native wear start jumping up and down doing a tomahawk chop? Get a hobby, Native Americans, and stop asking us to take even one second to reconsider our institutionalized stupidity and gleeful hand in your genocide, okay?

  In the meantime, Lacy’s very, very short skirt is barely covering toot toot beep beep bad-girl fishnets. Way out of control. And her hair is now red. Punk-ass dyed red. Sweet, shy Lacy Duplais is changing before my very eyes.

  “I bought the new Gaslight Anthem album yesterday,” I say, which isn’t true. Mostly because it sucks. Yesterday I bought Carcass’s Reek of Putrefaction instead, which rules.

  “I love Gaslight Anthem,” she says. “Let’s go listen.”

  “Let’s do.”

  We smooth-roll up the stairs, Lacy giggling.

  I double-check that the door is locked and suddenly we’re on the bare mattress. Lacy lights a Marlboro Red.

  “You smoke now?”

  “Yup.”

  “Mom’s not so big on it in the house.”

  “Is Mom home to lodge a complaint?” she asks, blowing smoke in my face. It’s like the best scene from a bad movie. Or the worst scene from a killer movie. Her Pocahontas poncho is hiked way up and she knows it, pretending it’s just how she’s lying. I can see her underwear. I have prodigious wood. She knows that, too. We have a dumb fake conversation about some test, during the middle of which she puts her cigarette out on the cover of my English-assigned Slaughterhouse Five, reaches down, and grabs my package like a gearshift, cranking it into reverse.

  “Yowp.”

  “You okay?” She looks worried. Actually worried. It’s cute.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  And then she’s on top of me. She’s pressing herself all over me. I pull down her nylons with my toe. I pull up her shirt with my teeth. Her nipples are oval and brown. I put my hand in her underwear.

  “Oh my god.”

  “What?”

  She’s so wet.

  “Nothing.”

  Lacy puts her mouth over mine and sucks my tongue with desperation, like the alien that lives in her stomach just decided it prefers me as its new host. She levers her hips. We protract and equilateral, banging angles until there is approach vector.

  I slide on a Trojan.

  And then we are fucking.

  Really for real fucking.

  It’s fantastic and totally surreal. I immediately grasp with utter clarity that every sex scene in every movie ever made is total horseshit. Nothing is smooth and easy. Stuff fits, but it’s clumsy, too. Clumsy awesome. All I can think of is telling Elliot, move for move. Telling every guy in the hall. In homeroom. Screaming it in the streets. And then I think how not cool that is. Not for Lacy’s reputation’s sake, but because it will make me sound like a total First-Time Charlie.

  Not a good look. Even though it’s true.

  Lacy’s concentrating, biting her lip. Her stomach makes these squelchy sounds against my stomach that we both pretend aren’t happening. Her expressions keep changing, like she’s following along to music only she can hear. I am so fascinated that I no longer have to think about not coming. I could last forever. Just to make her make more faces. I arch my back and she inhales sharply, moving faster, hands on my chest. Her nails carve grooves.

  She’s close.

  Inhale, inhale.

  She’s closer.

  Exhale, exhale.

  I am totally in control. I am a king. I am master of my domain.

  And then I start thinking about Ravenna Woods.

  For some reason imagining Ravenna Woods.

  Transposing. Replacing. Confabulating.

  No!

  I try to make her go away.

  Go away!

  I close my eyes against her image.

  Stop dancing!

  I will her from my mind.

  Put on some clothes!

  She stays. I come.

  Bang.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re in Lacy’s Corolla heading into town. Fast-food run. She rounds a tight corner not nearly tight enough and we almost head-on into an F-150. She giggles.

  I try to breathe again. “You’re a shitty driver, you know that?”

  “What are you talking about? I’m a great driver.”

  She blows through a yellow that’s mostly red. A few horns beep.

  “Careful.”

  She gives a mock salute. “Okay, Grandma.”

  There’s a long straightaway. Almost no chance for her to hit anything. But not impossible. She pops a disc in the player, this lame old band called EMF. There’re only two words in the whole song and they’re singing them in fake Cockney accents, over and over, You’re unbelievable. Except with them it sounds like, Yuh uhn buh leaf aba.

  “Gonna have to butch up your music collection if you’re diving in the deep end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I point to her dye job. “Um, the hair? The fishnets? Going punk means leaving this weak pop shit behind with the Christmas sweaters and the white denim.”

  She turns it up, singing along with the melody. It actually sounds good.

  Yoo ur unnn beh leef eble!

  “I thought punk was about not caring what other people thought.”

  “It is,” I say. “But—”

  “What if I’m the girl who dresses the way she wants, listens to whatever she wants, and anyone who doesn’t like it can eat it? How’s that for a rule?”

  It’s such an awesome answer that I have no response. So I change the subject.

  “Can we be serious here for a second?”

  She laughs. “Why not?”

  “Why me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you into me? I can’t figure it out.”

