Pins: A Novel (33 page)

“Stop it!” Touching his dad wasn’t like touching Dink or a guy on the team.

“Come on.”

“No, goddammit!”

“Joey!”

“I do not wrestle anymore. They hate me ‘cause I’m a fag just like Anthony!”

He ran up to his room to be alone, but the names were everywhere, the pictures, the trophies, the ribbons, the plaques.

Naturally, he wrecked the place.

First he found the worst, loudest Nirvana song, blasted it, then shoved his bed against the door so his dad couldn’t kick it in. He went for the shrine first. With double fists he punched up from the lowest shelf. They flew over his head. Medals, ribbons shot out behind him. He turned to survey the damage. A broken trophy part stuck into the wall.

Shelves collapsed too easily. He dug in the closet, grabbed his new Asics, tried to rip them, but he only managed to break an orange shoestring. He grabbed his drawing pads, flung them down, but before ripping them, he stopped. No, not them. Not yet.

 
His desk knocked over, the lamp broken, alarm clock nearly thrown out the window, re-aimed at the door at the last moment, he felt pretty stupid all of a sudden. It felt good to have knocked it all down, but a little while later he figured he was too embarrassed to really cry, so he lay still on the bed until the tape ran out.

He nearly jumped a minute later when he heard his father’s voice on the other side of the door.

“You done?”

Joseph pressed his hand against the door. “Yeah.”

“We’ll talk after you’ve cleaned everything up. I don’t even wanna see what you did.”

“Okay.”

He felt the door shift as his father stood up to walk downstairs.

He waited.

The footsteps backtracked.

“J’ever think that God wanted you to be there so they would get caught? Huh, Joe? J’ever think of that?”

20/20

The camera loved Bennie. Bennie brooded. Bennie “looked pensive.” Bennie got prime time. Bennie got fan mail.

Joseph wondered if they gave acne medicine to murderers. Bennie’d lost weight, too, that was obvious. His neck didn’t bulge out of his suit as it had in his senior portrait, which they used whenever they described him as “an accomplished athlete but a troubled teen, torn by a broken home.” Joseph had only been in the driveway, so he couldn’t verify that.

“Still unknown is why the defense again tried to dismiss the testimony of the other teammate, who was at the scene of the crime, but is considered a witness. The minor was recently suspended from Little Falls High School for fighting with another classmate.”

PAUSE.
 
FF.

“Oh, fuck you, Betty Boop. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

PLAY. A grassy field, with trees, that Soto guy walking to the camera. “But as the ordeal ends, and the legal process continues, slowly, there is still one ritual that remains.”

“Sweeps Week.” He wanted to tape over it, erase the segment.

REW. Instead, he watched it again. The camera panned to the headstone, flowers piled high, almost covering the name.

“Earlier today, Eugenia Lambros brought fresh flowers to remember her son’s birthday. In Little Falls, this is John Soto.”

STOP.

He heard a sound. He wanted to go see, but at the same time thought ducking under the coffee table might be a good idea, especially if whoever was out there had a gun, which could include both Hunter and Lambros brothers, he’d been told.
 

The stairs creaked.

He scooted from on the floor to under the table, practicing.

“Any good chewing gum under there?” his father’s feet appeared besides him.

He slid out, embarrassed.

“I was doing pull-ups.”

“Sure. Do you know what time it is?”

“No.” He sat up.

“Who were you talkin’ to?” Dino’s hair was disheveled, his bathrobe barely covering his body. His eyes were puffy little slits, his hair stuck out in places.

“What are you doin’ up this late?” He watched Joseph retreat to the sofa.

“Can’t sleep.”

“You’re watchin’ the news again. I tole ya not to.” His dad flicked off the tube. The VCR lights were still on. He had to remember to grab the tape before going to bed or Mike might record something over it, on purpose.

“It’ll just get you upset. Ya gotta let it run its course.”

