Spud (3 page)

“I’m about to die here, Jackson. And I don’t wanna know what that weasel had to say.
Let’s just forget we saw him and get to your place where things are nice, where people
are nice.”

I keep quiet, and as we walk toward my place, a couple blocks to go, Spud is now
engrossed in some wrestling magazine he must have swiped. How the hell does he do
that? While he flips through it, I just busy myself staring at the houses I’ve seen
hundreds of times, decorated yards with their colorful summer flowers (illegal watering,
I’m quite sure, as those flowers should be dead in this hot draught) and dull, thirsty
brown grass, with the occasional tykes out in their family pools. How I’ve always
wanted to have our own pool! Wouldn’t it rock to swim in my own backyard, away from
toddlers and tinkling? How sweet it would be to float on my raft and catch some rays,
without being splashed or crashing into some dippy pool toy. Ahhh.

In the meantime, my refreshing daydreams cannot last. You know the old saying, that
you could fry an egg on the walk? Well, it is so true. Literally, today, it could
be done. Imagine that, and how your clothes just stick to you. Daydreaming helps
a bit, but you can only pretend so long, until a sweaty wedgie brings you back to
reality. A moment, please.

“Hey, Jackson,” Spud suddenly says, about five minutes into the solemn journey home,
but with a welcome grin on his mischievous face. He’s obviously tired of trying to
read a magazine and walk at the same time. “Your shoe’s untied.”

Here we go.

Chapter 2

Stupid to fall for it, I glance down, on instinct, even though I’m wearing flip flop
shoes, and Spud takes off running, despite the heat, despite his sweaty, stuck jeans.

“Last one home’s a rotten egg,” he childishly shouts as he has taken off his boots
(how did I not see him do that?) and is running barefoot down the sidewalk. Damn!
He’s good.

Not that I, in any way, think I’ll actually turn into a rotten egg, but it’s a pride
thing. I take off my flip flops hurriedly and start to run after him. “You punk,”
I teasingly yell ahead of me. Oww! This is much like running on hot coals; the sidewalk
is on fire!

Racing after him, sweating all the more, I realize this is one of the things, though,
that I like about Spud. He’s spontaneous, fun, can change any situation, even a boring
or tense one, and make it completely out-of-the-blue enjoyable again.

“Hey,” I call, knowing I won’t catch him and desperate to test the rules, “
first
one home loves Nina Patton!”

That stops him. He halts his run and catches his breath for a minute, bent over,
hands on his knees. A mop of sweat.

Nina is the weirdest, rudest, fattest, meanest girl in our class. She eats her boogers,
for real. As a rule, she wears short shirts that show her three rolls of globby fat,
farts in class, and has hair that looks like Bozo the Clown’s. Only it’s not orange.
It’s purple. The chick is just odd, and not only that, she’s mean. She’ll steal your
homework, your lunch, and your money, if she knows it’s in your bag or something.

This Nina has no morals, and nobody likes her. Well, most
are afraid of her. She’s
been the butt of our jokes the last two years. It doesn’t sound nice, but if you
met her, you’d get it. One time last year, she scratched her smelly armpit, hand
up through her shirt, then proceeded to borrow my pencil in math, with the same hand
and without asking, and used it, not to write anything, but to scratch the middle
of her back, too big for her to reach, and though her shirt. I was so grossed out.
I let her keep the pencil. She didn’t even thank me.

So, back in the moment here, it’s
rotten egg
. The object of this game now, is you
can come up with the rules as you play, if you’re quick enough, so you can win. So
Spud has caught his breath and now turns around and runs back to me, so he can be
behind and not have to love Nina Patton.

“Damn you, Cooper. Good one!”

Now, we’re walking side by side, but awkwardly, as the ground is fricking hot, and
we’re panting from our run, neither of us wanting to be the first home. Who wants
to love Nina?

“
Last
one home loves Nina Patton, and it’s ‘dead game
’
,” he says suddenly, as he
depants-es me first, so I’m mooning the whole damn town like some weirdo and can’t
run until I pull them up! Well, there’s nobody around that I see, but still.

Aw, man! He takes off again, and a rule with “dead game” means you can’t use that
one anymore. So I need a new line. No more Nina.

