Chapter XXXIV: Hungry Like The Wolf

Chapter Thirty-Four: Hungry Like The Wolf

Rachel Divine kept her promise. I didn't get any calls or visits from the police. This surprised me. Maybe my luck was changing. I refused to answer the phone anymore and missed a few calls from Vance and Cristo but nothing important. I was waiting for the violin repairman to call. I had asked for a violin for Christmas and my grandmother gave me one along with a lecture about how much work it would take to learn how to play it. My father asked me if I knew anything about the violin. I told him I didn't need to. I would learn from the blind fiddler. He suggested I take a class. I said that Mozart had not needed classes. I was told I was not Mozart. This was news to me. I argued that I would learn to play the violin and I would never return. I was reminded of the multiple times I had said this but had returned nevertheless. I was reminded of my contradictions, my inconsistencies, and my failures.

The instrument had no strings and no bridge, but for fifty bucks a Luthier in Willowville promised to fix it. I reluctantly agreed to delay my departure. I didn't know how long Rachel would keep quiet and I had a vision of playing violin in a Mariachi band in sunny Mexico. I would learn violin from a blind fiddler on the streets of Mexico and play for change and eat fruit and bread and beer. I could migrate back to Ecuador where I could work on a farm. Maybe I would marry a beautiful seamstree and move into the country where my progeny would flourish. I would need the violin to teach my children to sing Mexican folk songs. IT was worth waiting for; besides, what were the chances that Rachel would actually sue me? She would probably forget the whole thing.

This theory collapsed when I went to get the door one afternoon. I was careful to check who it was but only saw the innocent Mailman. He handed me a certified letter to sign for.

Cool, I thought. Maybe I won something.

I won something, alright: the Biggest Idiot award. First place. The letter was from The Applenook County Court. Why didn't I look first, then refuse to sign? I was being sued by Rachel for the maximum amount for a small claims court: Two Thousand Five Hundred Dollars. Twenty dollars had been added as “Court Fees”. Without knowing it, I had just signed a paper agreeing to appear in court or forfeit the case and the money.

“Who was that?” my Dad asked from upstairs.

“That was the Ghost of Christmas past,” I said

“Who?”

“No one. No one at all.”

I realized it didn't matter anymore if I left. Something would always suck me back, family, friends, court, weddings, and funerals. No matter what I did to get out of this town, drive to Alaska, hitchhike to California, fly Colombia and Ecuador, bike to Canada, Florida, the moon, I would always come back. I was raised in Bone Harbor and I'll be buried over by Clough Field. Maybe Gordy's kids will hit a home run onto my grave.

Thus I found myself walking over to Cristo's house, leaving my own car under a tarp in the driveway since I feared the police were still after me. I had four blocks to consider the irony of buying a car only to have it cost me my freedom and now I couldn't even drive the car because the police were looking for it. School buses were lined up in front of the Junior High School. The mill pond was frozen over. I passed Kurt's house and the McAuliffe's palace in front of the twin racquetball courts that were our Whiffle ball fields. With only half a roof the courts had a natural home run boundary. A triple was a hit off the chain link face above the back wall and a double was a hit off the cement wall. A single was a ground ball that passed the fielder and hit the back wall. Why these rules were important is not clear when I remembered that we only counted home runs. A triple was simply not an out. Runners did not advance and every home run was worth one run regardless of how many ghost runners there were. A ground ball could be fielded for an out before it hit a wall and any ball could be caught in the air for an out. The bounces off the chain link fence and the speed at which the ball was hit in the small court made the game interesting. Court whiffle ball was better than baseball because it had no uniform and no crowd. And even a crippled Greek could play. Cristo was perfect for it because there was almost no running. He was a good judge of the ricochet so with only a step or two he could be where the ball would end up to make an easy catch. JoJo “Stretch” Locke played and since Kurt's house was just a block away he played too. Even E. Squidly, who was as clumsy as the Tin Man and had hands like seal flippers, played when he could get out of weeding his lawn. Piper Skinski probably had a job so he didn't play. But the single greatest court whiffle ball player was a quick kid in gym shorts and a half cut Rush shirt named Gordy “Clutch” Clutcher.

After the usual abuse from Spiker and the tiresome family squabbles of the Patanikolous clan I sat on the couch with my lukewarm ash and cocoa.

