‘I got some Winstons,’ he said. ‘Hawked ’em off my old man’s dresser. One
apiece. For after supper.’
‘Yeah? That’s boss.’
“That’s when a cigarette tastes best,’ Chris said. ‘After supper.’
‘Right.’ We walked in silence for a while.
‘That’s a really fine story,’ Chris said suddenly. ‘They’re just a little too dumb
to understand.’
‘No, it’s not that hot. It’s a mumbler.’
‘That’s what you always say. Don’t give me that bullshit you don’t believe. Are
you gonna write it down? The story?’
‘Probably. But not for a while. I can’t write ’em down right after I tell ’em. It’ll
keep.’
‘What Vern said? About the ending being a gyp?’
‘Yeah?’
Chris laughed. ‘Life’s a gyp, you know it? I mean, look at us.’
‘Nah, we have a great time.’
‘Sure,’ Chris said. ‘All the fuckin’ time, you wet.’
I laughed. Chris did, too.
They come outta you just like bubbles out of soda-pop,’ he said after a while.
‘What does?’ But I thought I knew what he meant.
‘The stories. That really bugs me, man. It’s like you could tell a million stories
and still only get the ones on top. You’ll be a great writer someday, Gordie.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Yeah, you will. Maybe you’ll even write about us guys if you ever get hard up
for material.’
‘Have to be pretty fuckin’ hard up.’ I gave him the elbow.
There was another period of silence and then he asked suddenly: ‘You ready
for school?’
I shrugged. Who ever was? You got a little excited thinking about going back,
seeing your friends; you were curious about your new teachers and what they would
be like–pretty young things just out of teachers’ college that you could rag or some
old topkick that had been there since the Alamo, In a funny way you could even get
excited about the long droning classes, because as the summer vacation neared its end
you sometimes got bored enough to believe you could learn something. But summer
boredom was nothing like the school boredom that always set in by the end of the
second week, and by the beginning of the third week you got down to the real
business: Could you hit Stinky Fiske in the back of the head with your art-gum while
the teacher was putting The Principal Exports of South America on the board? How
many good loud squeaks could you get off on the varnished surface of your desk if
your hands were real sweaty? Who could cut the loudest farts in the locker room
while changing up for phys ed? How many girls could you get to play Who Goosed
the Moose during lunch hour? Higher learning, baby.
‘Junior High,’ Chris said. ‘And you know what, Gordie? By next June, we’ll all
be quits.’
‘What are you talking about? Why would that happen?’
‘It’s not gonna be like grammar school, that’s why. You’ll be in the college
courses. Me and Teddy and Vern, we’ll all be in the shop courses, playing pocket-pool
with the rest of the retards, making ashtrays and birdhouses. Vern might even have to go into Remedial. You’ll meet a lot of new guys. Smart guys. That’s just the way it
works, Gordie. That’s how they got it set up.’
‘Meet a lot of pussies is what you mean,’ I said.
He gripped my arm. ‘No, man. Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. They’ll get
your stories. Not like Vern and Teddy.’
‘Fuck the stories. I’m not going in with a lot of pussies. No sir.’
‘If you don’t, then you’re an asshole.’
‘What’s asshole about wanting to be with your friends?’
He looked at me thoughtfully, as if deciding whether or not to tell me
something. We had slowed down; Vern and Teddy had pulled almost half a mile
ahead. The sun, lower now, came at us through the overlacing trees in broken, dusty
shafts, turning everything gold -but it was a tawdry gold, dimestore gold, if you can
dig that. The tracks stretched ahead of us in the gloom that was just starting to gather –
they seemed almost to twinkle. Star-pricks of light stood out on them here and there,