Authors: David Marlow
“I haven’t tasted them yet.”
“No”—Rose chewed heartily—”I don’t suppose you would have. Ecstasy! I wonder if Butchie knows about them. You don’t suppose he’s still hungry?”
“I can promise you, he’s still hungry.”
Rose surreptitiously laced her warming milk with an impressive dollop of honey. “Guy, darling, be a good little brother and take some cookies to Butchie.”
“I’m going to bed. Why don’t you?”
Rose indicated the mug and all her cookies. “I’m so loaded down—”
“Then why not drop some excess baggage?”
Rose turned on him. “Real funny … hey, how come you’re never hungry?”
“Wish I knew.” Guy stayed calm. “How come you’re letting your milk boil?”
Rose looked down at her bubbling beverage. “My God!” she yelled, quick to extinguish the flame. “Look what you made me do!”
“Me?”
“It’s all your fault.” Irritated, she poured her scorched milk into the mug, and after plopping a couple of marshmallows onto her steaming nightcap, lifted her mug and piled the batch of baked goods onto her hand, a precarious balance. “I’ll tell Butch you’re bringing him some cookies.”
“I am not bringing Butch some cookies.”
“He’ll be expecting them.”
“He’ll be disappointed.”
“Butch doesn’t like to be disappointed.”
“Who cares?”
“He’ll punch you and make you cry,” said Rose in precious baby talk.
“And maybe I’ll tell dad—” “No you won’t. Because if you do he’ll punch you again, harder.”
Guy couldn’t argue with such logic. “I’ll bring him some cookies.”
With a smile Rose pushed open the swinging kitchen door. “And have a few yourself. Put on a few pounds. Live! Stop walking through life like a concentration camp victim. Eat and be merry for tomorrow we diet. I’m going to curl my eyelashes.” And she was gone.
Butch was stretching a set of coiled springs, expanding his chest, as Guy entered his room.
“What you want, shorty?”
“I come bearing milk and cookies,” Guy answered with restrained irritation.
“What kind?” huffed Butch, dropping to the floor to knock off a dozen push-ups.
“The cookies are assorted and the milk is white.”
“… White? … two … three … four … why
white?
… Six … seven … put ‘em on the desk … ten … ‘leven … twelve …. Whew!”
Guy delivered the platter as the Butcher flexed his way to a chinning bar strapped between the doorposts of his closet.
“One … two… three … four…”
Guy turned to leave.
“…five… just a second…seven…eight…”
Guy stood still. “Yes?”
“You know I like chocolate milk.”
Guy sighed heavily. “Don’t you read the papers, Butch? The chocolate cows are on strike.”
Both of Butch’s chins hung over the bar. His beady eyes peered down, disapprovingly. “Rose and I were talking about you today.” “Oh?”
“We were trying to figure out why you’re such a sissy.”
Guy tried to made light of it. “What did you decide?”
“She says it’s genes.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I didn’t think it mattered what kind of pants you wore, nothing could help.”
“I’ll remember that, Butch. “
“You were listening in this afternoon, after school, weren’t you? Listening at the door?”
“Not me.” Guy lied.
“Yes you were. I didn’t hear the piano, so I knew you were outside. It was while we were talking about jerking off. Must’ve made you jealous as hell.”
Guy scratched his arm. “Why would I ever be jealous of you or your friends?”
“You can’t beat your meat, is why.”
“I can too!” There he went again. No cool.
“Liar! You don’t even have hair on your pecker. Just like a eunuch, a freak!”
Guy kept his mouth shut this time.
“Next year at this time … I’m gonna be first string.
First string!
Eagle senior varsity. Did you know
that?”
“Yes, Butch. You told me two days ago.”
“You know, for a shrimp, you got a lot ofballs.”
“Shrimps don’t have balls. They have tentacles. Did you know
thatP”
Butch advanced menacingly. “You are a first-class crud!”
“Thanks.” Guy took a few steps back.
“A real fruit bar.”
Guy bowed mockingly. “Whatever you say, Mighty Mouse.”
“You don’t know the first thing about football. You wouldn’t know a punt from a flying tackle.”
“I’ll kill myself.”
“And that voice!”
Guy’s insides tightened. Butch really knew how to get to him.
“How do you even get up the nerve to talk?”
