“Yeah, dat’s Palmer. A real deep thinker. He was asking Chuckie and me why we’re socynical .” Izzy said the word like it was a joke.
“Yeah?”
“I told him dat we’re da first kids to have grown up under da threat of dabomb .”
They laughed over that for a while. “That was about as mad as I ever saw my father get,” said Conrad. “When I told him I wished they would go ahead and drop the bomb. I mean, I didn’t want to have to take my SATs and apply for college and everything.”
“One time my Dad stuck a fork in my back,” said Izzy, hitching up his shirt. Sure enough there were four tiny dots in a row, down near his belt. “I called him a petty bourgeoisie—and an asshole to boot—and he started chasing me all over da house. We’d been eating supper, so he still had da fork in his hand. He couldn’t catch me, so finally he just threw the fork. Ow!” “Was he sorry?” Izzy’s face grew lumpy with laughter. “He told me to pull out the fork and get da fuck out of da house. So I took his car and got drunk and wrecked it.”
They passed the bottle back and forth, taking small sips. Everything seemed so peaceful and right, here in the woods, alone with an artistic friend. After a while, Izzy leaned forward and threw up between his legs. “Let’s walk across da trestle, Conrad.”
“Are you sure ...”
“I ain’t drunk. I just throw up easy. I ruined my stomach with Ex-Lax, getting down to wrestling weight. Come on. Let’s go face death.” They got up and followed the railroad tracks to the trestle. There were two tracks, so it was relatively safe, even though there were no guardrails.
The sun had just gone down. A good breeze was blowing. Before long, Conrad and Izzy were out in the middle of the trestle, out over the dark creek, higher than the big, budding spring trees. Conrad took another pull of vodka and whooped with joy.
Just then a train’s headlight appeared up ahead. “Come stand here!” yelled Izzy, planting himself in the middle of the left-hand track.
“That’s wrong!” screamed Conrad. “That’s the track he’s on!” The train was already rumbling onto the other end of the trestle. It was loud, and Izzy seemed not to understand he was in the wrong place.
Conrad jumped over, grabbed Izzy, and shoved him to the right side. Just then he stumbled. Conrad was lying on the track, with the train bearing down on him, sounding its horn.Fly , he told himself,Fly!
In a flash he’d whipped out into midair, ten yards to the left of the trestle. He hung there, scared to look down, while the commuter train’s four cars roared past. As soon it was safe, Conrad whisked himself back onto the trestle. “Conrad!” hollered Tuskman. “You’re OK! I thought ...”
“I flew out of the way.”
“Bullshit.”
“Believe it.” It was dark now, and down in the meadow some people were lighting the bonfire. “I forgot to tell you before ... that’s the one thing I can do. I can fly.”
“Den fly down to da fire.”
“I’m scared it might not work.” Conrad drained the vodka bottle and threw it out into the darkness. Bright shapes were moving behind his eyes. It seemed like a long time till he heard the bottle break. Crazy Izzy grabbed his arm and made as if to shove him off the edge.
“Hey, take it easy,” protested Conrad. This was going to be too much trouble if it got out. The power meant something; for now, it was better kept secret. “I can’t really fly, Izzy. I lay down between the rails when the train came. Don’tpush me like that, shithead, I’m only a regular guy.”
Chapter 10:
Saturday, April 11, 1964 “It’s Bunger!”
“Hey, Conrad, wake up!” Conrad was confused. He was at an angle, and there was a crumpled umbrella over his face. A half-full quart of beer skidded out from under him when he tried to sit up. Ace Weston and Chuckie Golem were standing over him. It was dawn, it was April, it was the morning after the Crum party. Conrad had fallen asleep in some bushes. Down in the meadow you could see last night’s bonfire still smoldering. “You guys want some beer?” “Look at him,” marveled Ace. “He looks like a college professor turned derelict.” “Ace and I sat up talking all night,” explained Chuckie in his taut, dry voice. “We saw something on the hillside here, and we couldn’t figure out what it was.” “I didn’t want to walk all the way back last night,” explained Conrad. “I took someone’s umbrella in case it rained. Where are my glasses?” “The bottle by your stomach is the perfect touch,” chuckled Ace. He had an unkind sense of humor.
“Like a piglet with its mother sow.” “Pig,”said Chuckie thoughtfully. “That should be his nickname. Pig Bunger.” “I like it,” agreed Ace. “Here’s your glasses, Pig.” Conrad struggled to his feet, and the three boys headed for breakfast. Conrad hadn’t seen much of Ace Weston so far this year. Ace had short blond hair and was said to be a mean drunk. Back in the fall, he’d managed to date the prettiest girl in their class. On the way to the dining hall, Ace talked about a book calledThe Glass Giant of Palomar . “It’s about the first twenty-four-inch reflecting telescope mirror,” explained Ace. “The guy who made it went crazy. The mirror has to be a perfect parabolic curve, right, and they have a way to test it with interference fringes up to an accuracy of one or two wavelengths of light. So this guy, his name was Huffman, he grinds the mirror for four years and as soon as they mount it, it cracks.” “Jesus,” said Conrad politely. Weston seemed a lot more excited than his subject matter warranted. A
put-on. “So he goes to the nuthouse,” continued Ace. “And when he gets out he decides to make an even bigger mirror. This time—” “Have you ever seenWound Ballistics ?” interrupted Conrad, not to be out-weirded. “I found it in the library. It’s all pictures of guys who got shot in some World War Two battle at Anzio. Legs missing and everything. I used to leave it open on Platter’s pillow at night.” “Do you have it in your room right now?”
“No. Platter hid it someplace. I keep getting overdue notices.The Palm-Wine Drinkard is another good book. It’s by an African called Amos Tuatola. Platter scribbled all over the cover.”
“This year’s campus sensation,” intoned Weston. “The newCatch-22 .” The three boys burst into laughter.
“Say, look, Ace,” said Conrad finally. “Did you ever fuck Mary Toledo?”
“Yeah, Ace,” clamored Chuckie. “Did you?” Up till Christmas, Ace and Mary had been the handsomest couple in the freshman class. Ace had even gone to sit-in at a segregated diner to get arrested for Mary’s beliefs. While he’d been in jail, she’d started dating someone else.
“Youshould have fucked Toledo,” insisted Conrad. “If you were going to sell America down the river for her.” He didn’t like the group that had organized the sit-ins. One of them had been Pennington, the boy who’d made fun of him in political science class.
“How about you, Pig?” snapped Weston. “How aboutyour love-life?”
“I don’t have one,” sighed Conrad. “I keep getting drunk and scaring them away. I guess it’s approach-avoidance. Maybe I’m queer.”
“Have you tried sheep?” inquired Chuckie, pausing to push back his glasses. “I read in theKinsey Report that most farm boys fuck animals. The ...ewe is said to be a good approximation to the real thing.”
“Shit. Too bad my parents don’t live in Kentucky anymore. What with spring vacation starting today.”
After breakfast, Conrad went back to his room and packed. Even though he’d slept outside, he felt pretty good. It had been fun talking trash with Weston and Golem. And last night he’d flown again! He helped Platter lug his huge trunk down to the train station and then took his own suitcase out to the Washington bus that Swarthmore had chartered. His parents now lived in Alexandria, just southeast of D.C.