Chapter Seventeen
Wow, those Dickers brothers are special. I'm thinking about the brothers doing that quick kiss on the lips when they meet. It's done without them seemingly giving it a second thought, and I learned today that they jerk off together every night, too. Hot! I only wish Robby was as interested in me as Dodger seemed to be.
Sitting on the steps to our Duplex house, I'm smoking a cigarette, waiting for Chubby to get home from work. Then, he walks up while I'm in one of my spaced-out trances, and he roughly grabs my shoulders, shouting, "I like your haircut!" I almost peed my pants as he rubs my head, saying, "I hate to admit it, but that fat fuck, Carl, is a damn good barber. A thousand times better than my boss, Ricky. How you doing, buddy?"
Chubby was in a great mood today for a change. I go, "You almost made me pee my pants, Chubby. Ah, I'm doing great now that you're here. Do you think we should do a quick kiss on the lips when we greet one another?"
Chubby takes my cigarette, says, "Absolutely not!" and takes a drag. I tell him about the Dickers brothers, and he says, "Oh, yeah? That's weird. That guy, Rob, was in my homeroom last year. Whoa, he's shy, but what a good-looking motherfucker, huh?" I mutter, "I'll say," and Chubby flicks the cigarette butt all the way across the street. As we walked up the steps to our condos, Chubby hugged me, saying, "Hey, no homework tonight. It's finally here. We're on summer break, dude! Let's do the four-mile run before dinner. I need to stretch my muscles, and a run will feel so good." I say, "Yo, great idea, but let's change first."
Stopping at the front door of my condo, Chubby adds, "After our run, we'll clean up, and then I'm treating you to dinner to celebrate the completion of junior year. One more to go, and then we can get wild at college." I ask, "You're not going to spend money we're saving for a car on this dinner, are you?" He shakes his head, "Not really. We all got a bonus envelope for an excellent job doing the insurance building's windows. I'm like, "Okay then, cool!" He asks, "What happened to your fingernails? Don't tell me you're back to that childish nail-biting habit!"
I told him the lie I'd thought up. "Oh, fuck, no! When I put in the screen for the bathroom window, these two fingernails got bent back and almost broke off. There was nothing I could do but cut them down." Chubby made a face, looked me in the eyes for three seconds, then said, "Liar!" Then he laughed, adding, "I don't care what happened, except you better not start biting them again, or I'll kick your ass." And he went up the stairs to his place. Watching Chubby's hot buns as he climbed the stairs, I grabbed my junk and then went inside. I've never gotten away with lying to Chubby; he knows me too well.
We met outside ten minutes later wearing running shorts and T-shirts. Nodding at each other, we took off jogging. The running went quickly at first, me telling Chubby how cool it had been giving the Dickers brothers haircuts today and about young Dodger's jerk-off problems with the sores on his dick. Chubby muttered, "TMI, bro," and we laughed. He told me about his bonus money. His crew, led by the infamous Ricky, usually does only private homes, except today. There was an emergency, and they were assigned a commercial property. They did a great job cleaning an insurance company's windows in downtown Framingham, and the Vice President of that branch signed the company up for five other branches, which earned them the bonus. Chubby thought they might need to hire another kid now, too.
It took only half a minute for me to reject that as a possibility. I told Chubby I was sticking with cutting grass because it seemed like a more pleasant job, and, of course, there's that Ricky person to consider. Chub murmured, "You're right. You don't want this job." If I didn't know better, I'd say he looked relieved that I didn't want that job washing windows. That's odd, though, because we've always wanted to work together. There's something Chubby isn't telling me about that job, but he's going full-time now, so it must be okay.
The second two miles went much slower because Chubby had lost his wind after not running for two months. He had to slow down for the third and fourth miles. Naturally, I was curious if the Marine was around and looked down the rest area cut-off trail, but there was no Marine. I was disappointed, which made me an airhead because I'd already decided never to see him again.
It was slow, but I felt great running with Chubby. Looking over and seeing him beside me made me smile. His face and his determined expression—oh, man—Chubby's is my favorite face! I love him. I've spent more waking hours with Chubby than anybody else, and it isn't close.
After the run, we showered and met outside dressed in khaki pants and short sleeves, button-up the front shirts. That attire is considered 'dressed up' for us two. Chubby was buying us dinner at Ken's Steak House, a long walk from our place. We strolled, smoked, and discussed last year at school and how we missed our old life together before his part-time job. Chubby would reach over and squeeze my hand every time he made a point of some kind. I love that.
