Pike just turned to the dealer. “Let’s go again.”
“That’s the spirit! Do or die, never give up, that’s what made this country great.” The clichés poured out like a fine bottle of Night Train.
He showed the queen again then began his patter. “Round and round, there she goes, where she winds up, nobody knows.”
As the cards jumped back and forth, Walker looked at Noah, like, Shouldn’t we do something?, but Noah was at a loss for how to convince Pike to abandon this avenue of idiocy.
Dylan summed it up, quietly commenting, “There’s no stopping him now.”
The cards came to a rest and this time Pike was sure the queen was on the left. He threw down another twenty and declared his choice.
The dealer flipped up the card. Ace.
He grabbed Pike’s money and Pike turned red. “Fuck! How is he doing that?!”
“You getting sleepy, my man?” the dealer asked, hoping to score a third bet. “I thought we was friends.”
Pike reached for his wallet.
Dylan nodded to Noah and together the two of them literally grabbed Pike by both arms.
“Come on, genius,” Noah prodded.
The dealer was upset. “Hey, man, what’choo doin’? Ain’t this a free country? Ain’t a man got a right to make a fair wager?”
But as the guys pulled the livid Pike away, the dealer knew it was over. In a flash, the table was folded up and he and his shills and lookouts were down the street scouting for their next mark.
“No, wait!” Pike pleaded, “I know how he’s doing it! Let’s go back! Let’s go back!”
As he struggled, Dylan pulled him in to a head lock and gave him a friendly noogie, laughing, “You dumb motherfucker.”
The guys spent the rest of the afternoon walking through Central Park, checking out the 9/11 Memorial, and exploring Rockefeller Center. At FAO Schwartz, they played laser tag, knocking over displays and causing a scene in the store. As for food, they ate hot dogs and pretzels from a vendor on 38th Street. But by five p.m., it was down to business, and the guys found themselves smoking cigars, drinking beers, and watching the show on the main stage of the Baby Dolls Gentlemen’s Club.
It’s funny how guys are around strippers. One regiment of strippers could probably end war as we know it because beautiful naked women have a pacifying effect on everyone around. Men of all ages just sit there, mouths slightly ajar, gaping at the sea of breasts and asses. They look hypnotized—how else could the strippers get them to empty their wallets for a no-touch lap dance?
Our guys were no exception. Even Dylan gazed in amazement at the quality and quantity. Occasionally, a particularly stunning one would walk by and one of the guys would point her out to the others. They bought each other lap dances, as was the custom, as if buying a lap dance for a friend were less seedy than buying one for yourself. Some nonverbal clues were needed so the interested party could convey his preference to the buyer, but at a place like Baby Dolls there weren’t too many bad choices.
Walker scored the most dances. It was fun to watch him squirm and turn red when a girl shook her ass in his face or squeezed her breasts together to grab a dollar bill from his teeth. After a few minutes, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” ended (the guys wondered if strip club DJs ever updated their playlists) and Walker needed a break.
Dylan was just about to call the waitress over for another round when Pike’s eyes went wide. Coming into the club was Chuck Zambrelli with his football buddies.
“No way,” Pike gasped, in utter disbelief.
But it was Chuck and he was headed right toward them. After a proverbial double-take, Chuck exclaimed, “Holy shit! It’s the itty bitty limp dick committee.”
After some congratulatory high-fives from his buddies, Chuck followed it up with his trademark, “S’up, ladies?”
Dylan was a little buzzed and decided it was finally time to address the issue that had irked the entire school for years. “Look, Chuck. We’re about to graduate. You think you could retire the ‘s’up, ladies?’ line?”
“Whatever, dude.”
“No, seriously,” Dylan continued. “I think you should segue to ‘wassuuuuup!’” he said with an “urban” flair, calling back that decade-old catch-phrase from those Budweiser commercials that took the country by storm.
But Chuck seemed unfamiliar with the concept, so Dylan put the exclamation on the point: “That’ll go over like gangbusters at Manchester Community College next year.”
Zing.
Chuck was actually kind of offended. You could tell by the tone of his “Fuck you.”
