“To oblivion.”
“Godspeed.”
“We hear someone on the back porch. ‘Quick,’ he says. ‘No evidence.’ We chug the beers and throw the empty cans into the bushes. Two girls we don’t know walk toward us. They stop, confer with each other, then continue. They’re cute, but they look awkward, ridiculous, you know, like girls who haven’t had sex trying to be sexy in front of boys who refuse to recognize their libidos. I light our cigarettes. They’re there under us. ‘Hey,’ says one. ‘Do you have anymore?’ So I toss the pack down and the lighter. ‘I thought you guys were athletes,’ says the other. And she’s really pretty, you know, like some wood nymph. But she’s got a whiny voice and she watches her friend light up with all her teen disdain. I take a deep drag and exhale a thick formless cloud.”
“How do they know?”
“How do they know what?”
“Who you are.”
“Everybody knew who we were.”
She’s stunned by the perceived arrogance.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “We were pretty good athletes. We did pretty well in school. You know, the poor kids usually mowed the rich kids’ lawns. It wasn’t that we were popular. We just stood out in groups like that.”
She laughs. She seems to have only one, but it serves as many. It’s context dependent, but she won’t give the context. I can’t tell if the laugh is born of amusement, irony, condescension. It’s a yip-laugh, a hyena laugh — but cut short. I look up. The blues-boy is leading a mule down a dusty road. He approaches a chain gang.
“Then what?” She beckons with both hands.
“So the smoker crosses her arms and holds the cigarette poised for another drag between her rigid index and middle fingers. ‘You know,’ says Gavin, pointing over the hedges into the street, ‘my dad ran this marathon smoking two packs a day.’
“‘Yeah,’ whines whiny in a sanctimonious tone, ‘but did he finish?’ They snicker at him. Girls were always snickering at him after he said something.”
“Oh, they probably loved you. And you probably loved it.”
“No. No, we didn’t. We were just having some drinks and talking — like we always did.”
Suddenly, I’m angry. And I’m angrier still that she’s made me angry — made me anything. And then I want to talk more, but I stop. I can’t tell if she’s even interested in the story, let alone anything more. She smiles again, this time wide and close-mouthed. Then her lips part slightly. She must have had braces and caps and regular cleanings. She takes the olive out of her glass, pulls it off the stick, and pops it into her mouth.
Still chewing, she says, “You stopped.”
I remember times in my life when I stopped talking. A camp counselor had found me in a stall in the boy’s room, fetal and battered. I’d managed to pull my briefs up, and I remember the look on his face when he realized they were soaked with my blood — a bug-eyed gasping fish—“What happened? What happened?” he’d finally gagged out, knowing on some level full well what had. I couldn’t answer him. I couldn’t answer the guidance counselors in junior and senior high who were convinced (but asked anyway) that my drinking and my silence could be traced to the fact that I was a troubled adolescent—but why? They never asked, “What happened?” Claire had wanted to know, too, the first time she was naked in front of me and I couldn’t touch her. I wanted to. I remember that. I wanted to tell her what had happened, but I didn’t know what to say, where to start. I opened my mouth and only a dry rasp, a death rattle, came. She wrapped me in a blanket and whispered over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here.”
And then I finally did speak. “You must have something to say.” She coaxed my voice out into the light of her and hers, and then the people beyond. And I sat in classrooms and workshops and when I wanted to stop talking again, I couldn’t. It was like the inverse of what I had done as a boy — I spat out hoping to glue everything back together that seemed to have fallen apart.
“You’re funny,” she says. “You just get lost. I like that.” She reaches for my hand, stops, and rubs the Formica. “I’ll stop butting in. I really like it.”
“So Gavin points eastward, to Boston and an imagined finish line. ‘He set the American record — twice.’ He finishes his smoke, throws it hard at the ground, and cocks his head to one side. ‘Look it up.’
“They look up to me to get confirmation, but I look out to Commonwealth Avenue — Heartbreak Hill — following its meandering twist downtown. It has a grass-lined median running down the center. The houses are enormous. ‘What are you guys doing next year?’ Gavin thumbs my shoulder. ‘He’s going Crimson.’ They both crane their necks as though it will help them process the information. Gavin shakes his head and mumbles to me, ‘Gotta walk around armed with documents these days — fucking junior cynics.’ Then he points at them, ‘This is the last American hero, ladies, the only true noble left. He’s good to his ma — good to my ma, too.’ They act like he hadn’t said anything. They just ask, ‘What about you?’ He doesn’t answer. He pulls out another stolen beer. ‘Where’d you get that?’ they ask, and he snaps, ‘What are you, pigs?’ They turn to each other. Some unspoken code sends them away. ‘Fuck,’ whispers Gavin. He hands me two beers. He guzzles his and breaks out a pint of rum, which he begins drinking like a beer. ‘I should make a map of where I hid the stash before I get too wasted.’ He looks around the yard. Then back out to the avenue, like he’s already forgotten that idea. ‘Maybe we should take a few and git?’ I say.
“He considers this for a second. ‘Nah.’ He traces his swollen cheek with a fingertip. ‘Fuck ’em.’ He passes me the rum. I drink and hand it back. ‘We gotta make this quick and messy.’ He gives me a snort, then takes it back. ‘Fuck,’ he says again, but more like a bark. He sings, ‘What’s a boy to do? What’s a boy to do?’ The back door opens again. We hear boys’ voices. Angry. Moblike. I thumb back at the boys who are approaching us. I tell him that the jig’s up. He smirks. ‘C’mon, man.’ He finishes the pint and smirks again. He throws the bottle into the hedges.
“‘Where’d you get the drinks, Gav?’ He opens another beer. Most of the party has emptied out into the yard. We’re surrounded by angry boys. They look up at both of us, but they yell at Gavin. ‘Where’s the beer?’ He doesn’t answer. He sips at his new tall boy. ‘Asshole!’ one from behind shouts. They have us outnumbered thirty to two, but they’re tentative. Gavin finishes the beer and drops the empty in their midst. ‘Look, Gav,’ one tries to appear reasonable. ‘Just give the beer back.’ Gavin touches his chest and whimpers in mock distress. He raises his voice an octave. ‘Gentlemen. Are you accusing me of stealing?’ He pulls out another beer. A roar goes up in the crowd. They pull him down from behind. He lands on his back. Everyone goes silent. They back off, scared of their violence. In classes we’ve taken with them, they’ve read Emerson and Thoreau. Some of their parents have told me stories about marching with King, campaigning for Bobby Kennedy, going to jail. The children of the latest enlightenment watch as Gavin comes to.”