Wednesday, August 4, 2010

(nine) Pedal faster, Fat Ass

(nine) “Pedal faster, Fat Ass”

Feeling guilty that he was not contributing his share to the tiny family income, Jake had taken a job at McDonald’s in the Mall, his first paying gig. He had lied about his age on his application in order to get the job paying student wage, $2.85 an hour. He worked like a galley slave for the pittance and in return they gave him a free uniform, complete with paper hat and a free meal every time he worked. It was Jake’s way of helping his family. They wouldn’t have to feed him as much and he would be bringing some extra cash into the house. In the trade off, he worked on weekend mornings during the summer. He was the first of his friends to get a job outside of Morris’ and the Twins respective paper routes and he was proud of it. Well, except for the uniform.

He despised being seen in this polyester disaster. He had taken to riding to the Mall in street clothes, changing into his uniform and then, at the end of his shift, changing back for the ride home. This day, however, he had woken up late and thrown on the uniform to save time. At about ten minutes to the end of his shift, the boys walked into his McDonalds.

They had ridden to the Mall, the boys, on what the weathermen had promised was going to be another fabulously bright sunny day. It was east down 14 Mile Road, across three major thoroughfares and under the I-75 overpass. It was a long ride and accordingly meant that they had likely spent the entire day wandering around, loitering actually, in the cool air conditioning. Jake knew the drill because he’d done it so many times before he got the job. They would rest up from the long trek, leisurely stroll through Harmony House and Footlocker, stopping by The Pretzel Man for a cheese-covered pretzel. Or, perhaps they would have lunch, which meant four large French fries and four large Cokes, at the Kresge Cafeteria because the fries were bigger than McDonald’s. Jake clocked out and joined the rest of the boys at the fountain that took up the center of the Mall. The fountain that, every fifteen minutes, shot its chlorinated streams into the skylight above; the mist from the spray landing on the boys’ skin cooling them even more than the conditioned air. And, they would need cooling. First from the long ride and then from the swarm of teenage girls.

The girls would herd by in clumps of five or six, flip-flopping their sandals or neatly tied shoes across the faux-marble granite floor. They would stop at the window of Baker’s Shoes or at Hit or Miss, the designated lookout craning her neck to see if any of the boys were still looking. For the most part, they were dressed alike. Short shorts, usually jean cut-offs or cords, and tank tops or short-sleeved concert T-shirts with names like Asia or Journey emblazoned across the swell of their bosoms. Some of the girls still hung on to bell-bottoms, but they were fast being taken over by straight-legged designer jeans. Their clothing, however, wasn’t as important as their hair. This was the main focus, this was the part of their body that they sexualized the most. A flowing mane was the bright plumage needed to attract the opposite sex. It was kept long for fear of being called a Lezzie. Sure, some had ventured into the Dorothy Hamill but had since grown it out. The girls would intricately feather it back from the center part, cascading it down around their shoulders in auburn or amber waves. It was frosted or dyed blonde and was held in it’s position with half a can of Aqua Net Super Hold.

Most of the girls smoked, which Jake thought was odd considering the amount of flammable liquid they applied to their hair. Jake was dazed as one brunette girl tilted her head sideways and pushed her hair around to her back to avoid lighting it aflame as she sparked her Virginia Slims 100. She took a deep satisfying drag and straightened up, letting the smoke billow from between her slightly parted lips. Jake knew smoking made you look cool, but he had never acquainted it with making someone look sexy. Jake stood in awe at the epiphonious discovery that cool equaled sexy when Eddie broke the silence.

“I’d do her”, He said dragging on his butt. “While you guys watched”.

“Tag team”, Richie added and Eddie and he slapped five.

“She’s really Foxy”, Jake added then realized he should’ve just said ‘She’s a Fox’ or better yet just kept his mouth shut. The boys looked at him, puzzling at his verbal inadequacy, thinking ‘...and he’s suppose to be the smart one?’.

Jake recognized two of the girls as Steph Beaudoin and Dana Cortez. Steph took the cigarette from the brunette and puffed on it as Dana lit her own and handed it to her cousin, Jodi Bon.

Jake stood, then quickly sat down. To him, it was an honest gut reaction; perfectly natural. Suddenly his palm tickled recalling the plastic bristled nailbrush scraping her name and number from its soft pink flesh. He began to breathe deeply and shift his weight in his seat.