“What you get for Christmas?” Cristo asked as he lay on the couch, his filthy stocking feet hanging over the end of the couch.

“A big lump of shit. You?”

“Nada. I bought your mom a nice set of earrings. Real nice.”

Cristo flipped his big ears at me like a earring model. A word of explanation about this comment: After ten years of insulting each other's mothers, we had recently started to say nice things as a variation. As twisted as this sounds, it allowed us to invent new 'insults' and also allowed us to make these comments in public.

“Oh, yeah? Well I went to the mall and got your mom a bouquet of flowers. Roses and carnations.”

“That's nothing. I took your mom out to dinner the other night.”

If these don't sound funny or even interesting to you then that explain why teenagers insult each other's mothers instead of complimenting them. Still, it was our variation and we were committed to it for moment.

“Whatever. I'm leaving for Mexico tomorrow”

“You say that every year. Screw you.”

“I can't stay here. I'm close to getting in trouble. Big trouble.”

“Shut up. Because of Jeannie? She was too drunk to remember where she was. You know that after you left she screamed, 'I put a curse on this house.' Erin just laughed. “Last I saw her she was in a snow bank on the side of the street and everyone who drove by here threw a beer at her. She was a freak who deserved everything she got. Anyway, it was Bullwhip who threw her down that hill. Buddy pissed on her. She was lucky Olson wasn't there. He would have puked on the whore.”

“That all might be true, Sticky, but she isn't the one who is going to get me into trouble. There...have been some other incidents.”

“Shut up. I haven't heard anything.”

The fact that I knew Cristo was lying made no difference to me. He had led Rachel to my doorstep, but that was to be expected from a dishonorable Greek cripple?

“It's true. The mess I'm in makes the Jeannie incident look like that time we shit on the High School steps.”

“But there'll be big parties this New Years. Roddy and Moony are having one. You have to stay. You might get laid. Oggy might get laid. Uh! Malaka.”

He humped the air again.

“My whole life could be screwed if I stay. It would be a huge mistake. No. Definitely no.”

“What life? You sleep all day and watch Game Six all night. Is that a life? Five bucks this guy scores right now. Goal!”

“It's my life. It's the only life I have.”

A soccer forward was in the clear. The keeper charged and forced the guy to kick early. The ball sailed high and into the stands. Cristo swore.

“Pay up,” I said.

“Eat me. I'm not paying you nothing. Where's Spiker? Spiker!”

The dog crawled in from the kitchen, innocently curious, his ears half raised in wonder. He was suddenly struck in the jaw by a flying remote control. He yelped and ran away.

Called Beb from the other room, “What are you guys doing to Spiker?”

“Oggy just threw an ashtray at him,” responded Cristo.

“Oggy!”

“Cristo, why do you have to be an asshole?” I said.

“What do you care? He likes it.”

“'Look at me. Oooh. I'm Sticky and I'm an asshole. Ooooh. Look at me. I abuse animals because I have a low self-esteem.' Bastard.”

“I know you are but what am I?”

“An ass.”

“I know you are but what am I?”

“Real cool.”

“I know you are but...So is your mom. You wanna drive me to Marshford? I just called in an order.”

“The only place I'm driving to is Guadalajara, Mexico.”

So we got in Cristo's mom's shit brown, '79 Cavalier and drove across the bridge to the outlet malls in Marshford, Maine. The old Weathervane restaurant was nestled between a brand new Polo store and a Sunglasses hut. It looked nothing like the Marshford that Gordy Clutcher and I had ridden our bikes through on our way to JoJo's house in Plumsook. Almost every inch was paved or landscaped for the convenience of tourist shoppers from Massachusetts. Even though New Hampshire has no sales tax, and you are just throwing away eight percent of the purchase price, some New Hampshire residents made the drive to the outlets, lured by the illusion of low prices.

Cristo parked in the handicapped spot and pulled out a blue handicapped sign that he hung from the rear view mirror.

“My dad just had surgery.”

An old couple limped by and frowned at us. Cristo glared back and pointed to the handicap access sign.

“Assholes!”

Since Cristo had phoned in his order he just picked up the bag of fried chicken strips, onion rings, French fries, buttered buiscits, soda and coleslaw and brought it back to the car. I said the only thing I would eat were the onion rings. They were hot and I ate them with little packets of ketchup squeezed on the wax paper. I was suddenly starving. It always seemed I forgot to eat until Cristo was eating. I ate the onion rings with two hands, stuffing them in my face and swallowing them half chewed, grunting.

