January was even more squishy and miserable than usual in that deep redwood canyon. The White tribe glumly referred to their little hamlet as “Soggynitas,” because the quagmire in the driveway wasn’t going to dry out till June. Their spirits were dampened even more when Jimbo took off again – suddenly and without warning – leaving Marge depressed and lethargic. It wasn’t difficult to see the pattern: she couldn’t keep one man around for very long. Eventually they’d “slip out the back, Jack,” or she’d drive them away – it was hard to tell which. Then she’d sit on the couch with her dog, Skippy, chain-smoking Marlboro Lights and drinking can after can of Miller Lite beer. Neither product was “light” in its cumulative effect on her mood. A nicotine fog of dour pessimism suffocated her natural good humor, and affected all who came within range of her gloom cloud. A palpable vapor of discontent turned the wintertime cabin into a veritable gas chamber, removing all joy from the air and chasing the tenants into their bedrooms. Marge willed herself to be sick as a way to embody her despondent sense of self-pity. She put on her sick clothes, gathered all her sick paraphernalia on the coffee table, and watched sick TV shows all day; getting up only to grab another beer or go pee. If she had an ice chest and a bedpan, she wouldn’t have to get up at all! Trying to engage her in a pep talk only made it worse. “C’mon mom, you should take a shower and get cleaned up,” Marty sniffed one day, trying not to hold his nose when he and Mike walked in the front door and were smothered by a rank wave of stale cigarettes and sour beer.
She had waited all day for this moment, and launched into her routine. “Why bother,” she moaned, “Nobody wants me, I’m just old and fat and unlovable!” she took off her glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “Skippy is my only friend,” she hugged him clumsily as he thumped his tail on the filthy couch and pleaded with his large, moist eyes for someone to put him out of his misery.
“No way, Marge,” Mike said, “You’ve had lots of guys who loved you…” he trailed off, realizing the past tense of his statement was not likely to cheer her up.
“They’re all gone! I’m too old and sick!” she sobbed dramatically, then realized she could use the pathos to her advantage, “And I’m out of cigarettes.”
“We’ll get some for you,” Mike replied quickly, as a way to give them both an excuse to leave. It was already dark, and there would be no hot food unless they got something and made it themselves. Outside, Marty told his older brother he didn’t feel good about contributing to the toxins that were poisoning their mom. Mike agreed, “Yeah, she should quit for a while, but if we don’t get ‘em for her, she’ll just go out in this shitty weather, and that’s worse.” He was right. Driven by a blasting wind, the raindrops were chasing each other like tiny porpoises through the canyon. Marty bought some dusty old cans of chicken noodle soup at the Lagunitas Store, where the proprietor was nowhere to be seen, so he just left some money on the counter. They leaned into the rain with their slickers all the way home, and made grilled cheese sandwiches with the back door open to let in the fresh air. Every once in a while Marty was lashed by spray, as if trying to cook on the foredeck of a ship in a storm. The creek was still very high, and the stormy canyon air was moist and cold, but smelled deliciously clean.
The furnace that Jimbo installed in their “barefoot burner” was better than the old one, but still couldn’t heat the entire small cabin. Mike and Marty never felt any of its warmth in their bedroom, as the creek sucked all the heat out though the thin hull of their “ship.” The walls were so damp that the posters were beaded with condensation from the humidity in the air. One reason that nothing could dry out was that it never got above 60, and was often much colder than that. Marty was sure to protect all his artwork in plastic trash bags because the paper dimpled and colors started to run. He tried to recover a few dampened pages with Susie’s blow dryer, but it blew out a fuse instead. His bedding was moist all the time, and got mildewed in the corners if he didn’t take them over the hill every weekend and dry them thoroughly at the laundromat. He remembered Jimbo saying they couldn’t have a washing machine because they had a small septic tank. In spite of that limitation, Marty reasoned that if everyone cut back on the money spent on cigarettes and beer, they might be able to afford an electric dryer in the shed to freshen up their clothes regularly. One look at Marge slouching on the sofa told him that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
The dark and moldy days continued until they all felt the malady of “fungus among us,” and Marge got truly sick. She coughed constantly, and started running a fever. Marty took a day off school and drove her into San Rafael in her Toyota to see Dr. Zanotti, a tall, decent gentleman who knew their family when they were whole, and continued to attend to their needs even when they couldn’t pay him very much. After a thorough stethoscope examination, he concluded she had the flu and scolded her to stop smoking. Peering over his bifocals, he scowled with concern after palpating her abdomen. “Your liver’s a little swollen there, Marge, you might want to quit drinking, too.”
“I’m fat, that’s all.” She was on a roll, now that she had a sympathetic ear. “Fat and ugly, and nobody loves me.” It was true she was becoming a little plump in the middle, but she still had her natural good looks. However, she was unwilling to accept any compliments that might motivate her to take care of herself. It was a bummer to see such a loving, open-hearted person get stuck in the muck like that.
