Pirates of the Retail Wasteland

by Adam Selzer

  “Nah, that won’t be necessary,” said Andy. “People sell Girl Scout cookies in civilian garb out in the parking lot all the time; I’ll tell him we let you inside because it’s so cold. Just be here early enough and I’ll cover the rest.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Five o’clock it is. We can handle being kicked out eventually, as long as he doesn’t arrest us or anything.”

  “You guys still wanna plunder some booty?” asked Troy. “Here. I’ll mark this out as damaged.” He picked up a brownish yellow bag of coffee beans and tossed it at Anna, who caught it.

  “Wackfords House Blend?” she said, looking down at it.

  “Good sir, you insult me.”

  “I didn’t say you had to drink it,” said Troy. “Maybe you can throw it through somebody’s window or something.”

  Brian snatched it out of Anna’s hand. “Avast!” he shouted. “We be plundering this here booty for the crew of the HMS Pirate Ship!”

  Behind the counter, Andy snickered. “Yo ho ho and a bottle of organic kiwi juice,” he said.

  “Tell you what,” said Troy. “Come to Sip Friday night at nine, we’ll go over all the last-minute details.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “And you have to promise to blur out our faces in the video,” said Andy. “It’s another rule of the McHobos—never get anyone else in trouble. I don’t want Troy to get fired, too.”

  “I can get fired!” said Troy. “I can go get another name tag job someplace else, too.”

  “Patience,” said Andy. “You’re not ready yet.”

  Troy nodded reverently again.

  So we all shook hands and the four of us wandered back outside into the cold wind.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “We did it. We just organized a mutiny at Wackfords.”

  “That was way easier than I thought,” said Anna. And she grabbed my arm and pulled me in close. I pulled her in closer. It’s hard to cuddle through about four layers of clothes, including thick winter coats, but suddenly she was hugging me so tight it felt practically like we were going to second base. She whispered into my ear, “I’d kiss you, but I’m afraid my tongue would get stuck.”

  “Fair enough,” I whispered back.

  Clearly, my plan to show I was on her level, not some dork following along behind her, was working.

  Brian opened up the bag of coffee beans Troy had given him as plunder and threw it high in the air over a mostly empty strip mall parking lot. The beans came flying out as it fell to the ground, raining down onto the icy blacktop, which made a really cool noise.

  “Yo ho ho!” Brian shouted. And you could hear it echo all the way down the street.

  Of all the times not to have a camera running.

  By the time I made it home, I was in a great deal of pain. I felt like I could’ve pulled my face right off of my skull—I imagine it would be a lot like peeling a Fruit Roll-Up off the cellophane—if I could’ve moved my fingers.

  “Leon!” my mother shouted. “You’re late! Where’ve you been?”

  “Stayed late at school,” I said. “I had to work on a project for my job market skills class.”

  “You could have called,” she said.

  “Not really,” I said. “They won’t let me use my phone at school, and with all my gloves on and stuff, I couldn’t have dialed once I got outside.”

  Sometimes rules backfire on parents; they’d pushed for all the rules against having phones in class back in the days when the only kids who had them were drug dealers. Now everyone had them, and needed to use them to call home, since there weren’t any pay phones left, but the parents were stuck with the rules they’d made.

  She walked to the door, where I was busy trying to get all my winter gear off and hung up.

  “Well,” she said, “I guess as long as it was for school, it’s okay. I can’t blame you for not wanting to take your gloves off in this weather.”

  I finished getting unbundled and wandered into the kitchen. “You don’t happen to have any coffee brewed or anything, do you?” I asked. “Something hot?”

  “I’ll brew some,” she said. “Your dad is in the lab, working on his dye. He’ll probably want something hot when he comes in, too.”

  “Maybe he could focus on inventing a lower-cost heating system,” I said.

  “Well,” she said, “it’s not like I haven’t tried to get him to invent something that practical over the years. But it’s no use—he invents what he feels like inventing.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And trying to come up with heating systems would probably put him in way more danger than working on dyes, anyway.”

  It was exactly one second later that we heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the garage. Dad came running into the kitchen, where he quickly stuck his head into the sink.

  “Aaaahhhh!” he screamed, turning on the water. “Just shoot me! Shoot me! Shoot me!”

  “Nick!” said my mother, running over to him. “What happened?”

  He growled and groaned while the cold water ran onto his head. “The dye!” he said. “It burns!”

  A minute or so later, he’d stopped screaming and turned off the water. He just stood there with his head in the sink, breathing heavily.

  “Well,” he said, between pants, “I don’t think it stuck to my scalp, at least. Rolled right off, just like it was supposed to.”

  A few seconds later he pulled his head out of the sink and toweled off with a dishrag.

  Most of the Mohawk was gone. All that remained was a little patch near the front of his head.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I don’t think it agreed with your hair.”

  He paused for a second, then brought his hand ever so slowly up to his head, feeling around where the rest of his Mohawk used to be.

  “Oh my God!” he said. “I’m bald!” He then found the remaining patch and heaved a sigh of relief that there was some left.