“Quit shaking the bench, Ya Spazz”, Morris said.

“Are you okay, Jake? You need my inhaler?”, Alex asked.

“Hey, Jake, isn’t that your girlfriend?”, Eddie turned, his eyes alight with mischievousness, his lips curled back in a grisly smile. He turned toward the girls and yelled, “Hey, Dana”.

There was no way in Hell that Jake was going to let Jodi or any girl he knew for that matter see him in his uniform. Jake stood, turned his back to the girls and went directly into The Cutting Board, the cutlery shop, without looking back. He stood behind one of the black marble uprights at the entrance and pressed his face to the stone. When he got himself under a semblance of control he peeked out from around the stone pillar. Eddie was talking to Dana who was flipping her hair and sucking feverishly at the straw to her lemon-lime slush. The boys were splayed out around Eddie, looking distractedly into the faces of the girls in front of them, that was, all but Alex, who kept looking for Jake to come out of the knife store and join them.

Jake turned and looked at the shining knives elaborately hung across a wall of burgundy velvet. He fixated on the 10-inch Chef’s knife to the left of the hefty cleaver set that was the centerpiece of this macabre display of cutlery. It was the 10-inch Chef’s knife that was the weapon of choice for Michael Myers, The Shape from the horror film classic Halloween.

He saw himself smashing the glass showcase door with his pudgy fist and extracting the gleaming metal tool. He made a few practice slashes in front of a nearly catatonic woman wearing a faded floral print dress and corrective shoes. Her mouth was stuck in a wordless scream. Jake walked quickly, never breaking into a run, like all good stalkers, for he knew that regardless of how fast the victim ran, he’d always be right behind. He crossed the marble floor and closed the distance between him and his prey. Eddie would be standing with his back to him and as he turned Jake would strike, slashing the airbrushed picture of Gene Simmon’s face on his shirt in two. He would advance at Eddie, stroking and slashing. Then, with his unoccupied hand he would grab Eddie’s throat and raise him off the floor in the adrenaline-fueled mania that gave all good slasher movie villains their inhuman strength. He would plunge the bloodied knife into Gene Simmon’s mouth and toss the limp, nearly lifeless Eddie into the Mall fountain, just as it began to spray. The water would be clear then turn to pink as it shot from hole in the center of Eddie’s shirt. Jake would then turn and all the girls and boys would applaud. Richie and Morris would slap him on the back. Alex and Scott would begin a rousing roundelay of “Ding, Dong, The Dick is Dead”. And, the milling throng would raise Jake to their shoulders and carry him in to Sander’s Ice Cream to share a celebratory Hot Fudge Cream Puff with his new sweetheart Jodi Bon.

Jake stood there, his face against the cool marble and watched as the group went off toward the escalator at the other end of the Mall. Scott and Alex looked back and caught Jake’s gaze. Scott raised his shoulders and arms in a ‘what are you doing?’ kind of gesture before falling in to the retreating ranks.

“Can I help you?”, a man with impeccably styled hair and very shiny fingernails was standing beside him. Jake startled.

“Ummm. No. Yes. Do you have a bathroom?”

“Public restrooms are over near the Brown’s Jewelers. Next to Sanders?”, asked as if this was Jake’s first time in the Mall.

Jake stepped out from behind his shelter and made his way away from the fountain that was just cycling up; spraying its discharge over the heads of the teenaged boys and girls giggling around it.

* * *

He was sitting in the back of Sanders polishing off his sundae, licking the sticky brown fudge from the back of his spoon and downing the last of his ice-cold milk when the Twins came in the through the entrance. They were alone and they scanned the seating area for a table. Jake tried to make himself smaller, shrinking in the booth and closing his eyes like the Cheshire cat trying to make itself invisible. Alex spotted him and motioned to Scott to follow. They made their way past the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign and slid into the booth.

“Where’d you go?” Scott said as he grabbed a menu from the holder next to the ketchup.

“Uhhh, I don’t know...Here, maybe?”

“Eddie and Richie were wonderin’ where you went”, Scott added, running his finger down the list of burgers.

“I knew we’d find him here”, Alex said wrenching his brother’s menu from his grip. They flicked each other with their fingers for a brief moment until Scott relented and drew another menu from the holder. “Only, I didn’t tell Eddie”.

