The problem was, Marty forgot that his peers were also watching, and judging him all the time. The indefatigable arbiters of the teenage grapevine were quick to reclassify him as a gonzo radical, in the crazy, shock-journalism style of Hunter S. Thompson or Charles Bukowski. He roamed the halls with his beat-up briefcase (the only one of its kind in the entire school), wore a mixed-up hodgepodge of old and new clothes with intentional disdain for fashion, and brazenly smoked pot on campus with Boobers, Chas, and his other fellow bleacher creatures. Socially, Marty was basically blowing it. He had a great opportunity to produce witty, clever mainstream comedy and become popular, but instead he puked up dark, morbid invective that screamed for the intervention of a psychologist. Part of him wondered: if you want a girlfriend so badly, why are you making yourself so unattractive? On reflection, Marty decided he was tired of “the game.” Tired of having to behave within the constraints of the false, ritualistic masquerade called “tradition” in order to be rewarded with popularity. He yearned for a relationship that went much deeper than the mindless physicality of sex. He craved to find a soulmate with whom he could explore the depths of emotional purging that comes from being honest when it hurts the most. Like Vincent, he scurried around as an outcast in his own private world, lost in the fantasy of his art and the lonely paradox of trying to find a way to communicate with others by looking deeply inside of himself. Both artists were desperate for love, but too introverted to find it.
“One cannot always tell what it is that keeps us shut in, confines us, seems to bury us, but however, one feels certain barriers, certain gates, certain walls… Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, love – that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force.”
— Vincent Van Gogh
“I want to talk about this column you wrote,” Michelle confronted Marty directly one day in journalism class, approaching his “office” (which consisted of the beat-up desk he used in his White Pages photos, tucked away in a corner of the classroom, where he wouldn’t frighten visitors).
“Sure, I love talking with you. What’s up?” He congratulated himself on his natural response, which conveyed equal measures of sincerity and casualness. Then he lost that confidence gradually, horrifically, as she proceeded to launch into a scathing tirade about the indecency of his writing. Specifically, she ranted about his portrayal of a ferret-like school administrator who gets a nasty practical joke played on him by some students, calling it “disrespectful and degenerate!” Then she stopped, hands on hips, fuming defiantly like Hot Lips on M*A*S*H; eyes blazing with challenge to refute her moral authority.
Marty looked around, stunned, and the entire class was staring at him. The clock was ticking loudly, and he felt his cheeks getting hot. He suddenly had to use the bathroom, but noticed Melody smiling in triumph, and Will starting to crack up, and then Michelle could no longer keep a straight face, and she burst out laughing! As if on cue, all the other Jolly Roger staffers laughed at him too, with an admiring sort of mockery, and Marty turned red with embarrassment that they got him! The self-appointed King of Comedy nearly pissed his pants when the going got rough, and couldn’t defend himself. With a sheepish need to be liked, he smiled lamely like an abused puppy who gets a pat on the head for a change. Any attention is better than none at all.
By way of apology, Michelle graciously posed on his desk for a while, chatting about how much she liked his writing, and giving him a few constructive comments about word choices, timing, and sentence structure. The way she was sitting made her skirt ride up her thigh recklessly… The hard drive in Marty’s brain started to heat up, and temporarily short-circuited his mouth. Recovering his senses, he complimented her on her recent article, especially the pacing and tone. He found it hard to concentrate, not from the distraction of having a radiant blonde goddess leaning over him in her peach-colored cashmere sweater with a low neckline… but mostly because he couldn’t believe she was actually appreciating him! His heart pulsed with delight, as if a bright neon sign was flashing on and off in his blood: “She likes me! She likes me!!” Marty didn’t care if everyone in class could see him with his tongue hanging out, he lapped up every word from her perfectly proportioned lips. He was like Silly Putty in her hands.
