Chapter XXXXVII I wanna Rock

Chapter Forty-Seven: I Wanna Rock

Cristo had left a message reminding me about The Monahan's party. Since my bike chain was still tangled up in the gears and covered with ice and grease, and since Poncho was slowly filling up with snow, I walked through the quiet streets to meet him.
I passed the Little Store where I had played so many games of Venture and Galaga and some other game I couldn't remember. There was the window Kurt had shattered with a snowball, replaced long ago and now reflecting the darkness over the ocean. The end, as my father had said, was nigh. The sight of the Richard Avenue sign that Kurt and I had pelted with pebbles from a gravel driveway made me sick, as did the wooden steps leading up to Cullen's old house where I delivered papers. The sign of an addict is that even when his vice becomes poisonous to him, he still seeks it out. I had left Bone Harbor, true, but then I had returned. Sure, my excuse was that Poncho had a damaged transmission, I didn't have enough money, I'd forgotten Darcy's sock, but was it possible I had found a reason to return to the nipple? I sensed that somewhere out there, maybe on a mountain peak, maybe on an ocean liner, maybe on a ball field, maybe in a place called Xanadu, my real life was taking place, but I wasn't there to participate. I was here and the time for going had gone.
As I passed Leary Field again I could imagine Gordy Clutcher's acrobatic, one-hand catches and feel the eleven-year old awe when I pressed my face to the fence to watch the 18 year-olds play baseball. I remembered watching Carmen O'Doole pin Kurt down at the Central Little League field and force him to confess to breaking into Trevor's house to steal video games. Over there was where Alister “Kong” Konig and Brody Stone had cornered me in the tennis courts until Alister picked me and body slammed me like Jimmy “Superfly” Snukka in WrestleMania I. Squidly had offered me a joint under those bleachers and JoJo had challenged me to a do or die game of horse at those basketball courts. There was the hill I slid down in the winter and there was the big Maple tree that marked the passage of seasons. But each memory was painful to me, worn below the nail, and bleeding from use. Some songs simply can not be heard again. I had watched this movie too many times. Mexico was the change I needed, but it had been denied, leaving me with memories of Mack Wynter, Gordy Clutcher, Darcy and the others. The first step in A.A. is to admit that your life had become unmanageable. Well, if there were a Red Sox Anonymous, I would have been a founding member.
The only chance I had to gain some control over my spiraling days was to break the cycle and guide Schiraldi's pitch into Gedman's glove. I had committed too much time, too many late nights watching Brady Bunch reruns, too many Ferris Bueller-like internal monologues to give up now. “Beat Knight,” I wrote on a notepad I now carried with me. “Outside curve. End is N.” Then I plodded on with my head down.
Skip was playing video games on a big screen television when I arrived at the gathering. Other assorted clients and debtors circulated through the house, smoking pot on the porch, drinking beer from a dented keg. Roddy told me to help myself so I took a glass of water into the living room and sat down next to Skip. The party bore no resemblance to a Youthfire. There was no urgency to our meeting. In fact, it was just the opposite. Everything about this party and the New Years Eve party was deliberately muted and dull. Conversations were mumbled. Whiskey was needlessly spilled. Memories were disposed of carelessly. The Youthfire had been compelling and the lyrics to my songs were devoured eagerly. Nostalgia was at stake, after all.
Skip didn't look up from his game to greet me. “Oggy! Sticky said you were home, but I didn't believe the little shit.”
“It's true blue.”
“Well, what the fahk's going on, kid? Back from another trip, huh?”
Said I with humor, “Cortez and I should be spoken of in the same sentence.”
“Nice. Where'd you go this time, boy-o?”
“More places than I can remember, Skip. You know? I'll tell you at the next fire.”
“Like hell I know. Tha fahthest I've driven is Bahston. I don't know shit. Sticky said you just went to Connecticut and back. Come on. You went fahthah than that, yeah?”
“What does the Greek freak know about anything? I went all over. I went to Mexico. Bought a fruit juice shake.”
