Stoner & Spaz (3 page)

“Please, my life is rich and full: I also go to the movies and do my homework.”

“Why do homework? I get C’s for just showing up and not shooting anybody.”

“Grandma wants me to go to a good school.”

“Oh, Grandma. What big goals you have.”

When Colleen rubs her stomach and kind of groans, I point to the green can in her hand and ask, “Want me to get you another one of those? I will if you want me to.”

She narrows her gray eyes. “Ed would kill you if he caught you coming on to me.”

“I would be so stoked if Ed thought that. I never came on to anybody in my life.”

“Oh, bullshit. Isn’t there, like, some spaz dating club or something? How about that blind chick, Doris? You guys would be perfect. She can’t see you limp, and you could feel her up whenever you wanted.”

“I think you’re serious. Do you know who Doris is hot for? Ed!”

“My Ed?”

“Your Ed. Nobody who’s disabled wants to go out with anybody else who’s disabled.”

“Just chill for a minute, okay? I gotta pee.” She gets a good strong grip on my right arm and pushes off, tottering toward the bathroom.

I love it that Colleen touches me! And if that isn’t enough, I also get to chill. I’ve never done that. At least no girl ever asked me to. So I lean against the wall, sort of like the other guys. If anybody wants to know what I’m doing I can say, ‘I’m chilling. What’s it to you?’”

FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS I don’t see Colleen. Which disappoints me. Which reminds me of why I am what I am: a bit player in the movie of life. Listed at the tag end of the credits: Crippled Kid. Before Thug #1 but after Handsome Man in Copy Shop.

Then my phone rings and I lunge for it. It has to be her. Nobody calls me. I mean that. Nobody. My answering machine probably has cobwebs in it.

Without saying hello or anything, she asks, “I was talking to some kids at school about you. What happened to your mom?”

I fall back on the bed, relieved and excited. “Nobody knows. She just split.” I roll onto my side. “Turn on AMC. Check out how John Ford shoots this scene so it looks like John Wayne is about a hundred feet tall.”

As I watch, I hear the raspy sound of a Bic lighter, then her quick intake of breath. “I thought John Wayne actually
was
a hundred feet tall.”

“
The Searchers
is still really popular. Do you know the story? Ethan totally devotes his life to finding this niece of his that the Comanches kidnapped. I guess most people like the idea of somebody who’ll just look for them and look for them and never give up no matter how long it takes.”

“My father disappeared, too.”

“When?”

“Like about a second after I was born, I guess. Even John Wayne couldn’t find that son of a bitch.”

“You don’t want to go look for him ever?”

“No way. Do you want to find your mom?”

“Sometimes. Around the holidays, usually. When it’s just Grandma and me and a turkey as big as a VW.”

“Do you know Ms. Johnson?”

“The sociology teacher?”

“And resident feminist. She says sometimes women split because they have to. She says sometimes they have to be true to themselves.”

“So it’s not always because some kid is dragging his foot around the house?” That’s when Grandma knocks softly on my half-open door. I turn my back on her and whisper into the phone, “Looks like I better go.”

Colleen whispers back, “Me, too, if I want to keep up with my regimen of self-destructive behavior.”

Grandma leads me into the living room. This is never a good sign. “I hope I didn’t disturb you, Benjamin.”

“That’s okay. I was just talking to a, uh, friend.”

“How nice!”

I can almost see the exclamation point, and it means she’s surprised I have a friend. I’m not getting into that.

“Did you want to talk to me?”

“Yes, I spoke to the new neighbor this morning. She seems very pleasant, and I thought it would be a nice gesture if we invited her for brunch.” She holds out an envelope, one of her ritzy cream-colored ones. “It’s a bit on the short-notice side, but I’ve got leukemia next week, then UNICEF, and before you know it the whole Tournament of Roses thing begins in earnest. Our phone number’s right at the bottom in case she isn’t home, but I believe she is.”

“You want me to take this over now?”

“It’s barely dark. I don’t think she’d be alarmed.” Then she looks down at my sweats, the ones she sends to the cleaners.

In old-fashioned cartoons there are always rich women looking at things through these glasses-on-a-stick. That is my grandma. She pretty much looks at everything like she has glasses-on-a-stick. Including me. Especially me.