  Lacy reaches over and scratches my neck, pushes my hair back over my ear. “Do you seriously not know how beautiful you are?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I always thought it was a pose. Like, oh, yeah, I have no idea. But, you know, maybe you really don’t.”

  I flip down the sun visor and look in the little rectangular mirror. The usual dickhead looks back.

  “Whatever.”

  “You want to know what your problem is?”

  “That I have zero interest in being told what my problem is?”

  She lights a smoke and clenches it between her teeth.

  On the floor is a Ramones disc, nestled among all the wrappers and other garbage. I pop it in, and Joey’s singing, Now I want to sniff some glue! as we pull into the drive-through line at Burger Barn. Lacy’s telling me a story about something her friend’s friend heard some other girl say about the first friend’s sister that I am so not listening to, and then mid-yuk she hits the gas instead of the brake. The car leaps ahead and pl
ows into one of the brick posts that hold up the big menu with the speaker on it. The menu shatters before toppling onto the hood. Cars behind us are either laughing or laying on the horn. The manager runs out, insanely pissed. His name tag says, HI, I’M CHAD CHILTON! He’s got a goatee and the beginnings of a paunch.

  “Take it easy,” I say. “It was an accident.”

  “How do you hit that? How is it even possible?”

  “Everything’s possible, Chad.”

  “Did you not see it? It’s painted orange, for god’s sake.”

  “She got confused.”

  “Got confused or is confused?”

  “Let’s keep it professional, huh, Chad?”

  He looks at me, sees Lacy about to cry, realizes I’m right, sighs, and points to the sign. “Can you at least give me a hand?”

  Chad and I lift the menu, heavier than it looks, and prop it up so it can still be read. Mostly. He stares like if he refolded the cuffs of his dress shirt one twist tighter, the post would magically reassemble. Lacy is crying into her cell phone, on the curb in her little Indian outfit. Cars nose around, kids pointing and yelling. Old pervs slow down, checking out the big spread Lacy’s throwing under her skirt. Finally, the cops come. Lacy gets a drunk test, passes, a ticket, fails, and they let her go. The cop keeps eyeballing me like it’s my fault. I take a minute to silently hate cops an increment more than usual. Then some übersquare dude in a polo and loafers helps me push Lacy’s car off to the side, which no one else thought to do.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Sure.”

  I’m standing there thinking how cool the dude is and how I should stop prejudging people by what they wear when he hands me a card.

  Lawyer.

  “Give me a call. There might be a way this is all the restaurant’s fault.”

  I toss his card in the gutter and walk back over.

  “I have to wait for the tow truck,” Lacy says, mascara lining her cheeks.

  “I’ll wait with you.”

  She shakes her head. “In a minute my dad will be here. You shouldn’t be around when he comes, you know?”

  I know.

  We don’t kiss. She stands by the car. I stand all the way on the other side of the lot and call Mom to come pick me up. But Mom’s not there, so Looper does.

  “Thanks, man,” I say when the Perfection van rumbles up.

  Lacy gives a little half wave as we pull back into traffic.

  “Hanging out with a strange brand of old lady these days, I see.”

  “What brand would that be, Loop?”

  “Oh, you know, cute as hell, dyed red mop, dressed like Sacagawea, can’t drive for shit, don’t call me Loop.”

  I’m tempted to tell her I just got laid. I picture her expression. Would she be surprised? Pissed? Concerned? Proud?

  “I like them spicy,” I say.

  Looper plays with her feather earring. “That right?”

  “Yessir. Muy caliente.”

  “You know what? So do I.”

  “Gross.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, sorry. I keep forgetting you’re a kid.”

  I look out the window. It might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. The weird thing is, I keep forgetting, too.

  It’s Saturday. I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Finally, a car pulls up. A station wagon. Elliot’s in the passenger seat, some old lady driving. I figure it’s his mom, but it’s not.

  It’s Angie Proffer.

  Someone else’s mom.

  Mrs. Proffer squeezes Elliot’s leg as he pulls his amp from the backseat, then peels away, giving me a half wave and a beep, toot toot.

  I say nothing. Elliot says nothing. At least not for twenty minutes.

  “Chowus is late.”

  “I know, Cougartown. Twenty-six minutes. Will you relax?”

  “We don’t have twenty-six minutes to waste, fuckhead.”

  “What is your malfunction, Bad Lieutenant?”

  He bows up, clenching his fists. I step off my amp.

  He goes boxing stance. I go MMA stance.

  And then we rain blows and kicks down on each other in super slo-mo, talking like a poorly dubbed karate movie.

  “I am now informing you we have but a single month in which to rope musical beauty together!”

  “It is true! Despite your impure thoughts, that is undeniable!”

  “Aiii! Rock Scene 2013 will not wait for slow rocks to grow doltish moss!”

  “Ha! Revenge is a side dish that can be eaten both cold and hot!”

  Elliot karate chops me in the neck, and I collapse in dramatic fashion.

  “Just get out your guitar and be tuned up for when Chow Boy finally arrives, okay?”