Mexico? It had started again. At a loss for a good story, I just made one up. No one cared, least of all the tribe, and the fire blazed again.
“I met a girl in Tennessee. Catherine or Kate. Went for a walk with her. A gay truck driver tried to pick me up in Texas.”
“Nice,” said Skip as he balanced on moving platforms and jumped over poison mushrooms.
“Got pulled over by the cops about a hundred times. Almost died in a snowstorm trying to get to a Trappist monastery. Beat off in about 18 different states.
“Who's better than you?”
This was one of the kinder rhetorical questions we asked each other. It was much better than, “Why are you such an asshole?”
“Nothing special. Just driving and sleeping. Saw some old friends. It's good to get out. Just wish I could've stayed out.”
“So ya got laid, right?”
I thought of Lacy's gag order. I could stretch the truth a little and say we'd slept together--Skip would be impressed with a road romance--but it was better to keep her memory a private one.
“No. No...Oh, wait a second. Yeah, I did. Sure. In Chicago. I mean Madison, Wisconsin. My old girlfriend from South America.”
I projected into my imaginary journey and decided I had visited not only friends like Kurt and Ernesto Deville, but also my former girlfriend, Nancy, from Ecuador who was going to school at the University of Madison, Wisconsin. I had tracked her down and lived with her for a few days, drinking tea and talking about the old days. Of course we slept together but the fire only lasted the first night. I was disappointed that even my fantasies were lukewarm.
“The hot Betty with the long hair? The one you got high with?”
I was impressed that despite gallons of beer and innumerable bong hits, Skip could remember the details of my travels.
“That's her. Nancy. For about two days it was just like old times. Then it went to shit and I said stupid things. You know?”
“Wicked bad. What the shit, right?”
What the Shit. The Pope couldn't have put it better.
“I saw the Grand Canyon,” I said since I probably would have. Maybe I went to Big Bend Park in Texas. I'd heard it was nice.
“Big Bend National Park is awesome,” I added.
“What happened in Mexico? Score any dope?”
There were many directions I could take this query. I could say that I had liked it but really missed Bone Harbor. I could say I'd gotten into trouble at a Mexican brothel. I could say that, as Skip suggested, I had scored bags of pot and was back in town to sell it under the North Church. The fire would respond to any of these lyrics.
“Dirty country, Skip. Filthy. I wouldn't live there if you paid me. I had problems at the border. So I just drove around out west like a seed looking for a place to land.”
“How's the painting?”
I had actually managed to draw a few sketches of Lacy and Piper and some collages of life in Bone Harbor, including my courageous attempt to protect Darcy from some psycho in a Miami University sweatshirt.
“They're in a sketchbook back home. Some aren't bad.”
“Bring 'em over to the house some time. My dad was asking about you the other day. Wanted to know if you got your car figured out.”
I sat for a second until my brain found the memory of Mr. Sully giving me a ride part of the way back to Bone Harbor. I had been pulled over for driving without registration ten minutes after I bought Poncho. Jesus! That was, what? September, October, November, December (Evil December), January. Five months ago! Nearly half a year ago!
“That was a long time ago, Skip,” I said, but he wasn't listening anymore.
“Darcy Devins is somewhere around here.”
My heart fluttered.
“She's here?”
“Psyche! Chrissy Jenkins is around here though. Nice! First Class has some shapely tail.”
“Wait. Doesn't Vance Larsen own First Class?”
“Not anymore. You should see what Chrissy is wearing. Smokin'!”
As I was mulling this change of leadership, Mullray Border walked by with an illegal grin.
“Hey Boys. Skip. Oggy. Whatcha up to?”
“Hey, Mutt! Oggy just went to Guatemala. Tell him.”
That was how it started. I tell one lie to one person and another lie was passed on until I was manufacturing details for a story no one invented. That was how the Youthfire worked.
“Really? You score some dope?”
“Mutt, you think I'm gonna buy pot in a car with a peace symbol painted on the hood? Please. The cops pulled me over for driving a mile over the speed limit. That car got searched more times than Bus 2 at Graduation.”
