Yearbook (20 page)

“Christ, Pepper!” shouted one of the new arrivals, “you’ll believe anything. That kid can’t be more than thirteen!”

Guy whirled around, angry. His head was spinning, his stomach was rocky … he didn’t care what he said. “In the first place, I’m sixteen and just happen to be short for my height. And in the second, my old man owns the whole station and I work for him!”

It made sense.

Pepper, bowling ball at the ready, said, “Hey, kid, get a load of this one!”

“Stop! Please stop! No! No more!”

“Got to have you, baby. Got to have all of it!”

Velma and Corky were breathing heavily. While her hand caressed his erection, both of his were under her long slip and straight black skirt, then between her legs, trying to figure away past her panties.

“No more!” she insisted, releasing his cock.

“Don’t stop! It feels too good. Can’t stop now. Don’t say no, baby. Don’t do that to me.”

“Please. lean t.”

“ Put your hand on it again. Go on.”

He took her hand and led it down once more to his exposed hard-on.

“You can’t do it standing up,” she complained, suggesting to him she was no novice.

“Wanna bet?” He nibbled her lower lip.

“Stop that, please. You don’t even have a rubber.”

From his pants pocket, Corky the magician whipped out a Trojan.

Velma gulped. “I don’t care. We can’t!”

Thrusting against her, he whispered, “Can I tell you how good that’s gonna feel way up inside?”

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes. Gonna be sensational!” Corky found a small hole on the side of her panties and started ripping it open with his fingers.

“No. Not like this. Not out here. Stop that! They cost me seventy-nine cents a pair! Hey, call me. I’m in the book. Please. We’ll do it next time.”

“We’ll do it now!”

“It’s too cold!”

“We’ll be so warm, baby. I’ve got the warmest dick in New York State!”

“I don’t even know your name—”

Corky shut off further protest as he covered her mouth with his and eased his tongue inside.

Stop! Velma told herself. Stop him! Another voice answered, Stop him? You crazy? So what if you don’t know his name. He doesn’t know
yours,
dummy! No one will know. He’s not from around here. You know all the Rushport guys. So what the hell? He’s fabulous looking and I—

No!
The first voice returned. This is disgraceful! How can you let a total stranger get away with this kind of…
Christ, does that ever feel sensational!

Guy watched Pepper make his spare. “Good line!” Guy told him.

“Think so?”

“I do. Unfortunately not TV material. I mean you shift your weight nicely for someone your size, but there’s something missing in your style.”

“What’s that?”

“Can I be frank?”

“Be anything you want.”

“The problem is … “ Out of the corner of his eye, Guy saw Troendle signaling to him to get on with it. He had no way of knowing Chuck only wanted fast action so he could win his ten bucks. “The problem as I see it, Pepper … is that you throw the ball like a fairy.”

There was sudden fire in Pepper’s eyes as he advanced on the short boy with the big shot father. Calvin, Jenkins and Troendle stood up.

Guy’s stomach went into the spin cycle. Where the hell was Corky?

“What’d you say?”
Pepper hissed.

“Don’t take my word for it. What do I know? I’m really only twelve. And remember what I said about my father owning the station? Well, I lied. I lied because I knew only a dumb-ass slob like you would fall for it. So fuck you, fatty!”

Fatty grabbed Guy’s shirt and lifted him high off the ground. It was all too much. Guy felt like a man drowning, and as Pepper was about to punch him out his life flashed before him. He was so scared, in fact, he got sick all over again. All over Pepper.

The big boy dropped Guy to the ground, screaming in disgust. He swatted at half-digested lumps as if they were invading insects. Wild with hate, he wound up to smash Guy into the ground.

Guy fell over backward. Pepper charged. And Corky appeared out of nowhere, diving at Pepper’s back, strangle-holding him with one arm while his fist rapidly punched away at the big boy’s ear.

All hell broke loose. Calvin and Jenkins leaped over the booth and jumped their assigned targets. Troendle let out a savage cry and plowed into Pepper’s friend, wrestling him to the ground.

The sound of bowling balls crashing was suddenly drowned out by girls screaming, young men fighting and everyone in the place rushing to investigate the commotion.

Calvin and Jenkins were holding their own with the two who had come in from the bar. Trading shot for shot, they half-boxed, half-wrestled.

