Jack's Black Book Page 8

  “Then let’s forget the Coke thing,” I said, making a bold decision. “Let’s go for broke. I want a date.”

  “That could be difficult,” he said, suddenly cooling on the idea. “Let’s see what happens once she shows up.”

  “Okay.” But already I was thinking, what could be so difficult? I’ll just ask her myself. After all, Madame Ginger said I had to go out on a limb.

  When she arrived I got up and walked toward her. I figured I’d ask her out, she’d say no, I’d be humiliated and have something to write about. Simple. But suddenly, as I approached her, I thought, what if she says yes? What if she’s thrilled to meet me? Then I’ll have nothing to write about. But then I thought about it a little more and reality set in. She was older. She was well dressed. She had manners. She was poised. She was refined. She had not said one nice word to me, ever. There was no way in ten lifetimes she’d stoop so low as to go out with a rodent like me who had done nothing but buy her a few Cokes, and poke her in the leg with a stick.

  I was right. As soon as she saw me coming, the look on her face went from serene to total annoyance. She bolted across the patio and dove into the pool. It was a crushing blow, but it didn’t kill me. And once my breathing evened out, and I realized I was just fine, I knew I had not suffered enough. I needed more.

  I sat down and was making a few notes in my black book when the bartender arrived. “Don’t take her running away from you personally,” he said. “She is more shy than you are. Now, let me help you out.” I gave him a five even before he could stick out his hand. He sadly shook his head back and forth. “No, no, no,” he repeated. “This is a whole new level.”

  I gave him another five.

  “I don’t think you heard me,” he sang.

  I gave him another five.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  He was worse to me than I was to the lady with the typewriter. Well, what goes around comes around, I thought. I gave him the last of my fives.

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He went over to her and said something. She shook her head and said no. He said something more. No, she said again. I couldn’t hear her but I watched her mouth. I was positive she was saying no, no, no.

  He walked back toward me with a big smile on his face. “Surprise,” he said. “She said yes.”

  “Yes?” I repeated. “I thought she said no.”

  “You misread,” he replied. “I asked if she could go out tomorrow and she said no, only tonight.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What do I do next?”

  He held out his hand.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty bucks for her address,” he said. “But look at the bright side. After tonight you will have all the information you need and that’ll be it for me.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “But this is the last money I’llever give you.” I dug into my pocket and thought, Which is the worse tragedy, his money-grubbing hands or her potential heartbreaking blow?

  He snapped the bill out of my hand, and wrote the address down on a piece of Yankee Clipper stationery.

  “Be there at six,” he said. “She’s a fanatic about being on time. Also, she’s a vegetarian, only goes to foreign films, and is thinking of becoming a doctor.”

  “Wow,” I replied. “I thought she had a great future as a synchronized swimmer.”

  He dismissed the thought with the wave of his hand. “Get real. This girl is going places.”

  There were people waiting for him at the bar so he left. I walked across the patio and down the beach.

  I had my hand up, shading my eyes, when I heard Pete scream.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted. “Let go of me.”

  “You little faker,” said an old woman. “My sister is non-sighted and your little charade is a cruel insult.” She pulled the dark glasses off his face and hurled them into the surf.

  “Help!” Pete screamed. “I’m being attacked.” He gave her a couple stiff whacks on the legs with his blind-boy cane.

  She snatched it out of his hands and broke it in two over the top of his head. “Criminal,” she growled.

  “Child abuse!” Pete hollered.

  “You deserve worse,” she scolded. She had an iron grip on the leather camera strap around his neck. He leaned forward and panted for air as his eyes bugged out like a Boston terrier’s.

  “Uh-oh,” I said under my breath. “Trouble.”

  “Give me that money,” she demanded.

  “It’s mine,” he choked out, holding a few dollars just beyond her reach.

  “You stole it from people,” she snapped. “It should go to the unfortunate.”

  Now, when it came to money, I really got worked up. I ran across the sand, leaping over sunbathers like an Olympic hurdler until I caught up to them.