Chuck retreated back to his buddies who were already ordering beers from a not-quite-hot-enough waitress.
Noah turned to Dylan and failed to whisper, “You’re giving him too much credit. You still have to know how to read to get in to Manchester.”
The guys all shared a laugh, until Chuck turned back to face them.
Oops.
They stopped laughing.
But Chuck didn’t look mad. He looked hurt.
“Hey, I heard that. And for your information, I’m dyslexic, man.”
The guys looked at each other. That was not expected.
Chuck continued, starting to get a little emotional, “So excuse me if I’m not going to a fucking Ivy League school, asshole, but reading is really hard work for me and it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
Chuck just stood there looking embarrassed, and this only made the guys feel even more like shit.
“I’m sorry, man,” Noah apologized.
“Yeah, we didn’t know,” Dylan said, looking contrite as well.
“Have you tried ‘Hooked on Phonics’?” Walker added, sincerely trying to be helpful.
Dylan elbowed him.
Chuck took a deep, pained breath.
Dylan knew one way to bury the hatchet for good. “Look, man. Let us buy you a lap dance. No hard feelings?”
Chuck tried to get past his surge of emotions. “Yeah, okay.”
Dylan patted him on the back and said, “There you go. Class of 2012 has to stick together, right?”
Chuck nodded, still too choked up to speak. Dylan escorted him through the club to go find a stripper.
“Awk-ward,” Walker chirped under his breath.
Five minutes and one airplay of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” later, Chuck explained over a Long Island Ice Tea that he and Marco had had a falling out. It seemed that Chuck had worked as Marco’s personal bouncer all these years for no pay, just free entry into the parties. But after four years Chuck finally realized that he never got to go to any of the parties because he was always standing at the front door all night long. So Chuck asked Marco if he could just attend Beach Weekend without working the door. He even offered to bring the customary alcohol.
But Marco flew into a rage. “You ungrateful bastard!” he shouted, like he’d rescued Chuck from an animal shelter and now Chuck was refusing to guard the junkyard. “Who’s gonna man the door?”
“Dunno,” Chuck replied, then had the nerve to ask, “Why does there need to be a bouncer at the door anyway? I mean, who’s gonna drive all the way down to Rhode Island just to crash your party?”
Marco just glared at him. “Look, I’ll make it simple for you,” Marco threatened, “Either you work the door or you don’t show up.”
“What a dick,” Dylan said sympathetically.
So, long story long, Chuck discussed it with the rest of the team and they took a vote to support Chuck and boycott Marco’s. Steve Wasnicki’s brother lived in the city and the rest was history.
The guys sat and listened, and it occurred to Noah that this was the longest conversation he’d ever had with Chuck Zambrelli. He mentioned that fact to Pike in the men’s room during a piss break. The end of high school really did mend fences and break down barriers.
“Strange days indeed,” Pike agreed.
CHAPTER TEN
AFTER A FEW more lap dances and the free d
inner buffet at Baby Dolls, the guys said farewell to Chuck and the rest of the football team and headed out to their next destination of the evening. It was a bit far, so the guys picked up the car from the garage, paid the shocking forty-six dollar fee, and headed west.
The Manhattan neighborhoods changed quickly, and soon they arrived at a sketchy neighborhood near the Lincoln Tunnel. Pike checked the address on his phone.
“There,” he pointed.
Dylan rolled up in front of an apartment building that sat on top of A-1 Bail Bonds. Plenty of parking in this neighborhood, he thought.
Walker looked out through the window. Some unsavory characters were milling around in front of a boarded-up building.
“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” Pike assured him. “Ned knows this guy personally.”
“Where does he know him from?” Dylan wondered aloud. “Juvie?”
Pike became defensive. “This is high grade Jamaican Sinsemilla. You can’t get this shit in Connecticut.”
“You can’t get ebola there either,” Noah shot back.