Troendle wasn’t faring as well. Peppers friend was pounding him in the stomach and landing punches to his face. One wild shot hit Troendle directly on the nose and blood gushed like a geyser out of control.

Pepper finally managed to flip Corky off his back, then tripped him and bounced on top of him. Rolling over together, fists flailing, they punched each others kidneys.

Corky realized the big guy had a lot more weight, so there was no sense wrestling. He broke out of their hold and scrambled to his feet.

Pepper lunged after him. They swung out, face to face, and Pepper knocked Corky back against the bowling rack. Suddenly with the upper hand, Pepper was whacking Corky across the face.

Corky tried covering his face with both hands, but Pepper was going crazy, connecting with every third or fourth shot. One lucky punch split Corky’s lip.

Guy, who had been left alone since the fight started, stood there in his dizzy, nauseated state, watching the melee. When he saw Pepper hammering away at Corky’s head, his heart pumped so fast he thought it would leap out of his vomit-stained shirt. “No/” He couldn’t do that. Not to Corky!

A rush of adrenaline drove him to the bowling rack, where he jumped on Pepper, throwing both arms around the bulk of him.

Pepper didn’t let up on Corky, but did take the time to elbow Guy and then, when the kid fell, to kick him hard in the ribs.

Guy went out of control. Bouncing back, he darted forward, picked up the nearest bowling ball and dropped the heavy black sphere directly on top of Pepper’s foot, smashing his two biggest toes.

Pepper screamed in agony. He lifted his cracked foot and held it while hopping about in place.

Corky had the opening he needed. Grabbing Pepper’s shirt, he swung back and let the one-legged fellow have it right in the teeth.

He could feel the two front ones breaking, snapping off against the skin of his bleeding fingers. Pepper crumpled.

The manager, two bartenders and assorted others descended on the group, breaking things up, holding fighters at bay.

“Throw em out!” the manager screamed. “Throw these fuckin’ hoods outta here!”

“They started it!” Corky gasped for air and pointed to Guy. “They attacked my friend here … half their size …”

“I don’t give a shit! Pepper and these guys play here all the time. I don’t know any you punks. You’re troublemakers. Out of my bowling alley, and stay out!”

“Some democracy!” Corky said, with great indignation. “Well come on, guys, let’s take off if that’s their lousy attitude. See if we play here again!”

Corky and friends grabbed their coats. Calvin and Jenkins got out of their bowling shoes. All fought to catch their breath.

Backed up by his enormous bartenders, the manager clapped hands. “All right, let’s go!”

Guy, Calvin, Jenkins and Troendle followed Corky.

Pepper sat in the booth, nursing broken toes and busted teeth. “Next time you bastards come around, you’re dead!”

“All right, Pepper,” the manager intervened, “that’s enough.”

Laughing on the inside, fighting for breath on the outside, Corky walked past the sea of lanes, past the plastic Santa Claus with the electric winking eye, toward the exit, watching everyone staring at his disheveled entourage.

Her hair no longer in curlers, Velma strolled nonchalantly out of the ladies’ room. When she came face to face with Corky she stopped short, trying to guess how he got so messed up, his lip so bloody.

He snuck her a private wink, letting her know everything was cool.

She stepped forward and in passing, whispered between smiling teeth, “Hey, schmuck. Your fly’s still open!”

TWENTY-SEVEN
 

PILING INTO the Chevy like clowns at the circus, outlaws chased from town by the sheriff, Corky and his band of merrymen made their getaway.

Chuck Troendle held his head back, sniffing up into his bloody nose.

Corky pressed a handkerchief to his open lip. “Come on, Jenkins. Get the beer out! What kind of party is this?”

Jenkins opened the bag between his knees and handed out the Millers. “That’s the last of it,” he announced.

“First things first!” Corky jabbed Troendle in the ribs. “Hey, Mr. Nosebleed. Where’s my ten bucks?”

“You’re kidding?” Troendle raised his head. “You got her?”

Corky smiled.

“I don’t believe it.” Chuck moaned.

“Better believe it, Troendle. That was one for the Guinness Book of Records!”

Everyone took a slug of beer.

“And how ‘bout the little one in the back!” Corky looked through the rear-view mirror. “Saved my fucking neck, he did. I owe you a thousand bucks, kid!”

Smiling, Guy swilled his beer and came out with a manly belch.

