Of the many unexpected pleasures surfacing during adulthood, the weekly phone conversations with my parents remained a constant. It was a rare weekend that did not include a good 15-30 minute call with mom or dad. Sometimes both of them grabbed an extension as we chatted away together in what my mom called our “party line.” Calls featuring both mom and dad tended towards a more light natured banter. One of the three members of our party line became the focal point, receiving a healthy dose of teasing or a tag team of persuasion as the majority of two cajoled the target into addressing a looming decision or issue.

Calls with mom offered a free flow of topics as we plumbed emotions, financial strategy, the state of affairs among siblings and discussed my two children; her first grandchildren. We always ended our calls chatting about Gee and DJ. It was a guaranteed high point as we shared a deep sense of love and commitment towards them. Calls with dad were about his work, questions about my work and the recent activities of the kids. His calls were about tactical things like tasks or events. There was no plumbing of emotions. Briefer than calls with mom, calls with dad usually ended with a story in which the recipient was invited to sit back in silence and enjoy a good yarn, many of which were repeated over the years. Still, they were our stories and they bound us together, spanning the distance between us.

With coffee made, I called New Jersey hoping to catch mom. She was an early riser and would likely be enjoying the morning as well. The phone cord was extra long and I stretched it out as I made my way to the rear kitchen window to look out over our small Somerville back yard. I leaned my face against the glass and felt the coolness of spring on my cheek. As the phone rang I surveyed scattered toys and checked the status of Mr. Bag, a wayward plastic grocery bag stuck high in our neighbor’s tree. Each morning Gee and DJ checked the status of Mr. Bag as he made it know to us which way the wind was blowing. At breakfast we nodded thoughtfully as he shared his insight with us. We suggested to each other guesses as to what he was thinking and his reaction to the recently departed Mrs. Bag, whose sudden leap from her branch caused quite a stir during one such breakfast.

I sipped my coffee as dad picked up. “Hello, Kinkade here.”

“Hey dad, it’s me, Beasley. I called you, ya know so I already know who you are. How ‘bout trying ‘Good morning’ when you answer. Huh?” He grunted as I continued, “Well what’s up with you? How you doing? How’s mom feeling?”

“Good. Good, Beasley. I, ah, I’m just getting ready to head to work. Mom’s good. She’s sleeping now. She had a treatment a couple of days ago and she said it hits her a few days afterwards. I’m downstairs in the kitchen making a fruit salad for her for when she wakes up. I want her to sleep. She needs the rest.”

“Did you go with her to chemo?” I asked.

“What? No, no. I was working. She goes first thing in the morning. And she, ah, she told me she likes to go alone and then come home and have tea before she gets that, what’s she call it; that metallic like taste in her mouth.”

I twisted the cord around my finger drawing it tighter as I slowly pushed my face harder against the cool glass. I measured my words. “What are you up to today, dad? Are you doing anything with mom or something like that?”

“Huh? No, ah, after I make breakfast, I’m heading to the city. We’ve got a training session running with the Fire Department and I want to be there during the debriefing session. Everyone’s coming in on a Saturday and…”

By now my phone cord was pulled taunt. I pushed harder against the glass, tilting my face to look down at a dead bug trapped in the windowsill, keeping my forehead on the glass. I jumped in and interrupted, “Dad, let some else handle the debrief or whatever it is. Stay home with mom and hang out with her. She’s sick. She’d like it if you stayed with her.”

“No, no, I can’t Beasley, this is important. We have to get this down. We’ve got an exercise coming up with the city and I want my team to be up on protocol. We’ve…”

I lost it. “Dad, mom’s important too! Don’t you get that? Jesus H. Christ. Your god damn wife has cancer and you’re going in to work on a Saturday! Listen to yourself, dad. Just listen to yourself. Come on, she doesn’t deserve this shit.” He didn’t respond.

Boiling, I continued, “Mom has a fucking growth on her spine and it’s getting bigger, dad. Bigger. Don’t you get it? My god, how much time do you think you’ve got left with her, dad?”

I could feel my heart pounding. I felt my pulse against the window pain. “How much time, dad, huh? A year? Maybe two? Five, tops?”

He listened in silence, absorbing the salvo. This was not the way I talked to dad. Never.

I took a breadth and slowed down. During my rant I had pushed my head too hard against the glass and the window pain had cracked. “Dad, listen. In five years do you want to look back and wonder if you should have spent more time with mom before she died? Do you? And if you ever do ask yourself that what do you want your answer to be, dad? ‘Oh, yeah, my wife had cancer but fortunately it didn’t impact my fucking work schedule.’ Is that what you want, dad?”

More silence.

“Well, is it? She is suffering in silence not because she wants to fight alone but because you leave her to fight alone. My god, what the fuck are you thinking?”

We both remained silent. I waited for a staccato defense or a simple click of his receiver. The only times I had ever yelled at him like this were during teenage brawls which usually ended with me being smacked or choked or thrown out the front door head over tea kettle as my dad called it.

His silence sliced into me and I responded with nukes, “You know, if she were an employee of yours you’d be at every god damn chemo session I can tell you that right now, dad. Every fucking one of them. Guaranteed. How ‘bout treating her as good as an employee, dad, huh?” I stopped. I could hear his breathing through the receiver.

“You’re right, Beasley. I know it. You’re right, god damn it. I just don’t know what to do. She says she’s all right but she’s not. I don’t know what to do.”

“Jesus Christ on a crutch, dad, give her what’s most precious to you. Give her some of your time. Just spend time with her.”

“Yea, I know…. You’re right, Beasley… That’s right.”

“Dad, look, I’m sorry I yelled and got all upset. But this is important. This is not some exercise where you get to debrief or whatever you call it when you’re finished. This is the real thing. When it’s over she’s gone. Look, I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to start repeating myself. You get it. I gotta go, dad. If you see mom, tell her I called and said I love her. Good luck with your briefing.” I pulled away from the window to set the phone down.

“Beasley? You still there?”

“Yeah, dad, what?”

“Thank you, Beasley. Thank you.”

Click.

I put some tape over the crack in the window and made a second pot of coffee thinking that I was going to have to tell Liz I cracked the window with my fucking head. Great.

Morning slipped into another Saturday routine with Gee and DJ. With nothing special planned we once again managed to have fun together.

Mom called some time in the early afternoon with her weekly check in. Always too chipper, she jumped into our call. “Beasley, how are you? How are Gee and DJ? Tell me. What did you do today? Tell me all about it. I want to hear it all.”

As Gee and DJ napped I explained the kids’ fascination with Mr. Bag and the sudden departure of Mrs. Bag. She interrupted, “Mrs. Bag is like me, then, huh?” she asked.

Startled, I responded, “Jeeze, mom, I hope not. That means dad is Mr. Bag and there is no way he’ll know how to hang on if you bolt!” She cackled, “You got that one right, Beasley. Go on. I interrupted you. Tell me what the kids are thinking about.”

I shared this morning’s ride on the Red Line. Back and forth from Davis Square to Park Street back to Alewife and then to Davis on a trip to nowhere except the present.

“And, you mom, what are you up to?”

She beamed, “Your dad surprised me and made breakfast for us. He ended up skipping a big event in the city. We’re going to dinner and the movies tonight. On a date!”

She sounded like a school girl.

“Can you believe it? He agreed to see Moulin Rouge with me. Can you imagine your dad sitting through that?”

Unprepared, I covered the receiver so she couldn’t hear me.

“Beasley, are you OK? Are you choking or something? Where’d you go on me?”

I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat, “Huh, no mom, my coffee musta gone down the wrong tube.”

I faked a cough and chimed back in, “On a date, mom? That’s great. Hold out now, don’t be too promiscuous.” She laughed as I struggled to keep myself together, “Um, mom, DJ is fussing and I better go get him, OK? When they’re up I’ll call you and you can chat with them. Sound good? I love you, Mom. Have fun with dad.”

And she did just that. For the rest of their lives together my father and mother dated, as she reported during our ongoing phone calls.

My father and I never once spoke of our conversation. Sometimes I wonder if it ever really happened.

Mom filled me in. They went out to dinner on weeknights. They went on walks together and went away on weekend trips and walked in the sand and on weekends they laid in bed talking and held hands when they had nothing to say to each other. They called more frequently, more often than not with both of them on the phone. They lived in love.

Their renewed love lasted a total of just under three and a half months as dad went to work one Tuesday morning in September, responded to an incident, and did not return. He left mom with 100 days of love. 100 days. Mom talked about that time for her remaining five years as among the happiest, most enjoyable, of her 62 years.

Over a year after dad followed in the footsteps of Mrs. Bag mom explained during one of our calls that when she is alone in her house with no friends, or children or grandchildren, she simply makes a cup of tea, sits in the den, closes her eyes and releases her warmest memories to fill the silence with the living chapters she shared with dad, the last of which she liked to call 100 Days of Love.

In Pettinato’s class, each student carried the responsibility of representing a nation as we sought to marshal votes for allies or against enemies. As final arbitrator and history class dictator Mr. Pettinato assumed the role of the UN’s Secretary-General, Kurt Waldheim. Though Pettinato was a hard core, well tanned, Italian with sufficient gold around his neck and pinky to start a mint we called him the Krout or Nazi. The name was coined years ago in honor of his similarity to the former Australian soldier, Waldheim. When not in class and roaming the halls, we made it a point to run past his room screaming, “Pettinato’s a Krout!” or “Italy can’t win a fucking war. Long live Hitler!” In his detention one afternoon he confided to the room of miscreants, me among them, “You jackasses don’t know your history. The Axis Powers could have won the war. I should be teaching you in German or Italian.” He leaned forward, “I don’t mind being called a Krout.”

After calling us to order on our first day of International Relations class, Mr. Pettinato told us to reshuffle our desks into a large semi-circle. As the Secretary-General his desk stood alone at the front of the class. With desks in order Mr. Pettinato began to strut up and down the semi-circle, explaining his take on the UN the responsibility associated with representing our respective nations. “Representing a nation’s reputation is a privilege; an honor,” he extolled. He expected us to study, prepare and defend our nations as if they were our homeland.

“Attending this class means you are old enough to act like an adult. You will better understand history. In a week you will visit the United Nations in New York and see how the UN really works. You will become an adult defending your nation and you will learn about how nations become great powers … or perish. Your role here is an honor and a responsibility each of you must hold dear and cherish.” He paused for affect and slowly scanned the class locking eyes with each student as he sought to form a bond of responsibility. As his eyes fell on me I was certain he knew I was stoned.

He stared at me as I began to squirm and fidget under the weight of his gaze. I put my head down and squeezed my hands over my face to stop from laughing. Shit, he knew.

He continued as he extended his arms past his beer gut towards his people. “In this class your mind is king. You have the chance to be in charge, to support your friends and savage your enemies. Nothing else matters. When you step into this classroom you step out of high school and into the real world. In here you’re going to learn how the real world works. For example, if someone like, say, Beasley annoys you outside of class, in this room you can just spend the year attacking his country; embarrassing him with your preparation, your skill and your guile. In this class preparation counts.”

He leveled his gaze towards me, “Did you hear that Beasley?”

At this point my two smoking compatriots, Nico and Patrick, could no longer contain themselves and they burst into hysterics. I kept my hands over my face, swallowing my laughter in silence as Nico and Patrick began rolling in their chairs pointing at me, “Answer the man, dude,” Patrick crowed. Laughter swelled inside me and prepared to seep out between my fingers.

“Kinkade! Answer me! What the hell is your problem? You think international relations are some sort of joke, you moron?”

I turned if off, shifting to a straight face behind my hands. I raised my head and crossed myself. Pettinato blanched.

“I don’t know what I did to you Mr. Pettinato! I wasn’t ignoring you. I was praying, Mr. Pettinato. Praying! I’m a Catholic. I’m Irish Catholic and we pray!” He of course knew I was Catholic as he had spied me in church, hung over, dozens of Sunday mornings, as I prayed for sex with various girls in attendance or the death of people such as Mr. Pettinato. Patrick stared, “Duuude.” He crossed himself and looked down.

Caught off guard, Pettinato wheeled and grabbed a paper off his desk, folding it into many small pieces. He ripped off a couple of dozen little rectangles and handed the little pieces to the first boy in the semi-circle, Tommy O. “Pass these around. I want each of you to write your name and the name of a country you want to represent on this paper. I’ll go through them and do my best to match you with your request. I’ve been doing this a while so trust me if I assign you a country. Got it?” We nodded in unison.

As the papers made their way to my desk I casually grabbed two pieces. On the first I scribbled, “Beasley Sweden” as I wanted to have sex with girls in Sweden, a goal that would elude me for the next eleven years. The second piece, I slipped down on my chair between my legs. In block letters I penned a suggestion to Mr. Pettinato.

“Pass them back to Tommy,” Pettinato barked. He turned and began to write the names of various countries on the black board. When the pile passed my desk I slipped in my two rectangles.

