Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books)

by Brad Whittington

  embodiment archetype

  echo ohce ykceb becky

  I had serious doubts that Becky would understand how this expressed my strong feelings for her. I wasn’t sure I understood it myself.

  I experimented with an alternative, ’70s realism.

  Though I know all of that rouge and powder

  Hides from human view a zit still growing.

  Though I’ve seen you pick your nose with vigor

  When you thought that no one else was watching.

  Though your mother’s short and fat and ugly

  And so one day you will surely follow.

  Though your hair is straight and thin and greasy

  And you supplement your form with padding.

  Still I love you as I love no other.

  Love has blinded me to every blemish.

  I can only pray that in full fairness

  It will do the same to you for my sake.

  I shrank from offering such frank confessions of love as well. Somehow, I didn’t think it would have the desired effect. Evidently, in love, honesty wasn’t always the best policy. Which would I have to sacrifice, my integrity or my passion?

  I finally resorted to Hollywood for my images. I would lay back in the Fortress and daydream soft-focus, slow-motion scenes of rolling meadows and flower-saturated fields where Becky romped through glistening brooks in rustling white lace and an enormous floppy straw hat. The radio provided an unlikely sound track of Doc Watson and “Dr. Zhivago.” Although these fantasies were as impractical as chivalry, they were contemporary and therefore seemed more attainable. These were the meditations I practiced in my tree-house shrine to romance. Then, each day I returned to school and slowly burned down the stew of my passion into a thick, dark rueroux, strong and potent.

  As the year wore on, I became more desperate to declare my devotion. When Valentine’s Day drew near, I searched for a relatively risk-free method of expression and finally decided on the old secret-admirer ploy. The first step was to find the right card: a perfect combination of wit and affection. I had to dig through quite a stack before I found the winner. In the reject heap were such jewels as:

  Picture of a hillbilly on the front. Inside: “If you was grits, I’d go back for seconds.”

  Picture of redneck with tools on front saying, “Could you help me study for my TV repair class?” Inside: “I need to practice my horizontal hold.”

  Picture of bluetick hound on front and “You kiss a lot better than old Blue.” Inside: “But how fast can you tree a coon?”

  Finally, I came across the card that was unmistakably right. On the front was a drawing of a dumpy old woman with her hair in a bandanna, Aunt Jemima style, sitting at a kitchen table with a shy, goofy expression of infatuation. Striding seductively through the doorway was an archetypical, dumpy plumber serenading her on a tuba. In the corner sat a wide-eyed dog with claws extended and ears pointing straight up. Inside it read, “Weave your magic spell, my darling, for I am a slave of your love.”

  I withdrew to the Fortress of Solitude to compose an irresistibly romantic inscription. After several false starts, during which I endured a medley of Farin Young and Caruso, I finally settled on, “You are the music of my soul. Love, your secret admirer.” I sealed the envelope, slapped a stamp on it, and put it in the mail.

  I waited days for some sign that Becky had received an unexpected valentine. Finally, when I had all but given up, I saw her walking down the hall with the envelope. Her expression did little to inspire hope, because it was a picture of confusion. She came up to my locker and looked at me for a second. Then she opened up the envelope. “Did you send me an empty envelope in the mail?”

  I looked down through the screen of hair that fell between us and, sure enough, it was empty. “Uh . . . no. Why would I do that?”

  “But this looks like yer handwritin’.” She flipped it over and, sure enough, she was right again.

  I decided total denial was the only way out. “No, that’s not my handwriting. Well, it looks a little like mine, but I didn’t send it.” I eyed her closely for signs of a prank. “Why would somebody send an empty envelope? Are you sure nothing was in it?”

  “Yeah. I opened it myself, and it was empty.”

  “Huh. Go figure,” I said weakly. What else was there to say? I endured the rest of the day and the long bus ride home in agony. I raced out to the Fortress of Solitude and dug out the ammo case. There it was, sitting right on top. I couldn’t send it now or she would know for sure that I was the fool who had sent the first envelope. I tore up the card in frustration and burnt it—a sacrifice on the altar of unrequited love.