  The first thing I did was snatch the cash out of Pete’s hand and shove it into my pocket along with my big roll of cash. Once that was out of the way, I was ready for a fight.

  “Get your hands off of him,” I ordered.

  “He’s a juvenile delinquent,” she declared. “I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”

  “So am I,” I said, grabbing her flabby arm and tugging her in the opposite direction. “Lifeguard!” I yelled.

  “Let go of my arm, you awful child,” she spit out. “Or I’ll send both of you to a home for the depraved.”

  “Let go,” I shot right back. “Or I’ll send you to a nursing home.”

  Just then the leather strap around Pete’s neck snapped. He shot forward and she sprung back at me. I fell and she landed with her giant butt on my lap. I thought my hipbones were crushed and my legs paralyzed for life. Then she reached into my pocket and grabbed all our money.

  “Give that back,” I shouted. I gave her a pinch and she hopped right up, and power-walked toward the lifeguard stand.

  Every few steps she swiveled around and hollered, “Nasty boys! Don’t you mess with me.”

  A lot of people were starting to watch, and judging by how they glared at us, they were getting the wrong idea.

  “You mean old fish with feet,” Pete yelled back.

  “Come on,” I said, and pulled him along.

  “Did she get all the money?” he asked.

  “The whole enchilada.” I sighed.

  I didn’t tell him I had twenty bucks stashed at home. But that was for my date.

  “I’ll see you later,” Pete said. “I still have some film left I can use at the other end of the beach.”

  “Well, be careful,” I said, still limping. “If she sits on you, you’re dead.”

  When I got home I checked the mailbox out of habit. There was a postcard from Mom and Dad. They said they were returning the following day. And I’ll be killing rats the day after, I said to myself. I leaned down and looked into the box to make sure there was no more mail. Suddenly a hornet came shooting out and stung me on the forehead. It felt like I had been stabbed with an ice pick. I yelped and ran for the house.

  Nobody was home. Betsy had taken the baby next door to swim in the Sopers’ pool. They had a daughter, Christine, who had been an exchange student in Paris and Betsy was trying to figure out how to do the same thing.

  I was staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. From the hornet sting my forehead looked lopsided. Like Gumby’s head. A lump was forming and right at the top of it I could see the black hornet stinger where it was stuck in the skin. I opened the medicine cabinet and took out the tweezers. Then very carefully I moved the tweezers toward the stinger.

  I heard Betsy open the back sliding-glass doors.

  “Are you home, Jack?” she yelled. She must have seen my black book where I’d tossed it on the dining-room table.

  I didn’t reply because my head would move. Just when I had the stinger lined up and was about to pluck it out, she pushed open the bathroom door and it hit my elbow, which instantly drove the tweezers tips into my Gumby lump.

  “Arghh!” I yell
ed.

  “Out,” she ordered. “I have to pee.”

  “You should have gone in the Sopers’ pool,” I suggested, as I closed my eyes until the throbbing pain calmed down a bit.

  “They put a chemical in their water,” she said. “If you pee it turns pourpre.”

  I went out to the kitchen. In a minute Betsy joined me.

  “I’m going to make some French fries for a snack,” she said. “You want some?”

  “Sure,” I replied. I loved French fries. Plus, it was cheaper to eat at home. I figured I had money to buy Virginia a snack, but not a whole meal.

  I began to set the table. Betsy had a beach towel wrapped around herself and tucked into the top of her suit like a Hawaiian dancer.

  “What’s the red lump on your forehead?” she asked as she cut up the potatoes.

  “A hornet sting,” I said, gently touching it.

  “You should put some mud on it,” she suggested. “That’s what Indians do to make the swelling go down.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said, and poured a bottle of cooking oil into the cast-iron skillet. ‘Just go outside, mix a little water and dirt, and put it on.”

  “Okay,” I said. I turned and began to walk out the sliding glass door. I thought it was open but it wasn’t. I hit the glass lump first and bounced off. Luckily the glass didn’t break and slice me into strips, or Betsy would have fried me up, too.

