Dude, phone sex

 

Patrick will call me again that night.

 

“Dude man, I spoke with Amiee for 12 hours last night. I got home from my Aunt Cheryl’s around 9 and she called and we were on the phone until 5 in the morning.”

I tell Patrick congratulations.

“Not only that dude, we had sex.”

“What?”

I inquire if he went over to her house.

 

“No man. Better, We phoned fucked for three hours.”


"......"

She kept telling me where to put my hand and making up scenarios. She was an airline stewardess who was also a Mormon and we were flying over the grand canyon and she needed help closing the bathroom door…”

“Okay I get it..”

“Then we were astronauts in out of space and the oxygen was dripping away in the shuttle and we only had seconds to live and we decided to slough the armor of our respective space suits and..” 

“Pat bro I get your gist!!!”

He is laughing. He is referring to Aimee as his soul mate. He is referring to her as the bomb.

“I mean, but you have never officially met her, How did you guys have sex?”

“Dude, we stroked ourselves.” 

I have no clue what he is talking about. Somehow I picture Patrick with Amy paddling on  antipodal sides of the canoe.

No man, he like told me where her hands were and I told her where my hand was and the next thing you know.

I tell Patrick I don’t want to hear it. Patrick tells me that he hasn’t stroked something so hard since he was playing Qbert on the old Atari joystick.

“Dude man, I think I’m fucking in love.”  Patrick says that he ,literally had to clean up the phone with a whole can of WD40 if you know what I mean. I tell him I don't. Patrick sighs.

“Pat you haven’t met her yet. Maybe it will be totally repelled by her.”

 

“Dude,” Pat tells me, “I’m in love with her soul.”

Thanksgiving 1992

It is the largest paper of the year. Tomorrow is Black Friday. Thanksgiving is the paper where all the adds for the next day will be delivered..

It is a crisp morning. I am awaiting the announcement for the next Young Columbus. I am hoping the trip will again be to Paris. Since it is technically a holiday and the largest paper of the year the Journal Star does not arrive until 6am.

I brew myself a pot of coffee.  I think about Renae and how we tentatively have plans to go out next Friday and double date with Patrick and Amy. I think about how I still limp down the hallways of Manual and how my leg is part of wound. How Patrick is leaving Manual in six weeks. How he talks to May for five ours every night and purportedly does stuff with her that Renae and I can't even fathom.

It is Thanksgiving. As is tradition we watch the Macy's Parade in New York and listen to Christmas music before heading to my Uncles house off Airport road in Baratonville, where we will light candles and go around the room and say what we are thankful for and my father will say grace and their will be two dinner tables, one for the adults upstairs and one for the kids in the garage and we will eat and watch videos and the it will start getting dark around 4pm and the grown up will play cards and drink boxed wine while the kids eat leftovers and pumpkin pies (2 diabetic pumpkin pies for  the diabetic members of the family) and laugh and the next day, somehow, Christmas will be here.


Thanksgiving is when I see my cousin Shana  (not my biological cousin, my cousin's cousin from marriage) and harbor and unadulterated crush. Shana who always listens to me. Shana who is lanky and wears tight jeans. Shana who I flirt with and sit next to. Shana who attends Rochester high school in Springfield.


 She is beautiful. She is absolutely no relation to me.

 Her school colors on her jacket for Rochester High School are the exact same as MHS. 

 It is gray outside. I miss Renae. I am exactly on the same longitude of rrnae’s house only she lives a mile and a half away.

I keep the Gideon bible and the picture of Renae on me in opposing pockets at all time.

                                                                              ***

It is the album with the wrecking ball asterisk on caver and the CD that is yellow. The album that is acoustically mellow.  The album that when  play the first song  everything stops when the song plays.  It is a butterfly of frets. The entire album sounds like one out drawn pause. The sounds a paragraph makes at the beginning of the sentence when the narrative is new and the reader has absolutely no clue what is to come.

 

                                                                               ***


Sometime around Mid November every time we get off the phone we start saying love you. We say it rather fast as if love you is one word, an esophageal swallowing syllable. Somehow it starts. After our conversation about band any because there’s no way in hell the football team is going to advance, after Renae talking about speech. After Renae telling me how Amy won't shut up about Patrick and myself telling her the same, we say I love you, instead of saying goodbye

                                                            ***

“There’s a really beautiful song on that record called everybody hurts.” Renae says, her voice, arching above the treble clef like a helium balloon tied to the wrist of some innocent child.

“Oh,” I say again, over the phone, checking the mirror for personal verification that my fortress of hair is in place.

“Yeah,” Renae says, with a squeal.

