“Thanks,” Tiger said, meaning it one hundred percent.
Now Surcher talked to him about his plan to interview all the teachers thoroughly. The male teachers, of course, he meant. Tiger listened, concurring, and wishing him the best of luck, and offering him his fullest possible cooperation, as always, of course.
“I don’t mind telling you,” Surcher told him, “I’ve hit a wall here.”
Tiger grinned, “You'll get over it—” He paused, “Or through it.” The man needed encouragement. He patted him on the shoulder.
A few more words with Proffer now, about this and that, and Tiger finally made it out of there.
He checked his watch, with a frown.
Ponce couldn’t stand it. No matter how hard he tried. He knew he was on that long slide, and stopped fighting it. And so, after emerging from between those stacks, having done nothing but sob his heart out, on that heaven-sent, he made a beeline for the lavatory—and jacked off. He was a failure, utterly, he knew it. She had offered treasures, well he knew it. Now, finally gaining relief with a series of hot convulsive jolts, a pounding heart, and screaming pins and needles all over, Ponce started pondering morosely, as usual—only more so. He stared at his red-hot and healthy young organ, detumescing slowly. How long could he go on like this? How many guys, in one lifetime, were presented such golden opportunities—twice not once—like this? And what would they have done? Ponce, in despair, stared at his healthy pal. Miss Nectar would have adored it! He had kept it from her. What was the only thing he was capable of doing with it? Playing with it. He felt sick. And dizzy. Keeping it from them. He nearly fell over. His head would fall into the toilet. That’s what should happen, really, he thought, it was all he was good for. When would he stop playing with it? He thought he was on his way, he thought he had, these past few days he had fought and controlled himself—And now—Here He Was. He hung on in that cubicle. When would he grow up? Be a man? That was the trouble. What good was this? Afterwards, he always felt like this. Sick, sick. He was almost seventeen now, it was time to get the hell off this bubble. Did the other guys worth mentioning in the school carry on like this? What the hell would Dink have done with her? What if he knew? Ponce was so low. He would end up in that toilet. Wham. Dink’s wang would have gone all the way home. He knew it. He pictured it. Deep in those stacks—What a setup! He sank lower. No getting away from it. He couldn't go on like this forever, he knew it. It was all up to him, he knew that too. He would have to be the one to put the brakes on it, really on it, and start growing up. How the hell else could a guy grow up? That was it, that was how it happened alright, he knew. Tiger had told him—not that he had ever discussed his problem with Tiger, he just didn’t have the nerve to— but just talking in general, skirting sort of around the area, about growing up in general—developing—he had told him. And Ponce knew that was right, for it wouldn’t just happen. How could it? He had to make it happen. He was sure. Otherwise—and he suddenly shuddered at this, the closest yet to being sick—he could spend the rest of his life like this! Ponce stared at his now pendulous organ. He placed his hand around it, letting the last drops of semen slide into his palm, and fingers. Wasted. He felt. All down the toilet. He also felt. Loving its feel. And smell. Knowing how much a heaven-sent like Betty Smith or Hetty Nectar would love it, the feel of it. How did it feel, that lovely lovely stuff, that warm-life stuff, inside them? Sliding in them? He felt warmly sad, he way getting excited again, thinking of that. He was absolutely seized with the most overpowering desire to know that. How could he? He never would. Not that, anyhow. No matter how much progress he made toward being a man, that was something he absolutely and totally would never know, or could. He knew it. He felt more than sad ... He sat down, on the toilet seat, after getting himself together again, and thought about things. Other things. Everything. He felt worse. He could never remember feeling worse. What would happen now? Would the kook strike again? When? What about the game? Would there even be a game? Or a school? Was this the end of Sawyersville High School? What would happen to the school? And Betty Smith? Would he have the guts to go to her place once again? What about Practice? Would there be Practice tonight? Poor Yvonne. What a heck of a swell girl, what a girl, that Yvonne! Her old man. Her parents. Ponce thought about her parents. She was the only child—the apple of their eye—he knew—Larry Mel-lish had built up that business over the years—all those years—What a raw deal. Rotten! What a stinking rotten deal! It was! Ponce thought about going down to see Tiger. But then he remembered, he still would be in that meeting.
Pretty Maids All in a Row 309 Well, he would see him after, he had a lot to ask him. Most important, outside of Mummer, even ahead of Mummer, the straight scoop as to whether or not the school was closing. He was almost afraid to ask that one, for he knew the answer could be—he prayed it wouldn’t be. He prayed silently to a God he didn’t even know the scoop about, let alone the truth about, for he had to. Really troubled, he always had to—whatever the truth was. Did it matter? He was beginning to discover what seemed to him to be one of the saddest truths of life—so many things didn't matter. He thought of the percentage of his fellow citizens who totally supported the bombing of North Vietnam, and more, according to the latest Gallup Poll he had read about in the paper this morning. He thought of that miserable, backward country. All those countries. He thought of the might, the power of his own country. He thought of Compone. It was incomprehensible. It was pathetic. He felt so low now he didn’t think he could ever get up off that toilet. He would just stay there and they would find him there. Like Jill. He leaned forward, his hands over his face, thinking so many things, everything. . . . If he had the nerve tonight he would see Betty Smith.
He had to see her, and talk with her. . . . There just
wasn’t anyone he loved so much—outside of his mother. . . . His profound despair lifted just a little bit, thinking of
her . . . and his mother. . . .
“How many hands do you see?” Tiger asked Sandy Seymour. She only pouted and shook her head so that her red hair, today in a cute ponytail, shook too. Tiger loved that ponytail. And the red hair.
“Why were you so late?” She only asked, for the fourth time at least. They would never get through the test.
Tiger sighed, put his hands down.
T know how you feel—” he said, “But try to remember my explanation, honey—”
“Well why didn’t you phone here or something? You just let me sit and wait for you—”
“Didn’t I leave you a note—Lovely?”
“Tell me about the meeting,” she demanded, in a pet, crossing her legs. Tiger wondered what she had on today, the honey. He remembered seeing her at the community swimming pool last summer in a bathing suit. Come to think of it, that’s when she had joined his list. What a girl! It had been so hot that day. He had shown her a dive or two. She had caught on right away. Some girl. Next to Rochelle, she was definitely the most talented of the Drama gTOup. She had a class way beyond her years alright, despite the tantrums at times. Temperamental. They were worth putting up with. She knew the score.
“I told you already.” Tiger patiently said.
“I hope nobody murders me," she said,
“Amen,” Tiger said.
"You wouldn’t murder me, would you. Tiger?” She asked.
He grinned at the lass, “Not today.” Definitely, she was warming up. At last.
“I’m awful mad at you,” she said.
“How many hands do you see?” He held one up this time.
“And what if you put one hand up?”
She did.
“That makes two,” she said, with a pretty smile.
“Put up the other one,” Tiger said, grinning away.
She had a cute T shirt on today, and with her hands raised her breasts stood out more prominently than ever under it. He observed them, loving them. He didn’t think she had one on today.