Читать книгу Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride - Brian Sweany - Страница 17

Chapter nine

I enter the house. Mom is huddled over the stove in the kitchen, coffee mug in her left hand, sharp knife in her right. She looks up at me.

“There’s our good Catholic boy,” Mom says. “Glad to have you back.”

I smile. “Glad to be back.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, leans back, and points at my face with the knife. “Haven’t seen that smile around this house in more than a week. Nice to have you back. How was it?”

“It was okay.”

Mom’s eyes perk up. “Okay?”

“Kind of fun, actually.”

“Tell me about it,” Mom says.

I humor my mother. I tell her the retreat began like any Catholic retreat, with a procession of pep talks, a Bible study, a group sing, and a daily Mass that numbed the brain and cleansed the soul. I tell her about our retreat leader, this guy in his mid-twenties who in the span of an hour fought drug addiction, dropped out of high school, was ostracized by family and friends, found Jesus, went back and got his GED, and was now in his second year of trade school where he was studying to become an electrical engineer. The second speaker, months removed from his last “Christian Awakening” retreat and still pretty much Lorded up, gave his own stirring account of how the Holy Spirit had changed his life for the better. He interspersed Top 40 songs in with his presentation to keep us interested. He was an ex-jock, just turned twenty, who had turned his back on the four S’s—“Stroh’s, Smoking, Sex, and Satan.” He played “I Won’t Back Down” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and “Calling on You” by the Christian rock band Stryper. Seriously, fucking Stryper? All the girls thought he was deep. I wanted to punch him in the face, or else buy him a beer.

What I don’t tell my mother is how on the first night in the dorms we stole the Gatorade cooler out of the rec room, spiked it with vodka, and hid it in a broom closet. Or how after we ran out of dirty jokes, I read from the Book of Leviticus.

With all due respect to Orthodox Jews, the Book of Leviticus is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever read, an inane list of do and do nots that reads like a long practical joke from God:

“When a man has an emission of seed, he shall bathe his whole body in water and be unclean until evening.” (By my rough calculations, I’ve been unclean since the invasion of Grenada.)

“You shall not disgrace your father by having intercourse with your mother.” (Don’t fuck your mom. Good advice.)

“If a man has carnal relations with a female slave who has already been living with another man but has not yet been redeemed or given her freedom, they shall be punished but not put to death, because she is not free.” (As always in the Bible, slavery is cool. Got it.)

“If a man commits adultery with his neighbor’s wife, both the adulterer and the adulteress shall be put to death.” (Yeah, but have they seen my neighbor’s wife?)

“If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed…” (Love your neighbor as yourself, but kill him if he’s a goddamn homo. Understood.)

“A man or a woman who acts as a medium or fortune-teller shall be put to death by stoning…” (I’ll have my pile of rocks at the ready next Halloween when some six-year-old dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West comes to my door and tries to get her satanic paws on my Reese’s Pieces. “Trick or treat,” she’ll say, with that cute, sugar-edgy voice. “Happy Halloween,” I’ll reply in kind, only to raise my rock-filled fists of vengeance, shouting, “Death to the infidels!”)

The Book of Leviticus’s sage advice notwithstanding, I still thought about Laura.

Our group leaders woke us up at dawn on the last day of the retreat, April Fool’s Day. Most of us had less than four hours of sleep under our belts. They were still pushing us nineteen hours later.

After midnight, they separated us into our small groups, sending each group into a private classroom in the old Latin School building. Our classroom was illuminated by a small circle of candles, with a crucifix in the middle of the circle. Our group leader asked everyone to take turns holding the crucifix and talking to Jesus. Slap happy and defenseless, we coughed up some serious shit.

The girl across the circle had a bad experience when she lost her virginity and had sworn to give up sex forever. Given that she was hot, I thought this was a rash decision. The guy to my left buried his infant brother two days before he got there, and this made me cry because I thought about Mom’s miscarriages.

I was fucking exhausted. They broke me. I devolved into a lovesick pussy pining away for Laura. None of the guys in the room liked me for the rest of the night, while I was certain all the girls wanted to fuck me.

We had an extended farewell Mass the following morning, which pissed me off because Saturday morning was too early to count as Sunday service. Two priests, three guitars, and a triangle—they pulled out all the stops. We were each given a medal—a cheap chain that ended in a medallion resembling a German Iron Cross—and an American Bible Society mass market paperback edition of the New Testament entitled Good News New Testament: Today’s English Version. We all signed each other’s New Testaments, like a yearbook, adding a cliché sentiment or two.

There was the requisite exclamation point overkill:

Hank,

You know you’re such a special person! I say that because you opened up to total strangers! That takes guts, and I admire you! Stay as special as I know you are!

Love! Leanne

The not-even-close-to-subtle flirting:

Hank,

You’re such a charmer and sooooo cute. I only wish this wasn’t the only time we could hang out. Good luck in whatever it is you do. Keep that charming personality.

