MIKE'S PERSPECTIVE
CHAPTER ONE (of NINE)
by Donny Mumford
I'm thinking about killing Ryan Gilmore. I probably won't do it here, though. 'Here' is a rich girl's backyard pool party. My date, Debby Dean, talked me into coming with her tonight, so here we are with guys and girls our age but, other than that, we have almost nothing in common with them.
As to the potential demise of Ryan Gilmore, well, his only crimes are being a stuck-up, snobby, rich kid who, well, who intrigues me to a degree that pisses me off mightily. In other words, I'm blaming him because I'm infatuated with him. And, even though we've both lived in Wildwood, New Jersey, our entire lives we've never even spoken to one another. Gilmore was born and raised on the metaphorical 'rich side of the tracks' and I most definitely was not.
Anyhow, it's strictly hyperbole I'm going to kill him. He's a problem of my own making and totally innocent of any wrongdoing other than those I mentioned. Yep, I'm furious at myself for my mysterious, unwanted, and very secret interest in him.
Presently, Debbie is standing next to me, asking me something that I wasn't listening to, so I go, "Huh?" and she pats my arm, saying, "I asked if you were ready to mingle with some of these other kids? You know, Mikey, introduce ourselves or something... join the party." I mutter, "No, I'm not doing that, and don't call me 'Mikey'."
She takes holds my hand, murmuring, "Oh, that's right, you're not nine years old, you only act like you are at times. I forgot." I mutter, "Very funny. And, would you remind me again why the fuck you dragged me to this party?" She goes, "Aren't you even slightly curious how the rich kids live?" I mumble, "Ahh, no!." Exasperated, she says, "The boardwalk isn't the only part of Wildwood, you know." What she just said has nothing to do with anything, but she's a nice girl so I let it slide.
Debby is a good talker and now she's cheerfully telling me what her girlfriend, Jetta, got for her birthday last week. That's a topic I have less than zero interest in, so, I light a cigarette and blow three smoke rings, and then drain the last drops from the bottle of Rolling Rock I've been drinking for the last fifteen minutes. Nodding my head at Debby, not really listening, I mumble, "Uh-huh, she's cool." Debby goes, "And, she's wicked jealous we're at this party." I nod my head again, muttering, "Really? Huh..."
I can't stop myself from glaring across the swimming pool at Ryan. I'm wondering for the fiftieth time what there is about him that gives me these weird feelings? They're weird feelings I can't even describe to myself, but it has something to do with a vibration in my dick. He's over there smirking it up with two of his goofy-looking prep school friends. It's fortunate he's unaware of me, and, therefore, totally unaware of my odd interest in him. I mean, if he knew, then I would need to kill him.
This party is in West Wildwood, the rich part of town, and, as I intimated, Debby and I are most definitely not from here. Oops, Debby's stopped talking so I glance at her and see her swallow a microscopic sip of the first cocktail she's had tonight, a rum and Coke. That beer I just finished was my third, but we got here an hour ago, so, considering how uncomfortable I am about being here, I think I've shown restraint drinking only three beers so far.
Looking over at the big tub of ice and beers near the French doors leading into the back of this very large house, I say, "Deb, I need another beer." Without waiting for her to tell me not to get drunk, I start to walk away, but she takes hold of my arm, saying, "To answer your question, Mike, I was flattered Sonya inviting me. And, ha-ha, I wanted to show off my 'hot' boyfriend to these stuck-up girls." Oh, brother! I smile at her, muttering, "I hate to tell you this, Debby, but I'm not 'hot'." She says, "Yes, you are!"
I could have added that I'm not her boyfriend either, but I don't want to hurt her feelings. Debby goes, "I find it very interesting witnessing how the other half lives. Just look at this backyard! The swimming pool is bigger than my parent's house." I grin, mumbling, "Yeah, well, I'm gonna pee in that big pool, so..." She makes a 'face' as she snickers, saying, "Of course you are."
I've held this empty beer bottle long enough, so I say again, "I need another beer, Debra, I'll be right back." To her credit, she doesn't say what I thought she would; the unnecessary 'don't get drunk' comment. I make my way to the big fancy stainless steel tub of ice, beer, and sodas where two guys I've never seen before in my life are drinking. The shorter of the two has freakishly wide shoulders and he's wearing swim trunks that reach below his knees. He's the one who says to me, "Ridley and me," nodding at the Ichabod Crane lookalike kid standing next to him, "We figure why not guard the beer supply, ya know?" Idiot!
Nodding my head, I try smiling... why cause trouble? I mutter, "Good plan," and reach in the icy water for a Rolling Rock. Then, as I'm using an unnecessarily fancy 'church key' attached to the tub to flip off the bottle cap, Ichabod asks, "Which one of Sonya's girlfriends are you with?" Taking a swallow of my fourth beer of the night, I mutter, "Who's Sonya?" and walk away before either of them can reply.
I know who Sonya is. She's the girl who is throwing this boring shindig, but I've never met her and couldn't tell you which one of the twenty-some girls here she is. The latest CD from the band 'Green Day' has been blaring from over-size speakers since we got here and I want to scream... don't you have any other 'effing CDs? Jesus!
And, it's not only the music I object to. There's nothing I want to talk about with any of these rich assholes. And, oh fuck, there's Ryan Gilmore again and he just caught me glancing at him. I didn't even mean to look at him, he just popped into my line of sight! Shit!
Naturally, I looked away immediately but our eyes connected for a fraction of a second. He's still with the same prep school buddies so I wonder if they came 'stag'? I assume a guy who looks like Ryan would have a girlfriend, or maybe two. Or, if not... hmm, that would be interesting to know. No, it WOULD NOT be interesting to know! Jesus Christ, I don't care if he came with a date or not! Omigod, he just said something to his jerk-off buddies and all three are now looking at me, snickering like girls. Faggots.
No, they're probably not gay, but under my breath, I mutter, "Fuck you..." and continue toward the bar to get my date a fresh drink. Ignoring the prep boys' girlish snickering, I tell myself to concentrate on being nice to Debby. Looking over at her across the pool, I'm feeling really bad that none of the cunts here are talking to her. I'm also feeling guilty I can't be the kind of boy she deserves. This is our tenth date and Debbie, more or less, has asked me out on most of our dates, and she insists on calling me her boyfriend. She tells her friends I'm not like most guys who only want to get in her undies. Ha, I know she wouldn't mind if I at least tried to do that once in a while.