“Dad, you don’t know–”

“I know you aren’t sleepin’ right, you’re eatin’ too much, you haven’t been out…”

“I know, but…”

His father sat beside him, his arm around him. “Sit up. Look. It’s… this is not easy. Just try to get over it. I dunno what to say. Ya jus’ gotta forgive yourself.”

“Have you ever seen anybody that’s dead?”

“Yes, actually.”

“‘Cause I do. Anthony’s still a very popular guy in my head, now. If only I’d…”

“Stop.” He grabbed his son’s arms. “You can’t keep reliving that. Now, you asked me a question. Yes, I seen people dead. I seen people die, too. And one of ‘em was your grandfather. He punished himself all his life for something he wasn’t responsible for. The man smoked and drank himself to death.
 
It wasn’t just a heart attack.”

Joseph had to turn away when his father’s eyes welled up. He felt his dad pat him, say, “I don’t want you to do that, okay?
 
Don’t do that.
 
It wasn’t your fault.”

His father looked around the silent living room. “Ya gotta think about your future, not a hundred years from now, some other place, heaven, hell, but stickin’ with school. You gotta think about Joe and what he’s gonna do to feel better about himself.”

He felt cloudy, spent, in the middle of so much. “Are you and Ma gonna get a divorce?”

His father’s “No, not at all,” would have been more reassuring if he hadn’t taken that extra moment to say it.

The next week, Dino took Marie out to dinner, almost to prove something. To honor this, he swore to his father that he would be good.

“We’re sending the little ones to Irene’s tonight.” She was dressed up in a way she hadn’t been in a long time, her hair done up in what Mike mimicked as “Mah-velluss.”

In a suit, his father’s hair all slicked back, Joseph at first thought a cigar would finish it off. He must have just shaved too, because his usual five o’clock shadow was trimmed back to eight a.m.

“Woah!”

“You like? Haven’t worn it since–”

Then it hit him. His parents had already remembered, waited for his reaction.

“Oh. Right.” He reassured them. “Hey, I’m okay.”

“You sure you’re okay? Irene can bring the kids back over.” Marie fiddled with her earrings, checking herself in the hall mirror.

“That’s okay. I’ll go rent a video.”

His mother’s smile dropped. But then his father said, to her, “It’s four blocks,” to him, “Only if you promise. You come right home. No trouble, okay, or I make you wear that awful boosters jacket.”

“No. I promise.”

“And the cap.”

“Never. Cross my heart and hope to–”

“Enough!”

She almost didn’t want to go, but then Dino stood at the door, yanking his tie again, leading her out.

“Don’t you kids stay out too late.”

He looked in the fridge, half-nibbled some leftover ziti, then went upstairs to the bathroom. His father’s beard stubble coated the sink. He touched a few bristles, brought his hand to his face, contemplated shaving, turned on the shower water, letting the bathroom fog with steam. He stripped, pranced around the upstairs naked, humped his parents’ bed, got bored with that, took a shower, shaved his chin, upper lip and for the first time, the back of his neck. Not that it needed it.

Drying himself, he picked out some jeans, socks, clean underwear, a blue T-shirt, jacket, not his varsity jacket, rubbers, just in case, walked four blocks to the bus stop on the street he remembered led to the other pieces of a trail that led him to the closest version of what he needed most that he could find at the moment.

ADULT

Blinking lights swirled around in neon big enough for anyone as far back as the highway to see. He walked by it once, just pretending he wasn’t going in, kept his eyes to the side, noticing the cars in the lot, a man going in. Would there be cops? Would they card him? Would anyone recognize him? By the third time around the block, he didn’t care.

The lights were harsh. Whoever worked behind the tall counter had gone away for a minute. It was momentarily devoid of people, slightly scary, like arriving at a party before anybody’d shown up. A big boombox chained behind the counter played a new song about “girls who want boys who like boys who dig girls who do boys like they’re girls who dig girls but they’re boys…”

Joseph scanned the store, the walls of videotapes, another wall of magazines, video boxes, more magazines stacked on tables, paperback books on circular racks.

