The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second

by Drew Ferguson

  I kinda expected him to throw his head back in maniacal muwahahahaha laughter and greedily rub his hands together. It didn’t happen. Rob’s mouth was slack and his face went dead-people white, like some plug inside him had been pulled to drain his color. He dropped his sheet music. He gulped, his Adam’s apple vanishing then barely reappearing. Rob seemed to be saying something, but his lips tripped on the words.

  So it was one of those stupid, split-second daydreams, but how’s this for a disconnect with reality:

  Rob has one of those mom-with-her-kid-trapped-under-an-18-wheeler adrenaline rushes. He lets out this rafter-shaking, animal-dying howl, flails through the altos and sopranos crowded on the risers below him, his arms thrashing wildly, and rushes to me. He throws himself into me, a hand wrapping around my waist, the other gently cupping the base of my head. He’s crying, his face in my neck, whispering how sorry he is. He never meant to hurt me. Everything will be okay. We’ll be together always, he promises between the sobs and gasps. We’ll drop out of South, and hand-in-hand, we’ll run from the chorus room to his car.

  We’ll move to Chicago. Find a cheap studio apartment. If he has to, he’ll take some money from a trust left to him by some dead rich family member, maybe he can’t get all the money, but he figures what he can get will be enough for a year’s rent. The place—our place—won’t be much. We won’t be able to afford electricity at first, but we’ll steal candles from churches and fancy nightclubs. The shower won’t work and we’ll sponge each other clean from the bathroom sink, playing this game where each of us kisses the spot on the other we like best.

  Each night, we’ll sit together on the queen-sized mattress on the kitchen floor, in nothing but our skivvies, eating from the carton of ham-fried rice we’ll splurge on with what Rob will always say is the last of our cash. Miraculously, it never is. And feeling frisky, Rob will crawl over to me, and with chopsticks I’ve never figured out how to use, he’ll grab the elastic band of my underwear, and tug it past my hipbone. I’ll get hard and he’ll ask if it’s for him. I’ll blush and nod, and then he’ll roll on top of me, the two of us nipping at each other like puppies. Then, shy and tender all of a sudden, Rob’ll ask if he can—and I’ll kiss him, wrap my legs around him, my ankles in the small of his back. Afterward, he’ll smooth my eyebrow with his thumb. I’ll smile up at him and we’ll laugh like we were drunk.

  It wasn’t until Mrs. Reed tapped her baton against the metal sheet music holder, ordering everyone to settle down, that I stopped daydreaming. The best thing, though, was Rob was looking at me like he still cared. But I gotta face it, he only seemed like he cared ’cuz that’s what I wanted from him. Once he found out I wasn’t blind and I wasn’t gonna die, Rob didn’t look at me again. I tried telling myself it didn’t matter, but it pissed me off.

  I wish I could just grow up and get over him, but I can’t.

  I gotta run. Mom’s saying we need to meet up with Dad to see if there’s anything we can do before the polls close.

  Wednesday, November 7

  Well, the big news, I guess, is that Dad won with a margin so wide that, even if he’d been running as a Democrat and not an Independent, the McHenry County Republican party can’t whine that their rightful, ordained-by-God ascension to power was stolen from them by a vast left-wing conspiracy involving class warfare, race baiting, and entire cemeteries of registered voters magically punching ballots.

  This morning there were a bunch of articles in the Herald, talking about how Dad’s victory as an Independent was an “upset,” which makes sense. It seems like adults are always bitching at election time about how there’s no viable third-party candidates, but if they saw Dad’s campaign headquarters last night, it’d be pretty clear why.

  The restaurant where everyone had gathered to watch the returns—which, let’s face it, were practically a footnote as far as Chicago TV producers and political reporters were concerned—was, without a doubt, an ecumenical clusterfuck. The Binkmeyers—Crystal Lake’s self-appointed last bastion of liberalism—were there, pushing petitions for McHenry County to make reparations to virtually every minority group that ever had a hangnail and thought they could pin the blame on the federal government; referendums on a woman’s right to choose the nail polish for her mani and pedi while getting an abortion and microderm abrasion facial; and, of course, they were soliciting donations—AKA begging—to build a center for radical feminist, vegan, Wiccan house pets.

