Revoltingly Young (4 page)

Toby’s job is to bow and scrape, saying “yes, suh,” and “yes, ma’am,” as he helps the happy couple with their things. Then I shake a tambourine while Mrs. Dugan in blond spit curls and bouffant hoopskirt mans the pump organ. Or, if the clients have brought a camera, I ditch the tambourine and snap a few artsy photos. After the ceremony of union I pass out lemonade and cookies, unless they’ve sprung for the deluxe package, in which case mint juleps and finger sandwiches are served. In no case should Toby help himself to any of the snacks even if so instructed by the guests of honor. Nor should he EVER block the automatic video camera, for which transgression I’ve already received a fierce ass chewing. Sales of the commemorative videos are a big profit center, Mr. Dugan informed me.

I feel a bit self-conscious walking around town in my new 19
^th
Century African-American persona. I noticed when I dropped into a convenience store for an emergency soda (that wig is hot), the suspicious clerk gave me the hairy eyeball the entire time. Then outside in the parking lot, an old lady walking a tiny dog stopped me to ask if the circus was in town. I shrugged, put on my best English accent, and replied, “Sorry, madam, I really couldn’t say.”

Passing Carlyle autographing the side of the post office, I was gratified to see that my gang brother didn’t recognize me. Toby stopped to introduce himself. Carlyle was thrilled by my new identity (except for the clothes), and he quickly decided he wants to be black as well. It’s true that all his favorite rap artists, movie stars, and sports heroes are black. He also thinks our gang would have much more street credibility if we altered our race.

11:45 p.m. The infantile thumb sucking has got to stop! I have sprayed my garden gloves with bitter apple dog repellent. This vile fluid tastes worse than month-old road kill. Grandma bought a bottle a few years back to discourage our chew-happy beagle puppy, which soon broke my heart by getting eaten by a coyote. Yet another reason to move back to civilization.

Snug in my bitter gloves, I shall now go to bed thinking strictly adult thoughts that may lead inexorably to carnal self-knowledge. I am willing to take that chance.

THURSDAY, June 30 – Yuck and double yuck. My stunned taste buds are in full retreat. Such a horror, but I only had three incidents of T.S. last night. This may be the route to go if I can stand it. At breakfast this morning Grandma inquired why I’ve taken to wearing gloves to bed.

“
Uh, I’m trying to toughen up my hands,” I replied, picking through my Wheaties that now tasted like an elderly rhinoceros had pissed on them.

“
I know just the thing for that, Noelly. It’s called manual labor. You can start by pulling all the weeds out of my flower patch.”

Damn!

5:12 p.m. What a shock. A guy in my high school got married today: Artie Prender, a soon-to-be senior (or maybe not), who ran the 440 on the track team. The bride I didn’t recognize, but she was pretty cute if you like them blonde and built. Both sets of parents were there looking major annoyed. When Mr. Dugan asked if he took Tiffany as his lawfully wedded wife, Artie sighed and muttered, “Yeah, I guess so.” That’s when Tiffany’s dad reared back and kicked him in the ass. This caused the bride to burst into tears. Inured to such drama, Mr. and Mrs. Dugan went on as if nothing had happened, but the darky stood there with mouth agape. Nobody stayed for lemonade and cookies, but Artie’s dad, I’m happy to report, slipped me a $10 bill and asked me to keep my mouth shut. I suppose a baby must be on the way, though there was no sign of it to my inexperienced eye. I hope the kid receives a pleasant welcome and doesn’t get shuffled off to some remote backwater like me. Of course, if the happy couple makes their home in Winnemucca, that may be hard to avoid.

Later Mr. Dugan commented that he had witnessed much worse behavior at funerals–especially if the mourners included multiple ex-wives. Mrs. Dugan agreed, noting that all in all she preferred weddings to funerals, although the money wasn’t nearly as good. So true, said Mr. Dugan, who lamented that he used to clear several thousand dollars on a nice mahogany casket, but now could barely make a sawbuck on a souvenir gold-plated rose.