We all had a laugh at this relatively fresh memory of the police discovering stashes of drugs, booze and knives on our “Sober Celebration” bus. While others may have been disgraced, we slapped hands.
Mullray straightened up and said, “Hey, Kid, how about them Sox? They gonna win the division one of these years or what? The fucks. Been five seasons since they blew it.”
“This is their year,” I said shortly. “They get the ring this year. I Promise. I was in Vegas a few weeks ago and the Sox are heavy favorites. Heavy. Burks bats .400 this year if he bats at all. You'll see.”
“Bet your ass!”
“Hell, I'd bet Sticky's mom's ass.”
We all three laughed for different reasons. I laughed because I had effortlessly fallen back in time six years and was speaking like I did in 1986. Mullray was laughing because it briefly hid the fact that he had nothing of value to say. Skip was laughing because he was probably stoned.

Outside, Cristo asked me how the dinner in Queensland went.
“Sucked. They just nag and nag. I can't do anything right. 'Get a job. Shave. Eat meat. Stay out of jail.' Perfection! They want perfection and I can't give it to them. I think they're still mad at me for Christmas when I made them sit through my prayer for the civilians in Iraq who were killed by American troops. One simple gesture of peace and they grill me for a month.”
“Fahk it,” said Cristo. “My folks say the same thing. 'Move out. Clean your room. Turn the music down.' I just tell 'em to go to hell. What're they gonna do?”
“When I get some money I'm never coming back here.”
“Nah. You belong in this town, Oggy. You're a legend.”
“So is Schiraldi.”
Cristo shrugged this comparison off.
“Dante sounded real happy when I called him after you left.”
“He's a fahking sharecropper, a bootblack. Sits on his velvet throne and waves his scepter around. So negative. Always the worst case scenario. He says I think in black and white? No. Compared to him, I'm electric neon. He is Mr. Black and White. Either I go to college to learn to paint or I will be a crazed street person. Either I get the car fixed or I die in an explosion. Either I study Latin or I might as well check myself into the asylum. You know? His world is really black or white. Either you make it his way or you become a bootblack. I dust my shine box off and try to make a living, and all he does is knock it down, piss in my milk bowl.”
“Exactly,” agreed Cristo as he flicked his cigarette into the neighbor's yard. “Piss in your milk bowl. Rub your face in your own shit.”
“Yes. Like a dog. Just like a dog. If you shit then they've gotta rub your face in it.”
“You're pissing on the pig. I know. They treated Spiker better than me. We're shit. We're dogs.”
“Bootblacks,” I said vehemently. “Break my shine box? Burn my cotton patch? They treat me like a horse, train me to jump hurdles, but they get mad when I jump fences. It isn't fair.”
“Word up,” said Cristo.
Sometimes Cristo chose to shine some of his Mr. Slick personality on me and grease my slide with his smooth talk. When he wanted to be amiable, he could make you feel like you invented the wheel.
“That's what I'm saying. With my dad there is no 'Sort of forgettable, just getting by, shop at Kmart, live in a trailer home with mild leg pains' life. It is either you go to college and live like a king or you die in a puddle of your own blood. You die like a bootblack.”
“Maybe he's pissed because he takes care of his parents. Didn't you say he hates it?”
“I'm sure he hates it, but he wrote the rules to live by and he won't break them.”
“Oh, shit. Here comes Bullwhip.”
“Did he see us?”
Toddy Bonigan strode up with his elbows cutting a path through the crowd of milling bodies.
“You're gonna learn about loss, Counselor. Buzzard's gotta eat same as the worms. Look at this. Oggy and Cristo drinking beer. What a sight. All grown up! My boys. You just get back in town Oggy?”
I stared silently out at the Hemingway Sky.
“I've got court in the morning.”
“I heard about that. It's all fun and games until someone get sued. Hey, I'm talking to you, Oggy. Hey. Looks like someone wants to fight.”
Bonigan poked me because I was staring into the sky, searching for signs of life.
