The Christmas issue of the Jolly Roger devoted its entire back page to an extremely detailed doodle Marty had completed the month before. It was a random collage of images resulting from a cartoonist’s free association, depicting anything and everything that popped into his mind, from Laurel & Hardy to the Ayatollah Khomeini wearing a beanie. When the school psychologist saw it, she quit her job. She also may have been influenced by his column, about a meek loser who couldn’t do anything right… including his own suicide. Marty was using his artistic output to mitigate the intense feelings that wandered, dazed in his head, like starving reindeer in a dark, frozen tundra. The more he retreated into his fantasies, the more despondent he became about his unsuccessful attempts to get closer to Michelle, and his concern regarding a certain remark she made about the “tough time” she was going through. At least his leg was finally feeling better, and he didn’t need the crutches anymore.
It was Michelle herself who rescued him, catching him entirely off guard as he slumped into class one day. “This drawing is incredible, Marty! There’s so much detail!” she gushed, her eyes blazing with creative resonance, waving the latest issue at him the way a maiden hails a knight with her handkerchief. The skin-tight jeans she wore nearly knocked him off his horse! “How long did it take you to do this?”
“Um, pretty much two months… you can see the inscription down here around the light bulb…” he sidled around to give her a better look, and she hovered there angelically, a mere half inch away from touching him, with her white, lacy blouse ruffled like downy feathers. His nostrils guzzled her sweet fragrance, and the hairs on his arm reached out to her longingly. “Hey, I know,” he offered with nervous playfulness, “Let’s play ‘I Spy.’ I’ll say something, and you see if you can find it.” She agreed happily, and the two of them spent the last ten minutes of class like little kids playing in kindergarten, lost in the silliness of the cartoons.
The bell rang all too soon, breaking the spell, and Michelle fixed upon Marty again that appraising, yet appreciative look, saying pointedly, “I like the way your mind works. It’s so unique.” Her eyes delivered a perfumed note that all was forgiven, and they could resume their friendship – this time, hopefully, without all the drama. Actually, there was an actual note passed… in the form of her phone number written on a gum wrapper. Marty exulted silently as her denim hips swayed down the hall, wanting to scream in triumph: Omigod! The Most Beautiful Girl in School just gave me her phone number!!
“Giant steps are what you take, walking on the moon.
I hope my legs don’t break, walking on the moon.
We could be together, walking on the moon.”
— The Police
Marty floated so lightly to art class that his shoes didn’t squeak. She wants me to call her! There is hope after all! He examined that gum wrapper in art class as if it was an original Rembrandt etching. Her phone number was written with such charm, with curlicues on the sixes and a European cross on the seven. He fell in love with that gum wrapper, and not just because it smelled so good. “Mmm. Juicy Fruit,” said the big Chief to Jack Nicholson, on the movie screen of his mind.
Speaking of silver screens, the new Star Trek movie was finally out, with all the original cast members from the TV show. Marty went to see it with his “geek” friends from D & D: Chas, Iggy, and Seth. He got a kick out of seeing Leonard Nimoy back in his role as Spock, after he had tried to distance himself from that character for a decade. The great actor couldn’t deny that it was easily the most iconic role in the history of science fiction, and Marty presumed they paid him a lot to do it! It was nice to see a Sci Fi movie that actually had a plot, although the characters were certainly the main focus. The idea that the Voyager space probe would come back to earth in several hundred years was innovative and thought-provoking, since the real probe had been beaming back pictures of Jupiter all year. The best part of the film was that they obviously left an opening at the end for more Star Trek movies to be made. It certainly appeared that Nimoy was destined to “live long and prosper” as Spock!
Mike & Annie were back on good terms, which meant half of their shared bedroom was a warm love shack, while the other half resembled a cold and lonely hut in Antarctica. The creek was up again after the recent storm, and Marty could watch the usual assortment of debris being washed down the main current; about 15 feet from his window. It did this every year, but was no less impressive (or scary) after four winters in “Soggynitas.” From his bed, the noise was a constant roar: as if he was sleeping inside a hydroelectric plant. He could cancel it out if he turned his stereo up real loud, but of course the din never stopped, and eventually he had to turn off his music. At least the roar of the creek drowned out Mike & Annie’s erotic calisthenics, and if Marty wore his Army-issue ear protectors, he could slumber away, relatively unaware of the natural forces coursing both inside and outside his room. In the midst of this cacophonic whirlpool, he dreamed in the fantastic style of Little Nemo in Slumberland, as his bed rose up into the stream and careened down the raging rapids, as if he was whitewater rafting on a mattress. He sometimes drifted all the way out to sea through the mouth of Tomales Bay; floating off into the sunset towards Japan.