With the pile deposited on Mr. Pettinato’s desk he began to solemnly unfold and read the papers in silence, placing them in an array across his desk. Every now and then he would look up at a student and give an approving nod. Craning our necks we tried to see what he was doing as he slowly assembled the notes into groups. Picking up a paper he stopped, face flushed as he apparently read my suggestion; “BLOW ME.” He placed the paper down and continued through the pile. I imagine trying to determine which of us was stupid enough to forget to complete a rectangle. He scanned one and looked up at me. I smiled and silently mouthed the word, “Sweden.” I did not receive a nod.

He stood. “Is anyone here on drugs? I ask because some of you are stupid enough to take drugs.” He scanned the room, pausing on the problem students such as me. Pettinato had been my JV soccer coach and, during sophomore year, he caught me smoking in the locker room as we undressed after soccer practice. He had reamed me, took my weed, made me run laps after every practice and benched me for the preseason games. He didn’t turn me in, though. He very much wanted to win, to be known as a winning coach, and reminded us of his desire at every practice, “This is about being known as winners. We are here to god-dam win. Got it?”

On the field I was useful to Pettinato as he channeled me into a specific role in support of his desire to be known as a winning soccer coach in New Jersey. Though I did not have a strong kicking leg, I was fast and years of hockey taught me to be tenacious. After taking stock of my style during preseason practices, Pettinato pulled me aside, placed both hands on my shoulders and doled out my assignment in his world. I tasted his stale cigarette breadth as he explained, “Kinkade, you are going to be what we call a shadow. I want you to hound the other team’s best player. That is your role on this team. Every game I will assign you one person and I want you up his ass so fare he can’t shit, let alone score. Got it? I don’t want you to score or try to be a hero. You are defense. Not offence. Defense. You are our little weapon and your goal is to stop their best player. Got it?”

I nodded, “A weapon, cool.” So my job was to neutralize our opponents’ best players, smothering the target and containing his ability to concentrate. Doable. Though rough around the edges the strategy worked. Before Pettinato kicked me off the team I held a good half dozen opponents to a total of two goals as we compiled a winning record.

Usually, I started each game by walking up to my prey and grabbing his shirt as he tried to make his way up the field. “Get the fuck off me, douche bag.” was a standard reply.

In game two, I was up against an Eastern European capable of running circles around me. He did so for the first 15 minutes and unleashed two shots on goal. Pettinato gesticulated with his hands furiously at me, “Get it together, Kinkade. That’s your man running the field. Get it together.” I picked up the pace. With the ref well ahead of the play, I ran up behind the Eastern European and kicked his legs out from under him sending him sprawling to the ground. Their coach freaked as the star bolted to his feet and chased me up the field, wildly swinging his fists. Red card. He was done. Neutralized. As his teammates and coach continued to scream I looked over at Pettinato and shrugged. Arms folder he glared at me. I was the Bobby Clarke of his JV soccer team, a fact he now had to manage.

Game six ended my career as I ran across the field and unleashed a sliding tackle on our opponent’s center, dumping him with a hard kick to the shins. He jumped up, wailing and went after me. With both hands he slamming my chest and started pushing me. I grabbed his shirt just behind his collar and pulled it over his head, spinning him and tossing him to the ground again. Red card. I was out.

I stormed to the bench and Pettinato let loose, “What the hell are you thinking, Kinkade? What am I going to say to that coach after the game?” he asked, pointing across the field to the opposing bench. “Tell him his center’s a pussy,” I suggested.

“Are you kidding me? You’re a goddamn animal, Beasley. Jesus Christ on the cross! Sit down and keep your goddamn mouth shut.” I stewed for 10 minutes or so until their fullback retaliated and Nick Knoble, our star center, was dumped with a sliding tackle just in front of our bench. Not thinking, I bolted from the bench and slammed into the tackler. We fell to the ground as he started to pound me. Whistles blowing, kids piled on top of us as I scratched at the fullback’s face and kicked someone trying to grab my foot. Pettinato yanked me from the pile and threw me to the dirt. “What the hell are you thinking? You’re out of control. Get the hell out of here. This isn’t some goon hockey game, Kinkade. Just get the hell off of my bench. My god, Kinkade. You’re off the team. You’re off. Get out!”

“I did what you frigg’n asked, Mr. Pettinato,” I pleaded. With a waive of the hand he cut me off. “Don’t talk to me, Kinkade. Get the hell out of here.”

I got up and stared, breathing hard and trying not to cry as I thought of my father’s reaction to hearing about this. As I turned to walk away, I shared one last suggestion to Pettinato, “Blow me.”

He rushed at me grabbing my jersey and wheeling me around, “What the hell did you just say to me? What did you just say?” He was seething. I thought he was going to crack me.

“Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t say anything.” I jerked away from his grip and stormed to the locker room trying to not let anyone see I was about to cry.

So, he knew me and now he scanned the room again. “Does anyone here have anything to admit to or apologize to before I punish the entire class? Maybe we’ll skip the United Nations this year.” Desperation set in among the nerds. I looked around as the more seasoned problem students crinkled their foreheads in a faux, “What’s going on?” look. I crinkled my forehead too. “Anyone? Last chance.” He waited a minute. “Fine. Put your desks back the way you found them, facing front, and take out your history books. Begin to read chapter one. No talking. There will be no UN in international relations this year thanks to one of your classmates.” He sat and stared at me.

The reading and daily assignments lasted a week. We were on our best behavior as the nerds pleaded with Pettinato to continue with the UN format. “Please, Mr. Pettinato. We’re seniors. We’ve been waiting for years for your class. Please can’t we have a second chance?” I said nothing. This wasn’t so bad. I brought a Mad magazine to class and placed it in my lap flipping the pages as Pettinato wrote on the board. After a week of good behavior, much pleading and the likely realization that he had no class curriculum prepared for the rest of the year he capitulated and we were told to reorder our desks in the UN’s semi-circle. Everyone cheered. We had out waited the sanctions.

“Tomorrow we visit the United Nations in the City. Today, I’m assigning your nations. Watch, and learn, from your new country tomorrow.”

He went down the list, doling out nations. The USSR and The US were the biggest prizes with each nation requiring two students due to their respective leadership of the Eastern Bloc and NATO and the associated workload in class. Historically they were a symbol of your status as a brainiac; a badge of honor among the nerds. “United States of America. Kinkade and Nico.” He stared at us as the nerds flipped out, protesting, “No way, that’s not fair. They don’t even care about the UN, Mr. Pettinato. Give America to someone who cares.”

I joined in, “I don’t want to be America. I want to be Sweden, Mr. Pettinato.”

Pettinato ignored our protests. “The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will be represented by Mr. Theodore Jamenson and Tommy O.” The two smartest kids in the class. We were fucked.

He worked his way down the list and then shared the first assignment. Tomorrow we go to the United Nations. “Over the weekend I want you to study and on Monday come to class prepared to submit and defend a resolution supporting your nation or attacking your adversaries. Dress nicely for the UN tomorrow. You are representing our class and out country. Dismissed.”

In preparation for our trip to the UN I met Nico and Patrick in the parking lot of the Protestant church. It was quiet and we smoked up in preparation for the bus trip to the City. As we smoked we agreed we would get baked on international grounds. If we were caught we would plead amnesty. Patrick let out a plume of smoke, “Dude, we’ll be political prisoners.” Nico and I nodded.

We made it to the City without event as the bus disgorged us in front of the UN. Pettinato approached the three of us, “I don’t want you idiots embarrassing me or this school here. Got it? Keep your god dam mouths shut and don’t touch anything. I’ll be watching you all day.” We nodded as expected.

We entered the UN building, passed a couple of small tables. They took our names and nationalities and assigned us a guide. Our guide was from some other country. She led us to the great hall. It was big. It was dimly lit and smelled a little like sweat. There was a scattering of people around the hall watching a black guy speak from the podium. After an explanation of the great doings at the United Nations our guide set us down among the top rows and asked us to don our translation device. The device was a three inch stained plastic ear cover connected to some sort of hose or wire. “Place the translator on your ear like this.” She did so. “Then select the language you wish to hear. Like so.” She leaned foreword and turned a dial, one of which was found in front of every seat. I started selecting languages, captivated.

Nico interrupted my trance. He began randomly yelling out, “Ming how wow. Ming how wow,” and then burst into laughter.

Pettinato shushed him. Nico whispered, “Dude, turn to channel three and check this shit out. She’s fucking speaking Chinese or something. Ming how wow! Is all I can fuck’n understand”

Patrick and I turned to channel three and joined Nico’s laughter. As we spun through the dials we came to the realization that the UN was a fun place. I liked it here. Our language channel surfing lasted about 10 minutes as we grew to become a disruption. After a half dozen unsuccessful stares, Pettinato stormed towards us, accompanied by the guide. “Follow me you idiots.” We did so as he led us towards the lobby and proceeded to ream us for a good five minutes, finishing with, “Stay here and wait for us. We’ll be back in two hours. You are to go nowhere. Understood?” Again, we nodded, demurring to Pettinato’s authority.

We sulked in the lobby as citizens from various nations scurried past us. Those working at the UN had badges and entered a stair well at the top of the main escalator. After a few more minutes, I followed the workers towards the escalator. Why not, I figured. Nico and Patrick followed. “Where we going?” Patrick asked. I shrugged as we jumped on then off the escalator and followed a woman into the workers stairwell.

We meandered our way up the stairs only to find every door leading off the stairwell was locked. Bummer. After reaching the top floor without success we started back towards the lobby. Heading down we nearly ran into a British looking guy as he opened one of the doors with a key. We scooted in after him. He turned to look at us. I bowed. He nodded ever so slightly and walked away. We roamed the empty halls and found a conference room with a huge wooden circular table. Entering we sat down and rubbed the smooth wood. I put my face down on it, “Do this. It’s cold. Feels nice.” We stayed there for a few minutes with our heads on the table.

Nico reached under the table and pulled out an ear piece. “Dude, translators. Check it out. They’re under here.” We all reached under the table to find a small shelf with an ear piece at each chair. We popped them on our ears. Nothing. Yanking as hard as I could, I snapped the cord and pocketed the device. Nico and Patrick followed suite. We sat there looking out over the river until an tall, good looking Indian man in a tan suit entered, “I need this room, gentleman. Do you have it reserved?” Nico shrugged, “No, dude. We’re on a field trip and we got lost. They teach us here in America that if you get lost you should stay put so we’re staying put.” Nodding, the Indian smiled, “Well, where I’m from, in Connecticut, they teach us the same thing. Follow me, gentlemen.” Ever so politely he returned us to the lobby.

We lasted about 20 minutes before Nico got up, “Follow me, gentlemen.” He led us back to the stair well. We followed Nico down the stairs, ending on the bottom floor, somewhere in the basement. He tried the door. It opened into a large underground parking lot. The garage smelled like exhaust and was dirty much like most of the City. Cars were parked here and there. We roamed looking for international license plates, stopping when we found a row of huge fans sucking air out of the parking lot. They were very load and created a powerful breeze. We stepped behind a station wagon and crouched down. After a couple of efforts with the Cricket lighter, Nico lit up, “Dude, maybe this smoke will be sucked right up and into the UN building and everyone will get stoned. Could happen, ya know.” Patrick and I nodded. Yes it could happen. We remained uninterrupted for 10 minutes and returned to the lobby having achieved our international relations objective.

The weekend passed. Nico and I spent Sunday evening drinking in the City and returned home at 2AM.

Monday morning we staggered into Pettinato’s class hung over and unprepared. Pettinato, turned to us, “Does the United States wish to propose a resolution?” Confused and having spent the night downing, among other things, Cuba Libres, I stammered, “America wants Russia out of Cuba.” Nico nodded, “Good one, dude.”

Pettinato turned on his heal toward Theodore and Tommy O. “Your response?”

“Hold up, man. I can’t understand them,” I interrupted. As planned, Nico and I reached into our pockets and pulled out our UN translators, holding them to our respective ears. “Yes go ahead, I can understand you know.” The class exploded and Pettinato lurched towards Nico, grabbing the ear piece. “Dude, that’s mine!” he protested as Pettinato pocketed Nico’s UN trophy and then mine.

Pettinato turned to the representatives of the USSR, “Gentlemen?”

Theodore smiled as Tommy O. opened up his notebook to a page of highlighted notes. First he drew in the representative of Cuba, Sally a full time nerd, asking “Is The USSR illegally in Cuba or are citizens of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics welcome to visit our socialist friends in Cuba?” She pounced, “The Republic of Cuba welcomes our dearest friends from the Soviet Union with open arms. It is the imperialistic United States that is unwelcome in our neighborhood.” Pointing at me and Nico, she exclaimed, “They are unwelcome on our island and they threaten our right to select our own government. They have attacked us. They are the guilty party! With the permission of Mr. Secretary-General I return the floor to my allies from The USSR.” “Permission granted. USSR?”

Rather than drink last evening, Theodore and Tommy O had spent the time preparing for class. They attached America’s civil rights record, our treatment of Native Americans, our meddling efforts in Latin America, our use of atomic weapons on Japan and our exploitation of the natural resources of various African nations. Six resolutions condemning America were passed. Even our allies voted against us. Pettinato beamed.