Predictably, Mike and Marty both caught the same flu bug, and huddled under slightly damp blankets in their dungeon sanitarium, watching soap operas on the couch with Marge. They all stayed home from work and school except for Susie, who boarded over at the McAuliffes’ house so she could catch a ride to school. There was little money coming in, and the propane tank needed refilling, but the patients of the sanitarium were too sick to care what happened to them. They were oblivious to comfort. Prompted by Susie, Tillie’s mom Millie came over one day with a casserole, and as Marty recalled later, they must have looked pretty bad, because her face became grim and her lips formed a tight, resolute line as she inspected the condition of the house. The dismal fog got to her, too, they thought morosely, as she hastily left after a few terse but well-meaning platitudes.
To everyone’s surprise, she returned later with her entire family! Susie and Tillie tried to move Marge off the couch into the little corner room. She was nearly delirious with fever, and wouldn’t budge until Gilly cleverly moved the TV in there. Hilly and Little Billy loaded boxes of dirty laundry into his truck and went over the hill to wash and fold. Embarrassed, Mike and Marty feebly tried to help, but Millie chased them into their room with a mop, and proceeded to muck out the house, opening all the windows “to let out the bad air.” Then Big Billy brought in two big electric heaters, and arranged to have the propane tank filled. Meanwhile, Tillie and Susie washed the dishes and removed the spoiled food from the refrigerator. Gilly built a fire with a box full of seasoned logs he brought, and set up a rack to dry their firewood, which was damp and moldy like everything else. Somebody must have called Julie, because she showed up with pizza for everyone, and several sacks of groceries. By the mercy of those angels, the castaways who were shipwrecked in the Lagunitas Triangle were transported to a snug and warm cabin. Mike and Marty thanked their rescuers profusely when they got their energy back, but their neighbors refused to be repaid for the propane or other kindnesses. That was how the crew sailed.
Marty missed a week of school, but didn’t care much because his grades were in the tank already. Last semester, his temporary dislike of the teachers he had for some important subjects left a permanent scar on his GPA. All over school, most of the kids in their junior year were eagerly discussing the preferred colleges to which they would apply. They made appointments with the guidance counselors to find out what classes they needed to take, or which extracurricular activities would make them look good on their applications. Few of the bleacher creatures were expected to attend college, and they sneered with contempt at the “preppies” who were excited about Cal, Stanford, or Ivy League colleges back east. Thoughts of higher learning were painful for Marty, because his grades were nowhere near the level needed to obtain a scholarship, which was the only possible way he could afford tuition. Back when his parents were together, it was a foregone conclusion that he would attend Ohio State, where generations of his dad’s family had earned degrees in chemistry, law, and journalism. The White family even had a building on campus named after them. However, in Marty’s present circumstances, the chances of attending were remote at best, and so he adopted the disdainful opinions of his friends towards college education.
In spite of his misgivings, the second semester of his third year had some interesting classes. He already had most of the core credits he needed to graduate, and loaded up his schedule with electives. For example, the journalism class had a new instructor, so Marty and some of his old classmates signed up. Willard was there (he went by Will now), and also Carl and Melissa from Lagunitas School. They had all become what the bleacher creatures derisively referred to as “rah-rahs,” meaning they were involved in school spirit to a nauseating degree. That faction was dominant on the Jolly Roger staff, as one of the co-editors was Michelle, the cheerleader, who was officially (by both male and female consensus) the prettiest girl in school. The rest of the upper echelon of journalism students included Doris the Homecoming Queen, Alicia and Jenny from the Yell Leaders, and a couple of basketball stars: Russ and Mark. Marty was considered the token freak, with his long hair and grungy clothes, but Mrs. Hess, the instructor, was very accepting of cultural differences, and enthusiastic about the hippie kid’s drawing and writing skills. She gave him a permanent spot for Nertz, and encouraged him to write a humorous column, too. Summoning all his skill and originality as a rising star in the school society, he dubbed it “The White Pages.”
Marty was also enjoying his AP English class with Mr. Levine, a lively and erudite man who was a college basketball coach at Cal. Coaching allowed him only enough time to teach the one class he loved: English Literature. His enthusiasm for the classics was infectious, and it was in his class that Marty discovered many great writers that he probably wouldn’t have encountered at the Rusty Bucket Ranch. Humanist writers such as Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dickens, and Dostoevsky were his favorites, and he quoted them often with dramatic flair. He devoured literature like it was a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies at a stoner party. Marty was especially drawn to Chekhov, with his poignant tales of regular people being utterly consumed by insurmountable tribulations. Another attractive feature of Mr. Levine’s class was the lovely Michelle, who conveniently sat next to Marty, and with whom he engaged in witty repartee. They were assigned to review each other’s work, after which Marty came away with an unexpected (probably delusional) impression that they had really connected. Poor Quasimodo felt it was incredibly uplifting to have an intelligent conversation with a beautiful young woman who didn’t try to avoid him. He fantasized about what it might be like to have a deeper relationship with her, but was firmly convinced she was out of his league.
