Waylaid (4 page)

“Your dad got my dad fired!” yelled one of the burnouts. “You're so dead, little faggot!”

They grabbed Crispy's arms. In my head, I was yelling for him to kick them, but Crispy just tried to ball himself up.

Now I understood how someone could just stand aside and watch their friend get beaten up. It wasn't that we were outnumbered, but when you see someone give up and not even try to fight, you wonder why you should. Why stick up for someone who won't even fight for himself?

“You're not even going to punch me, you little girl?” taunted the burnout. “I think it's time to recycle you.” He got two other intermediate kids, and they picked Crispy up by the legs. Crispy wriggled and screamed. They opened the lid to the garbage can and pumped him down headfirst into the trash. I heard Crispy's head banging on the sides of the can.

Then they pulled him out and dumped him in a bush. I could hear Crispy crying. His face was cut and bleeding, though it didn't look much worse than with the pimples alone.

“Hey, over here!” yelled a burnout about my size. He was pointing at me. “C'mon, you slanted cunt!” he shouted.

I pulled out a screwdriver from my back pocket.

“Shit, are you fucking crazy?” he asked, backing up. I didn't say anything. “Fucking psycho Bruce Lee. Go back to that fucking chinky hotel. You're crazy!”

After they left, I picked up Crispy's bag and helped him up. Crispy was still crying. We walked to the buses, stepping over crushed cigarette butts littering the lawn. It reminded me of all the trash I swept up when the Bennys were back at the hotel in full force. I could tell that for all their posturing, the burnouts were still novices at smoking. The butts weren't sucked down to the filter the way people at the hotel would do it.

“What the hell are you kids doing!” yelled Mrs.

Krackowski. Her bus was idling at the curb and she was standing at the top of the boarding steps with the door open. She was only about five feet tall, but she was as tough as cold biscuits. A huge pair of shades obscured most of her face.

“They just beat him up!” I yelled back. Crispy kept crying and wiping his bloody face.

“Just get him in here, and let's go! You're holding everybody up!” Mrs. Krackowski spat out. “This is one hell of a way to end your last day of school!”

Renting out rooms to johns was just one part of the business. It was reliable income throughout the year, especially in the winter when there weren't many real customers. It paid for the groceries. I knew because it was me who went to the supermarket.

Business peaked from Memorial Day through Labor Day, when the Bennys would come down and party. The johns hated it when the Bennys came in because the room prices went up to $50 a night, with no special fuckonly rates.

The Bennys liked our hotel because it was near the beach. Rooms at that time of year were in pretty high demand, even with the increased rate. The Bennys made sure they got their money's worth. They'd pack in all their friends and have maybe eight people staying in a room: two on each bed; one on the floor between the beds; two in the closet; and one in the bathroom.

High-school girls really went for Benny men. The girls would be out of school for the summer and looking for something more exciting than fast food and surfing. Cheese fries and Space Invaders had nothing on drinking and screwing under the boardwalk after hours.

Benny women were on the prowl for potential long-term boyfriend/husband material, but they were lucky if they had the same guy two nights in a row. I had to call taxis to take girls to the train stop after they got ditched at our hotel.

Business was fast and furious in the summer, and when it got to be two or three in the morning and there were no rooms left, people would get really desperate. The last thing they wanted was a drive back to the city without even getting a chance to score. They would beg for a room, a dirty room, or even a room with other people in it. People wanted to sleep in the office. Others were willing to pay twice the room rate and sometimes offered more than just cash.

Because of the Bennys, summers were no vacation for me. I had more work to do than when I was in school. More rooms to clean. More cigarettes, crushed cans, and broken glass to pick up around the hotel while avoiding the bees that had been attracted by the smell of alcohol. More drunk assholes to step around. I'd find used condoms and hotel blankets under the picnic tables all the time. Sometimes people would still be asleep, wrapped in the blankets.

