The Spectacular Now

by Tim Tharp

  I watched a biography of Dino on TV, and there was this woman who said, “Frank Sinatra thought he was God. Dean knew he was.” How about that? I mean, the dude had panache. They also said the whisky glass he waved around while he sang was actually filled with apple juice, but I never did believe that.

  So here I am—Friday night—waving my own whisky (no apple juice) glass around, crooning along with Dino while Jennifer Love Hewitt’s spanktacular breasts cruise majestically across the TV screen. I could be thinking about a million things but for some reason Commander Amanda Gallico pops into my head.

  Since she’s Aimee’s big hero, I figure I ought to go online and study up on the intrepid commander a bit so we’ll have something to talk about Saturday night. See, this is part of my grand master plan for Aimee’s inner makeover. She needs to know that her dreams are important. And I’m not being fake about this either. Space travel, super-intelligent horses, working for NASA, owning a vast ranch—you really have to admire dreams like that.

  I had big dreams once myself. I wasn’t much into science fiction, but when I was a kid and still heavily into baseball, I used to pretend I was Rocky Ramirez, all-time major-league MVP. The Rockinator wasn’t a real baseball player. He was my own concoction—a center fielder with superpowers. For example, he could run a hundred miles an hour and even fly if he had to. Plus, he wielded a nine-hundred-pound bat. It never crossed my mind that the major leagues would probably ban him, even though he didn’t take steroids like everyone else.

  But my number one biggest fantasy was that my parents would get back together. I dreamed that one so hard that sometimes I’d have to go look in the closet to see if Dad’s stuff was there. Then we moved in with Geech, and damn, my heart went splat on the carpet when I saw his stupid striped shirts and cheap slacks hanging up where my dad’s jeans jacket and Levi’s should have been.

  That type of dream just kind of wears out with time like a favorite old T-shirt. One day, it’s nothing but tatters and all you can do is throw it over on the rag pile with the others. Still, I can’t help looking back every now and then at how it used to be.

  Summer evenings in the backyard, all of us together. I must’ve been three or four and my dad would grab my wrists and swing me around and around in circles. When he finally set me down, I couldn’t do anything but stagger from the dizziness. I loved it.

  And one time, we made a fort out of lawn chairs and blankets and sat inside while Dad told werewolf stories and Mom leaned into his side, looking at him like he was the original Mr. Wonderful. It seems like it’s always summer in my memories of those days. The cold memories—the fighting memories—when those start to creep in, it’s time to move on.

  Chapter 28

  Commander Amanda Gallico is no challenge for Google. You’d be amazed at how many sites there are for her. I never heard of her before, but someone sure has. Before hitting the fan sites, I browse the more official sites—the bookstores, the author’s page, sci-fi magazines, even a Wikipedia entry. The more I read the more I like this space chick.

  Sure, she’s brave and has a big rack and all, but she’s also a philosopher. According to Wikipedia, she believes that humanity has wasted too much energy chasing after power. They’ve made the mistake of thinking that power over others and leadership are the same thing.

  As I read, I can practically hear Aimee explaining it in her soft marshmallow voice. We’re riding together through cyberspace and she’s going on about how, according to Commander Amanda, the drive for power is not as super-evolved as the drive for well-being. Deep down, women know this, see. Nurturing is their natural gig. They’ve seen how ultimate power has pushed dickhead dictators—like this Hitler-type dude, Rolio Blue, of the Dark Galaxy—into some kind of raging, slobbering paranoid freak while any sense of well-being flies completely out the old spaceship porthole.

  On the other hand, a true leader, like Commander Amanda, doesn’t seek power over others. Instead, she’s out to lead them into greater and greater prosperity, both inside and out. So instead of going all crazoid and unraveling like Rolio Blue the evil douche, she gains more and more inner strength. Book after book, she becomes more amazing as she searches for the Bright Planets system where she’s going to build a whole new super-evolved society that’s like one big, blooming family.