Corky skidded around a corner, back onto Broadway and stopped short in front of a deli. “Okay, Jenkins. You and me are the only real eighteen-year-olds here. I’ll keep the motor running. You get a few more six-packs. Let’s go, you cheap bastards. Everybody cough up.”

Spare change and dollar bills were pulled from pockets.

“Not you,” Corky told Guy. “I’m chipping in your share.” He handed Jenkins three dollars.

The drive back from Rushport was a lively shambles. The boys drank and shouted, comparing wounds, reliving shot-for-shot every detail of the battle.

Back in Waterfield, Corky dropped them off, one by one. Guy was last.

“Some night, huh?” A Corky high on beer and the aftermath of battle pulled up to the Fowler house.

“Some night,” Guy quietly agreed. “My first fight. “

“Three things to remember, kid. Try not to get into a scrap if you can’t win. That’s suicide. Second, if you gotta fight, make sure you get in that first punch. It’s worth fifty pounds on the other fella. Also scares the shit out of him. Third, if you lose, you only get beaten once. After that, if the guy isn’t your friend, at least he respects you. So keep slugging.”

Guy got out of the car. As he was closing the door, Corky’s face appeared at the window. “Hey, kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t matter what anybody says … you’re my friend. I want you to know that. And next time someone asks how tall you are, tell em Corky Henderson says you’re a nine-footer. They don’t believe it, tell em to check with me.”

Waving, Guy slammed the door. “Thanks, and merry Christmas, Corky.”

Corky skidded off down the street as Guy watched the car disappear into the night.

Ten minutes later Guy bounced into bed, far too exhilarated to sleep. Lying on his back, staring at the dark ceiling, hearing again Corky’s words, “
You’re my friend”
he was visited for the very first time with a full, bona fide erection. It was the greatest night of his life.

Nathan Fowler awakened early the following morning in agony. Goddamn cramps, he groaned, hurrying into the bathroom.

The excessive amount of blood in the bowl told him he’d ignored the situation long enough. He would see his doctor.

Guy was devoting Christmas vacation to shaping up. He added to his daily exercise program and increased his intake of leftover turkey and rum-soaked fruitcake.

Four days after Christmas, Corky called. “Got plans New Years Eve, kid?”

“Nothing special,” Guy told him, having no plans at all.

“We’re putting a party together over at Marlene the cheerleader’s. So get yourself a date and bring a bottle of something expensive. We’re starting around eight to make sure we’ll be good and blind by 1959.”

“A date?” Guy said it like he hadn’t heard the term before.

“Yeah. There someone you can ask?”

“Oh…absolutely.”

“Fine. Thirty-two Temple Road. Bring your camera.”

“Corky?”

“Yeah?”

“I take it back.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s no one I can ask. Not really. Could I come alone?”

“Alone? New Year’s Eve, kid! Date-night U.S.A.! Everyone in couples. Might as well start making out now. Best way to get to be a C-man, like anything else, is with practice. “

“Makes sense,” Guy agreed.

“There must be someone you can ask. You want people to think you’re queer or something?”

Guy shuddered. “ ‘Course not.”

“School’s crawling with pussy. They’ll be lining up for you, kid.”

“Yeah, sure… . Say, Corky, weren’t you ever nervous about girls?”

“You kidding, kid? It’s like this … some of us are born lovers. …”

“Yeah, I guess so … well, thanks, I’ll… work on it.”

He hung up and stared at the wall. A date? A date? How was he going to scare up a date? Where was that certain someone who might actually accept? He riffled through his mind’s file, picturing the girls in his classes, but the only one he knew at all on a first-name basis was Amy Silverstein—

Amy! That was it! He called immediately.

“Hi, Amy. Busy?”

“Yuech! Plowing through my chem term paper.”

“Oh. How’s it coming?”

“It doesn’t make any sense, so it must be brilliant. What’s up?”

“Up?… Nothing. Just calling to say hi.”

“Hi.”

“Uhm … have a nice Christmas?”

“Peachy. Just what is it, Guy?”

“Nothing. Nothing really. You’re busy. I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Right. I’ll… uh … see you down at the
Eagler.”

“No doubt.”

“Nice talking to you, Amy.”

“Thanks for calling, Guy.”

“Wait!
Don’t hang up! There’s something else. …”