Guy switched on his standard defense tactic. “All right, Butch.” He smirked. “Enough brotherly love. If you really want to get to me, why not try some insults?”
“Kiss my ass!”
“Butch, please. I’m still digesting dinner.”
That did it. The bull was riled. Godzilla unchained.
“Put em up, damn you!” Butch said, lunging forward and slapping Guy lightly across the face.
“Stopit, Butch.”
“Make me!” The young Rocky Graziano danced back and forth.
If only I could, thought Guy. If only…
“Just acouplearounds. Let’s go.” Butch weaved, crouched low.
“No.”
“Look!” He playfully slapped Guy across the face again. “I’ll keep one hand behind my back. Even you can definitely take me with one hand.”
“Butch, I don’t want to fight—”
“I can’t make it any easier for you than one hand. Jesus, even a chicken-shit like you can take on one hand.” “No.”
“I promise not to fight dirty.”
“Big deal.”
“Put’em up!”
Butch swung, Guy ducked.
“Aha,” Butch said with satisfaction. “Two for flinching.” He delivered a pair of hard knuckle-knocks to Guy’s upper arm.
Guy tried not to rub the spot. “I want to thank you for a terrific time, Butch. And any time I can be of service, just whistle. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just pack up my rickshaw and get on to my room.”
“Not so fast. One round, just one. My hand tied behind my back
and
I’ll hop on one leg. This is my final offer.”
“Fine,” Guy said, “and this is my final refusal. Good night.”
Guy made a smart about-face, and felt his legs buckle forward, driven by a perfect flying tackle from his brother, the future senior Eagle first stringer.
On the floor, Butch flipped Guy over on his back. Enormous knees pinned thin shoulders to the rug.
“Don’t, please, Butch …” And hating himself added, “I’ll make it worth your while. …”
“How?”
Butch’s fist hovered above his head. Guy thought fast. “How about three of my guppies?”
Butch was enticed. The fist unraveled. “Ten!” bargained a greedy Butcher.
“Five!” Guy countered, more confident than he had any right to be, considering their bargaining positions.
“Ten!” repeated Butch, raising a fat fist back up into the air.
“Sold,” Guy said, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.
With a gracious smile, Butch helped Guy up and brushed him off.
“I’d like to go now, if it’s okay with the great white ruler.”
“Sure.” Butch assumed his sit-ups position on the floor. “And thanks a lot for the milk and cookies. Appreciate it.” Hoping the milk had curdled and the cookies would crumble, Guy went to his room and sat glumly in front of his well-kept aquarium, counting tails.
Why, he asked a passing neon tetra, did other boys his age have the good fortune to be experiencing not just fluttery buzzings, but legitimate erections? Why not him? Was there something wrong? Maybe he
was
destined to spend his adult life working in a damn harem, as Butch had intimated. Guy wondered if they’d let him have his own camel.
Searching out those guppies to which he’d grown least attached, he sorted with his net those leaving from those staying. Ten emigrants soon circled a small fishbowl.
He vowed to each of his finned companions that somehow, some way, he’d find a way to get them home again.
GUY DELIVERED A STOIC FAREWELL ADDRESS to the troops late Saturday morning, then lowered his guppies into the long neglected primordial ooze that was Butch’s ten-gallon swamp. No doubt wondering who had turned out the lights, the tiny fish scattered into the inky darkness.
With his brunch of three cookies and a glass of Coca-Cola in hand, Guy strolled into the living room and sat down at the piano.
A warm aroma wafted through the house.
Jonathan Leeds, a senior like Rose, sat in the dining room between his bowling bag and his girl friend.
Birdie stood over him, administering baked goods. “Be tough, Jonathan. If it’s not right for you, it won’t please the judges either.”
“Let her know what you really think,” Rose encouraged him.
“Delicious,” Jonathan decided, his mouth full of banana bread.
Guy hadn’t been plunking the piano ten minutes when the ringing of the telephone in the hall interrupted him.
“Deliver the guppies?” grumbled Butch across the wires.
“Unfortunately,” Guy assured him. “You’ll probably find them floating on top, gasping for air.”
“How’d you like ‘em back?” asked Butch, strangely conciliatory.
Guy was guarded. “What do I have to do?”
“Well, you see … it’s like this. Left my cleats at home, dammit. On the closet floor, right next to my sweat pants. Petrillo won’t let me practice without ‘em.”
“So?”
