Looper

by Michael Conlon

  All three of us sit on the couch like we’re in a church pew, contemplating our fates while two black squirrels play tag outside. Grand Canyon silence. There is the unspoken word that the fault line under our family’s feet is about to crack wide open. Pop’s anger and unhappiness is always an unsettling tremor. Mom’s the glue that holds the family together. If she cracks, we’ll have an earthquake on our hands. I’ve never seen her this close to the brink. It’s now that I harden my resolve: Evans scholarship or bust.

  After skateboarding up and down my driveway, I head uptown and board a southbound bus toward Sam’s Jams. I want to both get away from home before I murder someone and buy an album to calm my nerves. After hunting through old albums for over an hour, I luck upon a used Jethro Tull album titled Thick As A Brick in pristine condition; a bargain at only $3.75. I know nothing about him, but Owen’s been raving about the music. The title describes me perfectly.

  Instead of returning to the bus stop, I continue toward the Palms Motel to find Owen. Perhaps the Quinns can stay at the Palms while Pop scouts for new digs. Wouldn’t that be interesting: the Rooneys, Quinns, and Gigi Arnold living under one roof.

  Owen’s not around at the Palms. With nowhere to go, I play Space Invaders at the motel lobby arcade. I haven’t broken 2,000 for centuries. Four quarters in my pocket, good for four games. My eyes lock in, and soon I’m destroying incoming aliens and missing their blasters. I pass 1,000, my heart pounds, and I still have all four alien blockers intact. 1,700. One blocker down. Falling aliens. 2,000. Two blockers down. Misfire. Damn. Two alien space blockers destroyed. Game over. My initials pop electric on the screen—I just crack the top ten at number 9. 2,698. New personal record. I’ve learned trampoline front flips, earned honor rank at the club, and now I’m an ace at Space Invaders. But who the flip cares? I haven’t a soul to share the news with now.

  I think that perhaps Owen’s over at Gigi’s, so I head to her house. Woodward Avenue pulsates with overheated cars, box trucks, and buses vomiting fumes into the noon-time air sweat. Fresh country-club air seems like a dream right now.

  Gigi Arnold’s family hasn’t moved out yet. There’s a car in the driveway, and “Wango Tango” screeches from the open upstairs window. I knock. After a minute, the door opens, and Gigi stands on the threshold with wet hair, wearing a pink bathrobe. “Ford? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for Owen. Is he here?” No? I’ll be on my way now.

  “I know you came to see me.” She tightens the belt on her robe and wags her finger. “Don’t lie.”

  “No, really. I want to show him this record.” I turn around to leave, but she grabs my hand and yanks me through the door.

  “Hey, what album did you get?”

  “I probably should go.” She takes the Jethro Tull album from my hand. “Do you know where Owen is?” I ask.

  She gives me a who-the-hell-cares shrug. “Pretty sure he’s caddying. Where else? Come on in.” She trails her finger along the album’s cover. A Brit newspaper showing a bald man handing a kid first prize in a nationwide poetry contest. “I can’t live without music.”

  “Me, too.” I try to tell myself, Maybe Owens found a fellow mod girl and has ditched Gigi.

  “See?” A sly smile and a sexy wink. “We have lots in common.”

  I follow her upstairs and into her room, and she shuts the door behind us. I plop down on a yellow beanbag. This is a first for me—alone in a girl’s bedroom.

  Gigi shakes the record out of its jacket. “You know, it’s okay you didn’t let me move in with you. Your mom would have been nuts to let that happen.”

  “Why?” I suppose that thought did occur to me.

  “You know why.” She stands and scans the record for scratches. Her blonde hair loops around her creamy earlobes. “It’s in great shape. I’m going downstairs to grab some ice. Why don’t you put the album on?”

  I place the record on the turntable, wondering what the hell I’m getting into. From reading the album jacket, I learn that the lyrics of the song “Thick As A Brick” describe a psychologically disturbed literary prodigy, and Jethro Tull is not a person but the name of a band.

  Gigi returns with a tray full of ice. She drops two cubes in a cup filled with Lipton tea, applies watermelon lip balm, and turns the volume knob up. “I bet your fridge has one of those ice-making machines.”