At the restaurant, we got seated at a table for four in the main dining room, and when the waitress asked if we wanted something to drink. We tried ordering beers, but the waitress laughed in our faces. Not in a mean way, in a good-natured way. We did not join in with the hilarity, however. After a brief argument, we settled for iced tea. We ordered the same thing for dinner: prime rib of beef, medium rare, mashed potatoes, summer squash, and Ken's regular salad with Italian dressing.
During dinner, we discussed saving all the money we make this summer for our driver's licenses and the wickedly expensive mandatory automobile insurance. The moms can't pay for it, but we will. Chubby said, "No fucking way are we going into our senior year of high school without a driver's license. We're buying a car, too. You'll bust your ass cutting grass, and I'll bust my ass washing windows, and I'll be driving to school next year with my best friend of a lifetime beside me."
Chubby gets on a conversational roll, and I eat while listening, and then I go off on my topic du jour, which is this summer's two-week vacation with our Moms. I went on about how Chubby and I needing to put our fucking foot down and get our asses back to Wildwood. Cape Cod is okay for people who can get served in bars, but there is very little for a couple of teenage boys to do after dinner on the Cape. I reminded Chubby about the boardwalk in Wildwood. That elicited a vigorous nod from Chubby because Wildwood has a boardwalk that rocks! Chubby totally agreed with my way of thinking, and now all we had to do was get our Moms to cancel the reservations they'd made for Cape Cod and make them for Wildwood at the same motel as last year.
Having dinner at Ken's Steak House with only Chubby and I was so fabulously excellent I can't even tell you! Then Chub says, "What the fuck; we'll get dessert too." We both ordered the white cake with white icing for dessert. The whole thing cost eighty dollars, including almost a fifteen percent tip. Chubby looked pale, leaving the four twenty-dollar bills with the check. His bonus had been fifty dollars. I built him up, thanking him profusely on the way home, and whenever there were fifteen seconds of silence, Chubby would ask, "Seriously Dylan, you ever have a better dinner than that one tonight?" and I'd sincerely say, "No. I swear to God I never did. And that fucking cake killed!"
It was the best time until we approached the Dairy Queen on our way home, and some girl yelled, "Jeffy! Jeff, over here." Chubby looked over at the girl and mumbled to me, "Oh, it's that girl from my homeroom, Rita Zentaro. She's off the wall with a wicked crush on my ass. Let's see what she's up to." Chubby waves at her, and as we wait for a break in traffic to cross the street, I light up a Marlboro Light. I might as well be cool about this. We saunter over toward the old picnic table outside the D.Q., where there are maybe fifteen teens milling around, acting like fools. We walk up to the table where Rita and her two friends are sitting, and Chubby uses my line, "Yo, Sup?" Rita says, "Where ya going, Jeff?"
Quite the conversationalist, these two...
Another girl comes over licking a soft serve cone, so there are three girls with Rita, not two, and I don't know any of them. One of the girls has a sweatshirt that reads, "I MAY NOT BE MRS. RIGHT," and in smaller letters under that is "But I'll fuck you till she shows up." "Chubby sarcastically mutters, "High-class sweatshirt, Connie," as I'm thinking, these chicks are trailer trash. There are a lot of low-income families in Framingham, and some are rough and tough, too. Chubby starts bragging about buying his number one homeboy, me, dinner tonight at Ken's Steak House, and the girls are impressed. They'd never been inside Ken's. Chubby's acting like we eat there all the time. I'm just acting aloof and cool.
A breeze blows my exhaled smoke toward the picnic table, and a heavy-set girl with very muscular legs says, "Hey, watch the smoke. I don't wanna get cancer from your freaking secondhand smoke." That was said in such a mean-spirited way that I considered using a line I've been saving for the right occasion. It's this: "No, I don't have Tourette Syndrome, you actually are a cunt!."
Nah, I didn't use it here because I'm pretty sure none of these overweight babes knows what Tourette Syndrome is. Instead, I say, "Jeez, what charm school did you flunk out of, hefty?" She stands up and yells, "Fuck you, Skinny!" Not to be outdone, I mutter, "You too, horse-face," and Chubby starts laughing so hard tears run down his cheeks.
