Lit Riffs (9 page)

He doesn’t answer, but after a minute he throws the truck into gear and they pull out on the highway again. Ten miles later he says he’s sorry he hit her.

Too late now, she says. You did it. I can’t pretend this is fun anymore. I just want to go home.

When she finally begins to recognize things, it is well into morning. The twins will have woken without her and fixed themselves cereal. They will have turned on cartoons and probably missed their bus. And with no one to notice, no one to drive them, what is the harm in that?

Raylene will have opened the restaurant, grown impatient when Meg didn’t show up at ten and called the house. No one ever answers that phone. It is a wonder they even remember it is there.

You going to get in trouble? he says. For being late? You going to be late?

She sighs. I’m already late.

Oh. He reaches over and turns the radio on, then spins the dial until he comes to a song he likes. It is one she recognizes, a sweet, catchy love song. She smiles.

You like that?

I do.

He smiles, too. I wrote that—it’s not me singing it, but it’s my song.

She looks over and sees how bright his face has grown, how young he looks, and stifles the urge to rumple his hair. He hit you, she reminds herself, but it doesn’t fade the impulse.

Guess this didn’t turn out like either of us thought, she says.

He gives a short laugh. They pull into town. She diverts him from the Clover and gives him directions to her house. When they get there, he pulls the brake and comes around to let her out.

Thanks, she says.

Yeah, well—

Well.

He leans over and kisses her on the cheek. She feels herself pull back but waits until the truck has disappeared around the bend before scrubbing at her face with the edge of her smock.

The boys must have made the bus and gone to school after all. The house is quiet. Instead of calling the restaurant, or showering and making her way back, Meg crawls into bed and tumbles into a dense, dreamless sleep.

She wakes in the early afternoon and takes a quick shower. She dresses and walks down the hall. The bedroom is dark and smells strongly of her mother. Vials of pills stand at attention beside the bed. Meg watches the blankets rise and fall and is comforted.

Later Meg busies herself in the kitchen with baking a cake—the twins’ birthday is tomorrow—but humming behind everything, she feels a dark, slow coldness that she can’t push away. She pours the batter into pans, careful to shake each one so it will settle. There is no other way to go but forward. Night is coming and her cakes will go in and be baked. She is tumbling toward something old and worn, ugly but unavoidable.

She didn’t graduate second in her class.

She didn’t graduate at all.

She opens the oven and places the pans gently, one by one, careful not to spill or burn herself. Then she closes the door.

Is that you, Meg? Her mother’s voice is thin and distant. Meg?

She does not answer. Instead she sits at the kitchen table and lights a cigarette, stares out the window at the familiar yard and trees. It is her house, the house her grandfather built. For a few moments out there in the world she forgot this: what it smells like here, what it feels like. Sitting at this table is like breathing, baking in this kitchen is like wearing her own skin: she knows where everything is, where it belongs. She can tell the time by the shadows on the cabinets, by the timbre of her mother’s voice.

Meg?

She spins the saucer she’s chosen as an ashtray. Outside the light is golden. She takes one last long drag and then scrapes the ember of her cigarette along the edge of the saucer until its tip falls off and lies there, still smoking. She watches it for a moment, then she licks her thumb to press it out.

jt leroy

T
hey’re in the trenches and shells are skimming the tops of their heads, bodies blown up right next to them, and these eighteen-year-old men who aren’t really men but boys like me are shaking like a dog squeezing out a peach pit, cryin’ and callin’ for their mommas. It’s in almost every war film I’ve ever seen. And it would always piss me off, too, illustrating just in case you missed it, how the horror of war could reduce a grown eighteen-year-old soldier to the state of a three-year-old howling to her. But it always would hit me, too, in that sore place: Would I ever become man enough that mama ain’t a person or place I call out to, war or not? I thought when I hit eighteen, that delineating line of manhood, I would be done with callin’ out to Momma, no matter what was flying over my head.

I was at that crag of maturity, eighteen, as I sat in the waiting room of a dentist who gears his practice to “young adults with drug and alcohol issues.” So the chairs are bright red and the music that same rockness designed to somehow appeal to “young adults with drug and alcohol issues.” And it’s as easy to tune out as elevator music.

I’m just a newly-off-the-street eighteen-year-old. I can’t even go to a fucking normal dentist. I gotta go to one that my NA sponsor insists I go to. One that won’t let me, the constant lowdown dirty-dog drug abuser (as he somewhat nonaffectionately calls me), con the dentist into giving me drugs, like say, Novocain. And it’s not announced or introduced, it’s just thrust on me, like a mortar launch, as I sit there waiting to get my tooth filled. My hands are sweaty with the thought of getting drilled with only acupuncture. And I am supposed to avoid situations that might make me wanna pick up, to use. Anything stressful, besides getting my tooth filled with no painkiller.