It was heartening to see Mike in good spirits again after his horrific accident and near self-destruction. The livid scar on his cheek was blending in somewhat, and losing its angry scarlet newness. The sores on his face – from a shotgun blast of windshield glass – healed up gradually, leaving small pockmarks like a bad case of acne. Annie was very solicitous of his vanity, telling him often that he looked “ruggedly handsome.” He still partied heartily, and drank more than before, but without his former cocksureness. He’d become humbly grateful to be alive, and was doing well enough at that special Mewah school, so he could graduate and start his life anew.
The other surviving victim of that infamous party, Bart’s little brother Tom, was finally back home from the hospital… but would never be the same. He was getting special tutoring and physical therapy, with a goal of maybe graduating with the rest of his class in about a year and a half. The surgeons had to reconstruct his skull to keep him alive, which didn’t do much for his looks… or his self-esteem. His mental functions had not yet recovered to full ability. Bart told Marty confidentially that his little brother had basically given up any hope of playing the clarinet or oboe ever again. His large, religious family was pitching in to try and restore his outlook, but Tom was not a happy camper. The tragic impact ripples of that excessively inebriated evening at the Rusty Bucket Ranch were still spreading through the lives of many people.
There were positive aftershocks from that epic party, as well. Marty and a lot of the teenagers he knew at school were no longer getting wasted with such intense intemperance. It was all too clear that there were very real consequences of reckless abandon. There was an unspoken understanding amongst the party people now: they had each other’s backs, and would not let any friend get so impaired that they could harm themselves or others. The problem was, the drunker they got; the more they forgot about their pledge. Still, just being aware that they were committed to something made them stop and try to remember what it was.
There was only one school day left before the holiday break at school. Marty decided it would be very strategic to leave Michelle with a pleasant memory of him during that “most wonderful time of the year.” He thought about writing her a poem on the blackboard in journalism class, but quickly dismissed that foolish notion. Sometimes his mind came up with the most insanely hyperbolic idea first, and from there he had to walk it back to being socially acceptable. A handmade Christmas card, he reasoned, would be a great way to present her with a poem to encourage fond Yuletide sentiments. With the creek bellowing through the open window, he stayed up all night to compose a sonnet that expressed his deep affection for her, but without the overtones of commitment that had caused her to shy away before. The sappy rejects got crumpled up and tossed outside, to be swiftly carried away by the torrent. Perhaps one of them found its way to a distant country across the ocean, where a winsome lass found it while walking on the beach, and was reading it now; wondering about the romantic guy who wrote such corny poetry.
On the last day before the holiday break, Marty was playing Santa, and his briefcase was loaded with presents. He was planning to present Michelle with not just the card (with his final version of the love sonnet), but also a cassette tape he’d made, which was full of songs that expressed how he felt about her. Oh, and a box of chocolates because she was sweet. (The advertising made him do it – young suitors are suckers for sappy marketing campaigns.) Clearly, the best time to bestow such charming gifts upon her would be journalism class, where they related so well. That was his first class of the day, so he had to be sharp. His all-night poetry session had worn him out, but three cups of coffee and the prospect of seeing Michelle’s smile gave him renewed vigor.
He called her at lunch and waited while the phone rang six times. He was just about to hang up when she answered in a sleepy voice, “Hello?”
“Hi Michelle? It’s Marty.”
There was an extended pause, during which he imagined she was wondering why he was calling. “Um, hi… I’m sick,” her voice finally croaked, like a pretty little tree frog.
“Yeah, I noticed you weren’t in journalism class,” he revealed truthfully. “I’m sorry you’re sick, and I hope you feel better soon… I wanted to give you a little something I made for you for Christmas, seeing it was our last day of school and all…” His pent-up anticipation was swirling over the telephone line now, like fake snow in a glass globe. “Do you mind if I drop it off? You don’t have to answer the door if you’re sick…”
She laughed, genuinely touched and amused by his obsequiousness. “Of course! I can’t talk much, but I’d love to wish you a Merry Christmas!” Marty’s heart was crawling down his sleeve, trying to get inside the phone receiver.
He drove to her house after school, knowing he’d be late for work but not caring. Her mom answered the door with a puzzled smile, until Michelle showed up in pajamas and a thick bathrobe, and invited him inside the entrance hall. “I’ll only be a minute, mom,” she said by way of dismissal, and then they were alone. Marty could hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
“Here, I made a cassette tape for you, and a Christmas card. I hope you like them.” He placed the gifts in her warm hands, which lingered on his for a moment as she thanked him. “Oh, and some candy, too. Because you’re sweet,” he added with a corny lilt to his voice, in imitation of the commercial that made him buy it.
She was flattered and delighted, then crestfallen. “Oh, but I don’t have anything for you!”