But Pike needed this weed to pay Marco back for the couch he had sawed in half, so the discussion was moot. Pike considered blowing Marco off—after all, what could he do if Pike didn’t pay?—but then Pike came up with a list of about twenty pretty awful things Marco could and would do, not the least of which was to post the literally hundreds of photos of Pike smoking a bong that Marco had taken over the years. Marco was a vindictive motherfucker, and it was simply better to pay him for the couch than lose sleep wondering when the knife was going to slit your throat.
Besides, the twelve hundred dollars of pot only cost nine hundred in the city.
“Come on,” Pike ordered as he opened his door.
The guys rolled their eyes and got out as well.
Dylan locked the car, then checked the handle manually to make sure. As they made their way toward the apartment building, Walker surreptitiously moved his wallet from his back pocket to his front. They reached the front steps and Pike examined the names on the buzzer.
“Here we go,” he said to himself and pushed 3F.
“Hola” came a man’s voice from the speaker.
“Hey. It’s Pike. Ned’s friend.”
“Como?”
“Ned Carney? From Connecticut?”
Pike wondered if maybe Ned forgot to text the guy. That certainly wouldn’t be surprising.
But then, without further discussion, the buzzer sounded.
Pike looked at the other guys, shrugged, and opened the door.
They walked up to the third floor—there was no elevator—and Pike knocked on 3F. After a moment, the door opened to reveal Jesus, a fairly scrawny Hispanic kid not much older than they were.
Jesus was a small time drug dealer, and in his barely-furnished apartment were a couple of guys playing Wii Bowling, a cute girl watching the video game, a case of fire extinguishers, and a guy passed out in the corner. (One of the video game guys was short and fat, the other tall and skinny, like an Hispanic Laurel and Hardy.) Jesus motioned for them to enter and Pike cautiously led the guys in. They tried not to look nervous, but they had seen too many movies where guys in this situation got shot, or worse, not to be a little on edge.
Jesus just stood there until Pike started the conversation. “What up, man. Ned said you might have something for me…?”
Jesus looked him over. “You got the money?”
Pike pulled out a wad of cash from his jeans and handed it over. “Here you go.”
As Jesus counted it, Walker motioned toward the guy passed out in the corner and whispered to Noah, “I think that guy’s dead.”
Walker could have been right, but Noah didn’t think it prudent to make too much conversation here, so he motioned for Walker to zip it. Dylan squinted to get a better look.
Satisfied with the count, Jesus whistled to one of the guys playing the video game (the skinny one) and he whipped a brick of marijuana over to Jesus. “Here you go, amigo,” Jesus said as he handed it over to Pike. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
With the business transaction concluded, Jesus’s whole demeanor changed. Suddenly, he smiled and patted Pike on the back.
Pike picked up on it. “Should we celebrate this new relationship?”
Now Jesus really was his new best friend. “Fuck yeah, man. Fire it up.”
While all this was going on, Dylan stealthily sidled over to the passed out guy and lightly kicked him. He didn’t move.
Twenty minutes later, Pike, Jesus, the cute girl, and Señores Laurel and Hardy sat on the couch passing a fat joint. Dylan, Noah, and Walker stood nearby drinking beers.
“This is good shit,” Pike commented after a particularly big hit.
Jesus laughed, “You are fucked up, man.”
Pike laughed as well and pulled out his phone. He took a picture of the pot and emailed it to Ned. “Ned is going to fucking love this,” Pike said of the picture, not the pot, which unfortunately was earmarked for Marco.
Across the room, Walker was trying to steal a glance at the cute girl. Unfortunately, she looked up right then and their eyes met. Walker quickly looked away but it was too late; she had caught him obviously checking her out. She smiled playfully.
“She’s cute,” Noah commented.
“Should I go talk to her? What do I say?” Walker always made everything so complicated.
Dylan was the voice of reason, reassuring Walker, “She’s stoned. You don’t need to say anything. Just stick your tongue down her throat.”
“Out of the blue?” Walker panicked, “What if she—”
Frustrated, Dylan just slapped Walker across the face.
“Owww! That fucking hurt!”
“Proof that non-verbal communication works.” And with that, Dylan pushed Walker away, toward the couch.
