Short Fiction
News
a short story by David Ortmann
first written in 1989, still in progress
Mike's old Ecoline van, a gift from his father the day he got his driver's license, raced down New Jersey's Garden State Parkway easily doing 75 miles an hour. I lit a cigarette, even though I didn't really know how to smoke. I was feeling reflective and cigarettes went with reflection, or so I thought. Plus the van's velour bucket seats were comfortable and I was the most content I could ever remember being.
Was the show really over?
All our laughter, chatter and the music blaring from the van's tape deck seemed to say yes. The Talking Heads, rebellious and fevered, screamed "Wild Wild Life." Renee smiled over to me, mouthing the words, "Nice job tonight." I blushed, unused to compliments at seventeen years old, especially from so seasoned a performer. I was happy to see her come out of her shell. Her teeth gleamed, perfect. Isolated in high school, for both her extraordinary looks and talent, Renee Taylor was mostly a loner. But, last summer she had performed at Six Flags Great Adventure and that made her a star, a bonafide star. Just as envied and just as resented.
Our high school Senior Play, Good News, was, indeed, over. It had been a raging success. The applause had been genuine and hearty, just has the house had been completely sold out. The school administrators even decided to extend the play an extra night. It set a record for John F. Kennedy Memorial High School in Iselin New Jersey: Standing Room Only. The signs in the lobby had even said so.
Linda, still sporting flecks of white paint in her dark hair from an afternoon spent re-painting the sets we'd acted upon, met us in the parking lot right after the show, the trunk of her titanic 1978 Monte Carlo almost overflowing with bottles of Andre Cold Duck. I wasn't surprised. Linda Kelly had held a fake ID since the fifth grade.
Eight would-be stars and one paint-speckled set designer were thrown into Mike's van and bound for the Jersey shore. We had seven frozen pizzas, five bags of Doritos, a case of Coors Gold Light in aluminum cans, ten bottles of cheap champagne, and no Alka Seltzer or aspirin.
Lexa was complaining about the music. "Can we bag this Talking Heads shit." She yelled, waving The Smiths' "Meat Is Murder" cassette in the air like a British pride flag. The dramatic expression in her voice was rivaled only by the clatter of the silver bangles that ran up the length of her arms.
Lexa Gibson was JFK's fiery gothic princess. Clad always in black, she had passion, a temper, and, as John F. Kennedy High School discovered, undeniably raw talent. Renee was the romantic lead in Good News, no one could argue that. But, with her jaw dropping singing/dancing/acting audition, Lexa gave Renee a fair run for her money, landing the comic lead and walking off with a majority of the audience's attention.
"After this next one, Lex." Mike turned his attention from the road, tipping the brim of his JFK baseball cap. Mike Flynn had varsity letters in track, tennis, baseball, wrestling and the shoulders to prove it. He was also the romantic lead in our play. In the beginning I envied and hated him. Now I liked him, but was no less envious.
Josh, bundled in a leather biker jacket old enough to have been at Woodstock, took a long drag off his Marlboro, letting two twin streams of smoke trail from his nostrils. "Fuck that Smiths shit. How about some Metallica dudes?" Josh MacFarland, as usual, was trying to sound tough, but with his lopsided grin and unruly red hair; the act came off more like Howdy Doody doing Kenickie from Grease.
"You dirtbag!" Lynne smiled affectionately and blew him a kiss, a gesture as earnestly dramatic and overdone as her acting had been that night.
"Don't you evah, evah knock the metal girl!" Josh smiled, revealing a row of seldom seen teeth.
She threw her head back and laughed. Lynne Rotelli looked relaxed, for once. Her face, usually shellacked with dime store cosmetics, seemed innocent and vulnerable.
"Yo bitch, pass off on that smoke." Mike reached into the back of the van with one hand, bumming a drag off Josh's cigarette. I had never seen Mike smoke before.
"Way to go jocko!" Linda, well into the first bottle of Andre Cold Duck, slapped Mike on his jacketed shoulder and belched with gusto.
Linda passed the bottle back to Gene, the least popular boy in school. He may have stuttered and was slightly retarded, but Gene McGregor's unintentionally brilliant comic timing made him perfect for the role of "Beef" the overweight football player with a secret heart of gold.
