I'm with Stupid

by Geoff Herbach

  “Nothing, Felton? Ever hear of James Joyce?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, my face glowing red like a Chinese lantern.

  “Who’s with Stupid, Mr. Reinstein?”

  “I am?” I asked.

  “No,” Linder said, shaking his head. “I am. Get it?”

  The class sort of oohed. Gus stared at the side of my head, his mouth hanging open.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  But sex with Abby. Fuzzy navels.

  That’s what I thought.

  Chapter 28

  Karpinski Mean

  It’s true. Abby is funny. She’s really quick brained. She can be really mean. If you want someone to be mean to mean people, Abby’s a good choice. She stung me so bad when I was a squirrel kid.

  Abby got a funny idea when I put my arm around Karpinski in my “I’m with Stupid” shirt.

  We sat next to each other on her bed. She drank a fuzzy navel. I drank a fake fuzzy navel—pretended to pour schnapps in my glass—because after school, I’d lifted weights but could only get through about half my reps because my muscles burned and fatigued and I worried that alcohol might be the problem. (I’m a genius!)

  Abby talked fast. “The Karpinskis are hilarious, right? You know what would be hilarious? What if we made like a Karpinski family video? Or maybe just a video about Karpinski’s dad? He’s crazy. He horn-dogs on me all the time, like I’m some hot forty-year-old he might have a chance with.”

  “I’ve seen it,” I nodded.

  And, yeah, I’d seen it. Old Man Karpinski in action. Honestly, the Karpinskis are comedy gold.

  The mom is sort of funny in that she dresses like a drunk, sexy country singer (short shorts and cowboy boots and really tight, sleeveless cowboy shirts all summer long), and she squawks like a chicken when she talks. Bok.

  But the dad is the real prize.

  Dave Karpinski looks like a 1980s porn star. He has a little mustache, and he clearly dyes his hair black and he wears it sort of long and combed straight back, so it always looks like he’s walking into the wind, and he wears these giant wraparound sunglasses and too-tight polo shirts that totally hug his big gut, and he wears his own version of short shorts all summer long (just like his wife, except her legs are little super-tan chicken sticks and his legs are giant ham sandwiches), and he rides around on this tiny Honda scooter thing, sort of swooping around town for no apparent reason, just like he’s a dumb high school kid with nothing better to do than drive circles, and he does tae kwon do and he speaks like he’s a mixture of a movie karate sensei and a movie stoner.

  During the football season, he’d see me running off steam on the weekends and swoop over and stop me and say, “Dude, you destroyed Lancaster Friday. Correct?”

  “Yeah?” I’d say.

  “Do you know why?”

  “We scored more points?” I’d say.

  “No, dude, no. You used both heart and talent. With great effort and great talent, championships are made. Am I right?”

  “Yeah?” I’d say.

  Then maybe some girl would walk by, and no matter what her state of dress or her size or her age or her hair color or anything, Mr. Karpinski would lose his mind. “My lord, my lord,” he’d say, shaking his head, his mouth hanging open. “Look at that pretty little lady. Legs up to here.” He’d karate-chop himself right under his nipple.

  I’d nod and he’d swoop off on his scooter and circle around her and chat her up, and the girl, whoever she might be, would totally laugh because I’m sure he made weird jokes and Dave Karpinski is funny, except he’s not trying to be as funny as he actually is because he doesn’t seem to know he’s a cartoon character.

  “We could make a video of you acting like him, right?” Abby said. “You could put on a fake mustache and sunglasses and ride around on Jess’s scooter saying crazy things to girls.”

  “That’s pretty funny,” I nodded.

  “I could be totally gross and in sweats, and you could circle around me and talk about how hot I am,” Abby said. “Oh, sweet potato pie in a steaming dish of cream soup…stuff like that.”

  “Uh-huh. Yeah. Let’s call Gus.”

  “Why?”

  “He has a nice camera and he’s funny as hell.”