  I touched my lump and winced. The pain made my eyes water.

  “Let me see,” Betsy said.

  I turned toward her.

  “You better put ice on it first,” she suggested. “You can do the mud later.”

  I opened the freezer and pulled out an ice tray, then began to run it under some water to loosen up the cubes. I wanted to ask if she would ever go out with a younger guy with a lump on his head and near-empty pockets, but was already in too much pain.

  In a minute the oil began to get hot. Betsy tested it with a piece of potato skin. The oil snapped and popped and the potato skin turned brown and crispy. She salted the potatoes, then used a wide slotted spoon to lower them into the skillet. You have to have a steady hand because if the oil splashes out of the skillet and onto the burner it can catch on fire.

  As soon as she put in the first batch of potatoes there was a low whooshing sound and a giant flame, like a big red flag, snapped up above the skillet. She screamed and jumped back with the hot slotted spoon still in her hand. As I turned around to see what happened she accidentally clobbered me right on my lump.

  “Oww,” I hollered, and dropped down onto my knees.

  Betsy grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen counter and threw it on the fire. An enormous ball of black smoke billowed up above the flaming oil. It looked like a small nuclear explosion.

  “Smother it!” I yelled, and lunged forward.

  Betsy unwrapped the towel from around her waist and threw it on the skillet, then turned off the burner.

  I headed for the sliding glass door. In all the excitement I forgot it was still closed. Wham! It didn’t break, but I hit my head in the same spot again. I staggered back. I was so dizzy I didn’t know what to do next. I reached out and clutched the back of a chair to steady myself, then everything went black and I hit the floor head-first.

  When I finally opened my eyes Pete was sitting on my stomach staring down at me. Betsy was washing the soot off the wall.

  “What time is it!” I shouted, and looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. I pushed Pete to one side and looked into the small kitchen mirror. “Oh, my God!” I shouted. Pete had drawn a little smiley face on my lump. “I’m a freak,” I cried out. I took a cloth and dipped it into a bottle of Mr. Clean, then gritted my teeth and scrubbed my lump until it was red and shiny as a drunk’s nose. I was hysterical.

  “What’s your rush?” Betsy asked.

  “I have a date,” I blurted out.

  I whipped open the freezer door and got some ice for my lump. I held it on my head as I ran back to my room to get dressed. I slipped the ice into my mouth in order to free my hand and push it through a shirt sleeve. I was stepping into a pair of stiff new jeans when I bit down on the ice. Crack! My right front tooth broke. Oh no, I thought, this is what Madame Ginger warned me about. I ran to the bathroom. Pete was in there with the door locked.

  “You’re not allowed to lock the door,” I shouted, and twisted the knob back and forth. I skinned my knuckles against the jamb and blood started running down my fingers. I wiped them across my clean shirt. “Idiot,” I said to myself. “Moron. Knucklehead.” Immediately I noticed that anything I said was accompanied by a little whistling sound. With my tooth broken off, the air came out of my mouth funny and it sounded as though I had a very high-pitched lisp.

  I ran back to my room and looked in my dresser mirror. The tooth had broken off at an angle, so that I had an empty V shape between my front teeth. I looked like a total ghoul.

  I had to do something quick. I rapidly chewed up a stick of Juicy Fruit, then wadded it up behind the tooth and filled in the gap.

  Betsy came into my room. “Is your date with that little girl who’s been calling? Don’t tell me you’re dating a third-grader. Are you sick?”

  I didn’t say a word because I thought my gum patch might fall out. But I wanted to yell, She’s not a third-grader. She’s very sophisticated. She’s a synchronized swimmer and probably knows more about France than you do. But I kept my mouth shut, and my feet moving. I had to get to Virginia by six o’clock.

  Betsy and Pete followed me out of the house. I got on my bike and started to pedal.

  “Is she meeting you on a tricycle?” Betsy hollered as I turned out of the driveway. “Or is she using training wheels now?”

