Alter Boys (40 page)

“We weren’t even done yet!”  The Bird was fueled with piss and vinegar. 

“Then yes, please, finish at your leisure and I’ll make it 20 percent off.”

Bird looked at bob in silent consultation.  Bob was petrified, he wanted nothing more than to get out.  He was utterly paranoid, panic stricken, fucked up stoned.

“Okay” the Bird moved back to the cart.  Bob willed his feet to follow. 

“When you’re ready to check out, just have the cashier call Mr. Snodgrass, I’m the assistant manager.” 

They trundled the cart back to the music end
-
cap, the prune-faced clerk, hell every clerk, visibly absent, and relived the encounter while browsing the tapes.          

“Fucking dickhead.” The Bird said evenly, then brightened.  “But we just saved you a bucket of money!”  He smiled at bob.

“You.”  Bob corrected.  “You saved me…a bucket of money.”  He was still quivering inward.  Paranoid thoughts raced through his head.  What if the manager was lying, what if the police were on their way, what if he was searched, what if he had pulled out the weed instead of the money like he almost did, what if, what if…

“Here it is, KISS Alive Two!”  Some idiot stuck it in the “L” slot.” 

Grateful that they could now be on their way, bob added the 8 track to the cart and they headed to the cashier.

As promised, they were granted a 20 percent discount.  Bob, inexperienced at handling money in the best circumstances, struggled vainly to present the correct combination of bills.  Eventually the clerk interceded, asking for another 5 that lay on top of the kids wad, rather than watch his shaking hands worry out three of the ones interspersed in his bankroll.

“Fuckin’ A man!  Saved you what, 10, 15 bucks?”  They were rolling again, the Bird basking in the victorious encounter, Bob
easing his palpitating heart.  “We gotta celebrate and I gotta top off the tank before we head to
Mankato
.  Munchies and fuel!” 

They hit the edge of town and pulled into the same 7-11 as they had one week ago.  The Falcon rolled up to the pumps.

“Bird, I should pay.”  Bob was choosing his words slowly:  “For gas.”  And then amended: “And munchies.”  He grinned shyly at the Bird.

“You’re on my man!  Gotta warn you though, she’s bone dry.”  The Bird hopped out to pump while Bob took a confidence building breath and headed up to the store.

It was easier this time.  He found the munchie aisle and pondered his selections.  With the Bird busy at the pumps he had the time he needed to make his choices.  Last time it had been an overwhelming experience.  Everything scared him.  This time it was the opposite, everything appealed to him.  He grabbed life savers and red licorice, milk duds and a Butterfinger bar.

“Ha!  You got the munchies bad!” The Bird walked by him on auto pilot and snatched a can of honey roasted nuts.

They hit the counter and paid.  Munchies:  $2.27.  Twelve gallons of gas:  $3.60.  Total $5.87.

Fortuitously, Bob found a five and a one among the first three bills, collected his change and started to walk out.  “You may want these!” the clerk echoed.

Bob turned back, retrieved the sack of munchies and laughed to himself.  ‘It makes you forget.’ 

3

The drive to
Mankato
was the most awe-inspiring and scariest adventure Bob ever experienced.  Never had he been beyond the
city limits in the daylight, his longest trek prior had been at night with the Bird.

Again the drive was a slow motion wonderland of lines rising off the road and vibrant plastic landscape rolling by on either side in make believe animation.  

The Bird triggered uncle Ted who blazed through Dog Eat Dog, Street Rats, and Free for All.

It’s a free-for-all and I heard it said, you can bet your life.

The stakes are high, and so am I,
it’s in the air toni’-i’-ight’!

Bob took in the show, eyes, ears and taste.  He started with the Butterfinger, until this moment the closest he had ever come to one was on television.  The sensation was exquisite.  Soft creamy chocolate, then an easy crunch that crumbled fragments of sweetness throughout his mouth.  He wavered between chewing and just letting the sweet mass melt on his tongue. 

He advanced to the licorice, not a disappointment by any means, but less than he expected.  The milk duds started with promise, but soon his inexperienced jaw protested from over-masticating.  He set them aside after going through only 5, promising himself to save them and the lifesavers for later.

“Just about there!”  The Bird had polished off his nuts long ago, the empty tin joining the collection on the back floorboard.  (Dropped back carefully this time, protecting the new audio equipment perched on the back seat)

Bob observed the change in scenery.  More billboards, far more!  Heavier traffic, and now even what could be considered a skyline.  Not just broadcast and electric towers, but buildings that created a bumpy little ridge on the horizon. 

The immensity scared him.  So large, so foreign.  Thirty thousand people lived there; three times the size of Elmwood!

He put confidence in the Bird
’
s ability to guide them through and pledged that he would not let him out of his sight.  Being lost, so far from home, he wouldn’t know what to do.

Just beyond the city limits, the Falcon swung briefly south, then again east.  Bob stared at the passing homes and buildings and nearly came out of his seat when he saw KMKO - Channel 12. 

“Channel 12!”  He shouted.  “KMKO!”  He clung to the doorframe like a kid watching a parading line of circus elephants.

