A Question of Manhood (15 page)

“I'll have to tell Mom something about why I need the car,” I replied. “What do you need to pick up?”

His laugh was a little sinister. “She doesn't want to know. Tell her I'm getting my mom a special present for Mother's Day. Secret.”

I had a bad feeling about this. If my mom “didn't want to know,” did I? Was it any worse than liquor? “Okay, so I won't specify, but just for my benefit, what is this ‘Mother's Day' gift, anyway?”

“Tell you when I see you.”

“How long?”

“Huh?”

“How long will we need the car?”

“Maybe three hours?”

“What? Where is this gift, anyway?”

“Kiddo, if I don't tell you, you won't have to tell anyone else. Right? So, can we go?”

“I'll call you right back.”

It was not a fun conversation. First Mom pointed out that it was a little early to be shopping for Mother's Day. All I could do was repeat what Marty had said. Dad was at the store doing final tax prep, and Mom was suspicious enough that she wanted to check with him before letting me take the car for so long. Especially with Marty involved.

“Do you really want to disturb Dad today?” I asked. “Besides, it's better this way than if Marty were driving. At least I'm in control.” To help convince her that I took her seriously, I was careful to say “were,” which she always insisted went with “if.” Some people have mothers who are drama queens. Mine is a grammar queen.

I'd given her a place to exert some control herself. “Well, you just make sure that boy doesn't drive my car! Do you understand?”

I did my best to look serious and obedient without overdoing it. A fine line. “I promise. I'll keep an eye on him. We won't get into any trouble.” I almost added,
And it is for his mother
. But I think she already doubted that.

Marty was waiting outside when I got to his house, staring in the direction he knew I'd come from. He jumped in and started barking directions. After I'd executed the first few turns and got us on the highway, I asked, “And just where are we going, anyway?”

“West Virginia.”

“You're shittin' me.” My language had deteriorated, I'd noticed recently, with the advent of my supposed manhood. What with earning money, smoking cigarettes, and putting my fingers into that sweet well between Jenny's legs I'd broken a number of barriers this year. Language was just one more. I might have been saying things like “shit” and “fuck” in my head for a long time, but words like those were starting to find their way into my conversations with people like Tim and Marty.

“Straight up! And wait till you know why.” And he sat back, like that was it.

“You gonna tell me?”

“You'll see. You'll shit your fuckin' pants.”

“Fine. But you need to do something for me, too.”

“Name it, kid.”

“I need some condoms.”

Marty slapped his thigh and leaned his head back and laughed. “No shit! I'll take you someplace you can get them.”

“Fine. But you buy them today, and pay for gas, too.”

He shrugged like that made no difference to him. Then he said, “Who you gonna do?”

“This girl I've been seeing.”

“Virgin?”

“Seems unlikely. She told me to bring condoms next time I saw her.”

“You?”

“What about me?”

“I mean, are you still a virgin?”

I must have delayed just a tiny bit too long before I said, “Hell, no.”

“Liar. Liar! Ha, ha. Little Paulie's gonna get laid. Hey, if she's done it, you don't want her to be your first.”

I figured it was pointless to protest my lack of experience again. “Why?”

“Duh. D'you wanna look like a total dork? Do you really wanna just shoot all over her boobs 'cause you can't predict the timing of things? Or not be able to come at all 'cause you're so nervous about what you should do?”

“Oh, believe me, I've done quite a few things already.” I tried to sound as knowledgeable as possible. But he wasn't fooled.

“I don't give a fuck what you've done, if you haven't done
it
. We need to get you to a pro, and then you'll be able to handle yourself with your girl.”

“Pro.” All I could do was echo the word.

“Professional. When do you expect to see your girl again?”

“Maybe a couple of weeks. Nothing set up yet.”

“So this weekend we'll take you out and let a real woman show you the ropes. Haven't done that in a while, myself; 'bout time I went again. She'll cost about fifty in cash.”

Jesus Fucking Christ, he really was talking about what I'd thought he was talking about. A prostitute. “Isn't that a lot?”