Oh well, at least I rested for a minute, but I don’t want to be teased about loving
Nina all night either, marrying her and having a house of little ugly Ninas. Yuck.
Yikes. And if Zoë hears him say that, I’ll never hear the end of it. She thrives
on this game.

I race forward, pants pulled up, thinking hard about the next rule I might invent,
but it’s no use, as we’re quickly coming up on the
door of my place. As Spud cuts
through the brown grass in the yard, reaches the porch and turns to face me, only
a short distance behind him, I’m rather glad I can stop running, really.

“K, Jackson. You…,” but I cut him off before he can gloat that I lost.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re invited to the wedding, Spud.” I say, out of breath. “You can
be my best man. Me and Nina. And when we have all our little obnoxious Ninas, I’ll
let you be their favorite Uncle Spud, and you can baby sit and change all their nasty
icky-poo diapers.” I tease, giving him a pat on the back.

We’re both laughing and panting at the same time.

“Haha. If that happens, I’ll move away and pretend I don’t know you. I could never
let you marry that bitch.” He grins and shakes his head. “Watch her have one of those
after-high school transformations and become some sexy goddess who lands on the cover
of
Playboy
and makes millions, or goes on Jerry Springer, all sexy and hot and rubs
it in our faces.”

“Nah… that’d be too freaky. Anyway,” I say, back into the game, “you’re talking about
the woman I love, remember? Me and Nina forever. Maybe I’ll change my name to Jack
Patton when we’re married to show my devotion!” Teasing Spud like this is a riot.
He laughs as we open the door and step into the welcoming air conditioning, the carpet
cool on our burning feet. I stop to bend down and scoop up the newspaper off the
floor that the paperboy dropped in earlier.

“Barf,” he says. “You’d never survive a marriage to Nina. She’d kill you on the honeymoon.
Squash you when you’re getting all lovey-dovey.” We’re still laughing, until we take
a closer look at the paper.

The headline reads:
56 Deaths Here: Toll May Double
and goes on to talk about overheated
bodies, heatstroke, old people suffering, poor people with no relief, and the amazing
amount that have perished. Wow. The ambulances and hospitals are in full swing, working
nonstop, for sure, and that’s just Chicago. Well, that changes the mood like day
and night.

“See?” Spud says, now serious. “Like I was telling you at Casey’s. Like my pops said.
All these people dying.” He gestures at the paper, “Ain’t it sick?”

“Man. Yeah,” I agree, shaking my head in disbelief, glancing at the article.

It certainly brings us out of our joking mood, and we decide to slow it down and
relax a bit. I live in a two story apartment building with three bedrooms, a decent
sized living room, and air conditioning! At least, the power is on in our town, for
now, and the window air conditioning in the living room is working.

We grab a couple cans of Coke from the fridge in the kitchen, then head back into
the living room. I grab the remote from the table by Dad’s chair and settle down
on the old, beat up couch along the wall. Well, I do, but Spud prefers Dad’s chair,
which is directly in front of the television.

First, he pulls out the guitar he keeps at my place, behind our couch, and begins
to strum a few lines, or whatever you call them. He tried to teach me before, and
while I’d like to play, I just can’t get it. Spud plays with our Uncle Troy and his
own dad at family get-togethers, sometimes. He really is good.

Mom and Dad have left a note on the coffee table that they took a drive to Ned’s,
and Zoë is likely at the pool. I decide to pop in a movie. Why not watch
A Christmas
Story
? Seeing some snow might help cool us down a bit. With Spud’s rendition of John
Michael Montgomery’s “Life’s a Dance” in the background, along with the
hum of the
AC and Deena’s beautiful, flawless blonde hair on my mind, I settle into my movie
with a slight smile on my face.

Let me mention that Spud’s best best best piece on the guitar is this song. He even
often says, “Dude, life’s a dance, Cooper,” or challenges me with, “You gonna sink
or swim, Cooper?” Always with a testing, challenging tone to his voice. Those phrases
from the song have come to mean so much, and the song even fits with Deena, that
first verse, as Spud plays…

When I was fourteen, I was falling fast,

For a blue-eyed girl in my homeroom class.

Trying to find the courage to ask her out

Was like trying to get oil from a waterspout.

What she would’ve said, I can’t say,

I never did ask when she moved away.