“Don't eat all those, you pig. Come on! Buy your own!”

Cole Slaw fell out of Cristo's mouth as he yelled at me but he was quick to replace it with more breaded chicken strips. My mouth was so full I couldn't speak so I flipped him off with a greasy finger. Soon the onion rings were gone so I turned to the coleslaw and the biscuits. I made slaw sandwiches to save time. I pushed whole biscuits in my mouth and had to hold them there with my shiny fingers while I chewed. The only thing I could not do was unhinge my jaw. Cristo could only squint and groan at me to save him some biscuits, but I didn't care. I was hungry! I wanted to eat! There was no time to speak.

As we ate in the car, every old couple who limped by would receive the same put-upon response, all without a pause in the feast.

The whole food orgy lasted four minutes. We ate non-stop, like it was our last food for the winter. Cristo ate like he was being timed. He threw food at his face and if it missed then it just fell to the floor of his mother's car along with all the other chicken strips and cigarette cartons. I ate like man who had just returned from an extended journey in the arctic, holding biscuits filled with butter and coleslaw near my mouth so I could stuff them in with both hands as soon as there was a little room. Our cheeks bulged with meat and bread and potatoes and coleslaw and soda. I was covered with shredded lettuce and breadcrumbs. We grunted and snarled until we were sick. Cristo choked on a French fry as I poured onion ring crumbs into my mouth. We forced ourselves to continue. Cristo had purchased enough food for five people and I felt obligated to eat it all when I remembered all the times I had had no food and no prospect of finding any. As the binge slowed down Cristo was taking bites out of a French fry and throwing half of it back into the tub. The undigested food felt like it was backed up to my larynx. Finally, I groaned and threw the last French fry covered with ketchup into my mouth.

“That's it. I'm never eating again,” I said as I deposited the food slough on my shirt onto the floor of the car. I belched loudly.

Cristo ate as he spoke..

“Your mom (munch) liked the silverware I bought her. (swallow) Yeah!”

Cristo was sweating when he finished stuffing his mouth. He mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve then took all the trash, amounting to a grocery bag, a dozen unused napkins, half a dozen full ketchup packs, two empty cardboard French fry crates, a paper cup half full of diet soda, piles of untouched food, and threw it out the window where the chill winter wind caught it and hurtled the lighter things like paper plates and napkins across the parking lot and into the thin Maine woods. He looked at me and said, “Good!” Then he mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve again and belched.

“You owe me seven bucks for that.”

“I'm not paying you shit. We'll call it even on that soccer bet.”

“You're so cheap. I hate you. 'Look at me. I'm Oggy and I never pay for my food.' Cheap whore!” He slammed the steering wheel with his greasy palm.

I pointed at Cristo's mouth and then pointed to my crotch.

As we drove out of the parking lot I removed the handicap sign and put it back in the glove compartment. I asked what was wrong with his dad.

“Surgery.”

“But why did he need it?”

“Fahked if I know. Heart problems again. What am I, his doctor?

There was one napkin left and I thought I might save it for later, but when I reached for it Cristo saw my hand move in the corner of his eye and grabbed the napkin from me.

What're you doin? Still tryin' to save the world, tough guy? I thought we cured that?”

He tossed the red, white and blue napkin onto the streets of Marshford near the Gap outlet store.

“Well, fahk the world.The world hasn't done shit for me.”

He lit a cigarette with a scowl on his damp Mediterranean brow. I looked out the window.

“Remember when the Marshford Batting cages were over there where that Ralph Lauren is? Me and Flash used to bike over here when we raided the washing machines. We'd hit for three hours.”

“So?”

“So Clutch was always over here. He'd skateboard over the bridge in the spring and hit. All he did was play sports but he never played for BHHS.”

“Gordy Clutcher failed all of his classes.”

“But he was so much better than Napper and Dorley and Piper. Clutch was a winner. He knew what it took to win. I've never met someone who didn't feel the pressure like him. The Sox would've won with him pitching. He could hit too. I went to a game at Leary Field about three years ago and Clutch smacked a home run. He used that big bat. Remember?”

“Yeah, you told me this story two weeks ago.”