At the bell, Tommy O. gathered his papers and shook his head at me, smirking. He was a smarmy dick, a little too smug for his own good. Every morning his mom drove him to school in a big new Lincoln Continental. He dressed nicely, mostly wearing sweaters and pressed trousers, took all the hard classes, got As, played in the band and regularly fucked the girls in the band. I didn’t like him. Theodore, though, I liked. I approached him after class. He was hard not to like. He was a natural athlete, excelling in both soccer and wrestling. Even when he was humiliating me in class you got the sense he cared about you. He had sad puppy eyes. The girls liked him and he dated a cheerleader. He was going to a big time college and had success stamped on his forehead. We hade played JV soccer together and had a good rapport. “Dude, what the fuck?” I asked.

“Sorry Beasley. Mr. Pettinato told me and Tommy O. to go after the USA. I’m just trying to get a good grade and want Pettinato on my side for college apps. You know? He wrote one of my letters of recommendation to Princeton. Sorry, buddy.”

“Dude, you’re fucking killing me. Can’t you lay off?” was all I could muster. He put his hand on my shoulder, “Beasley, just read Time Magazine and get ideas from there. There’s always something bad about Russia in there. Go to the library and ask for articles on Russia or America. They’ll help you.” He leaned in and gave me a heads up, “Look, Tommy O. is coming after you tomorrow with a resolution to kick you out of the UN for crimes against humanity. If you get kicked out you could fail International Relations. You’d miss graduation. He’s got most of the class lined up and has over a dozen documented examples from the library in his notebook. Do some homework, Beasley.”

The advice was sound and I spent a total of five minutes in the library after school. Then I went home, had dinner and watched a Ranger game on the tube with my brother. I woke the next morning knowing I was about to be fucked by that pin Tommy O. Nico and I were about to get wiped out of the UN and we needed to neutralize our opponent. After homeroom, I grabbed Nico and suggested a plan. He wanted no part of it. I asked if he could just watch out for me as I implemented the plan. “Fine, but if you get caught, you can’t bring me into this shit, Beasley. Got it?”

“Got it,” I promised. “Cut out of class just before first period ends and walk by my Spanish class. When I see you, I’ll get a pass. If anyone asks you anything just deny everything. Agreed?”

As planned, Nico, walked by my class with a few minutes left in first period. Having been on my best behavior all class, I raised my hand, “Senora Hernandez, yo necessito el bano, por favor. Es muy importante!” She smiled perhaps thinking there was hope for me as she wrote out a pass.

Once out the door, I ran to the bathroom, grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and stuffed it in my pocket. I was prepared and had part of a newspaper from yesterday’s visit to the library stuffed down the front of my pants. With Nico in tow, I ran towards the row of seniors’ lockers, slowing before I turned the corner. I popped my head around a white garbage can and peeked down the hall. Spying two nerds loitering at a locker, I waited for them to scoot along. Once the hall was clear, I quietly picked up the cylindrical garbage can and approached Tommy O.’s locker. The garbage can was a ruse. I placed it next to Tommy’s locker and then stealthily tried to yank the locked door open, pulling the lock handle up as hard as I could. No good. I started in on plan B, first stuffing toilet paper then folded newspaper into the slots at both the top and bottom of his locker. I tried to leave enough room to vent air. I scanned the hallway. No one. My hands shook as I pulled out my Cricket and tried to light the papers. First the bottom, then the top. The flames quickly died out and I had to reposition the papers. I was shaking like a leaf. After a third attempt, the flames crept up the strips of paper, making their way inside his locker. I looked around as an orange glow appeared in the top of his locker. I took the remaining newspaper, lit it and stuffed it in the garbage can, sliding it in front of the locker next to Tommy O.’s locker. I didn’t want anyone to think Tommy O. was the target being neutralized. Flames leapt up from the can as smoke started to belch out of Tommy’s locker. Fuck, what have I done? I was terrified and took off, running up the first flight of stairs and making my way back to Spanish class, just as the bell rang. Senora Hernandez didn’t see me as I grabbed my book.

As we poured into the hallways, the fire alarm sounded. Smelling smoke, I ran towards the senior hallway. Flames were darting out from the area of Tommy O.’s locker as a janitor swatted at it with a rag. At each end of the hallway, teachers tried to usher us towards exits. My good friends, Henry and Marcus, were among the crowd. At the top of their lungs they repeatedly screamed out, “Fire!” adding to the chaos. I grabbed them, “Let’s get some fucking fire extinguishers.” Henry’s eyes budged as he turned and ran down the hall, yanking a fire extinguisher off the wall.

Henry began spraying CO2 everywhere, sending students reeling. Continuing to scream, he ran up the hallway discharging his weapon at everyone in his path. I followed suite, finding an old water fire extinguisher. Turning it upside down, I started spraying a thin stream of water towards the small fire, trying to hit the janitor. Once he backed away, I jammed the hose into the top slot of Tommy’s locker and discharged as much water as possible. One of the teachers grabbed the extinguisher from me, backed up and methodically sprayed the wall down. Finally, Mr. Colombo, our Principal ran towards the scene, stopping short as he saw the spreading bedlam. Upon seeing him, we scattered like scared bugs running outside.

Order was soon restored. Tommy O’s locker, however, was a near total loss having suffered fire, smoke and water damage. The police came and a handful of us were questioned without success. Nico was not questioned. Henry, tried explaining he was a hero, asking, “Am I going to be in the newspaper?” I was the only one with any actual information to share and I kept my mouth shut. The damage had been contained to three lockers and a garbage can and classes resumed within an hour. The opponent had been neutralized.

International relations class began with Tommy O. crouched over Mr. Pettinato’s desk. He was on the verge of tears as he waived his hands and shared his misfortune with Mr. Pettinano. Pettinato listened intently, periodically peering over Tommy’s shoulder, to stare at me. Tommy sat down. “Where’s your notebook, Commie?” I asked. He gave me the finger as equilibrium in the world of international relations was restored.

Of Irish decent, both my parents were taught to smack a wayward child. They applied such wisdom to the management of our home. As young adults with four kids, my parents were overwhelmed. With the world a complete cluster fuck of cold and hot wars, assassinations, generational and racial clashes, inflation, stagflation and daily mayhem they struggled to contain their emotions. My dad worked two jobs in order to cover our move from the shit hole Bronx to N.J. and my mom stayed at home to try and control us.

Though my parents eventually rekindled their love when we kids left the nest, somehow they had missed the Cleaver family vision; the vision they thought a move to the suburbs would provide. As they scraped forward from lower middle class to upper middle class they dragged behind them their Irish Bronx roots.

More than once I heard from my father, “You can take the boy out of the Bronx but you can’t take the Bronx out of the boy.”

My mother, in particular, struggled with balancing her desire to openly love us and her ability to control her temper. She stroked my matted hair, kissed my forehead and shared a story from her childhood. A moment later she was set off by an outburst of my wild behavior or my father’s cryptic comments regarding dinner’s preparation. During the early part of my parents’ journey, their resentment towards each other simmered, consistently breaking into open bedlam, with smashing dishes, slammed doors, screaming matches and a fitful vengeance taken out on kids. They didn’t hit each other; they hit us.

It was the same throughout the neighborhood. With our friends’ parents of similar mind, we all drew from the same well of domestic mayhem. We hit each other with our hands, rocks, sticks, bats, football helmets, and hockey sticks; anything that tipped the scales in our favor. In grade school I lost a few fights but, in general won most of them – dozens or perhaps hundreds; in some cases sending kids to their respective doctors with bloody noses or the inability to breath (punches to the neck were big).

This began to change in seventh grade when I entered Jr. High. The population of our school merged with the students from four other schools becoming a teeming cauldron of like-minded fighters. From seventh to ninth grade we were prey. I still won some local fights, but the high school kids were big, powerful, and scared the shit out of me. None of this, I thought, was unfair, or unjustified. It was the rule of the world and when I was tagged it just sucked.

At the same time, relatively speaking, I became ugly. While others were blossoming, I was saddled with braces and glasses and stretched out like a bean pole. Though the kids punching me knew I existed, and the kids I punched and beat in turn sure as hell knew who I was the Jr, High girls did not. In fifth grade I had been making out in the woods, squeezing ass, and trying to contain my springing hardon (for I had no idea what to do with it) during my encounters with my girlfriend, Jennifer. By seventh grade I was out of favor; replaced by those above me in the pecking order. As we said in church every Sunday, “This is the word of The Lord.”

Feeling blue one afternoon, for a reason I can now not recall, though I can imagine it had to do with girls ignoring me, fear of violence or the seething resentment at having been hit by my parents or a high schooler or a comingling of such frustrations, I found myself in my basement, rummaging through the shelves. I found a tin can of turpentine on the old rusted metal shelves under the stairs next to the laundry. We used this stuff to clean paint brushes applied to our bikes, forts and basement walls. Thinking life was not so great, I poured a goodly amount of turpentine into a crusted laundry cup perched on the edge of the dirty slop sink in the wash room and began to muster my strength. I steeled myself to down the entire cup in one fell swoop. I stared down into the liquid and smelled the familiar smell, wondering what would happen. Instant? Puking? Fall asleep? Spastic convulsions? Shit my pants?

I took a breath and slowly pressed the cup to my lips.

Hearing silence, my mother, working in the kitchen directly above me, came to the top of the basement stairs, “Beasley. Beasley, what are you up to? What are you doing down there?”

“Nothing, Mom. Just hanging out.”

“Want some tea? Come on up, honey, I’m making tea. I have a story to tell you.”

Down the drain went the turpentine and up the stairs I went, trading my cocktail for a cup of tea.

The firm was an old time furniture repair company. Each week we received hundreds of degraded or damaged antique furniture items and each week we repaired the pieces for our clients. Products poured through Order Receipt and snaked their way towards the next department like a tidal wave of expensive wood, slamming through one department after another. At the end of every week overtime costs soared as the work flow bottle-necked at the departments towards the end of the line.

As Belvedere and I sat in his office during an early follow-up meeting I suggested I work alongside the production line workers during the first month of the project. My goal was to get a better sense of the production issues. I had reviewed reams of production reports and financials and wanted to hear about the situation from the floor; from the folks actually doing the work. I had seen such an in-the-trenches approach work before.

During my teen years I spent many of my Saturdays or Sundays with my father as he visited construction sites in New York. As an engineer and VP of with a F500 firm he was one of a handful of corporate leaders visiting the firm’s large infrastructure projects on weekends. On those dreadful weekends he banged on my door at 6:30AM barking, “Five minutes, Beasley, get up and get moving,” followed by, “and your goddamn room smells like a gin mill.”

Before the weekend sun was up he worked through his morning routine as I attempted my first sober steps following a night of drinking at Studio or some shit hole in Paterson. Last call in the city was 4AM so some evenings I tallied no more than one hour’s sleep. My morning status had no bearing on my father’s expectations. I joined his early rides into the city with the understanding that I was in receipt of a penance for drinking myself into oblivion the previous night. He was hitting me where it hurt and in his own primitive manner letting me know the world keeps moving regardless of how much you drink or smoke or puke. He drew from experience as both his parents were practicing alcoholics and they did not fare well in life.

My drinking hit a nerve with him. In fact my drunken or hung over condition horrified my father. He steamed and stewed as I staggered into the kitchen, pants falling off, walking slowly and gripping the kitchen counter. He seethed inside as he was unable to share his emotions or rationally walk me through the logic of just how my drinking ripped through him like a cleaver.

Drunkards do not practice parenthood effectively and as a child my father witnessed the template of parenthood through a series of distorted drunken lenses. He was never exposed to emotions other than those filtered through booze; usually the distilled product was rage or disappointment. He never acquired the ability to talk through his needs or emotions. His formative needs were bathed in a sea of drink as seen through a child’s eyes. Never once as a child did he hear, “I love you” or even, “I’m concerned about you little one…” He lacked an emotional lexicon. When the movie Rain Man hit the screens, we teased him (affectionately), calling him Rain Man as emotional correspondence made him uneasy.

During our 25 minute ride to the first site I tried not to throw-up as we each downed a can of Nutriment, an early energy drink favored by my dad. Ten minutes into the ride, as we hit route 17, he broke our silence.

As I held down last night’s intake my father began to spew out comments regarding the various projects we were scheduled to visit. He blabbed about his overall approach to managing hundreds and hundreds of union workers.

Trying to hammer some sense into me, he staccatoed, “If you listen to the guys in the trenches, they’ll tell you everything you need to know… Any engineer that thinks he can come in with some new solution is fucking kidding himself if he hasn’t been working with crew members… If you assume your workers are as smart as you, you’ll earn their trust… If I can ask the guys in the field to work Saturdays how the hell can I stay home? …when you’re on the job listen and keep your mouth shut …expect to learn as much as you teach.”

We pulled up to the first job, parking in front of a fire hydrant. A beat cop pushed off the wall and approached our car, eying me and my long hair in the passenger seat. My dad hopped out and headed towards the cop. They started chatting as my father pointed at the fenced off trench in the middle of the street, then up and down the block. The cop started laughing as they shook hands parting. Turning back to the car my father jerked his thumb at me letting me know it was time to exit the vehicle and follow him towards the trench.