  “Yeah, we have one of those. You can get cubes or crushed ice.” I hope we’ll take the fridge to our new home along with our birdbath.

  “I should have known.” Huh? She turns the music down. “That you’d have one, I mean.”

  An ice-cube-making machine? “No, it’s not really like that.”

  She flips the volume knob way up and swings her hips back and forth. Gigi-gravity pulling me into her orbit. “YOU’RE LUCKY.”

  “HOW SO?”

  She turns the music back down. “Where you live—in The Hills—you have parents who actually give a crap where you are at night.”

  I think of Virginia and her sleepless nights. Maybe she’s just worried about the three of us kids. “Your parents care,” I say. “You said your dad wanted to kill us if he caught us in your house.”

  A loud Ha! escapes from her mouth. “He doesn’t want me to get knocked up. You wouldn’t get it.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “Really?” she says, turning to face me. “How so?”

  I resist the urge to tell her, tell someone: The Quinns are not long for life in the Hills, still living with a faint hope we’ll somehow stay on Dot Ave. I simply say, “Everything’s not exactly perfect at my house.”

  “Yeah, but at least you don’t have to worry about money. I mean, look at the house you live in.”

  I want to tell her “why do you think I caddy?” or “we’re selling the house because we can’t afford the bills in the Hills.” But I simply agree. “I guess you’re right.”

  Her face relaxes, radiating a soft expression I’ve never seen in her before. “That’s what I like about you, Ford.”

  Gigi-gravity pulls my red Wrangler jeans completely into her orbital sphere. Warning bells sound and red lights pulsate at Mission Control.

  “What’s that?” I shift uneasily with no ready exit strategy.

  She bends over, cups her hands around me ear, and whispers, “You’re so humble.” Gigi spins, flips open the nightstand, and removes a brush, dragging it through her wavy blonde hair over and over and over. I try hard to think of Owen and our friendship, and even Cleo, but my willpower is wilting by the second as Gigi keeps brushing her hair, tapping her bare foot slowly to the music. Caught in Gigi’s orbit. “Yeah. I like this album. You have decent taste.”

  I remember something Owen told me about the record. “There’s just one song on the whole record.”

  “It just keeps going without any breaks?”

  “Yeah. No breaks.” There’s no way it’ll ever get radio play on WRIF. “One long song on each side.”

  She coaxes me onto the bed. “Okay, then, I’ll let you leave when this song is over.”

  We play fifteen rounds of gum swapping. Then the song ends with a deafening SHOUT. I hurry down the stairs, and she yells after me. “Call me tomorrow, okay? Okay? Ford? You better call me! WAIT!”

  She catches up with me at the foot of the stairs and hands me a ripped page from a notebook. “Here, take this. It’s my new phone number. My own private line. Only three dollars a month extra.”

  Commissioner Bogart won’t be answering Batgirl’s phone. I shove the paper into my pocket, leap out the front door into a sweltering summer gale, and slump along on Woodward Avenue toward the bus stop while cars honk, and their exhaust chokes the air. A quick glimpse of a Seagram’s V.O. Canadian “Smoooooth” billboard sign on stilts before I step onto the slow cooker on wheels. As the bus jolts forward, I realize I’ve forgotten Thick
As A Brick. Damn.

  A girl on the bus flicks her ponytail. Cleo? Nope. I wonder what I should do about Gigi—Does she think we’re dating?—and Owen. Gigi expects me to call her.

  What a thorny mess I’ve made of my life.

  Back home, I learn Billy’s jig is up. He’s under indictment by the SAT police. Another kid from his school, and with grades just as poor as Billy, also scored better than almost every kid in the country after he took the test six months before my brother had. He also happens to be one of Billy’s friends, Pierre Lennon. According to Billy, Pierre is such an idiot he once copied his classmate’s answers on a geography quiz and mistakenly wrote Nancy Wineholdt under the line for his name. Pop’s sold Billy’s LeSabre for $500. He’ll have to retake the SAT to prove his innocence.

  Even though he cheated and stole my money, I still feel sorry for Billy because I know he’s a genius in things tests don’t measure. I tell this to Mom while she’s polishing my late grandmother’s silver.