“I was sitting in the old bleachers and he golfed this curveball into left field. I remember I was sitting there dazed because the Sox had lost and Darcy wasn't talking to me and my back was starting to hurt and I had no money. That was when we were having fires out at Ogden's Point. Remember? And Clutch hit that shot. It just hung up there and the left fielder ran back and the center fielder yelled, 'Back! Back!' It was vintage.”

“Speaking of vintage, I bought your mom an old sewing machine.”

“For like ten seconds I didn't hurt anymore and I thought everything was all right. I was gonna be a Junior in High School. I thought everything was gonna turn around for me. But it just kept getting worse with my leg and then my foot. You know Clutch was the last person I liked to watch win. He deserved to win because he was so good. I sort of liked to see everyone else lose. After the Sox lost I kind of liked to see other people lose. Is that crazy? But Dewey and Clutch were the only two people I wanted to see celebrate. Remember how good Clutch was at whiffle ball?”

“He was OK.”

“Struck you out every time.”

“Not quite, Oggy. I had a .430 batting average in Little League. I got a lot of cheap hits like Marty Barrett.”

“Remember how good Clutch was?”

“He was just average. Everyone in this town was average. He was five foot nothing with good instincts. Nothin' more. Average.”

“You should've seen that home run. I loved the sound of the aluminum bat hitting the ball. When the fog came in from the mill pond the sound echoed around. There weren't more than five people watching that game. I went and got the ball and gave it to Clutch. It was his only home run, he told me. He golfed it, Cristo and I went and got it for him.”

Cristo was ignoring me as he listened to Sports radio

“And he used to practice right over there at the Marshford Batting Cages. Remember? When did they build that outlet. Five years ago? More? Clutch could hit in the ninety miles an hour cage. He wasn't average. What every happened to Clutch?'
“God the Celtics suck. Bet against them every game. Who?”

“Gordy Clutcher. He live around here? Last I saw him was at the batting cages.”

“Who knows? Married. Divorced. Kids. A Corpse. So, you goin' to the party?”

“The last time I saw Clutch he was in the fast cage. We drove to Old Orchard to go to that big arcade. Remember? He made a hook shot with thirty-five cents at the tollbooth. You know? There were cages up there clocked at a hundred miles an hour. I can still hear the sound of this cheap, dented bat hitting those solid rubber balls into the Home Run area. He had a smooth swing, Sticky. Not average.”

“So you commin' to the party? Everyone's asking about you. Everyone'll be there.”

We passed a McDonalds and I said, “I took your mom out to eat at McDonalds last night. She had a vanilla shake.”

“Oh yeah, that's real funny. It was real funny when I gave your mom a bubble bath last night. I rubbed her neck until she went to sleep. How ya like that?”

“How you gonna do that after I break your Greek neck?”

“Pustis!”

“Real funny, Malaka. Real funny. Look, there's your mom.”

I pointed to a fat man coming out of a Crate and Barrel with packages in his arms. Cristo countered by pointing to a stray dog running down the street.

“I think I see Oggy's mom,” he sang. “Hey, Mrs. Oggy. Hi, Oggy's mom.” The dog stopped to bite its leg.

I pointed to an old woman being pushed in a wheelchair.

“I didn't know they let your mom out of the whorehouse on weekdays. Wow. Look at your mom go! How are you, Mrs. Patanikolous? I'll be by for my eight o'clock blow job. See ya then.”

I waved and the confused old woman waved back.

“So you coming to the party, asshole?”

“Can't do it. I'm going to Mexico. I'm through with this town forever. Bone Harbor is a one horse town in a two cent state.”

“That's what you said last time. Now you're back. Just accept it, Oggy. You'll never leave. You don't got the Saddam Husseins to go to Mexico.”

“Well, I had to come back cause I missed your mom's home cooking. Ohhh. Get him a body bag! What do you think of that Mr. Miagi?”

We pulled next to a man in a mini-van wearing a turban. Cristo waved at him.

“There's your mom, Oggy. Nice hairdo, Mrs. Bleacher. You don't have the Sonny O'herns to moon him.”

The man looked at us with such boredom that we both laughed out loud. I didn't have the Sonny O'herns to moon him, but I managed to say, “There's your dad.” To which Cristo asked, “You mean your mom?”

We both knew I wasn't going anywhere. The last sun on 1991 was setting over Leary Field as we crossed the Memorial Bridge back into New Hampshire.