I feel like a fraud because I am a fraud, but Debby insists that what I am is a deep thinker. She says, instead of me having only sex on my mind I think about intellectual things such as how unimaginably huge the universe is, and how insignificant everything here on earth is by comparison. Yeah, well, usually I'm drunk when making random comments like that. I've heard her brag to her friends that I'm the coolest guy she's ever been on a date with, and the cutest too, and heh-heh, she's probably right about that. She calls me her cute, tall, lean, bad-boy boyfriend. Christ, she's so nice and, as I said, she deserves better than me.
Oh well, life blows, and then you die. Carrying my beer, I work my way through the fifty-some kids in this back yard while trying to catch Debby's eye so I can give her an encouraging smile because, dammit, she's still standing by herself. That sucks! Oh man, I wish I could, but I can't make myself be someone I'm not, even for her.
Well, one thing's for certain though, and it's that neither of us belongs at this party. Not with these entitled rich kids, these prep school phonies with their pretentious plans of 'summering this year in France'. I'm not jealous. No, seriously I'm not! Fuck, I wouldn't want to be like 'them'. It's just that, oh fuck, I can't explain this anger I have. I'm pissed off about everything... leave it at that.
Continuing to make my way through the Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus summer clothes and overheard conversations about Ivy League colleges these dip-shits are going to in the fall, I get to the bar on the other side of the pool from where Debbie's standing. Ryan and his buddies are ten feet away now, but I will NOT look over at them!
First of all, what balls Sonya's parents have okaying a booze bar, with a bartender no less, for a party their barely-eighteen-year-old daughter is having for her friends of the same age. The legal drinking age around here is twenty-one, folks! Heh-heh, actually I'm applauding her parent's open-mindedness. And, what the fuck, rich people are just different and have their own rules. Yeah, while I sneer at that, I've gotta admit us poor people have our own rules too.
Anyway, at the bar, I'm staring daggers at the backs of three girls with big asses in front of me who are taking forever deciding what cocktails they want to try 'this time'. The bartender is an amateur. Well, he's a kid from my class at Wildwood High School, Dickie Martin. We're not friends but we know one another. Dickie looks past the girls and says to me, as a question, "Sullivan?"
He said my last name as a question because he's shocked to see me here. Yeah, well, this is an 'out-of-my-league' party. I nod, mumbling, "Yo, Martin, whassup?" He spreads his arms indicating the whole scene, saying, "How about this shit, huh? Can you believe this?" I shrug, and he's like, "What can I get you? Some Dom Perignon perhaps? "
I chuckle and then mumble, "Maybe later. For now, I need a rum and Coke. Not for me, though," and I hold up my beer as if I need to explain why I'm ordering a rum and Coke. Nodding in the general direction of Debby, I mutter, "It's for Debby Dean who's responsible for my appearance here at this, um, whatever the fuck this is. Pool party I guess, although no one is in the pool." While Dickie mixes the cocktail, he's muttering to me with disdain, "Yeah, I suppose later, when they're all drunk, these dinks will be throwing each other in the pool fully dressed. Whoopee!"
One of the three girls standing next to me, the one with braces, says, "Hey, like, um, are you two homies shitting on Sonya's party?" Dickie, says, "No way, bitch! Just kidding around. What drinks can I make for you hot babes?" Jeez, I never knew Dickie Martin was such a smooth talker. Good for him pulling that horseshit off! The girl with most of her tits showing touches my arm and says, "Oh, fuck. Where's Sonya been hiding you, sexy?" Taking the rum and Coke off the bar, I mutter, "I don't even fuckin' know Sonya," and then mutter, "Thanks, Dickie."
With some difficulty, carrying my beer, drinking some of it while not spilling Debbie's rum and Coke, I get through the crowd to the whirlpool where Debbie's still standing by herself. The poor thing is just as out of place at this party as I am. We're like a couple of turds in the punchbowl. And, Goddammit, I hate that not one of these stuck-up bitches has said a word to Debbie. Determined to try being nicer, I attempt a grin holding out her drink, mumbling, "That drink in your hand is warm by now, Deb; you've been holding it for an hour. Let me have it, I got a fresh drink for you."
Debbie mumbles, "Oh, thank you, Mikey. You're sweet." Shrugging, I go, "Yeah, uh-huh, but don't call me 'Mikey', okay?" She hits my arm playfully, and I go, "And, um, ya know, I'm sorry that I'm a little 'out' of it tonight. I mean, fuck, I don't know any of the, um, guests except you. I don't know anyone's name, um, except for that fag Ryan Gilmore, and I only know him because I helped my brother paint his parent's summer-house last year."
Well, that's not true. I noticed Ryan way before that. The first time was when he bought corn and tomatoes for his mother when I was working at the farm stand two summers ago. I ended up staring at him while he chose a dozen ears of corn. He'd strip the outer leaves to see the corn kernels, discard that ear and try another, ignoring the sign that read 'Please don't strip the corn'. I'm supposed to enforce that rule but for him, I didn't. I wanted to stare at him longer. Yeah, that was pathetic of me! After that, I made a point of looking for him around town. I'd see him at the movies or on the boardwalk, at the mall, wherever.
Debby's excited, saying, "Omigod, Mike, Ryan is so cute. Did you talk to him?" Gulping some beer, feeling my dick tighten a little, I guess because we're discussing Ryan, I mumble, "Talk to him? No!" Deb goes, "He was interviewed on television last year, remember? It was when he won the state championship in swimming, or he won something." I've got nothing to say to that, so I swallow a couple more ounces of beer.
I start to light a cigarette but remember my manners and offer Debby one. She shakes her head, saying, "Oh, no thank you. I tried smoking, but I didn't like it." Lighting my smoke, I go, "Oh, yeah... that's right." Then, to make conversation, I go, "Um, I do know the name of another person here. The bartender is Dickie Martin if you can believe that." She asks, "Who's Dickie Martin?" I mumble, "Somebody from our high school. It's not important."
As I'm gulping down more Rolling Rock, I catch himself looking over at Ryan again, but quickly look away. Debby noticed that, and asks, "I think it's so cool you know Ryan." I'm like, "What? No! Christ, why would I know that dink? I just told you, my brother and I painted his parents 'effing summer-house. Well, we were on a six-man crew that painted the house. That prick, Gilmore, stood around watching us with his buddies, all of them making giggly comments under their breath like little girls. I felt like an animal in a zoo or a freak show. So, no, I don't 'effing know him. Actually, I'm giving serious thought to knocking his teeth down his throat." She laughs and then says, "Please don't do that. Why are you so upset?"
I force a grin realizing I went off on a tangent there. Recovering, I mutter, "I'm not! And, just for you, I won't knock his teeth down his throat. Actually, I was going to kill him, but decided to punch the shit out of him instead, ya know, so you wouldn't get mad." She laughs again, and goes, "Oh, that's very considerate, Mike. You know what, we can leave any time you want." I say, "Let's go right now. Bring your drink."