To hell with this, though. I blew smoke in her direction and turned my back, walking to the DQ building. I was fuming, hearing the fat girl cursing like a drunken sailor, commiserating with the other trailer trash sluts at the table. Some battles you just can't win. Taking another drag off my cigarette, I glance up at this hot-looking boy with a kid I think may have been in my band class last year. The hottie is a little taller than me with a baby face and a recent burr haircut like mine.
Exhaling smoke, I look at him for that fraction of a second too long, and he catches me staring at him. Oh, shit, he comes on like gangbusters. A big booming voice, "Hey, what the fuck are you looking at, asshole?" It's deafeningly loud, so lots of kids turn to look. This is out-fucking-rageous! I've been here less than three minutes, and two separate people are yelling at me, calling me names, and making me look like a dork.
I decide to make one attempt at letting this slide. I turned away and saw Chubby standing up with a menacing expression when Babyface yelled, "Yo, faggot, I'm talking to you." My face reddened, and I whipped around to use the fat girl's clever retort a minute ago. "Fuck you!" I screamed and then flicked my cigarette butt at the kid. Unfortunately, I can't flick a butt like Chubby, and mine went sideways and bounced off a little boy's ass. The little boy looks over at me with a puzzled expression and then feels his ass where there was a tiny cigarette burn on his shorts.
My next move, charging at Babyface, takes him completely by surprise, and we go down on the blacktop in a heap. I'm in a rage at the injustices against me tonight. My arms flailed, and fists connected with faces, necks, and bodies. Of course, there's the same flailing from him, both of us inflicting damage. The thought I had crashing into this kid was beer breath. He'd been drinking. That meant I had my second advantage in the last thirty seconds. One, I sucker-tackled him, and two, he's a little drunk and not a hundred percent coordinated. It's a good thing I had those advantages because I was barely holding my own.
Babyface was tough; most teens are, and it's just a matter of who has the balls to fight. I've been in half a dozen fights during my high school years, and I don't think I've actually ever 'won' a fight. While that's true, even when the other guy out-fights you, he still took a beating while doing it, and the word gets around that it's best not to push Dylan Newman's buttons too hard cause he's a little bit unhinged, especially don't do it if his little bud, Chubby, is with him 'cause he can get more than a little crazy.
I wasn't into the fight for fifteen seconds before the cavalry arrived. Chubby piles on, and we're doing a number on this poor bastard till we hear the sirens. We hop off Babyface, and, of course, there's cursing back and forth, threats of what will happen next time between us and Babyface and Babyface's two friends, who hadn't jumped into the fight. They just tried pulling Chubby and me off their friend, so maybe they'd gotten the word about how crazy Chubby and I were. That didn't stop the threatening remarks as we all scatter before the cops pull in. The DQ parking lot is the site of at least one fight per weekend. This was a rarer week-night fight, but after all, it was summer break.
A couple of streets away, we take damage inventory. My eyebrow was cut, and there was some blood; my cheek and top lip were swollen, and Chubby got kneed in the nuts, but he wasn't hit in the face. When Chubby jumped in, he was a little bit wild, and as much as I could, I kept my body between him and Babyface because Chubby goes insane when somebody punches me. That's awesome, except he'll go too far and get in trouble.
Anyway, it's all okay this time. The adrenaline in my system was making me feel nauseous, but I did not want to throw up that eighty-dollar Ken's Steak House dinner, so I didn't do much inhaling from the cigarette Chubby lit for me. After walking a few blocks, I knew I wasn't going to hurl. I was still high from the fight, though, so I only half heard Chubby's lecture about never starting a fight with a kid drinking beer at a Dairy Queen. "It's a known fact that beer and soft serve ice cream do not fucking mix. There's something in that fucking soft serve that makes kids stupid, and when you add beer to the mix, you got yourself potential for real trouble."
I'd have laughed at that, but I still felt shaky, like you get after a fight. I'm not shaky before or during a fight, but afterward, I don't feel well for a while. Chubby isn't bothered with that. He feels the same before, during, and after a fight. By the time we'd walked most of the way home, we were telling each other how we kicked some serious ass tonight. Chubby goes, "You'd think these dumb bastards would know better than to fuck with us. I mean, they're going to have both of us beating their fucking heads in if they do. Jesus H Christ, are these assholes brain dead?"
