Thursday, September 27
Bink pulled up this morning driving a baby blue Volkswagen Bug that screamed “Tijuana-built death trap.”
“Nice wheels,” I said, walking over to him. “Get this thing from a box of Trix?”
“Lucky Charms. Get in.”
I tugged at the door, getting a you-really-need-to-pull-because-it-kinda-sticks look from Bink, folded myself in half, and slipped in shotgun, crunching a McDonald’s bag and kicking an empty bottle of YooHoo under my feet.
“When’d you get this piece of junk?”
“Last night,” Bink said. “I got tired of constantly begging for the Volvo. Only six hundred bucks.”
“You were robbed.”
“Jealous? Anyhow, the stereo doesn’t work,” Bink explained, fumbling to get some CD he’d burned into the boombox he’d jerry-rigged to the dash with duct tape. I snagged the case from him and glanced at the tracks. The Ramones, Lou Reed, The Smoking Popes, 88 Fingers Louie, Iggy Pop, The Lawrence Arms. Music that Bink insisted was better than any of the crap on the radio.
“Most of the music from the last twenty years is crap,” Bink said like he expected me to pick a fight with him or something. He cranked the volume dial. “Wanna know what blows? When we’re in our fifties, there won’t be a grocery store or elevator that isn’t playing a Muzak version of shit like Celine Dion or some hip-hop diva.”
“Well, with Celine, at least we won’t be able to tell if it’s Muzak or the original,” I said.
He groaned. Bink’s a dork. Cute, but a dork.
We ditched school and hit Full Cyrkle, this record shop on Route 31 that caters to old fogies looking for Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians’ The Sweetest Waltzes This Side of Heaven and stoners selling near-mint copies of Dark Side of the Moon or Tommy to pay for weed. I hadn’t been there since I was, like, eight and First needed a birthday present for his mom and thought she’d like some album by four New Jersey potential wifebeaters singing in these corn syrup falsettos.
Bink, on the other hand, has practically lived there since, like, the seventh grade. As soon as we walked in, Bink asked about some garage band he saw at a party in Naperville back in March or maybe it was at the Elmhurst VFW hall, and then, like a Vegas card dealer, flipped through the albums Dave’d set out for him—all stone-faced efficiency. Patti Smith’s Horses (C’mon, Dave, like I don’t already have this.), The Cramps’ A Date with Elvis (“Can Your Pussy Do the Dog?”—great track.), Siouxsie and the Banshees (Live versions of “Hong Kong Garden” and “Dear Prudence”? For a bootleg, this doesn’t suck.), The Modern Lovers (Ever hear Johnny Rotten’s cover of “Roadrunner”? Hilarious. He can’t remember the lyrics.).
Afterward, we drove around, not really talking. It was cool. Almost like when we were kids and nobody paid attention to what we were doing—trying to scratch records like the Beastie Boys, broomstick bicycle jousting, tormenting Aaron before his junior prom. Only, the thing is, we aren’t kids anymore. I mean, it’s like if I spend any time around Bink, Mr. Five-Incher starts acting like he’s got the mental capacity of an Alzheimer’s patient and conveniently forgets that I’ve got this super hot guy as a boyfriend. Put me around a guy that’s slightly above average in the looks department and my little buddy’s demanding so much of my body’s blood that it’s a wonder my brain’s getting enough oxygen to support basic human functioning.
I guess I’d feel really bad if I thought it was just me, but I swear to Christ, it’s a guy thing. This summer, when everyone was playing truth or dare at Dana’s party, I remember someone asking Kyle Weir if he’d rather have really awful, might-as-well-just-jerk-off-with-Stephen-Hawking’s-paralytic-hand sex with a chick who measured 42”-18”-33” or make toe-curling, ball-shuddering, universe-shattering, mind-evaporating monkey love with a chick he’d just as soon put on a leash and feed dog biscuits. Weir said he’d nail ’em both, just as long as no one ever knew he was packing the homunculus’s box. Yeah, Weir’s a pig, but part of me thinks he’s right. It seems like most guys—and let’s face it, it’s not like I’m an exception—would do the nasty with just about anything if they could get away with it. Am I proud of this? No. But, then again, I’m not exactly proud of the fact that I spend ninety percent of my life practicing genital origami on myself.
Saturday, September 29
I feel like shit. If I wasn’t such a wuss, I’d find a gun and blow my brains out. Rob’s not talking to me. It’s my fault. I’m such a prick.
We lost our first game yesterday. The thing is, McHenry wasn’t supposed to beat us. It wasn’t supposed to be close. They’re the second-worst team in the conference. I don’t know if we just got too cocky or if McHenry was so bad they dragged us down to their level, but Christ, we sucked.
In the visiting locker room, everyone acted like we lost ’cuz the ref called the game on a slaughter rule. Guys were shoving each other into lockers, yelling, throwing jerseys, cleats, and shin guards. That’s when Rob and I got into it. He stood near me as I pulled off my shoes and socks.