  I looked at my watch. It was five forty-five. I could still make it if I rode like a maniac.

  By the time I got to her house my shirt was soaked with sweat all around my armpits and down my back, and my lump was so agitated I thought I could feel it twitching as it grew larger. I ditched my bike in her front hedge, ran my fingers through my hair and pulled a curl down over the lump, then pressed the doorbell. I didn’t hear it ring, and no one answered. Maybe it’s broken, I thought. I knocked on the door, then stepped back. Nothing. I knocked again, then pounded, and this time the cuts on my knuckles opened up. I stuck my hand in my pocket to soak up the blood. There was still no answer. I checked my watch. It was just six. I peeked in the front windows. Nothing. I checked the address on my piece of paper. I was at the right place.

  She’s just late, I said to calm myself. It happens. There was a small park across the street. I decided it would be more polite if I didn’t wait on her doorstep. So I walked over. I saw some nice flowers a garden club had planted and realized I hadn’t gotten her any. I looked around and didn’t see the flower police so I picked a bunch of them. When I sniffed them my eyes began to water, and I began to sneeze. Oh great, I said to myself, my allergies have started up. I sat down against a tree and laid my flowers against my chest.

  It was the first time all week that I just sat still with my hands on my lap and thought about stuff. I had been trying so hard to make everything work out so awful. It seemed like such a nutty thing to want to do, to force disasters on myself, when there were so many disasters that occurred naturally. Maybe I had plenty of trouble to write about already if I just stopped thinking there was an even bigger disaster around the corner.

  I began to count up all the things that had gone wrong in just over a week. I think the fall on my head was a little worse than I thought because counting my mistakes was like counting sheep and I dozed off. When I opened my eyes about two hours later, her lights were on. By then my allergies were so bad I was sneezing, and had trouble breathing.

  “Suck it up,” I said to myself. “It’s show time!”

  I walked across the street and pressed the doorbell. Suddenly I let loose with a huge openmouthed sneeze and a great big yellow-and-green loogie shot ou
t of my mouth and right in the middle of the flowers. Before I could shake it off the door opened. It was a girl about Pete’s age. “Hi,” she said, then began to laugh like a hyena. She covered her mouth, then left me standing there as she ran off and hollered, “Dan! Our friend is here.”

  I was squeezing the chewing gum back behind my tooth when I heard another girl say, “Darn. I thought we were gone long enough to blow him off.”

  Then the bartender stepped out from behind the door. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “what’s up?”

  “I’m not sure,” I stammered. “I thought I had a date with Virginia.”

  “You must have come to the wrong address,” he replied.

  For a moment I believed him. Maybe I did go to the wrong house. Maybe she was waiting for me elsewhere. But he had only given me one address. I pulled the piece of Yankee Clipper notepaper out of my top pocket. “This is what you wrote down,” I said.

  He took it from my hand and looked it over. “Wow, I made a big mistake,” he said, and slapped his forehead with his hand. Just watching made my forehead hurt as if I’d been hit with a tuning fork. “I gave you my address instead of hers.”

  Just then the young girl ran up behind him and pushed her way between him and the door. She waved my photograph in the air. “Did you write this?” she asked, then turned it over and pointed at my head. “You don’t have that lump in the picture,” she said.

  Before she could answer, the bartender pulled her back behind the door.

  “Give me that,” he said.

  I could hear the scuffling of feet and figured they were having a tug-of-war with the photograph.

  “Ow!” she suddenly hollered. “Ow!” Then I heard her fall to the floor with a slap. “I’m telling,” she howled, then ran down the hall screaming, “Virginia, Dan hit me!”

  He returned looking a little sweaty and ran his hands through his hair. “For ten dollars,” he said, holding the ripped photograph in his hand, “you can have this back.”

  I just stood there, dumfounded, trying to catch on to what was happening. Why were they all together? How did they know each other? And then everything began to clear up. “You tricked me,” I said. “You must be Virginia’s brother.”