“Trapper, she won’t notice it,” I tell him. “Too small.”
He pulls a bottle of cinnamon schnapps from under the seat. “Drink some of this,” he says.
I push it away and tell him I quit drinking.
Trapper looks over at Grady. “McAllister’s third time quitting.” He opens the bottle and downs a shot. “Whoa, wicked headrush . . . Hey, limpdick, does your cousin put out? You think I’ll get me sum?”
Trapper’s taking my cousin Mandy to the prom. “Forget it. I already told her you’re a horny bastard.”
“No you didn’t— Did you?”
At a red light, Grady leans forward on the steering wheel and tells Trapper, “Mitch got kicked off the basketball team.”
“Are you shitting me? McAllister, what the fuck?”
“I skipped detention.”
“Yesterday?” he asks.
“Yesterday and today.”
Grady Myers, who is always looking out for everyone, is shocked to hear this. He studies my face to see if I’m joking.
“Watch the road,” I tell him.
“You mean you’re supposed to be in detention right now, today?” Grady asks.
“Yep.”
Trapper starts laughing, “Fuckn’ A!” and bobs his bushy head to the music.
Grady isn’t laughing. “Mr. Dobbs is going to kill you tomorrow.”
. . .
In the back of Spanish class, Trapper folds a piece of paper into a triangle football, and when Mrs. Livingston isn’t watching, we take turns flicking field goals through finger posts. Renée Reynolds turns around in her desk and tells us to grow up. From the intercom, the school secretary announces, “Mitch McAllister, please report to the vice principal’s office.”
Trapper reaches across the aisle to shake my hand. “Been nice knowin’ ya, bro.”
Grady Myers leans back in his desk, stares at the ceiling and shakes his head.
Mr. Dobbs doesn’t exactly explode, but when I sit in front of him, he swells up pretty good. “YOU, young man, are a problem! If you’re not able show some maturity and handle your responsibilities here at school, you will never graduate. Have you considered that?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pauses, leans back in his swivel chair. “Did Coach Doucet speak with you about basketball?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are your thoughts on this?”
“I don’t care about basketball.”
Mr. Dobbs puffs out his lower lip in frustration. “What are we going to do with you?”
He taps a pen on his desk while his gummy lip protrudes into a thick fold of shiny brown skin. He exhales a cloud of bad breath that pollutes his office. “You’re suspended from school for the rest of the day and I’m calling your father. I’m sure your father will know how to handle this.”
Straddling the granite bench outside, waiting for Dad to pick me up, I flip a coin and worry about the direction of his life, what will happen to him. I don’t know how to help, and I don’t know what to do. He veers into the oval driveway and parks under the awning. There’s a rum & Coke sloshing in his cup holder, a pint bottle squeezed between the seat and center armrest. Before we drive off he tells me, “I’m worried about you, Mitch, but I’m not sure what to do.” His car smells like Pierre Cardin cologne. Some of his drink has spilled on the rubber floormat.
. . .
Mom’s wearing her puffy pink robe. She’s showing me cereal boxes, holding up one after another. “I’ve never heard of such an odd decision, it frightens me,” she says. Mom is nagging nonstop, offering to cook pancakes, oatmeal, eggs, bacon . . .
On the back porch I reach into the dryer and pull out my wet shirt. She’s waiting in the kitchen, wanting to continue our argument. “Please, you’re going to make me cry,” she says. I walk past her toward my bedroom. She follows me, refusing to shut up. “People don’t suddenly decide to stop eating. It’s not normal.”
“I stopped two days ago,” I tell her and slam my bedroom door in her face.
Mom stays on the other side of the door continuing her relentless argument. “Is this about Connie Sinclair?”
“No. It’s not about anything.”
“Has your father stopped eating, too? My God, Mitch, is this some sort of pact between the two of you?” I sit on the edge of my bed and pull on a pair of socks, not wanting to listen as she goes on and on about how Dad chose alcohol over his family.
“I know he did, but you made choices too,” I tell her.