"Thhhanks, LLLinda." He smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. Some kids had beaten him up a month ago after school. His parents still hadn't saved up the money to have his teeth fixed.
"No problem, Gene my man." Linda winked at him, lighting a Newport from Josh's smoldering Marlboro butt. "There's nine more bottles where that came from!"
I smiled over at Peter, seated quietly in the rear of the van. I had always liked him, even though we didn't really talk in school. We had different friends and different classes. Peter Wilmes was very smart. Willowy and thin, his comedic turn as "Slats," the Good News nerd-turned-Casanova, surprised everyone. He smiled back, his eyes crinkling behind his thick bi-focal glasses. He was sipping a beer, undoubtedly his first, with virgin lips. If only the JFK Honor Board could see him now.
I felt years removed from our high school with its pressures, restrictions, rules, and a caste system that would have put pre-colonial India to shame. For that last four years it was a prison for all of us. Tonight, it seemed lifetimes away.
* * * *
My parents had reluctantly conceded to lending me the beach house for the night. I was still struggling with my annoyance at having to ask their permission. I feel the house is just as much mine as theirs. It is a symbol of my childhood, one of my favorite places in the world. I did most of my growing up here, throughout my family's many summer vacations. I remembered tossing frisbees to Babe, my black Labrador retriever, long dead. I remembered my favorite red tin pail and plastic shovel, long lost. The house had watched me grow from a suntanned, giggling toddler into... well, into whatever I was now, something and someone I didn't really know.
I felt the little hairs on the back on my neck spring to attention as I slipped the key into the front lock.
Within a half hour the aroma of sizzling pizza filled the air. Linda cracked open the second bottle of champagne. Peter was meticulously pouring exact amounts of Doritos into three of my mothers silver mixing bowls. Lynne was shuffling a deck of cards and loudly challenging everyone to a game of poker. Mike, the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled to his elbows, was arranging bits kindling in the fireplace. Josh and Gene, an unlikely pair, were filling an old washtub with buckets of ice and Coors beer. Renee, her pink leg warmers hanging from her ears, was doing an uncanny imitation of Nestor the Christmas donkey while teaching Linda how to mix champagne cocktails with cranberry juice. Lexa had commandeered the stereo system. It was The Cure, but tonight I didn't mind. It seemed no one did.
"LLLLook what I ffffound." Gene stammered with an inconcealable smile on his face. We had all settled into the living room, gorging ourselves on pizza and beer and reliving every moment, every detail, of the night we had just shared.
"Whatcha got there baby?" Linda winked at Gene and tipped the fourth bottle of Andre to her lips. The champagne cocktail bit hadn't lasted long at all.
"TTTTThe movie." Gene withdrew a Betamax videocassette from his army surplus backpack. Gene had been carrying that same sorry bag since the seventh grade. "GGGGood News, the mmmmovie. It's ggggot JJJJJune Alyson and PPPPPeter Lawford. IIIIIt's like our ppppplay." He stammered, spitting through the hole where his tooth should have been.
Gene was as popular for that moment as he had been unpopular for countless years. Many of us didn't even know a film existed. We popped it into the Betamax player and Mike made a toast, "To Good News '87!"
"To Good News '87!" We all cheered.
"And to Gene!" Screamed Linda.
"AND TO GENE!" We cheered, raising our glasses and downing them.
Mike laughed at Peter Lawford's interpretation of what he called "his character" Tommy Marlowe. Linda said her plywood sets rivaled those of 1950's MGM and no one disagreed. Each of us took no small measure of pride in noting that the underdeveloped secondary roles in the film didn't have half the personality and character we'd given them in our production. Renee sat silently watching every move on screen. Sometime she would sing along with June Alyson. None of us were amazed that, even with her voice and half power, Renee effortlessly out-sung Ms. Alyson.
At the end of the film, we all leapt on Gene, giving him loving slaps on the back and calling him "the man" and "the Beefster." Although we unanimously agreed our performance beat that of MGM by miles, we were all amazed that he'd managed to track down this obscure film, buy it, and share it with us. I noticed that Renee's hand remained on his back a second or two longer than the rest of ours did.
