The Rusty Bucket Ranch was hell on dogs. Plenty of canine brothers and sisters had been lost, but at least Keno recovered from the accident well enough. Mike graciously declared, “He belongs to both of us now,” but Marty knew nothing could replace Lobo in his heart, and he felt it would be a long time before he would have another dog of his own. Julie moved Che, Shirelle, and her camper back to Fairfax, ostensibly so she could be closer to work. Susie gave Manderbelles to a friend because she was no longer interested in having a dog. She was fixated on boys now, in the clumsy way a baby red tail hawk learns to hunt. In an obvious attempt to fill the void, Marge brought home another puppy from the pet store: Skippy, a German short-haired pointer. He was very nervous around people and stayed mostly in her room. Eventually he withdrew completely and became her clandestine companion. Marty still had Krishna, his loyal feline familiar, who spent more time indoors now that the scary wolf was gone.
Marty returned to school more depressed than ever, lamenting mutely, I can’t even have a steady dog; much less a steady girlfriend! The girls at the bleachers heard what had happened (courtesy of Annie), and they whispered behind their cigarettes and covertly peered at him through thick mascara. He wanted to stand on a box and yell out. “Hey! Any of you people can come talk to me at any time! We’re all the same, and I’m sure you’ve lost someone close to you, too!!” But he was too shy to do anything but mope around and wait for someone to rescue him from the doldrums.
In order to escape being gossiped about, Marty roamed the various hangout spots in the school that were populated by different factions of students: the greasers in the parking lot, the geeks in the math lab (and library, of course), the preppies at the canteen, and the jocks near the gym. As the cartoonist of the school newspaper, he had universal privileges similar to a court jester, and could crash any clique with a conditional sort of tolerance… for a while. He made the kids laugh wherever he went, which was better than being whispered about behind his back. Eventually, they would turn away dismissively, and resume their court gossip about who was screwing who, sending a message that it was time for the jester to move on.
That was how Marty learned to play the clown, always joking and voicing the sarcastic or funny caption for the moment, but deep inside he always longed to have more meaningful conversations. Even at such a tender age, before the tribulations of adult problems set in, he knew there was precious little time in life. He felt it was extremely urgent that people get to know each other on deeper levels to bring about peace and understanding in the world as quickly as possible. He lived in the age of neutron and hydrogen bombs, where the whims of a few tyrants could literally wipe out all life on the entire planet within hours. The U.S. President, Jimmy Carter, seemed like a reasonable fellow, but that irritable Russian bear, Brezhnev, was cause for concern. Marty believed “we the people” had to take matters into our own hands by learning to love – or at least get along with – each other. And so, the beatnik minstrel of merriment and brotherhood restlessly roamed the halls of Sir Francis Drake High School; searching for peace, love, and cartoon ideas.
Basketball season was starting again, and the vapid spirit propaganda was everywhere. At Drake, the annual homecoming festivities coincided not with football, but with basketball… because their team was really good! The garish and colorful posters all over school reminded Marty of political slogans, and he wryly contemplated: what is the purpose of crowning a homecoming king and queen, anyway? What was the origin of such a bizarre, medieval concept, and how was it decided that it somehow applied to high school kids? Was it some covert tactic to skew the gene pool? Was the chosen royal couple supposed to breed, or what? That would be the only possible explanation that made any sense of the whole nauseating affair, in Marty’s opinion. Nobody seemed to care what a demeaning effect their Ken and Barbie beauty pageant had on 90% of the student body, who were neither popular nor attractive enough to ever dream of competing for such a privileged honor. Janis Ian nailed that perspective in her poignant song, At Seventeen:
“I leaned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear-skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired…
…And those of us with ravaged faces,
Lacking in the social graces,
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone…”
What’s worse, the entire student body was forced to attend those compulsory fascist rituals known as “Spirit Rallies.” In sixth period, the teachers marched all the students to the gymnasium, with all the decorum of a fire drill, where they were expected to participate in a demonstration of “school spirit” …whatever that was. Hey, if you want spirits, Marty joked in his latest cartoon, I know a guy in the parking lot who has a whole trunk full of that stuff! (That one did not get published in the school paper.) The rally assembled in hierarchical sections by grade, before which the paragons of teenage virtuosity were paraded around the basketball court like Mr. & Mrs. America. The only historical precedent Marty knew was the Latino tradition of Quinciñera, in which the young ladies of marrying age were cheerfully celebrated and presented to the community like a livestock commodity.