In contrast to the ersatz Cary Grant and faux Katherine Hepburn exchanging witty repartee, the situation was increasingly grim in Teheran. President Carter’s clumsy efforts at diplomacy had failed. In fact, the militants who were holding the hostages were a new type of criminal called “terrorists,” who were immune to negotiation and extremely belligerent. They had released a few hostages for their propaganda value, but the rest were in grave danger. If they started killing hostages it was going to be World War Three. The Russians were insinuating themselves into the conflict by siding with the Iranians, the hawks over in Washington were screaming for blood, and day after day Carter did nothing. The recent SALT treaty between the superpowers to reduce nuclear arms had no relevance. They already had enough nukes aimed at each other to destroy all life on the planet many times over, and now the two sides were on red alert, with itchy fingers on the triggers. If I’m gonna get laid before I die, Marty lamented, I’d better do it soon!
Mike & Annie were still unofficially not seeing each other – a juicy bit of chinwag that did not go unnoticed among the gossip mongers at the bleachers, even though Mike didn’t attend the same school anymore. Annie was chronically depressed and oddly lethargic, wandering forlornly around campus like a half-deflated balloon after a birthday party. She stopped asking Marty about Mike, and when he got home he had to deal with another dejected, sagging face. Marty felt like the best thing to do would be for them to stay in bed together for a week with a half-ounce of sinsemilla and a box of condoms, but then he’d lose the use of his room for quite a while. Finally he got tired of all the dreary innuendo, and the pregnant sighs, and got straight to the point.
“Look, man, if either of you wanted to break up, you would have found someone else by now,” Marty advised Mike in his best brotherly tones. It had been about a month since they had their falling out, but it was difficult to say exactly when it happened.
“I dunno, man, she’s tripping.” The bubbling of a bong accentuated his assessment. Mike was stoned nearly all the time when he wasn’t at school, including the times when he had to work.
“No, you’re tripping,” Marty jabbed straight in through the opening, “You have a beautiful girl who’s in love with you, and a long history together, and instead you’re scrounging roaches.” It was true, he had run out of pot and was scavenging bits of unfinished joints from the ashtrays. The first part of what Marty said was also true, and he spoke it forcefully with pent-up frustration.
Mike was not the type of guy to open up about his feelings, or admit when you had hit a nerve, but Marty could tell he was affected by what he’d said because he wouldn’t look him in the eye. Then he got an idea. “Hey, I know what I can do. I’ll tell Annie you want to talk to her, and bring her to a neutral place like Sam P.” (That was the state park nearby.) “You guys can sleep in a tent together if it works out. If not, I’ll drive you right back home,” Marty concluded triumphantly. Thanksgiving weekend was coming up, and the weather was still unusually dry, but the nights were cold enough to encourage fierce cuddling.
“Yeah, okay, whatever.” Mike mumbled in a non-committal tone. “As long as you hang around. I don’t wanna walk home. She’ll probably just leave me there.”
“Hell, yeah! You’re my brother.” Marty socked him affectionately on the shoulder. “Besides, you’re getting a little moldy.” It was true, he had not been taking care of his personal hygiene, and needed a subtle reminder of that basic prerequisite for scoring.
Annie was immediately suspicious of a trap, but was willing to give it a try (for lack of anything else to do), and so Marty paid for a campsite down at the park, and called her to come in about an hour. Then he drove Mike down to the campground, where they smoked a joint together “for courage,” and sat on the picnic table, drinking a couple of cold ones and waiting.
“I’ll bet she’s not gonna come,” Mike scratched nervously in places that hadn’t been used much lately, then got up to go pee.
“Look!” Marty made him turn around, because Annie’s familiar blue and white Bronco had arrived at their campsite. She seemed uncertain about whether to get out of her car, and kept the engine running just in case. Marty strategically went for a walk, but stayed within sight of the drama, which promised to be better than anything on TV for the new fall season. The plot was predictable, but quite enjoyable to watch, because like most American shows because it reinforced one’s preconceptions. The action wound up being more like football, and certainly not something they would allow on television, anyway. Annie broke out of her huddle and sprung out of the Bronco at the snap, dodged a block from the door she’d flung open, and ran straight to Mike, cleaving to him the way a middle linebacker takes down a running back. The two of them barely got inside the tent before they had ripped each other’s clothes off like lions in heat.
“My work here is done,” Marty said over his shoulder to the walls of the shaking tent, as he packed up his own gear, and headed back to the Rusty Bucket Ranch for another long night dreaming of Michelle.