They'd also mess up the pool, which was surrounded by an unraveling stretch of green plastic-coated chain link fence that had buckled and warped from Bennys pushing each other against it or running their car fenders into it. If a supporting rod popped out of its joint, the fence would pucker and come apart. Sharp, rusted tips of cross-hatched wire stuck out from the plastic coating, looking like tire-shredders embedded in asphalt behind a “DO NOT ENTER” sign. One of my duties was to go around with a pair of pliers and thick wire and try to mend the fence, pulling it taut and tying it up.

Cracked concrete framed the swimming pool, which was close to the highway, between the tips of the U. You had to put your towel over the weather-beaten wooden pool furniture before you sat down, otherwise you'd get splinters. Most people used the bath towels from the hotel, and in the mornings, I would take the pole hook and pull out towels that had sunk to the bottom of the deep end and clogged up the drain. Sometimes I pulled out shorts and bikinis, too.

Bennys would often hop the fence and fuck in the shallow end at night. It was like joining the mile-high club or something. The Jacques Cousteau club, I guess. The water would still be warm because it retains heat in the evening better than the land. I learned that from my soft-cover science workbook. Water also made sex more buoyant and fluid. I learned that from letters to Club International.

In the hot sun, I got hard watching women lying on their chests, bikini tops untied and straps hanging off the sides like bright, multicolored shoelaces. Would their tits be pressed flat permanently if they stayed like that too long? Would there be lines across their nipples from the wood planks?

I went around the pool deck, sweeping up cigarette butts and thin pieces of broken brown and green glass from Budweiser and Heineken bottles. I saw a crushed, empty box of Marlboros under the recliner of a woman asleep with her top untied. I got down on my knees and reached for the box, turning my head up to try to peek at her tits.

“Hey, what are you doing, kid?” someone yelled. I stuck my head up. It was Vincent, smiling and standing by the garden hose that was coiled up near the shallow end. The hose was for people to wash sand off their feet and only carried cold water. Very cold water. The nozzle was in Vincent's hand.

“This is how you do it!” he yelled, turning the faucet on full blast and pointing it at the woman. The nozzle wasn't focused, so he sprayed about 10 people with freezing pellets that smacked against the skin and hurt because they were so cold. Everyone screamed and jumped up, including two women who forgot that their tops were untied. They scampered for cover on the deck near the deep end, hands cupping their tits.

“You fucking asshole sonovabitch! Motherfucker! Cocksucker! 'Talian faggot piece of shit!” they screeched. One was a blonde, the other was a redhead. Vincent was doubled over with laughter, but he didn't turn the hose off. He held the nozzle between his legs and jerked it around, like he was pissing on everyone.

I searched for the two missing bikini tops but only found one, tangled up with a pair of sunglasses. Looking at the pattern, I was glad to see it was the blonde's. I stretched it out and felt at the insides of each cup, as if I could squeeze the nipples that were once there. I went up to her and handed it back. If it were a Penthouse letter, she would have given me a deep French kiss and led me back to her room for a blow job and a hard fuck.

Instead, she snatched her bikini top away and slapped me hard as she yelled, “Fucking little chink pervert!” She had rings on her fingers. I ran my tongue through my mouth to make sure all my teeth were still there. The mark on my face stung and my cheek was slick with a suntan lotion smear.

Afterwards, I was looking forward to sitting back on the office couch and playing Atari, but when I went into the office, I found my father already lying there. He was wearing jeans, a thin t-shirt, and socks. His eyes were closed.

“What's going on here?” I asked.

“Back hurt,” he said, not opening his eyes. His arms were folded across his stomach.

“Shouldn't you go see a doctor? This keeps happening.”

“No, don't need doctor. No big deal.”

“Do you want more aspirin?”

“No, doesn't do anything. Just have to lie down more.”

“Why don't you lie down on the living-room couch?”

“That couch broken and hurt my back. And too hot there. Nicer here.”

“You're too cheap to turn on our air conditioner.”

“You spend most of your time in office. I'm downstair in the basement with cool air. Mommy is out cleaning rooms. Why should I turn on air conditioner?”

I heaved a sigh and set up the Atari. In about a minute, I was sitting on the office floor, playing

Superman.