  I now despaired of finding a way to reveal my devotion to Becky without risking a humiliating rejection. In desperation I decided on a last attempt at the secret-admirer approach. I chose the typing class as the most anonymous route.

  Following the form in my Gregg typing book, I composed a simple letter of recommendation as follows.

  March 2, 1971

  Becky Tuttle

  Row 2, Thord Third Desk form the Leftt

  Room 122

  Warren High School

  Dear Miss Tuttle;:

  I am writin gthis letter in refereence to a certaing admirer who is seeking a position currrently available as the center of yor affection.I have known this admirerer intimately for 15 years and can perosnally vouch fpr his character. heHe is dedicated and loyal and showzs a commemdable attention to detial, particularlly where you are concernd. he would be willing to spend overtime perforing his duties as youer ardent suitor .

  if you have nor not filled this positino yet,, I hpoe you will give seruios consideratoin to this admirer. If you are intersted in my recommendation, leave a not to that affect in yuor type-writer and I will contaact you in hte newar futur.e

  Yours truely,

  Anonymous

  We had typing immediately after lunch, so the next day I sneaked down the hall during lunch and put the note in Becky’s typewriter. When the bell rang, I hurried to class and was the first one in the room. I glanced at the note when I passed by Becky’s desk. It wasn’t there! I went to my own desk, dropped my books in a heap, and scurried over to Becky’s desk. The note was nowhere to be seen. Students began arriving, and I was forced to abandon my search.

  It wasn’t until I was leaving the class that I discovered its fate. I was walking out and glanced at the bulletin board. There it was—with a D– in red at the top. All the mistakes were marked and at the bottom it read:

  Originality B+

  Typing F–

  ________________

  Grade D–

  I abandoned it as a lost cause and merged with the crowd.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN But I was not the only one destined to be among the walking wounded in the war between the sexes. There were others who walked willingly into the incoming mortars at the front lines.

  Ralph, Bubba, and I were hanging out in the pool hall in Fred, wasting quarters. Or more specifically, wasting my quarters. Ralph looked up at the sign next to the jukebox, which offered the observation: “Good kissin’ don’t last. Good cookin’ do.”

  “You know,” he said as he chalked his cue, “speakin’ of kissin’, I have a feelin’ Jolene could finish in the top three.” I looked around to see if Bubba was back with the ice cream. After all, it isn’t exactly the best form to discuss a girl’s kissing skills with her brother. One would hope he wouldn’t be able to offer much firsthand advice.

  “I wouldn’t know, personally.” I completely missed one of my balls and knocked in two of Ralph’s.

  “Thanks.” He lined up his next shot. “Well, I aim ta find out.” He made a nice bank shot.

  “Find out what?” Bubba walked up with a handful of ice-cream cones.

  “Ralph here has decided to try to kiss your sister.”

  “Good luck,” Bubba replied and handed out the cones. Perhaps a surprising sentiment from a brother, but Bubba had his reasons for thinking that the
only way Ralph would discover the flavor of Jolene’s lipstick would be by stealing her purse.

  I couldn’t blame Ralph, even if I did think he was insane to attempt it. Jolene had turned from gawky to cute in junior high. But when she returned from summer to start high school, the world discovered that she had upped the ante considerably. She was just the right height to fit comfortably under an embracing arm and had a figure that was eminently embraceable. Wavy locks of raven hair surrounded a complexion as fresh and smooth as a glass of milk. Her eyebrows, which she had the good sense not to pluck, were thick and full. They accented eyes that seemed all pupils they were so dark. She was such a study in contrasts, you might have thought you were looking at a black-and-white picture had it not been for a hint of strawberry highlights on the cheeks and full, red lips with a slight pout.

  Yes, Jolene was a first-rate candidate for kisser of the year, and lots of guys were hankering to help her win the contest. However, few got the chance because the contrasts weren’t limited to her looks; they extended to her personality as well. A guy might take her out expecting a dream date but was more likely to have a nightmare.