“Smooth move on that save,” Rob said. I should’ve realized he was kidding, but I was pissed about costing us the game. I didn’t need anyone rubbing it in—least of all him. And, in classic Stewart style, I took it too far.
“Yeah? Maybe we’d’ve done better if your mom was out there in her wheelchair instead of you, dweeb.”
Rob stood there like I’d sucker punched him. His teeth were clenched. He balled his hands into fists. I wanted to take it back instantly.
“Rob, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean it,” I said, stammering. I closed my eyes, hoping he’d haul off and slug me, break my nose, something. Hell, if having my jaw wired shut for a few weeks kept me from saying stupid crap, so much the better. My arms were shaking and covered in goose bumps.
Rob didn’t hit me. He didn’t tackle me or anything. He just called me a bastard, took off the watch I’d given him, dropped it into my bag, and walked away.
I’ve been phoning Rob pretty much on the hour since yesterday. He won’t answer.
Sunday, September 30
Rob’s still not talking to me. I tried apologizing at church today. He blew me off, acting like I didn’t even exist.
It didn’t help any having First at church. He tried sitting with me and Mom, only she wasn’t having his let’s-pretend-we’re-the-perfect-family-and-everything’s-fine crap. She got up and sat in the pew across the aisle. There wasn’t room for me, so I got stuck with him.
Trust me, even I’m having a hard time believing it, but First actually treated me like a real live human being and not like some freakish lab specimen that needed to be slapped on a slide, doused with iodine, and scrutinized under a microscope for defects.
“Everything okay with you, Chip? I mean, Charlie?” he asked, whispering. The church organist fog-horned her way through “Now Thank We All Our God” like it was a funeral dirge for some ancient lederhosen-wearing Bavarian lard-ass.
“I guess,” I said, trying to say as little as possible so I didn’t end up getting the third degree on the music I was listening to (it wasn’t that long ago when Queen, the Butthole Surfers, the Queers, and the Dickies were all cause for suspicion) or how if I didn’t get at least a B in AP Bio or pass my driver’s test, I’d end up going from living in public housing to being someone’s toothless, Skoal-gumming, tattooed prison bitch.
“And your mom?”
“She’s fine.”
“That’s good,” he said, looking down at the hymnal. “Is there anything you need from me?”
“Nope.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything. I’d be happy to help.”
Granted, it’s not like the conversation we had was exactly riveting, but at least it ended without either of us wanting to kill each other.
Monday, October 1
Scribbled notes in second hour…
—Dating sucks.
What’d you do now, Charlie?
–How do you know it’s my faul
t, Bink?
When you walk into the kitchen, see the trash can knocked to the ground and the family dog in the middle of all the garbage, you don’t go searching for some homeless guy gnawing on a greasy chicken bone.
–Quit trying to be cute.
I’m just saying.
—You’re just being a dick.
So, what’d you do?
–Said something to Rob I shouldn’t have.
Then apologize.
–He won’t talk to me.
Then write to him.
–But…
Well, boo hoo, then, Charlie. Boo hoo. You’re as bad as Dana.
Tuesday, October 2
I’ve been calling Rob and he’s still not answering. It sucks.
Mom finally said where she’s been going at night. She’s taken an accounting job at The Cottage, closing out the bar and kitchen registers, tallying up the receipts, and doing the books. She figures it’ll help if she needs a job if they get a divorce. She’s even thinking about maybe going back to school to get her CPA.
Wednesday, October 3
Why do I get stuck being God’s walking punch line? I say one fricking dumb-ass thing about Rob’s mom and I’m doomed to never touch another guy’s dick.
THIRD PERIOD: CHOIR
Rob came up to me during choir. I got all excited, thinking he’d forgiven me. Yeah, right.
“Quit calling me,” he said in front of everyone. Half of the kids burst out laughing. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
I wanted to make some big dramatic “screw you, Rob” gesture, but tripped on my shoelaces, which had me pretty much falling all over myself. Not an off-balanced stumble—a total silent-movie, whackin’-big, face-first collapse. My teeth clamped down on the tip of my tongue. I coughed some blood-tinged, pink spit onto the tiles. Everybody laughed—even Mrs. Reed, the choir director. When she stopped drying her eyes, Mrs. Reed said I’d’ve laughed, too, if I saw myself, straight as a beanpole one moment, a blur of flapping arms and kicking legs the next. Then she got around to asking if I was okay.
“Yettthhh,” I said as best I could manage without the tip of my tongue.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Reed asked. She looked a little panicked. “You’re bleeding and lisping.”
“He’s always lisping,” Rob said.
Mrs. Reed shot him a you’re-one-to-talk look and sent me off to the school nurse, who stuffed my mouth full of cotton balls. She made me stay in her office for the rest of third hour. In her “professional” opinion (If she was such a medical professional, why couldn’t she give me a damn aspirin?), I’d live. Duh.
