An Awkward Retelling

This is a miniature golf scorecard, only five holes scored. It came from a course around here, in June perhaps – the season couples couple in double date pairs, laughing overtly loud, always arms snaking around one another’s waists with each unguarded moment. Missy had brought me here because it was romantic.

Most of the holes we’d played were not particularly agonizing, enjoyable almost. Missy tilted her chin slightly heavenward when leaning in for a putt. Her sunflower colored polo shirt hinting at her perked tits, her fingers fitting together like puzzle pieces over the club’s grip.

Oh, memories.

When I’d finally gathered The Heartbreakers into one place – the local McDonalds – I felt I could finally approach the situation. The situation they had caused. So I peered out at their McDonalds-satiated faces and said, “Unbelievable,” though as I said this, I recalled how these hyenas, this herd of perpetual laughers, acted, in fact, completely believable. There were, of course, details that were suspect, perhaps unbelievable, but on the whole, the situation in question, the pulling down of Gerald’s pants was not only believable, but routine, standard. Eddie’s gaze was fixed coldly on me, his jaw looking stressed and boxy.

I continued to prod, not letting this deter me. “Un-fucking-believable,” I repeated, allowing my voice to snowball with agitation. “You’re sitting there with your little wangs safely stashed away in the tidy-whiteys your moms buy for you.”

They laughed. And they squirmed a little. Precisely.

I said, “You never thought for one second, one goddamn second, how this would reflect on me. Did you?”

They never did.

But there was still Tammy. Tammy had a plump, ruddy face that was pimpled, but not particularly noticeable. Her hair was short and chestnut colored, which fluffed out in the back like a knot of feathers. Sometimes she wore a ribbon in the bangs. She didn’t completely fit the description of a geek or misfit, not like the ones I’d seen in the halls or the gym bleachers – leaning forward, chins resting on palms, staring out into the crowd, hopeful and sad.

And Eddie had always felt an awkwardness with Tammy, and had been a bit too overjoyed when he no longer had an obligation to her as such. His new girlfriend, Sonya, painfully gorgeous, a sapphire eyed, silk-haired bilingual girl from St. Petersburg he’d met at an epic keg party in Deer Park, where she’d just become single and he had been rip-roaring drunk with much too much to say to everyone. Eddie and Sonya were dating only a couple days – long enough to keep Tammy at an unapproachable distance. I really wasn’t entirely sure what had gone wrong, except Sonya had a penchant for making out in public places and Tammy was shy and embarrassed easily.

All these tragically melodramatic details converged on a single point: my revenge.

I’d remembered a story Tammy had written in an English class. She spoke of herself in the third person like this:

Friday afternoon he drove them down the boulevard. After explaining the rules over Mozart’s Requiem, he parked in front of the pub; the one he’d said was white trash. The pub he’d chosen was decorated in Christmas lights even though it wasn’t Christmas. Hanging from the roof was a sign, Tony’s, and in the window a placard read, Bathrooms for customer use ONLY. His idea was to yell “white trash” into the pub and run. Tammy, who was a nervous girl with a pudgy face, listened without saying anything when he said she would be the one driving the getaway. The other boys, a set of paternal twins, rolled with curious laughter in the backseat. Their seatbelts pressed against their abdomens, slackening and then tightening. He slid a gum stick into his mouth and opened the car door. He kept his head down and walked toward the pub. He let an old man pass him on the sidewalk. He’d just come to make friends laugh and was in no particular rush.

He swung the door open and yelled it, white trash, and then ran. Tammy put the car in gear, just as the patrons appeared at the door, in plenty of time to stage a getaway. Tammy did not find this funny. There was not a high five between them, just the minimum exchange of driving directions, the necessary information. While he slapped the dashboard with elation, Tammy slowed for a traffic light and wondered why these sorts of things were so funny to him. She was a senior and sixteen years old, and it seemed to her other seniors, especially ones in AP classes – like him, a boy who’d gotten into Dartmouth – must grow up and forget these silly things. They will share that, someday, she thought. But he enjoyed being the clown – not being mean, just a clown. She gave up trying to make him stop laughing. She looked into the rearview mirror and could see the main turnpike with a distant, illuminated McDonalds arch peering from the distance of another town. Behind the arch was a sky without clouds. There was a line of traffic behind them. A song by Jethro Tull began playing.

The boy finished laughing, and then so did the twins. He looked at her and said, “Stop the car.” He thanked her, switched seats, and drove her back to her house.

Well. After I remembered this juicy slice of information, I asked Tammy to meet me after school, in her car. Once we were both in the car – with windows rolled up – I ran a hand over my nonexistent hairline. Before explaining exactly what I had in mind I swooped the can of diet cola out of her hand and took a mighty swig. The air felt light and airy yet still a bit cool. It must have been April. Her car was a dim color and falling apart except for a shinny icon on the dashboard. I swished the soda and cringed; it was flat and bitter. Her eyes were tiny, red and perennially tear laden. It reminded me of a bulldog.

I stepped out of the car, out of earshot of Tammy, and called him. On the second ring, Eddie answered, and immediately I felt strangely like the first time I’d called Missy.

“What are you saying?” Eddie said, after I’d explained myself. “Listen to yourself. You sound like an ass.”

“Regardless,” I went on. “I…”

He put me on hold to take another call.

“Now what were you saying?” he said when he came back on the line.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

The silence over the phone was its own statement, and when Eddie coughed a phlegm-cackling cough, it was obvious this was to be the last thing we’d share.

“How did it go?” she asked as I opened the door.

“Wonderful,” I said.

We drove a bit and she followed me into McDonalds, her shoes squeaking on the freshly mopped floor, a satchel bouncing at her side.

“You can’t imagine what he’s really like,” I said, waiting in line. “He never really liked you.”

“He didn’t?” she said, looking indifferent. “Well, I tried.”

“He needed a car and a driver to chauffer him around but he didn’t find you attractive,” I said. “I disagreed, I told him you were – I mean you are – you are attractive.”

“You did?” she said.

“And he believed me,” I said.

The cashier took my order.

“Just a diet soda for me,” she added.

I balanced everything on a tray, and we sat down in a booth.

After a while I said, “We’re going to that bar today if you haven’t already figured that out yet.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “That’s fine.”

“And do you know why?”

“Do I have to say?” she began, nervously.

That Friday, Tammy and I met as planned, and every nerve ending in my body seared with hatred. I had only felt like this once before, when I’d screamed SLUT at Missy’s father. I’d forgotten how one’s mistakes rise from the feeling.