  “I guess it must have burned it off,” he said, like a regular crusader for the obvious. He walked into the nearby bathroom to get a look in the mirror. When he saw himself, he made a face like he’d just seen the ghost of somebody really unpleasant. “I made it so it would react to hair but not skin, and I guess it worked. At least my scalp isn’t all bloody and blistered, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Well then, I guess it sort of worked,” he said. “It just rolled off my skin without leaving a stain. But it sure as hell felt like it was burning!”

  Right about then, he stepped out of the bathroom, and my mother started to chuckle. “Well,” she said, “I hope you didn’t mess up your scalp so much that your hair won’t grow back,” she said. “You look pretty silly.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But you looked pretty silly to start with. Now you have a punk Charlie Brown thing going on.”

  My dad came and sat down at the kitchen table, wrapping the towel around his head. “I thought the Mohawk was cool,” he said.

  “It would have been,” I said, “on somebody else.”

  “That’ll do, Leon,” he said. “That’ll do.”

  And he sat staring across the kitchen, through the living room to the empty fireplace, looking devastated. I had never seen him so upset. He usually looked crushed when his inventions didn’t work, which was often enough, but this was different. He had the look of someone who’d been told that an old friend had just died. Like he had tuned the rest of the world out and was just sadly contemplating the meaning of life.

  Finally, I sat down next to him. “I don’t mean to say that you looked dumb,” I said. “Just…that you aren’t really the kind of guy who can pull off a Mohawk. You’re not a punk.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I may not be young anymore, but I get frustrated with society, too. Why shouldn’t adults get to lash out? It’s not like the world sucks that much less after you grow up.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “But you still have that one patch of hair left. You’ll find another way to rebel.”


  “You mean another way to deal with a midlife crisis,” he grumbled. “Maybe I should just buy a sports car like everybody else.”

  “Come on,” said my mother. “You know that won’t make you any younger or cooler. And you’re not old enough to have a midlife crisis.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Pre-midlife crisis, then. Same difference. I need to take a trip or something. Anywhere. Maybe I can go live in a gutter for a while.”

  And he sat there, staring off into space and scowling. The poor guy didn’t even have the energy to be a Grilling American that night.

  Thursday was a big improvement, school-wise. Activity period was just on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, so when Skills for the Job Market ended that morning, I was able to face history class with a smile, because I had the longest possible amount of time before more activity period in front of me.

  The day was made all the better by another appearance from Coach Hunter before Coach Wilkins’s class.

  “Another one!” he moaned. “Will you look at this? This one’s downright filthy!”

  “Let me see,” said Wilkins, taking the sheet. He looked it over and read a couple of lines out loud, then read the rest to himself. “Wow. This is pretty rough,” he said. “It’s not as bad as the poem it’s based on, though.”

  “Can I see it?” I asked.

  Coach Wilkins passed it over to me.

  “I’ll bet you know what it says already, don’t you?” asked Coach Hunter.

  “I told you, Coach,” I said. “I don’t.”

  I looked down at the poem on the page.

  WAIL!

  by the Same Guy

  I saw the best minds of my generation

  destroyed by gym class,

  starving, hysterical, sweating, dragging

  themselves around

  one more lap in fifth period, waiting for the

  angry bell.

  Who climbed to the top of the rope and cried

  “Holy” and studied volleyball, basketball,

  dodgeball, while the floor instinctively vibrated

  at their feet at the foul line,

  who allowed themselves to be made the

  subject of paramilitary rage

  and wailed with joy when the vein in the

  coach’s neck twitched

  and his eyeball also twitched,

  who were awash in a sea of squats squats

  squats and rubber balls

  and cried out “Rage! Rage!” against the starting

  of the class.

  Students of the world, I’m with you in gym

  class.

  I’m with you in gym class,

  where we circled in an eternal square dance.

  I’m with you in gym class,

  where we longed for the days of playing with

  parachutes.

  I’m with you in gym class,

  trying to see up your shorts when you stretch,

  checking out your

  butt when you present the coach with push-ups.

  I’m with you in gym class,

  hearing the action-movie music in my head as

  the rubber

  ball flies toward your head like a missile in the

  musky air.

  I’m with you in gym class,

  where the sad coach wailed the lonely wail that

  begged to

  become a cry from the grave.

  “Not bad,” I said. “What’s it based on?”

  “‘Howl,’ by Allen Ginsberg,” said Coach Wilkins.

  “You’re lucky, Gene. The original is a lot longer. More obscene, too.”

  “One more of them, Harris,” Coach Hunter said to me.

  “One more, and it’s locker search time. And if I find one obscenity in any of them, it’s military school for whoever’s writing this stuff!”

  I was past worrying about getting my locker raided, of course. I’d already cleared it out enough that all he’d find were some smelly gym socks, which he was welcome to.

  But it was a good thing he didn’t go on the search right away. After class, I opened my locker and a piece of yellow paper fell out. I picked it up and saw that it was a note from Jenny.

  Dear Leon,

  Thanks again for your kind invitation to become a pirate. Sorry I couldn’t do it, but please don’t think it means I’m not crazy enough or anything. I swear I can keep up with you guys. I really can. See you at gifted pool tomorrow.

