I'm with Stupid (15 page)

Chickens Start Landing

Terry Sauter's Beer

When I entered the house, Jerri sat on the couch in the living room with only one lamp burning. She wasn't reading an accounting book or anything. She seemed to be sitting there in the gloom, just waiting for me to come in.

“Hi,” I said.

“So you're a fan of German beer?” Jerri said.

“No.” My heart accelerated. I mumbled, “Not a fan.” My heart began thumping hard. Abby and I hadn't cleaned up the beer bottles. We'd left so fast in the morning that it hadn't even occurred to me.

“Are you a drinker?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said.

“Is Abby Sauter?”

“Abby? How did you know about…”

“Terry saw the bottles and he swore the only way you'd have that kind of beer is if you took it from Abby's house. You can't buy it in town. You can't buy it in the U.S. Have you gone to Europe without me knowing?”

“I don't think so.”

“Do you and Abby think it's funny to take people's prized possessions?”

“Terry's prized possession is beer?” I asked. “Really? You're okay with that?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. Your boyfriend's prized possession is beer.”

“Don't turn this back on me. You're stealing. You're drinking. I've given you room to be an adult and this is how you pay me back?” she snapped.

I paused for a second. I glared at Jerri ,who hadn't been a mother to me through the roughest of years. “You've
given
me room?” I spat.

“I've given you free rein…”

“This is your gift?” I shouted.

She sat forward in her chair. “What's going on, Felton?”

“Maybe I crashed a car. Maybe I beat up some kid. Maybe I got drunk by a Dumpster at Kwik Trip.” I turned and walked out of the living room.

“You did what?”

“Up yours, Jerri,” I called.

“You're grounded, Felton!” she shouted after me.

“You going to hang around to oversee that?” I shouted back.

She didn't answer, and I ran down the stairs.

I walked past the empty bottles and the half-eaten pizza on the floor. My head exploded. That German beer smell made me sick. My mouth dried like crackers. I flopped onto my bed. “Shit,” I said. I thought about calling Abby to warn her of impending trouble. Then I thought,
That asshole Terry isn't going to call anyone…these people aren't even adults.

However, Abby wasn't remotely fine at that moment.

Dad Drank Alcohol

A few hours later, I woke to my phone buzzing again. I didn't get it because I couldn't find it in the dark. A few seconds later, a voicemail dropped and I saw the phone light up in my pants pocket.

It was Andrew. I listened to his message.

“He won't go to the doctor. Please call, Felton.”

Who
won't go? Grandpa?

I called Andrew's cell immediately. He answered.

“Where have you been? I texted five times today. I've called five times,” Andrew said.

“I'm sorry. I thought you were calling to check on me,” I mumbled.

“So you don't answer? God, you're dumb,” Andrew said.

“What's going on? Is Grandpa sick?”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“How? Why? Is it bad? Should he go to the doctor? What's happening? Can he stand up? Is he in pain?” I assumed Grandpa Stan was at death's door. That's how things work in my family. Disaster.

“He's not acting like Grandpa. He won't play tennis and he groans when he drives. He can't walk very far and he gets out of breath,” Andrew said. “He's obviously in pain. Like when he wasn't feeling good at Christmas—but worse.”

“Should we call Tovi so she can talk to her mom about this?” I asked.

“I called Evith this morning. She said she'd talk to him, but she hasn't called yet.”

Freaking
adults!
“What's he doing now?”

“Well, sleeping. It's night. But he spent the evening listening to Wagner music in his study,” Andrew said. “You know Wagner didn't like Jews?”

“No.”

“Grandpa Stan knows. I'm very worried, Felton.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, trying to think what I could do. Then my dry German beer throat cracked and I started coughing and my eyes watered and my head swam. I had to put a pillow on my head, just to have some pressure on my face, because my face pounded after I coughed and coughed. The stupid, stinky Sauter German beer blew up my sinuses.

