Here is the fourth and last piece from Professor Groovy and Other Stories — a collection inspired by events from a very long time ago. Admittedly, this story is longer than I usually post, but I believe it is entertaining. Yes, that’s me above, appearing to be a bit stoned on picture day at my college.
I’m standing at a bus stop when someone says, “Hey, you, pretty girl!” and when I turn, a guy with brown hair to his shoulders, tall and thin as a speed freak, leans against an empty storefront. He grins as his head dips forward, and then he lifts his backside off the window to walk toward me.
“I’m Brian. Brian Lewis. What’s your name?
“Lenora.”
He squints as his head tips to one side.
“You look Portuguese.”
“That’s right. I am. My last name’s Dias.”
A bus pulls to the curb, but it isn’t mine, so I wave it on.
Brian is beside me, grinning still, and when his mouth comes apart, he’s missing teeth.
“I like the Portaguese,” he tells me. “I worked with lots of ’em. Most of ’em named Manny. Hard workers all of ’em.” He snorts. “But never bet you can out drink them, ’cause you’ll always lose. Take it from me. I know.”
Brian scratches his neck. His tanned forearm has a crude tattoo done in black ink that says “Born to Lose” above a nasty-looking dagger.
“That’s quite a tattoo you’ve got there,” I tell him.
He holds out his arm, twisting it to take a look as if he’s forgotten it’s there.
“Yeah. Did it myself. Used a knife and ink. My arm swelled up wicked bad after, but it’s okay now.”
I bend to study the dagger’s jagged tip and crooked lettering. The tattoo bites so deeply into his skin I could feel its outline if I touch it. I think of how it must have hurt as he carved the design and stopped the blood with a rag.
I shake my head.
“How come ‘Born to Lose’?”
He drops his arm and snorts again.
“Cause it’s true. Nothing’s gone right for me yet.”
“Maybe your luck will change.”
I lean forward to check the traffic. He does the same.
I smell his underarm, not dirty but salty.
“How come I haven’t seen you before?” he asks.
“I’ve been away at college.”
His long hair shakes as he laughs.
“Okay, college girl, what’s your major?”
“English.”
“You like to read books, huh?”
“You could say that. And you?”
“I fish, but I’ve been outta work since my car got totaled. The cop said it’s my fault, so I got nothin’ from the insurance company. You know how that is, right?” He shrugs because, of course, he knows I don’t, but I’m being attentive. “You plannin’ to stick around for the summer?”
“Uh-huh, I live with my folks. I’ve got a job at one of the warehouses on Water Street. They sell men’s pants.”
Brian Lewis nods as if he knows which warehouse I’m talking about, but I never noticed it until the day the unemployment agency sends me there. Dexter Textiles is in the city’s north end, which is filled with factories and triple-decker tenements. There’s a bad bar on the corner, where the air inside is cold and sour when the door swings open during the middle of the day. The shipping guys eat fish and chips there on paydays. Maybe Brian goes there, too.
Through the warehouse’s windows I can see across the dirty river to the town where my parents live. It’s a nice town with neighborhoods of small houses and people who know each other. Many of them came from another country, Poland, France, or some Portuguese island, Madeira or the Azores, like my grandparents. When my father was a boy, he swam and fished in the river with his brothers and sisters. A silent movie star once had a home beside it. Now no one is allowed to swim or fish the waters because they’d get sick from the poison the mills along the city side pour into the river.
I know only one person on the city side. Manny and I go to Westbridge State College together. He’s one year behind me. He starts off straight like the rest of our group, but after a little pot and deep talk about politics, he goes over to the other side. He slides actually. Within a month, he lets his hair grow. He starts a beard, but being Portuguese, it grows in fast. I’ve only seen him once so far, at the start of summer vacation when I went to his folk’s place, which is on the bottom floor of a triple-decker. All the time his mother kept calling me his “nice Portuguese girlfriend” and tried to get me to eat. I am not his nice Portuguese girlfriend although I like being with Manny. But I don’t know when I’ll see him again. He’s working nights and weekends in the kitchen at his uncle’s restaurant.
I glance up. Brian is talking.
“Maybe we can do something together,” he tells me.
He works his grin. He’s a fast mover. I’m used to shy college boys.
“Do something together?”
“You got a phone number?”
Another bus swings to the curb. It’s the one I want, and I step aside as a woman gets off.
Brian waits for my answer.
“I don’t have any paper.”
“Just say it. I’ll remember. I’m good with numbers.”
I tell him my phone number and get on board. Moments later when the bus leaves, Brian bangs on its side and yells, “See ya,” through an open window.