“Would you mind changing, dear, since you’re going to go out-of-doors?”

For somebody with C.P., changing clothes is no piece of cake. The good side has to help the bad side, so it takes a little while. And if I’m not careful, I’ll get all my clothes off and see myself in the mirror. And that is something I try never to do.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing on the curb, still sweating from the struggle. God, I hate getting dressed. It always reminds me of how I am.

A couple of SUVs glide by, both of them driven by the littlest mommies in the world, like there’s some place called Inverse Proportion Motors and the smaller you are, the bigger the car you have to buy.

Lurching across the empty street, I wave at Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong, who sit on their porch every evening and stare at the Neighborhood Watch sign with its sinister cloaked figure.

I make my way up the walk of 1003 between borders of purple lobelia. The lights are on. Music seeps out from under the oak door.

Just in case the doorbell’s broken, I tap with the little bridle that hangs from the brass horse’s head. When I hear footsteps I announce, “Hi, I’m a neighbor. From across the street.”

The door opens. A woman in a striped caftan says, “Yes, can I help you?” Her black hair is short and shot through with gray. She has quick-looking eyes and sharp features. If some people look smoothed by hand, this lady is machine made.

I tell her my name and why I’ve come.

“Marcie Sorrels.” She’s holding a drink with her right hand, so she sticks out the other one.

I show her my bad arm, the fingers curled into a pathetic little fist.

“Not a stroke, I hope.”

“C.P.”

“But not dyskinetic.”

“No, spastic.”

“Ah, well, you were lucky.”

“That’s the title of my autobiography:
Ben, the Lucky Spaz.
”

She opens the door wider. “Why don’t you come inside and be hard on yourself?”

All of a sudden, I just want to throw Grandma’s envelope at her feet and get out of there.
What does she know?
I think.
Who does she think she is, anyway?

And then I wonder if I’m having a heart attack, because I’ve never thrown anything at anybody in my life, not even a baseball. Well, for sure not a baseball.

Where does all that emotion come from? Is it just from hanging around Colleen, who’s so famous for going off on teachers she has a permanent seat in detention?

I hand over the message. Marcie opens the envelope by tearing off one end, not like Grandma, who would have pried at the flap with a silver blade.

“How do you know about C.P.?” I ask.

“I used to volunteer at the Huntington Hospital.” I watch her fingers caress the notepaper. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I had stationery like this”— she does this thing with her eyebrows —“in my other life. Actually, in my other other life. In any event, thank your mother, and tell her I’ll be there with bells on.”

“It’s grandmother. I’m an orphan.”

When I get back to the house, Grandma is sitting in the living room, her spine absolutely straight, the crease in her gray slacks sharp enough to cut your hand on.

“She’s coming. Next Sunday, just like you wanted.”

“Excellent.” She pats the sofa beside her. “Sit down, dear. This will just take a minute.”

Oh, man.
I settle onto the dark leather.

“I’d like you to make some room in your schedule this week for the Philharmonic and the new play at the Taper. It means two late evenings, but this is the kind of exposure that’s good for your future.”

“God, Grandma. Do I have to?”

“No. But I’d rather you did. It may be hard for you to believe, but Beethoven matters.”

“Well, okay, I guess. Now can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Do you think Mom left to be true to herself?”

My grandmother sighs. “Benjamin, we’ve talked about this many times. I told you, she was unstable.”

“Do people do things like leave people they love because they just totally have to?”

“Besides being unstable, your mother was not a success at her chosen profession.”

“It wasn’t a profession. She sold real estate. It was a job.”

“If you say so.”

“She told me once she thought it was her fault that I’m the way I am. Because she drank martinis while she was pregnant.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“She cried.”

“Delia cried about everything.”

“You could find her if you wanted to, couldn’t you? I mean, there’s enough money.”

My grandma takes a deep breath, the kind she does in her yoga class, probably. “Have you changed your mind? Do you want to find her?”

“I think I should want to, but I don’t.”

She leans and pats my arm, my good arm, in that way she has that makes me want to go and get my leash and trot to the front door. “Then that’s settled.”