He shrugged again. “Not for a little quality. The twenty-dollar ladies of the night won't be willing to take any time with you to help you out. For fifty, you can get someone with a little sympathy for your situation.”

We were fairly quiet for the rest of the ride to the state line. Part of the time I was racking my brains for a way to convince Marty I didn't need that kind of assistance. Part of the time I was thinking it was a really good idea but feeling scared shitless about it. Never once did it occur to me that I might get caught. That my folks might find out.

Once we hit the state line, Marty pulled out a piece of paper and started issuing directions again. “Turn here. Look for a gas station on the corner near a liquor store and pull in.” Marty got out and chatted with the guy pumping the gas. I couldn't really hear them, so I rolled my window down a little, but they were on the other side of the car. After the car was gassed up Marty went inside, I assumed to pay. And he did. But when he got back he had a wrinkled brown bag with him. He set it on the floor under the seat.

“Away we go,” he said. “Drive up this road until we get to a place where they sell plants. Then look for a dirt road just past it, across the street. No marker.”

We turned onto the dirt road and followed it for maybe half a mile. “Park here,” Marty said when we'd rounded a couple of huge piles of dirt, bigger than houses. He grabbed the bag and got out, looking all around as he walked. I got out, pocketed the keys just to be on the safe side, and followed. When he was sure we were alone he sidled over to me, lifted the bag, reached in and pulled his hand out.

It was a gun.

Marty had said I'd shit my pants, and I nearly did. He opened his hand so it lay nestled there. It looked small but mean. My voice barely a whisper, I asked, “What is it?”

“A snub-nose thirty-eight. Ain't it a beauty?” I reached toward it, but he pulled his hand away. “In a minute.” He bent over it, caressing it, and opened the chamber. There were bullets already in it. “I got more of these in the bag. Gonna use a few of them today!” He looked up at me and grinned. “Let's go shootin'.”

I stood several feet behind him as he planted himself firmly, facing one of the dirt hills and about thirty feet from it. He held the gun in his right hand, steadied it with his left, aimed, and then there was a popping explosion. His arms rose with the recoil, and a spit of dirt on the hill flew into the air. He aimed again. With his third shot he hit what he'd been aiming at, which was a tuft of brown grass.

“Ha!” He raised both arms into the air and turned to face me. “Hot shit!” He bent over the gun, obviously entranced. Then he looked at me again. “Wanna try?”

I did, and I didn't. “Sure.” And then he proceeded to tell me everything I was doing wrong as I aimed at that grass tuft.

“Left leg back a little. Hand higher on the grip. Hold it tighter. No, really hard. Aim with the front sight. It's going to buck, so stand firm and let your arms bounce up with it.”

I missed the thing by several feet. So there was more correction.

“You milked it. Don't move any finger except the trigger finger. And pull it back smoothly, like you're rolling it. Don't worry about when it will fire, just be smooth so you don't pull the muzzle off target.”

Much closer that time. I still hadn't hit it by the third bullet, though, and Marty took the gun back, reloaded, and fired all the rounds himself. I was itching for another try, but I didn't say anything. And when I looked at my watch, I realized I'd have to talk Marty out of doing any more himself, either, even though he was reloading.

“Gotta head out, Marty. We still have my errand, too, y'know.”

He aimed again and fired, and I went to the car and started it up. He was aiming again. I put the car into gear and rolled slowly toward him as he shot, aimed again, shot again. I'd lost count. What I wanted was to get to him before he had a chance to reload.

Suddenly he wheeled around, gun pointed right at me. I braked and just stared at him. He fired. I jerked in the seat even though he'd pulled on an empty chamber. When I could breathe again I shouted at him, “You crazy fuck, knock off that shit and get in the car!”

He made some sound like a jackal might make, swept up the bag with the bullets in it, and clambered in, still laughing. Once he had the gun stashed away again I headed out, still breathing deeply to calm myself.

He made me stop at the plant nursery while he bought an azalea for his mom, “so it wouldn't be a total lie,” he said. I had a brainstorm and bought one as well, and then we headed toward home.

“Where'd you learn all that shit about how to shoot? Milking the trigger, all that stuff?” I asked him.