We leave without saying 'boo' to anyone, although Deb wanted to say 'thank you' to the hostess. "It'll be rude not to tell, Sonya, I'm leaving." I mutter, "Fuck her too. C'mon! That bitch didn't say a word to you. She's too busy talking with her 'kind' of people." Debby goes, "Oh, Mike, she's okay. These are her neighborhood friends and friends from prep school."
Blowing out my cheeks and exhaling noisily I keep my thoughts about that to myself. Debby thinks everybody is 'okay.' We drove here in Debby's Volkswagen because I don't have a car. I have a motorbike. When we're at the car, I go, "I'll drive," and Debby gives me the key, saying, "Let's go to the beach, Mikey. It's a nice night and I have a beach blanket in the trunk."
Nodding, I mutter, "Yeah, okay, but how the hell did you get invited to that party in the first place?" She says, "Oh, that. Yeah, well, Rose and I were at the mall last week. She's Sonya's cousin... Rose is. Anyway, we saw Sonya with three of her girlfriends at the food court and Sonya invited both of us, her cousin and me, to tonight's pool party. I don't know for sure, but I think they were all 'high' on something." I shrug and she goes, "That's the whole story except Rose doesn't like her cousin and told me she's totally blowing off her snobby cousin's pool party. I wanted to see the house though, so..."
Frowning, I'm like, "So you dragged me there, huh? Ya know what? Your friend Rose had the right idea! Jesus, try hard not to meet any more snobs at the mall, especially when they're on drugs, and definitely don't bring me to another rich kid's pool party in West Wildwood, okay?" She grins and squeezes my arm, saying, "Okay, I won't. I'll probably never be invited to another one anyway."
As I'm driving out of West Wildwood, Debby rubs my head, asking, "Why do you insist on these buzz-cut haircuts, Mike? You have pretty blond hair that would look so nice if you let it grow." Oh fuck, I've told her ten times, but I try not to sound overly exasperated saying, "As I believe I've mentioned before, Debby-dear, it's friggin' 2006! Buzz cuts have been styling for a couple of years now." She mumbles, "Oh yeah? I forgot you mentioned that." I go, "Yeah, they're popular, but mostly it's because my brother has always had a buzz cut and I follow what he does." She says, "Excuse me for stating the obvious, Mike, but you don't follow anyone." That's pretty much true, I guess... ha-ha. My brother is the exception, though.
At the beach, I get the blanket from the trunk and take Debby's hand to walk on the sand, carrying the blanket in my other hand. There are no people on the beach tonight and halfway down to the ocean, I mumble, "Here, this is a good spot," and we spread the blanket. We're both wearing shorts and Polo type tops, which I consider my 'dress-up' clothes. The boys at that snooty party would wear what I have on if they were forced to clean out their garages, or change a tire, not that they'd ever be forced to do either of those things. Debby thought we should bring bathing suits to the party but I refused, so we didn't. Too bad we didn't or we could have gone for a dip in the ocean. Hmm, skinny dipping? Nah, Debbie won't go for that.
We finish our drinks and then lie on the blanket, Debby's head resting on my arm. She asks if I'm going be working this summer and I tell her I'll probably work at the tomato farm in July and August. Us guys have always called it the 'tomato' farm although they grow everything there, Well, mostly it is corn and tomatoes, I guess.
Debby says, "I'm glad you've given up your idea of joining the Marines." I roll my eyes and mutters, "I don't know what I'm going to do, but I just turned nineteen and I can do whatever I want." I haven't asked, but she tells me anyway, "I've got the same summer job I had last year, working at the Shiver's Salt Water Taffy shop on the boardwalk." I go, "Steal me some taffy if you get the chance, especially the vanilla and strawberry ones." She says, "No, I won't steal them, but I'll buy you a box."
I didn't tell Debby it was my birthday last week, but then I didn't tell anyone. My mother remembered, but not my brother, which kind of disappointed me. My father? Forget about him as he left for a pack of cigarettes sixteen years ago and never came back. I'm assuming he wouldn't have remembered my birthday either. Our old man 'taking off' was no loss as far as Danny and I were concerned. We're not sure it's true, but Mom heard from a friend that my father was killed in an auto accident a year ago. I've never bothered to ask for follow-up information because I have no memory of the man.
Deb asks, "Have you given any thought to going to college?" I give her a 'look' as if she's 'high' on drugs, but don't say anything. We make out a little bit, which doesn't arouse me the way it should. She's such a cute, sweet girl too. Later we walk hand in hand barefoot in water up to our ankles. It's a beautiful night with a full moon and a million stars shining brilliantly above.
Debby insists we leave the beach at eleven o'clock when the beach officially closes. I'm fine with that but only because I wanted to get home. Normally, I pay very little attention to official 'rules', including the one about when the beach closes. At Debby's house, we kiss goodnight without making plans for another 'date'. When the door closes behind Debby, I get on my motorbike and ride home feeling guilty that I'm relieved our date is over. Something isn't 'clicking' the way it should with Debby and me, but then, nothing's 'clicked' with any girls I've taken out, not that there have been very many.
Driving home I'm going too fast, flying down back unlit roads while hating that I can't get into it with girls. Not yet I can't. Hell, Danny was fucking his girlfriend when he was fifteen, and a girl he was 'going' with two years ago had his baby. They're not married but Danny supports his little girl, Suzy-Q. I'm a late bloomer, I guess. Well, that's what I tell myself, or fool myself into believing. Debby is the nicest girl I've ever gone out with; she deserves better than me, but I've been hesitant breaking up with her because I don't want to hurt her feelings. You might say I'm sort of pissed off about my life. That may be why I'm riding dangerously fast now and not even giving a shit if I crash. Taking a dangerous turn, almost going over, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, "I'm not gay!"
And, I'm not! I'll be normal eventually. I'm seriously not a homo. I read that some people are 'asexual', meaning they're not aroused by either sex. Currently, that's what I probably am... asexual. I wish to hell I wasn't, but for now, I am, and I'm dealing with it. Sure, there's the Ryan Gilmore complication that confuses me. It's stupid, but I have this crazy notion that if I kicked his rich arrogant ass, I'd get over my, um, I don't know what it is I'd get over. He fascinates me somehow and yet, I hate him.