  Now, if you ask me, that’s some pretty deep stuff. I wish I had a blaze to smoke to go along with it. Maybe then I could almost believe Amanda Gallico was out there, coming to save me and Earth from its own Rolio Blues.

  Who knows how many whiskies I’ve put away or how long I’ve been surfing through fan sites, message boards, blogs, and so forth. That’s how it is online—there’s no time in cyberspace. It’s almost like everything physical evaporates, and it’s just your mind and the different sites floating in a void. For some reason, this makes me feel really close to Aimee. I know her mind’s floated in and out of these same sites tons of times. She knows everything about the Dark Galaxy and the Bright Planets system up and down and back and forth. I can feel her here—this real gentle presence—just like Commander Amanda Gallico, searching for a place to flourish.

  Suddenly, I’m startled back into myself by a booming voice: “You’ve got mail!” For a second, I feel like I’ve been invaded right in the middle of something intimate. But then I’m like, Wouldn’t it be weird if it’s from Aimee? It’s not, though. It’s from Cassidy.

  I’m almost scared to read it. I really don’t need to get bawled out by a girlfriend who’s not even my girlfriend anymore. After a long pause, I open it, and what do you know—it’s the opposite of a bawling out. She’s actually waxing sentimental all over the place, going on about how she misses the fun we used to have, the wild times, the spontaneity. She wants us to be friends again.

  Yeah, right. Friends.

  It doesn’t take CSI Oklahoma to see what’s going on here. Marcus West—Mr. Perfection—is starting to petrify her brain cells with boredom. We all know what a snooze perfection can be. I’ll guarantee he never ditches school. Never does one damn thing he hasn’t planned out a week in advance. You won’t see Marcus West falling off her roof in the middle of a school day. The guy doesn’t even drink. How fun could he be?

  No, I’m pretty sure it’s more than friendship Cassidy’s itching for right about now. But you won’t catch the Sutterman playing it any way but cool. With perfect Dean Martin nonchalance, I dash off a quick note about how being friends would be fine by me. Yes, I can always use another good buddy. But at the end, I can’t help myself. I have to add on a tempting little note about how there’s going to be a party at the lake tomorrow night. I’ll be there. It’ll be fun. Cheap beer.

  My finger hovers for a moment above the mouse, probably about a microsecond, before I click send.

  Chapter 29

  Lakeside on Saturday night, it’s more than a little nippy. That’s Oklahoma for you. Warm February and then here comes March and a cold spell has to move in. Still it’s not nearly cold enough for the kind of jacket Aimee’s sporting. It’s this huge, down-filled purple monster that makes her look like a giant billiard ball. She might be the only girl I’ve ever met who still hasn’t learned to sacrifice bodily comfort for fashion’s sake. She did paint on the lipstick again, but putting lipstick on a billiard ball still doesn’t give it sex appeal.

  The girl is definitely making it tough. How am I supposed to pair her off with any of these party-hound dudes when she won’t do her part?

  And that is the plan. She needs a social life beyond Krystal Krittenbrink. She needs a dude, someone kind of like me, only not me. Cody Dennis, for instance. Cody’s a lot of fun, but he’s not what you might call advanced in the sex department. The last thing Aimee needs is some letch dude drooling on her.

  One problem—Cody is actually less skilled even than Ricky when it comes to talking to the ladies. But I figure I’ll take care of the conversation part until they warm up to each other. Then I’ll wander off about the time Cassidy makes her fas
hionably late entrance, and boom, all will be right with the universe again.

  There’s a good crew out, just like I knew there would be. Someone lit an old mattress on fire—who knows where that came from—and now everyone’s stoking it with dead branches. The flames reflect on the lake along with the stars. The wood smoke smells good.

  Probably about twenty kids have already shown up. Someone hoisted a keg onto one of the concrete picnic tables, and Gerald the dancing maniac’s going full speed right next to it. I swear, the way this guy moves, he must have no bones.

  “See anyone you know?” I ask Aimee.

  She looks around. “Uh, I know who a lot of people are, but I don’t really know them.”