  Believe it or not, Mr. and Mrs. B were tame compared to everyone else. There were the libertarians who—as best I can figure—were a bunch of self-employed, middle-aged, hydroponics and High Times, toke-’em-if-you’ve-got-’em white guys who couldn’t stop bitching about how The Man kept them down; how the Constitution gave them the right to personally own more nukes than were banned in either SALT Treaty, but it didn’t give the government the right to tax them—even if no taxes meant the local police force would basically be the equivalent of a group of lard-asses who couldn’t qualify for the mall’s rent-a-cop position. Another part of the crowd seemed to be either a) lost; b) looking for a place to keep warm; c) under the mistaken impression that there was a bus stop nearby; or d) looking for a more attractive place to die than their local assisted-living senior center. And last, there were the county’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” closet case Democrats—the L.L. Bean-wearing, Republican-acting/-appearing liberals—who spent the night praying that if Dad won the election he wouldn’t go mad with power and try to ban National Public Radio.

  After being elbow-to-elbow with so many freaks for ten minutes, I was looking for any excuse to get the hell out of there, which is why I was glad when Dad’s campaign manager—a short, severe woman who was all pearls and nylons—thrust a clipboard at me and “suggested” my time would be better spent drumming up votes at the train station.

  Dad stared at her like she was one of those retreads who can recite the first thousand digits of pi, but can’t work a knife and fork without stabbing herself in the forehead. Dad patted her head—actually, patted it—and “suggested” she take the rest of the night off.

  “She’s right,” Mom said. “Somebody should be at the station. Charlie and I’ll go hand out voter’s guides.”

  “For what, Laura?” Dad asked, his hand circling Mom’s waist. “So you can get frostbite? Look at him.” Dad thrust his chin at me. “The kid doesn’t want to stand outside freezing his nuts off, do you, Charlie?”

  I didn’t, but I was smart. I glanced at Dad’s campaign manager. Her eyebrows double-stitched together and her bullfroging gullet strained her necklace, threatening to machine-gun the room with cultured pearls. “Say ‘yes,’” she mouthed silently, nose scrunched, razor teeth chewing the air. “Tell him you’ll do it.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, hands in my coat pockets. Dad’s manager exhaled and her neck shrank from its DEFCON 1 proportions. I wouldn’t be picking imitation-Tiffany’s shrapnel out of my spleen.

  “No one’s doing anything. Whatever happens, happens.”

  “What?” the campaign manager asked. Her look was priceless—she was like a little kindergartener and Dad was this big bad man who’d come along, snatched the cocker spaniel puppy from her arms, squeezed it by the neck ’til its soft brown eyes popped out of its little puppy skull, and then handed her its limp and lifeless body. She blubbered.

  Dad spent the next few hours “working” the room, which meant dragging me from table to table and alternating bragging about his family with hand kissing, baby shaking, and puckering-up-and-planting-a-big-wet-one on his donors’ sphincters. Around eight, when the polls showed he was a shoe-in for state’s attorney, Dad disappeared. A few minutes later, he came back, plucked a water glass from the nearest table, and rang its edge with a spoon.

  “May I have your attention, please,” Dad said. “I have an announcement.”

  The crowd turned, looking at Dad with smug smiles and wet-eyed expectancy. Arthritic fingers crossed, the gummy ends of cigars were pull
ed from thick lips. Some young nogirl’s-gonna-make-me-put-my-Ding-Dong-in-her-Ho-Ho-’cuz-True-Love-Waits, home-schooled, there-was-sooo-nothing-gay-about-my-boy-parts-getting-tingly-when-I-practiced-mouth-to-mouth-on-Billy-for-my-merit-badge freak cheered.

  “I wanted you all to know,” continued Dad, “that I just got off the phone with my opponent, John Fisk. We had a friendly conversation, and”—Dad, total Easter ham that he is, paused to take a sip of water. You could practically hear the room mouthing, And? And?

  “And I graciously accepted his concession. He also told me that he’ll resign as assistant state’s attorney by the end of the year to take a job in private practice.”