Slowing down as I approach the street our house is on, which is a part of Wildwood where no respectable tourist would stay, I take comfort in the fact there's a name for people like me... sexuality-wise. I mean, since there's a name for it, 'asexual', it's not just me that has this malady. I'm not the only freak of nature who's 'asexual'. It's true that so far, I'm not getting sexually aroused with girls, but then I sure as shit am not getting sexually aroused by any of my friends either. And thank God for that!
Well, that is, except for the complication I mentioned, the Ryan Gilmore complication. I'm not saying its sexual arousal I feel for that asshole. I'm saying, I don't know what the fuck it is. It's an aberration. Yeah, that's what it is, an aberration! It's like, I don't even know him, but yet somehow, I get a strange reaction when looking at him, or the few times I've been in close proximity to him. Yes, my body reacts whenever I'm looking at that prep school 'A' student, championship swimmer rich-fucker! I try my ass off NOT to think about him, and then Debby put me in a situation tonight where there he is! That was unexpected and unwanted. Seeing that Gilmore asshole somehow made me think crazy thoughts.
Gratefully, those crazy 'thoughts' have evaporated like a bad dream when I wake up the next morning. I have a morning ritual I've been following since tenth grade. My brother Danny set up a gym of sorts in our basement and every other morning I lift free weights. I'm following the same program he followed, and the one he still does follow when he's home. It's not a bodybuilding weight lifting program, although there are some unintentional benefits in that regard. The main objective of the program is to get stronger. I'm a little over six feet tall and weigh one-seventy, which is a middle-average weight for my height. What I'm saying is, I'm not one of those 'before' guys you see in bodybuilder magazines. I'm not the 'after' guy either, but I'm not embarrassed to go shirtless on the beach, I'll put it that way.
The mornings I'm not lifting weights, I practice boxing, again following Danny's workout program. Shadowboxing to improve punching technique, plus power, and most importantly, endurance. Today, after the workout and a shower, I ride to the boardwalk feeling awesomely healthy and dangerous.
Yeah, goofing off with my boys I feel 'secretly' dangerous. 'Secretly' because I'm slim and, consequently, it's unlikely anybody would think I'm a dangerous motherfucker, a dangerous motherfucker who they do not want to fuck with. Heh-heh, that's what I tell myself anyway. Danny's always told me to avoid fighting if at all possible, but if it's unavoidable be prepared to stick up for myself to whatever escalated degree necessary. I've done that a number of times growing up, once with the help of a pool cue.
The boys on the boardwalk are in rare form this morning. Yeah, they make me laugh, but by lunchtime, I've pretty much had enough of hanging out watching my 'gang' fucking around breaking each other's balls and harassing the tourists. They're good guys though, so I put off leaving longer than I really wanted to.
By the way, it's the guys who call themselves my 'gang', not me. As I said, they're all pretty good guys and, sure, they're a bit on the underachiever and directionless side, and immature too, but then I'm a major-underachiever myself. I'm fairly smart although, with school, I got bored early on and never applied myself. Danny was the same way. The school guidance counselor called mom in first for Danny and then for me to say our IQ testing, although those results aren't given nearly the importance they once were; nevertheless, they indicate we both should be much better than 'C-' students. And I'm sure we would be if we gave a shit, which we never have.
For whatever reason, the kids in my neighborhood elected me their leader years ago. I don't especially care for that role. Nope, I see myself as more of a loner. As it's turned out, a loner with guys usually around me, asking, "What should we do now, Mike?" Yeah, it's okay I guess, but it can be a pain in the ass too, so at some point, most days I ride off on my motorbike looking for some solitude.
Anyway, I'm sitting on a boardwalk bench, my arm spread out on the back of the bench, thinking about going for a ride on my bike while watching Tony harassing tourists asking for donations. Donations for Wildwood's Boy's Club of which there is no such entity. Tony goes, "Ma'am, we're raising money for a new basketball. Our old basketball got run over." Tony isn't a member of ANY boys' club, nor is he a member of Mensa. He doesn't even know the word 'Mensa'.
One of the two ladies he's currently harassing goes into her purse and gives Tony something, and then both ladies hurry on their way. Tony comes right over to me, as I knew he would. He holds up a dollar bill, muttering, "That old bitch gave me a dollar, Mike. What kind of basketball can I buy with a dollar?" I snort out a chuckle, and then mutter, "I don't know, Tony, what kind?"
He raises his eyebrows and says, "That was a rectal question, right Mike?" Ha-ha! I say, "I think you meant 'rhetorical'." He goes, "Huh?" and Petey Blake yells, "Uh-oh, here come the boardwalk cops, Mike. You've got your motorbike on the boardwalk again. Do you want me to roll it off for you?" I glance down the boardwalk toward Morey's Pier and see the bobbing head of a cockroach boardwalk cop on his bicycle pedaling this way. I mumble to Petey, "Nah, fuck it, Pete. I gotta be someplace anyway, see you, boys, later."
Not wanting a hassle with one of the assholes Wanna-Be cops this morning, I ride my bike off the boardwalk. There's no place I need to be though, so I ride randomly around town not thinking about anything. Then, while riding further in-land, where vacationers rarely go, I feel weirdly lonely. Or is it I'm just bored? There's something very wrong with my life, something's missing, but what is it? Maybe it's not unusual for teenage guys to feel directionless. Yeah, and maybe it'll snow tomorrow.
It's just that, in my opinion, there should be... Then, that thought stops short because my right leg is stuck on something. What the...? I'm pulling on it, looking down. Shit, I see my 'effing jeans are somehow caught in the kickstand. Yelling, "Motherfucker!" I yank on my leg, then roll up on the sidewalk and stop. Turning off the motor, I balance the bike with my right leg and jerk on my left leg, but my jeans won't come free. How the hell did my pant leg wedge between a part of the kickstand that's screwed to the frame? I yank on my left leg again, but it's not coming free. Goddammit! I can't reach down there without the bike falling on top of me.
As I'm muttering, "This really blows," I sense I'm being watched. Looking around, I see a kid across the street on the front porch of a row house sitting on the railing, staring at me. That pisses me off, but I need some help, so I call to him, "Hey, you! Come over here." Jeez, I know every kid in town, but I've never seen him before. And, there's no way a vacationer in their right mind would rent a house this far from the ocean, so he's not a vacationer. And, what's with this kid? No reply from him, so I yell, "What the hell is wrong with you? Get your ass over here." Yeah, I'm more than a little frustrated here.
The kid looks around as if he thinks I'm calling to someone else, and then he slides off the railing. Dammit, I motion with my hand for him to come here and, sounding a little bit intimidated, he calls out, "What?" Hmm, is he jerking me around? Well, I've found that the best tactic is to get right on top of a situation, so I yell, "Are you deaf? I said, get your ass over here!" The kid squints his eyes looking at me as if he can't believe I'd say that.