A slow rise of steam seeped from the trench as three workers stood around staring into the hole. They were all drinking coffee; hips cocked to one side as they watched the crew below. As we approached the hole four helmeted heads became visible below street level, topping ant-like workers struggling with an enormous steam valve.

Walking up behind the coffee drinkers, my father donned his white helmet and placed his hand on the biggest guy’s shoulder, “Kinkade, VP Operations, guys. What’ve we got here?” The coffee drinkers jerked to attention and extended hands while the four hole dwellers stood, craning their necks towards my father. The super started rattling off information while my father nodded, pulling at his lower lip. Listening over escaping steam, he made a couple of comments and turned towards the hole, stepping on the top rung of a ladder then, without hesitation, descended through the steam to the ants. The coffee drinkers stared. The floor of the trench was layered in water. He wore boots. At the bottom of the trench he started talking to the crew. They leaned into each other as they spoke past the hissing steam. They looked like bobbing chickens leaning in then out, in then out. A little guy started leaning in to my dad jabbering a mile a minute. My dad jerked his head back. He squatted, feeling along the bottom of the pipe. He asked the little guy to follow suit. The worker started nodding. They both stood. Reaching out, my father made some parting comment, sending the ants reeling in laughter. He turned to each of them, shaking hands and then ascended the ladder. He headed straight to the super. “You’ve got a fucking steam hammer waiting to kill someone down there. Get those guys the fuck out of that hole until you’ve got a bead on the pressure. There’s a bleed on Lex. Open it up. Until you’re comfortable being down there with them no one gets back in that trench. Got it?” The coffee drinkers nodded as they called the crew up. Shaking hands with the coffee drinkers my father transferred mud from the ants’ hands to those of the coffee drinkers. “They’ve got kids,” he said to no none in particular. We turned and headed towards the car and his next site.

I thought of my father as Belvedere stared out the window, “Belvedere, did you hear me? If there is a ready solution, the guys on the line will know about it,” I suggested. “That’s where we’ll uncover some pearls. I want to spend time on the production floor.”

Belvedere’s office was crisp and clean; like his high and tight haircut. Unlike the products we restored each day his office and desk were cold and modern. Made of two sets of black legs constructed from elegantly bent tubing adorned with a glass slab, Belvedere’s desk allowed you to view crossed legs draped in pressed pants and tipped with perfectly shined Florsheims. Though he enjoyed driving his Beamer to work every day, each week without fail he walked to the train depot for a shoe shine. He tipped the man $2 as he explained how his progress was blocked due to the incompetency of his staff.

His desk was organized into neat lines of notes and framed photos. The photos displayed a lovely, if slightly overweight, herd of children and Belvedere with a variety of celebrities. My favorite photo was Belvedere and former President Ronald Reagan standing shoulder to shoulder. Like all the photos this one faced outward towards the visitor. Reagan was winking and looked bemused; like he had slapped a “Kick me” note on Belvedere’s back. Behind the photos sat lines of white sticky notes, each written in painfully small scribbling and each describing an HR or personnel problem. There were no production reports, financials or customer service requests in sight. Save for a modern black phone and coffee table book featuring the doors of Paris the rest of the desk was barren. The room itself was a perfect white box with an always closed door and two large windows, one of which overlooked the shipping department. This window allowed Belvedere to oversee the day’s comings and goings. His office was cold.

Through the window Belvedere monitored the plant. The day’s comings and goings started as the firm’s truck drivers responded to inbound fax or phone orders (this was before the internet though they tapped that resource upon receipt). By 6:30AM the drivers had schedule pickups on a large white board. Each afternoon they turned their trucks back from their last stop somewhere in Philly, Boston, New York or Connecticut bringing the battle scared antiques to the plant in Rhode Island. Upon arrival at our plant the truck backed into shipping and belched out the day’s receipts. The unload was labor intensive and required many hands to ensure the safe exit of the delicate cargo.

Any time the truck arrived late employees still at the factory stopped what they were doing and jumped to help unload the haul. I often jumped into the fray, learning a great deal about how to quickly assess furniture in the process. I had unloaded my first pieces of furniture with Joseph during my first week. By night Joseph was the lead singer in a band. He was scrawny with impressive body odor, baggy clothes and a Gomer Pyle honesty about him. He lived with his girlfriend and a two year old daughter. Joseph had never finished high school but he was certain his daughter was going to Harvard. “She’s a fucking genius, already doing math.” He beamed as his whipped out a photo stamped with the word sample.

As we unloaded the truck Joseph could not help but summarize every piece. With each piece he gnawed at his dirty fingernails, “Oh shit, this piece is fucked. They’re fucking kidding me if they think we can just strip it. We can’t strip this table top. See here? It’s cracked. It’ll be back in a year. Put a note on it for inspection.” Joseph, like the rest of the crew, knew furniture. As each piece approached he started biting his fingernails and spewed out suggestions.

As I suggested to Belvedere that I spend time in the production departments he became distracted. Looking over my shoulder towards his window into the world of manufacturing, he could not contain himself. He bolted from his Herman Miller and screamed at his window into the manufacturing world, “I’ll dock your fucking pay if you break that table, Joseph. Jesus fucking Christ, be careful, you moron.” With the sounds of the plant ringing in his ears Joseph could not hear the diatribe. Just as well. Belvedere seethed for a moment and, as his breathing returned to normal, he plopped into his chair. He peeled a note from its station on the desk and pushed it towards me. I leaned in, squinting to read the tiny writing; “Joseph sloppy. Can not work alone.” Cocking his head like a curious dog he awaited my response.

Trying to lighten the mood, I suggested “Looks like you’ve got a sloppy joe on your hands.” Belvedere did not get my reference to the sandwich (a favorite in New Jersey) and therefore he did not get my joke. Belvedere tilted his head further to the side. I filled in the silence.

“Any time I’ve spoken with Joe I am amazed at how much he knows about furniture. He can look at a piece and rattle off the period and style and suggest how it had become fatigued. He’s a walking encyclopedia.”

Belvedere’s eyes narrowed as his confidence in me slipped two or three notches, “Joseph works in shipping. At night he makes extra money sweeping the floor as our janitor. He’s a fucking retard.” I wasn’t going to win this one.

“My impression is you’ve done a good job hiring smart people throughout the firm and he’s no dummy.” Belvedere nodded approvingly as I leaned in lowering my voice, “As a polite aside, I think ‘retard’ is the wrong word. I have a friend with Down syndrome and retard is not really a word anyone uses anymore. It’s in a league with the “N” word. People will not think highly of you if you use it.” I leaned forward, whispering, “Its bad form.” Belvedere scribbled on a note paper and stood up, ending our conversation, “You can work on the line for two weeks, tops. No more. Then just finish your consulting.” We shook hands as he briskly walked from the office, leaving me in his ice box. First looking to see he was out of sight, I could not help myself as I leaned forward to read his last tiny addition to his lineup of scribbles. “Retard = bad”.

Though I would love to, I’ll respect your time and will not bore you with production nerd talk or the engagement details. I will suggest, through that, the success of the entire engagement boiled down to one conversation with Jacque, a sander. When not sanding refinished antique furniture Jacques played lead guitar in a cover band. He and Joseph were friends. He was tall and skinny with hair like Slash. His arms were no more than twigs covered in tattoos and often concealed with an old flannel shirt. His worn carpenter’s pants were never washed and were held up by huge studded belt. His wallet was chained to his belt loop. He was missing a front tooth. He carried a knife. A reformed heroin addict, he looked the part. Though off the horse, I imagine he smoked enormous amounts of pot as he seemed pretty groggy morning, noon and night. Music was his life. Sanding was his job.

During this particular day in the sanding department, I worked the station next to Jacque. He blared Appetite for Destruction and The White Album from a sawdust covered black boom box. Jerking his head up and down he sanded in time with the music. He was fun to watch as he lost himself in his art. Initially we chatted about bands and concerts through our dust encased masks. Jacque’s defenses fell as I shared stories about Aerosmith, Rush and Twisted Sister shows in the City. He began to open up. Like Joseph, he was insightful when unguarded. As a new cart of furniture was shoved into his sanding area Jacque shut down his sander, removed his mask and surveyed the pending work.

“This is fucking fucked, man. This shit all came in at the same time as the stuff I sanded yesterday and it is just fucking shoved through the system. Look at this fucking place.” I looked around across the open factory floor at the carts piled up in the first few departments. Departments down the line were at a virtual standstill.

“So, you could organize the inbound furniture by need or something like that and that would make your work easier?” I asked. “Not just by fucking need, man, by fucking wood type, by finish, by size. Every fucking time we have a new wood type, I have to setup a new fucking sander and machining has to select and cut different woods. Right now they’re just jerking off doing nothing. That fucking dick smoker Belvedere makes us organize the work by client so he can ship random shit out early. Fucking joke.” With my conversation with Jacque a solution was born.

Over the next two months we organized inbound orders into small batches around production requirements such as finish and wood type. Replacing the linear line of work with batch assignments we sent the batches to different departments and slashed over time, reduced rework and cut our average production cycle time by a week. The department managers and I educated the entire production staff, calling the new process The Egg and the Snake. We explained each department had been working like a snake, coming upon a large egg and swallowing it. The problem was the department – like the snake – was basically immobilized as the inbound material was digested. We organized the orders each day into more digestible batches for distribution across departments. It worked.

As the solution took root the staff was witness to success. We announced our progress as well as a surprise profit sharing bonus during a staff meeting. During the meeting I asked Jacque to stand up. He did so reluctantly as a ripple of whispered comments flowed through the gathering.

I stood too, “I want you to know this egg solution was hatched by Jacque. When I was in sanding getting blasted by GNR he basically told me what was wrong and laid it all out for me. I was pretty much just a messenger.” Turning to Jacque, I leaned forward in a subtle bow, “Thank you, Jacque, we’re getting profit sharing checks because of your idea.” The staff roared and started pounding their feet, chanting, “Jacques. Jacques. Jacques.” He meekly waived his twig-like arm, returning to his seat as fellow factory workers clapped his back. From then on he was a sage, known simply as The Egg Man.

Now with the solution and implementation firmly in the hands of employees I had to find a new gig. Belvedere was happy to see me go. The earlier the better. “Good. We’re all set. It was just a matter of training these morons, huh? Listen while I’m out selling you can use my office to make your little calls and get yourself a new job somewhere. Just don’t mess up my office, OK? I keep it organized.”

“Very kind of you, Belvedere. I’ll take you up on that.”

My most promising prospect call was scheduled for late one evening. Folks were cleaning up for the day as I settled into Belvedere’s office. I was glad the photos faced away. I mostly ignored Belvedere’s line-up of notes, settling on one that read, “Consultant done. Finish up ASAP.”

I spread my notes across Belvedere’s desk in preparation for my call. Joseph the part time janitor was outside the door, earning his extra money, as he swept the floor. Back and forth, he swept, cautiously eying me as he passed the door. I smiled. He looked away as he chomped on his dirty fingernails, twisting his elbow up above his ear to gnaw into this stub of a thumb nail. He shrugged as I caught his eye again. He looked around and bent down, tying up his boots and then fidgeting with his broom as he pulled clumps of dust from the bristles.

This was a big call and I had to concentrate. I was excited. To date, all had gone well with the prospect and I was hoping to agree to final terms today. I breathed deep and reached for the phone. As I picked up Belvedere’s phone Joseph dropped the broom and lurched towards me, grabbing the receiver.

“Joseph, what the fuck? What’s going on. Are you OK?” He looked at me, looked at the phone, rubbed the phone on his very dirty pants and leaned forward, “Beasley don’t use this fucking phone, man! I clayed it.”

“You what?”

“I clayed it.” Holding the receiver out, “Smell it.”

I hesitated then leaned to within a couple of inches of Joseph’s extended hand seeing his dirty fingernails up close. They were rimmed in black goo, wet with a mixture of dust and saliva. He jerked his hand away before I could smell anything. “Joseph, I don’t get it. What do you want me to do?”

He turned to see if anyone was within earshot. We were alone. “Listen, I hate that cocksucker Belvedere and he treats me and everyone else here like shit; like we’re fucking stupid. He’s a fucking self-absorbed douche bag. So every night when I’m alone and sweeping in here while he’s out buying clients dinner or taking them to a fucking Yankee game, I pull my dick out and rub it all over his phone. It smells musty, like clay, ya know? Like my dick. I clay his phone just about every fuck’n night.”

I gagged. “Jesus Christ, Joseph, that’s totally fucked. Are you fucking for real? I, I don’t know what to say.”

He shrugged and bit his pinky nail, twisting it about his mouth in a semi-circle.

“Well, I guess I owe you one. Thanks for not claying me, Joseph.”

He smirked and jerked his head toward the photo of Belvedere and Ron Reagan as he wrapped up our conversation, “He thinks we’re fucking invisible. Shit, my dick’s been all over that picture with Reagan. Smell it. It smells like fucking clay.”

Liz and her roommate, Snap, decided to have a party. Though not invited, it was assumed I would show up along with my roommate, Anthony. During the recent summer I had taken a shining to Liz and she knew it. The feeling was less than mutual and she worked hard to avoid me. I was not deterred.