“Oh, sorry, I can’t – I’m visiting my grandmother’s house this weekend!” She smiled in faux regret.
Later, when the electric buzz of adrenaline wore off, and he had thoroughly dissected his spastic performance for the hundredth time, Marty realized the truth. Some girls just aren’t interested in a guy who actually needs them. Instead, they chase after the ones that are impossible to get, because the fantasy of finding their Prince Charming is more attractive than the difficult work of actually building a relationship. That was what the rational side of his brain told him. The emotional side was a sad little hunchback again, lost in the mournful tolling of the bells.
There were seven couples nominated, but only one lucky pair could be elected homecoming king and queen. The vanquished nominees would become members of the “king and queen’s court” by default. For the rah-rahs and wanna-bes who missed out on the gene pool, there were plenty of consolation groups and activities to join if they accepted the masquerade and conformed to the standards. There were Yell Leaders, the Pep Band, Spirit Sparkers, Mascots, Glee Clubs, Song Leaders, and even a Drill Team! Marty felt that the entire debacle was somehow related to oppression of the masses. Each one of those rank-and-file echelons was a society unto itself, with its own arcane rules and standards of behavior. The only redeeming quality of the whole affair was that it made for some vindictively funny cartoons.
Marty fantasized about what a ‘Bleacher Creatures’ group might contribute to a Spirit Rally. They would have a kegger at each free throw line, and a live rock & roll band on a revolving stage with flashing lights at center court. Squads of air guitar leaders would be in every section, exhorting the crowd to party like tomorrow was just an ugly rumor. Big, round bongs the size of basketballs would be passed around the stands, until the smoke was so thick you could barely see through it. Several Quarters tables would adorn the court itself, for synchronized beer chugging tournaments. At the climax of the ceremony a mannequin in a disco outfit would be burned in effigy and everyone would hold their lighters in the air.
“Dude, look at that!” Bart jabbed him out of his reverie with a bony elbow. “The cheerleaders have new uniforms!”
Hmm… that’s true, Marty noted with an unexpected interest in current fashion. Those skimpy skirts really showed off the shapeliness of their legs… then he shook his head, remembering the noble resistance, and how that fluffy fleshpot was just propaganda from the repressive paradigm. All that time, in Marty’s brain, his thoroughly culturized yet subconscious train of thought was barreling nonstop down its programmed, judgmental track. “The blonde at the end is the prettiest,” he said reflexively; without caring.
“That’s Michelle,” Dave nodded vigorously in agreement. “She’s so fine.” He was sitting on his hands as if they might cause a scene.
“But over there is Trish,” Bart pointed at one of the nominated would-be queens. “She’s the finest, dude! Look at that ass!”
“No way, man, her tits are too small!” Dave’s hands burst out from under his legs in masculine exuberance, but were quickly subdued.
While Dave and Bart engaged in their intellectual assessment of the respective flavors of cheesecake on display, Marty searched the crowd for Alicia, the object of his current fascination. Her cascade of brown hair wasn’t hard to pick out four rows below. He had admired her for some time – ever since he moved to the Valley and switched to Lagunitas School – and had long appreciated her character, beauty, and artistic appreciation of life. They’d been in art classes together since they were in the seventh grade, so in truth they’d shared their creative spirits for almost four years. It was the longest Marty had even known a girl other than his sisters, due to how often their family moved. Besides, Alicia had a cute snaggle-tooth and a pointy chin that made her look like an elf when she smiled…
Ow! It was Bart’s elbow again. “Dude, you have to settle this,” he exhorted, “Who’s the finest, Trish or Michelle?” With half interest, and just to get him off his back, Marty chose the latter. Dave cheered, Bart protested, and Marty returned to his appreciation of Alicia as a work of art.
Whenever the two spoke to each other in art class, Marty noticed that Alicia always managed to turn the conversation in Mike’s direction: are he and Annie still together? What’s he doing this weekend? Do you know anything about the things he likes? And so on. It wasn’t hard to figure out that she preferred his foster brother, and while her friendship with Marty was real, it was clearly limited by her fascination with Mike. Still, delusion is a powerful drug, and for those who are addicted to its dubious solace there is little hope for a cure.