When Brian calls a couple of days later, I’m just home from my summer job at Dexter. My official job title is an order picker, which means I choose pants from the shelves according to size, stack them on a cart, and take them to the shipping guys to pack in boxes. Right now, we’re working on a large order for commissaries at Army bases down South, lots of chinos and dress pants, heavy on 32 W 32 L, to sell soldiers bound for Vietnam. It’s hot inside the warehouse, worse where I work in the back, so a good day is when I can be near a fan or one of the open windows if I can stand the river’s stench.
I’m the only college kid hired this summer. I get paid ten cents above minimum wage because the owner likes me. My plan is to spend hardly anything and put it all in the bank, so I can go in on an apartment with a couple of friends this fall.
I’m in the backyard watching my little sisters play in their inflatable pool when I get the phone call from Brian. I have to run inside the house, and I don’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line at first.
“It’s Brian. Brian Lewis. Remember me? You was waiting for the bus, and I came over to talk to ya.” He yells over a loud mix of voices and music. “I’m at a party.”
“You remembered my number.”
“I told ya I’m good with numbers.” He pauses. “Too bad I don’t have a car ’cause I’d come over and get you.”
“Get me.”
“Yeah. You like parties?”
Through the window I see one of my sisters slap the other. They’re both crying. I have to get outside fast.
“Sure, I like parties. Maybe some other time,” and then I say bye and hang up the phone.
On Saturday, I run into Brian at a coffee shop downtown. I could have gone to the beach with my parents and sisters, but I don’t want to waste my best day off with them. This hasn’t been a great summer so far. My friends are waiting tables on Cape Cod or driving cross-country to California. I haven’t seen Manny again. I work all day in a hot, dusty warehouse picking piles of men’s pants for soldiers, and afterward I wait for my family to leave for somewhere like the ice cream shack near the drive-in movie or a softball game, so I can smoke pot in the backyard. I sit there watching the neighbors argue about their barbecue or some other stupid thing, goofing on them, and when my family returns, I act like everything they do is normal.
I bought a baggie before I left school, but I know it’s not going to last me the summer at the rate I’m going. I’m going to call Manny again to see if he’s got any.
Inside the coffee shop downtown, the air smells like hot fat on the grill. I look toward the middle of the restaurant when Brian whistles at me from his booth.
“Hey, Lenora, come here.” He points a finger at the opposite seat. “Sit down.”
I dodge a waitress as I go his way. Metal dog tags dangle on a beaded chain around Brian’s neck and over his T-shirt. He lifts the tags as I sit down on the red upholstered seat. The tags are fakes with peace symbols instead of his name and serial number.
“What do ya think? Got ’em in a head shop yesterday.”
I like his smile, smooth and wide. His green eyes stay focused on me. I lean forward.
“They’re really nice.”
He grunts.
“Well, ya won’t catch me dead in real tags.” He signals the waitress carrying a tray of food toward the rear of the restaurant. “Ya know why? I didn’t bother registering for the draft. They don’t know shit about me.”
“I thought you had to. My friends at school did.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I heard, too. But I got it all figured out. They’re not gonna care about some dumb, skinny fisherman. If I get caught and do have to go to Vietnam, I’m joining the Marines ’cause they’re the best.”
“The best. Really.” I open the plastic cover to check the menu. I find what I want. I raise my eyes at Brian. “How long have you been fishing?”
“Since I dropped outta eighth grade.”
I shut the menu. I study Brian’s face. He’s serious.
“Eighth grade.” My voice is almost a whisper. “They let you do that?”
He chuckles.
“Sure. They had to. I was sixteen already ’cause I stayed back so many times. The principal cried when I brought in the papers signed by my mother.” His fingers play with the menu’s corner. “My first job, I repaired nets. I started fishing like my father and uncle. Good money if you like the work.” His head twists around the room. “Where in the hell’s our waitress?”
“You didn’t like school?”
“Hated it.” He stands up. “Gotta use the toilet. If the waitress shows up, tell her I want a burger with the works. Make it well done. No pink meat.”
The waitress takes our order while Brian’s gone. I think about what he said. My parents didn’t go to high school either, but it was during the Depression, and many kids had to drop out to work for their families. Most of the guys I know are sweating out the possibility of getting drafted. They worry about the lottery. They’ve been talking with counselors about ways to get out of going to Vietnam if they pull a low number.
Brian is back.
“I bet you really think I’m stupid.”
“No, I don’t think that. I just never met anyone who … anyone who’s like you.”
His hand stretches toward the front of my blouse, and he drops something into the pocket. I feel a pill when I press the fabric.
Brian winks.
“It’s a tab,” he says. “For later.”
I find out about the girlfriend the next time I see Brian. It’s Thursday night, when all the stores are open late, and groups of kids circle the blocks downtown as if they’re on patrol. I’m with Brian and one of his buddies in front of a bookstore when a woman nearly half his height marches toward us. She’s wearing a black waitress uniform with grease stains on the apron, so I guess she’s just off her shift.