“That’s okay, I didn’t expect any –” she stepped forward and kissed him pertly on the cheek, as if it was proper social protocol for the situation. He wanted to grab her right then and embrace her long and desperately, but was afraid of being overly presumptuous. Besides, she was sick.
“Merry Christmas, Marty! Oh, I hope you don’t catch what I have,” she apologized, stepping back out of range.
“Hey, no problem,” Marty replied truthfully, flushed with rapture, “At least they would be your germs!” That made her laugh and shake her head, as if to say: what have I gotten myself into? He decided he’d better leave before things got awkward. He hoped with all his heart that the poem and love songs on the tape would do all the talking for him after he was gone. “I guess I should leave so you can rest. You don’t have to wait till Christmas to listen to the tape.” She was fingering the wrapping paper, lost in her indecipherable female thoughts.
“Thank you, Marty,” she smiled sincerely, locking onto his eyes with pleasant appreciation, and allowing a small peek behind the curtains into the window of her soul. It was an amazing experience to be aware of her; being aware of him for a few seconds. Strangely, he perceived an incongruous psychic pain, just behind the facade of her happiness, which startled him with its poignancy. Her eyes realized that he had seen through the veil, and she immediately withdrew. “I hope you have a Merry Christmas,” she said formally but sincerely, resting her hand briefly on his shoulder in farewell.
“Bye, I hope you feel better!”
“I do already.” She waved pleasantly, drawing her bathrobe tightly around the pink flannel pajamas that were so delightfully filled with her voluptuous body, and closed the door. Marty floated back to his truck like Snoopy at suppertime, without his paws touching the ground.
All the way to work, he puzzled over the concealed sadness in her eyes. Was that because of me? Or was there something else she wasn’t telling me? Somehow, he was left with the impression it was a distress signal… he was a sucker for girls in trouble, but the pain he glimpsed was so deep and raw, it had to be a secret she couldn’t tell. I hope she’s not getting married to an Arab sheikh or something, he contemplated, but that couldn’t happen to me twice… or could it?
After work Marty went to Boobers’ house to meet up with Mike, Annie, and the gang to see Star Trek again. They had gotten tired of hearing him talk about it, and agreed to spend three bucks on a ticket if he got them all stoned enough first. Shirley and Fred gave them the usual cautionary sendoff, and they burst out of the house like thoroughbreds, racing to their cars; eager to meet up on the ridge and party on the first night of vacation. Marty hopped the little picket fence around the front yard like he always did, but in the dark he didn’t see Derek’s skateboard on the other side: upside-down with its wheels in the air. His left foot landed on those wheels with all his weight, and his body spun off in three different directions at once. His leg folded like one of those aluminum tent poles with an elastic cord inside. “Yaaaah!” He screamed, even before he hit the ground. The pain was instant and excruciating, and he knew immediately it was the worst injury he’d ever experienced!
Marty was incoherent with self-concern, knowing his leg was fucked up really bad. Knees weren’t meant to bend in those directions! Mike and Boobers quickly loaded him in Annie’s Bronco and rushed him to the E.R., where the doctor performed x-rays and gave him a shot of Demerol, which Marty found to be an unexpectedly pleasant distraction amidst all the distress. One of the best effects of the drug was the sense of well-being it imparted, although it made verbal communication rather unreliable. They put him in a temporary splint, with a prescription for more pain meds, and instructions to follow up with his doctor after the swelling had gone down. The nurse told him nothing was broken, but his ankle tendons were ruptured, the knee was sprained, and possibly the hip, too. They tried to sell him some crutches for $80, but he already had a pair at home, so he just giggled and hopped to Annie’s Bronco, and they drove him home while happy little birds tweeted gaily in his head.
The next day, Dr. Z. was glad to see him, but then again, he wasn’t. Marty could tell he not at all pleased about the damage to his leg… and so soon after the last injury, too! The gentle healer made small talk while plastering a heavy cast all the way up to his mid-thigh, saying that with this kind of injury he shouldn’t put any weight on it for a while. Marty was only half listening – partly because of the happy pills he took for the pain before leaving the house, and partly because he was busy imagining how sympathetic Michelle would be about his injury. A delightful fantasy of her warm hands helping him into bed was interrupted by a question:
“Do you have your old medical records?” Dr. Z. was speaking loudly and slowly, as if Marty couldn’t understand English very well (which in his present state was probably true).
“You told me he had casts on his legs as a baby, right?” Dr. Z. prompted her. She repeated the story of Marty being born six weeks premature and staying in the hospital for almost a month in an incubator. Meanwhile, the patient gurgled softly like an infant on the exam table, and stared in amazement at how his fingers worked. The wise old doctor nodded. “I was wondering if maybe there was some damage, because his left leg seems weaker than his right.” She mumbled something about the records being lost, or maybe she could call the hospital in Wisconsin, while Marty nodded along in chemically induced bliss.