Peace & lots of Enjoyment, Samantha

The lone person with perspective:

Hank,

What’s up, dude? Whew, glad we’re done with this. I hope we’ll go party together because I think it will be a unique experience. I need your phone number.

Friends, Pete

And then of course the big-breasted girl who read way too much into something I said to her during last night’s séance because it afforded me multiple hugs and therefore multiple exposures to her enormous rack:

Hank,

I’m really glad I got an opportunity to get to know you because you’re one heck of a person. If you ever need someone, I’m here and I hope we can keep a friendship going even after we leave here. It helped to know that you were going through the same thing with your girlfriend that I am with my boyfriend. We both obviously love them very much and I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that by myself. Thanks a lot for being yourself.

Love, Theresa

P.S. I need to get something cleared up with you as soon as possible, OK? OK.

Yeah, about that. After the séance, Theresa and I may have snuck into Holy Rosary and made out in an empty confessional booth. And I may have gotten her top off and fondled her breasts for a solid half hour.

“Sounds like you had a good time despite yourself, Hank.”

I hover over Mom’s shoulder, peering down at the breakfast spread. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Good,” Mom says. “How does ham and eggs sound?”

“My favorite.”

“I know.”

I notice Mom is using leftover grilled ham steak, from last night’s supper, no doubt. The ham harbors a distinct pineapple odor from the marinade. For me this is usually, to borrow some recently reacquired Vatican parlance, victus non grata. I don’t mix my salts and sweets, ever. I make it a point to eat all my bacon or sausage before I put syrup on my pancakes, so as not to get syrup on the meat. I consider things like grapes in chicken salad and salt on watermelon affronts to my existence.

But I don’t mind the pineapple flavored ham in my eggs, at least not today.

I watch as Mom cuts the ham into little squares and drops it in a skillet with a couple tablespoons of butter. She pauses every so often to stretch her back and give a slow, mournful rub to her belly. She thinks no one notices.

While the ham is sautéing, I beat three eggs and a quarter-cup of milk together. I hand the egg mixture to Mom, and she pours it over the ham. Ham and eggs was the first thing I ever learned how to cook. I was seven years old when I made it for Mom and Dad. I remember the harvest gold appliances, the ornate vinyl flooring, the trash compacter, and Mom and Dad not complaining about the large pieces of egg shell.

The phone rings. Mom points her spatula at me. “Can you get that? I’m guessing it’s for you anyway.”

I pick up the phone. “Hi, Hank.”

“Laura? Hey there, baby.” I try to temper my enthusiasm. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this early.”

“Yeah, well we drove straight through. Got in about three this morning. I couldn’t really sleep.”

“Poor thing,” I say, more sarcastic than sympathetic.

We exchange a few forced pleasantries. I give her a hard time for not calling me since Wednesday and sending me one postcard the entire week. She talks about the days getting away from her and how she already wishes she could go back.

“Go back? But aren’t you glad to—”

“Can you meet me in front of the library this afternoon?” Her tone is impatient.

“Not any sooner?” I ask.

“Look, Hank…” A pause on the other end of the line. “I’m going to try to get some rest, clear the cobwebs. I don’t think my body can figure out whether it’s hungover or still drunk.”

“Three o’clock, then?”

“How about five thirty?”

“I guess I can wait ’til then. I love y—”

Laura hangs up on me.

I park the Subie in front of the Empire Ridge Public Library. I’m early, so I wait in the lobby. As soon as I walk in, the receptionist, who I don’t know but who of course recognizes me as “John’s boy,” says hello. Another loyal Oldsmobile driver. A Delta 88 looks about her speed.

I flip through the sports section of today’s Empire Daily, and then glance at my watch. Laura is late. She’s never late for anything. I’m already bothered that she hung up on me. And my cock still hurts from masturbating in the shower this morning. Twice.

I have this waterproof poster of a bikini-clad Brenda Dickson, the original Jill Foster from The Young and the Restless. With its special self-adhesive backing that sticks to wet surfaces, the poster has been my on-again, off-again bathing companion for a while now. The combination of Brenda’s cleavage and knowing Laura was getting back from spring break gave me the rare dual orgasm—once early on, after having popped an erection the moment the oscillating spray hit me, and a second time a half hour later after I’d drained the house of all hot water.

Multiple single-session ejaculations in the shower, waxing sentimental about waterproof posters of soap opera stars…these things beg the question: why haven’t Laura and I had sex yet?

I guess at some point in time over the last couple months, the awkwardness between us became safe. That line I was once all too ready to cross became a wall—a comfort zone behind which I retreated when things got too intense. We always got most of our clothes off. I always got my mouth on her breasts or my fingers inside her. And yet the nights always ended with me alone in a bathroom, trying to rub out a debilitating case of blue balls, my chastity preserved.

My chastity preserved? What the hell is my problem? I accrued more “hands-on” sexual experience by the time I was ten years old than most teenagers. I am the ultimate hormonally dysfunctional example of a Catholic upbringing that did not take. And I can’t pull off something as simple as fucking a girl? What does my penis see in my left hand that it doesn’t see in my girlfriend’s vagina?