“I had to move on with my life,” she says, “for me, and for you and your sister.”
“You moved on because you wanted to. It’s how you are.” I tie my shoes, stretch out on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
“It’s not a matter of wanting to or not wanting to—”
“Then what is it?” I ask. “You tell me what it is.”
“Mitch, it’s doing what you have to do. It’s making the best of an awful situation.”
My digital clock reads five minutes to eight. Beside the clock is a homecoming picture of Connie and me standing with our arms around each other, a teal blue background. I ache for her. Rolling off the bed, I button my wet shirt and open the door. Mom’s standing directly in my way. “The best thing for you, is to give up on your father,” she says.
I step around her. She follows me to the back porch. Walking my bike down the steps, I turn around and tell her, “That is something I would never do.”
. . .
Trapper inches forward in his chair pressing his knee against Cindy Abshire’s ass. I’m resting my head on top of the desk, spying on him under my arm. He whispers to me, “Hey, penis-breath,” and points at his knee, grinning.
From the intercom, “Mitch McAllister, your father is here. Please come to the front office.”
Fuck! I can’t deal with his problems right now. Mr. Dobbs is about to kick me out of school, and in Algebra class, Lisa passed me a note that said Connie wants me to stop calling her.
Instead of going to the office, I hide in the restroom. After smashing my fist into a metal towel dispenser, I go in a stall, lock the door and kick the toilet seat down. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I should give up on him and focus on school. Using a pen, I write on the stall:
My father who art in nothing,
Lead me not into nothing,
And I will lead you not into nothing,
For ever and ever, Amen.
Trapper opens the door and asks, “You in here?”
“Nope.”
“Man, you better hustle it to the front office. Everybody’s looking for you. Your dad’s here.”
“Trapper.”
“What?”
“When we were kids, my father was certain I’d grow up to pitch for the Astro’s.”
Trapper steps all the way into the bathroom and I hear the door close. “I know,” he says. “He used to talk about it at practice.”
“He talked about it at home, too, all the time. I let him down.”
“Well then go do it. Go find a baseball team.”
“What’s the point? I’m not good enough. Remember our last game when you were on second base and I was batting? Remember how I refused to swing at the ball and just stood there? Dad was yelling at me from the fence, “Swing the damn bat!”
“What are you hiding from?” Trapper asks.
“I’ll come out in a minute but first answer the question.”
“Sure, I remember when you didn’t swing. You lost the game for us.”
“Believe me, I regret the hell out of it. I wasn’t thinking straight and just did it without knowing why— But I know now.”
“The Gorilla told me to go find you.”
“Dammit, Trapper, do you want me to tell you or not?”
“Tell me what?”
“Why I didn’t swing, why I quit baseball.”
“Okay, why?” Trapper asks.
“I did it to punish him.”
Trapper opens the stall do
or. “Punish who?”
“My dad! Who the hell do you think we’ve been talking about?
Approaching the reception area, I can see Mr. Dobbs, the school secretary, school nurse and Coach Doucet—all of them waiting for me. Dad’s drunk; I’d know it from a mile away. Something’s different though. He’s clean shaven, wearing sharkskin boots and pressed jeans. I can’t figure it out. Nevertheless, with everyone watching, this is the perfect opportunity to embarrass him like he embarrasses me. And if it hurts him, so what, I want it to hurt.
First I’ll say that Mom wants him to stop calling her. Then, for the final blow, I’ll tell him I quit basketball.
From across the room, I start with, “Why are you here? You know I can’t leave school early.”
Everyone turns to look at me. The nurse and secretary are loving this, nosy to see what’ll happen next.
“Your mother sent me to pick you up,” he says.
“Why?”
Dad steps forward, drunk but confident. “This is important—a family matter that requires your attention.”
Couch Doucet whispers something to him. Dad nods his head in agreement and calls me over. “Come on, Mitch. You’re driving for the old man today.”
The vice principal places his hand on my shoulder and tells Dad, “Mr. McAllister, give me a minute with your son.” In his office, he goes behind his desk and removes a business card from the top drawer. “Has your father been drinking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does he drink like this often?”