  Break on through,

  Jenny

  P.S. Out of curiosity, have you ever seen a girl naked?

  I stared at that note—the last line of it, anyway—for a really long time before shoving it in my pocket, where Anna wouldn’t see it, and spent the next class trying to get Jenny out of my head, but you don’t get a letter with a last line like that and forget about it. Jenny hadn’t exactly offered me the chance to see her naked or anything. In fact, when I thought about it, I felt as though she could have been a bit more specific. Was she asking if I knew what a naked girl looked like, like from pictures and stuff, or if I had actually seen one myself, in person? ’Cause they’re two different things, but she didn’t seem to differentiate.

  I was awfully glad that I’d gotten it out of my locker, though. If Coach Hunter had found it, he would have passed it on to Dr. Brown. Then he’d know we were plotting some sort of piracy, and I shuddered to think of what sort of videos he’d make Jenny watch to warn her not to write things like that to a guy.

  And anyway, if that happened, word of the note would get back to Anna, and I really didn’t want to know how she’d react. Maybe she’d get mad at Jenny. Maybe she’d get mad at me. If she saw that I’d gotten a letter like that, she’d surely know what I spent the next class period thinking about, after all. Things were already a bit awkward between Jenny and me, not to mention between Anna and me. Something like this couldn’t possibly help.

  In any case, I was very glad that Jenny had a different lunch period than me. I didn’t know if I’d be able to see her without getting either really embarrassed or really turned on, and I didn’t want to be either. As usual, though, just having Anna show up took every thought of Jenny out of my head. It worked every time.

  At lunch, Anna, Brian, Edie, and I hardly even mentioned the upcoming piracy. Anna was talking about Louis Wain, one of the artists they’d been discussing in the art history activity. He was a guy who painted cats and stuff, and then he went crazy and started painting the cats as crazy, too.

  “God, I wish I were in that class,” I said. “Know what we talked about in my activity? Resume-writing skills.”

  “Too bad you couldn’t take political science,” said Edie. “We argued about free trade all morning—it was awesome! Everyone thought I was crazy!”

  “Speaking of crazy,” I said, “Coach Hunter is on the warpath.”

  “Which one did he find?” asked Dustin. “I hid about five of them in his office.”

  “‘Wail,’” I said. “He’s threatening a locker raid on everyone in the pool.”

  “He can’t do that!” said Edie.

  “Maybe he can, maybe he can’t,” I said, “but there’s nothing saying he won’t. Get anything incriminating out of your locker as soon as you can.”

  “I wish I had some dog crap I could leave in there,” said Brian. “Maybe I could make, like, a spring contraption that would throw crap at whoever opens the door without punching in a secret code that only I know or something.”

  I had no doubt that he could make this work.

  “Yeah,” said Anna. “But if he never does the search, you’re stuck with dog crap sitting in your locker.”

  “Small price to pay if it might lead to Coach Hunter getting crap in his eye.”

  Lunch period was a welcome twenty-minute break from thinking about anything of any consequence. Between the upcoming piracy and the whole business with Jenny, the Coach Hunter stuff seemed like an amusing sideshow.

  Once lunch was over, though, I w
as back to thinking about the note in my back pocket. All through the day, I tried my absolute hardest to keep from picturing Jenny naked, but it wasn’t easy. And I knew, from having had her sit on me on the couch and stuff, that she was reasonably developed and everything—she probably looked great naked.

  So did Anna, though, I kept reminding myself. I tried to picture her naked instead, which, in all honesty, was not difficult. But then I’d start picturing both her and Jenny naked, and, to make a long story short, it was probably the longest afternoon I’d ever spent in class. I needed to get home. Badly.

  But I still waited for Anna outside, just like always, and I walked a lot closer to her than I normally did as we headed to the edge of the parking lot.

  “Well,” I said, “tomorrow night will be the last planning meeting. We’re going to have to get all our stuff in order tonight.”

  “I’ll send everyone an e-mail,” Anna said. “See ya tomorrow, sailor.”

  She started walking away, but I said, “Wait,” grabbed her by the arm, pulled her back to me, and kissed her. Hard. And long. With tongue, which was unusual for us. A couple of people shouted out the windows of their parents’ cars as they passed by. For a second I was afraid she’d pull away and ask what I thought I was doing, but she didn’t.

  In fact, she was kissing me back just as hard. She even grabbed the small of my back and started pulling me a little bit closer, but I took a step back so I wouldn’t be pressing too much against her. I’d been picturing her naked the whole day. She might have been able to tell.

  “Well,” she said as she finally pulled away from me. “Something got into you today, huh?”

  “You could say that,” I said, feeling like I was standing at about a forty-five-degree angle so as not to be up against her.

  She smiled and headed away. I ran home as fast as I could.

  An hour after I got home, Dad called me downstairs. He sounded pretty happy. Downright chipper, in fact. Clearly, the loss of his Mohawk had not knocked him out for good.

  He was wearing all black—black pants, a black turtleneck sweater, and black sunglasses. His scalp was terribly pale, and what was left of his hair was sculpted into one pointy spike, like he had a green horn on the front of his head.