“You're not the boss of me. Hey, Oggy. You wanna fight? I can out philosophize you, I can out think you, and I can out fight you. You wanna fight now or after you lose the court case?”
“I'm going to win. I'm a winner. Dewey promised.”
Bonigan nodded and then spit on my back.
“Now he talks. I just said it's all fun and games driving fast around town on an icy night until someone wrecks their car. I'm just saying you better watch out. Might get hurt.”
“Alright.”
“That's all I was saying.”
“I know.”
“No, really. That was it. Don't be an asshole. You're gonna learn about loss, son.”
“OK”
“You know me, Oggy. I respect you. I would never say something to disrespect you.”
“Sure.”
“Don't give me that shit. Hey, I know what you've done. You're a legend.”
“So people tell me.”
“Don't be a wise ass. Don't be a fahkin’ fahk. I didn't make you try to grab Darcy at that party.”
“I didn't say you did.”
“Don't give me that, Oggy. You're the traveling man. Everyone thinks you're a hero. Hey, are you paying attention?”
Bonigan poked me again and spit on me.
I don't know about where you come from, but spitting on someone in Bone Harbor, especially at a party, means very little. It hardly even gets my attention anymore. This was the work of Buddy Huggington, who had escalated pranks until you had to vomit on a foe if you wanted to show you were mad. Being spit on was like having someone flip their middle finger up at you..
“Yes. I'm paying attention.”
“Sure. Whatever. Just watch your back, Oggy. This isn't over yet. You know what I mean.”
“My back is stiff from driving, I've been up and down the road, the Kerouac Road, but I'm not going anywhere. My ass is sore. I don't even like to drive. I like my bicycle and walk. I'm tired of singing.”
“This isn't over. Somebody is gonna take you down if you start to throw your weight around. I'll boot your ass.”
“I just want to bicycle.”
“Dying ain't no way to live. You'll learn about sacrifice. You think you're Max Cady because you went to Mexico?”
This was one too many movie quotes. Even yours truly has a breaking point.
“What the fahk is your problem? I do as I'm told. I do what you want. What have you done for me? I don't see any strike three. Ray Knight isn't any closer to sitting on the bench after he strikes out. 'Look at me, I'm Bullwhip, I make promises I don't keep. I fahk Oggy over because I'm a big sissy. Oooh.' Lay off me until you can produce some results, boy. I'm the one who kissed Rose McCorley. Did you? I didn't think so. So take a number if you want me to shine your shoes.”
“Whatever. Forget I said anything. Just watch your back, Charlie. Somebody might sneak up behind you and jackknife you. You want to fight? You don't have the Captain Lou Albanos to fight me.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“You'll see. Go get your shine box and I'll teach you about loss.”
“When?”
“When you least expect it.”
“I'm right here, right now, Bullwhip. Here I am. You talking to me? You talking to me? Hey. I'm not going anywhere. You want stories about an adventure then go drive that shit box car of yours around the country. Go on your own trip. Take Sticky with you. Tell your own stories. You don't got the Indiana Joneses to leave town. I'm sick of selling my bootblack memories.”
I took a sip of Cristo's beer. It was the type of beverage I had to be drunk to drink, but I wasn't in the self-destructive mood. There was no need to create more problems.
Bonigan backed away.
“I respected you, Oggy.”
“Well, I don't need your respect. It costs too much. I need a more strike three curveballs and a little less respect.”
I flicked the suds from my beer cup at him. Bonigan looked at me.
“This isn't over.”
“Its over,” I said. “It's over because you are so fahking Breakfast Club. Your 90210 attitude is old; your bullshit, cardboard-cutout cliche movie quotes are old, Bullwhip. Go piss in someone else's milk bowl.”
Bonigan threw back his shoulders and swaggered away through the crowd, bumping into Roman Huggington and walking away without apology.
I said to Cristo, “Damn, I can't stand that kid. He just rides you and rides you until you make a mistake. One minute he's your best friend and the next minute he threatens your life. It's bullshit. Thinks he's Emperor Ming.”
“So you were saying something about your dad?”
