(six) The Game Room Fake

(six) The Game Room Fake

The last refrain of “Last Dance” by Donna Summer had just come to an end. Morris and Richie were seated in the wooden pews that lined the rink, already unlacing their skates. The last skate was Couples Only and no one had asked them. Morris, every week without fail, suggested that they both skate together as a joke, but Richie would have none of it. He would stare at Morris blankly for a moment before picking up his skates and heading toward the return window. To Morris, Richie’s hesitation was a cry of wanting to oblige his own dark homoerotic fantasies as he silently caved in to societal pressure that was just too strong. As Richie stood, Morris would laugh it all away in a manner that managed to cover his yearning to hold Richie’s hand in front of the entire world, joke or no joke.

“I keep tellin’ you it’s not funny, it’s sick”, Richie would break the awkward silence with a brutally hard punch to Morris’ shoulder as he left him seated in the pew and went to return his skates. Morris would gaze longly in the bathroom mirror at the bruise that the punch would raise on his arm. He would fancy himself Richie’s battered wife.

Eddie had talked Dana Cortez into skating “Last Dance” with him. This was easy since it was known throughout school that Dana wanted to get into Eddie’s pants. Eddie on the other hand, was always fond of saying to the other boys that he “liked a challenge” and that boffing Dana would be too easy, like “shooting fish in a barrow”. Jake never had to heart to correct his malapropism and, indeed, secretly wished that the others would see his stupidity. But, Now. Now that Jake was picked for Ladies’ Choice, he had to prove that he was still the Alpha Dog. He skated the whole song trying to tongue Dana’s ear between ineffectual slaps from her tanned hand. She tried to contain her joy at finally reeling Eddie in at the same time she genuinely looked to be, at least to Jake, not enjoying the attention. Jodi, however, did like the attention. She skated with her arm around Jake, under his outer shirt and over his “BRAT” shirt; hand tucked firmly into his left pocket. Jake had skated with his arm around her, holding her like a fine piece of china, firmly yet delicately, in reverence to the beauty in his grasp.

The song ended and most of the couples slid silently to a standstill, necking, talking closely to one another’s ears and making plans for, at least, the very near future. The lights flickered from soft, pulsing, moody cross-lighting to the harsh worklight incandescents overhead. The whole place went from cozy nightspot to drafty warehouse in the flick of a switch. To Jake the breaking of the illusion was shamefully abrupt. The killjoy was the bleating goblin in the duct-taped blue vest, ushering the couples off the floor with his quick circling and low, gruff delivery of:

“Fun’s over, take it off the floor.”

Feet back safely in their Pumas and Adidas, the boys walked from the dark corridor next to the skate window and out into the afternoon brightness. Another line had formed beside the stucco wall. This crowd was older and, accordingly, was dressed like whores and their pimps. Scott and Alex, exiled since their scuffle, stood apart from each other at the edge of the street shivering and waiting for the rest of the boys to rejoin them. Eddie kissed Dana one last time and took the small piece of paper she proffered to him. Jake walked Jodi to her aunt’s station wagon. She pulled a felt-tipped Bic Banana pen from her purse and took up Jake’s shaking hand. He pulled it away and wiped the sweat on his pants and gave it back to her. She cradled it gently in hers and turned it over. In swirling open script, she wrote her name and phone number across Jake’s plump palm, dotting the “I” with a cute little heart. When she finished, she blew on it like a mother tending to her child’s first-degree burn. The caress of cool air across his hot flesh sent waves of electrical static through his body. She hugged him softly, lingering just slightly. He ran his hand across the back of her satin baseball jacket, feeling the bump of her bra strap. She turned and got in the waiting Ford LTD.

“Who’s your girlfriend?”, a friendly yet taunting voice came from behind Jake.

He turned and saw his sister, Denise. She was standing next to a suede-coated Dean who was leaning against the stucco with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Denise was smiling broadly behind her blue eyeshadow. She always smiled around Dean. Ever since he put her ten-speed on top of Jenny Toma’s garage, she knew they were fated to be together. When asked, Dean said he did it as a joke. But, in reality, it was more because he didn’t want her to leave. Jake agreed it was a brilliant ploy; take away her mode of transportation and she was powerless, a modest turn on what Stalin did to Hitler’s troops. It was an excellent ruse. It also explained why Dean drove everywhere they went.

“Her name’s Jodi Bon”, Jake said, hardly containing his joviality.

“Like Bon Scott, lead singer for AC/DC”, Dean chimed.

“Yeah”, Jake answered.

“Cool”, Dean said and tousled Jake’s hair, messing up his intricate part.

“Is that my shirt?” Denise tried to pry open the front of Jake’s jacket. “What are you doing wearing my shirt?”

Then she tousled Jake’s already misshapen hair and forced a dollar into his fist.

