Car Trouble

by Robert Rorke

  “She has two pair,” Immaculata explained.

  She and Larry were leaning against the wall by the exit door to the schoolyard. Larry nodded at me, adjusting his Clark Kent glasses. “Hey, listen to Immaculata make her shoes squeak.”

  Immaculata was a tall, earthy girl with droopy brown eyes and curly brown hair that she pinned up when she came to rehearsal. “I brought my mother’s plant spritzer from home, and I spray the shoes a little bit before I go on stage, and I kind of squeeze the rubber sole against the floor.” She demonstrated, smiling as she made little mouse peeps with the shoes. “It works. You can hear it from the tenth row. After that, you’re out of luck.”

  They had already done their song, “Kids,” and were just hanging around. We were getting ready to rehearse my first number; it was the second time we’d done it with the band. The first time had been a disaster, and Testagrose nearly threw one of the trombone players, Sal Fortunato, out of the show when he couldn’t keep time.

  “Are you blowing into that trombone or sticking your dick in the other end?” he thundered.

  Rehearsing with Brian was a piece of cake compared to Testagrose. He didn’t make a pretense of being anybody’s friend.

  Suddenly, Brian poked his head backstage. “You ready, Nicky? Five minutes.”

  I heard the chorus humming “We love you, Conrad, oh yes we do,” and I took several deep breaths. I went over the plot in my mind. After Kim, as president of the Conrad Birdie Fan Club, presents me with the key to Sweet Apple, Ohio, I would sing “Honestly Sincere.”

  Brian wanted Conrad Birdie to arrive on a motorcycle, but he couldn’t persuade any of his friends to lend him one, so he picked up an album of recorded sound effects that featured a track of revving motorcycles. The track lasted about three minutes; at the end of it, I stepped out on stage, in a pose I had copied from a Jim Morrison poster I had seen in the record department at Discount City: legs apart, ass up, crotch down. I had on these ultra-black racer sunglasses Brian had picked up at a drugstore. The black bass slung across my pelvis was borrowed from this guy he knew named Zodiac. He taught me the opening chords of the song and that was all I needed to know. I was ready.

  The girls squealed, not in unison. They sounded like they were falling out of windows.

  “Maddone,” said Testagrose from the gym floor. The drummer hit the cymbals.

  There were some guffaws from the band. We weren’t expected to wear our costumes yet, but Mary wore a flowered dress with a scooped neckline. Her long, tapered waist made her look taller than she really was. Her hair, blond and usually worn straight, was set in a kind of retro flip. She moved to the set, a plain bandstand with three steps. A banner that said “Welcome, Conrad Birdie” in pink paint and gold glitter was strung across the rafters. The Conrad Birdie Fan Club gathered on tacked-down sheets of kelly green felt.

  “As the president of the Conrad Birdie Fan Club I would like to present you with the key to Sweet Apple, Ohio,” Kim said.

  I stared at the rise of her breasts and said, “And sweet apples, they are too.”

  Larry hooted in the wings and I could see Mary’s mind go blank. Then her forehead crinkled, like she was going to hit me.

  “Give him the key,” Brian whispered behind her. Mary followed the direction and stood on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheek. Very chaste. I strummed the opening chords of “Honestly Sincere” and removed the mike from the stand. The guitars strummed again and I started singing, mouth pressed up against the mike:

  You’ve gotta be sincere

  You’ve gotta feel it here

  ’Cause if you feel it here

  You’re gonna be honestly sincere.

  The girls moaned between each line, the bass kicked in, and the rest of the scene went the way we had rehearsed it. The band joined in, changing the tempo. I threw the mike to my groupies and swung the guitar to my side. I jumped around the stage, calling, “Are you going to be sincere?” till I ended up back on the bandstand with the band, rocking the guitar on my pelvis in the faces of my groupies. With each thrust, columns of girls began to faint away on the padded green like falling dominoes. I felt the muscles in my ass clench and saw the panic on Carole Esterhaus’s face as the guitar neck nearly collided with her nose. When the stage was littered with female bodies, I raised the guitar over my head.