Wood Shop was another period he enjoyed. The shop was very well equipped, and Mr. Hammer loved his students. He cared for them so much that he was a stickler for safety, and made them learn all the basic rules. “Everyone leaves here with all their fingers today!” he would yell right after taking roll. He usually did this walking around the shop, as the students quickly maneuvered to claim the most desirable equipment. Marty learned how to use a table saw, band saw, planer, drill press, and other implements of destruction that could cut off parts of his body faster than hard wood or metal if he wasn’t careful. His favorite activity was casting metal, which required making a carved wooden model first, then pressing it into sand. He crafted a wooden “Rusty Bucket Ranch” sign with the band saw, and used a router to do the lettering – just like Forest Service signs. He also made a rugged stash box out of tin, and wrestled with the drill press to fashion an elaborate, motorized table pipe. It was intricately decorated with acrylic paint in a pseudo-oriental style, with an aquarium air pump rigged to stoke the burning weed and deliver a stream of smoke through plastic tubing. The bowl was a polished, antique brass gas valve. Marty liked it so much, he constructed an even more elaborate case to hold it, decorated with cartoonish dragons, Chinese characters, and other icons. Then he remembered he had to make something he could actually turn in for a grade, so he forged a screwdriver with a laminated plastic handle. And he managed to keep all his fingers, too!
Of course he was still taking Art with Mr. Biagini, who was actually becoming Marty’s most consistent father figure, since the other male adults in his life were either drunk, transient, or absent altogether. Alicia and Chas were still there, along with the dark, intense Kim, and Lisa the little redheaded girl, who were members of the unofficial “art club.” A new sophomore, Jake, also enjoyed drawing cartoons and was quite talented. Too bad he was kind of withdrawn and didn’t share Marty’s zany sense of humor. His paintings were developing a style of their own where he applied his cartoonish flair for hard border lines with an exuberant sense of color inspired by Vincent. Mr. B. still let them play music, which made it feel more like an art festival than a classroom.
To round out his curriculum, Marty was in his 3rd year of Spanish with Mr. Garcia. The first two years in his class had been very challenging, learning all the grammar rules and tenses. By now, he and Will were two of his most advanced students, and enjoyed special privileges – even minding the classroom while he went to the “office.” They suspected he was doing other things that possibly involved the silver flask in his top drawer, but he was the coach of the Varsity football team, and wouldn’t tolerate any kidding around. Mr. Garcia was gruff to everyone except Marty and Will, possibly due to the poems the former had written about the football team, or because the latter’s dad was a minister. His tough exterior masked a gallant, Castilian heart, and Marty learned more than just Spanish from him. He taught him to question something as fundamental as language, by using his own common sense. For example, in English we say, “I broke my leg,” which is really stupid when you think about it. Why would anyone break their own leg? In Spanish, they say, “My leg got broken,” which relieves the first person of guilt, and humbly accepts the fact that shit happens.
Even history class was fascinating, because Mr. Parker, a befuddled but kindly professor type, was most definitely partaking in liquid refreshments. In the morning he would sullenly arrive with a hangover and leave the class during breaks, hustling out to the faculty parking lot to take another shot of courage in his old Volvo. (This was verified because Marty and Will tailed him covertly as guerilla reporters, but Mrs. Hess wisely wouldn’t let them print the story.) By the time sixth period came around, Mr. Parker was barely conscious. He just sat dozing in his chair, with his hands folded over his round stomach, and his chin on his chest so everyone could see his bald spot. Will started a pool to see how long it would take before he started snoring, but it never happened. Looking around the classroom one day, Marty didn’t see a single pair of eyes looking at their history book, because none of the kids cared about what happened in the past. It must have sucked to teach a class nobody liked, and Marty figured he probably would have gotten drunk, too. To register attendance, you merely had to sign a sheet on his desk, so the students developed a system where 1 or 2 of them could take rotating “days off” and others would sign them in. Mr. Parker didn’t suspect a thing, and he probably didn’t care, as long as he could take his nap. Marty used the class as a study period, and finished all his homework before going to work.
It was easy to maintain a high GPA when you actually enjoyed the teachers and classes! Unfortunately for Marty, it was too late to qualify for any kind of academic scholarship, and he couldn’t afford art school, so a lifetime of trading his life for money appeared to his only future. He decided he simply had to develop his cartooning and writing skills to give himself the best shot at the only dream within his reach!