  People cheered, cheap champagne was popped, some geriatric made a pathetic attempt to toss confetti. Everybody was in a festive mood, but for some reason, I couldn’t help thinking about Fisk. How much would it suck to have to call up the guy who just beat you, say, “Hi, I’m a loser,” and pretend to be the bigger man when all you really wanted to do was crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and cry yourself to sleep listening to Cure albums?

  Friday, November 9

  Since Dad’s big win, I’ve been wondering what would happen to Mr. Hunt. I finally asked Dad while he had me out practicing my driving.

  “We’re working on a way to drop the case in a way that the office can still save face, but doesn’t expose the county to any potential lawsuits. Ideally, we’d like to say that upon closer review, the evidence doesn’t support the charges and that we now have no reason to believe that Mr. Hunt did anything wrong.”

  “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” I asked as I put the car into park.

  “That’s what I’m hoping. Maybe once it’s all over, your friend, Rob, will get along better with his dad.”

  Saturday, November 10

  So I turned eighteen today. Big deal. I don’t feel any older. Don’t look it either. I’ve still got only three pubic hairs, and it’s not looking great for one of ’em. I’d tried tugging it the other day so that it’d grow out some more and I think I pulled it loose.

  The Ps got me a computer for college. Yeah, they still won’t let go of that bone. The thing is, they won’t let me keep it in my room. They say it’s so I don’t lock myself away playing games on it, but it’s not like I don’t know the real reason it’s staying downstairs in the family room. They’re convinced I’m only going to use the thing to watch barely legal boys doing each other on lawn chairs, staircases, car hoods, bar stools, trampolines, wherever.

  Who am I kidding? They’re right.

  Sunday, November 11

  Rob and I actually talked at church today. And here’s a shocker—our conversation didn’t involve Rob tearing off my limbs and beating me to death with my own arms.

  The whole morning was absolutely bizarre. When the service was over, Pastor Taylor locked himself in his office to watch the Bears-Falcons game, which absolutely pissed off the coffee klatch set. It was like they wanted him to fawn over their strudel, telling each of them that theirs was the best and that, because of it, surely, Jesus wanted them for a sunbeam, but next week He’d prefer something low-cal. A spare tire wasn’t going to make His time on the cross go by any easier.

  Since people knew that Dad wouldn’t be hitting them up for votes or campaign donations any time soon, it was almost like the Stewart family had shed its pariah status. Folks came up to talk to Dad and not out of the usual are-you-happy-now-Lord?-see-I’m-talking-to-him sense of Christian charity. Mom and Dad smiled, shook hands, and accepted congratulations. The way they kept yapping made me realize that you actually could die of boredom. I asked Mom if I could be excused. Before I left, I noticed Mr. Hunt getting up from the pew where he’d been sitting alone. He walked toward where Rob’d been sitting with his uncle. Rob backed away and his uncle, Chris, stepped between them.

  “Rob,” Mr. Hunt said.

  “Give it time, Paul,” Chris said. “He’ll come around.”

  I ended up in Luther Hall, staring at my reflection in the Boy Scout trophy case. With the exception of the zit that was on the end of my nose, I didn’t look too bad. If I tilted my head the right way, my ears didn’t seem so damn big and, in the right light, it looked like I had a little bit of peach fuzz on my cheeks. I may have still looked like a kid, but I didn’t feel like one. I felt all in-between, grown-up and scared; kinda cute, kinda awkward; maybe a little smarter, but still pretty damn dumb.

  “I called you, you know. When you weren’t in school.”

  I turned. Rob was in the doorway, hands in his pants pockets, looking at his feet. He looked older. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t expected Rob to talk to me. My chest tightened.

  “The other day, after school, that was me. When your Dad answered, I freaked. I said I was Josh.”

  I leaned against the trophy case of Eagle Scout awards, wishing Mom’d let me wear the Ray-Bans. (Oh, no, not in church with those things!) I’d’ve killed to slip ’em on and act like I was too cool to care. Rob looked like he wanted more from me, but wasn’t sure what. I nodded.

  “And if I answered?”

  Rob’s cheeks burned pink. “I hope I’d’ve said I was sorry for everything.”