But I learned something from my blue-eyed girl,

Sink or swim you ought to give it a whirl…

Life’s a dance, you learn as you go

Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow

Don’t worry about what you don’t know

Life’s a dance you learn as you go.

Perfect. Well, let’s just hope Deena never moves away, but you get the drift. My
blue-eyed girl.

Anyway, soon Ma and Dad will be home; the grill will sizzle with burgers or brats
or whatever Ma and Dad decide, and the house will liven up. Enjoy the peace, the
mood, and the movie while it lasts.

Chapter 3

“Jack, you home?” Zoë comes barging into the living room like a woman with a mission,
waking both me and Spud from our afternoon naps, as she returns from her daily trip
to the pool, full of color and energy and cheer. “They’re opening back up from seven
to nine tonight, on account of the hot day. We should go. Why’d you miss today? Oh.”
Her tone changes to disappointment when she sees Spud half-snoozing in Dad’s brown
recliner chair.

Nobody gets to really sit there, his beat up prized possession, but Dad wouldn’t
even think of asking Spud to move. Spud, his second son. Zoë, however, gets pissy,
doesn’t like that I’m hanging with Spud, and will now act a bit immature the rest
of the night.

“What ya all doing tonight?” she asks, a glimmer of hope in her eyes, running a brush
through her short wet hair.

“Waiting on Mom and Dad, then have dinner and maybe rent a game or something. Spud’s
staying over until Ned’s party tomorrow.” I say, stretching my tight muscles from
my heat-induced nap. I’ll need to remind him to call his mom. I don’t think he did,
yet.

“Oh, yeah, wanted to tell ya. It’s been moved from Ned’s to the park. I guess there
will be a bigger turnout than planned, and Ned doesn’t want all those people going
in and out of his house and using up the AC. What a tightwad. Anyway, so now everyone
is just gonna meet at the park for a cookout and stuff. Boy, but it’s gonna be a
roaster out there. I bet it gets moved back to his place.”

As she says this, she’s gathering some clothes and towels sprawled around, taking
out her swim gear, and getting ready, I’m sure, to do a load of laundry. Zoë is a
neat freak, genius, and great
help around the house. She doesn’t swear or cheat,
and I’m sure she’s perfect. In fact, she’s going to be a freshman next year and was
the valedictorian of her eighth grade class. Gave the speech and everything. The
only thing that gets me is she is rude to Spud. Sweet as sugar to everyone else but
has a definite vendetta against him. I can’t totally comprehend it, which frustrates
me.

She’s a petite thing, about five-foot tall, has short, shaggy brown hair, intense
green eyes, and lots of energy. She’s fun, very conscientious, and always wants to
do the right thing. Helps Mom with all the chores and cooking. Surprises us with
her soft and chewy chocolate chip cookies or M&M brownies out of the blue. Nobody
bakes like that girl. She can be a real sweetie. Or a real pain.

Anyhow, I’m liking that we’ll be at the park tomorrow. Illini Park has been the place
of many family picnics over the years. Lots of tables, trees, paths into the woods,
and has access to the bridge over the Illinois River. We can trot off under the bridge
with a few pilfered Miller Lites and chill. Maybe a quick dip in the river. Sweet.

“Does Mom know Spud’s here?” asks Zoë, not very nicely. “She never mentioned…”

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be easy just to take him to the park tomorrow,” I say. “Plus,
Ma always likes when Spud’s here. She has a fit over her widdle baby Tater!” I’m
trying to wake him for good here, teasing.

“Dude, shut up,” says Spud sleepily, clearly embarrassed and throwing his pillow
at me. Mom treats him like he’s the next king, and he knows it. Sometimes, I think
he’d move in if he could.

Laughing, I get up to use the restroom. It’s 3:30, so I know the parents will walk
in any time. They often take a run to Ned’s to hang out and catch up, when they get
a chance in the summer. He has a garden that Ma likes to tend, and he shares the
tomatoes and
cucumbers from it. Plus he and Dad like to sit and talk about baseball,
and the kids (us and Ned’s daughter, Cat, a year behind Zoë and a promiscuous thing,
always a new story with her).

Mom enjoys it there, since we don’t ever plant a garden here, because the neighborhood
heathens like to pick the tomatoes and throw them at cars. It’s too much hassle,
quite messy and discouraging.