  “He is?” Abby asked. “I thought he was just a nerd boy.”

  “Do you know Gus?”

  “Not really,” Abby said. “I’ve never hung out with him before last weekend.”

  I thought everyone knew how hilarious Gus was. I called him immediately. His response to the whole deal was a little weird.

  “Tonight?” he asked.

  “No, not tonight. This weekend if the weather isn’t crappy.”

  “You want to make fun of Karpinski’s dad?”

  “Just have fun. Not make fun of. You know, just joke around.”

  “Seems kind of mean,” Gus said.

  Abby could hear him. She said, “Karpinski mooned you and gave you the finger, man. This is not a big deal.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess. It’s sort of funny. Email me some notes and I’ll write up a script.”

  After I hung up, Abby said, “I don’t think he has a sense of humor at all.”

  “No,” I said. “He does. Just wait until Saturday. He’ll totally crack you up.”

  “You want to email him the notes?” Abby asked.

  “Yeah. Okay. Unless you do?”

  “I’ll write up the notes,” Abby said.

  She’s funny. And mean.

  Here’s something weird, though, given that we’d decided massive amounts of sex were going to part of our anti–Ken and Barbie identities. I got up the guts to try to kiss her, and she fell straight back onto her bed and crossed her arms over her chest like she needed to protect herself and then said she had bed spins and might get sick and that we should have lots of sex another time.

  “Okay,” I said. I was a little embarrassed. Here’s the truth though: Aleah and I were together for almost two years and we never did the whole thing. I was pure as the virgin snow. Real sex kind of scared me. (Not that I wasn’t interested in giving it a shot.)

  A few minutes later, Abby lolled out, drunk.

  So I left.

  ***

  On the way out of Abby’s house, I ran into Nolan on the couch in the living room. He was shocked to see me. He stood up. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m with Abby. Get used to it.”

  “Your mom is with my dad,” he said.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “You threatened my best friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Ryan Bennett.”

  “I did?” I didn’t remember actually threatening him, even though I’d thought about it.

  “Maddie O’Neill told me that you’re going to beat Ryan up and that he better watch his back.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Maddie said you did.”

  “Well, I’m sorry Ryan’s such an idiot that he deserves to have his ass kicked. Maybe I will kick his ass.”

  I turned and headed toward the door. Nolan was right behind me. He followed me out to the front stoop.

  “You stay away from my sister.”

  I spun around and faced him, stared down at him. He’s a big kid, but I’m probably forty pounds heavier and a couple inches taller.

  He tried to inflate himself, stood tall, widened his shoulders. “Jesus,” I said shaking my head, “I know who you are. I know what you do. Don’t you talk to me. Don’t you ever say a word to me. Do you understand?”

  He took a couple seconds trying to hold still, then nodded. I turned and walked down the step toward my bike.

  “Felton,” he said quietly. “What do you mean you know who I am?”

  “You’re a black hole who beats on weak kid
s to feel like you’re something more. But you know you’re nothing. Just empty space.”

  “Oh,” he said. He put his head down and went back inside.

  I shivered. I felt sick. I felt so off and terrible. This didn’t feel like me. Not the me I’d write about in a college essay to justify my existence for sure. I turned around and walked up to the door. I wanted to apologize to Nolan.

  Then I thought of Ryan punching Andrew. I thought of Nolan kicking Pig Boy.

  Screw them, I thought.

  ***

  Biking, I felt like shit. Nolan and leftover alcohol, I guess.

  When I got home, I buried myself in blankets and shivered and felt the bubbles of poison in my legs and arms. I sort of cried. Around 2 a.m., I woke up because my phone buzzed. I was in the middle of a horror dream about my dad kicking at me while he hung. He was trying to kick my face. Andrew had sent several texts.

  1: You won’t call me?

  2: Hello????

  3: Please call. Aleah’s worried too. She called me.