  I almost told him he could say it now. You know, say he’d do anything to get me back. I didn’t. Something told me whatever Rob said wouldn’t matter. Maybe I was just tired, maybe it was ’cuz my painkillers were wearing off or maybe it was just ’cuz I didn’t care anymore.

  “Look, Charlie,” Rob said, grinding his shoe along the tiles like he was stubbing out a cigarette, “I’m sorry for going off on you about not saying anything about the pills, about my mom. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I nodded and sucked in my lower lip. It was blubbering.

  “My dad and Uncle Chris are still trying to convince me the overdose was an accident. I keep telling myself I’ve got to believe it.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Because, I don’t see how you could do something so shitty to someone you love.”

  When I didn’t say anything and Rob realized I was probably thinking about all the shitty things he’d done to me, he mumbled that there wasn’t any school tomorrow—Veterans Day—and said, “Maybe we could hang out.”

  “Maybe,” I said. I could tell he knew I didn’t mean it.

  “Guess I’ll see ya,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Rob said. He rubbed a knuckle across an eye, then shook his shoulders, his shirt cuffs popping from his suit coat.

  Rob walked away, but when he was gone, I didn’t feel better. I don’t know why, but I had it in my head that if I made Rob feel like shit, then I’d feel this rush or something. I didn’t. I felt empty, like there was this warm hollow in my chest. I dunno. Maybe that’s the way it is with love. Maybe it’s about wanting something even when it’s gone.

  Wednesday, November 14

  I can’t believe it. I actually made it through the entire day without jerking the gherkin while thinking about Rob once. Now if I could only stop molesting the Binkmeyer boys in my imagination. Fat chance. They’re too hot.

  Rob called today. We didn’t talk long, mostly ’cuz having to talk to him or be around him is still too weird for me. He thinks we can still be friends, but I’m not so sure. I like the guy and all, but…

  Rob says he and his dad are in family therapy to try to work things out.

  Saturday, November 17

  Here we go again. I’m going to marry a punk rock boy from Central High School. I’m in love. Okay, it’s way too soon for that. It’s more like I’m in lust. Well, not the I’m-going-to-hide-in-the-bushes-with-a-pair-of-binoculars-and-watch-you-undress-so-please-do-some-naked-pull-ups creepy kind of lust. More of the humina-humina-go-ahead-and-lick-my-neck kind.

  Last week, Bink basically ditched me on my eighteenth—get this, he actually chose dumping baby-batter in Dana over hanging out with me and the Ps and pretending that the bone-dry Duncan Hines cake decorated with little plastic soccer players was cool. To ma
ke it up to me, he decided he was taking me to see The Lawrence Arms at the Metro last night. We ended up taking the train into Chicago ’cuz, even though it was an all-ages show, Bink stupidly thought the fake ID he bought online would help him score some booze. If you ask me, he wasted a hundred bucks.

  Anyhow, the train car we were in was mostly empty, so Bink and I flipped one of the seatbacks around and spread out. Between swigs from a bottle of Grape Crush that was really camouflaging the Mogen David he’d lifted from Mrs. B’s pantry, Bink wouldn’t shut up and kept yammering about how the show was gonna be awesome, how their latest album was brilliant—frickin’ brilliant—how after the show we should go to Uptown to see the building where the band got its name. Up until he said something about Dana doing this kinky thing with her throat that made missing my birthday worth it (there’s an image I wish I could sandpaper off my brain), I hadn’t been paying too much attention to him. I’d been staring at this guy sitting toward the front of the train car with his back to us.

  He seemed to be about our age—messy, dishwater-blond hair, skinny neck, brown hoodie. I figured he had to go to Central. Trust me, I’m such a perv that I don’t think there’s a guy at South who I couldn’t recognize by the back of his head. And from behind this guy seemed like a total hottie.

  I must’ve been drooling or Bink suddenly inherited his mother’s “amazing” powers of perception (Charlie, you will not die alone. Look at Montgomery Clift—he was a big Hollywood sex symbol before Elizabeth Taylor had to fish two of his teeth from his throat after a car accident, and he was with his partner until he died. Then again, he’s probably not the best example. By the end he was completely washed-up.) ’cuz when Bink saw me staring at the guy, he shook his head.

  “We need to get you a boyfriend,” Bink said, a purple circle staining his lips.