“Thanks”, Jake went back to scraping the last of the fudge from the metal dessert cup.

The waitress was a plump pleasant-faced woman with simple drop earrings on either side of her apple cheeks. She pulled a pencil from her tightly pony-tailed hair and a pad from the pouch on her apron.

“What can I get you young men?”, she said in a casual and almost flirtatious way.

“I’m hungry”, Scott said to Jake. “You’ll stay ‘til we eat, right?”

“Buy me a Cherry Coke?”

“Split it?”, Scott said to his brother, who nodded in agreement.

“Three Cherry Cokes to start”.

The waitress began to scribble their order.

* * *

“He’s an asshole”, Jake said, dropping his voice on the first syllable of the swear word as he took the last French fry from Alex's plate.

Alex and Scott nodded. Jake sat silently for a second vainly waiting for a response from the Carson boys.

“What do you think?”

“He can be mean sometimes”, Scott said.

“Jake’s right. He’s a butthole”, Alex hated cussing. The Carson family was devout Catholics. He was raised to be a cordial and polite young man. Vulgarity embarrassed him. In every situation, he’d find a euphemism or replacement for the offensive word.

“Sometimes, I just want to kill him”, Jake said. Alex smiled in agreement and sucked down the last of his chocolate malt.

“I dream about it”, Alex added. “Like I’m Jason or Freddy. I just want to slash his throat, pull his tongue out of the hole in his neck and pee on him. You think I’ll go to Hell for thinking that?”

“No”, Jake comforted him. “Not if you don’t actually do it.”

“Maybe his home life sucks”, Scott chimed in. “So he takes it out on us”.

“God, I HATE him”, Alex said a little too loudly, drawing the attention of a young mother who was spooning ice cream into her child’s mouth. Jake thought that her actions were probably the first of a long line of mistakes that would eventually turn the child into a hideously obese man/boy who’d never leave the house.

“Then why do you hang around him?”, Jake asked.

The Twins sat, silently contemplating this thought as the waitress padded over to the table and slapped down three checks.

* * *

“I don’t know”, Scott answered as he spun cord of the bike lock around the seat post of his Schwinn. Alex did the same.

“Who else are we gonna hang out with?”, Alex joined in.

“What about us? Just us three?”, Jake offered.

“That would get boring.” Alex said, mounting his bike. “He has all the cool ideas”.

Jake looked at the pair. Here they were, three intelligent boys who were imaginative enough and smart enough to dissect the reasoning behind Eddie’s vindictive and controlling behavior, but were stumped as to the reason why he held sway over their every action. Jake had suggested that they ignore Eddie for a while, sticking together. It was solidarity that would defeat the current fascist regime and bring down this Stephens tyrant. Jake had listened intently to his father and brother discussing Union business one night as he sat, huddled in the stairway leafing through The Story of America. What he was suggesting was a type of Union. Alex and Scott agreed that while it would work in theory, it would infuriate Eddie and he would rain down harsher and harsher ridicule and belittlement until they cracked under the pressure and returned to being his mindless thralls.

They discussed its pros and cons for a few brief moments, eventually coming to an agreement to just go on doing exactly as they had done all along. Jake shook his head in amazement at their complacency and inability to act as Alex and Scott split off on their way over to the video store where their older brother worked to beg him for a ride home in his truck. They left Jake standing alone outside the huge mosaic mural of the solar system that ran the whole length of the facade above the main entrance to the Mall.

Sweat rolled down his neck beneath the collar of his navy polyester uniform shirt as he worked the black dial of his bike lock. Heat was pulsing off of the tarmac in the Mall parking lot. He popped the lock and twirled it around the seatpost.

He hated this. Hated the trek home, a mile and a half down one of the busier streets in the county. He dreaded pistoning his polyester covered legs up and down in a mad dash from here to home in the shortest time to minimize the risk of being seen by any upperclassmen looking to terrorize a rolly-poly fat kid. He despised how the plasticesque fabric stuck like putty to his back, his chest, his thighs.