  “You will.” I reach up to give the back of her neck a little squeeze, but her giant puffy collar gets in the way.

  First things first, we head over to the keg. I have to admit that on the way several people slap me on the back and shake my hand. From left and right, it’s “Hey, Sutter, what’s going on? Ready to party hearty?” Someone asks if I plan on chugging a beer while standing on my head, but I play it off like I’ve never heard of such a thing. The next guy calls out, “Sutter, my man, let’s see you run through the bonfire tonight.”

  I wave him off. “Been there, done that.”

  At the keg, the three dudes in line turn and give me a salute. I’m just the kind of guy people like to see at a party, I guess.

  Not too surprisingly, once I take charge of the spigot, Aimee mentions she doesn’t exactly drink alcohol. I tell her that’s okay, all she has to do is hold on to a beer and at least give off the impression that she might be having fun. That said, I chug my beer and immediately pour another one just to get started off on the right foot.

  The bad news is Cody Dennis is nowhere around to introduce her to. The worse news is here comes Jason Doyle.

  “Hello there, Sutterman,” he says in that way he has of pretending to be smarmy while all the while he really is being smarmy. “I guess it’s officially a party now that you’re here.”

  “Must be.”

  He looks Aimee over, sizing up the down-filled coat. “You know what, Sutter? You better hang on to this balloon before she sails off over the treetops.”

  Luckily, Aimee doesn’t seem to get the joke. “Well,” I say. “Thanks for stopping by, Jason. You take care now. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  He clamps his hand on my arm. “Whoa, there, buddy. What’s your hurry? Aren’t you gonna introduce me?”

  Now let me explain right here that Jason Doyle is the last person I had in mind to introduce Aimee to. The dude is a full-on letch. Anything in a bra and panties is fair game in his book. Check that. Anything in a training bra and panties. Just last fall, one of his best friends—Ike Tucker—found him fooling around with Ike’s thirteen-year-old sister. Okay, so maybe she did have a bit of a body on her, but still, thirteen? Needless to say, Ike kicked his ass. Actually, Ike cracked his head open with an alarm clock. Took about a million stitches to sew him up. They’re friends again now, though.

  The point is—I can tell from the look on his face, Jason is already wondering what’s going on under the giant purple coat. Is there a plump set of boobies wrapped up in there, a sweet ass? It’s all a mystery, but he’s more than ready to do the detective work necessary to solve it.

  “Hey, check it out,” I say, looking over his shoulder, “Alisa Norman is sure looking fine tonight. That red sweater is a scorcher.”

  Jason looks across the party grounds to where Alisa is laughing with some of her friends. She is not wearing a giant puffy coat.

  “Spicy,” says Jason. “But what the hell? Wherever she is, Denver Quigley is bound to be close by.”

  “Not this time,” I say. “Didn’t you hear? They’re over. She jettisoned him like a lump of frozen turds out of a 747. She’s on the prowl.”

  “No shit?”

  “I shit you not.”

  He stands there sizing up the situation. The red sweater is impossible to resist. “I’ll catch up with you two later on. I think I’m gonna amble over and congratulate her on her good judgment.”

  “Go for it,” I tell him.

  Of course, Alisa didn’t actually break up with Quigley at all, and in fact, he should be turning up any second now, but do I feel guilty? Not a chance. A guy like Jason Doyle can always use a black eye.

  Chapter 30

  Aimee must be a little nervous. I catch her taking a sip of beer after all. She makes a face like she just downed a pint of bleach, but at least it’s a start. I try to soothe her a little by giving her the background on all the characters at the party, but I can’t make much headway, what with person after person dropping by to shoot the shit with me, including three ex-girlfriends. The problem is I’m just not really a benchwarmer when it comes to parties. No sidelines for the Sutterman. I like to get right in the middle of the action.

  Aimee, though, she doesn’t even know what the game is, much less how to play. I try to drag her into conversations, but I’m not having much success, even when Shawnie Brown, my girlfriend from sophomore year, comes over. Shawnie’s very touchy-feely and loud. She makes these great exaggerated facial expressions to go along with her stories and loves to do this deal where we talk to each other like Italian mobsters. It’s hilarious. But I swear, with each second, Aimee seems to shrink further and further into the giant purple coat.

