by Steve Almond
“You’re so full of shit,” I said.
“If I’m so full of shit, how do you explain Kim Forrest and DeWitt Henderson?” This was Holden’s trump card, and he displayed it with a princely fluttering of his hands.
Kim Forrest was the hottest girl at our high school. She had run through most of the varsity captains by sophomore year, but never gone all the way. Then this guy, DeWitt Henderson, transferred to our school. He was droopy-eyed and blond, full of hunky grace. All year they circled each other. And the way we heard the story—a story so often repeated it had become, among our pathetic stratum, a kind of masturbatory liturgy—when they finally hooked up, out behind the old grange silo, Kim came not once, not twice, but four times, and was so dazzled by DeWitt’s sexual sangfroid that, lying in his arms afterward, she wept with gratitude.
“You think that happens to anyone other than Henderson?” Holden said. “No way. Kim Forrest was saving herself for the guy who was her match on the beauty gradient. But the whole time she’s waiting, see, she’s getting more and more lathered up. She’s like a bottle of Don Perignon that’s been shaken for months, right? So when she finally gets popped—kaboom.”
“What about different cultures?” I said. “You gonna tell me the bushmen of the Kalahari lust after Kim Forrest?”
“I didn’t say that. You’d probably like it if I did, because you’d probably like a shot at some of that dusty Kalahari pussy. But I’m not saying that. The beauty gradient is a cultural determinant, my friend. But there ain’t a culture that’s exempt. The whole world, right down to fucking Nashua Point, Iowa, runs on a beauty gradient.”
I knew this well enough. My mother, after all, had once been the most beautiful woman in Nashua. This beauty was what spared her when her mind began to unravel five years ago. She had always been an eccentric, strolling the aisles of the grocery store in her bathrobe, humming tunes in public. It was when she began lighting small fires in the front yard and picketing the phone company that my father sought professional help. He was sickened by her blooming madness. And yet the rest of Nashua treated her gently, like a princess who wanders from her throne and lies down to sleep amid the cows. My own grandparents, who had settled Nashua when it was just corn and fences, refused to acknowledge their daughter’s condition. They were astounded when my father left.
“I’m trying to teach you something here,” Holden said. “Just look at the instant case. Look at your pal Astrid.” Astrid was the first girl I had ever kissed, on the spidery blacktop of Palmer elementary. “Astrid’s getting herself in trouble right now,” Holden said. “Even as we speak.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s making a play for Scott Milikan, right?”
“Who says?”
“Everyone knows this. Shit, look at the rack.” Astrid was wearing a red, velvety-type shirt about three sizes too small.
“So?”
“So she’s in trouble. Milikan’s out of her range. He’s at least three, four grades up on the gradient.”
This was true. Astrid, with her chunky frame and underbite, was no match for Milikan. He had a boxy jaw full of boxy teeth and tussled blond hair. Plus, he played soccer. He started ahead of me at sweeper.
“Who says Ast can’t get him? She looks good tonight.”
“I’m not saying she can’t get him. That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is, she won’t be able to keep him.”
Astrid sipped her beer and laughed. Milikan was a few steps away, pumping the keg, smiling, a man with options.
“Everyone knows Ast is making a play for him, and he knows it too. Don’t you doubt it. He’s got a few beers in him and he’s sizing her up, mostly around the hogans. Sure, Milikan’s saying, why the hell not? Problem is, he’s not in it for the long haul. Beer can blur the picture, but it can’t repaint the lines.”
“What about personality?” I said. “Personality counts for something.”
“Not compared to looks. The only thing that beats looks is power or money. For crying out loud, Tommy, who do you think is getting laid in this country? Are you, my friend, in the great scheme of things, getting laid? No, you’re getting various hues on le palette de blue balls. You know who’s getting laid? Rock musicians. Politicians. Athletes. Why? Why are these men getting laid? Why are these often very ugly men getting laid? Because they’ve got at least two of the magic three. Dennis Rodman? You think anyone wants to fuck him if he’s not Dennis Rodman? Bono? Bono is dog meat. Who fucked Bono before he was Bono? No one, that’s who. Ugly chicks, maybe.”