“I’m Tina. I’m his girlfriend. We live together.”
She digs her fingers into her hips. Her nails are painted a bloody red. I don’t dare look at Brian.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I lie.
Brian’s dog tags bounce against his chest as he bends to talk to Tina in low, soothing tones. I hear the words “baby” and “nothing.” Tina gives me a tight, crooked smile as she listens. Her eyes close into slits. She doesn’t buy any of it.
I feel a twinge. I get lots of lurches and twinges when I’m with Brian. What else will he tell me? He has a criminal record? That he collects welfare? Both seem possibilities. I wave to Brian as I leave. I have to catch a bus home anyway. I’ve got men’s pants to pick tomorrow for a base in Texas.
The next night, my parents are bothered when Brian calls after eleven. I’m in bed reading and listening to some DJ with a groovy voice on a Boston radio station when I hear my father call me. The tab of acid Brian gave me is hidden in the battery case. My father must have been praying at his side of the bed because he holds his Catholic missal as he stands at the bottom of the stairs.
“Some boy says it’s important to talk to you,” my father says when I walk into the kitchen.
I lift the phone from the counter.
“Hey, it’s me. Brian. I just wanted to tell ya I’d like to see you more, but I got this problem with Tina.”
“I can see that.”
“We’ve been through some heavy shit together. She had an operation last year. Female problems. And now that I’m outta work, she’s been bringing in most of the money ’cept what I make on the side, if you know what I mean.”
My father, wearing an undershirt and striped boxers, uses a thumb to hold his place in the missal. He stares from the doorway. I gesture for him to leave, but he doesn’t. No boys ever call our house this time of night.
“Look, Brian, it’s awfully late. We all have to get up early for work tomorrow.”
“Uh, okay,” he says before I hang up the phone.
I feel that will be the end. What am I thinking about anyway hanging with him? Brian admits he’d never finished a book. My last boyfriend wrote poetry. When school starts in a couple of months, I won’t see him again, I’m sure of it. I won’t even think about him, except when I tell my friends stories about the guy I met this summer who has a strange tattoo and didn’t finish eighth grade.
But a few days later after supper, a strange car is parked in front of the house. Brian is at the wheel, honking the horn. My parents and sisters aren’t home, and I run out before the neighbors come from their houses. I lean into the open window of the passenger side.
“I thought you didn’t have a car.”
“It belongs to Steve. You know Steve. The short guy I hang around with. He owed me a favor.” The corner of his mouth curls slyly. “Hop in. We’ll go for a ride.”
I think for a moment before I get in the car’s front seat.
“Why don’t you move over?” Brian chuckles softly. “What’s the matter? Don’t trust me?” I get closer. “That’s better.”
Brian pulls a joint from his shirt pocket. He steers the car with his knees as he lights the end and takes the first hit. When it’s my turn, I hold the smoke in my lungs until we reach my old elementary school, where my parents and sisters are watching a softball game in the field behind. We pass the joint back and forth until it’s spent. Brian tosses the roach out the open window, and as I check to make sure no one sees what he did, he rubs the skin between my knee and the hem of my shorts.
I let him.
Brian takes me to the ocean-most point of the town, and he parks so we can watch boats cruise through the harbor’s channel. I lean back after he works his arm around me. Other cars are in the lot, mostly older people or families watching the same thing, but a few kids make out. Brian motions toward a boat he recognizes, a scalloper coming in with its load. He knows the captain, a real bastard, he says. I start laughing. He does, too.
“You’re stoned,” he jokes.
I speak, but stop, and try again.
“What about Tina?”
“Tina, who? Oh, her? She moved out.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m not kidding. She split.”
“When did that happen?”
“Today.”
“How come?”
“We broke up. My mother owns the place, so I get to stay.”
“How was that?”
He shrugs.
“You don’t wanna know.”
I like it later when he kisses me, and then again. This could go somewhere, but a cruiser pulls into the parking lot, and Brian’s eyes are on the rearview mirror as the cop at the wheel slowly makes a lap. Brian says we should head out, but he waits until the cop is out of sight before he starts the car. He comes toward me for a kiss.
“Nice,” he says.
My mother quizzes me when I get home.
“What are you seeing that guy for? A woman from bingo says he’s nothing but trouble. The whole family’s that way. His mother divorced his father and married his brother. Did you know that?”
No, I didn’t.
“This isn’t serious, Mom.”
“Lenora, don’t you know any other people you could be with? How about your old friends from high school?”
I shake my head. I’ve lost touch with every one of them.
“Don’t worry, Mom, I’m going back to school in the fall.”
She gives me a wary smile.
I tell Manny about Brian when he finally calls me back. He thinks he knows him.
“Doesn’t he deal dope?”
“So what?”
“Watch out, Lenora. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Then come visit me,” I tell him.
But he doesn’t.