A guy with a mustache looked at him, but averted his eyes every time Joseph looked back. A chubby guy emerged from some other area with a turnstile in it, adjusting his fly as he left. There were funny sounds coming from behind the doorway.

Joseph tried to move slowly, be invisible, but the pictures surrounding him were glossy, hard. There were guys with women, women with women, black guys with Asian chicks, big-bosomed white women with herds of guys, huge fake cocks in display cases, funny straps, lotions, the magazines, there, further back, a whole section of them, all of them guys, some with their faces shoved, distorted, the skin bumping out, cheeks puffed up with shoved-in cocks, some guys even wrestling, which he thought was funny.

Most were just naked, though, dripping with wet stuff, spit or something shoved in mouths, asses. He felt sick, wanted to laugh at the same time. Some pictures were gross, some were just stupid, fake, forced, someone else’s idea of Sexy. Guys with their mouths open, their legs spread, hands gripping enormous boners, most of them not like his, but some of them, their foreskins pulled back, or halfway, or all the way down, some dripping with goo, some with the stuff caught mid-air.

His hands were already quivering. His heart thudded. I’m gonna die here, he thought. I’m gonna pass out, die here. That will be his revenge. But he found the nerve to continue slowly looking, taking it all in, long enough to adjust his pants, try to move his boner upright, so it wouldn’t stick out so much.

He looked closer at a rack of shiny magazines with proud, big super-muscular guys, some smiling so nice, some mean, tough, all of them beyond gorgeous. One looked familiar, almost like his father; the same mustache, the same heavy shadow of a beard, but the smile was different, the eyes blue instead of brown, the face differently-shaped, thicker, more muscled. The name was Italian. Another was a dead ringer for Bennie, except he was uncircumsized and had a goatee.

But what made him almost laugh out loud was the name on the poster, on each magazine: Colt.

Young buff guys stood naked and amazingly stiff enough to hang a coat on. Others featured drawings, perfectly formed cartoons of superhero bodies, men lounging, wrestling naked, with equally super cocks, butts, a masterful achievement, what he’d had all along been trying to do with his drawings.

He had to have one. Even if he had to steal it, he had to have one.

Holding it in his quivering hand as he approached the counter, he felt it nearly slip out, his hand was so sweaty, the paper so slick. A skinny guy with a goatee up behind the counter emerged by the sign that read: “Proof of age is required for purchase,” said, “Help you?” The guy smiled, not as mean as he looked at first.

He put the magazine on the counter. The guy wouldn’t stop smiling.

“You eighteen?”

“Sure.”

“You got ID?”

He felt in his pocket, took out his wallet, pretended to look for the driver’s license he wouldn’t get until September. But this couldn’t wait until September. Even then he would only be sixteen. He should have swiped it. He had to have this now.

“I forgot it.”

“Sorry.”

“I got money.”

“Sorry. No can do. We got closed down last year. Things are a bit tight. You understand.” The guy took the magazine. It disappeared behind the counter. “Hey, try
Details
or
Men’s Workout
. They got lotsa nice underwear ads. You can get one of those muscle magazines in the grocery. I know how ya feel, dude.”

Racing out in a flurry, flushed with embarrassment, sweat suddenly coated the layer between his T-shirt and his back, he turned away into the lot, hid out behind the building a minute, pacing, burning with anger, frustration as the last bits of purple and magenta bled from the dusk sky.

 
A car pulled up, its lights glaring at him, past him.

At the other end of the parking lot, the mustache guy from inside walked toward his car with a slim brown bag in his hand. He stopped, half-waved with his hand.

A very different sort of panic filled Joseph, a good fear, like before a match, like jumping off a cliff when you know there’s warm water waiting. He crossed the lot.