Marty devised a plan to ask her out to a museum in San Francisco, using the strength of their affinity in art as an underpinning to boost his chances. He had it all diagrammed on the chalkboard of his mind – right down to the latest theories of color – until it came to the part about actually asking her out… that was a blank, as usual. He admired her discreetly from afar in Mr. Biagini’s art room the next day, sending amorous vibes in her general direction, hoping with all his heart she would begin a conversation with him so he wouldn’t have to think of the first thing to say. Words flipped through his mind like kindergarten flash cards, but refused to be arranged in a sentence.
Suddenly, he had an unanticipated chance to speak to her when others weren’t around. His brain was shuffling his thoughts, and began to panic and spit out flash cards at random. “Hey Alicia, do you want to be in a museum – I mean go to a museum, I mean, um…” He pantomimed the clown trying to get the fair damsel to take his balloon, wanting her to bail him out and say something, but she sat with a quizzical expression on pause, waiting for him to make his meaning clear. The announcers in his head reported that the moment wasn’t going well.
“Well, that first attempt got him nowhere, Ed,” said the play-by-play man.
“He’s roped a feisty one for sure,” drawled the color guy, “I tell you – “
“That reminds me of when my good friend Muhammed Ali knocked out Joe Frazier,” interrupted the annoying third announcer, who served no purpose.
“Okay, time for the next play…. Here we go.”
Marty shook off the cartoon voices in his head and continued. He slicked back his cowlick for good luck. “Um, I’m going to the art museum this weekend, and I wondered if you might want to go with me?” He tried to say this casually but failed because he had forgotten to breathe for the past thirty seconds, and by now his tone sounded more like he needed a kidney donated.
In an instant, he gnashed the teeth of his mind. Why can’t I act as gracious as my thoughts? Does the anxiousness show on my face so much? He couldn’t tell. There was a self-loathing dynamic that happened whenever he looked in a mirror, so he never saw himself the way others did. He wondered, how do I appear to the girls with whom I am enamored? Every time he asked this question, the Eagles’ song Desperado played on the jukebox of his mind. It must have been an awkward experience for the poor targets of his affection to see him, with the desperation of starving stray dog with its tongue hanging out. In reality, it was an impossible situation for anyone to endure. Every girl instinctively knows she should never get too close to a drowning man or he could pull her under.
“I get it,” Marty’s cartoon computer took over. “Like Little Red Riding hood, haha. My, what big teeth you have, Grandma!” It just came out. The soundtrack of his internal animated movie never stopped, and sometimes it skipped a little as if it had been badly spliced, causing unwanted experimental jokes to be uttered out loud by his mouth… which often didn’t follow the script anyway. Alicia closed her mouth and stopped smiling, arching one eyebrow in puzzled rebuke.
“Warning! Warning!” Marty’s internal dumbshit alarm went off, and his face was flushed with panic.
“Just kidding, haha,” He squinted and squeaked, performing an obsequious little squirm of agony while trying not to look at her mouth, which was now pursed with irritation. “I don’t mean your teeth, I mean…” The switchboard in his head was exploding with incoming calls.
“You idiot!” raged the anger center on Line 1, “You blew it!!”
“She’s sensitive about her teeth, poor thing,” sympathized the little angel who usually appeared on his shoulder, but couldn’t make it today so it just phoned in.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” The ego was running in circles and knocking things over.
Blessedly, by the grace of a benevolent Cupid, the cloud lifted from her face and she rescued him by nudging ever so slightly with her elbow. “That’s okay, maybe some other time we could all go – you, me, and Mike!”
“Yeah, maybe,” Marty chirped, with the plaintive distress of a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. His heart melted like wax in that moment, and he could feel it dripping from his rib cage. He wanted to run off somewhere, pull himself back together, and think about what just happened. “Mr. Biagini, may I use the bathroom?”
Safe in isolation, Marty immediately critiqued his own performance. Okay, he analyzed, perhaps that wasn’t such a great ending, to go from “Maybe some other time” to using the bathroom… On second thought, he realized he should have stayed and extended the conversation. Or properly started it with small talk and such, instead of whacking her upside the head with the museum in the first three seconds! Or more to the point, he agonized, I shouldn’t have made any jokes about teeth. I could have asked about her grandmother, to show an interest in her personal life, for crying out loud! I haven’t seen my own grandmother for many years… she’s really sweet – Alicia, I mean – to let me off the hook that easily. She was clearly just using me as a way to get closer to Mike! The conflicting thoughts twisted and writhed in Marty’s head like a bucket full of eels.