Personally, I’m glad that it costs less to get married than to croak, as I hope to experiment with the former one of these days. Do you suppose if I knock up his daughter, Mr. Spurletti will insist I marry Uma? Or, alternatively, will he just knock me off?

JULY

FRIDAY, July 1 – The most depressing day of the year in the marriage biz. June is over for another entire year. People get married willingly (more or less) in June, but the rest of year their natural reluctance to commit frequently prevails. This is unlike the funeral biz where people croak reliably without regard to the calendar.

Not one to let moss grow under his Bible, Mr. Dugan put an ad in the newspaper offering a complete “Adore Ceremony” for only $29.95. Mrs. Dugan and Toby were skeptical, but, boy, were we proved wrong. All day long we were swamped by doting teen couples clutching coupons. For their 30 bucks they got a candle-lit ceremony featuring love songs on the organ, touching exchange of commitment vows, handsomely engraved certificates of adoration, and an opportunity to purchase celebratory lemonade and cookies (sorry, no free eats at those prices). A few couples exchanged rings, but the offered love tokens were all over the map. Bryan Dinger and Mindy Preel, for example, exchanged silver ear studs.

Even though hustling the snacks added to my workload, Mr. Dugan chiseled me down to just $3 per adore service. What a cheapskate. And no tips to speak of either. I was regarded with interest by the celebrants, but no one appeared to recognize me–not that I cut that large a profile among the upperclassmen in my high school.

If I had $30 and a girlfriend, I doubt I’d blow my wad just to hear “Love Theme from Romeo and Juliet” and get a crummy certificate proving I was going steady. Still, if darling Uma found the concept charming, I expect I’d be lining up in a hurry. All this romance on the hoof today made the emotional chasm between me and Uma particularly painful. It is most stressful to be stuck on someone who is barely aware of one’s existence.

8:47 p.m. Lots of firecrackers exploding along our road. I hope no one starts a wildfire that burns us all to glowing cinders. I should call up Uma and invite her to the big fireworks show Monday night. Yeah, right.

I have wiped off my greasepaint and turned off my cell phone. If someone wants to declare their mutual adoration tonight, they can sure as hell do it without me.

SATURDAY, July 2 – I had a dream last night that I was sharing a private hot tub with Uma. I was filled with anticipation because only I knew that I had switched our bathing suits to a special kind that dissolved in hot water. Anticipation quickly turned to panic, however, when the water suddenly grew cold. Frantic valve fiddling only made things worse. That’s when I woke up and discovered that my five-week respite from you know what was over. So tiresome! I already go to bed in gloves. Do I have to put a clothespin on my dick as well?!

Carlyle came over after my gloomy breakfast with his foster dad’s credit card number, and we were able to order him a large afro wig over the Internet. (Just try purchasing such an item in Winnemucca.) We also ordered two jumbo jars of mocha brown greasepaint (one for each of us). We’ve agreed that even if we can’t always dress in brown, we’re still upholding our gang colors if our exposed skin is brown. Carlyle also wanted to order an ex-military Soviet handgun, but I drew the line at such fraud. The guy is scary enough just packing all those lethal-looking knives. Carlyle gave me a dozen cans of spray paint to help with the cause. Whenever he sees an open garage door, he sneaks in and helps himself to any paint stores. I pointed out that such trespass constitutes an illegal burglary.

“
Aw, nobody’s gonna ’rrest my ass ’cause I swiped a few cans of paint,” he shrugged.

“
And how many have you stolen?” I inquired.

Carlyle gave it some thought. “’Bout 600 so far, but a lot of them turned out to be empty or dried up or some useless color like pink.”

7:38 p.m. Another dateless Saturday night. My 754
^th
in a row (or thereabouts). The good news is that 754 Saturdays from now I’ll be 29, married (to Uma?), and by then will have had several thousand vigorous bouts of intercourse under my belt. That thought sustains me.

