was intelligent, and when you got past the shy and wary exterior, he was humorous and thoughtful and sweet, I guess, is the word I'm fumbling around for.
Sweet, but a loser.
His folks knew it as well as the machine-shop white-soxers who yelled at him in the halls and thumb-rubbed his glasses.
They knew he was a loser and they would beat him down.
That's what I thought. But that time I was wrong.
3 THE MORNING AFTER
My poppa said "Son,
You're gonna drive me to drink
If you don't quit drivin that
Hot-rod Lincoln."
— Charlie Ryan
I cruised by Arnie's house the next morning at 6:30 A.M. and just parked at the curb, not wanting to go in even though his mother and father would still be in bed—there had been too many bad vibes flying around in that kitchen the evening before for me to feel comfortable about the usual doughnut and coffee before work.
Arnie didn't come out for almost five minutes, and I started to wonder if maybe he hadn't made good on his threat to just take off. Then the back door opened and he came down the driveway, his lunch bucket banging against one leg.
He got in, slammed the door, and said, "Drive on, Jeeves." This was one of Arnie's standard witticisms when he was in a good humor.
I drove on, looked at him cautiously, almost decided to say something, and then decided I better wait for him to start… if he had anything to say at all.
For a long time it seemed that he didn't. We drove most of the way to work with no conversation between us at all, nothing but the sound of WMDY, the local rock-and-soul station. Arnie beat time absently against his leg.
At last he said, "I'm sorry you had to be in on that last night, man."
"That's okay, Arnie."
"Has it ever occurred to you," he said abruptly, "that parents are nothing but overgrown kids until their children drag them into adulthood? Usually kicking and screaming?"
I shook my head.
"Tell you what I think," he said. We were coming up on the construction site now; the Carson Brothers trailer was only two rises over. The traffic this early was light and somnolent. The sky was a sweet peach color. "I think that part of being a parent is trying to kill your kids."
"That sounds very rational," I said. "Mine are always trying to kill me. Last night it was my mother sneaking in with a pillow and putting it over my face. Night before that it was Dad chasing my sister and me around with a screwdriver." I was kidding, but I wondered what Michael and Regina might think if they could hear this rap.
"I know it sounds a little crazy at first," Arnie said, unperturbed, "but there are lots of things that sound nuts until you really consider them. Penis envy. Oedipal conflicts. The Shroud of Turin."
"Sounds like horseshit to me," I said. "You had a fight with your folks, that's all."
"I really believe it, though," Arnie said pensively. "Not that they know what they're doing; I don't believe that at all. And do you know why?"
"Do tell," I said.
"Because as soon as you have a kid, you know for sure that you're going to die. When you have a kid, you see your own gravestone."
"You know what, Arnie?"
"What?"
"I think that's fucking gruesome" I said, and we both burst out laughing.
"I don't mean it that way," he said.
We pulled into the parking lot and I turned off the engine. We sat there for a moment or two.
"I told them I'd opt out of the college courses," he said. "Told them I'd sign up for VT right across the board."
VT was vocational training. The same sort of thing the reform-school boys get, except of course they don't go home at night. They have what you might call a compulsory live-in program
"Arnie," I began, unsure of just how to go on. The way this thing had blown up out of nothing still freaked me out. "Arnie, you're still a minor. They have to sign your program—"
"Sure, of course," Arnie said. He smiled at me humorlessly, and in that cold dawn light he looked at once older and much, much younger like a cynical baby, somehow. "They
Sweet, but a loser.
His folks knew it as well as the machine-shop white-soxers who yelled at him in the halls and thumb-rubbed his glasses.
They knew he was a loser and they would beat him down.
That's what I thought. But that time I was wrong.
3 THE MORNING AFTER
My poppa said "Son,
You're gonna drive me to drink
If you don't quit drivin that
Hot-rod Lincoln."
— Charlie Ryan
I cruised by Arnie's house the next morning at 6:30 A.M. and just parked at the curb, not wanting to go in even though his mother and father would still be in bed—there had been too many bad vibes flying around in that kitchen the evening before for me to feel comfortable about the usual doughnut and coffee before work.
Arnie didn't come out for almost five minutes, and I started to wonder if maybe he hadn't made good on his threat to just take off. Then the back door opened and he came down the driveway, his lunch bucket banging against one leg.
He got in, slammed the door, and said, "Drive on, Jeeves." This was one of Arnie's standard witticisms when he was in a good humor.
I drove on, looked at him cautiously, almost decided to say something, and then decided I better wait for him to start… if he had anything to say at all.
For a long time it seemed that he didn't. We drove most of the way to work with no conversation between us at all, nothing but the sound of WMDY, the local rock-and-soul station. Arnie beat time absently against his leg.
At last he said, "I'm sorry you had to be in on that last night, man."
"That's okay, Arnie."
"Has it ever occurred to you," he said abruptly, "that parents are nothing but overgrown kids until their children drag them into adulthood? Usually kicking and screaming?"
I shook my head.
"Tell you what I think," he said. We were coming up on the construction site now; the Carson Brothers trailer was only two rises over. The traffic this early was light and somnolent. The sky was a sweet peach color. "I think that part of being a parent is trying to kill your kids."
"That sounds very rational," I said. "Mine are always trying to kill me. Last night it was my mother sneaking in with a pillow and putting it over my face. Night before that it was Dad chasing my sister and me around with a screwdriver." I was kidding, but I wondered what Michael and Regina might think if they could hear this rap.
"I know it sounds a little crazy at first," Arnie said, unperturbed, "but there are lots of things that sound nuts until you really consider them. Penis envy. Oedipal conflicts. The Shroud of Turin."
"Sounds like horseshit to me," I said. "You had a fight with your folks, that's all."
"I really believe it, though," Arnie said pensively. "Not that they know what they're doing; I don't believe that at all. And do you know why?"
"Do tell," I said.
"Because as soon as you have a kid, you know for sure that you're going to die. When you have a kid, you see your own gravestone."
"You know what, Arnie?"
"What?"
"I think that's fucking gruesome" I said, and we both burst out laughing.
"I don't mean it that way," he said.
We pulled into the parking lot and I turned off the engine. We sat there for a moment or two.
"I told them I'd opt out of the college courses," he said. "Told them I'd sign up for VT right across the board."
VT was vocational training. The same sort of thing the reform-school boys get, except of course they don't go home at night. They have what you might call a compulsory live-in program
"Arnie," I began, unsure of just how to go on. The way this thing had blown up out of nothing still freaked me out. "Arnie, you're still a minor. They have to sign your program—"
"Sure, of course," Arnie said. He smiled at me humorlessly, and in that cold dawn light he looked at once older and much, much younger like a cynical baby, somehow. "They
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