Her party started at about 9PM so we had plenty of time to prep. Anthony, my friend of nearly a decade, and Max a former sergeant in the Swedish Army with a photographic memory and by far the smartest person I have ever met, were to meet at our apartment for some pre-party drinking. Anthony was an engineer at DEC and Max and I graduate students. Max sported a military grade haircut and always wore black. Black shoes, black socks, black shirts, black pants. At our first meeting I assumed typical Euro-trash. I was wrong. Max was color blind and total black ensured he did not dress like a moron. Max and I studied about 80 hours per week and released our pent up stress and anxiety by drinking to excess each weekend. We pushed ourselves when we studied and we pushed ourselves when we drank. We read Ayn Rand when we waited for the T or when we dropped a deuce. At the end of every week our drinking seemed to wipe our brains clean of excess formulas and case studies we had digested during the work week. Not the most balanced lifestyle but we enjoyed it. Actually, we loved it.

We started preparing for Liz’s party at 7PM with a standard drinking game, “You’re Hammered Number One.” Star Trek Next Generation was on and, like future egghead world beaters, we took a liking to Captain Pickard and his crew. We settled in and, every time Pickard said “Number One” for any reason, we tossed back a shot of Jack. “You have the bridge, Number One. To my ready room, Number One. Make it so, Number One.” I am fucking bombed and think we should pull over and fuck some aliens, number one. After 60 minutes we were hammered.

After drinking with Jean-Luc we moved upstairs to my room. My bedroom was known as “The Tacky Bar”. Friends and foreign students loved my room as it represented all that is tacky and glaring about America. We loved the bar as it was our launch pad into a rather bright future The room spanned an entire attic, with sloped walls covered with circa 1970s white wallpaper featuring a design of reflective, glittering vines. Very tacky. The walls were braced with faux exposed wooden beams which, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be Styrofoam fakes. Very, very, tacky.

As you walked up the stairs and entered my room you turned left and were greeted by The Tacky Bar. Encased in a wrought iron arc, which in turn was adorned with random pieces of memorabilia and a variety of panties left by friends, the bar drew you in and compelled you to put an elbow down and gawk. Random trinkets stolen from nightclubs and bars and donated by drunken friends were spread about the Tacky Bar and along the top of a 20 foot built-in bookcase next to the bar. The bookcase itself was packed with hundreds of my books; nonfiction, biographies, philosophy, finance and economics books I enjoyed over the years. Like Anthony and Max, my books were dear friends and I liked spending time in their company. From the bar your eyes were drawn to the collection of titles and the tacky collectibles scatted on top of the bookshelf. You felt compelled to continue gawking, followed the lengthy collection of books as well as the red and black speckled carpet (very tacky) toward the end of the room. At room’s end your eyes settled on an oversized waterbed, positioned like some sort of landing pad. Resting dormant at the beginning of the evening it appeared as a high probability end point to any night at the Tacky Bar. Most folks just burst out laughing when their eyes settled on the bed. Others shook their heads.

The waterbed was well exercised. Placed under a set of large windows overlooking the tightly packed back yards, it drew you in. Over the years the baffles had been worn down and broken so that now certain motions on the bed kicked off large rolling waves. Though unsettling if you were drunk and trying to sleep, if you were intent on not sleeping then one’s partner was often greatly pleased with the ebb and flow of the waves. Word spread and more than a few women wrangled their way to our house for sex at the Tacky Bar. The most people we ever had on the bed was eight. It held. Our home was a good place.

Leaning into the Tacky Bar, Anthony, Max and I chatted away like three old men as we knocked back a few more shots. Though eager to attend the target rich environment at Liz’s place we preferred to enjoy each other’s company. Conversation was unguarded. We mixed drunken banter with serious questions and answers. The default expression during our conversations was a broad grin. Our bar was a good place to chat.

I still had to get dressed as I was in my sweats from an earlier workout at the MIT gym. An old school gym, with tons of free weights placed within a dark sweaty room, the facility represented a perfect counter to the technical nerds scurrying about campus. I went to the closet and pulled off my shirt and sweats as I searched for some clothes.

Though a potential big swinging dick I was currently poor. In exchange for working 15 to 20 hours a week researching Boeing Aircraft production methods I earned about $1,500 a month as a research assistant in school. Through the program Boeing also paid my tuition for which I was and remain eternally grateful. I worked hard to unearth pearls in an effort to give back to the firm so generously helping me. They got their money’s worth. The extra work not only sharpened my pin head brain, it paid my bills. Still though, after expenses I was poor. During the winter months I had to rely on the good graces of Anthony and his full time DEC paycheck to cover the heating bills. As snow blanketed New England the Bank of Anthony covered my heating costs. He was good to me and never left me wanting. Raised in the wild by Democrats, he wanted to help. He was open and warm and his natural inclination was to extend a hand. He kept the fires burning during the lean winter months. I paid him off in the summer as I worked full time. That said, my limited budget meant new clothes were not on my agenda. I looked around and settled on a pair of tight faded jeans with a good sized hole right under my balls.

I found the hole to be a good conversation piece as many women asked “What’s with the hole in your pants?” Acting shocked my standard response was, “What hole? Where?” In response my prospective new friend nodded towards or pointed at my crotch; a good place to start a conversation. In instances were I did not wish to speak with someone, I would position myself in a manner allowing them to see the hole point blank or pull my pants up high so my balls hung out. They usually exited the conversation immediately.

With my jeans on and underwear color apparent, Anthony and Max unleashed a salvo of comments about my dick, my balls, the aeration of my balls, the hideous sight of the shape of my balls and the potential danger of my dick springing out of the hole, perhaps gouging out someone’s eye. This in turn led to an evaluation of the size and mass required to hurt an innocent bystander. Max grabbed a wooden back-scratcher from the bar, poked the carved fingers into the hole and began to scratch my balls, waiting for me to jump back.

“Big deal.” I shrugged. “It’s almost 10. Let’s head out. We can hit the party and then hit the Cantab.”

“Excellent. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” responded the Swede, as he jammed the back-scratcher down the front of his pants.

Anthony drove to Liz’s apartment. Though a hard core engineer by training, he was a distracted driver and we goaded him to press through red lights. Max pulled out the back-scratcher from his pants and began poking it under Anthony’s nose, scratching his mouth, asking, “Baby like?”

Sliding into further distraction, Anthony swung his arms around at Max, yelling “Get that fucking thing away from my face, asshole. It smells like Kinkade’s dirty dick and your Swedish sausage, you fuck.” Max pulled back the back scratcher, smelled it and looked out the window. “Big deal,” was all he said. “My dick’s pretty clean,” I suggested.

Once in Liz’s neighborhood, Anthony slowed, looking for parking. After some painful searching, Max grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it towards a driveway, yelling “Park here.” We plowed into a line of garbage cans, scattering them. Max and I roared as Anthony backed up and took off down the street. We found parking a few blocks from Liz’s place.

Walking towards the party Anthony asked, “Well, Beasley, are you going to ask Liz out tonight.”

“Yup. I’ll ask her out and then we’ll finish the night off at the Cantab. If she says no, we’ll get really drunk.”

Max looked ahead as he continued marching forward, “I hope she says no.”

Liz’s place was on the second floor. We could hear the party from the street as we made our way up the front stairs. Max banged on the door, yelling loudly, “It’s me, Anthony and I am looking to meet some gay guys with big dicks. Open the fuck up!” Max quickly turned and stepped behind me and Anthony. Liz’s roommate, Snap, opened the door as a number of heads turned from inside the party to see Anthony’s face turn beat red. More than one guest whispered, “He’s not gay is he? I thought he was sleeping with Jasmine?”

Properly announced we entered and began our hellos. Liz came over and gave Anthony a hug, then coolly extended her hand to me and Max, “Hi, Beasley. Hi Max. I didn’t know you guys were coming. Come on in and get some food.” Before I could chat her up she turned her attention to another more Liz-worthy guest.

The last time I had spent any time with Liz was during Labor Day weekend in Newport. Labor Day was one of the major party weekends in Rhode Island. Liz, six girlfriends and one of Liz’s workmates, Josh, had rented a house for the summer. They got their money’s worth as they spent every weekend in Newport, partying wildly and crashing on the beaches.

Josh, the only male renter, was Anthony’s Frisbee teammate. Anthony did his best to wrangle his way to Newport on the back of his friendship with Josh. Anthony was what the eight housemates called a leach, effectively spending every weekend at their beautiful summer rental without paying. Such summer rentals were out of my budget, however that did not stop me from leaching onto Anthony. I was a double leach, one step lower than a leach.

To open the summer season, Liz and her friends invited a clatter of folks down for the Memorial Day weekend. Anthony leached on Josh and I leached on Anthony. We made our way to Liz’s Newport rental by noon, dropped off our bags and went straight to the Arc, a restaurant with a quiet bar. By 3PM we were in the ladies’ room with our shirts off. With no bouncer on duty the bartender fielded a complaint regarding two couples in the ladies room and proceeded to shut us off. The Bank of Anthony settled our $100 tab and we returned to Liz’s rental. Half the folks at the house were thoroughly amused by our early start to the summer while others, Liz among them, were mortified.

“If you’re staying at our place this weekend without paying, you better buy all the food and keep your asses out of trouble,” was all she said. She was no nonsense. She was hot.

“You’re pretty,” was my only response.

At 5’10” with a huge smile, giant brown eyes and a beautiful Caribbean figure Liz was smoking hot. She walked with elegance, with a grace. From afar she was cool and aloof. Up close she drew you in with pithy conversation and an aura of confidence. She was also smart; smarter than she knew. As a financer she managed currency positions for a future Microsoft casualty, Lotus Development. She didn’t know it yet but she was smart enough to leave her successful position, go to medical school and become a physician. Shit, that’s from the future smart. In response to my misguided compliment she rolled her eyes and walked away. I was hooked.

“Dude,” I turned to Anthony, “look at her. She is fucking liquid. She is delicious.”

“Good luck with that,” was all he could say.

We finished the opening weekend without incident as Liz succeeded in ignoring me. She kept me at a distance as I tallied a total of 30 minutes in her company. During those 30 minutes, though, I fell further under her spell, a spell that was decidedly one way.

Following the Memorial Day festivities I reported to Seattle to continue work on behalf of Boeing. I worked enormous hours and met a couple of great women, one Ukrainian translator and one very flexible 4” 11” ballerina. I settled into a nice routine in the Northwest mixing work and time with my new friends. I enjoyed the summer gig, though I missed life back east. Every Sunday evening Anthony and I would chat on the phone like two old birds and report on the doings on each coast. During the conversations, I’d casually ask about the Newport crowd, “How’s Snap? How’s Jasmine doing? Has she discovered you suck in bed yet? How’s Liz? She dating anyone…?” Through our conversations, I confirmed Liz was popular among the guys but was not dating. She was a confident woman and did not need a full time man. I liked her even more. The situation was fluid. With this context in mind I returned from Seattle at the end of the summer resolved to move forward.

I returned from Seattle in time for Labor Day. Labor Day represents the time when summer lovers say goodbye and attention turns back towards school or work. As such we partied wildly, passing out and, in one or two instances, getting picked up by the cops. All in good fun. Liz kept her distance as Anthony and I were at the head of the partying crowd. On Saturday, the last party night of the summer, we organized a huge crew and spent the night flirting, dancing, and drinking; first at the summer rental then at a nightclub. We danced wildly. Songs like “I’m so Horny” pounded the dance floor participants into a single pulsing creature. We lost track of time and were shocked when the DJ announced the last dance of the summer. “Pick your partner carefully, folks. This is the last dance of the summer.”

Anthony grabbed Jasmine and I turned to Liz and smiled, “Dance with me?” Looking around (and seeing no available prospects to take my place) she shrugged, “Sure. Just don’t be an animal, Beasley. OK?” I smiled and pulled her close as she put her arms around my neck and rested her warm cheek on my shoulder. She was tall and I could smell her hair. She was utterly beautiful; model beautiful. My hands slid around her waist as we slowly began to enjoy the last dance. I played with her hair as she began to warm up to me. She started rubbing the back of my neck. She picked up her head and looked around. She turned and we locked eyes. She smirked. Slowly I leaned in and kissed her. Softy on the lips. After a moment she pulled back not knowing if she should be horrified or intrigued. She looked around again and then settled her eyes on my lips. She leaned forward and kissed me softly and, just as quickly, returned her head to my shoulder. As the last song ended, I reached for her hand. Not so much.

Jerked back to reality she forced a smile, turned and walked away, ignoring me for the rest of the night. That was the last I would see of her until her party as Anthony and I woke up early the next morning and made our way to Logan to visit Max in Sweden.

In Sweden Anthony and I continued our Newport partying schedule as Max and his friends were serious drinkers. Max met us at the airport, “Welcome to the major leagues, pussies.”