“My dad shoots. But he keeps his gun locked up and won't let me near it except when he's with me, and I can't stand the stupid fuck. So I wanted my own gun.”

“Why'd we have to come all the way here to get it?”

“State line makes a big difference when it comes to things like this, kiddo.”

“And what are you gonna do with it, rob banks?”

“You're such a jerk, Landon. Why do you think I got a snub-nose? Maybe 'cause it takes up less room when you carry it around?” Which still didn't answer my question. I decided against pressing for more information. There were some things I just didn't need to know.

Close to home, and maybe twenty minutes late already, he had me pull into a drugstore in an area that I wouldn't want to walk through at night. At the counter there was a guy not much older than us.

His voice smooth and confident, Marty said, “I'll take a pack of Camels and two boxes of regular Trojans.” He threw a twenty on the counter and then leaned his hands on either side of the bill. “We'll need a bag.” The guy eyed him. Marty didn't actually look threatening, but he looked like it wouldn't take much to get him there. When the guy handed over the goods, Marty added, “Keep the change.”

Back in the car Marty took the cigs and one box of Trojans from the bag and handed it to me. “Haven't seen that guy in there before. Next time he sees one of us, maybe he'll remember the change.” Marty lit up and handed me the pack. He watched as I bounced one up, pulled it out, and lit up. I rolled the window down and blew the smoke smoothly outside the car.

“Well, I'll be,” he said. “I woulda bet you hadn't done that yet, either.”

“You need to roll down your window. If my mom smells smoke in here it'll be the last time I get the car.”

He laughed, but he obliged me. “And you're gonna need it for your little girlie, aren't you?”

While we smoked, still parked, I asked him, “Who'd you call today, before you called me, for this favor?” I just wanted to know where I was in his pecking order.

He exhaled smoke, inhaled again on the cig, and smoke escaped as he spoke. “Couple a guys.” He blew out the window. “Maybe you'll be higher on the list next time.”

We stopped once more to fill up the gas tank, and again he paid. Afterward, as we pulled up to his house, Marty stuffed the gun into his pants belt under his jacket, set the bag of bullets on the dirt of one of the plants and picked it up, said, “Thanks, kid. See ya Saturday.” He winked and headed up the driveway. He walked around back first, probably stashing the plant and the bullets out of sight.

On the way home I had all the windows open. As I drove, freezing cold, I kept feeling the jolt of that snub-nose in my palm, the warmth it gave off after a few shots.

Dad was home when I got there. Thank God Marty had said to put the Trojans in a bag. I held it as inconspicuously as possible. “You're late, Paul. Where have you been?”

“I told Mom when I borrowed the car. I'm not that late.”

He got out of his chair and hitched up his pants. “Don't argue. Where did you go?”

“This special place where Marty wanted to get some fancy azalea plant.”

“For over three hours?” I shrugged; it hadn't been my idea. “Did he put gas in the car?”

“He did.”

His gaze told me he wasn't done. I was glad he'd already lit his pipe; that would make it harder to smell any smoke on me. I also noticed that it wasn't the one Chris had brought from 'Nam. “What color?”

“What?”

“The flowers. What color were they?”

“Dark pink. They weren't all the way out yet, though. But you can see for yourself.”

“What?”

“I got one for Mom, too. It's in the backyard. I'm gonna surprise her with it before dessert tonight.”

He made some harrumphing kind of noise, stuck his pipe into his mouth, picked up a section of newspaper, and plunked himself down into the recliner.

 

My approaching date with Marty, if you could call it that, sort of hovered over everything I thought about all week, and I made a special trip to the bank to make sure I had my fifty dollars in cash. And I practiced with my condoms, wasting as few of them as possible getting them on and, once loaded, off again. Good thing I'd taken over trash duty.

By the time I went to work on Friday I was a nervous wreck. Thank God Jenny wasn't working that night. It wasn't like she expected me to ask her out all the time; in fact, she'd made a point of saying she didn't want to be anybody's girl, and it didn't seem to bother her that I'd waited a few weeks to ask for the second date. But I didn't want to have to worry about how I was acting around her.