Astrid had left the keg. She was off somewhere, powdering something. Milikan was talking to another girl.
“And I must tell you, my friend, this is good sex we’re talking about. Don’t delude yourself into thinking the prime studage of this country is having substandard sex. No siree. They are having pornquality, multi-gasm sex. They have fucked so many women, and women are so delighted to be fucking them, so moist at the idea of being part of the imprimatur, that these guys are getting hummers. These women, when they suck these guys off, they’re humming. Like the seven dwarfs. Humming while they work.”
“The dwarfs whistled.”
Holden and I had been best friends forever, though that was going to change soon because I was going East for college, while Holden—who was probably twice as smart as I was—was taking summer-school classes. He hoped to get his diploma in time to maybe enroll at Foothill, the local community college.
Milikan finally surrendered the keg, and I went to get more beer.
I felt a hip nudge me.
“Hey,” I said.
Astrid showed me her lovely underbite. “Hey yourself.”
“You look great.”
“Oh Tommy. How sweet!” She gave me an exuberant little hug. You could tell she was sloshed. “How’s the philosopher?”
“Oh, you know. As full of shit as ever.”
Astrid smiled and I could see a lipstick stain on one of her front teeth. She glanced over my shoulder. Milikan was behind me, talking with this little blond, a sophomore. Astrid hugged me again and stumbled off toward Milikan.
“That looked enjoyable.” Holden sniffed at me. “Did she spray you?”
“Drink your beer.”
We stood there and watched Astrid and Milikan and the blond. Astrid was doing most of the talking, her boobs right out there, swaying like loose signage.
“She looks hot,” I said.
“Not hot enough,” Holden said. “Milikan ends up taking blondie home.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
* * *
Astrid left the party with Milikan, in his fucking Jeep Cherokee, wobbled out the door, doughy but triumphant.
“You were wrong,” I said, as I climbed into Holden’s car.
Holden shook his head and grinned in a way meant to indicate I had missed the point. “A war of attrition. That’s all. Ast just set it right out there, said: Here’s what you get, bub. No games. No hassles. A one-night deal. Blondie’s biding her time. Smart girl.”
“Shut up.”
“The situation will correct itself,” Holden said.
“What if Milikan likes Ast, huh? What if he falls for her? You ever consider that?”
“Won’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“Different strata, sonny boy.”
“That’s sick,” I said. “You’re one sick fucking bastard.”
“What are you getting so worked up about?”
“I’m not worked up.”
Holden rolled through a stop sign. “It’s not like I invented the rules, all right? The beauty gradient’s just something that’s out there. Like photosynthesis. Wouldn’t exist at all, if it was up to me. Shit. If it was up to me, girls would dig us doggy guys with personality, okay? But it’s not up to me.”
“Just drive.”
I was drunk on about three beers and I hadn’t liked watching the little drama unfold, blondie fluttering around Milikan in all her unattaina
ble beauty and Astrid crowding him, her tits brushing his arm every few seconds. Girls never behaved that way around me.
“Look,” Holden said, “if it’s any consolation, I think Astrid is within your range.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means. You’re a couple of notches down, but she’s within your range. She likes that you’re heading East to school. She thinks it shows character, you’re not just sticking around here and going to State. She told me.”
This pleased me. I myself was dreading school. As much as I hated Nashua, the idea of adjusting to a new city terrified me. Then I remembered Milikan, the muscles showing beneath his soccer sweats, his phony-ass teeth.
“Lot of good it did me tonight.”
“Wait it out,” Holden said. “We’re in July. It’s a long way till August.”
“September. I leave September second.”
“Right.”