Our Swedish hosts drank themselves into oblivion on an ongoing basis. Each night we hit a bar to drink beer and pound shots with the Swedes. We delighted our hosts and friends as we screamed “mer öl (more beer)” at every opportunity. We were unabashed in approaching Swedish women. I quickly found if I walked my dark skinned hairy-chested Anthony to the prettiest group of woman in the bar, pulled up his shirt, and asked, “Want to pet the monkey?” we made friends. Hairy chests in Sweden were few and far between and the women were curious. Without fail, one woman in each group placed her hands on Anthony’s furry chest. He would turn bright red as the drunker of the girls continued to rub his chest delighting in his tangle of hair. In turn, he would pull my shirt up to expose my smooth chest, “Feel the difference,” he’d suggest to his new friend. Working out and playing hockey left my chest in good shape and the girls enjoyed copping a free feel. We made lots of friends and found many Swedish women enjoy ending the night with a bath. Sweden was even nicer than Seattle.

So I was back from Sweden, back at school and now at Liz’s place trying to figure out when to ask her out. Liz’s friends were mostly Talbots preppies. They seemed to delight in wondering which cheese goes best with each wine. Anthony was hanging with Jasmine; flirting and pawing at each other in a manner appropriate to young lovers. Max and I stood horrified as the continuous stream of preppies circulated through the apartment. We retreated to the buffet table and started gobbling crackers and deli meats.

As we stuffed our faces various sweater-clad ladies flitted about, cautiously eyeing us and pecking at the food. I thought of birds at a bird feeder hung just low enough to allow a waiting cat to spring and maul his hapless prey. They chit chatted in tongues. Trying to keep his cool, Max turned to me, “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Little Joe Cook and the Cantab are calling me to drink.”

“Hold on a minute,” I suggested. I scooped up the last of the sliced Genoa Salami and stuffed it up the gaping hole in my pants, sliding the deli slices between my balls and leg. Max burst out laughing as I pulled out a slice and popped it into my mouth, “Delicious.” He stuck his hand up my pants, grabbed a handful of salami and stuffed it in his face; laughing so hard chewed bits of meat began to fall from his mouth. Two Ann Taylor types approached us asking, “Is that brie?” I shrugged as Max stuck his hand up my pants, pulled out a wad of salami and stuffed it in his mouth. “Try some salami,” he suggested. Mouths agape the Ann Taylor twins slowly backed away.

“Time to go,” Max said. I looked around, catching Liz’s eyes as she stared at me and Max as one would stare at the discovery of a homeless person taking a dump on your front stoop. “Max, go get Anthony while I do something,” I asked as I pushed the slipping salami back up my pants.

I crossed the room and approached Liz. She just starred at me. Hmm… not exactly a stare of interest I thought. “Hey, Liz, thank you so much for the party. This was great. Really good food. Listen, I liked spending time with you in Newport and I was wondering … do you want to go out to dinner with me?”

Liz’s already large eyes widened to a size I did not believe possible. Except for the look of mortification on her face she was utterly beautiful. My eyes floated down to her lips. Her mouth was broad and sexy. Very sexy. Perhaps we would kiss again.

“What?” she blurted out as her eyes narrowed, “On a date, with you? Are you for real? Are you kidding me?”

“Hey, no need to decide now. I’ll call you Wednesday and you can decide then. OK? Thanks, for the party, I’m heading to the Cantab. I’ll call you.” I turned, pulled Anthony from his groping session and tried to stop Max from laughing in my face. He had been standing right behind me, chewing salami, apparently with his mouth open as bits of chewed Genoa were scattered across his black sweater, and had thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle of my conversation with Liz.

“You dumb fuck. She thinks you’re a fuck’n animal. She’s never going to go out with you, you fucking idiot. Let’s get drunk.” We made our way to the Cantab and did just that.

Wednesday came and went and I held off on calling Liz. I had enjoyed a nice run in Seattle and Sweden so I did not feel compelled to give Liz the immediate satisfaction of slamming me with another “Are you kidding me?” Max had repeated the phrase every time he saw me.

As I was studying in my room for exams Thursday evening, Anthony yelled up the stairs, “Dude, phone. It’s Liz.” Anthony handed me the phone. I shrugged, assuming it was Max.

“Hello, this is Beasley.”

“Hey,” said Liz in her familiar voice, “You said you were going to call me and you didn’t. What gives?”

“I, er, I got busy with school and I, ah, have a test tomorrow so I didn’t have time to call you. Sorry ‘bout that.” Silence.

“So,” she asked, “do you still want to take me out for dinner?”

“Ah … yes, yes. That would be great, Liz. I’d really like that.”

“Jasmine and Snap told you you’re not an animal all the time and you’re really nice and that you’re actually pretty smart. Well, I trust them. So pick me up next Wednesday outside my office at 7PM. And don’t wear the pants you wore to my party. OK?”

“OK,” I smiled. Click.

I went downstairs and returned the phone to Anthony, “That was Liz. Can you believe it; she wants to go out with me. I’m telling you, we’re gonna fall in love, dude. I am going to marry that girl.”

We did. I did and … I still love her.

My head jerked away from the swirling beauty as Marcus cranked up the volume. He was riding shotgun, concentrating on tuning PJ’s equalizer to the perfect set of sounds. Finding a perfect blend of balance, treble and bass, Marcus started waiving his hands around, watching the arc of his movements. Trails flowed everywhere. We asked PJ to slow down so we could look at Marcus’s hands. Rainbows of color followed them as he swung them back and forth. Though impressively drunk, PJ kept driving, ignoring our request. “You’re going to fucking kill yourself with that shit,” he warned. “Fuck off firehead! You’re a fucking alcoholic,” screamed Marcus to the redheaded PJ. “Chill,” I suggested.

It remained quiet for a few moments as Marcus and I stared at PJ’s hair, staring intently. I began to wonder… was this a hallucination or was it real? Small flames began to dart in and out of his hair. “Did you see that?” I whispered. “There. Look. Awesome, man, that is awesome.” Without speaking or even looking at each other, Marcus and I began to try and touch PJ’s hair. He freaked, pulled his red head away from our grasping fingers and slammed on the breaks. “Get the fuck out of my car!”

“Dude,” I warned, “your hair is on fire. I can see it.”

He ignored me and lurched the car forward, chirping the wheels and proceeding down the block. He missed my house and pulled into the Zuckerman’s driveway next door. Close enough.

“You guys want to come in? I am freak’n out! My dad’s friend from some fucked up place like Tennessee or Arkansas and his family are staying with us and I don’t want to see them alone. If they’re awake there is no fucking way I can talk to them like this. Come with me; we can get some food. Come on. Am I talking? Can you guys hear my voice?” Marcus rubbed his head first slowly, then faster until both hands created a blur around his skull. “No. No. No. Your old man is in there. Negative. I am staying right here with fire head.”

PJ shook his head, “Dude, the last time you invited me in I went downstairs to the basement to pee and puke and I passed out and you fuck’n forgot about me. You left me in the dark. You turned all the fuck’n lights off and went to bed and left me passed out in the bathroom in your basement. You forgot about me, man. I fell off the toilet and passed out and could have died. And you forgot about me.”

Before he finished I opened the car door, “Yeah, I don’t remember that. Besides, you passed out, not me.” I stood up and watched as the car slowly backed out of the driveway. PJ misjudged the curve and backed over The Zuckerman’s garden and bushes, dropping hard off down the curb. I stood in rapture as the car and its accompanying trail of lights accelerated down the road. Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.

I turned to the house and became aware of the sound my clothes made when I moved. I was wearing black leather pants, a wife-beater and a Clash tee shirt. My clothes made a huge noise as I walked up the front path, creeping up the stoop stairs to the front door. My clothes were so fucking loud. I stepped up on my toes to peek in one of the three little windows at the top of the door to make sure my father wasn’t sleeping on the couch. It was worse than that. “Fuck! I can not fucking believe this. Those rednecks are sleeping on the living room floor in fucking sleeping bags. What the fuck! Don’t they like beds?”

As I wondered if they had beds in Tennessee I continued to stare through the window. As I stared Christmas trees slowly began to appear, slowly at first then spouting up between the sleeping guests. “What the fuck,” I whispered. “I’m fucked. How do I get through there? They’ll hear my clothes … my clothes will get stuck on the trees. Fuck.” I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. What to do? I looked behind me to see if any of the neighbors were watching me. At 4AM they were nowhere to be seen.

Slowly, I began to undress, removing my noisy clothes. Once naked, I stood on the stoop and practiced moving. No noises. Complete silence. Becoming distracted I went through a series of imagined King Fu moves. All were greeted with silence. After some time I stopped and wondered how long I had been here, naked, on the stoop in front of my house. I had to pee and, thinking I was incapable of operating a bathroom inside, I turned and began peeing off the side of the stoop. My pee sparkled and glittered as it arced into the peat moss below. Beautiful. Just beautiful.

I gathered by clothes and opened our never-locked front door. Pushing with my shoulder the door dislodged with a “click.” Upon entering I crouched to avoid the trees. They seemed to be breathing and I was mindful of avoiding the ends of their branches. Slowly, naked, I crept over the sleeping bags and slipped up the stairs towards my room. I slid into bed, naked, and felt the most wonderful feeling of warmth and love. “This is what it must feel like in the womb.” I slipped back towards reality via sleep.

“Breakfast, Beasley and KJ,” my mother yelled up to me and my brother. Realizing I was alive and safe I jumped out of bed. My brother, in the next bed, turned over and yelled, “Get some fuck’n clothes on you fucking malfunction. I don’t want to see your shriveled dick.” I put on sweatpants and a tee shirt and went downstairs, KJ right behind me.

Guests and family were seated at the dinning room table as my mom and Mrs. What’s-her-name-from Tennessee began trooping in breakfast from the kitchen. “How did you guys sleep, last night?” my father asked the guests. The mother and father looked at each other; he responding, “Fine. Couldn’t be better.” Their littlest son looked up from his plate and barked out in his southern accent, “I had a dream there was a necked man standing above me! Dad said it was a dream but he looked real ter me!”

KJ burst out laughing and pointed at me with a one word judgment, “Nice!” My father dropped his butter knife and simply stared at me, quietly whispering, “What did you do, you goddamn idiot?” I shrugged, “Sounds like a beautiful dream, Hector. Beautiful.”

“Perhaps, tonight we’ll take that guest room,” said Mrs. What’s-her-name-from Tennessee to my father. My father just glared. Hector squinted, scanning me, I imagine trying to figure out if it really was me he saw last night. Unless he reads this story he will never know.

Released from my grandmother’s clutches, I turned to my mom, “Hi mom. Can I go see The Poseidon Adventure with Tony today? It’s playing at two o’clock. You don’t need to drive me. We can just walk there after lunch.”

The bacon crackled and she jostled some pieces about the pan. Without turning to look at me she responded, “I don’t know Beasley, its rated PG. It’s an adult film and, well, you’re just too young.”

“Mom, Tony’s parents are letting him go. I’m ten. Just let me go. I’ve seen worse.” She wheeled around, “Really, when? What have you seen, mister? Tell me what you’ve seen, Beasley.”

“Forget it, mom, just forget it.”

She returned to her bacon and, taking a break, took a sip of Lipton tea without looking at me. I turned to my grandmother with my best sad dog eyes. She put her fingers to her lips and, without my mother seeing or hearing, silently gestured with her hands, ushering me out of the kitchen.

“I’m going upstairs to wash my hands, mom.”

I went to the bathroom and combed my hair for about five minutes, wetting the black comb to try and straighten the curly ends. Curls were for girls. Satisfied with my wet look I washed my hands and returned to the kitchen.

“Beasley, Grandma said the movie’s fine for you to see. You can go but if anything is too scary or there is anything you’re too young for, you have to shut your eyes. Understand? I’m trusting you.” “Thanks, mom. I’ll shut my eyes if I get scared.” My grandma smiled at me and I smiled back as we enjoyed our secret.

Breakfast ensued as me and my brother fought over the bacon. We argued until my sister left to use the bathroom. While she was gone we proceeded to divvy up her bacon as we shoved it in our mouths. When my mother turned her back to tend to the stove, I took spoonfuls of sugar from the pink sugar bowl and shoved sugar into my mouth. My brother grabbed the bowl from me and shoved a huge spoonful of sugar in his mouth, spilling sugar on table. He swiped the spilled sugar onto the floor in a graceful arc. My grandmother just stared at us as we placed our spoons down and crunched the sugar into a sweet syrup in our mouths.

After breakfast I used the phone hanging on the center of the kitchen wall to call Tony. We made arraignments to meet at one o’clock in front of the huge rock in the center of town.

In anticipation of the movie, I followed breakfast by spending the morning in the bathroom; filling up the tub and, kneeling at the side of the tub, repeatedly submerging and sinking my model boats in a never ending series of simulated waves. I was careful not so spill water over the sides of the tub. Periodically, I would be told to leave the bathroom when adults had to drop off friends at the lake. After the first such incident, I waited a respectful time to make sure the molecules – things we had just learned of in science – recently swirling about the adults’ butts did not find their way into my nose.

“Beasley, lunch is ready.”

Lunch. My current favorite was fried baloney and mom accommodated my whim. Keeping the skin on, we fried up six slices in a layer of butter. In an effort to avoid allowing any fat to escape my port hole we tossed a couple of slices of bread onto the frying pan, soaking up the last portions of baloney juice. Delicious.

