Yearbook (13 page)

A low murmur came to an abrupt halt as the Butcher stood to take the floor.

Corky looked up.

“Listen, guys”—Butch shuffled his feet—”to save any of you from being embarrassed in front of me, I think it’d be better all round if I … uhm, vote to blackball…” Butch s voice trailed as he sat down.

A relieved membership took a few moments to compose themselves.

Butch jumped up again. “And I’m sure I don’t have to remind any of you about our honor code. No talking to outsiders about what goes on here in our meetings!”

Twenty-seven heads nodded in conspiratorial agreement.

After putting a black pencil mark through Guy s name, the secretary called out the next candidate. “Friedman, Mel!” Hands rose in the air and debate began.

Two of Butch s brethren patted him on the back, letting him know they understood what a difficult sacrifice he’d made, axing his own kin and all.

Corky also turned around. Leaning backward, he placed a hand on Butch s knee and whispered sweetly; “Gotta hand it to you, Butch”—the Butchers face lit up—”you’re even more of a prick than I thought.” And the light went out.

Much later, standing outside the Avalon, Guy watched the late show audience leaving the theater and studied faces to catch reactions.

Rock Hudson and Doris Day in
Pillow Talk.
The plight of the virgin. In color, no less. You couldn’t get a better bill.

When the last of the moviegoers had drifted down the street, he resumed his aimless stroll, kicking at whirling leaves. Without conscious intent, he approached the Sugar Bowl, then stopped short when he spotted Corky at the entrance with Ro-Anne and some friends.

Glancing casually down the block, Corky saw Guy standing still as a statue, and his stomach dropped the way it did before a ball was hiked at the sight of the kid in that strangely frozen state.

He turned to Ro-Anne. “You go on in, I’ll be right back,” and then, to Chuck Troendle: “Get a booth.”

Pulling up the zipper on his team jacket, Corky left the hangout.

A strong wind severed leaves from branches.

Corky walked up to Guy. “Nice night for a hurricane.”

Guy nodded.

The huge Mobil disc at the corner station swayed. Spiraling leaves chased one another around the pavement.

“ What’cha doing out so late?”

Guy looked down the street, up at the illuminated clock on the church steeple. Five after eleven. “What am I doing?” he asked softly.
“You re
the one in training.”

Corky punched Guy’s arm. “Playing hooky for an hour or two. Give me a break, kid. It’s Friday night. “

“Fine with me,” said Guy.

“Don’t tell Petrillo you saw me out late. I’ll buy you a malted if you’ll promise to keep your trap shut!”

Ignoring Corky’s pleasantries—forced, he was sure—thinking it important to explain how mortified he was over the evening’s travesty, Guy said, “I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much, Corky.”

“What’re you talking about? You want that malted or not? I don’t spring for drinks every day, kid. I’ll even go you a mug of cocoa, a hot alternative, seeing as how you caught me in a weak moment.”

Hands in his pants pockets, Guy said, “I don’t feel much like anything.” Why was Corky being so damn nice, Guy wondered. Only made him feel worse about how he’d let him down … he wanted to cry.

Cry?! No! Not now! God, not here. Not in front of
him!

Guy sunk teeth into his lower lip, practically breaking skin. Don’t open that reservoir. Don’t let him see you cry. Men don’t cry, dammit! Turning, Guy hurried away.

“Hey!” a surprised Corky called after him. “Where ya going?”

Guy flung his hands in the air, indicating he didn’t know. He knew though that he couldn’t stop to talk; that if he didn’t keep walking rapidly, didn’t keep his upper teeth deep into his lip, that he’d burst, for sure.

“Will you slow down?” yelled Corky, catching up.

Guy forged ahead, rapidly passing the red light on the corner. A Pontiac Bonneville screeched to a halt. Guy paid no mind to the young driver who rolled down his window to curse savagely.

Oblivious, he crossed the street, rounded the corner and headed off the main thoroughfare, down Centre Street. Corky still directly behind.

Guy traveled another quarter of a block before Corky caught up with him on the deserted street. Reaching out, he firmly grasped Guy’s upper arm.

“Let go of me!” Guy demanded through tightened teeth. His rage surprised them both.

“Make me!” Corky’s intense eyes bore into Guy’s face.