“Is that video game?” asked my father from the couch.

“Yeah,” I said without turning around to look at him.

“What game is that?”

“Superman.”

I heard him shift on the couch and clear his throat.

“Can you get me some water?” he asked.

After dinner, when most of the Bennys had left the pool for the bars, I jumped in and held myself underwater just to see what drowning was like.

It was dark, quiet, and nice for about 15 seconds. Then the urge to breathe began to pound in my head and chest like knocks against Death's chamber. Drowning had to be the worst way to go because you couldn't scream and your thoughts bounced around as your head was being squeezed by water pressure. I could imagine the ache you would feel tearing away at your insides until you died.

I came up for a breath and went down again.

I sat in the office, playing Adventure on the Atari. I'd finished the game a zillion times before, but I was sick of Superman, and all the other cartridges required two players to be any fun.

A Benny walked in, a six-pack of bottles of beer in one hand and a cooler the size of a doghouse swaying in the other.

“The ice machine is between Room 2 and Room 4,” I said, pointing to the left.

“I'm not looking for the ice machine,” he said. “I need a bottle opener. Ya got one, pal?” He showed a fresh cut on his thumb. “I thought they were twist-offs,” he said, mushing the tiny flap of skin against the second knuckle of his index finger.

I looked under the office desk and pawed through the lost and found. Some of my best stuff had been left by customers. A thick leather shaving bag that I kept foreign coins in. Two Billy Idol tapes. A fountain pen. Strings of studded or ribbed Venus beads that you were supposed to feed into a girl's pussy or asshole, or even your own ass-hole, according to the hard-core magazines. A cock ring.

I found a bottle opener with a white plastic handle that was melted by the heat coils of a hotplate. The metal ends were spotted with rust, although I could still make out the words “STAINLESS STEEL TAIWAN.” I handed it over the counter to the man.

“Can I have this?” he asked.

“Yeah, someone's left it here since last winter,” I said.

“Thanks, pal, thanks. Hey, wait a sec, you know who John Belushi is?”

“Yeah, I know who he is,” I said. I watched “Saturday Night Live” every week.

“You wanna meet him? He came down for a few hours to hang out.”

“Where is he?” I asked. The Benny walked to the office door and pointed through the glass pane. In the distance, I could see frantic splashing in the swimming pool.

“There, the guy in yellow trunks.” A blur of yellow sprung off the diving board into a mass of limbs and glittery reflections of sunlight. “That's him! Come on, I'll introduce ya.”

John Belushi swimming at my hotel pool. Cheebugger, Cheebugger, Cheebugger! No Coke — Pepsi! And the Samurai!

Now if it were any other non-guest swimming in my pool, I would have told him to leave. Our insurance didn't cover them. And anyway, the beach was just a mile away. Who wanted to swim in a pool when the ocean was so close?

Jesus, John Belushi. That guy probably got laid every night. And every morning.

“Hey, I gotta get back to the pool,” said the Benny. “Come down and I'll introduce ya.” He stepped out of the office. I really wanted to go, but my mother, who was fast asleep in the bedroom, would demand to know why I'd abandoned my post — something I'd never done before.

Still, I just had to go. I'd risk a screaming session with my mother to meet John Belushi. I'd never met a celebrity before.

I came up with a plan. I could tell my mother that I had had to go refill the soda machines because a customer had come down to the office and complained that they were empty. After all, the customer was always right.

I took a thick ring of keys hanging below the Marlboro clock, stuck a “BACK IN 15 MINUTES” sign in the office window, and locked the door behind me. I liked that sign because the customers never knew when those 15 minutes had started.

I unlocked the supply closet next door to Room 3 and dragged out crates of canned soda.

The Fiorellos were sitting in plastic lawn chairs in the shade of the edge of the roof. In the winter, they'd come into the office and sit and blah blah blah for hours with my mother or just themselves, but in the summer, they pulled out folding chairs and sat by their car. After going through the effort of changing into swimming attire, they couldn't be bothered to walk down to the pool. The National Enquirer was draped across Mrs. Fiorello's lap. It looked like a wind-strewn newspaper along the freckled fat of the land. Peter Fiorello stared up into the sky, his sunglasses reflecting fuzzy white clouds. Two fingers were wedged into his waistband.

