The Obstacle Course (23 page)

Across the room I could see the kids from my class. Most were almost finished. I started digging in, forking the food in my face as fast as I could. I really was hungry, and I was in a hurry, too, because I wanted to be with Darlene.

“Have you ever been given instructions in the proper use of a knife and fork, young man?” one of the old biddies asked.

“Yeah, lady,” I told her, my mouth stuffed with food, “I use them all the time.” I held them up in front of me like in a jail-house movie. “See?”

I wasn’t being rude intentionally—I knew how to eat properly, I’d done fine at the admiral’s house, but I wanted to finish quickly, so I wouldn’t lose track of Darlene. I could see her across the room, sitting at a table with three other girls.

The old lady turned away in disgust, ignoring me.

“Riffraff,” she said under her breath, but loud enough so I’d hear.

“That’s me, lady,” wiping my mouth, “the best white trash you’ll ever come across.” Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke, that’s one of my mottos.

My classmates were drifting out of the room in twos and threes. Darlene and the other girls at her table got up. She was looking around for me, but she couldn’t see me because I was hidden from view by the hats of the three old ladies. She stood there for a minute, but then one of the girls said something to her and she left with them.

I raced through my meal, even leaving half a piece of cherry pie. When I jumped up to go my chair tipped over, hitting the floor with a bang. The old ladies practically had a hemorrhage from the sound.

“Sorry,” I apologized. They were nice old ladies, it wasn’t their fault they’d had to eat lunch with a crazy man.

Outside the cafeteria there was another long corridor that led from one part of the building to another. As I came out into it I could see Darlene all the way down at the other end, walking slowly away from me. She was by herself—something she’d obviously arranged. As I watched, she turned the corner, out of sight.

I took off down the corridor after her. It was near the end of our lunch break; we were supposed to meet up in about ten minutes. That would give Darlene and me ten minutes to be alone. You can get a lot done in ten minutes.

I rounded the corner where I’d seen her disappear. At the far end I spied the door leading outside, where the fountain where Darlene had said she’d meet me was. I started towards it, my cock rising in my pants I was so hot-to-trot.

There were several small rooms off this corridor, housing different exhibits. As I passed by one of the rooms, I heard this noise from behind the door. Even though I was hauling ass to catch up to Darlene, something about the sounds made me stop.

There were two voices coming out of the room: a boy’s and a girl’s. The boy said something low that I couldn’t make out and the girl laughed, like he’d told her a joke, or, more likely, had said something sexy that had turned her on. Then they were quiet.

I knew I shouldn’t eavesdrop, because Darlene was waiting outside for me and we didn’t have much time, but I couldn’t help myself, I had to know who it was. Everybody always wants to know who’s going with who, what girl likes what boy and vice versa. I have a big nose, I always have to know what’s going on behind closed doors. So as quietly as I could, making sure they couldn’t hear me, I snuck up to the partly opened door and peeked inside.

The girl in the room was Darlene, and the boy was Danny Detweiler. They were locked in a feverish kiss, her arms around him, her hands pulling at his hair, like she was trying to pull him right inside of her mouth. One of her legs was twisted up around his, her skirt was riding almost up to her pussy. I could see where her stocking was fastened to her girdle, even see a flash of white panties. One of his hands was moving around her ass to her front, like he was about to finger-fuck her.

I couldn’t do anything but watch. Danny put his other hand inside Darlene’s sweater and started massaging her left tit like crazy, squeezing it so hard it looked like the damn thing would come off in his hand. She was groaning and panting like a bitch-dog in heat.

Burt had been right. Darlene was a cocktease, plain and simple. Only a blind man wouldn’t have seen it. She’d been using me to make Danny jealous, and it had worked—he was all over her, before long she’d have a ring through his nose. I’d been a goddamn dupe for her.

For what felt like forever I was a piece of petrified wood, locked there. Then I snapped out of it, looking around to see if anyone was watching me watching them—watching the horns grow on me, the horns that motherfucker and the girl I’d thought loved me had put on me.

No one was there. I was alone.

Without making a sound, I turned and left the building.