  Then, finally, there he is—Cody Dennis in all his puppy dog–eyed glory.

  Immediately, I wrangle him over and introduce him to Aimee. He eyes the coat but doesn’t make any wisecracks. In fact, he hardly says anything. It’s up to me to keep the stories cranking so that the conversation doesn’t freeze into a long, hard stretch of tundra. On and on I go—about the party at Paxton’s house, the one at the La Quinta Inn, and the really, really kickass one at Lake Tenkiller last summer—until finally I run out of party stories and, out of sheer luck, hit on the perfect topic—my online research into Commander Amanda Gallico and the Bright Planets books.

  At that, the light in Aimee’s eyes supercharges. She knows all the Web sites I visited and starts in quizzing me about what I thought. Surprisingly, I remember quite a bit and impress her with my take on the philosophy behind Commander Amanda’s journey. “Inner prosperity,” I say. “That’s the thing. I mean, take me up to the Bright Planets right now. Screw a bunch of power. Screw enslaving the world. We don’t need that. No way. We just need to grow wild, like alfalfa or something.”

  She’s all over that. “You’ve got to read the books. You remind me of Zoster, kind of. He’s the only one that really understands Commander Gallico. In the third book they get trapped in a Shuxushian cave prison together and escape into the underland of Marmoth, which is where I got my idea for the kind of ranch I want to have someday. I’ll lend you the book. It’s a pretty good one to start out with.”

  “Great,” I say. And it does something to me to see her little white face beaming with so much enthusiasm against the background of purple coat. It’s like my beer buzz just cranked up to a whole new level. I almost forget about Cody standing next to us, not to mention the whole reason for rounding him up in the first place.

  “Sorry, Cody.” I slap him on the back. “Didn’t mean to leave you stranded here in a different galaxy.”

  But he doesn’t look bored in the least. “No, man,” he says. “That’s cool. I’m into sci-fi. Have you guys ever read this graphic novel series, Solar Bull by Lawrence Black?”

  I’m like, “Can’t say that I have,” but of course, Aimee’s all, “Solar Bull, yes, I love Solar Bull.”

  Then there they go, leaving me behind this time. And I know I should be happy. This is exactly why I carted Aimee out to the party. But the truth is it’s a little cold here in my own little non–Solar Bull galaxy.

  She laughs at something Cody says about a rocket-powered llama, and he reaches over and touches the sleeve of the giant purple coat. She leans a little toward him, her face still beami
ng. It’s stupid, but I want to step in between them, maybe even lead her away somewhere. But just then, Cassidy appears in the clearing on the far side of the keg, looking like a beautiful fat goddess, and I’m transported to a new sparkling warm galaxy, far, far from Solar Bulls and llamas.

  Chapter 31

  I tell Aimee and Cody I’ll be right back, but they barely notice. Across the way, Cassidy stands beneath the bare branch of an oak. She still hasn’t seen me, but I can tell she’s searching. Then Marcus West steps out of the shadows and puts his arm around her. Have you ever started to wave at someone and then realized they weren’t really waving at you, so you abort and go for a head scratch instead? That’s how I felt. Only instead of scratching my head, I break off my beeline for Cassidy and abruptly turn toward the keg.

  My cup needs a refill anyway. It always needs a refill at a party like this. Cheap 3.2 beer. In fact, I chug one down and go for another. Cassidy and Marcus are now talking to another one of the basketball players and his girlfriend. That’s all right, I tell myself. There’s no reason I shouldn’t go over there. Of course, Cassidy was bound to show up with Marcus. This isn’t the night we hook up again. This is just the night when she realizes how inevitable it is for us to hook up again.

  “So, what’s up, people?” I say, approaching Cassidy’s little group. “What’s the deal, no one has a beer yet?”

  “I’m not drinking,” says Marcus. “But I see you have two beers yourself.”