Walker stumbled over to the girl who looked up expectantly. “Can I sit here?” he asked nervously.
She just nodded and Pike moved over to let Walker sit between him and the girl.
Walker looked over at Dylan for moral support. Dylan gave him a trust me look.
Jesus passed her the joint. She took a big hit and passed it to Walker. But instead of partaking, he just passed it on to Pike, turned to her, and kissed her!
He came up for air and looked at her nervously, like, Is she going to kick me in the balls? But all she did was exhale a huge breath of pot smoke.
Walker realized his error and apologized, “Sorry, I—”
But she just laughed and kissed Walker back.
Sure, she was surprised, but as predicted, she was totally fine with it. They started making out.
“I can’t believe he did it!” Noah exclaimed.
Dylan pretended to be all teary-eyed and proud. “Our boy’s all grow’d up.”
Turns out, the girl was totally into Walker. In fact, after a lengthy tongue-bath, she broke away, got up, and took Walker by the hand into the bedroom.
Walker looked back at Dylan and Noah in sheer amazement. How could it be that easy? Dylan and Noah nodded their support and encouragement.
None of the smokers seemed to care one way or the other about the girl and Walker. The door closed and Noah turned to Dylan. “I wonder what Sarah’s up to right now.”
“Probably blowing some dude,” Dylan chastised him for asking.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m just kidding,” Dylan pulled back. “Come on. We’re in a super awesome drug den, there’s a dead dude in the corner, and all you can think about is Sarah?”
“I really love her.” Noah was feeling vulnerable and Dylan knew not to take advantage of it any further. It was his job to cheer Noah up.
“You say that now that you’re broken up, but two weeks ago you were begging me to help you dump her.”
“We had a fight.”
“Look, man, I don’t have any stake in this. I just want you to be happy.”
Noah thanked hi
m with a little nod and Dylan tried to change the subject. “Now can we please just be irresponsible while we still can?”
Noah looked at Dylan for a second, then smiled and went over to the couch to take a turn with the joint.
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” Dylan said to himself as he went over to join them.
In the tiny bedroom with only a mattress on the floor, a cheap particle-board dresser, and a picture of Jesus on the wall (Jesus Christ, not Jesus the drug dealer), Walker and the girl were making out.
“You have really nice eyes,” Walker felt the need to say.
The girl smiled and in one motion pulled off her top. Walker’s eyes went wide at seeing her black, lacy bra but he quickly contained his excitement and played it cool. Walker took off his own shirt.
“You are so hot. My name’s Walker by the way.”
She just smiled and pulled him onto the bed.
Back on the couch, Pike passed the joint to Jesus. Dylan noticed the case of brand new fire extinguishers stacked by the window. “Hey, what’s with all the fire extinguishers?”
“Found ’em,” said the fat guy, a man of apparently few words.
“Can we fuck around with them?” Dylan inquired.
The guy just shrugged.
Dylan went over, took one out, and pulled the pin. He pointed it at Pike’s face and, without even saying a word, pulled the trigger.
Dylan blasted him with white foam, covering Pike’s face like he got hit with a pie from an old Three Stooges movie.
Pike leapt up off the couch, beyond irate. “What the fuck!!!”
Everyone else just stared for a moment, then burst out laughing.
Things between Walker and the hot, stoned girl were progressing nicely. They were making out on the bed while Walker felt her up. Walker wasn’t as hopeless as the guys thought—turns out, he was pretty skilled up to, and including, second base. His roaming hand undid her bra clasp and she helped him take her bra off altogether. Her breasts were something to behold. Small, but perfectly shaped and perky.
Maybe it was the pace at which things were progressing. Maybe it was the excitement of hooking up with a total stranger. Or maybe it was just that Walker knew he really was going to score this time. Whatever the reason, Walker suddenly felt the need to confess: “I should tell you, I’ve never done this before. So I might not be that good. I mean, I don’t really know. Maybe I will be good at it. I’ve certainly thought about it a lot, but you know, just in case it’s not good, that’s why. Bottom line, though, if you just give me a chance, I’ll try really hard.”
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