  Jolene had never lost her penchant for practical jokes. When the lights went down and the mood music came up, Jolene and her date started getting ideas, but the two sets of ideas bore no resemblance to each other except for the cast of characters who would be featured in the coming attractions. Inevitably, a conflict of ideas would arise before the night was through. A conflict in which Jolene would prevail.

  Practically every guy in Tyler County tried to woo her. Each in turn took her to football games, dances, and movies—even gushy movies like Love Story. The most astute planners included a romantic dinner at Pizza Inn, where the lights were low and, if you asked him, the waiter would light the candle in the red tea glass with his Bic turned up to high. The jukebox even had Johnny Mathis tunes.

  Toward the end of the evening, the most persistent would creep his pickup under a secluded oil rig romantically nestled in a wilderness of pines, kill the engine, and roll down the window to better hear the pulsing descant of crickets and frogs calling to their mates mixed with the seductive throb of the oil pump. Then he would turn expectantly for a kiss. Unfortunately, he was likely as not to be greeted by a pair of Groucho glasses. Or maybe a set of Dracula fangs. Either way, whatever he saw was guaranteed to cool the ardor of any would-be Don Juan.

  Actually, Jolene may have liked kissing. All that anyone knew for sure was that she liked practical jokes more.

  Even Old MacDonald noticed Jolene’s transformation. He brought it up one day when we were out on the river annoying the loggerhead turtles by drowning worms in front of their noses. Fishing was not my leisure activity of choice, but as a member of the Sunday school class, I found myself obliged to submit to a gamut of tortures in the name of social conformity. On this particular outing I found myself marooned on a rowboat in the middle of the Neches River under the unblinking gaze of the Texas sun. Gnats swarmed around my head like my personal asteroid belt; horseflies slammed into me like meteors; mosquitoes touched down like a lunar lander taking core samples. It looked like things had gone from bad to worse for the center of my universe. The rest of the class was scattered at other fishing holes, probably all in the shade.

  Behind me Old MacDonald was contentedly extracting another Ictalurus punctatus from its natural habitat. All the fish seemed to prefer his end of the boat. “So, Mark, don’t Jolene have a steady boyfriend?” He tossed the fish into the wire-mesh basket hanging from the side of the boat.

  “Uh, I don’t think so.” I terminated the short life of another mosquito, wiping the blood on my jeans.

  “You should ask her out. You’d make a nice pair, you two.”

  “Me?” I considered the suggestion infinitely more ludicrous than an invitation to go fishing.

  “Sure, why not?” His line plunked back into the water.

  “You want a summary or a detailed list?”

  “Might as well make it the detailed list. We got plenty of time.”

  That was not a pleasant thought. I was hoping for an early reprieve and a swim. “Well, for starters, I’m not suicidal.”

  Mac twisted around to look at me. “What?”

  I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Asking Jolene out on a date is like walking across the highway dressed as an armadillo.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, and Jolene is the log truck.”

  Mac turned back to his fishing. “I see,” he said, and then under his breath, “I think.” He didn’t talk again until he was pulling up another fish and I was killing another mosquito. It wasn’t a long wait. “So, where’s the detailed list?”

  I was mystified by his persistence. How could he not see that Jolene was pitching a no-hitter in the majors, and I was water boy for the farm team. I searched for a choice of words that wasn’t completely self-demeaning. “Well, she’s probably half a foot taller than I am.”

  “And . . .”

  “Well, you know, that would look kind of funny.”

  “But I see you two together all the time, and it don’t look funny.”

  “Well, that’s different. We’re just friends.”

  “Back when I was in high school, Peggy was the head cheerleader. Best lookin’ girl in school.”

  I twisted around to look at him. Perhaps the heat was getting to him. I was on the verge of offering to row us ashore when he continued.

  “I didn’t think there would be any reason she would take notice of me. Too small to play football, not very popular. Not long after I broke up with another girl, there was a Sadie Hawkins dance. Peggy asked me to it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He set his pole down. “You ready to head back in?”