  I roll over and unbuckle the new hard-shell case I bought for The Paul. It’s lined with this fake pink fur that smells like what some New Jersey lab thinks sweaty Catholic girls smell like. I also spray-painted SIN SISTERMOUTH on a bedsheet and hung it in the garage. There is, of course, an anarchy symbol underneath. I have no idea what anarchy really is, or wants to be, beyond the vague impression that it might mean mandatory wallet chains for all citizens. Or that I’ll never have to bus tables again after the workers revolt. Or unite. Or hand out pamphlets. Or whatever.

  Chaos drives a BMW converti. I know that because a BMW converti pulls into our driveway and screeches to a halt in a spray of gravel. He hops out, without using the door, looking like he just rolled in from a Newport regatta: madras shorts, a green Izod with the alligator cut out so you can see his left nipple, a deerstalker cap, and huge black Doc Martens.

  “Are they unlaced?” Elliot asks, without looking up.

  “They are unlaced.”

  He moans. “What in fuck are we getting ourselves into?”

  “We are inching closer to genius, that’s what.”

  Chaos gives me a bear hug, then shoots an imaginary pistol at Elliot. We retire to the garage while he sets up about three grand worth of equipment, flangers and tape loops and effects boxes. Chaos rocks three amps, two of them miked and then fed back into each other. Tiny mics are taped inside the bongos. He adjusts his stands and fiddles with his knobs and then looks up with a smile.

  “You ready, cheesebag?” Elliot asks.

  “I am ready, captain. Fire away.”

  Elliot chunks a chord and then muffles it with his palm. “Let’s start with—”

  “Oh, wait. One final adjustment.”

  Chaos pulls out a pipe. It’s one of those scrimshaw or meerschaum or whatever deals, a big white carved pirate’s head at the end of a black stem. He pulls out a baggie, stuffs the pirate to the rim with purple buds, and then lights up. He closes his eyes, blowing smoke calmly out of flared nostrils, then hands it to Elliot, who takes one tiny puff and practically coughs up a lung. I can’t believe it. He hands it to me while trying not to collapse, but I won’t even touch the thing.

  “I hate pot.”

  “Everyone’s got to hate something,” Chaos says, taking another huge puff.

  “I like my mind,” I say. “I’m okay to see the world clearly.”

  “Are you?” Chaos asks, adjusting a pedal.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What does anything mean?”

  “And thus, with one sentence, perfectly illustrating why I hate pot.”

  When Elliot finally pulls it together, he announces a rendition of “I Got the My-Girlfriend’s-Been-Extraordinarily-Renditioned-by-the-CIA Blues.”

  “This better not suck, Chow Boy.”

  “I totally agree,” Chaos says.

  “So count it off.”

  “One, two, three, four.”

  We rip into the tune. The dual-guitar attack sounds like an F-16 strafing civilians. It takes Chaos a minute to catch up, but there’s no bottom end. He’s fiddling with knobs.

  Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle, knob, knob, knob.

  Elliot is getting frustrated. We vamp around on one c
hord, waiting.

  Chaos holds up a finger, finally gets a bass signal, but then has to take off his shirt.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

  Elliot is about to yank his plug, but I’m staring at Chaos. He’s one of those guys with a perfect skinny physique, not an ounce of fat, an Abercrombie layout, like Iggy himself without all the broken-bottle scars. There’s our draw right there, no matter how much we suck. The girls will be killing one another to get near the stage.

  Chaos smiles, nods, and then pops into the groove. We let go of the vamp and race through the song’s progression.

  Within two bars it is immediately clear that he’s a fraud.

  Absolutely terrible.

  Total shit.

  Actually, that’s not true.

  The guy is a phenomenal bongo player. Right in the pocket, keeping up without breaking a sweat. Adding accents and layers. With all his effects and loops he sounds like about ten people, cutting right through our squall, meaty, propulsive. It’s weird, for sure. It’s different, for sure. But there’s no question it’s nine layers of completely, utterly awesome. Elliot and I keep looking at each other in disbelief, chugging away, playing twice as fast as usual. Chaos’s hands are a blur over the skins, propelling us into better, tighter, more confident realms. We zip through our entire set in record time, except the last song, when Chaos finally begs off. “I am sorry, dude and dudette, but these fingers need a break.”

  He casually sits on the trunk of the Beemer and lights up again, sun on his tan shoulders, as if nothing amazing has just happened. He blows out a massive plume and smiles.

  “So am I in, or what?”

  “Fuck yeah,” I say, and then look back at Elliot, who’s changing a string. “I mean, you know, as far as I’m concerned. It’s up to Smella Hella, too, though.”

  Elliot walks over, head down, hands in pockets. Chaos offers him the pipe, but Elliot declines, looking at his feet and sighing.

  We wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Finally, Chaos starts fiddling for his keys. “Okay, that’s cool. It’s not working out? I understand. Thanks any—”

  “You’re in.”

  Chaos looks at me, winks, then gives Elliot a big hug.

  No one in the history of El Hella has ever given El Hella a big hug.

  He elbows Chaos away, but you can see it’s almost with a shred of affection.