It took a minute to gather my thoughts. Encounters with Bonigan had always left me drained, but I had reached my limit. Where and when the last showdown would take place, I didn't know. I only knew that unless I saw Ray Knight weeping into his mitt pretty soon, me and Bonigan were going to have problems. I'd spent nearly three years keeping the fires going and what did I have to show for it? Was Ray Knight crying the Batter's Box? No. My hat was beat, my shine box was in pieces, my cotton patch was burned, and my back was broke. When would it end? Where was my velvet throne? Where was my Pretty Pony?
“We got in this big fight on the way back from Queensland. He said I was wasting my life. I told him he was wasting his. He said that the family is embarrassed by me, that I had no future. I told him that I wanted to live in the present.
“I'm here one day, hardly ten hours, and he is already on me. He's like a tick on my back, sucking the life out of me. A vampire! I never should have come back. If I was married and had two kids like George Bailey and I had a big insurance policy then I'd throw myself off a bridge, too. My dad still treats me like an agenda topic. Win or lose this case, I'm leaving as soon as it's is over.”
These words rang hollow in the narrow alley between the Monahan's house and their neighbor's. I'd been telling Cristo I was going to leave since seventh grade when Brody Stone beat me up and made me sing the Smurf song in front of Karen Simpson and her friends.
“You just got here, Og. Why can't you be satisfied? Just be satisfied with what you've got.” Cristo pointed his cigarette in the direction of the harbor. “There's no paradise waiting out there at the end of the river. This is it. Look at Roddy and Moony. They're happy. Be like them. You've read too many books. There's no frontier you can discover. This is the last place on Earth.”
Indeed, Roddy was moving smoothly around his party, while Moony played pinball. Their happiness had been secured. But they didn't care about the Red Sox. They didn't care about giving Dewey his victory.
“Not quite, Sticky. Flash tried to get me to go into the Merchant Marines once. I'm still thinking about that. I want to paint sunrises over the ocean. Live like Jimmy Buffett. Play Whiffle Ball in the park. Hey, what's happening over there? They fixing the Whiffle Ball courts up?”
“Yeah,” said Cristo. “Tearing 'em down. The JFK is expanding. Those courts are junk. The doors are falling off.”
“So where are me and Clutch gonna play Whiffle Ball?”
Cristo shook his bean as he sipped beer. His eyes were searching the crowd for something. He was bored of me, like a dissatisfied wife. Bare trees partially hid a quarter moon that hung over Parrot Avenue. From the porch I could see the blanket of glowing snow on Leary field. It was too cold and Cristo had finished his cigarette, so we turned our backs on the Kerouac Road and returned to the party.
Bonigan was standing stiffly in a corner, pretending he didn't care if anyone talked to him. Skip was still playing Super Mario Brothers, breaking his own high score. Roddy and Moony were passing liquor bottles back and forth through the air like juggling pins while a crowd stood around and cheered. They were celebrating because they had just purchased the dirt lot out back including the whiffle ball courts. They wanted to tear the courts down and pave the thing over and then resell it to the city.
Mullray stumbled by a little more drunk than before. His accent thickened with the booze he drank.
“How 'bout them Sox, Oggy? Heyyyy! Spring trainin' stahts in a month. That cocksuckah Clemens bettah pitch his ass off this yeah. Ahhhhgeeee! They gonna make it this yeah, ya fahkin' fahk?”
“This is their yeah, Mutt,” I said without wanting to, and in an accent I stepped in and out of like a pair of socks. “This is the fahkin’ yeah they get thah ring. I got season tickets so I can wahtch 'em win the Series. Are you theyah?”
“I'm so theyah,” said Mullray. “I'm fahking right next to you buddy. Deeeweeey! It's in the net! Deeewwweeey!”
Mullray stumbled into me and forced me to give him a hug as he drooled on my arm and spilled his beer on my shoes. I hugged him as he pounded my back. Bonigan was scowling in the corner.
“Bettah watch out, Charlie! This isn't ovah!” He yelled, but when I looked in his direction he pretended he hadn't said anything.