Guy tried pulling his arm free. It wouldn’t budge. “
Leave me alone!”
Guy hollered, tugging to free himself.

Corky held firm … and Guy snapped. “It’s not fair,” he yelled out. “Whv did I have to run into
you?
You’re about the last person I’d

And that was it. The words could no longer come out because the tears that had been swelling inside suddenly poured as if out of some dam collapsing.

Feeling helpless, Corky placed impatient hands on either side of his waist, stared down at the kid and tapped his sides, waiting. When it appeared the worst had passed, Corky instructed, “All right, kid. Can the hysterics, huh?”

Guy’s cheeks flushed red. His head pounded. Taking a deep breath, he sniffed, pinched his fingers and said, “
My Grandfather died!”

Silence. Corky felt terrible. “Oh, no! So that’s what this is all about!”

“Of course!” Guy wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Hey, kid. I’m real sorry. And here I thought it was that stupid thing tonight. You must feel awful. When did it happen?”

“Oh …” Guy blew into his handkerchief. “About ten years ago.”

Corky and Guy stared at each other.

Not too amused, Corky spun around, huffing his way back up Centre Street.

Guy ran after him. “Wait up!” the little fellow shouted. “Let me explain!”

Corky stopped walking. Furious, he told Guy, “This better be good, kid! Better be damned good!”

Out of breath, Guy offered the truth. “It’s like this. Sometimes I cry, see? Not often, but sometimes it comes and there’s nothing I can do.
Pow
, Niagara Falls! I wish it weren’t so. God, how I wish, but those are the breaks. It’s the way I am, and so when it comes, it’s best if I’m left alone. I’m fine soon as all the juice is out.”

But all the juice wasn’t yet out. As a fresh cloud threatened to break, Guy turned away.

Reaching forward and spinning him around, Corky held Guy’s arm. “Stop it!” he shouted. “Enough of this crying shit! You’re acting like a real sissy!”

Those were the magic words. Guy swung with his free hand, desperately trying to connect; to smash Corky across the jaw, to land one Sunday punch.

Corky caught the clenched fist and held it tight.

Sagging like a stringless puppet, Guy folded.

Corky let go.

“All right. You win.” Exhausted, Guy wiped the wet from his face.

“Jeez, kid. You’re one tough little customer. “

“Yeah.” Guy stood up straight. “You ought to catch me sometime when I’m upset.”

“Seriously, what’s the big deal, kid? It’s only a lousy fraternity. Not worth crying over, like some dumb schoolgirl.”

“Oh yeah? Well, would you mind telling me what is worth crying over?”

“Whenever you gotta,” said Corky with finality, crossing his arms. “I cry whenever we lose a game.”

“And that’s all right, I suppose?” Guy sniffed.

“Of course that’s all right. The whole team cries when we lose!”

“Seems awfully sissyish to me!” Guy argued. “A dumb football game!”

“More important than a dumb fraternity bid, I can tell you that!”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Oh yeah? Well I think if someone wants to cry at the weather report, he should fucking well be allowed to!”

“Hey, kid. Stop the music! Wipe the snot from your nose and settle down. Lecture your smart friends. All I did was try to get you into the fraternity. It’s my fault, okay? I should’ve said straight out it was a long shot. Fact is you came really close. Closer than I’d have thought!”

The color in Guy’s face improved. “Really?”

“Sure!” Corky lied. “Don’t take it so personally. We couldn’t take in everyone. The guys naturally went for members of the ball teams. That’s what a jock house is all about, get it?”

Guy got it. “And here I’ve been crying like a schoolgirl over some dumb fraternity bid!”

Corky nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well, thanks. I feel a lot better.”

“Naturally.” Corky snapped his fingers. “All included in the Henderson charm. Okay! For the last time, if you can manage to control yourself, are you coming to the Sugar Bowl and letting me buy you a drink or not?”

From somewhere down in his elusive repertoire of deep manly voices, Guy managed, “That’d be great. A Coke is just what the doctor ordered.”

“Coke?” Corky frowned. “Not on your life. Forget it. Your days of Coca-Cola done gone. A growing man needs stamina. You’re having a glass of milk. Giant size.”

“Milk?” Guy contorted a wretched face.

“Bet your ass, Buster!” Corky raised his voice, and heading up the block emphatically added, “From now on, kid, you’re in training!”