What is his problem, though? Then I'm thinking, 'Omigod, this kid might be retarded, for real!' Huh, he looks like a cute motherfucker though, and, retarded or not, he can still hold my bike while I get my fucking pant leg free. I wave my hand again, like 'C' mere' and the kid shrugs, then comes off the porch to start walking across the street. When he's halfway across, he asks, "Um, were you calling me, or...?" I go, "Ah, duh! Do you see anyone else around, numbnuts?"
Damn, I really should be cooler with him. He could be intellectually challenged, or whatever the fuck we're supposed to call retards nowadays. The kid finishes walking across the street but stops three feet away from me. Jesus, he just stopped. I motion with a finger wave for him to come closer, and when he does, I say, "Hold onto this fucking bike." The kid takes hold of the handlebars as I stare at his face. Then, making a gulping sound as I'm swallowing, I'm thinking, 'Holy shit, he reminds me of someone, but who?'
The kid is looking 'questioning' at me because I'm still sitting on the bike as if I'm the retard. Snapping out of it, I lift my right leg back and over the seat and stand on one foot next to the kid. My left leg, held in the kickstand, doesn't reach the ground. Awkwardly, I hop on my right foot glancing at the kid again. He's so close now we're touching. Our eyes meet and, after like two seconds, I realize I'm again staring into his amazing pale-green sort of bluish eyes. Wow! Oops, I'm staring at him again. Looking away, I snarl, "What are you looking at?"
He appears confused by that, and why wouldn't he be since I'm the one who was staring at him, not the other way around. Feeling odd, I lean down to yank wicked hard on my pant leg. Cursing, I try moving the kickstand but nothing moves. Frustrated and pissed off that I was staring at this kid, I yank on my pant leg, now not caring if it rips. Christ, this is becoming embarrassing. Then, grunting out "Balls!" the denim material rips, freeing my leg. Looking at the kickstand, I stupidly mutter, "Fucking piece of shit..."
The kid looks scared now but doesn't say a word. Standing up, I shake my head, calming down, mumbling, "Do you have a cigarette?" He murmurs, "No, I don't smoke, sorry." I unfairly mutter, "Faggot," and then irritatingly brush at my hoop earring thinking a fly was buzzing my ear. This kid is making me nervous, or something! He asks, "Um, do you live around here?" Cocking my head to the side, looking at him again, I mumble, "You are retarded, aren't you?"
Taken aback, the kid frowns and I go, "Well, what'd you think? Maybe you thought I flew in from someplace far away, just me and my 'effing bike so I could get my jeans tangled-up across the street from that dump you live in? Is that it?" Motherfucker, why the hell am I being mean to him? Goddammit!
The kid's acting nervous, but why wouldn't he be with me acting like a madman? Then, perhaps hoping I was just breaking his balls, just joking around, as guys do, he says, "Does all that mean you do live around here? Ha-ha, I'm new in town. I just moved in with..." I'm not listening because this kid is giving off some of the same weird vibes that I get from that asshole Ryan Gilmore. Yeah, that's who this baby-faced fag reminds me of... Gilmore.
Pulling the bike from the kid's hands, I get on it, fiddle briefly with the kickstand to be sure my leg isn't going to get stuck again, and then stomp on the starter lever and the engine roars into life. The illegal mufflers sounding bad-ass. I take off with the back-tire squealing from the jackrabbit start. It also runs over the toes of the kid. Jesus, I didn't mean to do that! Why didn't he step back?
Now I'm REALLY pissed-off at myself for acting that way with the kid even though he was being helpful and friendly and, um, he's so nice looking too. The thing is, there's that mysterious 'something' about him that gets my blood pumping and my heart beating too fast. Hell, I was short of breath, and, well, it sucks not feeling in control! I do not understand this shit. What's going on with me?
Jesus, last night with that fucking Ryan Gilmore horseshit, and then again today with this new kid! No one else affects me like those two. Somehow their weird vibes make me feel vulnerable, and I hate that! I hate feeling I'm out of control. It's so fucking unfair because I'm not doing anything; it's those two tormenting me for no reason!
Yeah, I'm innocent, or at least ignorant as to what's going on. Balls! I hit the gas and fly down the street and then take a dangerously sharp turn at the dead-end onto a dirt road, and now I really hit the gas creating a dust storm behind me. Why is everything in my life so fucked up?
Approaching the farm where I've worked during the summer for three years now, I slow down and then come to a stop, my feet on either side of my rumbling idling motorbike. In front of me, acres and acres of tomato plants and field after field of young corn stalks that extend as far as I can see. Then, from the back of my mind, the thought drifts past my consciousness of the mysterious helpless feeling that came over me when that new kid was bumping my side as he held the bike, me struggling to get my pantleg free. He really does look a little like Ryan Gilmore. Huh, what is it with those two fags, and me?
The unfairness of being stressed by these thoughts pisses me off again, and I tense every muscle in my body, asking out loud, "Why do I give a fuck about two girlie-looking fags. They could be brothers with their light-brown hair and startling pale-green-bluish eyes. Both slim and almost as tall me... two cute girlie-looking queers, that's what those two boys are... cute girlie-looking queers. And why am I describing them? Jesus Christ Almighty! Give me a break!
I'm sweating in the hot sun and sincerely disturbed by the stupidity of my thoughts. Then, from my extremely pissed off demeanor, I laugh at myself. I mean, why the hell am I trying to blame them for my weird reaction to them. Dammit, I wipe my sweaty face with both hands, muttering out loud, "Yeah, well, fair or not, fuck 'em for stressing me out," and then I slowly ride back the way I came as another disturbing thought clouds my mind. I need to cut Debby loose for her own good. And, for my peace of mind. She's too nice to be stuck with the likes of me, plus I can't handle feeling guilty about that any longer.
And now, another problem! I'm broke, I've got no money, and I need gas for my bike. Hmm, I know, I'll ride to Jackie's gas station. It's out of my way, but I know he'll spot me some gas. Picking up speed I head for the Sunoco station on the edge of town. I purposely blank my mind, not thinking about anything, especially not thinking about the cute faggot kid who helped me. Pulling up to a gas pump, I wave at Jackie Barnes. He comes over and I'm like, "Yo, Jackie. Spot me ten bucks' worth of gas and I'll pay you back Friday."
He's wiping grease off his hands using a very greasy-looking rag, smiling and saying, "Sure, Mike." I pump the gas while asking him, "Have you seen my brother the past couple of days?" Jackie goes, "No, but, um, Danny's doing a little favor for Carmen in Atlantic City. Didn't he tell you?"