“You got to bring them to me, Guy.”
“Forget it.”
“Please. Here, to the football field.”
Football field?
Ding
. A bell went off in Guy’s head. “Can’t do it, Butch.”
What’s on the football field?
“But I’ll give you back your guppies.”
“Sorry.” The bell rang again, an oddly persistent alarm.
“Why not?”
“I’m up to here with things to do.”
Football. Football. Pin it down, Guy. Pin it down.
“Oh, come on. You can bicycle over.”
“Sorry, Butch. I’ll be playing the piano and developing film all afternoon.”
Ding.
“ Please r
“No can do.”
Ding-Ding-Ding.
“You’ve got to, Guy. There’s no one else.”
“Butch, I’d love to help but…”
GONG!—of course.
“But what?”
“…uhm… It’s too much trouble.”
Corky.
“But what about the guppies?”
Corky, Corky!
The clock struck twelve. The alarm stopped ringing. Guy made his move. “All right, Butch. Talked me into it. I’ll take back the guppies.”
“Fine. They’re yours. Just come.”
Bull’s-eye. Now for the kill. “Wait. I’m not finished. My guppies, plus”—Guy swallowed nervously—”when I bicycle over, you let me watch practice from the sidelines.”
“Are you nuts?” Butch yelled into the receiver. “Seniors are out here today, practicing. I’d be the laughingstock—”
Well aware the seniors were out there, Guy yawned. “All right,
Butch. Suit yourself. Have a nice practice.”
“Wait!” Butch yelled. “All right, crud-head.”
“If you insist on calling me names, pig-face, I won’t bring your fungused cleats over for anything—”
Butch threw in the towel. “I was just kidding, you can stay and watch practice. I’ll probably have to
kill
myself when this is over.”
“If you only would, Butch. I’ll be leaving in two minutes.”
“Well, goddammit—
hurry.”
The sweet scent of conquest in his nostrils, overpowering the banana bread, Guy rushed to Butch’s room and told his guppies to start packing.
He tossed his brother’s cleats into a gym bag and dashed to the garage. Astride his rusted three-speeder, exhilarated, filled with trepidation, and grinning like gangbusters, he began the adventurous journey.
He was riding to Corky.
THE FOOTBALL FIELD was crowded with color. The green and blue J. V. football jerseys on one side offered marked contrast to the red and yellow tops of the senior varsity down at the other end.
A glum Butch stood with fellow players, thoroughly embarrassed to be in
sneakers
instead of genuine flesh rippers.
Pedaling over, Guy jovially jingled his bell, hoping to irk his brother. He did.
“Quit that goddamn bell!” said Butch, slamming a hand over the tinny noisemaker.
“Just trying to get your attention, Butch. Don’t have a hernia.”
“Gimmee cleats!” Butch fumbled into the wire basket and pulled out his gym bag. Now that Guy had arrived, big brother’s earlier tone of subservient desperation had vanished.
“Sure nice of you to let me sit in on practice, Butch.”
Butch looked Guy square in the face and his small eyes squinted as he said emphatically, “If you do
anything
to embarrass me, Guy, you will regret it for the rest of your life, understand?”
“Trust me.”
“You little creep!”
And with this understated kindness passing from his chapped lips, Butch galloped, cleats in hand, over to the warm-up bench, preparing to do battle.
Guy watched athletes in green and blue crashing into one another, and was gratified to see Butch demolishing everything that dared cross his enormous path. It was some comfort knowing others as well as himself felt no end to his insatiable hostility.
Soon weary of muscle-tuggings and discordant grunts, Guy pedaled over to the other side.
Red and yellow shirts broke boisterously from their huddle, lining up against second-string counterparts. The ball was hiked to the senior varsity quarterback, number 33, who made a long run for it.
The quarterback scrambled down the left side of the field, far across from Guy, weaving past Eagle linemen. A graceful jaguar outdistancing everyone, he dashed fifty yards into the end zone. Triumphant, Corky removed his helmet and tossed the ball high into the air. Teammates patted him all over.
On the sideline, leaning against his bike, Guy perked up.
The squad regrouped at the center of the field and huddled. From the side, Coach Petrillo yelled something about stamina, conviction and balls.
Again the hike to Corky and again he ran. This time he traveled to the right, down Guy’s side. His knees danced up and down like a prancing horse as he circled potential interference.