Speaking of wanton sex, there’s been another emergency wedding. Two ancient fossils got wheeled into the Dixie Belle from a local old folks home. A shift supervisor found them in bed together this morning, and the prim management insisted they get married or get out. Since they couldn’t afford the latter, in they came. Though they looked about 214 to me, it turned out that he was 89 and she was 93. That’s like me marrying some college sophomore! (Not a bad idea. Where do I sign up?) They got through the ceremony OK, though afterwards the bride dribbled quite a bit of her lemonade. They are honeymooning tonight back at the home, while I–young, virile, and primed for action–have only my computer for company.

I have sent an email to my brother Nick in Las Vegas demanding a complete accounting of my origins. This uncertainty is intolerable. I need to know who I am!

SUNDAY, July 3 – Another wretched night. Damn. My new policy is no beverages after 12 noon, except for cocktails with Uma. (I wish.)

This working for a living really sucks. I was supposed to go swimming with Stoney, but Toby got called in for more lousy adore ceremonies and a wedding or two. No paycheck in sight yet. I’m operating entirely on wallet fumes. Stoney is bummed because she’s stuck on Tyler, but knows he’s seeing his multiple L.A. girlfriends. She says guys are nothing but trouble and wishes she could go back to being a horny dyke. I said that’s not very likely now that she’s let the genie out of the bottle. She should just go with it, I added, and work to get in touch with her feminine side. She replied that my big fat mouth was working to get in touch with her knuckles.

7:45 p.m. New developments this afternoon. When their 3:30 reservation didn’t show, Mr. Dugan sent Toby over to the Silver Sluice casino to bang on the missing couple’s hotel door. While attempting an inconspicuous crossing of the lobby, who should I spy but my very own (I wish) Uma. Looking wildly attractive in a green Silver Sluice employee polo shirt, she was manning a kiosk that sold gum, candy, sunglasses and other casino necessities. I edged over to ogle the breath-mints display.

“
I wouldn’t try anything,” she noted. “There are security cameras everywhere.”

“
Thanks for the warning,” I replied, my heart pounding. “Are these breath mints fresh?”

“
Of course. They’re loaded with preservatives.”

Uma rested her lovely chin on her lovely hand and studied me with interest. In this posture, I couldn’t help but notice, her lovely breasts nestled sweetly on the counter.

“
Any particular brand you recommend?” I asked.

“
What is the nature of your problem?”

“
Uh, what do you mean?”

“
How bad is your breath?”

“
That’s a rather personal question.”

Toby, I noticed, was much better at talking to Uma than I had ever been.

“
I suppose, but you brought up the subject. Did that jacket shrink?”

“
Yes, dreadfully. I fell into the Amazon–off a speeding river boat.”

“
Not wash and wear, huh?”

“
Uh, no.”

Toby selected a roll of mints and placed it on the counter, causing Uma to rise languidly and pass the mints under a scanner.

“
That will be $1.59.”

“
That much, huh?” Toby removed his wallet and looking into it doubtfully. His skepticism was well founded.

“
Yes, my father goes for the high markup.”

“
Oh dear,” Toby sighed, “I seem to be a bit short at the moment.”

“
Not as short as Rot Dugan when he used to come in here in that outfit.”

Toby colored under his layer of brown. “Oh. Rot Dugan. Right.”

Uma placed the mints on the counter in front of me. “Take them. You can pay me whenever.” No smile but a ghost of a glint in her lovely eyes. They were an improbable shade of pale violet-green.

“
You’re awfully trusting.”

“
Well, I know who you are.”

“
You do?”

“
Uh-huh.”

“
Er, why’s that?”

Lovely eyebrows were raised. “Well, we do live in the same small town.”

“
I know. It’s a bummer. I mean, uh, being stuck out here in the boondocks.”

“
It’s not the end of the earth, but you can see it from here.”

Toby surprised himself by chuckling affably. “You can say that again. Well, I’m late for a wedding.”

“
Not yours, I trust.”

My heart flipped over. Dare I hope she cared?

“
Uh, why do you say that?”

“
Well, for one thing, you have no money. And you’re rather young for such a step.”

“
That’s true, I suppose.”

Uma placed the mints in my clammy hand. “Here you go.”

“
Thanks. Well, I’m going now.”

“
Have a nice day.”

“
You too.”