I spend the rest of the summer with Brian and his friends. They pick me up after work a couple of times a week, and we get high together. I don’t have to worry about having enough pot or anything else I want because they always have plenty. Sometimes we go swimming or walk the grounds of a carnival, or on Thursday nights we hang out downtown, but mostly we drive around. Brian’s friends don’t know what to make of me. They only go along because he’s the one in charge. Steve, a short guy with Italian blood, is the nicest, but he’s definitely a follower. If Brian wears something, Steve has it a week later like those cop sunglasses with the mirrored lenses.
Once in the car, Brian’s friends talk about how easy it’d be to rob a gas station in the city’s north end, not far from Dexter Textiles. They know one of the attendants, so they could work out something like tying the guy up, and later they’d give him some money. Brian tells them all to shut up, and afterward he says his friends are only kidding. They’d never do anything like that. Trust me, he says. I don’t know if I should.
My parents won’t let me take their car, but Brian keeps borrowing Steve’s, and when he does, we find a quiet spot to park. He says he can’t bring me to his place because his mother, who lives in the duplex next door, likes his ex-girlfriend too much. I don’t care. I don’t want to be Brian’s girlfriend although I like the slight danger of being with him.
And there’s the sex, the sex is great, like tonight when we spread a blanket in the scrub pine woods near the bay, Brian’s idea, but the mosquitoes are so bad we slap ourselves all over as we run to the car. We stretch out on the back seat, lots of teasing and laughter, until we get into the heat of it.
Afterward we sit with the lights off, listening to the radio and talking, making jokes again. He gives me his take on things, and that’s something else I like about Brian. He tells it to me straight. We talk about the war again, and when I use a word he doesn’t know, he glances sideway and asks what it means. He raises one eye and sniffs after I tell him.
“I know why you like me, Lenora,” he says one time.
“You do, do you?”
“Sure, it’s easy. Even a dummy like me can figure it out. Smart girls like the cool guys.” He nods. “You’re smart. I’m cool. Am I right?”
I laugh with him.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Later, as we ride past a salt flat, pungent at low tide, Brian says he wants to visit me when I return to college.
“I got it all figured. I have a big deal in the works, so I’ll have enough money to buy a good car. I can go back to work, and I can see you between fishing trips. What do ya think about that?”
I have three weeks left before I’ll be back where I belong. I mailed a check for my share of the rental deposit last week. I thought summer would be enough for Brian, that he’d patch things up with Tina after I go, but his voice is soft as if he’s testing me. I think about what my friends would say if he shows up.
I use a fingertip to trace his ragged tattoo over and over.
“You’d really want to do that?” At the next traffic light, he leans over to kiss my mouth. I close my eyes. I hope my friends will like him. “Yeah, come see me.”
Two days later after lunch, I’m sorting an order for a base in Georgia when the fire alarm sounds. I grab my bag and follow the foreman after he yells, “Hey, girly, better get outta here.” The sidewalk outside is busy with workers from Dexter and the other places in this building, a couple of sweatshops and a beer distributor. Cruisers and a fire engine have arrived, but there’s no sign of smoke, so people are saying someone must have pulled the alarm as a prank. A fat woman sits crying on the ground near me. She fell in the rush, someone was saying, and might have broken her leg.
Mr. Dexter announces a bomb threat was phoned in, so they have to clear the building while the cops search. It’s the law. We could be there a while. If anyone wants to leave, without pay, they can. The other owners must be saying the same thing because people are gathered on the sidewalk. Most it appears are staying.
I’m deciding what to do when Brian strolls through the crowd. He grins as he comes near.
“Somebody called in a bomb scare,” I tell him.
He puts his arm around me. Behind us a siren sounds, and when I look, an ambulance slows to a stop.
“Come on, Lenora, let’s get outta here. Steve parked the car when we saw the crowd. We can go to the beach.”
His friends wait in the car two blocks away. Steve leans out the driver’s window. His fake dog tags with the peace symbols make clinking noises as they sway against the door.
“Hey, Brian, did you tell her what you did? Huh? Did you tell her about the call?”
I glance at Brian, then Steve.
“Tell me what?”
Steve deepens his voice, “I’m calling to tell you there’s a bomb in one of the boxes at the beer warehouse, and it’s gonna blow this afternoon. I’m not kidding.”
The two other guys are laughing.
“Can you believe it?” one says.
“You? You did that?” I say quietly to Brian. “Why would you do something like that?”
Brian shrugs.
“It’s so damn hot today. I wanna take you swimming. Come on, Lenora, you’re not mad at me, are you? I did it for you.”
Yes, I know Brian did, and as he holds the car door open, I smile, but inside I have that sensation I get from a certain dream. It’s the one where I’m falling overboard. The descent is rapid and steep, but I never get to the water because the scare always wakes me first.