I hung around outside, trying to get my heart to stop pounding. I’d completely lost track of the time. The last thing I wanted was to go back and look at Darlene. I didn’t know what she’d say to me, what lie she’d make up, but it would be a beaut, that I knew. Lying cunt. Even worse would be having to face Danny pussyface Detweiler, who had successfully bird-dogged me.

After a while I went into the main building, where I knew the class wouldn’t be, since that had been our first stop, and checked out the old trains and planes and cars, like the Wright Brothers’ plane, the one that flew at Kitty Hawk, even though I’ve seen it a million times and didn’t at that particular minute give a rat’s ass about it, anyway. Near it was the
Spirit of St. Louis.
Sometimes I think I’d like to become a Navy pilot instead of a ship’s commander, landing on an aircraft carrier late at night in the North Atlantic. I love it when the newsreels have scenes of that happening.

But I didn’t feel any of that. My mind was on other things: one other thing. First, how to get her to want me back worse than anything she’d ever wanted in her young life. Then, after that, to shit all over her, worse than she had shit on me.

I kept wandering aimlessly, but finally I knew I had to face the music. I went outside to the parking lot, where the school bus was parked.

Except the bus wasn’t there. I ran over to the attendant in the parking booth.

“Hey, what happened to that bus that was here?” I asked. “The school bus.”

“It left,” he said, almost hitting my shoes with a big squirt of snuff juice.

“Left?”

“About a half-hour ago.”

I panicked. “What time is it?”

He looked at his watch. “Close to four.”

“Sonofabitch!”

“That your bus?” he asked.

Stupid asshole. Like what the fuck am I asking for? I cursed again under my breath, mad as hell at myself. How could I have been so stupid that I missed the goddamn bus? That would be another one I’d owe Darlene.

I took off running down the street.

“You ain’t gonna catch it,” the attendant called after me, laughing like it was a goddamn joke. “She’s long gone.”

I don’t know how long I moped around. Longer than I should have. I didn’t feel like being back in Ravensburg, that I knew, so I cruised around the streets, making my way down E Street, where all the pawnshops and hillbilly bars are clustered. I had money in my pocket, because I’d taken ten bucks from my washing-machine stash the day before and changed it into dollars at the Mobil station down the block from my house, in case I wanted to buy something at the Smithsonian. A souvenir for Darlene was what I’d had in mind, something she’d always have to remember the day by. Mr. Big Shot, showing off for her, showing her how much money I had, like the older high school guys she dated. Now the money sat in my wallet like burnt ashes. One thing for sure, I wouldn’t spend a dime on her again if my life depended on it.

It was dark by the time I walked up 12th Street to the Greyhound station.

“One way to Ravensburg,” I told the cashier, pushing a buck under the ticket window. The bus costs eighty-five cents, I’ve taken it a million times.

He shook his head. “Last bus to Ravensburg left. Twenty minutes ago.” He pointed behind me, to the schedule posted on the large board in the middle of the room.

“I’ve taken that bus a million times!” I yelled in disbelief, “the last bus doesn’t leave till eight!”

“That’s weekends,” he matter-of-fact informed me. “Weekdays it’s six-thirty.”

I thought I’d drop dead right there on the floor. “There’s an overnight bus to the Eastern Shore,” he said sympathetically—he could see how lousy I felt. “It could drop you off. It doesn’t leave till midnight, though.”

First Darlene with Danny, then missing the school bus, now this. I felt like throwing up. Now I’d have to hitchhike home. The way my luck had been running today, if I wasn’t careful I’d get hit by a truck.

It was raining like a motherfucker. I stood under the awning of a DGS store, watching it come down in buckets. I’d jumped under the awning as soon as I’d spotted shelter, but I was still soaked clear through.

I was on Florida Avenue. In case you don’t know, Florida Avenue, at least in this area, is one-hundred-percent colored. You could walk for twenty blocks in any direction and you wouldn’t see one white face, except for the people who own the stores. Most of the stores around here are owned by white people, especially the liquor stores.

I don’t know how I wound up in this neighborhood in the first place. After I got over having missed the Greyhound and realizing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, I kind of bummed around, walking the streets, major pissed-off and giving not a shit who knew it, it was like I had this black cloud over my head like that guy in
Lil’ Abner,
Joe Whateverthefuck.