We were drifting down Alma, through flashing reds. Out beyond the strip malls was the corn, all that fucking corn, growing yellower by the day. I thought about my mom, wondered what kind of state she’d be in when I got home.
“What about you,” I said. “Jenno looked good tonight, no?” Holden had been feebly circling Jenno Wilkes for months.
“Nah. I’m laying low for a while.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Holden began tapping the steering wheel and shifted in his seat. “It means what it means, Kimosabe. Hey, did I ever tell you about Valentino?”
“Who?”
“Rudolph Valentino. The silent-film star.”
I shrugged.
“You’ve seen pictures of him, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sure you have.”
Holden had this habit of never quite allowing me to not know something.
“So tell me. Tell me about Randolph-fuckin-Valentino.”
“Rudolph,” Holden said. He was impossible to annoy. “All right, here’s a guy who couldn’t pay to get laid for most of his life. He was an Italian, right? Dark, swarthy type, like you. He grows up in this little town, down there in Sicily. And when he’s about fifteen or something, his mom puts him on a ship to America. He can’t speak a word of English, right? And he’s living in this era that has zero tolerance for immigrants. So he gets to America and he’s bumbling along, working as a ditchdigger out in L.A. A ditchdigger, for Chrissakes. Him and his Italian buddies. Just swinging a shovel, sweating all day in the sun and eating onion sandwiches.”
“Onion sandwiches?” I said.
“He can’t afford meat,” Holden said. “Meat cost a lot of money back then. Anyway, one day this big-shot director spots him. They’re doing a job out near the director’s house. Digging a ditch. Valentino’s humping along. His shirt’s all sweat-stained and he hasn’t shaved in like a month and he’s puffing on a little Turkish cigarette. But this director, he sees something, some kind of special mark. He has his driver pull the car over and he calls out to Valentino, ‘Young man. Young man!’ All the other guys, the other Italians, they’re whistling and hooting. Like: Who is this old fag? But three days later, Valentino is cast as the lead in his first movie. He goes on to become the single greatest sex symbol of the entire century. The gold standard of the male beauty gradient.”
“Your point being?”
“Wait it out, Kimosabe. Tomorrow never knows.”
“Very moving,” I said. “Thanks.” It was a strange story for Holden to tell, full of that ugly-duckling hopefulness that my mother was always pushing.
“Hey, lemme ask you a favor,” Holden said quietly. “Can I crash at your place?”
“Sure.”
Holden had problems with his stepdad. My mom didn’t mind. She liked Holden. She said he had character.
I was working six days a week that summer, scooping ice cream at the Hungry Penguin. Holden was working construction with his stepdad, and this was not a pleasant situation. He didn’t like for Holden to say anything, which was like telling a puppy not to wag its tail. Holden would never admit this, but the old man kind of bullied him around.
We went to all the lame parties that summer, the ones at Robbie Grove’s and Carrie Madsen’s and Trent Carmichael’s and even one up in Porter Hills—which aren’t really hills, just a plateau where the rich kids live. Holden used to live up there. His real dad had been a doctor.
The parties were always the same thing—a keg in the backyard, lots of milling around, maybe a few drunk girls dancing. This is just what we did. It gave our lives a focal point, however dim, and kept us locked within the social cloister of high school, where we felt safe to rail against the lives we were about to leave behind. Also, these parties were advertised as the only way to get laid in our town, however remote this possibility might have been in the case of Holden and myself.
My mother said nothing about my impending departure, though her behavior became increasingly erratic. Often I would return home to find her peeling the wallpaper with a steak knife, or painting designs on her arms with my old watercolor set. Her gaze was jittery and the meals she prepared were elaborate and nonsensical: mashed potatoes with chocolate fondue, Jell-O parmigiano.
She and Holden got along famously. I could hear them giggling over Scrabble, or assailing the late-night movie on Channel 39. They both talked back to the TV. If I returned from a party alone, my mother would inevitably look up and, with a certain lazy grimace caused by her medication, say: “Where’s Holden?”