Following lunch I worked the line, hugging my mom, grandmother and grandfather. My grandfather slipped me $10 to cover the ticket, a soda, popcorn and Junior Mints. Before leaving, my mom stopped me. “How are you getting there, Beasley?” Citing the longest but most parent-friendly route, I explained we would walk through town, take a left on Maple and then walk on the sidewalk all the way to the theater.” “Please, Beasley, be careful crossing Maple. Cross by the library, OK?” I nodded and ran out the back door as she yelled, “I love you, Beasley.”

Walking the half mile or so up town I found Tony waiting for me. The movie theater was about two to three miles away. “Let’s cut behind the stores.” Tony suggested. He didn’t have to say so as every time we went through town we snuck through the alley behind the stores looking for garbage and things to break. Today we found six fluorescent light bulbs. Each bulb was about four feet in length. Carrying three each, we walked to the parking lot behind the bank. Without thinking we stepped to the edge of the lot and, liked skilled Olympic javelin hurlers, threw them in quick succession, hitting a number of parked cars. We watched as they shattered, releasing their white gas and our favorite noise. Kish-pa! into the parking lot. Once finished with the parking lot, we retraced our steps out of the alley, returning to the main thoroughfare to the front of the stores. We walked through the center of town none too concerned.

We made our way to one of the two small newsstand/soda fountain stores. Before 7 Eleven towns were salted with small stores selling breakfast to commuters, papers, magazines, tons of candy, baseball cards and comics. We made our way to Sherberts. It was owned by a gruff old married couple. They did not take kindly to kids in their store as we were nothing but a threat and a nuisance. Before entering Sherberts, I turned to Tony, “Can you get two Thors if I get old man Sherbert out of the way?” Tony smiled and walked into Sherberts heading straight to the comic books. “How much is this comic, Mr. Sherbert?” “Jesus H. Christ, kid, it’s the same price as always. 25 cents. If you’re not going to buy it put it down.”

I walked straight to the candy rack. Rows and rows of chocolate bars and candies splayed before me. I could feel Sherbert’s eyes borrowing into the back of my neck. I reached up to the Junior Mints and, acting confused, pulled out the entire carton, spilling dozens of boxes of Junior Mints on the floor. Hearing the commotion, the counter dwellers momentarily turned their attention from their papers and coffees to me and, in turn, to Mr. Sherbert. Sensing a threat, he and his wife, made a bee line to me. “Don’t touch those mints, sonny. Let me see your pockets. What did you put in there?” I pulled my pockets inside out, showing one $10 bill and nothing else. Sherbert looked at me sensing I could afford some candy. “Are you going to buy anything, sonny.” “Not anymore.” I barked. I turned and walked out the front door, the eyes of the counter dwellers following me to the street.

Tony was waiting outside for me. “Nice one,” he nodded. We walked up to the phone booth and stuffed ourselves inside, closing the door. He pulled two new Thor comic books from the front of his pants. “That’s not all,” he said, pulling out two additional Hulks. Jackpot. We stuffed them back in our pants and made our way one block up the road to the train tracks.

The train tracks represented the lifeblood of our commuter town. Each morning thousands of commuters, most wearing Dick Tracey hats, stood by the tracks with newspapers and paper cups with piping hot coffee purchased from men like Mr. Sherbert as they waited to pile into the train. As the train approached the whistle blew and in unison hundreds of men began folding their papers and picking up briefcases as they entered their daily battle. Each evening, the trains stopped, belching out swarms of hungry commuters, ready to make their way home following a long hard day in New York City. The train whistle, signaling an approaching lifeline, was a constant part of our lives. During the day it meant hurry or you’ll miss the train or beware, train approaching. At night it meant, safety, warmth; you’re close to home or already home safe and sound. Between the morning and evening whistles, long slow freight trains made their way along the tracks passing to and from New York to far off destinations. Destinations unknown to me.

Today was Saturday so commuter trains were few and far between. That was fine with me. Commuter trains were fast and dangerous. During each of the last four years, a person had been killed on the tracks in our little town. Commuter trains were like panthers and could kill you. The freight trains, however, were like elephants. You had to respect them but their power could be harnessed. They were slow and, when they approached the center of town, even slower as they had to ease their way around a bend and across the main thoroughfare. They slowed to a crawl and begged for us to harness their power.

As Tony and I walked up the street towards the tracks, we heard a whistle in the distance. Tony and I looked at each other and bolted not wanting to miss our opportunity. We ran up to the train crossing, and, as the red warning lights began to blink, crossed the street. We ran parallel to the tracks as we made our way away from town, going in the same direction as the approaching train. Soon we were out of site. A couple of hundred feet away from the road trees obscured the railroad from town and the neighboring houses. We waited at the bend for the approaching train. As we waited we stuffed our pockets with rocks and, when full, we picked up a final handful of stones and respectfully stepped back about 10 feet from the tracks. Slowly we saw the lumbering hulk approach, first passing through town past the idling cars and then towards us stationed at the bend. As the ground vibrated the first locomotive’s engineer sounded the horn warning us to stay clear. Slowly three connected locomotives plodded past us carrying their load. We unleashed a salvo of rocks striking the beast.

Like a circus train of elephants the freight train lumbered forward spanning our view in a large outward curving arc. Once the locomotives were around the bend and out of site, we began running alongside the fright cars. Spying a huge brown boxcar with a low-enough ladder (for not all cars had ladders low enough to grab) we ran along side the beast, pacing ourselves with the giant moving box. I grabbed the ladder and, after running for a few more feet, jumped up onto the bottom rung, pulling myself up. I began climbing up the ladder to the top of the car as I heard Tony follow suit below me. We made our way to the top of the moving boxcar and, standing in the center of the rumbling train, began city surfing. The cars rocked back and forth, clinking loudly, as we struggled to keep our balance.

Once the freight train made its way around the large bend, it began to pick up steam. Very quickly we went from trying to harness a lumbering freight train to trying not to tumble from a fast moving predator. Remaining upright became difficult and, periodically, Tony or I would lose balance, stagger about and stumble. I teetered over and Tony jumped down onto the “floor” after me (actually the top of the boxcar, about 12 or so above the passing tracks below) to grab my leg. “Man, you almost fell off the edge, that time, Beasley.” Not wanting to show how scared I felt I nodded silently. We returned to our feet and continued surfing the top of the train.

The train continued forward and approached the Main Street crossing marking the halfway point to the theater. As red lights blinked and the crossing gates slowly dropped across the road, the train began to slow to a respectful speed. With the whistle warning the idling cars waiting on Main Street, the train lumbered past. Tony and I were about half down the length of the train so, by the time we were upon the crossing, the line of waiting cars was solid. I lied down next to Tony on the top of the boxcar to reduce my exposure. Tony turned, looked at me and smiled, getting up to his feet and standing. “They’ll see you, Tony. What are you doing? Get down!” “They won’t know who I am.” he said as he braced his feet and pulled down his zipper. Facing the line of waiting cars, Tony arced out a huge piss. He was trying to hold his balance and laughing hysterically. I jumped up next to him and started to pee as well. We crossed Main Street peeing on the top of the train as gawking moms and dads stared at our looping arcs of pee. Someone beeped a horn and soon everyone was beeping as we passed the crossing and returned to the tree enclosed journey.

As we passed to the other side of Main Street we approached the new tennis club. The club was private and the new building was constructed with its windowless back facing the train tracks. The roof of the club was made of some sort of corrugated steel and made a giant crashing noise when struck with rocks. We didn’t like the people frequenting the club. They had money. As the train passed the tennis facility, we pulled the rocks from our pockets and pelted the roof. The noise outside sounded like thunder. We could only imagine how it sounded inside. We’d never know. Once our train passed the tennis club we had only a couple of minutes until the next big curve; until our exit. In the distance we heard the telltale clanking of couplings coming together as the train began to brake.

Like thunderclaps the cascade of compressing couplings approached, warning us of our pending exit. As the train slowed we climbed down the ladder on the side of the boxcar. As we came to a slow crawl, we jumped from our ladder, each mindful of trying not to bend our new Thor and Hulk comic books. We hit the ground without falling, our comic books survived. We stepped back from the tracks and watched as the train passed, slowly at first, then picking up steam as the front made its way past the end of the curve. The end of the train was marked with a red caboose. As it approached, we waved frantically at the black windows. It passed us without comment and, after looking both ways, we crossed the tracks finishing our walk to the movie theater about a half mile away.

We arrived a bit early and made our way to the front row, armed with large Cokes, a large buttered popcorn, one Goobers and one Raisinettes. We paged through our comic books marveling at the strength of Hulk and the wisdom of Thor. Nudging Tony, I reached deep into the front of my pants and pulled out a box of Junior Mints. “No way!” he exclaimed, “How did you get that past Sherbert.” I just shrugged and passed him the box of crushed mints.

We smiled as the lights went down and the Poseidon appeared. As the film and the tsunami wave were unleashed before us I looked over at my best friend I wondered what my mother had been so worried about.

Our science class consisted of the worst seeds; those destined to grow up to be weeds and gnarled trees, the ones growing next to a fence or building foundation only to have their growth retarded and constricted. I was a bad seed. I was told so. As a seed perhaps I would find root, break the soil and grow around a junk yard only to have a fence intertwine with my bark, constraining and limiting me to the soiled shadow of the junk yard. Other bad seeds would climb me to gain the fence and steal auto parts and batteries as I hoisted them towards their future. Science class was just one step on my path to the junk yard fence.

As the weeks rolled by our science class settled into a groove. Mr. Peloski lectured us and initiated weekly lab sessions as he hammered home the concept of action and reaction. “You’re not getting it!” he hollered as we deployed the lab material in new and untried manners. We constantly pushed and pressed Mr. Peloski, in order to get him to the point of explosion. We broke as much equipment as possible in an effort to create the desired reaction. Once we identified and crossed the invisible boundary of acceptable behavior, he would explode, cast his eyes towards his black desktop exposing his speckled bald spot, write a note and send us to Mr. Columbo’s office. As he penned his note summarizing unsatisfactory behavior we screamed “You’re bald!”

We constantly searched for this boundary over which passing created an explosion. Books and graduated cylinders were tossed out the second floor window in an effort to probe our subject. Reaction was our goal. Huge flames were left unattended as I pulled the rubber hoses connecting the Bunsen burners to the gas outlets and let the outlets burn like little wildcat oil wells. After Henry and I discovered magnesium was used in firebombing entire German cities in WWII we began boiling water in beakers and adding magnesium. We gained the desired reaction.

We had four science classes each week, one of which was a lab class. During science class Mr. Peloski peppered us with questions, seeking to publicly confirm our ignorance and his dominance of the topic at hand. He could not control us so he belittled us. On one such occasion he posed a simple question to Henry regarding the periodic table to which Henry responded with a blank stare. “Not too smart, are we Henry?” asked Peloski. “Take that back, Mr. Peloski.” Henry responded.

Mr. Peloski put down his pen and stood up, removing his glasses. “What did you just say to me, young man?”

“Take that back or you’ll be sorry for the rest of your life,” warned Henry.

Mr. Peloski, leaned over and scribbled something on a piece of paper, folded it and stapled it, slamming the stapler. As he looked down I ducked my head under my desk and screamed, “You’re fucking bald!”

Peloski’s head jerked up as he stared at Henry, “Henry, get the hell out of my classroom and take this note with you to Mr. Colombo’s office. Go. Now!”

Henry threw his desk to the side and ran to the window, pulling the bottom window up and letting a swirling breeze into our second story window. Papers lifted from two nearby desks and floated up on a breeze of tension, arcing beautifully to the floor where they remained. “I’ll jump, Peloski. I don’t give a shit.”

“He’ll do it, Mr. Peloski. You’re gonna make him do it,” I warned.

Peloski braced himself. “Shut up, Kinkade. Shut the hell up. Henry, step away from the window NOW or I am going to get Mr. Colombo myself.”

Henry threw his leg up on the wooden window sill, knocking a peeled swirl of yellow paint to the floor. “I’ll do it. I’m sick of you treating me like shit. You treat me like shit and I hate you. I hate you! I’m gonna do it, Mr. Peloski. I’m gonna do it.”

Peloski began walking towards Henry and Henry quickly responded by jumping up and straddling the window sill, knocking more paint chips to the floor. “Stop, stop, don’t touch him,” we started screaming. “Don’t go near him, you’ll kill him!”

“I hate you,” screamed Henry. “I hate you Mr. Peloski.”

Sensing he had lost control, Mr. Peloski screamed, “Don’t move, Henry.” He bolted out the door. Following him I ran to the door and watched his bulbous ass jiggle back and forth as he hit the stairwell heading downstairs towards Principal Colombo’s office.

I ran back in, “He’s going to Colombo’s office!” I warned Henry.
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Henry dismounted the window sill and followed Peloski’s footsteps out the door, screaming, “Tell the fucker I jumped.”

With Henry gone it remained quiet as we took our seats and waited.

Principal Colombo and Peloski marched in. “Where is Henry?” barked Mr. Colombo.

“He jumped. He jumped out the window,” I volunteered. A wave of pure terror washed across the faces of Colombo and Peloski as they darted towards the open window, throwing their stomachs onto the sill and peering out. “OH MY GOD,” screamed Colombo.