I am supposed to be doing this crap. Taking care of myself, cleaning up the wreckage of the past-type shit. But, fuck me, this comes outta nowheres! There is the way certain songs can fly out at ya like a liberated cargo load from a passing truck, smashing through yer strat of well-fermented armor. And I am thrown into a battlefield as the Foo Fighters launch into “Everlong” through the dentist’s sound system.

“Hello, I’ve waited here for you. Everlong …” And I know Dave Grohl probably wrote this about some chick … and at first that’s what my wits ping to. All the fucked-up relationships … torturous, can’t get enough of, can’t get out of … with lines like he is almost groaning out. “Ya gotta promise not to stop when I say when …” It’s gotta be a very SM’y relationship he’s goin’ on about, and, man, do I know that…. I’ve said those words myself to many a lover … “Don’t stop, even if I beg you to …” The lover that holds all of you, all the control and your helpless as a … baby …

And the drill skids in deeper, closer to that nerve…. And my hands grip at the red cloth of the couch. And I know Grohl pro’ly did not write this song thinking about his dang mama … but for me his words describe what I’ve never been able to quite say myself, about every relationship I’ve been in and how they are all her … my momma, and me trying to escape what I somehow know is crazy, but then needing more, the intense craving of her, calling out even though you know she won’t come. Or can’t anymore … and
bang
, I am there watching my mother slip a needle in her arm, sloppily telling me I can have what’s left, the drug mixed in with her darkened blood, in the syringe…. And how it would feel when I would take her inside me. Wrap her arm, too lost to protest, around me like a lead apron.

And Grohl is singing her for me and it’s worse that he’s not even screaming. It’s his voice sounding almost subdued, pleading over the panicked music: “Breathe out so I can breathe you in.”

And the throb is excruciating as he goes on and on. And the most exciting point I ever got to was never saying “when.” Just seeing how far someone can go, will go … before they come back. And he’s giving voice to it all. I never said “when” to her, to my momma. I’d go as far as she could—fuck, I went way further.

And if she came back, I’d do it again. I’d never say stop. Cuz now somehow I have to say good-bye every fuckin’ day I don’t take her in me.

Every day I have to remember the bodies around me, her body…. And that I do actually know how to say “when” and mean it. And how still as old as I will ever get … way past outgrowing the dentist for low-down, dirty drug abusers … as grown-up as U ever think I am … all it takes is to hear “Everlong” and I know, I’m still calling out to her, still hoping she will somehow come and it will all be … fixed.

“Hello I’ve waited here for you. Everlong …”

tom perrotta

I
was walking home from school with Mark Hofstetter, listening to him defend the highly dubious proposition that a pound of feathers weighs just as much as a pound of pennies, when Larry Salvati grabbed me from behind and slammed me up against the rusty chain-link fence that bordered the lumberyard along Grand Avenue. Larry and I had once been best friends, so I was more baffled than frightened by his surprise attack.

“Whadooinarry?” It was close to Halloween and I was wearing a set of wax vampire fangs I’d just bought at Frenchie’s, so the question didn’t come out right.

“You think you’re so high-and-mighty, don’tcha?” Larry asked.

Craig Murtha and Bobby Staples, two seventh-grade hard guys who were flanking Larry, nodded and muttered their wholehearted agreement with this unfair assessment of my character.

“Goody Two-shoes.”

“Little altar boy.”

“Don’tcha?” Larry repeated, slamming me back against the fence once more for good measure.

“Narree,” I replied.

In an attempt to facilitate our discussion, Larry plucked the wax teeth out of my mouth and tossed them over his shoulder into the busy street, where they were promptly run over by a passing Boar’s Head delivery truck.

“Darn it,” I said. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”

“Listen to him,” said Craig. He crossed his eyes, screwed his face into this doofusy-looking grimace, and spoke in a dumb Mortimer Snerd voice that was apparently supposed to be an imitation of me. “Oh gee, whiz golly, gosh darn it to heck. Why’d you have to go and do that?”

Craig was mean, but he was also short and scrawny and hadn’t yet taken to carrying concealed weapons, so I glared at him with the contempt he deserved, a course of action that had the added benefit of keeping me from having to look at Bobby Staples, who was taller and way more intimidating. I don’t care what anyone says: it’s just not right for a twelve-year-old to have muttonchop sideburns.