Back in the kitchen and deep into my parents wine rack; I'd finally managed to track down a bottle of Merlot for Lynne, who said the "Coors pisswater" was giving her gas. I poured a glass and strode through the den, eager to be back in the living room with what felt like my newfound family.
The living room scene surprised me, although it was the most normal thing to expect. We were, after all, friends.
Lynne and Renee sat on either side of the hearth where a tiny fire burned, each doing their best to imitate Mike and Peter in their respective lead-roles. Gene sat beside them, smiling with the wonder of a five-year old at their performance. Josh and Peter seemed to have discovered their common ground. Peter, a mechanical genius, and Josh, a hot-rod aficionado, the two brainstormed ways to get the best performance from Josh's ancient Camero. Lexa was on her feet and, with Mike's baseball cap perched precariously atop her raven spikes, was demonstrating the proper way to slide into home plate. Linda, in drunken den-mother mode, was circling in room refilling everyone's glasses and doling out the remaining slices of cold pizza.
By three in the morning Mike and Lexa, by now in Mike's varsity jacket as well as his cap, disappeared for a walk on the beach. Lynne and Renee persuaded Gene to join in a game of poker and to everyone's amazement, he was on a fierce winning streak. With the last six beers beside them, Josh and Linda were nose to nose in a take-no-prisoners game of quarters. Peter was beside them, learning. Linda dubbed him her "quarter trainee" for the evening.
"DDDDave, cccccome play wwwwwith us." Gene slurred, partly from his missing tooth and partly from the effects of the beer.
I turned down the offer and collapsed into my favorite armchair. I sat and watched my friends as the fire began to fade. It would have been lovely to just close my eyes and go to sleep. It was so hot in the little room, and I suddenly felt completely exhausted.
* * * *
I hardly remember the trip home the next day. My fever was so high I was delirious. I slept most of the long drive, my head alternating between Peter and Linda's lap, both of who freely stroked my burning forehead. Back in Iselin, the family doctor said I had pneumonia. I lay in bed for two weeks before, stuffed full of antibiotics, before I was allowed to return to school.
The weather was unseasonably rough for late May and the wind whipped at the collar of my jacket no matter how hard I struggled to keep it tight around my neck. Despite some residual grogginess, I made it to school on time. It seemed different to me. The halls seemed smaller, or maybe I felt bigger.
I saw Lynne first. She was plastered up against a filthy locker, her lips molded to a guy in a grimy suede jacket who had reportedly fathered a trailer-full of illegitimate children. As I continued staring, he broke their embrace, shot his middle finger at me and said, "Go get your own, fucker!" I noticed the dirt under his fingernails and that Lynne didn't say anything or even look at me.
JFK's gymnasium was secluded; the perfect place to escape the prying eyes of the hall monitors. I'd had to walk past it every morning for the past four years. It came as no surprise to see a few dirtbags huddled beneath the bleachers, sneaking a cigarette. The one with the lighter was Josh.
I passed Linda and her gang as they walked toward the cafeteria. She saw me and looked away. One of her friends stuck her head into the doorway of the music conservatory and yelled, "Hey bitch." I peeked into the conservatory. It was empty, except for Renee, alone at the piano pouring over sheet music.
Fifteen girls were gathered on the South stairway. Joy Division was blasting rebelliously from a small tape player and one girl was thrashing about, her arms flying wildly. It was Lexa. She was wearing dark sunglasses and if she saw me, she didn't acknowledge it.
I passed Mike at the top of the stairs and got a passing glance, but not the "Hey, bro" I'd become accustomed to. He saw Lexa, and turned back up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
My locker was right next to JFK's computer lab, unceremoniously dubbed "the Egg Crate" for all the smart kids who flock there. Peter emerged, saw me, and began to smile. I felt a flutter of warmth begin to spread through my chest, but before I could return his smile his gaze flew over my shoulder. I watched his smile collapse as he quickly turned and walked away.
I immediately felt my own friends slap me hard on my back. Brad threw his arm around me and asked how I was feeling. Alex said, "Hey, Gene-the-Genetic-Challenge is hanging out in the parking lot. Let's go see if we can knock his other tooth out."
I thought about it for a moment and followed.