It wasn’t only the uniform, but just the act of being seen was what caused him duress. He was the lone soldier running from foxhole to HQ with no one to cover him. He was alone, unprotected from the gaze of the cruel car-owning upperclassmen that often cruised this stretch of road. Each rumble of bass throated, V-8 powered, muscle car exhaust raised the small hairs on the back of his neck. All the junior and senior boys owned supertuned gas hogs with rally stripes or Cragars. Ragtops and fastbacks would pass by with girls peeking out of the windows and screaming at their friends in other cars. The four-lane blacktop ribbon brought an acidic queasiness to each trip he made. He slid onto the saddle and pulled the front wheel out from between the bars of the rack.

He crossed the parking lot and pulled up onto the bike path that led along the heavily trafficked street and under the overpass. He crossed the cloverleaf that funneled the Northbound cars onto the interstate and headed toward the shade of the cement viaduct. Jake jumped off his bike and walked it into the waiting dark.

Here it was cooler. It was an oasis in the treeless sun-blanched landscape surrounding the highway interchange. The exhaust from the cars passing overhead wafted down into the space. A lot of the cars on the road still used Regular leaded gasoline. Most of the big chain gas stations had changed over, but there was still demand for the ozone killing fuel. Jake breathed in. He thought that the exhaust from Regular gasoline smelled uniquely comforting, unlike the Unleaded exhaust that was more acrid and bitter. No, Regular exhaust was rounder in the nose, its bouquet fuller and milder. He made his way under the cars barreling across the cement above him, their tires slapping the strips of tar separating the concrete slabs in rhythmic fashion. Jake made a wordless noise and the cavernous space bounced it off its graffiti-covered walls and echoed it back to him.

Out in the sun again Jake hopped on his bike and pedaled toward what his brother had affectionately termed “St. Phenson Highway”.

“Yeah, you never heard of St. Phenson? He’s the Patron Saint of the Suburbs.” Craig would say in mock serious tones. “He guided the developers to the woods and showed them how to clear cut the trees. He showed them visions of miles of subdivisions and planned communities. And, they seen that it was good”.

Jake now saw why his brother had given the street its name. In front of him was a green and white sign that read:

ST PHENSON HWY.

Some one had peeled the first “E” off the sign. Why, Jake had no idea. Jake couldn’t make out any possible reason, no hidden cuss word or sexual innuendo in the defacing of this sign. Maybe, he thought, it was just bad glue and it had fallen off by itself.

The bike path turned and ran along parallel to and about two feet from the road. Jake angled the bike toward the road and quickened his pace. A few cars with teenagers drove past him and he tucked his head down and sped up. It was then he realized he had forgotten to take off his little paper hat.

A yellow 1970 GTO with “The Judge” spelled out in a puffy orange 70’s era typeface on the fender pulled up even to Jake. He glanced quickly to his side and saw that the front seated was filled with girls. He turned his attention back to his path and steadied his steering. A girl, a blonde wearing a pink T-shirt with the words ‘Pretty Thing’ in cursive on it leaned out the window. The bike path was a good deal higher than the street and this advantage offered Jake an amazing view down Pretty Thing’s cleavage. She steadied herself on the door and spoke.

“Hey”, she said in a sexy smoky tone. This made Jake look over to her. She was holding something white in her hands.

“Pedal faster, Fat Ass”.

Jake could see what she had in her hands now, but by then it was too late. She pulled back the elastic on the boy’s underpants like a jury-rigged slingshot and flung them into the air between the car and Jake. They hit Jake in the face, obscuring his vision with white. He reached up one hand to pull them from his face and his head slid through one of the leg holes. The Judge sped off as Pretty Thing flipped Jake the bird. He looked into the rear of the car to see the front Mag wheel of Eddie’s Mongoose sticking from the trunk. Jake looked up at the rear window and saw Dana Cortez and Eddie sitting on either side of the car, laughing and pointing. Between them, facing forward and slumped down, he could make out the back of another girl’s head. The girl turned, and furtively looked toward Jake. It was Jodi Bon. Across her face was splayed a mix of hurt from Jake never having called her and sympathy for the boy she liked being the butt of a cruel joke. Tears welled in Jake’s eyes and he lost control of his bike. It careened down the ditch that ran in between the bike path and the parking lot to an industrial complex. As soon as his front wheel hit the soft earth, he went over the handlebars and landed flat on his back in the middle of a stand of cattails.

He lay there motionless except for his sobs, listening to the crickets around him, staring up at the sky and letting the murky rain run-off soak into his silly paper hat.

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