  The curtain closed. I stood there, panting, looking at the curves of legs, hips, and breasts below me. It was like a bobby-soxer harem. I went from having no girls in my life to being surrounded by them: a magic trick.

  Then the curtain opened. Silence fell as we waited for the verdict. The penguin maestro came up on the stage toward me.

  “You’re Flynn, right?”

  I nodded and did a quick scan of the stage for Brian. Testagrose was grinning at me. I didn’t trust it: he could smile at you one minute and curse you out the next. “Tell me something, where did they find you?”

  “He’s one of my students,” Brian said, from somewhere behind me.

  “Well, Mr. Flynn, you are one crazy motherfucker,” he said.

  I swallowed. “Excuse me?”

  Brian came around and faced Testagrose, hand over his mouth, eyebrows pressed together. It was funny to me that someone who towered over the maestro should be so worried about his opinion. Then Testagrose stuck out his hand. I shook it.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. He turned to the company and said, “When the rest of you are as good as this guy, we will have ourselves a show.”

  Brian called for a five-minute break. After everyone dispersed, he came over and patted me on the shoulder. “Well, at least one of us is off the hook.” He smiled and said they didn’t think they would get around to rehearsing “A Lot of Livin’ to Do” today if I wanted to go home. But I never wanted to go home. I stayed at rehearsals as long as I could on Saturdays. While on a break, Brian and I would sit side by side on folding chairs in the gym and he’d start talking about the performing arts. “Talent’s a wonderful thing, Nicky,” he said, “and when people come together in an environment like the theater, it’s kind of utopian because each person is the best they can be and they end up feeding each other ideas and giving each other creative insights. There’s a lot to learn just by osmosis. You watch people do their scenes and sometimes it helps you do yours.”

  I could listen to him for hours, even if I didn’t always know what he was talking about.

  After Gina and Mary sang “One Boy,” the second corniest song in the show, Larry, Immaculata, and I went to the McDonald’s across the street. The restaurant hadn’t been open that long; it was the only place to eat, it seemed, and now all the students, from St. Mike’s and Killden, which was our nickname for Tilden High, piled in at lunchtime.

  Snow dusted the sidewalk and coated the stiff black tarp covering the wreckage of the Wyckoff House. The air was brisk and wet and made my eyes pop open after looking into those footlights for so long. The smell of fryer grease hit us as soon as we walked in the door. Larry ordered a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate milk shake for himself and a vanilla milk shake for Immaculata. I never ate more than a cheeseburger, which cost forty-nine cents, and a Tab. Two bites in and the grease from the meat seeped into my skin. I was determined to be zit-free on opening night, and I put the burger down in the yellow wrapper.

  Immaculata had saved a booth that faced East Fifty-Eighth Street and the back of the school. We were a solid trio, but never more than friends. I suspected Immaculata had a crush on Larry, the way she doubled over at his jokes. I mean he was funny, but not that funny every time out.

  I nodded at Larry’s junk feast. “And now you’re gonna go home and eat supper?”

  He grinned broadly. “My brothers steal all the food. I have to eat on the sly.”

  I sank into the booth, thinking about the tall black kid, probably the same age as me, who had waited on us. His red uniform shirt with golden arches above the pocket, and the cardboard hat that sat on top of his Afro like a crooked crow
n. That’s what I should be doing with my Saturdays, making some money to give to my mother—and getting some for me so I wouldn’t have to ask her every time I went out somewhere.

  I hadn’t told anyone in the play yet about Himself getting fired. Or anyone at school. If I told one half of the story, I’d have to tell the other, and I didn’t want to get into it. I wanted a different story, the one with the happy ending, and Birdie was it.

  Immaculata smiled and patted my arm. “So, how you doin’, Nicky? You’re so quiet now.”

  I stole three French fries from Larry’s mound. “I guess I’m a little tired after doing that song.”

  “You were great,” Immaculata said. She had a milk shake moustache.

  “I had three girls ask me for your phone number,” Larry said. “You ready for that kind of attention, playboy?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “You are so full of it. It was a three-minute song.”