Done pumping gas, putting the nozzle back, I mumble, "Thanks for the gas, and, yeah, I remember him telling me something about that." Jackie says, "It's none of my business, Mikey, but you oughta consider doing Carmen that 'thing' he asked you to do. I only mention it because I filled his BMW up an hour ago and he asked me if I knew if you'd done it yet. Um, he's not someone you wanna ignore if ya know what I mean?"
Feeling a stab of fear in the pit of my stomach, I force a grin, "No, I don't know what you mean, bro. Thanks for the gas though! Keep it in your pants, Jackie. I'll see ya Friday." Jackie's shaking his head slowly as I ride off for home to have lunch. No, I am not nearly as blasé about not doing that little job for Carmin as I pretended. I need to ask Danny about it first because he told me not to do any strongarm shit for Carmin, and I don't want Danny mad at me, but he's in Atlantic City and he has a rule that I'm not to call him when he's 'working'. Christ, life blows...
Traffic during the summer on all roads near the beach is a bitch, which is why I do my random rides on the back roads. Other than the four summer months, there are only 6000 people living in Wildwood but during the summer 250,000 vacationers invade our town, and, from the traffic that comes with them, you'd think every one of the 250,000 had their own car.
The vacationers come for the sun, beaches, ocean, and the boardwalk. The boardwalk is what vacationers look forward to at night, especially families with children. It's super-crowded at night, the boardwalk is, but there are activities there during the day as well. The economic impact of a vacation destination such as Wildwood is enormous, so we locals grin and bear it. Yeah, most townsfolks endure a sort of second-class status during the summer and, in one way or another, service the vacationers.
The vacation season is in full swing and has been for a few weeks, since Memorial Day. My personal 'vacation' lasts from the end of the school year until sometime in July when I'll begin working sixty hours a week on the farm. Occasionally I'll get a break from fieldwork to work at the roadside stand selling fresh produce. Then, at summers end, I'll need to figure out the rest of my life.
Also, occasionally, there's a 'job' for me of an illegal nature for Carmin DeCarlo. It's a job where I'm what's called a 'mule' transporting drugs on my motorbike, usually cocaine, to Atlantic City. The reason this is necessary is complicated although I don't especially care what the reasons are since I get paid two-hundred dollars for the trip to Atlantic City and back. That, however, is not the 'favor' for Carmin that Jackie was referring to.
My brother Danny introduced me to Carmin when I got my driver's license. Danny, who is twenty-two now, is a trusted member of Carmin's, um, illegal 'business endeavors'. Anyway, Jackie was right when he said it's not a good idea to ignore the 'favor' for Carmin. The 'favor' in this case, as it usually is, involves collecting money from someone who claims they don't have the money they owe 'at this precise moment'. It's money owed Carmin from gambling debts or loan sharking and it's due when it's due! No excuses.
On the positive side, sometimes I'll earn money legitimately doing house painting for Mr. DeCarlo's Roofing and Painting company, and I also, as I just mentioned, work on the biggest farm in the area during July and August. So, I've got ways to make money and all my income is 'under-the-table' income and, therefore, I pay no taxes on it. My brother's official job, for tax purposes, is 'house painter' employed by the aforementioned 'Decarlo's Roofing and Painting Company', and, yes, he does some roofing and/or house painting, but mostly Danny works for Carmin's other 'business' interests.
Anyway, when I get home, mom offers to make me a pepper and onion Italian sausage sub for lunch. I twist off the cap on a bottle of Coke and drink it while watching her cooking at the stove. Turning around to look at me, she asks, "Mikey, where's your brother? Julia called me and said Danny was supposed to take her and the baby to the doctor this morning. I did it for him, but he should have been here." I shrug, "Jeez, I don't know where he is, Mom. Um, can I bum twenty bucks from you till Friday?" She lifts her chin at the china cabinet, saying, "My purse is over there, honey. There's my pay envelope in my purse." On weekends mom works as a chambermaid at the 'Forty-Second Street Motel' and during the week she's a part-time clerk at the supermarket.
Taking two ten-dollar bills from mom's motel pay envelope, I mumble, "Old man Ritter wants me to do some shit for him at the farm stand tomorrow, so I'll make thirty or forty bucks and pay you back." She makes a 'face' because I said the word 'shit'. "Watch your language, Mikey. When was the last time you went to confession?" She's smiling, asking me that. She puts the sub on the table and I sit down, muttering, "Confession? Um, eight years ago, Mom, why?" She pats my overdue-for-a-haircut head, saying, "Go again, soon, sweetie. I think you'll feel better if you do." Taking a big bite of the sausage and pepper sub, I go, "Uh-huh."
After lunch, I ride to the boardwalk and do the normal goofing around with my so-called 'gang'. We do the messing around either on the boardwalk or down on the beach or in the ocean while mingling with and harassing tourists. Today it's Tony, Joey, and Tucker. All the guys are eighteen or recently turned nineteen and, as I said, they grew-up in Wildwood with me. We all have part-time summer jobs doing something tourist-related, but it's a rare day when at least two or three of the neighborhood boys aren't off work and, therefore, on or near the boardwalk. What the hell else is there to do?
Nothing special happens today and nothing special has happened since school let out. Today I spend most of the twenty dollars I just borrowed from my mom buying the guys soft drinks on the boardwalk and then when I get back home, I see that Danny's back from Atlantic City safe and sound. He'll be staying home to work on the painting crew this week, which makes me happy. I'm a huge fan of my brother so I'm wicked happy when he's home instead of doing dangerous stuff in Atlantic City. We hug and as we're doing that Danny sticks two fifty-dollar bills in my jean's back pocket, murmuring, "Belated birthday wishes, bro. Atlantic City rocks!" Oh, so Danny didn't forget my birthday after all!
After dinner, I tell him about the 'favor' Carmine expects me to do and he's like, "No, that's bullshit, Mikey! You know damn well I don't want you fucking with collections. I'll take care of it myself, tomorrow morning." Nodding my head at that, I mumble, "Yeah, okay," and Danny adds, "Um, also, make sure you stay clear of the other painters in town. I sort of fucked up one of them for that little incident Jose had with you a couple of weeks ago." I nod my head again... I know what he's referring to. Danny beat the guy up after that asshole fucked around with me, but we don't talk about it when Mom may overhear us.
And, 'Painters' is a euphemism for 'gangsters. The ones affiliated with the other South Jersey house-painting and illegal drug outfit that's in competition with both of Carmin's 'businesses'; the legal and illegal ones. There's a lot of competition and animosity between the two painting company crews. Painting crews... rival gangs would be another way of putting it.