  The boat was too small for an ecstatic dance of celebration, so I just said, “Sure,” and grabbed the oars.

  “So, just think: what if Peggy had never asked me? I wouldn’t have known how wrong I was about her not noticin’ me. Think about it.”

  I thought about it. And about Becky. Mac looked back at me. “Now, what exactly did you mean with that part about the log truck?”

  The next week, evidently acting on subliminal communications from the Old MacDonald Psychic Friends Network, Ralph asked Jolene out. To his great satisfaction, she accepted immediately. I awaited the event with as much expectation as he did. Perhaps more. The day after the date, I cornered him between Sunday school and church.

  Ralph spat on the ground and said, “Shucks,” or something to that effect.

  “Is that all you have to say?” I demanded. “You took the hottest fox in Fred to a drive-in last night, for Pete’s sake!”

  Ralph snorted.

  “What? Tell me what happened.”

  “I took her all the way down ta Beaumont and the drive-in. She made me get her a corny dog and mustard.” He looked at me with the deadliest expression I had seen since Billy Jack. “You’ll never guess what she did with it.”

  “What?”

  “When she tried ta squirt mustard on it, she soaked my jeans.” I suppressed a chuckle. I remembered the old mustard trick. It was one of her best because she seemed to be genuinely sorry after she did it. “So,” Ralph continued, “I went ta the bathroom ta wash it off, and when I got back, the car was gone.”

  That was too much for me. I let a laugh slip out.

  Ralph squelched it with a burning glare. “Yeah, go ahead, laugh. I hunted all over that dang drive-in before I found the car behind the concession stand.” He spat on the ground again. “Then it wouldn’t start. Took me thirty minutes ta find out she had pulled out the distributor cap and another thirty minutes ta find it in the glove compartment. The whole time she was sittin’ in another car with Squeaky, watching the whole thang and laughin’. That’s the last time I waste any money on her.”

  Ralph didn’t know how easy he had gotten off. After all, he took her to a drive-in.

  A drive-in has certain connotations
to the typical teenage guy, who is usually nothing more than a seething mass of hormones precariously packaged in a container with the approximate shape of a human body. When Jolene suggested they go to the drive-in, Ralph had his expectations raised to critical levels. Visions of sugarplums danced in his head. The winged shaft of Cupid, or at least Eros, was lodged in his heart. So it was from a lofty height that she sent his hopes tumbling down into the ruins of his ego.

  The truth was that, in spite of the East Texas macho facade, the self-image of these cowboys was as delicately balanced as my own. They needed a girl with an equally fragile self-image to accommodate them. Dating was little more than a group-therapy session of two (and sometimes grope-therapy as well) where the patients mutually validated each other’s identities.

  Ralph focused his attentions elsewhere, and before I knew it, he had a girlfriend. Ralph Mull, for crying out loud! Granted, the girlfriend was Squeaky, but still, a main squeeze is a main squeeze, and he had one. I pondered asking him for advice.

  Darnell Ray had a girlfriend, but there was no use asking him how they hooked up. Everybody knew she had asked him. They were a matched set, anyway, both with greasy, Coke-bottle glasses and stringy hair. I didn’t figure any of Darnell’s advice for the lovelorn would apply to Becky.

  My opportunity to pump Ralph for advice came when he was helping me build a fence for my pigs, an unfortunate side effect of having signed up for Ag. Unsurprisingly, even in Ag I found myself diverging from the norm. Everyone else made gun cases; I made a bookcase. But, then reality set in—I discovered a requirement of the class was to raise some type of farm animal, ostensibly with the purpose of making a profit. I took the cheapest and most unusual route—raising pigs.

  While Ralph and I were building the pigpen, he handed me an eight-track tape. “Here. Put this on while we work.”

  I popped it in the tape deck and was immediately assaulted with a nasal female voice whining through the speaker. “Whoa.” I hit the eject button. “What’s that?”