  “Yeah, but wait till they see you in that costume,” Larry said. “You’ll be fighting them off.”

  I doubted it. The girls in the play hadn’t really noticed me, much to my chagrin. They were too busy hanging on Brian’s every word. He was like a rock star to them. Or maybe I should say a folk-rock star.

  “My old man is not exactly thrilled I’m doing the play. He saw my sister sewing my costume and made a few choice remarks. And he thinks Brian is—”

  “Don’t say it,” Immaculata said. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. Just have a good time. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

  “She’s right,” Larry said. “Brian’s cool. He lets me ham it up all over the place, so what’s not to like?”

  “But Testagrose has the last word. You don’t want to get on his bad side.”

  “Oh, he’s a fuck,” Immaculata said.

  Larry and I burst out laughing. “Tell us what you really think,” Larry said.

  “My aunt Chickie knows him, from Our Lady of Grace.” She had borrowed her aunt’s beaver coat for the play. “He thinks who he is.”

  I glanced out the window. It had started snowing again. I looked down the street and saw the Red Devil pass by, headed toward Collisionville.

  Himself was back. Looking for me.

  “Oh, shit.” I grabbed my coat. “My old man’s here. He said he was going to pick me up. I forgot.”

  “Wait a minute,” Larry said. “We’ll come with you. I’ve never met your father.”

  I thrust my arms through the sleeves of my parka and pulled up the hood. Immaculata stared at me, puzzled. “Are you sure you want to?” I asked.

  I took off, shoving open the restaurant’s double doors, and broke into a trot on Clarendon Road. The cold made my eyes tear. Larry was calling my name but I didn’t turn around. When I rounded the corner of East Fifty-Seventh Street, I saw the Mercury parked in front of the school. I waved wildly at the windshield, thinking Himself would see me and drive up. But as I got closer, I saw that he wasn’t behind the wheel. My heart pounded. I stared in panic at the entrance doors.

  He was inside. I hoped he hadn’t stopped for a few along the way.

  I took the steps two at a time and shot through the darkened lobby. I walked into the gym and saw the empty stage and the empty folding chairs; everybody was still on break. Then I saw Brian and Himself standing off to the side over by the bleachers.

  His voice was booming. “Look, pal, I know he’s here. I dropped him off. Are you pulling my mickey or what?”

  I couldn’t hear Brian’s reply, but I could tell from the way Brian was standing, arms folded across his chest, that he wanted Himself to back off.

  I hurried across the scuffed, golden floor. “Dad, I’m right behind you.”

  He turned around, eyebrows raised in indignation. I had to defuse.

  “How was Rockaway?”

  “Colder than a witch—”

  He stopped. Then I saw the easy smile, the one that came after a few cocktails. Over his shoulder, I saw Brian make a face that said “Time for Dad to go.”

  He walked over and clamped his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it until I flinched. “The director here said you might be out in the lobby signing autographs, but I didn’t see you.”

  I couldn’t smell anything on him.

  “I didn’t know you were still around,” Brian said. “I told your father you had gone home.”

  “We went to McDonald’s.”

  Brian shook my father’s hand. “Glad you two have found each other. I have to get back to rehearsal. Sorry we can’t give you more of a preview.”

  I started walking out. “Come on, Dad. Let’s go.”

  I waited until we were in the lobby before I turned on him. “Why were you giving him the third degree? He’s my teacher, for god’s sake.”

  The lobby statue of St. Michael the Archangel frowned upon us, life-sized with wings like javelins. “That’s enough now, Nicky.”

  I didn’t notice Larry and Immaculata waiting in the vestibule until I pushed open the double doors. She was pacing in her beaver coat. Larry walked right up to Himself and said, “Might you be the owner of the red roadster outside?”

  Himself took a full measure of my stocky friend. “I might be.” Then to me: “You know this guy?”