What had really pissed me off, like putting the capper on the whole sorry affair, was that when I’d walked out of the Greyhound station I’d jammed my hands in the pockets of my jacket, because it was getting cold. Guess what I found in one of the pockets? The very same accordion photo-book Darlene had given me for my birthday, crammed full of pictures of her. Talk about adding insult to injury! I looked at each picture, feeling sorrier and sorrier for myself, hating her, hating Danny motherfucking Detweiler, hating the whole world. Then slowly and methodically I ripped each picture up into a million tiny pieces and ground them into the sidewalk with my heel.

After that childish but satisfying act I tried hitchhiking, on different street corners, but I couldn’t get a ride to save my life. It was dark out by now, cold as a witch’s tit already and getting colder, you couldn’t even see me standing on a corner trying to thumb a ride. I shifted from one foot to the other to try and stay warm and keep my circulation going while standing in the gutter, but the traffic was a blur—with all the lights, and pedestrians coming and going, a driver couldn’t even see me to stop if he wanted to, which nobody did. I’ve learned over the years that hitchhiking in the middle of Washington during rush hour is the worst time to try and get a ride. What you have to do is wait until rush hour’s over.

The only problem with that was, the rain killed that possibility. Nobody stops for you in the rain, especially when you’re as wet as a mongrel dog, and probably smell as bad as one, the rain creating steam as it came off the wool and leather of my jacket.

And the worst part was, by wandering around and moping and feeling sorry for myself like a crybaby, I’d wound up on Florida fucking Avenue, in the heart of enemy territory. A white kid wearing a Ravensburg High jacket in the middle of Africa. Talk about being fucked up! All the cars around here would be full of colored people. I was really going to get into a car at night with a mess of them. For one thing, everybody knows all colored guys carry straight razors and drink Thunderbird straight out of the bottle. I might be a sorry asshole, standing out in the rain, but like they say, my mama didn’t raise no simpletons. I was not hitchhiking in this neighborhood, plain and simple.

The rain let up for a minute and I stepped out from under the awning, trying to get my bearings so I’d know how far I’d have to walk until I could start hitching without fear of getting my throat slit.

Believe it or not, I was right across the street from Griffith Stadium, behind the right-field wall. I’ve been going to Senators games since I was a kid, nine or ten. It’s easy to sneak into Griffith Stadium, it’s a rickety old ballpark and the guards never pay any attention. They probably don’t care, because nobody goes anyway. They are without a doubt the sorriest team in baseball. They’re in last place every year. Not only are the Senators a shitty team, they’re dumb as hell, too. Every time they get a good player, like Irv Noren or Jackie Jensen, they trade him.

My favorite team is the Brooklyn Dodgers. I know that’s pretty weird, since they’re from New York, and in the National League to boot, but they are. When I was a little kid, just starting to like baseball, Walt Kowalski, an FBI agent who lived on our block, gave me a junior Brooklyn Dodgers uniform. I think he came from Brooklyn originally and got it from a relative. As soon as I put it on, presto, I was a Dodgers fan for life. My first favorite player was Jackie Robinson. I liked Roy Campanella and Gil Hodges, too. Now my favorite’s Willie Mays, although I also like Mickey Mantle a lot as well. About the only good player Washington has ever had on their team for more than a couple years was Mickey Vernon. I like him good enough, I just like the other guys more.

Speaking of Mickey Mantle, a few years ago I saw him hit the longest home run in the history of baseball. It was a Senators game, of course. He hit it off Chuck Stobbs, and it went clear over the left-field fence, just nicking the big scoreboard there that sits on top of the bleachers. It’s the only home run ever hit over the left-field bleachers. The reason I saw it happen was that it was Patrol Boys day, when every safety-patrol boy in the D.C. area gets into the game for free. I was in fifth grade then, and I was probably the shittiest patrol boy in the history of Ravensburg Elementary School. I never paid any attention if cars were coming or not when there were kids crossing the street. Usually me and Howie Klinger, who was my patrol partner that year, would both stand on the same side of the street, Defense Highway, which is the most dangerous street in the whole county. We’d be sneaking a weed or playing hits and cracks, never paying attention. It’s a miracle a kid wasn’t killed crossing that road. In fact, about a week after that Senators game, Howie and me were kicked off patrol, because some parent snitched on us.