“Peter, look at the young man working so hard in the summer!” said Mrs. Fiorello. “Maybe you should get a summer job, too.” She patted the hairy lump that oozed over the rim of Peter Fiorello's shorts.

“My job all year round is to be a fat slob next to you and make you look good,” he said. His eyebrows jerked above the rim of his sunglasses and a splotch of blue tattoo ink on his chest quivered. “I make her look real good, don't I? Just like Suzanne Sommers.”

Mrs. Fiorello was as far from Suzanne Sommers as men were from women. God, I couldn't even imagine sitting in the car with Mrs. Fiorello, much less being in bed with her. Then again, Peter Fiorello wasn't going to star in any eight-millimeter films this year.

I threw on a case of 7-Up, The UnCola, onto the handtruck, followed by a case of Tab diet cola and two cases of local sodas — Briardale Cola and Howdy! orange soda. They were cheaper than Coca-Cola and Sunkist, and tasted like it. Mrs. Fiorello opened her hands and shook her palms at the case of Tab.

“Oh, that's what I need! The One-Calorie Soda! I can't find it anywhere.”

“She doesn't even know it causes cancer.”

“Well, even if it causes cancer, Peter, it can't be as bad as your cigars, you know.”

“But I look good holding a cigar up. Gives me an excuse not to talk because my mouth is full. Showing people you drink Tab tells them, ‘I'm fat! I need help!

Get me on a diet!' She looks great anyway. Doesn't need to lose anything but her mother.”

“Peter, that's terrible! I love my mother. You love my mother, too!”

“I have to fill the soda machine,” I said, anxious to be on my way. They both waved as I shoved off with the handtruck. The three soda machines, which were next to the pool's shallow end, stood against the walls of a defunct hamburger stand that had closed years before we'd bought the hotel. The glass sliding doors to the stand were still intact, no cracks or chips. If you cupped your hands to the glass, you could see dusty sheets thrown over rectangular kitchen equipment in the darkness inside.

My eyes swept the pool area, lingering over asses and tits, but I didn't see the Benny who took the bottle opener, or Belushi's yellow trunks. I looked a little longer, then decided to fill the soda machines while I waited.

The soda key was special. Instead of being flat, it consisted of a small crown of metal that plugged into a circular slot on each machine. One machine held just Briardale Cola, the other held 7-Up and Howdy! orange soda, and the third held Briardale Cola and Tab. Each machine held about 200 cans of soda that went for 35 cents a pop. They would run out after only a few days in the summertime, and I had to refill them right before and again during the busy weekends. The cigarette machine, which charged 75 cents for a pack and a book of matches with blank covers, would run out, too, but the cigarette guy filled that one up, not me.

Filling the machines meant pain. I would get two deep red grooves on each hand between the thumb and the index finger from unloading all the six-packs. When I complained, my mother would slap at my hands.

“That's nothing!” she'd say, “You're not bleeding. You're still young. When you're old, then you can complain about your body.” The next day, I'd have bruise marks where the red had been, with a bunch of tiny blue and red dots in the grooves of the calluses like specks of glitter caught under my skin. I would show my mother, but she would just laugh, saying they would disappear after a few days. And they did.

Tab was always the last drink to sell out. Even the Bennys would rather drink Briardale Cola with its horse-head logo or Howdy! with its stupid buck-toothed clown mascot instead of Tab. Belushi would never drink Tab.

Out of curiosity, I tried one. It tasted like liquefied dead bugs coated in pesticide and mashed into my mouth. I turned the can on its side and the soda foamed as it hit the dirt. I locked up the machines and took a closer look at the swimmers, walking around the perimeter of the pool. John Belushi was nowhere to be seen. Some guys fit his dimensions, but no one was wearing yellow trunks. Bottle Opener Benny was also gone.