We all threw our chairs and desks aside in a cascade of screeches on linoleum as we joined our teacher and principal at the window. Henry was lying on the sidewalk, eyes closed and arms and legs splayed about him like a broken doll. “You killed him,” whispered Tony to Peloski. “You killed him.”

Peloski’s hands covered his mouth as he whispered out the beginnings of a prayer, “Dear God … I, I …Our father who art in Heaven …” He fell forward and began to dry heave.

Colombo ran out of the class, heading downstairs, “Jesus Christ, someone call an ambulance.” Peloski jerked back to reality and followed him; running faster than I have ever seen a fat person run. Once exiting the classroom I returned to the window and screamed down to Henry. “Run! Run, they’re coming! Run, Henry!”

Henry leapt to his feet and, without looking up, flew down the street, darting out of site bouncing off a parked car and some bushes like an errant molecule.

Study hall for the 10th through 12th grade was held in the school auditorium, a large sloped room with about 500 seats, each with a pullout desk attached to the seat in front, each bolted to the floor and facing a large wooden stage. The room smelled musty, like an old closet. The auditorium was accessible from two rear doors, two side doors, each next to the side stage entrances and a stage back door, until recently locked, though now accessible following our efforts to break the lock.

Students were scattered like marbles throughout the auditorium, rolling about and eventually forming little groups. The teacher charged with minding us sat at a large desk directly in front of the stage. He was charged with controlling us. The stage and the teacher’s domain were framed by enormous curtains that did not burn. The stage itself was haphazardly populated with music stands, chairs, a piano conveniently built on wheels and a locked steel cabinet containing the microphone system and a stereo. On the left of the room light poured through a series of ceiling height, church like stained glass windows. There was no pattern to the stained glass; just hundreds of small beautiful multi-colored pains, passing their colors through the ever present mist of floating dust. For the clear minded, it could be quite beautiful. For those on drugs, it was mesmerizing.

The auditorium seats provided for a variety of activities. For one, they allowed you to sneak to a side isle, run out the side door and, once out the door, and in the stairwell, smoke pot; lots and lots of pot. When such an opportunity presented itself, exiting the auditorium was the challenge. Once you were out and completed your activity you simply sauntered back in and returned to your seat. The teacher in charge, Mr. Boyle, a man we referred to as BO due to his body odor, yelled, “Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Kinkade?” The best answer was no answer as fellow bad kid students dipped their heads behind chairs and screamed, “Fuck you, BO!”, thereby enraging and distracting Boyle.

BO’s last day as a study hall teacher began like most. A few minutes after we found our seats, I snuck out to smoke. After a few minutes, I returned to my seat, stared in awe at the colorful dust in the air and then turned my attention to removing the nuts holding the chairs to their respective frames. Each chair had eight standard nuts. After smoking pot, dipping my head and laying a “Fuck you, BO” on Mr. Boyle I sat there stupefied and slowly unscrewed a handful of nuts.

This particular day, like most, my friend Marcus snuck out after I had returned from my stairwell quiet time. Marcus was a dear friend and prone to violence. He wore a Mohawk and leather and sold acid. He attended the 12th grade twice. We were very close. Prior to leaving study for his quiet time, I asked Marcus to pound on the backstage door. After a bit of time had passed and some more colors glided over me, he did so and, as if on cue, BO turned around in response to the commotion. With BO’s back to me, I stood up and hurled a handful of nuts at the windows. They met their mark, breaking a number of little windows. Little beams of light popped in, piercing the dust and finding various seats. It was beautiful. BO, pivoted and pointed at me. I in turn, pointed at the windows, “Someone’s throwing crap through the windows. Someone’s throwing things at us, Mr. Boyle!” “Jesus Christ” murmured BO. He bolted up the aisle and out the door.

Now, for a reason I can not imagine, the auditorium doors could be locked from the inside; a design flaw. I ran one way and a study hall mate, Tony, ran another making it to the doors.

We secured the auditorium. I ran up on stage with Tony and broke open the stereo cabinet. We did so by grabbing an upper corner of the metal cabinet and pulling it back, bending it down so it looked like a little metallic dog’s ear. We cranked the music, spinning the station dial until we found Zeppelin. We blasted it. We began to dance on stage. Horrible dancing, back and forth with our hips, arms waiving. The smart kids stared. We told them to leave if the wanted and about half bolted out the side door, directly into Marcus’ smoke filled stairwell. The other half stayed, I imagine wondering how, once they became leaders and owners of businesses, they were going to manage and motivate the likes of us some day in the future.

We started throwing music stands as we danced. We turned off the lights. Only the multi-colored windows and the beams of light intruded.

BO and other teachers began to pound on the rear doors. “BO. BO. BO” we chanted. Finally a janitor unlocked the door and we scrambled off stage.

Ignoring the smart kids, BO pointed at me. “Get out, Mr. Kinkade. Get out now and go directly to Mr. Colombo’s office. You are an animal!”

“I didn’t do it, Mr. Boyle. I was studying and you left us alone!”

“GET OUT”

Furious I left. Once through the doors I ran around the outside of the auditorium via the common hallway and found the backstage door. I snuck in, onto the stage. I peeked and saw BO sitting at his desk, trying to organize his life by organizing his papers. As had happened a moment ago, I shut the stage lights. This time, however, I did not dance. I went to the wheeled piano and began pushing it hard towards the end of the stage below which sat BO’s desk. Slowly at first, I quickly picked up steam. Hearing the rumbling, BO turned. He sprang like a cork from his chair as the piano crashed off the stage next to his desk. Long notes hung in the air, joining the beams of light. Then joining the silence of the smart kids.

Horrified, BO ran for the door. I ran too. I ran out the back stage, across the courtyard, down the hallway, past a hall monitor. – “Hey, you’re not allowed to run!” and into the waiting area of Mr. Colombo’s office. I sat there, mute, for a moment. I controlled my breathing. Kids where in an out of there all the time. It was like the portion of an ant hill where the broken ants go. The master ants saw us as fodder. I was a regular; like a broken ant. “How long do I have to stay here?” I asked the secretary. She looked up from her book and shrugged at the broken ant. BO came in, panting. It looked like he had been crying. I looked up at him, “I don’t know where Mr. Colombo is. Can I go now?”

There was a thorough investigation. However with no witnesses I was not pinned with the windows or piano. I got a week’s detention. The next day, we had a new study hall teacher.

The games moved quickly as a handful of boys dominated with pitching prowess I could not match. If I was lucky I got one hit or, perhaps, a base on balls. Twice I was forced – after a catcher had laughed at my struggling swings – to step as far back into the batter’s box as I could and swing the bat seeking to connect with the catcher’s extended arm rather than the ball. On both occasions I connected hard with the catcher’s hand or arm, making the catcher cry, and forcing me to deliver a sincere apology prior to walking to first base due to catcher’s interference. Thereafter the catchers gave me a wide birth and I was beaned on more than one occasion.

After the games a few like minded boys, usually me, Tony and Henry, an tough kid from one of the other schools rode through the woods, exploring new paths and trying to out jump each other as we launched our bikes over various portions of a long drainage ditch in celebration of our canyon jumping hero, Evel Knievel.

On this day Henry, sought to out jump us with a leap over the mouth of the drainage ditch. Furiously pedaling towards the wide ditch he pulled up on the handlebars too late and crashed into the other side, pancaking his balls onto his banana seat. We dropped our bikes and ran over to find Henry, not holding his flattened balls as expected but kneeling on hands and knees looking into the four foot drainage pipe feeding the ditch. He turned and caught our eyes. Without a word he proceeded into the underground pipe, crouching down and slipping into darkness. We followed.

The drainage pipe stretched far under the earth, its end point unseen as we moved forward. The pipe itself was simply a huge concrete tube; sloping up four feet and around over our heads in a circle with a trickle of water at our feet. Our cleats made clacking noises as we proceeded into the darkness. The air was moist and the concrete sides were cool to the touch. We all had matches and took turns lighting a match or trying to light random twigs or papers scatted along the sides as we crept forward. Periodically shafts of light entered through a manhole or sewer grate beaming down into our path. The beams of light drew us forward. We cupped the light with our hands or strained our faces upwards towards the source.

After a distance the pipe turned at a series of right angles. Each such turn was marked by an open area with a set of ladder rungs built into the wall leading up from our pipe to a manhole 10 feet above. These corner areas were about four feet round rising from the pipe and narrowing above as the opening met the manhole. At each such juncture, there was enough space to stand up. They were natural stopping points. We stretched. Below our feet and around the circumference of the circular area were huge piles of dried leaves, trash, soda cans and twigs deposited into the sewer from previous storms. Above were the penetrating lights and the sounds of birds, traffic or silence. We kept walking and after reaching each area, we stood silent and tried to guess our location or at least figure out how far we had gone underground.

We continued on for another 10 minutes slowly walking through the dark, screaming every now and then in an effort to scare each other and simply to enjoy our own echoes. We arrived at a manhole area and listened. Silence. We had no idea where we were. “I’m going up,” volunteered Henry. He climbed the rungs on the side of the concrete wall and put his ear to the manhole. Again, silence. Planting his feet together on the top rung and leaning his back against the opposing wall he pushed hard slowly lifting the heavy manhole cover over his head. He was strong.

Immediately a horn blared and tires screeched above us. Henry freaked, trying to duck down. He slipped and dropped the manhole cover. The cover was too big to fall through the opening, however Henry dropped it so quickly it fell and pivoted on its edges, swinging down in a semi-circle, cracking Henry in the front of the head. Everything seems to move to slow motion as he dropped like a rock landing in a lump as the sound of the horn above floated away. We looked up waiting to see if we were caught. We looked down, now wondering what to do with our unconscious friend. A crescent of sunbeam arced across Henry’s chest as he lie there with his legs under him. We straightened him out and, after placing our hands in the muddy trickle of water, gently dabbed Henry’s face, wiping away blood. We scooped up some water and sprinkled it on him, whispering, “It’s OK, Henry. You’re OK, buddy. Wake up, now, come on, come on, Henry.” We began to debate whether one of us should run to get help or if we should both stay with Henry or if we should both go, leaving Henry. We were ill prepared for such a turn.

Henry began to stir then to slowly cry. He tried to stand and then fell, like a wobbly boxer, landing hard on the mat. “You’re OK, Henry. You almost got hit by a car. You got hit by a manhole. You were out cold.”

“Take me home,” he stammered.

We began to retrace our steps, slowly walking Henry along and taking turns supporting his weight. We stopped frequently as he was unbalanced and the sloping sewer pipe made it difficult to walk side by side. We came up to a right turn with a manhole cover over us and Henry asked to rest. We sat Henry down on a large pile of dried leaves and newspapers. He was wheezing from the effort and his forehead had a huge red goose egg, from his encounter with the manhole cover. Henry continued to bleed and began to shiver, “I’m cold.”

We gathered up some papers and lit them for warmth, tucking the burning edges under the leaves. The leaves caught fast and soon the entire pile was burning. The situation accelerated along with the flames as we kicked the fire away from Henry. The flames spread quickly. Too quickly. The entire circular area began to burn and fill with smoke. Henry started to gasp for air. I climbed up the metal rungs, listened for cars and pushed the manhole up and over. The cover was heavy. “How did he pick this thing up?” I asked. I peeked up carefully and, saw we were no longer under a street. We were in a clearing behind the school. Smoke poured out the open manhole as I climbed back down and we helped Henry up, through the chimney of smoke and onto the grass. His head hit the last ladder rung as a man walking his dog came running over, seeing Henry tottering over returning to his hands and knees. “What the fuck are you kids doing down there? I’m going to call the cops on you little shits!”

“Don’t call the cops, Mister, there’s a little girl trapped in there. Help her! She needs help!” I screamed. “She’s that way!” I said, pointing towards the school.

“Jesus H. Christ. Hold my dog!”

The man climbed down into the plume of smoke searching for the imaginary girl. I released his dog and together we ran like members of a three legged race team. We ran with Henry across the field and retrieved our bikes. Henry was very dizzy but now, like us, he was more scared. He said he was able to ride his bike. We tried and, though wobbly, he did not fall. Fueled by fear of getting caught we rode to a safe vantage point and watched the poor guy climb out of the manhole, sooty, gasping for air and looking for us. It dawned on him his dog was nowhere to be seen. By now a couple of other adults had joined him, first peering into the manhole and then looking up and around like the swooping search light from a lighthouse.

At the sight of the soon to be organized adults we scattered, with the simple goal of going our separate ways, looking for a pool, running through a sprinkler or hosing ourselves down while still in our uniforms to mask the smell of smoke. Arriving home smelling of smoke was always a problem. I ended up riding my bike nearly all the way home and stopping at a creek, took my cleats off and laid down in the water, rolling over like an alligator wrestling its prey and drenching myself. I biked home and banged on the back door. “Mom, I fell in the brook after baseball. Can you bring me some shorts so I don’t get the floor wet?”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Beasley, you’ve got to be more careful than that. How was baseball?”

“Good. You know, same as usual. What’s for dinner?”