  I probably would’ve called him if it weren’t for the last text. What right did Aleah have acting like she was part of my family? Why wouldn’t Andrew tell her to mind her own business?

  Okay. Dudes use any excuse not to deal.

  Chapter 29

  I’m With Stupid, II

  On Tuesday, I felt a little better, so after school, I lifted weights again. (You’re not supposed to lift upper body two days in a row like that, but Monday had been such a waste.) Then I ran the stairs next to the gym for an hour. I felt a little stronger. No alcohol in my hammies. Usually, the basketball team has a game on Tuesday, but they were off. During a break from practice, Cody stood watching me run.

  “Looking tough, man,” he shouted.

  I didn’t answer right away. When I got back down the stairs, I said, “Whatever, Ken.”

  “What does that mean?” Cody spat.

  I turned and ran back up the stairs, and Cody’s practice began again. Between plays, he looked at me. My energy drained away. I stopped and went home.

  After I showered, I saw that Cody had texted:

  what up with you guys?

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t really know what was up.

  Abby texted a couple of times after that, but I just went to sleep in my sad bed.

  Chapter 30

  Mattress Kings

  Wednesday was sunny and in the 40s right away in the morning. I’d slept terribly again, totally haunted by Dad and buzzed by pleading texts (Abby). Instead of opening my Facebook page to read what mean things Wisconsinites might have left for me overnight, I found Pig Boy’s home phone number and, without allowing myself to think twice, called it.

  The phone rang six times. No answering machine or voicemail picked up.

  Then Pig Boy: “Hello?” He was breathless. Scared?

  “Hey, Tommy. It’s Felton.”

  “Hi!” he pretty much shouted. “Hi!” he said again.

  “Hi. Hey. Do you have a bike?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Can you ride to school today? Let’s ride back to your place this afternoon and take away Curtis’s bed.”

  There was a pause. Then he whispered. “Okay. Okay. Good. Let’s do this thing.”

  “Okay. We’ll take care of it.”

  “See you later,” he whispered.

  When he hung up, I thought, Good. Good. Good.

  Then I texted Abby: sorry…so tired i fell asleep early and was dead to the world.

  She texted back: thank you so much for msg i was scared you abandoned the team.

  I biked to school feeling cleaner. I could smell the soap on my body from my shower. Disable your Facebook page. I thought that as I biked in the spring-like air.

  I cruised through the day with little incident. Even Mr. Linder decided not to call on me, which was good because I hadn’t read whatever short story I was supposed to read. Have to get on the reading! I thought that. Get back in the swing of things!

  After school, Pig Boy and I met by the bike racks and rode over to his house. Pig Boy’s bike is exactly the same as Aleah’s from the summer she was in town, except Aleah’s was a brand-new crap bike (girl’s) and Pig Boy’s (also girl’s) was two years old, super crappy, and rusting to hell. It creaked and groaned as he pedaled. I pretty much pedaled twice and coasted the rest of the way because he moved so slowly.

  It took us twenty minutes to cover what usually takes me five. That’s okay because Tommy wanted to talk.

  “You ever dream you can fly?” he asked.

  “No. I dream bad stuff. That’s just me.”

  “My flying dreams are awesome because I can punch holes in clouds and that helps Curtis get to heaven.”

  “Hmm. Sounds sort of scary.”

  “No, it’s great. It’s really fun too. I’m a fast flyer.”

  “Cool,” I said.

  He was not, however, a fast biker.

  Several decades later (so it felt), we arrived.

  His house is on Fourth Street, a couple of blocks from where all the bars are in town. I think of this neighborhood as Dirty Town. There are lots of houses with old beer bottles and cans littering the yard. There are lots of old broken-down cars. The Dumpsters stink up the alleys. Tons of stray cats prowl around. It’s a sad state of affairs.

  The paint on Pig Boy’s house was peeling. Three old cars—one without any wheels—sat in the driveway. I thought: If I ever criticize Jerri’s maintenance of the yard again, please, somebody, punch me in the face.