“Oh, shoot,” said Bobby in a voice as deep as Richard Nixon’s. He looked like he should have been overhauling a transmission somewhere, or breaking up asphalt with a jackhammer. “You broke my freaking fangs, you son of a bad person!”

Craig and Bobby slapped five and burst into a storm of hysterical laughter. Just to be on the safe side, I started laughing, too. It seemed like a good idea to operate under the assumption that this episode was just a big joke, rather than a mysterious confrontation that might take a nasty turn at any moment. The only two people who didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves were Larry, who had tightened his grip on the front of my windbreaker, and Mark, who was looking on with wide, terrified eyes, his hands folded against his chest as though in prayer.

“Hey, Larry,” I said. “You wanna let go of me?”

Larry looked like he was considering my request, but then he made the mistake of checking with his goons.

“No fucking way!” said Craig. “Not until he says
shit
.”

An odd feeling of relief came over me. Up until that moment, I honestly hadn’t understood what was going on, what I’d done to run afoul of people whom I’d normally make every effort not to offend.

“Yeah,” chuckled Bobby. “Make the little angel say shit.”

The previous week, in the locker room after gym class, I’d told a bunch of my classmates a funny story about my uncle Frank, who’d been walking his basset hound near the Little League baseball field when a resident of one of the nearby houses—a town councilman—came outside and started yelling at him for not cleaning up after his dog. Uncle Frank got mad—he’d never liked the councilman—and denied that Lorenzo had made a mess.

I
saw it
! the councilman insisted.
I saw it out my window!

The hell you did
, Uncle Frank told him.
I’ve been watching him the whole time
.

They got into a heated argument, which ended with my uncle saying that if his dog had actually done what the guy claimed, he, Uncle Frank, would pick up the poop with his bare hand and carry it home, that’s how certain he was that he was right.

Is that a promise?
said the councilman.

Damn right it is!
said Uncle Frank.

At this point, the councilman took my uncle by the arm and led him straight to a steaming heap of turds that had just been deposited in the tall grass behind the left field fence, presumably by Lorenzo.

There, smart guy!
the councilman gloated.
What do you say to that
?

My uncle actually seemed to be enjoying himself as he told the story to me and my parents after we’d finished our dessert.

But what happened?
I asked.
What did you do?

What could I do?
my uncle replied.
I picked it up. I walked all the way home with a pound of fresh dog shit in the palm of my hand.

In the locker room, I told the story exactly the way my uncle had, except for one small detail. Instead of saying the word
shit
, I’d spelled it out, which led someone in the audience—it was Larry, I suddenly realized—to ask if I was really afraid to say it.

“I’m not afraid,” I explained. “I just don’t like to curse.”

Mark Hofstetter surprised me. He was a science nerd, a smart but notoriously wimpy kid who spent most of his time fooling around with his telescope and chemistry set, and building scale models of cities like Reykjavik and Helsinki out of LEGOs. I wasn’t expecting much from him in the way of backup, but he actually grabbed Larry by the arm and tried to separate his hand from my jacket.

“Come on,” he said in a reedy, trembling voice. “This isn’t funny. Leave him alone.”

Craig Murtha stepped up and jabbed his index finger, hard, into Mark’s chest.

“Who’s gonna make us, Poindexter?”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “Whaddaya gonna do? Build a bomb and blow us up?”
^*

Mark hesitated, searching his database for some kind of snappy comeback, but then thought better of it. He let go of Larry’s wrist and retreated a respectful distance from the fray.

So now we were back at square one. Larry shook me impatiently.

“Come on,” he said. “Say
shit
. It’s not that hard.”

There was an odd pleading note in his voice, as if he didn’t understand why I was putting him to all this trouble.

“No,” I said stoutly. “You’re not gonna make me say that word.”

“What word?” Craig asked quickly, hoping to trip me up.

“S-h-i-t,” I replied.

Larry looked back at his buddies, obviously stumped about what he was supposed to do next.

“He says he won’t say it.”

“Make him,” Craig commanded. “Make him say it or else.”

“Or else what?” I inquired.

“Or else … punch him in the fucking mouth!” Bobby said.

With a gasp of alarm, Mark took off running down the sidewalk, his arms flapping wildly around his head as if he were being attacked by a swarm of bees.

“I’m getting Mr. Lorber!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Who’s Mr. Lorber?” Craig wanted to know.

“The crossing guard,” I explained. “The one who sits on the folding chair.”

“Big Fat Joe?” said Bobby, using the man’s more familiar name. “Is he Sharon Lorber’s father?”

“Grandfather,” I explained.

“Man,” said Craig. “Does she have big tits or what?”