  We ended up driving them home. I let Larry sit in the Death Seat so Himself could explain all the features of the Red Devil. While he hung on the steering wheel and the speedometer shot past forty, he talked about the transmission, the power steering, and the Marauder V-8 engine. He directed Larry’s attention to the rear window, pressing a button on the door handle. The automatic window came down and the sharp wintry air wafted in.

  “Cool,” Larry said. He looked over the front seat at me and grinned. “Flynn, you’ve been holding out on me. When were you going to tell me your father had these dynamite wheels?”

  “I’m the family secret,” Himself said, taking a sharp left on Flatbush at Kings Highway. “You might say.”

  I rolled my eyes in the backseat. Immaculata sat across from me, relaxing into the white leather seat. “Nicky, I feel like I’m in a Troy Donahue movie.” She slapped her knee and giggled. “Paging Connie Stevens.”

  An image of these toothpaste-white Hollywood actors drifted into my mind, and I laughed too.

  “Hey, Dad, I think you can raise the window now.”

  Larry lived the farthest away, so he was dropped off first. Himself pulled up in front of an unattached house on Hendrickson Street, down the block from St. Thomas Aquinas and the Brook movie theater. His house definitely looked better than ours—a neat brick saltbox with a bay window and an intact stoop.

  He shook Dad’s hand and said, “A real pleasure.”

  Immaculata lived to the west, in Midwood, on a dark street where the homes were larger than those in Marine Park and set back from the sidewalk with bigger gardens. Her father was a professor at Brooklyn Law School.

  We waited until she had gone through the front door before taking off again.

  “Well, there’s the gang,” I said, after I moved up to the front seat. “So now you know what I do when I’m at rehearsal. And now you know where my friends live. Anything else?”

  “Come on, Nicky. I’m not that bad.”

  “I don’t see why you have to make everything a federal case.”

  “There you go again, talking with the hands.”

  The Red Devil rolled through the frosted streets as the sun set in orange slashes across the sky. We drove north toward home. Some of the Victorian houses still had Christmas wreaths hanging on front doors.

  He started talking about the phone company, his last day. How he thought he knew the guy who was behind everything. Another lineman who worked in the same neighborhoods as he did. His elected enemy.

  “I’m gonna find this son of a bitch who kicked my ass,” he said with raspy urgency.

  We were heading west now, crossing Ocean Parkway. The black rags of clouds hung in the red sky and the traffic, six lanes of it, was bound for the beach.
Brighton, Coney. It was snowing again. The tender flakes melted on the windshield.

  “Now I’m down in the dirt, and your mother, she’s carrying me. This working of hers, I see it as a necessary evil.” He was staring straight ahead, the blue glare boring through the windshield.

  Necessary, yes. Evil, no. I tried to think of something to say. “It’ll be okay.”

  He was still a young man then. Only thirty-five. There was still time. Plenty of time ahead to turn things around, find his way out of the hole he was crawling into.

  I didn’t know the neighborhood we were driving through. “Where are we going?”

  “I have to see a guy. I need you to watch the car.” He gave me a piece of paper. “Read that address to me.”

  His handwriting was like chicken scratch. But I could make out the numbers: 6225 Nineteenth Avenue.

  “Who lives there?”

  He rolled down the window. “My nemesis, I believe.”

  “What are you going to do—ring his bell and knock him out?”

  “We may have a discussion.”

  He was going to get arrested. That was all we needed.

  I leaned back against the seat, my stomach filling with dread. We were driving on Twentieth Avenue, closing in. The neighborhood was purely residential. I didn’t know the ethnic makeup—Italian or Irish, Jewish or Catholic. I didn’t see so much as a Blessed Virgin statue in the iced-over gardens. A man in a parka smoking a pipe was walking his dog past a public school with snow from last week’s storm shoveled against a cyclone fence.

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “What you’re thinking. Don’t get into a fight.”

  “Who said anything about fighting?”

  He was looking for a parking space. I sank down in the seat, unzipping my parka. I was getting overheated, sweaty. And I was frustrated; I could not get through to him. My mother was right: talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. But I was going to try to stall him, until this vengeful mood passed. His mood had already changed three times from St. Mike’s to this godforsaken spot.