  “Funny you say that, Ford. One of those school test investigators combed through every one of Billy’s report cards and IQ tests since kindergarten.”

  “And?”

  She stops and squeezes out a glob of silver polish on her rag. “She said the only courses he got As in were Geometry I and II and shop class. That kid who took his SAT test missed the only three geometry questions on the exam. She said his IQ tests all showed he’s off the charts in one area.”

  “Pray tell?”

  “Something totally worthless.” She returns to polishing. “Abstractions.”

  Not sure that’s a word. “Abstract reasoning?”

  “That’s it. ‘Theoretical’ is what that the man called it. Billy’s going to get a dose of abstract reality when he ends up working at the Chrysler plant.” She raises Grandma’s silver teapot. “How’s this look?”

  Word in the Hills is that my hundred bucks funded Barry Greenblatt’s keg party. Barry started as a tight end for the football team and is headed to Princeton on a full ride on account of his brawn and brains, so he planned one last summer blowout before college started. If Billy or Pierre confesses, then Barry could lose his scholarship. Pierre Lennon skipped town. Billy would have sooner shaved his head than give up Barry. My brother says he won’t retake the SAT. Sad thing is, I know Billy can win that bet with Pop if he only tries.

  Three days later, under a grim, muddy-streaked sky, I say goodbye to Rocket. It’s kind of awkward and weird because guys don’t know how to say goodbye to each other. We just punch each other in the shoulder and give each other a half hug and lame handshake. He promises to send me pictures and says he’ll bring me home something from Australia. I help him carry one of his suitcases to the car.

  Mrs. Olivehammer stands inside the doorway, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex while holding a drink in her other hand. The car honks, and they drive off down the street. A memory kicks in of playing pickle in the middle of Dorchester. We both love to play that simple game. You only need three guys to play, but sometimes we’d have all the kids on the street join in. Rocket had always been the one who organized the games. He’d round up every available kid on the block to play, never caring what kind of kid played—athletic, tall, small, or slow. He just wanted to play the game of pickle in our tiny hamlet of a street, and he always asked me to play first.

  he PGA Championship is the last of the four major golf tournaments of the year after the Masters, the U.S. Open, and the British Open. To pro golfers, winning a major is like taking home an Oscar for actors, for caddies, best key grip. If you land a big-name bag, you might be seen on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. Many of the professionals lodge in the houses near the Kensington Hills golf course. Jason Sanders’s parents are hosting two-time major champ Johnny Miller. Mom tried to have a player bunk in our house for the extra money, desperate enough to break her no-boarders rule, but you have to be a member to host a player. I overheard her on the phone saying, “But my son’s an honor caddy there!”

  The club imported fine white Caribbean sand to fill the traps and bunkers. What a farce. If you don’t like our sand here, go play in Saint Lucia, for Christ’s sake. Of course, the grass is from Bermuda. I don’t expect a bag, but there are other jobs to fill, like carrying a group’s scoreboard high above the crowd or being a ball marker for errant shots into the rough.

  The well-known players arrived with their own personal caddies in tow, but a lot of the golfers aren’t such big shots. The Professional Golf Association gives special invitations to the tournament to its member club pros throughout the country. Each country club has its own club pro, who gives lessons and promenades around the course like a headmaster at a private school. The member pros don’t have the luxury or the money to hire professional caddies, but some like to hire local caddies who know the contours of the greens and the blind hazards to avoid.

  Owen Rooney and I arrive at the crowded caddy shack to hear Bobby Walton announce the PGA assignments. As soon as I pass through the door, King asks, “What are you jokers doing here?”

  I can’t answer that question—just hoping to get a chance to do something at the tournament. Most of the volunteers came from the club itself, with lots of the members’ kids getting choice positions like raking traps around the holes or handing out drinks in the various beverage tents. I don’t think it’s fair; most of them have never even raked a trap, let alone set foot in one. Raking isn’t just a mindless task like it sounds. You have to rake it smooth like jelly on toast, and usually away from the dance floor to avoid any so-called fried eggs—the most impossible shot in golf.