BETWEEN SIXTH PERIOD & SEVENTH PERIOD: IN THE JOHN
I got pissed on—really—by Kyle Weir.
I was taking a leak before heading to AP Bio when Kyle walked in and stood at the urinal next to mine. Kyle unzipped, slowly pulled it out, and then did this over-exaggerated stretch-and-yawn gesture, pushing one of his arms so close to my face he nearly clipped my nose. It was like he was daring me to look.
So, I did, even though I should’ve known better. And, I gotta admit, it looked pretty good—until Kyle aimed it at my feet. He started laughing and pissing a big yellow stream that splattered just under my kneecaps, soaking through my jeans and shoes. Then he zipped up.
“You attthhhhole,” I said right as Dean Fuller walked into the bathroom.
“Christ, Stewart.” Kyle pointed at my shins. “If you can’t hold it, you should wear a pair of diapers or something. Oh, hi, Mr. Fuller.” Weir pushed past me on his way out, leaving me alone with the dean.
Fuller looked me in the face, at the puddle of piss I was standing in, then back to me.
“Care to explain?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest, the tails of his sports coat hitching above his waist.
I shook my head. “I don’t ttthhhink I can.” Even if I’d ratted out Weir, it’d be his word against mine. He’d say it was self-defense. I tried to rape him so he pissed on me.
“Me either. Not having a good day today, are we, Stewart?” I could tell he wasn’t sure what to do with me—be disgusted, feel pity, or just ignore me.
“No, ttthhhir.”
Fuller said he’d get a mop from one of the janitors. As soon as I cleaned up the mess, he’d call my mom and have her pick me up. He’d leave it to me to explain why my shoes and jeans were soaked in urine.
Saturday, October 6
Finally, Rob and I are talking again. It’s weird, ’cuz it’s like we never stopped in the first place.
I followed Bink’s advice. If Rob wasn’t gonna talk to me, I’d apologize on the postcards I got at the Art Institute.
Postcard One:
The Top Ten Reasons Rob Hunt Should Be Smart Enough to Not Date Charlie Stewart, but Hopefully He’s Dumb Enough Not to Have Noticed:
10) C.S.’s annoying inability to pronounce the final g-sound in present participles and gerunds like cuddlin’, huggin’, and kissin’.
9) C.S.’s ears are the size of airplane wings. It’s a miracle he doesn’t take off with a heavy wind.
8) That huge nose—he picks it. In fact, a TV camera caught him doing it on “The Bozo Show” when he was six. His mom’s sister took a snapshot of her TV. Multiple prints were made. One found its way to the local paper’s photo desk. Though grainy, it appeared with a caption saying I was rooting around my nasal cavity while the crowd rooted for some girl playing the Grand Prize Game. You can see one sometime if you’d like.
7) C.S.’s irrational gephydrophobia (I looked it up)—the fear of crossing bridges. It’s not the bridge he’s afraid of. He’s terrified of bridge builders, convinced that they’re all like McDonald’s employees and have these excuses for being lazy like “if it got wet, it got clean” or “it’s still okay to serve if it was only on the ground for thirty seconds.”
Postcard Two:
More Reasons You Probably Shouldn’t Date Me But I Still Hope You Will:
6) After seeing Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo on television in third grade, I wanted to be a breakdancer. I begged my mom for parachute pants. She pointed out, correctly, that nobody had made them since before I was born. I threw a temper tantrum in the middle of the boy’s section of Carson Pirie Scott. My mother told me if I didn’t stop acting like a four year old, she’d treat me like one. I didn’t. She did. In front of God and everyone, she bent me over her knee and spanked me. The sales clerks laughed. Another mother applauded.
5) Until freshman year, I thought a sanitary napkin was just another name for those disposable moist towelettes. I learned the difference by asking for one in a restaurant.
4) Let’s just say I’m not as far along down there as most guys.
3) I have a lot of annoying habits—I leave damp towels on the bathroom floor, flush the toilet before I’ve finished pissing, bite my nails, and I act stupid when I’m around you.
2) I talk way too much, say stuff I shouldn’t, and I make really dumb-looking faces and noises when I’m doing things with you in bedrooms, on parking lot benches, and in choir practice rooms. But you already knew that.
Postcard Three:
The Biggest Thing About Me I Hope You’ll Overlook:
1) I really am a jackass. I said stuff, Rob, that I didn’t mean and I’ll probably end up screwing things up even more. Probably before the end of this postcard. I’m hoping there’s still a chance you like me anyhow, and that you know how really sorry I am. I’m an idiot. But I’d like it if you’d still let me be your idiot.
I stuffed the postcards in Rob’s locker before chorus yesterday. When we saw each other crossing the Pit after sixth period, Rob passed me a note, which was kinda junior-high girly of him. His note was southpaw-smeared and full of misspellings, but it made me smile.
Charlie,
The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second Page 14