Snapping off the cap of a bottle of beer, Danny's pissed, mumbling, "Goddammit! I told Carmin I don't want you dealing with that kind of shit." I shrug and Danny, realizing he's sort of blaming me when it's Carmin who's to blame. He changes his tone of voice, saying, "Hey, forget about that and try having some fuckin' fun, Mikey." He rubs my head, mumbling, "And, get a haircut, and try smiling once in a while too, bro."
Danny's always looking out for me, on the one hand, but he's also the one who got me involved doing illegal shit with Carmin, on the other hand. Well, I nagged him into doing that because I need money just like everybody else.
Anyway, the next day I do the crappy job for old-man Ritter, which was totally legal involving a lot of smelly trash removal, emptying the food stand's trash barrels of half-eaten sandwiches and sour milkshake container, and all kinds of shit left behind by customers. Nasty work with flies buzzing around my head but it only took three hours and put another thirty dollars in my pocket. I'm always in a better mood with cash in my pocket
Yeah, I had some thoughts about that new kid who helped me. The 'thoughts' only lasted for a day or two. I only thought of him because he was so different from guys I know. Then, a week late I spot him on the boardwalk. Weirdly, I'm glad to see him. Ha, and he's wearing the same shitty outfit he had on the first time I met him, meaning a t-shirt without sleeves, flimsy nylon basketball shorts, and those same old sandals on his feet.
He's dressed geekily, unlike me, but, like me, he's about a month overdue for a haircut so we've got that in common. Seriously though, there's something about him that's special. The problem with that is, he gets me thinking forbidden thoughts. I don't know why that is. Maybe it's his body language, or it's something about him. I don't know, but he seems vulnerable and likable... like a puppy dog, or a favorite younger brother, or something.
I'm watching him closely although he doesn't see me, and none of my 'gang' are paying any attention to him. Well, I can't let him just walk by without any contact so, when he's within ten feet, I say to my boys Joey, Tony, and Tucker, saying it loud enough for the new kid to hear, "Well, fuck me! Lookie here, boys." They turn around and I nod at the new kid, saying, "I'll be damned if that ain't the wise-ass from the front porch off Fifth Street I met last week."
The kid looks over, startled. Pointing at him, I'm like, "Hey! Are you queer for me or something? Why are you following me around?" The guys like it when I give new kids to the boardwalk a hard time. I never mentioned meeting this kid to anyone. Getting my pant leg stuck is not cool, so the boys don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. All they know is new kids to the boardwalk get initiated. Usually, we just take their 'lunch' money, metaphorically speaking.
Looking flabbergasted, the kid stutters, "Following you? Na, no! I'm, um, no, I'm not following you. That's ridiculous." Jeez, he's a cute fucker, and he has that sweet, innocent personality that's totally rare around here. Yeah, he's all innocent and whatnot. Acting astonished, I go, "Ridiculous, you say? What the fuck you talking about? I was here, and then you showed up!" I put 'quote' fingers up, adding, "That's what the word 'following' means. I'm here and then you are too... you followed me here."
The kid frowns as if what I just said is ridiculous, which it was. He's flustered at my fractured logic, but he doesn't walk away and, strangely, now I wish he would. I don't want to do this sophomoric initiation shit with him. I'd like to tell him, 'Just keep walking' but I don't because I'm getting this weird stirring in my groin, and, more importantly, the guys expect me to dump on new kids. So, I'm stuck with being a bully.
Not wanting to, but since I started acting like a bully to impress the boys, I can't back down now. I swagger over to this kid, and even though it's totally unfair and unnecessary of me, I reach out very fast and grabs a fistful of the kid's too-long hair. Too-long light brown, clean silky hair. Pressing my knuckles on the kid's scalp, I feel a few hairs coming loose and, understandably, the kid has tears in his eyes, saying, "Please, dude, don't. That really fucking hurts!"
Now I'm not sure what to do, or what to say next. Being a bully isn't always fun. Tony semi-lisps, "What the fuck? Has this faggot been following you around, Mike?" Yeah, someone else saying something helps, but, holding the kid this close is causing a buzzing sensation in my nuts. Wow, he is one cute motherfucker, and that's true even with him scrunching-up his face like he's doing. Look at that... he has a peach fuzz mustache of fine blond hairs. I couldn't see that if I wasn't this close to his face. I wonder how old he is?
The guys are watching me and expecting me to do something, so, with my other hand I pinch the kid's nose as I mutter, "Admit you're following me around, fag." Tears are running down the kid's face. He's not crying; it's an inevitable reaction to my hair-pulling and pinching his nose. Ew, mucus is drooling around my fingers from the kid's nose as he tries talking, "Nskew, na fallow you." I let go of his nose, asking, "Well, what the fuck kind of foreign language was that?"
It's kind of, um, intimate being so close our bodies are touching. Again, I don't know what to do so I drag my finger through the mucus on the kid's upper lip and then drag the kid's lower lip inside-out, flat against his chin. His bottom teeth are exposed and I again fake astonishment, exclaiming, "You have very white teeth!" My 'boys' are eating all this up, giggling and elbowing each other. I rub my finger across the kid's teeth, still gripping his hair in a tight fist. He's lightly holding onto my wrist with both hands.
Staring at the kid's pink gums and tongue, his super-white teeth, and bow-shaped lips I wonder what it would be like to kiss him on his mouth. That thought pisses me off so I take it out on the kid pushing my finger inside his mouth, and then moving it around on his pink tongue. It occurs to me that I'm bullying him to conceal forbidden desire, a desire that is infuriating me!
Instead of admitting that to myself, I'm acting as if he's doing something to me. I've got to be cool though, so I force a grin as I glance over at my guys. Losing interest, Joey says, "Does anybody want an ice cream cone?" No one does, so he jogs to catch the Ice Cream vendor. I watch him for a second, wishing I was just one of the carefree boys getting ice cream instead of doing this.
The new kid tries pulling my hand away from his head so I look back at him and yell, "Stop that!" Again, for a second, I blame this new kid for me being in this awkward position. I mean, there are lots of 'normal' people walking by us, gawking at my bullying. My finger isn't in his mouth now but I stupidly say, "Kid, do not bite my 'effing finger. You'd probably like to bite my dick though, wouldn't ya?" He mumbles, "No, Mike," he heard Tony call me 'Mike', I guess. He goes, "I really don't want to bite anything, but please let go of my hair." In my phoniest sincere manner, I say, "Yeah, I suppose it's okay if you call me Mike. What's your name, fag?"