What's with this stuff? Why does Terry love it more than Abby?
Maybe a minute later, I got back on the phone, not even sure if Andrew would be there still.

He was. “What's wrong with you?” Andrew asked. “Are you dying? Answer me.”

“No. I drank beer last night. Weird beer. Too much,” I said.

“What?” Andrew snapped. “With who? Gus?”

“Abby,” I said. “It's no big…”

“You jerk. You stupid ass face jerk!” Andrew shouted.

“What? Jesus, Andrew.”

“Is that why you won't go to a therapist because you're worried he'll tell you that you can't drink beer? Is that it? Are you that stupid?”

“Calm down. I just had some beer with my girlfriend.”

“Emily told me you're with Abby, and Abby is freaking out because of the divorce and you're mentally unhealthy, of course, and now it sounds like you've signed some kind of suicide pact. Are you going to buy a convertible and hold hands and drive off a cliff, Felton? Is that your plan? I am so mad I could…I could puke on your face!”

“Andrew!” I shouted. “Stop. Dude! I'm okay!”

“Our father had alcohol problems and now…”

“Wait.”

“And now you're going to spend all your time with some kind of fallen Satan angel girl who wants the town to go up in a big nuclear…”

“Wait!”

“What?” Andrew spat.

“Dad had an alcohol problem?” I had this glimmer of recognition. I knew this. Grandma Berba had said something about this, but Jerri, in all of her wild inability to tell the whole truth, had never really talked to us about it, so what was I doing? Was I falling into my dad's trap? Thinking I was getting along fine because suddenly booze made me think I was in love with a Russian swimsuit model who pretended to want to have sex?

“He got drunk and did stupid, mean things to people and then he couldn't fix his problems when he wasn't drunk and then he died, you idiot!”

“Oh Jesus.”

“Oh crap. Shh,” Andrew said.

“What?”

“I woke up Grandpa. Apparently I'm screaming at you.”

“You are.”

“I have to go, dickhead,” Andrew said. He hung up.

I sat stunned in the dark, my throat aching. A minute later, Andrew texted:

You have a completely addictive personality. Look how you run in circles around the yard like a sheepdog. Around and around. Can't stop running. Idiot.

He was right.

I called Abby immediately. No answer. I left a sort of psycho voicemail. “I can't drink anymore. Alcoholism is a major factor in people hanging themselves in my garage. So stop it!”

I called Andrew back. He didn't answer. I left a message. I said, “Don't worry. I'm done. I won't drink. Not ever. We're good. Great. Gotta stay positive. About Grandpa too. He's going to be fine.”

Oh holy balls, my sense of potential world peace (nice snow outside, no Facebook, taking care of Pig Boy) totally exploded and I was scared as hell and how could I not dream of my poor dad?

Terrible dreams. Dad was dead in the room with me. Dad was drinking German beer. Dad had sex with Abby. Then Grandpa died in a head-on car crash.

The dead don't stay buried. I have a very real, very big problem. That tweak in my stomach. I had that tweak.

Jerri Denies There Are Chickens

I woke up at eleven on Sunday. Apparently I'd finally exhausted my ability to shoot adrenaline through my body, so my nightmares stopped waking me. When I woke, my phone was locked in my hand, like I'd been grabbing the stupid thing so I could call and stop shit from happening I didn't want to happen.

It was dead. Battery gone.

I pulled myself out of bed and went upstairs, where I found Jerri reading the paper. She was dressed for the day.

“Jerri,” I said when I entered the living room.

“What?” she said.

“You can ground me if you want,” I said. “I don't want to go out into the world and break anything.”

She stared at me for a second, then said, “No. See that? You're mature enough to rein yourself in. You know what's what.”

I shook my head at her. “No,” I said. “Not true.”

“Sure,” she said.

“I'm younger than you when Dad got you pregnant,” I said. “I'm not mature.”

“Jesus. Where did that come from?”