  Owen’s brother, Jake, is the first name picked for a bag. Chip lands Danny Molitor, a decent tour player. Rat nabs one of the most famous tour players, Chi-Chi Rodriguez. Chi-Chi rarely misses a cut; Rat will be caddying on the weekend for sure. Owen nudges me and whispers in my ear. “Caddies can get ten percent of the purse if the golfer isn’t a jerk. A top-twenty finish in the PGA Championship means at least twenty grand. Can you believe that?”

  The money hadn’t dawned on me. Just the excitement of hanging around the top players in the world kills me. I’d gladly caddy for free. But $20,000? I won’t need any Evans scholarship with that kind of dough.

  Near the end of the cattle call, Bobby Walton shouts out a name. Pimples elbows me. “Quinn, he called your name.” The next words spilling out of Bobby’s mouth are “Winston Somerset, Nashua Country Club.”

  Damn if I didn’t get one! How epic is that? Dream come true. Owen’s turn has to be next for sure. I see him pinch his eyes closed, furiously rubbing his rabbit’s foot, hoping he’ll punch that golden ticket to the Willie Wonka candy factory. It’ll be ace if we both get to carry for a real pro in the same foursome in front of thousands of people instead of guest hackers or the likes of Toad Fart and Lurch.

  Bobby Walton calls Pimples’s name for the last loop. “Barton Baumeister, Ocean Links, San Francisco, California.” Pimples jumps out of his seat with glee. “Everybody whose name I called come on up. For those who didn’t, I’ll be posting a list for other assignments at the end of the day.”

  Owen directs his fury toward me. “I got twice as many loops as you, and you scored a bag in the PGA?” He clenches both fists and grinds his teeth. “You guys from the Hills, always pullin’ strings.”

  I frown and raise my hands in defense. “What are you talking about? I didn’t pull anything.”

  He scowls at me like I’ve stolen his girlfriend and bolts out of the shack. Perhaps I have, thinking of Gigi, but I haven’t tugged a single power lever to get this PGA loop. Maybe I impressed the living hell out of Bogart when I caddied for him to earn my honor’s badge.

  At home that night, Virginia has planned a family barbeque on the back patio to celebrate my PGA coup. In his Jack Daniels apron, Pop flips burgers on the gas grill with its fake brown coals and drinks from a can of Stroh’s while Mom brings out a pitcher of le
monade. I feel a bit like a rock star, or at least a roadie to a rock star, or in Winston Somerset’s case, a roadie to the warm-up act.

  “Who’s Winston Somerset?” Kate asks as all four of us lounge around the patio, watching Pop fiddle with a spatula. I love when Pop’s responsible for dinner because he always serves tasty meals: powdered sugar pancakes and bacon, pigs in a blanket, grilled cheeseburgers, Watergate salad, Little Caesars Pizza.

  “He’s a superb club pro from New Hampshire.” I know squat about Winston.

  My sister skips over to an elm stump and waves a croquet mallet. “Come on, let’s play.”

  After leaning mallets on the stump, Kate begins to dot the backyard with wickets. A game of croquet is a Quinn family tradition, like polo is for the Rockefellers. I stride toward Kate, and she hands me a mallet. Billy lounges in a patio chair with his knees slid up to his chin, drinking a Faygo Redpop. Kate looks at my brother. “C’mon, go, Billy. Get off your butt for once.”

  “Fine, but only if Dweezel Butt over there caddies for me. We’ll call it the Quinn Open. And if we win, I’ll let you in my room, Fordo.”

  “I guess you’re a pro now,” Pop shouts out, placing cheese singles on sizzling burgers.

  “Yeah, he’s the best slave on the plantation.”

  Normally I’ll say something to shut Billy’s trap, but instead I laugh, thwacking the ball toward the first wicket. Kate strikes her ball, and it rolls past mine before settling in the long blades of grass. Billy doesn’t move a muscle to play. Kate makes it through the first three wickets while I struggle on number two. You have to be firm with the croquet mallet when striking the ball, but not too firm.

  “How’d tennis tryouts go, Kate?” Pop yells across the lawn.

  Virginia gives Pop a funny frown to hush him up. Kate was fourth team doubles on last year’s freshmen team. She’s worked hard this summer to try to make junior varsity singles.