I nod my head.
Mr. Dobbs hesitates while focusing on the card. “Here’s what I can offer. I’d like to have a counselor come talk with you. She’s a smart lady and knows how to handle situations like this.”
“What about him?”
“I’ll tell your father you’ll be provided with a ride home at three o’clock. Otherwise, if he’s not satisfied with my approach, I’ll call security and ask him to leave the premises. And Mitch, let me say this. There are many kids in similar and often times worse situations, so regardless of how you might feel, you are not alone here.”
Standing in Mr. Dobbs’ office doorway, I have a decision to make. The school nurse is fumbling with something in the pocket of her lab coat. Coach Doucet is talking with the assistant coach who just arrived. And Dad, he’s quiet, patiently waiting for me. After Mom left him, he promised to stop drinking if she would take him back. She refused.
“Okay, Dad. Let’s go.”
Following him into the parking lot, he tosses his car keys to me. We lift the T-tops off the Trans-Am and place them in the trunk. I adjust the driver’s seat forward. Dad grabs two beers from an ice chest on the back seat. “Did I screw up in there?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. He hands me a beer. I take a large gulp and place the can in a cup holder. “Did Mom really send you?”
Dad reaches into his shirt pocket and flashes two concert tickets.
“No shit, we’re going? Right now?” I ask.
“I shit you not,” he says, grinning.
I riffle through his cassette tapes in the center armrest, but before I can pick one, he slams in Hank Jr.’s Family Tradition. “You’re too slow, hotshot.”
On the soccer field, Connie Sinclair rushes out of the goalie box to kick the ball. I rev the engine to get her attention. When she looks over at us, I blow her a kiss goodbye.
“She broke up with me.”
“I know,” Dad says. “Your mom called this morning.” He rips open a pack of cigarettes and cranks up the stereo. “Forget about her,” he says. “Haul ass!”
I roar out of the parking lot, tires spinning, rubber burning in the street. Dad gulps his beer and braces himself against the dashboard. “That’s it,” he yells. “Now downshift! Downshift at the turn and floor it all the way to Houston!”
. . . . .
Juggling Wine Glasses
Jack McAllister is twenty-nine. He just arrived home from his job selling insurance. His son Mitch is sitting on the carpet in front of the television watching cartoons, a bowl of popcorn between his legs. Popeye, courageous and brave, refuses to be defeated. He removes a can of spinach from his shirt, squeezes the can and watches spinach loop through the air into his mouth.
Mitch holds up a piece of popcorn. “Hey, Dad, catch this in your mouth.”
While Popeye saves himself from a spinning saw blade, Jack fixes himself a scotch & water.
“Come on, Dad, let’s see if you can do it.”
Jack sips his drink before taking off his coat and tie. He does some mock, warm-up exercises, rotating his neck, stretching his mouth open. Mitch tosses the popcorn into the air, arching it to the ceiling. Jack leans back, judges the distance and catches it in his mouth.
“Go for two,” Mitch calls out.
“Fire when ready,” Jack says.
Mitch launches one then quickly tosses the other into the air. Jack leans forward, catches the first, then bends back to catch the second.
Smiling confidently, he says, “Ten. All at once.”
“TEN. Can you really catch ten?” Mitch asks.
“Sure, I can. I’m the world champion popcorn catcher.”
Mitch runs down the hall to his sister’s bedroom and pulls Tracy into the den. “Watch this,” he tells her, then runs to the kitchen to get his mom.
Mrs. McAllister follows her son into the den and tells him, “Mitch, your father is teasing you.”
“No way, Mom. He can do it.”
. . .
Forget about having a conversation with Kim Sanders. She only talks to Mr. Nelson, the maître d’. Sometimes it’s by the reservations podium when nobody’s around. Sometimes it’s in his office with the door closed. Maybe he’s getting some, but I doubt it. He’s old, more than twice her age.