                                                                                      ***

It is Thanksgiving and I am talking to my cousin Larry. We are playing basketball on the makeshift court my uncle made. Larry is five years older than I am. He is in a band. He is in his fifth year of high school. He has a girlfriend who plays bass and wears fuchsia finger nail polish and has a two year old.

In a way my cousin Larry looks just like Johnny Depp with a Michael J. Fox smirk and a Eric Stotlz (Irish Southside  Chicago) goatee.

“And My girlfriend looks just like Rikki Lake.” Larry says. We go out back, near the basketball hoop. The same hoop I perennially seem to get the ball stuck in between the hoop and the back board for some reason every time I shoot.

“Here,” He says, propping open his wallet. “Here’s a picture of her.” The photograph slides out from the interior of his wallet like a condom. Her forehead is a white planetarium dome. Her eyes emerald. She is beautiful.

“Here,” I say, unveiling the photograph of Renae. There is silence.

 

“Damn.” Larry says, fingering the photograph as if he is holding the wings of a butterfly. He nods his chin up and down in concurrence and, in a monotone reminiscent of Michael J. Fox, slowly open up his nicotine chimney mouth and splattering out the following sounds:

“Not bad, bro…..”

Not bad.

    ***

   David Hale is telling my dad that Renae Howard is always seen kissing someone else, sometimes maybe two boys at once in between classes. I call up Dave and tell him to knock it off.

            “She’s not making out with anyone else, Dave.” From across the phone lines I can hear him disagree.

            “Dude,” I tell him again, “She’s not making out with anyone else. She’s a flirt, which is fine, but I know for a fact that she doesn’t kiss anyone else.”

            Dave asks me how do I know this.

We talk on the phone every day. I think we’re both in love.

            Hale requests to know what do I mean when I say that I “think” that we are both in love.

            “Dave, we both can’t stop thinking about each other. It’s mutual. Every time we see each other we just can't refrain from touching.

"She's with other people." Hale says again. "That's why she hates me so much. I know."

                                                            ***

            “You know what I call Renae,” says Eggplant Elmore who for some reason always feels compelled to talk with me about renae when I am standing over the urinal after first service, waiting for Sunday school to convene.

            “What?” I ask him.

            “Renae Hoe-ward.” Elmore says, sounding arrogant. “I mean she flirts with everyone.”

            “That’s fine.” I tell him. I tell him. I really don’t care.

            Somewhere deep in my pocket is the mossy-color to the Gideon bible I carry around with me every day.

                                                            ***

           

 Renae tells me that her dad drinks every night. That he is always drunk. That at least twice a month she has to take the spare car drive down to the bar and pick him up because  he didn't want to risk getting another DUI and losing his license for good.


"But you're only fifteen. You don't have a license. You could get in serious trouble if you were caught driving a vehicle by yourself without a license."

Renae just shrugs. She says that she just drives cautious and slow.

"Besides, I'm a relly goo driver."


Renae tells me that its just 124 days until she gets her license and her freedom.

"Then we can see each other all the time." She says, with a little smile. 

                                                                          

                                                                                  ***

 

            “She did not make out with anyone else.” I tell my best friend.

            “Yes she did,” He suggests, telling me that it was two different guys pressed up against the locker with somehow their torsos rattling.

            “Stop it, Dave.” I tell him, unable to properly discern why my best friend and my girlfriend just can’t get the fuck along.

            “Seriously, I swear to God. You can ask Randall. She was making out with someone else.”

            “Who?” I demand.  A pasture of silence envelopes between us.

            Dave later tells me that he has no clue who, but it was some guy.

            “I don’t believe you.” I tell my best friend, “ I don’t believe you at all.”



                                                                           ***

It is Thanksgiving and I have not seen her in almost two weeks. We are making plans to see each other a week from Black Friday, on Dec 5^th, getting together with the gang.  Patrick has been talking with Amy nonstop for the past week.

It has been arranged that everybody is going to get together and meet at the mall.

Renae asks me if I want to know something else but I have to promise no tell anyone.

I say yeah.

                                                                         ***

“I have a message for you,” Renae says over the phone, I can still feel her lips from the night before.

Yes




                                                                       *** 

My parents ask if Renae goes to church. I lie and say she is catholic. When I tell her later in the afternoon Renae smiles, “We haven’t been to church since I was like four.”

                                                                                  *** 

“ Just wanted to call you and say, Happy Turkey Day!!!”

                                                                    

Behind I can hear that she is listening to Nirvana. She screams during the chorus.

Renae will be in the  Chicago for the Holiday. I will feel her lips  in one weeks time.

The first Friday in November. The night Patrick finally will meet  Amy.

The night I will again fall in love.      

                                                                                ***

“Apparently they got divorced when I was three and when the divorce went through they still decided that they somehow loved each other enough to tough it out.”