“Here. We’ll talk about this when we get home. And, don’t let that Stephens punk make you spend that on cigarettes”. She said this as she plucked the cigarette from between Dean’s lips and dragged on it, making it hard for Jake to take her seriously.

He looked over toward the edge of the road where the boys stood waiting for him. He ran over to meet them.

“Man, your sister’s a Fox”, Eddie asked. “I’d do her.”

“Shut up. She’s my sister.”

“No Shit, Rotundo”, Eddie then thumped Jake on the top of the head with a knuckle. “I wouldn’t fuck her anyway. ‘Cause that’d make you and me related.”

Eddie gave a violent shudder, laughed one loud braying snort and crossed into the left-turn lane of 14 Mile Road. Rubbing his head, Jake fell in behind the rest of the flock.

* * *

Twenty minutes into their walk home, the boys finally crossed Massoit and turned the corner onto South Martin. Each one was chomping furiously on the Bubbalicious Bubble Gum Eddie had given them to cover the smell of the cigarettes.

Jake bent down to tie one of his Kmart Traxx shoes. He was often doing this because, unlike the rest of the boys, he couldn’t quite tie the cheap nylon laces so they would hold a knot for any length of time. Some kids tied them once and they lasted he whole damn day. Jake, if he got a good knot that would stay, he’d take the shoes off without untying them and then slip them on the next day by cramming his foot into them. This wore the cheap nylon and vinyl shoes out quicker. His mother was forever complaining about how hard he was on shoes, even trying to get him to double-knot the laces but, double-knotting was for fags and girls. So, he was forced to straggle behind the rest of the boys because, like most self-absorbed teens, the group never would have the common decency to ‘wait up’ and walked on without him. Eddie looked back at Jake. When Jake looked up, he saw Eddie break off his whispering into Morris’ ear. Morris bobbed his head in agreement as did Richie. Alex looked at Jake and then diverted his glance forward. Scott stared straight at the ground, almost too concerned with where he was walking. Jake quickened his pace into a jog and joined them.

“What’s up?”, Jake asked. “What are we doin’?”

“I gotta go in. If I don’t sweep my Mom’s ceramic shop we can’t get Taco Bell.” Richie, moaned in that familiar tone, the tone that he always used when referencing anything to do with going home.

“My Dad’s probably looking for me”, Morris said, mimicking Richie’s blues riff timbre.

“I’m going in, too. I’m hungry”, Eddie said. Jake knew this meant that both Carson brothers would go home, too. What Eddie did; so did they.

“Aawwh, Man”, Jake groaned. He was riding a hormonal high and didn’t want it to end. This premature close of the day’s festivities was definitely wrecking Jake’s testosterone buzz. Richie was already ascending his front porch stairs. Morris was sullenly creeping up his driveway. Alex and Scott began to walk vaguely in the direction of their house.

Jake was still cresting the wave of happiness of having not been one of those sad unlovable boys forced to remove their skates to the tune of “Last Dance”. He had engaged in that act many times before, each time vowing to himself that next time he’d be out there on the floor skating to it. Each time he heard the song, he heard it as a lament of huge proportions. It added an edge, a sting to the finality of the end of the afternoon. Its melancholic bitterness of lost opportunity penetrated deeply into his tiny heart with each refrain. But, this time he heard it as a last grasp at happiness, a glowingly opportunistic aria on the transitory nature of love. Ms. Summer’s song was transformed from a torchy, achingly soulful dirge to an orgiastic call for hedonism. Jake had finally grasped the song in all its subtleties and was reveling in both his intellectual and emotional growth as a result.

“Jodi’s pretty hot.” Eddie said. Jake turned slowly toward him smiling.

“Yeah”.

“No need to thank me.” Eddie said as he started toward the side door the brick-faced bungalow his family owned.

“What do you mean?”

Eddie turned to look at Jake, “You don’t think she asked you to skate on purpose?”

Momentarily, Jake lost focus on everything in front of him. Not so much as a visual focus, but more a mental focus. It was as if what he firmly knew as sharp truth had swum into a fuzzy blur the instant Eddie finished his thought.

“What?”

Eddie edged closer to Jake. “I told Dana to tell her to ask you to skate during Ladies' Choice.”

Eddie turned and started up the driveway. Jake bit into his cheek to keep his grasp on his bearings. At the door, Eddie turned.

“You’re welcome”.

Jake stood frozen in the Old Polks’ House driveway apron as he watched the side door whisk shut behind Eddie.

It was a lie. Jake knew it. Jodi was sincere. If anything felt awkward or stiff it was because she was as emotionally confused as Jake was. She was haltingly groping her way around something that was new to her. She was not faking it. She wasn’t.