  We pulled between cars and he said, “Let me make sure Dad’s not here.”

  I stood on the driveway and Pig Boy disappeared into the house. While he was gone, I watched some drunk college kids stumble by and saw two cats almost fight in the street until a speeding car caused them to run like lightning in opposite directions.

  Tommy popped his head out of the front door. “He’s down at the bar, but Grandma’s home.”

  I was nervous going in. I didn’t know what to expect. Here’s what I got: the house smelled like Gus’s old cigarettes mixed into Campbell’s bean and ham soup. There were a couple of broken recliners in the living room and a long, plaid couch that sagged in the middle. His grandma sat on the right side of that and smoked a cigarette. She was watching Ellen on TV. She didn’t look at me, say anything to me, nothing. She held that lit cigarette and stared at the box.

  “This way,” Tommy whispered.

  I followed him into a dark hall. The doors were open to a couple bedrooms, but no lights were on and the shades were all pulled. Tommy’s was at the end of the hall.

  “Right here,” he said. He flicked the light on.

  I don’t know what I was expecting to see. Blood maybe? Lots of trash? Not in Tommy’s room. There were lots of Sharpie markers, which I assume Tommy took from school, and a big roll of butcher paper. (Andrew had a roll a couple of years ago that he used to collect quotes from great composers, so I knew what it was.) Most importantly, the room was just filled with pictures, drawings. Taped all over the walls. Giant pictures on that butcher paper. Good pictures. Superheroes and sidekicks. Action shots of cars speeding around corners. Muscle men in karate poses. Really, really good.

  “Whoa. Nice,” I said.

  “Dad draws some too,” Tommy told me.

  I remembered Jerri asking, “What happens to people?”

  “You’re awesome, man. You do such good stuff.”

  “Can you lift that?” Tommy pointed down to the floor.

  And there was the bed. Curtis’s. Lonely little bed. Just a single mattress lying on the floor, no sheets or blankets on it.

  Pushed against the opposite wall, Tommy’s bed was made neatly, a Green Bay Packer bedspread over the top. Several stuffed animals sat at attention, leaning against the cracked paint. Two
bears, a penguin, and a baby seal.

  “Well,” Tommy exhaled. “Let’s move it, okay?”

  I leaned over and picked up the mattress. It smelled like a kid, like Andrew. Tommy tried to help, but there wasn’t really any point. The mattress was light. I balanced it on my shoulder and followed Tommy out into the hall. This got me: my shoulder sank into a depression, probably made by Curtis’s body as he slept. This empty space made by that poor, dumb kid. I swallowed hard. We walked past a picture of Curtis in the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  In the living room, Grandma sprang to attention.

  “What are you doing with that mattress?” she asked.

  Tommy and I stopped. She took a drag on her cigarette and eyeballed us.

  “Getting rid of it,” Tommy said.

  “Your daddy might want to sell it. You better ask him.”

  “No,” Tommy said. “Just don’t tell him. He won’t notice. I look at it all night long. I don’t want to look at it anymore.”

  She stared a moment longer, nodded slightly, then said, “Okay then. Go.”

  I followed Tommy out of the house and breathed deeply, like I’d been holding my breath underwater.

  We walked behind the house and into the alley. A few houses up from Tommy’s, there was a big green Dumpster. I followed Tommy over to it. The beer and puke smell was terrible. “College boy house,” Tommy said. He pulled open the lid and I lifted the mattress high over my head and dropped it in. The Dumpster had been emptied recently because the mattress slid down to the bottom, nestled on top of empty bottles.

  “You got a match?” Tommy asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Just kidding,” he said.

  “I don’t have any bongo drums either,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing. My mom just…she wanted some drum thumping when she burned my dad’s crap. She had a couple of friends hit drums.”

  “That’s weird,” Tommy said.

  We walked back to his house.

  He said, “Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

  I said, “No problem, man. Let me know if you…”