I point to my room. “Then I guess I’ll —”

“One more thing.” My grandma looks at the backs of her hands. “Benjamin, we’re judged by the company we keep. Someone may be absolutely lovely inside but the world reacts to appearances, unfortunately, so there is such a thing as guilt by association.”

“Okay.”

“I’m only thinking of your future.”

“Who are we talking about here?”

“Who were you on the phone with?”

“Whoever it was, it’s my business.”

“It was that Colleen person, wasn’t it?”

“You don’t even know her.”

“I know she’s desperate for attention, and for all the wrong reasons.”

“How? How do you know? All you did was give her the third degree the minute she got in the car.”

“She vomited on the side of my Seville.”

“It washed right off, and I should know. You made me clean it.”

Grandma reaches for her teacup. Her hand is almost as white as the porcelain. “I don’t want to argue. But I’d feel remiss if I didn’t say something.”

“Fine, you said something.” I want to leap to my feet and stride away, leaving her in my indignant wake. Instead my leg gives out and I slump back onto the couch.

“I’m certain she’s the kind of girl,” my grandmother says, “who is used to engaging in reckless activities. And you are naive, Benjamin. You could be easily swayed.”

Oh, yeah,
I think.
Reckless activities. Sway me.

THE NEXT DAY AT LUNCHTIME I settle into the cafeteria. I pretty much always sit by myself, pretending to be engrossed in a book. Jocks wander by, their trays heaped with food. The black kids have a corner staked out. The brainiacs huddle together over by the long row of windows, and three or four girls who have babies hang out by the big double doors.

But today I’m not even pretending to read. I’m looking for Colleen. About twelve-thirty she makes her way through the line, then stumbles between the long tables in those silver boots that make her look like the stunned survivor of a downed UFO. I wave her toward me and watch her put her tray down across from mine.

“A piece of bread and a pat of butter?”

“My stomach’s upset. Plus I’m a little paranoid: I think the meatloaf is talking to the peas about me.”

“At least sit down. You shouldn’t eat bread standing up unless you’re an extra in a movie about the French Revolution.”

I can hear myself showing off for her, and it makes me nervous.

She points at my plate. “God, what’s that?”

“Technically they’re fish sticks, but I think they’re really Lincoln Logs. So I’m building a little cabin.” I point to a pile of spinach. “And that will go in the barn.”

“Boy, you have spent a lot of time by yourself. Guess what? Last night I watched
King Kong.
”

Good. Something to talk about. “Cool. Which version did you see? The Jessica Lange or the Fay Wray?”

“It was in black-and-white.”

“The one with Jessica Lange and Jeff Bridges is better.”

“I would see the wrong one.” She tears her bread into quarters, like it’s a letter full of bad news. “Ed’s not around, is he?”

“I never see Ed in the cafeteria.”

“I know, he hates it. His mom makes his lunch.”

“Now that’s interesting. I never think about Ed even having a mom, much less one who makes a lunch.”

“And he’s got a little aquarium in his room.”

“Stop it. You’re killing me. Ed’s my role model.”

“You don’t want to be Ed.”

“Oh, yeah, I do. He’s got everything: looks, body, Camaro —”

“Paranoia, no future, a rap sheet.”

“How’d you guys hook up, anyway?”

“I ran with some girls who liked to party. They were older than me, you know, like seniors and dropouts. And Ed was around and some guy was hassling me one night and he took care of that and gave me a ride home. And then, like, almost the very next night we ran into each other at another party. It was raining and I got wet running to his car, so he took me to the mall and bought me new clothes and then, well, you know.”

I drink some milk. “There’s a scene kind of like that where Dwan falls into a mud puddle and Kong washes her off in a waterfall and then dries her by blowing on her.”

“Yeah, well.” She tosses a piece of bread at her tray. “In the Ed version, it was kind of the other way around.”

“Why do you like him?”

Colleen shrugs. “He’s got good dope.”

“Why does he like you?”

She hasn’t been looking at me, really. She probably hasn’t been listening, either; she seems all drifty and unfocused.

But when I ask why Ed likes her — and I blurt it out before I think and if I could take it back, I would — she locks in on me. A laser stare. An apprentice gorgon.