Kim and I wait tables at Bobbie-Ann’s Bistro. For five months, she’s been rejecting every angle I try. Last week I read The Power of Positive Thinking, and now I’m going to see if it works.
Mr. Nelson tells us to go upstairs and set up the banquet room—a perfect opportunity to get her alone. Kim’s folding napkins at the tables, laying out plates and lining up silverware. She’s mocking Cindy Lauper. “Girls just wanna have fu-hun . . . Hey Mitch, you wanna have fu-hun?”
I step to my left, directly in front of her, holding three delicate wine glasses. She stops and tries to go around me. I block her path. She has a curious look on her face waiting to see what I’ll do.
I juggle for her is what I do. First I toss one glass into the air, and then the other two, taking brief glances to check her reaction. There is no reaction. Kim doesn’t bow at my feet or marvel at my juggling skills. All she does is resume folding napkins. Time for something bolder.
On a napkin I write Lets Have Sex. Then, while Kim is serving entrées to table nine, I stroll by and place the napkin on her tray. A lady wearing a purple scarf bends forward to get a better look. Filling water glasses at the next table, I watch to see what will happen. Thankfully, Kim immediately covers the napkin with her hand. First she looks at Raymond busing salad plates, then she turns to me. Her sexy mouth falls open, surprised, and she sort-of laughs. That’s when I know I have to get some of that.
At the end of the night, I’m in the waiters’ station cleaning coffee pots with lemon, salt and ice. How will Kim react worries me a little. She might shoot me down or turn the other waiters against me. But, if this thing goes the other way, I’ll take her to my grandmother’s camp and go skinny dipping off the end of the pier. Maybe I’ll invite her over to my apartment for dinner. No, that won’t work. I only have paper plates and we’d have to eat on lawn chairs in front of a portable TV.
Here she comes, rolling the dessert cart right past me without saying a word. Oh shit, this misunderstanding is about to explode. She rounds the corner into the kitchen and, even though I’m out of the game, I can’t resist turning to check out her ass. Kim really does have a fine ass.
One step
away from the kitchen, she opens her hand allowing a bar napkin to drop to the floor. Without acting too rushed, I place the coffee pots in the sink, pick up the napkin and casually unfold it: Just say when, Tiger!
Yes! She wants me! I get cocky and start barking orders at busboys. “Go polish my silverware.” Then, from fifteen feet away, I wad up a dirty coffee filter and toss it in the trashcan—BAM! Two points!
. . .
Tonight, after thirty push-ups and a dozen arm curls, I grab a bottle of Cabernet and drive over to Kim’s apartment. Standing at her door, wearing my favorite OP t-shirt, I flex my muscles to get a last minute pump. Inside, she introduces me to Spike, her German shepherd. I bend down to pet him. Kim’s wearing faded Levis 501’s, no shoes (her feet are tan) and a black, Rolling Stones tour shirt. In her apartment, she has a Turkish hookah in the corner and a box of dried bones under the kitchen table. I hold one of the bones up to my nose to see what it smells like.
“They’re dick bones,” Kim says, “from bears and other mammals.”
“Holy shit!” I immediately jerk the bone away from my face and drop it in the box.
“Most mammals,” she says, “and primates, too, have a bone in their penis. It’s called a baculum.”
“A baculum? Never heard that one.” I hand her the wine and drift over to her bookcase. She has, The Kama Sutra, Beginners Wicca, Lesbian Lovers, and a book on paleontology. “Interesting books you have here.” She hands me a glass of wine. “Have you read The Power of Positive Thinking? It’s my new philosophy.”
“What was your old philosophy?” she asks.
“I didn’t have one.”
“Give an example,” she says.
“An example of what, I didn’t have one.”
“Not your old philosophy,” she says, “your new one.”
“Well, basically it’s about going for it.”
“It that what the napkin was about?”
I open her Kama Sutra and point to an illustration of a naked women from India. She’s sitting in a man’s lap with her legs wrapped around him. “Listen to this,” I say, and read from her book. “Lotus Blossom: This position is for lovers desiring a tantric visual connection.”
Leaving Allison Page 3