“My gene pool. My terrible, alcoholic, suicidal genes.”

Jerri squinted. She sighed. “More Dad stuff, huh?” Jerri said. “Come here.”

I crossed the room and sat down next to her. She put her arm around my shoulder. She said, “You're not like your dad. He had these problems…but how many times do I have to tell you? You're sweet and gentle…”

“You didn't know Dad in high school,” I said. “Maybe he was sweet.”

“Not a chance. No way,” Jerri said. “Never.”

“How do you know?”

“He was born mean. Some people have a defect. It's hardwiring.”

“Really?”

“Just relax, honey, okay? You're great.”

I nodded.

“You better?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. I have to go to the library. My professor wants two book sources in our midterm paper. I need to read some business books. Sounds great, huh?” She laughed like she was a mom on TV who'd just done her job.

“Probably does to you,” I mumbled.

“Relax, Felton. Kids drink sometimes. I did in high school a little. It's not the end of the world. Just don't do it again, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“You got it,” she said.

Five minutes later, she was gone.

Thanks for nothing. Worst mother. I might as well be a crack baby.

Cody and a Giant Chicken

A while later, while I ate cereal in the kitchen, I thought: You have to parent yourself. You are your own parent. You don't need any other parent. What would you tell you if you were your own kid?

Then I thought of Gus in the faculty bathroom back in the fall.

WHO. ARE. YOU?

Shit!

Loser.

Addictive
personality
running
circles
in
the
yard.

Don't answer Aleah's texts because you're a jerk.

Protect
fallen
Satan
angel
who
wants
to
blow
up
town, wants you dead?

No. Abby's not a bad person. Abby has problems…You help people, right?

Breathe, dude. Breathe.

The doorbell rang, which caused me to jump because nobody rings our doorbell ever. I stood so I could see out the little slot windows in the door. Cody's red baseball cap (Wisconsin cap) bobbed in one of the glass panels.

Oh man, I was relieved to see him there. Cody is about the sanest person on the face of the planet.

“Come in,” I called. He didn't come in.

I got up and went to the door. Opened it.

“Hey, man,” I said.

Cody, in the bright, iced February air, shook his head at me, said, “Dude, I did everything I could to help you. Brought you into weights. Called you to meet for drills. Got you okay with the football team. Made it easy.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I know. Thanks so much, man. I wouldn't be anything…I wouldn't be okay without…”

He shook his head. “No. No, dude. If I had known you were such a low-class scumbag, I would never have done that crap…”

“What?” I said.

“Yesterday, Dad tells me you were drinking at Kwik Trip.”

“Oh no.” Cody's dad is a cop.

“This morning, I see a video where you totally destroy my friend.”

“Dickinski. You saw it?”

“Reinstein…” Cody said. He actually had tears in his eyes. “I don't want the football season, the state trophy, all the time driving around…”

“Cody, man,” I said.

“You're such a…such an asshole. You're the worst, Felton. I don't want any of that shit because…Screw you.”

He turned and walked to his truck fast. I ran out in the new snow in my bare feet, which killed. I shouted, “I didn't mean it. I don't know what I'm…I didn't know alcohol turned me crazy. I didn't…”

Cody paused before he got in. He said, “No. No more excuses. Stay away from me.”

I stood in that snow, my feet burning. Cody spun the truck back and took off down the drive. Then I ran swearing back into the house. I ran downstairs and plugged my phone into the wall. I turn it on and waited. I had to talk to Abby or somebody. Gus?

When my phone came on, I saw there were texts and voicemails not filled with hate from Wisconsin but laughing like crazy and all from Bluffton.

The first was from Gus from three in the morning:

It's too hilarious. I couldn't stop until I finished. Vid is up. I posted on Facebook and YouTube.

Then, beginning at 8 a.m., there were slews. Almost all said something like
hilarious vid man
or
you nailed karpinski's dad…awesome.

People were watching “The Polish Fist” in droves.