“They are pretty big,” I agreed.

“No kidding,” said Bobby. “I’d like to get my hands on those watermelons.”

“Guys,” Larry reminded them, “he’s gonna tell on us. We gotta get outta here.”

Craig let out an irritated sigh and slapped me lightly on the forehead.

“Just say
shit
,” he told me. “That’s all we’re asking.”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “It’s just one stupid word.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “You can knock my teeth out if you want, but you’re not gonna make me say it.”

“Come on,” said Larry. He was staring at me with what looked like panic in his eyes, and I could see what sort of a box I’d put him in. He didn’t want to hit me, but he also didn’t want to back down, not in front of his buddies.

“Say
shit!
” Craig repeated.

“Or else,” added Bobby.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I refuse.”

Craig threw up his hands in defeat.

“All right,” he said. “Fine. Be that way.”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “Be a little pussy.”

“I don’t care if anyone else says it,” I explained. “I just don’t want to say it myself.”

Craig knitted his brow, as if he needed to think this over. Then he touched Larry’s arm.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Sock him in the mouth.”

Larry looked upset. “Really? You really want me to hit him?”

Craig squinted uneasily down the block. “Just slug him and let’s get the hell outta here.”

“You sure?” said Larry.

“Whaddaya, chickening out?” asked Craig.

With obvious reluctance, Larry raised his fist, which suddenly seemed very large and grown-up looking, and drew it back behind his ear. I closed my eyes, steeling myself for the blow, which I knew was gonna hurt like anything. Larry’s dad had been a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth, and he’d once given my Webelos troop a demonstration on the proper way of throwing a punch. A couple of seconds went by.

“Go on,” said Bobby. “What are you waiting for?”

I was curious about the delay, so I opened my eyes, just in time to see a shiny maroon-colored Lincoln Continental pull up right in front of us. Larry must have known whose car it was, because he let go of my windbreaker even before Monsignor Mulligan stepped out of the car and spread his arms wide in a plea for peace.

“Boys, boys,” he said with just a hint of a brogue. “What would be the trouble?”

To my amazement, Craig Murtha made the sign of the cross.

“Nothing, Father,” he said. “We’re just fooling around.”

“That’s not how it looks to me,” said the monsignor. He pushed between Bobby and Craig and headed straight for me, shouldering Larry aside as he approached.

“Are you all right, son?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Why are they picking on you, lad?”

Larry and I shared a moment of eye contact before I replied. It lasted just long enough for me to see how relieved he was that he hadn’t had to hit me.

“They wanted me to say a dirty word,” I told the priest. “But I wouldn’t do it.”

Monsignor Mulligan stared at me for a few seconds. He was a short, rotund man with a bald head and shrewd blue eyes. There was a look on his face that I’ll never forget—not of an adult approving of a child, but of one man respecting another.

“Good for you, son,” he told me, laying a soft hand on my shoulder. “Good for you.”

The priest turned and frowned at my tormentors, all three of whom hung their heads in shame. He had just ordered them to go home and ask God for forgiveness when Mark came trotting up, with the very unhappy-looking crossing guard lumbering and wheezing along behind him, sweating profusely and clutching at his chest like Fred Sanford.

“Everything … okay … here?” he huffed.

“Fine,” said Monsignor Mulligan. “Score one for the good guys.”

Big Fat Joe hitched up his belt and took a moment to catch his breath. He shook his head in disgust as he watched Larry, Bobby, and Craig heading down the street toward McDonald’s, walking so fast they might as well have been running.

“Little bastards,” he said. “Someone should give ’em all a good swift kick in the ass.”

“Amen,” said the monsignor.

You’d think I would’ve been feeling pretty good about myself when I got home that afternoon. I’d stood up to some bullies, stuck to my principles, and been praised for my courage by the priest and the crossing guard. Mark said I reminded him of the Hardy Boys, who never backed down, not even when the bad guys had them tied to their chairs in some abandoned mansion by the river and were rubbing their hands together with sinister glee, gloating about how Fenton Hardy, the boys’ famous detective father, would never be able to find them,
at least not until it’s too late, ha ha ha
!

Flattered though I was—I’d been a huge Hardy Boys fan a couple of years back and still secretly believed they were pretty cool—I didn’t feel much like a hero. All I could think about was Larry Salvati, and how miserable he seemed the whole time he was gripping my windbreaker, threatening to bust me in the mouth. He kept staring at me with this sick-puppy-dog look on his face, like somehow the whole stupid situation was my fault, like it never would have happened if I hadn’t abandoned him midway through fifth grade and forced him to team up with jerks like Craig and Bobby.