July’s last party was thrown by my neighbor, Liz Wheaton. I was working late that night and had to race home on my bike to catch the end. I turned onto my street and saw someone walking, a girl in a short skirt and thick-soled sandals. I recognized those legs, which were thick and pale. It wasn’t going to look good, me riding my old ten-speed, wearing a shirt with a little penguin holding a platter of ice cream. But I was thrilled at the chance to talk with Astrid alone.
I circled around and called out to her.
“Who is it?” She jerked a hand to her throat.
“It’s me.”
“God! Tommy, you scared me.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I was just coming to see you.”
“Well, here I am.” I couldn’t quite make out her face, which was hidden in the shadows cast by the mulberry trees.
“How was the party?”
“The same old stuff.”
I laughed a little because stuff was what Holden and I had taken to calling our crotch areas. As in: You ain’t never gonna find a home for that stuff. Or: Don’t be bringing that stuff round here, less you aims to use it, Mr. Rooster. We were dorks. This is how dorks in our town talked.
Astrid stepped out of the shadows. She was puffy around the eyes.
“You’re lucky to be getting out,” she said. “Heading off somewhere real.”
“What happened? Was it something at the party?”
She took a breath and straightened up, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Nothing I couldn’t have predicted a month ago. Walk me home, okay Tommy?”
I don’t know that I can express the extent to which I welcomed this invitation. My body made all sorts of little yips. It felt good to be taken into confidence, to play a supporting role. I wanted that to be the extent of my interest. But, of course, I was also hoping. Any guy who tells you otherwise is full of shit.
“Sure,” I said. “Yeah.”
“I’m no idiot,” Astrid said. “I knew Milikan was a sketcher.” That was the word we used for guys who slept around a lot, whereas girls in our town who did that were called skeez. “I figured it might be a one-night thing. But he didn’t need to play me. He didn’t need to tell me how he was so happy to be with me and wasn’t this special and he’d been waiting for months.”
“He said that?”
“Yeah, he said a lot of crap. A real sketcher. A real sketch artiste.” Astrid laughed, sadly. “And, you know, you always wait for the phone call. I mean
, we had a great time. That’s the worst part.”
A great time. I pondered those words, what they implied in terms of limbs and leverage and sweat. I ached to be the subject of such a statement.
“I knew he might not call, okay? But there was no need for him to show up with Little Miss Perky Tits. I mean, he knew all my friends were going to be there.”
“He showed up with her and everything?”
“They were macking the whole time. God, I hate that little bitch.” Astrid looked surprised she’d actually said this. Immediately her tone softened. “It’s not her fault. Whatever. Scott doesn’t like me because I’m not a little sporty girl.”
“What about volleyball?”
“Volleyball doesn’t make you a sporty girl.”
She was right. This was, in its own way, a kind of variation on the beauty gradient. There were people who had bodies that looked as if they played sports and people who didn’t and often it was irrelevant, especially in the case of girls, whether you actually played sports or not. The cheerleaders, for instance, who wouldn’t be caught dead chucking a softball, all had sporty bods. It was a matter of appearances. And there was no middle ground, not in high school, not in a town like Nashua. I didn’t have a sporty body, even though I played soccer and badminton. I looked like “a fence post with arms,” as Holden’s real dad put it after one of my long-ago physicals.
“I knew he was a sketcher,” Astrid murmured. “But I would’ve liked to have fooled around with him again.” She shook her head. “Hey, you should maybe go back and see about the philosopher.”
“Why?”
“He was getting pretty wasted.”
“He can take care of himself,” I said.
We were near Astrid’s house. I felt a gnawing desire to touch her, to touch her there under the flickering streetlamp, the faint moon. I knew the circumstances were all wrong, that she was heart-broken over this jerk, and that any affection thrown my way was going to be of the incidental, compromised, rebound type. And I didn’t care.