“Hey there, Hank.”

Laura startles me. I smell traces of aloe and suntan lotion on the hand that grabs my shoulder. I turn to her. Her skin is bronzed, her cheeks sunburned, her nose peeling. Her hair is windblown, bleached sandy blonde by a week in the Panama City sun. She looks fresh off the beach: hair pulled back in a half ponytail, minimal makeup for her, no jewelry save for a large, white hemp bracelet on her left wrist. She’s sexy as hell.

“Laura,” I say, embracing her. She hugs me back, but it’s cursory and cold, more like how my sister would hug me. As she backs away, I see him standing about ten yards back.

“You bring a friend?” My question is rhetorical. There’s a lump in my throat. I feel sick.

“Hank, I’m sorry. It just kind of happened.”

The “it” in our discussion is the asshole standing behind Laura. His name is Lee Barnes. I fucking know him! She didn’t just hook up with some random guy—she hooked up with a Prepster.

“Lee Barnes?” I shout his name as if he isn’t even there. “Lee fucking Barnes?”

“I couldn’t just come back home and pretend nothing happened.”

“Sure you could,” I respond. “I did.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think I went to a retreat for my fucking salvation, did you?”

Laura seems offended by my candor. “What was her name?”

“Miss None Of Your Goddamn Business,” I say. “I was in a church confessional with a pair of needy Catholic breasts in my face. You were with Lee Barnes. The end.”

Truth is, I don’t really know Lee Barnes. He’s stocky, but still leaner than me. He has a square jaw and coal-black hair that looks to be permed rather than naturally curly. He used to date Tammy Dwyer, one half of the Dwyer sisters, gorgeous fraternal twins who rule the junior class at the Ridge. I had a crush on Tammy for the first two years of high school, although not so much now that she’s become a chain smoker and whiskey drinker who dates guys partial to ripping out your spleen for even looking at her. Sammy is the sweeter of the two, the shrinking violet you’d throw yourself in front of a bus for. I’m protective of Sammy, even though we aren’t all that close, at least not as close as I pretend we are. She was in my sophomore English class. We flirted. We still flirt, now that I think about it.

“Please, Laura.” I hold back tears. Man, I am one enormous pussy. Please? Is that all I can come up with?

Laura, though noticeably flustered, is steadfast. She keeps her distance, committed to not giving any pretense of hope. “We’re obviously no good for one another.”

My voice cracks. “And when did that become a unilateral decision?”

“Please, Hank.” Laura reaches out to me. She squeezes my arm, more calculating than compassionate. “You’re still the sweetest guy I know.”

“Sweet!” I give her a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Good to know I got that going for me.”

Laura continues to hold on to my arm. “Don’t say that.” She gives my arm a patronizing shake. “Come on, guy. I’m a senior, you’re a junior. You and I knew this was inevitable.”

“Bullshit!” I wrench my arm out of her grasp. “You could have fucking clued me in on the inevitable part before I wasted the last four months of my life.”

“They were special to me too, Han—”

“Don’t you fucking say that!” My finger is in her face, almost touching her nose. “You’ve lost the right to say that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You sure are fucking sorry.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

All I can do is throw it back in her face. Laura wants to feel okay about what she’s done. She wants absolution. Fuck her. I’m not her fucking priest. She isn’t even Catholic. I’m not getting dumped by a slut—I’m getting dumped by a Protestant slut.

I finally turn my back on Laura after another profanity-riddled diatribe. By the time I settle down enough to face her again, she’s halfway to Lee Barnes. He puts his arm around her. Just as they start to walk away he glances back at me with a smarmy look of satisfaction on his face. He tries to pull Laura in for a kiss, but she pushes him off. “Not now, Lee,” she says.

Not now. I walk past the front passenger side of the Subie. I see the rose I brought for Laura in the front seat. I brought Laura a red rose, and she brought me a fucking pink slip.

Not now. I approach the rear of my car. A scene is looping in my head. Laura is naked, playing with her tits, pumping her bare ass up and down Lee’s shaft and screaming, “Now, now, now!” I cock my fist back and then bring it forward, straightening my arm as I hit the tailgate. I get my hips into it for good measure. I remove my hand to reveal a dent in the back hatch of my car. My knuckles are bleeding. I know Dad is going to be mad, but I don’t think about that. I think about how much this hurts. And I’m not talking about my hand.

My stomach clenches. The ham and eggs come up in three rushes of bilious fluid. I drop to one knee and steady myself with my good hand. The vomit covers my shoes. It smells of ham, pineapple, and vinegar.

All I can think about is Laura’s bare skin. The tears. The blood. The vomit. Her touch. Why can’t I get a handle on this? She could turn around, walk up to me, reach down my pants and say, “One hand job for the road?” and I’d readily accept the invitation.

What the fuck is wrong with me?