I was feeling good enough by now to chuckle and enjoy Chubby's outlandish view of the world. God, I love him so much. I said, "I know it's unnecessary to say this, but thanks for having my back there, bro. You're the best friend anyone ever had, Chubby!" We stopped walking; Chubby took in a lot of air and then a big exhale, his eyes misty. Then we did a long hug, glad to have each other to hug. Chubby said, "For you? Are you shitting me, Dylan? I'm always going to be there for you, bro. Always, always, always!" Damn, he makes me feel good.
As soon as we got home, we checked each other out in the little half-bathroom downstairs in my finished basement. Chubby washed my eyebrow cut with disinfectant, which stung, and I pushed his hand away, "Fuck!" He told me I was going to have a black eye tomorrow as part of the punch that caused my swollen cheek. I also had a raw elbow where it scraped on the blacktop and a swollen top lip that was cut on the inside. Chubby cleaned the elbow scrape with the 'ouch!' disinfectant, and a big patch band-aid covered the whole thing. He told me to put ice on my lip, but I never did.
This was not an impressive way for me to start my new job, coming off a fight. Chubby and I looked at each other and nodded that we were okay. I said, "Cool night tonight, Chubby! It rocked." Chubby said, "Yeah, it did, didn't it? Good luck on your first day at work tomorrow, Dylan." We did a fast hug this time, and he went outside and then up to his condo. The following day, I was up much earlier than I had to be because I was nervously anxious about doing something new today. It's the job, of course, but I also had to catch a bus I'd never taken before to get to their place of business, which isn't Robby's house. I was at the bus stop twenty minutes before the bus was due, just to be safe. Lots of blue-collar workers were on the bus; blacks, whites, and Hispanics, all going to do manual labor jobs at six-fifteen in the morning.
On the plus side, I get boners on buses all the time. The motion of the bus causes the boners, I guess, so that was fun. What isn't fun is walking down the aisle to get off at my stop with a boner poking out the front of my cargo shorts. Damn! I heard the quiet snickers as I walked down the aisle. From the bus stop, I had to walk five blocks, and then there was a big sign in front of a building: DICKERS LANDSCAPE AND DESIGN. Being an alert person, I muttered, this must be the place.
I'll be on Robby's crew, cutting grass for private homes, but two other crews worked on commercial properties, and then Mr. Dickers had a crew who did the landscape design side of the business. Mrs. Dickers and another woman worked in the office, where Dodger also worked part-time. It's a family business and a more extensive operation than I thought. I tried both doors, but both were locked. It was chilly this early in the morning, so I was shivering in front of the building.
After waiting fifteen minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Dickers, with Robby, pulled up in their pick-up truck. Mrs. Dickers asked what happened to me, and I lied, saying I ran into something, not looking where I was going. She didn't believe that, of course, but complimented me on the haircuts I'd given the boys, and she said they'd buy the coffees each morning if I'd continue being the boy's barber. I said, "Gee, thanks. That's a great deal." Robby smiled at me as he rolled his eyes. I didn't know what that meant.
They had coffees with them this morning, and Robby had one for me. It's so nice to have a friend to help you acclimate to a new situation, in this case, a new job. He showed me the locker room where we each had a locker. On the job, we wore the company-issued uniform of generic shorts and a T-shirt with the company logo. I was given two sets of Ts and shorts and a baseball cap that also had the company logo on it. A few college students on the summer crew working on commercial properties joked about Robby and me being the Bobbsey Twins. "Hey, Rob, I didn't know you had a twin; she's cute."
They came up with bullying shit like that. I guess the twin's thing popped up because we have similar hair cut similarly. We're the same age and have the same body types, and we're almost the same height. I said nothing, but Rob exchanged friendly insults with them that felt strained. Meanwhile, I was flattered to be considered Robby's twin. After the two college guys left, he asked, "Who beat the shit out of you, Dylan?" He asked that jokingly. I brushed it off with, "A minor misunderstanding at the DQ, but Chubby and I straightened it out. Robby nodded and mumbled, "Jeff was in my homeroom last year. He's not your brother, right? Different last names." I told him our moms are best friends, as are Cubby and me.
After changing, Robbie took me to meet the third boy on the crew, Joel Mc Carty. He'd dropped out of high school three years ago when he was in the tenth grade. He turns out to be a reticent, introspective boy who is neither good-looking nor ugly. Just pale brown everything and plain-looking is the best way to put it—long ponytail and about ten tattoos and a pierced nostril. Joel was very ripped. He'd been standing there shirtless when we walked up to him. Holy shit, what a fucking body! He worked out.