The Bird shot him a goofy glance.  “Yeah, it’s for real.  Somethin’ funny.  You know that guy wh
o does the Casey the Engineer s
htick?”  Bob returned his full attention to the Bird.  “Well he’s a drunken moron!”  The Bird laughed and Bob tried to validate the rift that had just occurred between his real (Bird) and TV (Casey) idols.

“How do you know?”

“Hell, I was on that stupid show once when I was a kid.  You know how he goes around and asks everyone their name?”  Bob sat stunned.  “Well he comes up to me reeking of booze!  And then in 6
th
grade, you know that Playground Champions thing?  Well I qualified to be on the show for box hockey.  Guess who’s the host?  And guess who was liquored up like a lush!  He’s a total fuckin’ drunk!”

The Bird laughed at the revelation and Bob sat silent, absorbing the immensity of the new found knowledge.  His mind was spinning fast but going nowhere faster.  Channel 12 was real!  The Bird had actually been on Casey’s show AND on playground champions.  Casey was a drunk…was that a bad thing?  The big city could indeed be a scary place.  

They rolled a few more blocks, the Bird craning his neck, and then the announcement:  “There it is!”  ‘Utopian Pipe Dreams.’  He found an open meter and occupied the space.

Solid black walls adorned with psychedelic posters.  Black lights, dozens of them, suspended from the ceiling, wall-mounted and strategically aimed, all bringing the interior of the shop to mystical swirls of living color.

Lava lamps, lined in rows above the back counter, releasing colored globules of mysterious fluid that rose, congealed, sank and rose again. 

Display tables with prized offerings, hookahs that resembled miniature bagpipes, their slender tubes tipped with ornate stems for drawing communal smoke.     

Bongs, so many bongs big and small, they commanded three tiers of shelving, the overall image resembling the world’s biggest calliope.

And at the display case, the object of their quest:  the pipes.  Glass one-hitters with alternating convex and concave moldings, crafted to accommodate and steady the fingers.  Metal pipes with slender stems, their mouthpieces and bowls threaded for easy detachment and cleaning.  Clear open-ended tubes, crowned with larger bowls, their carburetors strategically placed for operation by any callused thumb. 

Behind the counter sat the antithesis of JC Penney’s Mr. Snot grass; a man who had saved fortunes on haircuts and razor blades over the last decade.  He was draped in an oversized flowery shirt, laced by lines of
Corona
beer bottles ringing the collar, sleeves and untucked tail.  Threadbare jeans and trendy moccasins completed his attire, and glassy red-lined eyes signaled his chronic disposition.  He nodded at the new customers.  And even through all that hair, with a head somewhere beneath it, you could read the message.  ‘Welcome, browse, take your time, enjoy.’  

Bob’s fear of
losing
sight of the Bird evaporated.  In this place, there were people who understood him, who could help him if he needed help.  Any questions about the morality of getting stoned
were erased.  You can’t have a store like this right out in the open and still believe that smoking pot was bad.  To the contrary, this showed all that was good about pot.  The magical imagery, the dark, quiet environment.  Somewhere hidden in the darkness was a pair of speakers, from them emanated sounds of Asian music, little bells, sitars and gentle wooden blocks that tickled his ears.  A light scent of some sweet flower permeated his nostrils.

Bob greedily absorbed Utopian.  These people understood.  They knew about the sights, the sounds, the smells, and had there been free honey glazed peanuts, even the taste enhancing abilities of pot.    

The big city might be a scary place, but not here.  Bob felt completely at ease.  This was home. 

“You likin’ this place?”  From the Bird, softly at his side.

“Whhoooaa.”  From Bob.

Chapter 2

1

For Bob, the summer of 1976 was his season of change.

His priorities had changed, or more accurately, were created.  His only priority in the past had been television, not by choice, but by default.

But things were different now.  He had discovered music, and now had a music habit to uphold.  He had discovered pot, another financial obligation to feed.  Clothes, munchies, all the things previously denied, he now surrounded himself with.

Bob
’
s mother caught wind of the changes.  A heathen music system and heathen music to go with it in his bedroom, candy bar wrappers in the garbage, she even took notice of the ever growing inventory of clothing in his closet. 

Each new discovery prompted a screaming fit of hell, damnation and wastefulness.  Bob endured these flatly.  He was now constantly flat out stoned; the pot an effective barrier for the rants of his mother that he had come to despise.

Once, when confronted with a discarded Snickers wrapper, he responded by planting his headphones on his ears, ramming Foghat into the socket and then laying back on the bed in utter defiance of this mother who stood in the doorway – rendering her speechless; utterly speechless.

The message got through.  His mother retreated to the sanctuary of her kitchen.  She felt at risk, the boy now reminding her of the tormentors of her own childhood.  She could no longer pray for
his soul.  She feared him, and whatever Satan-inspired thing he may do next. 

She turned to her comfort.  Cups needed to be counted.  Soup cans needed to be checked, their labels perfectly forward and with an equal amount of space between each.  Door handles, stove handles, cupboard handles, locks, drawers, curtain cords, - touch, touch, touch, touch.