For some reason, probably because he's nervous and scared, he tells me his full formal name, "Richard Todd Mealey." The guys laugh out loud, both yelling, "Richard!" I smirk at the 'boys' and Tucker says in an exaggerated-faggy manner, "Hi, I'm Richard." I'm like, "Are you shitting me, Richard? Does everyone call you that? You aren't really a fag, are you?"
Richard squirms and goes, "Ow," as I tug on his hair wanting an answer. He says, "No, I'm not a fag and I don't know why I said my full name. My friends back home call me 'Richie'." Tony, the redhead, lisps, "Do you wanna buy us a pack of cigarettes, Richard? Is that why you followed Mike?" I say, "Yes, that's a good idea! You buy my boys a pack of smokes and then perhaps I'll let you join the gang. First, you need to stop stalking me though, and then buy my 'gang' that pack of smokes... a pack of Marlboro 100's. Okay, Richard?" Richie says, "Yes, okay, sure, but please let go of my hair." I'm glad to let go, but when I do, I push him harder than I intended and the kid gets his feet tangled, stumbles, and almost falls over backward. Tony catches him and Tucker says, "Whoops, easy there, Richard. See, Tony's got ya."
I hold out my hand showing some strands of Richie's light-brown hair sticking to my fingers, and go, "Ewww, Richard, look! Get your hair off my hand!" He lazily brushes my hand and we all watch his 'pulled-out' hairs float away in the breeze from the ocean. Wanting to continue touching him, I take hold of Richie's hand and holds it like a boyfriend and girlfriend hold hands, and then blame it on him, saying, "Oh, is this what you wanted to do, Richard, hold my hand?" I can't help staring into his eyes, feeling weak at the knees.
When I see he won't react anymore, I feel like shit. Letting go of his hand, I act bored, pointing and mumbling, "Right over there, Richard. That store over there sells everything including the pack of Marlboro 100's you want to buy for the boys. Don't forget to get a pack of matches, and don't even think about running off."
Bullied into submission, Richie stands there not sure if he should get the cigarettes now, or what. So, I put a fake concerned expression on my face, asking, "You're not thinking about running off are you, Richard?" He shakes his head, mumbling, "No, I wouldn't run off."
I actually do want him to run off, but at the same time, I don't want him to leave. I'm feeling some kind of weird attraction to him and I'm wishing there was some way I could now treat him nicely. I want to say I'm really sorry for acting like this. Ha! There isn't any way in my world I could do that, not with the guys here. People continue walking past us on the boardwalk, but no one says anything. Nobody wants to get involved. I've been glancing up and down the boards, on the lookout for boardwalk cops on bicycles because they do like getting 'involved'.
After waiting a few seconds to see if I'm going to subject him to more humiliation, Richie starts to go to the store but, to keep him here a little longer, I yell, "Wait a second, you!" He turns around and, pretending I'm concerned, I say, "You're all sloppy looking, Richard. You don't want to be all sloppy looking buying the boys cigarettes, do you?" He appears resigned to my bad behavior, as I say, "Just stand there so I can help straighten you out. For one thing, your hair is a mess."
Joey's back with the ice cream cone, asking Tucker and Tony, "What did I miss?" Tony's telling him as Tucker leans over to take a big lick off Joey's cone and they squabble about that as I'm using both hands ruffling Richie's hair. When he lifts a hand to push my hands away, I grab his chin and jerk it, taking out my frustration for being attracted to him out on the kid, "Keep your 'effing hands down, Richard!" The kid does what he's told and I smile, saying sweetly, "That's a good boy." I run my fingers through his hair but when I feel my cock tighten again, I pull my hands back leaving Richie's long hair sticking up all over his head.
Feeling sick in my gut, I keep up appearances for my boys by yanking up Richie's shorts, crunching his balls. In my head and heart, I want to hug this helpless kid and tell him everything will be okay, but that's out of the question with my 'gang' watching every pathetic move I make. The guys go, "Oh! That must have felt good on your nuts, huh, Richard?"
Everyone just stands here for like five seconds, me feeling even sicker by the second. No one moves until I mutter, "Hey, Richard, what are you waiting for? You look good now. I got you looking all better so run over and get the cigarettes... go, go, go." Richie adjusts his shorts, jogs a few steps, and then runs down the ramp to the store on the sidewalk, at the corner. I meant he should go to the boardwalk store, but I don't say anything because, for a second, I'm hoping he'll keep running.
Yeah, I hoped he'd keep on running, but he doesn't. Feeling like I want to lie down somewhere, I look at the guys and mutter, "New kids, huh?" Joey goes, "Yeah, Mike, you showed him!" I mumble, "Nah, I suck for bullying that kid way too much," and Tony's like, "What? No, Mike! That girlie-looking boy sucks. He needed to be initiated, right guys?" Joey and Tucker go, "Goddamn right."
What do they know? It's confusing; everything about the last five minutes is confusing. My strange attraction to the new kid and, even odder, the way he remained so docile, not even seeming angry or pissed off at me. I do not understand that one bit.
Tucker breaks into my thoughts, saying, "Holy Christ, what a pussy that kid was, huh, Mike?" Shaking my head, I say, "What? No, he handled himself the best way he could considering the situation he found himself in." The guys look at each other, then totally reverse what they just said ten-seconds ago, mumbling, '"Well, yeah, he had balls alright. He seemed like a good guy too, huh, Mike?"
Slowing shaking my head again, I sit on one of the benches along the street side of the boardwalk feeling terrible, and wondering why in the fuck Richie put up with all of that shit without hardly a complaint. Tony asks, "What's wrong, Mike?" I mutter, "Nothing, buddy." I light a cigarette as Joey says, "Mike, um, did you see in the paper where they wanna ban smoking on the boardwalk?" I mutter, "Yeah? Fuck 'em." The boys know when to back off if I'm in a bad mood, so they take turns finishing Joey ice cream cone with him bitching about it.
I know Tony's kindhearted and, no matter what he said, I know he feels bad for the new kid as much as I do. As it turns out, he also noticed something that I didn't. He sits next to me quietly telling me, "Um, Mike, don't feel bad. Christ, you had to initiate the new kid to the boardwalk. It had to be done." I make a 'face' saying, "I overdid it, but I was hoping for some kind of reaction from him, ya know? When I didn't get one, I overdid everything even more." He goes, "I think you got a reaction, Mike. Um, something really odd happened." I look at him, and he goes, "When you were initiating the new kid, um, I think I saw he had a boner in his shorts." I go, "What? Get the fuck outta here with that, Tony." He shrugs, "Oh, well, yeah, maybe I'm wrong, Mike. Maybe he had something hard in his pocket."
To be continued... Chapter 2 of 9 next week