            “So they were legally divorced?” I ask.

            “Yes,” She says, “The divorce went through and for whatever reason they decided to tough it out.”

            “Wow,” I say

“I found out in sixth grade. And I didn’t talk to them for a whole month.”

            “A whole month?” I ask, inquisitively.

            “Yes,” She says,

            “Did they ever get remarried,” I inquire. Library silence exudes from the pentagon of her lips.

            “No,” She says. They are still not technically married I guess. Not many people know this. David doesn’t know this. Amy and Laura don’t even know this.”

            I tell her that everything she emotionally conveys to me is confidential.

            “I’m sorry,” I say, thinking about Renae last Friday, lugging her father out of the bar on one shoulder like Christ ferrying the crucifix to his demise, making sure the wing to the firebird is snapped shut as she swerves into oncoming traffic, motoring up Garfield hill, looking for Pfeiffer road, seeking Lauder avenue, the pine tree in front of her house that looks like it is somehow metaphysically brushstroked onto the atmosphere of the planet.

                                                            ***

“Do you drink?” I ask Renae. There is no pause. There is simply a high pitched squeal which sounds like there is an m somewhere in front of it.

            “Mmmmmmyeah!!!!” Renae says.

            The bible is still somewhere in my pocket,

            “What do you drink?” I inquire, thinking about her father, too drunk to place the keys to his firebird into the ignition. Renae answers back almost imminently.

            “Peach schnapps.” She says.

                                                            ****

            “You don’t mind that I’m a flirt?”

            “Not at all,” I say, before telling her that I flirt too.

            “Just don’t flirt too much,” She adds, telling me that she can’t imagine her life without me.

                                                                      ***

I tell Renae that she is welcomed to come to church with me. I tell her that religion is an important part of my life. I tell her that we can arrange to see each other more if she gets a ride with David to church.

            “It’s not that bad.” I try to tell her. I even use the word fun. I note that she even went to six flags two summers ago with the youth group and that she claimed that she had a good time.

            “Nothing against church at all.” Renae notes, “It’s just that I really like sleeping in on Sunday morning. It’s like the best day of the week to sleep. ”


                                                                           ***

Her step father, my Uncle Alan who is not really my Uncle Alan plays the coolest song I have ever heard after dinner.

You just have to hear this man. This is amazing.

It is cosmic. He is whistling up  cleffs.

This dude’s name is Eric Johnson. He does nothing short of wail.

Uncle Allan is referring to me as dude.

"Just listen to this. You are gonna love this ."

At the end of the song I can't move.

Later I learn that it is written about a place in England.

It is almost two months since Columbus day.

I wonder if the contest will happen at all.

 

                                                                         ***

“I just bought your Christmas gift.” Renae says, over the phone one week after our sister Act date where we could not keep our fingers off of each other. I tell her that Christmas is not for another month away. She tells me that she couldn’t help it.

          

“Where did you buy it at?” I inquire. She tells me that if she told me it would give the gift away. She then asks me if I know a certain store in the mall. I tell her that I don’t. Renae smiles and then says the word good. We begin talk about her pending speech competitions. Somewhere Dawn Michelle is competing like a feral feminine beast, flagellating he histrionics of her voice across the chins of the judges in all  on the north side of town.


I tell her that it has been too long. I tell her that I can't believe Patrick and Amy are monopolizing every second when they are not in school tugging at each others vocal chords via the phone.  Renae informs me that she has never seen Amy this smitten before.

                                                             

                                                                   ***

 It is Thanksgiving. There is boxed Franzia wine and beer. Dad doesn’t mind if I have a glass of wine while eating dinner. Before Thanksgiving my Uncle Larry will have devotions and we will hold hands in a circle that looks more like a deflated Zeplin and we will state what we are thankful for.  There are always 12 pumpkin pies downstairs, three being diabetic.



I am hanging out with Shana my step cousin trying not to make a it blatantly obvious that I have a crush on her. She asks me about my girlfriend. I show her a picture of Renae.  When none of the adults are looking she pours herself a glass of Franzia and chugs it. She asks me if I want a cup. For some reason I am thinking about Renae driving her dad drunk up Smithville hill last Friday night even though Renae doesn't have a license. For some reason I think drinking is wrong and if I get caught drinking I will upcoming track season.

I'm fine I tell Shan. She slams another cup. I think about Renae in Chicago. I think about how I will see her in one weeks time.

I wonder if I love her or if I am just going through the actions subconsciously emulating every televised teen-aged drama I have ever seen.

When I go into the Living room Bob Costas is interviewing Siskel ampersand  Ebert.

They are talking about Holiday movies.

My favorite Holiday movie is Renae.