Or, was she? When you replay every nuance. Every nervous hand brushing her hair from her face. Her eyes darting about the rink. Her sudden bursts of laughter for no reason. Certainly not because of anything funny that you said. No. You had rightly perceived her mime-like performance, because that’s what it was, a performance.

But, his sister had seen it also. She saw something that automatically culled to her mind the word “girlfriend”. She saw the way Jodi looked at her little brother. Not like a friend who was a boy, but as a boyfriend.

Jake slowly walked up the uneven, crumbling, cement steps and opened the rusty whining screen door to his house. He pushed his way in through the front door. The dry heat blasted his face. His mother always kept the heat cranked high from the first of September until Memorial Day; occasionally opening all the windows for a few minutes at Big Jake’s request to “Blow the Stink Out”. Those times were the only respite from the merciless onslaught of manufactured heat.

Jake peeled off his coat and settled down on the floor next to the heavily curtained picture window that faced the street. He sat, arms clasped tightly around his knees, and rocked back and forth. The heat was too much for his already heated face. The hairs on the back of his neck were slick with sweat and he started to stand to retrieve a cold washcloth from the bathroom. He supported his weight on the windowsill and paused there. He leaned his face through the drapes turned his head and touched his right cheek to the cold glass. This comforted him. He sat back down and turned his other cheek to the glass. The heat started to dissipate. The sweat on his neck started to wick away. He moved his face along the glass to search for new cold spots. He turned his head and placed his forehead to the pane.

That’s when he saw Richie hop the fence into Mrs. Dunbar’s backyard.

Richie stood for a second, cast a sharp glance toward Jake’s house and ran behind the mint green clapboard bungalow across the street. Out of the corner of Jake’s squinting eye, he caught a flash of red. Four houses down, squatting behind the Owens’ Impala, Jake could make out the sleeve and hand resting on the trunk of the Chevy and he recognized it as belonging to one Morris Shuler. Jake scanned the backyards of the houses across the street. He locked on Alex as he followed his brother through the rear of Mr. Rutherford’s vegetable garden. Scott paused just long enough to hike up the waist of his pants and continued on his trek out of Jake’s field of view.

Jake head was swimming. He shook it and focused on the side door to the Old Polks’ House. The inside door came open, but no one came out. From around the back of the house, crouched behind the back end of Eddie’s father’s Olds 88, came Morris. He leapt toward the screen door, pulled it open and was in. Richie was next. A short while later, Alex came stumbling around the corner, for Scott had surely shoved him, and turned back to punch at the unseen Scott. Scott then came barreling around the corner, hugging the siding and walking, bent-kneed. A moment later, Alex followed in the same fashion and the door started to close behind them. They were all now safely in Eddie’s Game Room, stripping off their coats, wrestling over the Atari joysticks or calling dibs on the Spirit of ‘76 pinball machine. As the door slammed shut, Jake could barely make out the dim features of Eddie Stephens’ angular face. He was looking directly at Jake’s house and he was smiling.

Jake stood, his thighs throbbing more from the emotional shock of the day’s events than from four hours of roller-skating. He walked to the bathroom.

Standing at the pedestal sink, he looked directly into his own face. There he saw what they all had seen, a poor retch trying to rise up above his standing. He saw his plump face, embarrassingly red with blotches. His eyes pathetic little slits. His stringy, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead in clumps. The beginnings of a zit, red and swollen, forming at the corner of his mouth. In his disgust, he contorted his face even more, making it more ugly and shameful than before. The sight of his own face made him want to vomit. He could feel his gorge rise and recede, sickly sweet Coke spilling up onto the back of his throat, never quite reaching full retch. He steadied himself on the vanity and waited for the aftershock to subside.

He straightened himself and turned his hand over. Jodi’s name and, placed neatly under it, her number stood out boldly from the milk-white flesh of his palm. The dark looping script mocked him. The thick heart over the thin upright of the “I” had smudged to become almost black. The full circles and curlicues of the six and the eight stared back at him like empty soulless eyes.

Jake flipped the hot and cold taps on. He grabbed the thick wet, gelationous, family-size slab of Dial that rested in the slick and crusty soapdish. He grabbed his brother’s coarsely bristled nail brush and ran it under the water, dragging the brush through the soap until the tines were filled with yellow sudsy sludge.

Placing his hand palm open on the lip of the vanity, as if in preparation to sever it from his arm in punishment for it having offended him, he paused there staring at it accusingly. Whether it was fact or fiction, there was no simple, clear way to tell. Calling her out and risking the pain of truth was not a direction in which Jake was prepared to go. Synapses fired wildly causing a burning hollowness to fill his chest and boil the contents of his stomach. Hot stinging tears welled in his eyes as the thought of what he was about to do came home.

Jake spent the next ten minutes washing Jodi Bon’s telephone number from his hand.