NOVEMBER
 

NINETEEN
 

Guy decided to change
HIS LIFE.

Marking the moment for posterity, he worded the final entry in his mental diary, which he was now closing for good:
Wednesday, the First of November. I have resigned as the family dwarf.

No longer would he show up at gym class, bandy-legged and scrawny-armed, underdeveloped in his baggy uniform.

No longer would he stare enviously at others, piecing together a fantasized composite of all he wanted to be: rugged face on athletic neck atop broad shoulders framing muscular chest, flexing strong arms and solid legs like the fellow over there and … enough was enough.

At last, he would be himself. Only better.

Just as his father was now displaying the new line of 59 Olds-mobiles, so too would Guy soon be coming out with the new, toned-down, fattened up, improved version of himself.

Guy Fowler for 1959. Coming your way. Put your order in now!

Forget the days of coasting into the Avalon on child’s fare.

Farewell tears. No more crying. They’d have to bludgeon him senseless before he’d again show raw, girlish emotions.

So long outcasts; hello you cool cats, you smooth sons of bitches who tell us what goes and what doesn’t.

If Brool

If it would take nothing less than a dirtied pair of white bucks to hang out in, then fine. Only chinos with vestigial buckles in the back and shirts with button-down collars would be worn from this day forward.

Rampaging through his closet, Guy threw out anything that wasn’t currently acceptable ivy-league.

He found out the name of Corky’s barber and sat through a clip-

ping, instructing Mario to fashion a smaller version of Corky’s head. Damned if it didn’t suit him, too.

He bought a small bottle of Canoe and splashed it onto his cheeks each morning before school. It was comfortable smelling like all the other with-it boys.

A promise was a promise. Guy had sat down to his last half-eaten meal.

At breakfast he began devouring eggs like candy. He gobbled whole-wheat toast and strips of bacon, always had seconds, and washed everything down with glasse s of milk.

Birdie was ecstatic. “My God, it’s a miracle. I can’t believe it. Another mouth to feed!”

Butch told Guy he was wasting his time, but since no longer paying attention to Butch was one of Guy’s new guide rules, it didn’t bother him. Both had been staying clear of each other ever since the night of the smoker anyway.

After school, Guy came home and snuck into Butch’s room. There he lifted the lesser weights of his brother’s dumbbell collection. He surreptitiously purchased several copies of
Strength b-Health
at the Sugar Bowl. Smuggling them home, he followed routines laid out by beefy giants who promised he too would soon have nineteen-inch arms. Guy’s head swam at the very notion of such extensive power.

Day after day, diligently and secretly, he worked and sweated, looking forward to driving girls crazy and boys mad with envy. Mr. America, move over!

The first week of this concentrated physical program passed and Guy looked no different, felt no better.

The second week, still no change.

After the third week he stopped inspecting himself. Resigned that it might be months before he would see any muscles, he just kept at it.

The next two football games of the season were played away. Guy was assigned to travel with the team to take pictures.

Riding to Rushport and Cold Spring Harbor, he sat in the back of the bus, pretending to be involved with his camera equipment.

Instead he was observing, listening, studying the football players. He noted the harsh way they spoke. Their lazy language patterns:
It don’t matter none; I ain’t gonna; Wadda ya say?
Their pet expressions:
cruddy-creep, cockteaser, creamin’ in my pants.

He heard them talk about the girls who put out. How much tit they gave. How their pussies smelled; sometimes sweet, sometimes sour. How five of them went over to Barbara Deutsche and got blow-jobs, one after the other. Two of them even almost came in her mouth.

Man-talk!

He picked up the rules. The uglier the girl, the sooner you had to bang her. If she was a real looker, well then you respected that and didn’t lay a finger. Those were the good girls, sorority ladies you took to parties and the Sugar Bowl; virgins you eventually married.

Guy watched the players walk from the bus, their bowlegged, rugged strides; the way they held their hands when trotting.

Most of all, he watched Corky. He noted the way the quarterback smoothed down the back of his short hair; imitated the way he stroked his chin in concentrated thought; observed facial expressions, hand gestures, body movements. All of it.

Guy didn’t say much on those two highly educational bus trips. Almost a third of the team was composed of Kappa Phi’s, and he was still too intimidated to talk with any of them.