We did a half-second handshake, and that was it, except he stared at me hard and long until Robby and I walked away. Later that morning, he gave me a look I couldn't figure out. And then, a few other times, I'd look up or something, and there's Joel staring at me with piercing dark eyes. It gave me the creeps, man. He's not someone I'm going to fuck with, though, and I'll leave it at that.
Joel and the group foreman, Toby Underwood, rode ride-on lawn mowers cutting the lawns. Robbie strapped the blower on his back to blow all the loose-cut grass off sidewalks, driveways, and whatever. I had the worst job, which was operating the edger. It's a professional strength stick lawn edger or what I always called a Weed Whacker, but this professional machine was much heavier than any Weed Whacker I'd ever picked up. Working with that thing for a while is a ball buster. Robby, supposedly, will spell me when he has the time. No, this job is not a lot of fun, but for ten dollars an hour, it's doable.
Robby took me to where the supervisors shared an office with Toby Underwood. He was thirty-something years old and a music teacher for a private school during the school year. He's been employed by the Dickers for ten summers now. When we walked in, he was on the telephone talking to someone. Robby whispered, "That's probably his mother he's talking to. They talk a lot during the day. He lives with her." I go, "He's not married, is he?" Robby made a face and shook his head, mumbling, "No way."
From the way he moved, the slant of his head, and just everything about him, I would guess that Joel Underwood was as gay as May. He was six feet tall and not fat, except his ass was quite fat and wide too. Fleshy face with prematurely gray hair, with a conservative haircut. He had a large, bulbous nose and thin lips, with an old Panama hat on his head. Not a pretty man. While we waited for Toby to finish his phone call, we laughed about Dodger's masturbation habits and wondered if he'd still have those sores a year from now. It doesn't seem likely he'll give up pulling his pud anytime soon.
Off the phone, Toby comes over and says, "So, you're Dylan. Who named you Dylan?"
Who does he think named me, our lawn guy? I didn't say that, though; I said, "My Mom; she's a Bob Dylan fan." Joel sneered and laughed before saying, "Oh, my goodness." He seemed nice, but he did have a problem saying the letter "s," and I'm guessing some other letters, too. Toby put his arm across my shoulders and told me he was taking me under his wing, which made me think of Carl Denton saying that exact thing.
He told me I'd be riding in his pick-up while Joel would drive the other pickup truck with Robby riding shotgun. Choosing between Joel or Toby to ride with, I'll take my chances with Toby. It was a close call, though. Even so, it quickly became apparent I would have my hands full with Toby. He liked grabbing my thigh while driving and talking, making a point about the job, my specific responsibilities, or just for the hell of it. There was lots of thigh grabbing as we drove from job to job.
It would make sense for me to avoid causing a commotion about this on my first day on the job. I'll talk with Rob about it after work today and get some advice. Damn, I hope the poor bastard doesn't get fired over this, but come on! This is harassment in the workforce or some damn thing like that.
All day, Toby helped me with everything, which was disappointing because I thought Robby would be the one to show me what to do, how to do it, and all that. I didn't see much of Robby. I saw him, of course, we were working on the same lawns, but I didn't see him alone. It was always Toby and me. Toby usually had an arm on me somewhere and was big on gripping the back of my neck with one of his oversized hands as he explained stuff to me. It was disconcerting as hell to be touched so much by a stranger. To be fair about it, I can't say I ever noticed him with an erection or even grabbing his crotch; he was simply very touchy/feely with me.
At lunch break, after taking the other guy's orders for what they wanted, Toby and I went to McDonalds. I couldn't get away from him. He wore a cologne, or maybe it was deodorant, that reeked. It was so strong and had such an odd fragrance that I got a headache inhaling it. It's not offensive necessarily, but it is very different and, as I said, wicked strong. I didn't even get to talk with Robby alone at lunch; all four of us were together and mostly just listened to country music on the pick-up truck radio. Toby grew up in South Carolina and preferred country over all other forms of music.
Near the end of the day, I wondered if this was typical of a day on the job. Maybe it was hazing for the new kid. I hoped that's what it was and that tomorrow would be different. Toby is too much to take every day. Hmm, I'm curious if that window-washing job is still open.
To be continued...
