I know I am halfway done with my mandated hundred hours of community service, and just a few weeks ago Iwas counting the days with glee. However, am I allowed to keep this job past the 100 hours if I wish to do so? It just seems that Mr. Lewis could use the company more than I could use the free time, especially since I can’t drive and my family is falling apart anyway.
Sincerely,
Alex Gregory
THE BALL FALLS
On New Year’s Eve day, I messed some things up. I don’t know why, because I woke up in a fine mood. My plan for the day was to practice guitar for a couple of hours, and then maybe go over to see Sol after lunch. My mom had a date that night (which made two nights in a row), and Laurie was going to come over and have a little loser-geek slumber party with me.When I got to the kitchen, I made a big pot of coffee and got out Mom’s favorite mug, which for some reason featured my first-grade Mother’s Day drawing of three Ninja Turtles under a tree with a huge machine gun.When I was little, I used to make coffee for both of my parents and serve it to them in bed sometimes.They would sit up and I would climb between them with my own special “coffee” drink, which was really just nuked milk with sugar in it. There were days we sat there snuggled up, playing little tickle games and laughing for hours, or at least it seemed like that to me. And no matter how hot my feet got under the covers with my footie pj’s on, I never, ever wanted to be the first one to leave the bed. Interestingly enough, that honor generally fell to my dad.
Okay, enough of my sob stories. The thing was, I had the feeling my mom’s date the night before hadn’t been so ultra-groovy, because she had marched in at maybe nine P.M. without saying a word to me and stomped off to bed. So I made her the pot of coffee for old times’ sake, or to cheer her up, or possibly just because I am just a much more swell son than you may have gathered thus far. When she came down, the obvious depressedmom danger signs were there: the puffy eyes, the ancient terry-cloth bathrobe, even the dreaded hair curlers. This was a woman who probably needed to skip the caffeine and go right into electroshock therapy.
But since I didn’t have the right equipment for home mom-zapping, I filled the mug and held it out to her. She said, “Do I look that bad?”
“No, Mom. I just had the coffee all made anyway, so I figured you could put your feet up, relax, and enjoy a cup. Why would you look bad?”
“Oh, nothing. I’ll be fine.”
Not “I’m fine,” I noticed. “I’ll BE fine,” which is different.
“Do you want to talk?”
She looked at me and snapped, “What, should I be getting my life advice from you, of all people?”
Holy crap. That was basically uncalled for.
“Ho-kay, Mom. I’m going out now. Have a nice day and a happy new year!”
She may have been shouting, “Wait,” and trying to apologize as I left the house, but with my Walkman on and blasting, I just saw a weird scary lady in a bathrobe standing on our porch with her arms waving.
My next stop was the home. I was starving, so I picked up some candy and a pack of cookies from a vending machine in the lobby, and gulped most of it down in the elevator. When I walked into Sol’s room, he looked a lot better. His oxygen-tube thing was gone, and he was pacing back and forth. The white flowers were gone, too.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Um,” he said almost cheerfully. “How are you today? I liked the book you gave me, even though Monk was a more interesting man in person.”
I had to ask. “You met Thelonius Monk?”
“Many times. What, you think I was born here? I had a very interesting life in the old days.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Anyway, how were your holidays, Alex?”
At that moment I could have tried to stop Sol from changing the subject, but I just didn’t feel like risking an argument. Naturally, I got one anyway. AND I missed some info that could have changed everything.
“Fine.” We were both big communicators today.
“‘Fine,’ he says. What ‘fine?’ How are things? Did you get nice presents? How are your parents? How is the little wife? I hope you’re taking her somewhere special tonight. Hey, maybe you could drop by here with her on your way to do your young people monkey business.”
Young people monkey business?
“Sol, we’re just staying in tonight, at my house, if you really want to know.”
“Without a chaperone? Better you should come here. We’ll get some cups and some drinks, and I’ll keep the two of you from doing anything you might regret.”
“Sol, nothing is going to happen between us. We’re just friends. My mom trusts us, so why can’t you?”
“Sure she trusts you. She isn’t a man. She doesn’t know how you think. I remember how it is to be with a beautiful girl…alone…in the moonlight. But do what you think is best.”
“Okay, I get the point, Sol. I’m a deranged, hormonal fiend, and no female is safe anywhere near me, even if she’s a deadly martial-arts expert AND we’re just friends. So, you want us to come here tonight?”
“Boychik,” he said, reaching over to grab a pack of licorice out of my hand, “I thought you’d never ask!”
Wow, I had spoken to only two people the whole day: one who bit my head off for getting her some coffee, and one who manipulated me into spending my New Year’s Eve at the old folks’ home. The thought occurred to me that maybe life would be better if I had been born without a tongue.
Especially now that I had to tell Laurie I’d booked us an extra-wild party night.
I took the bus over to Laurie’s house, where she was sitting in her kitchen, in her bathrobe, with a coffee mug. I almost turned and ran when I saw the déjá vu scene, but then—unlike my mom—she looked happy to see me. I had the horrible thought all of a sudden that she really WAS very pretty. When she hugged me, it was like Sol had put an evil spell on me: The Curse of Noticing Laurie. I somehow managed to push the thought away as we got ourselves arranged at the table, and soon I launched into a recap of the week’s torments. It turned out, though, that Laurie hadn’t had the peachiest time in New York.
“My dad is nuts.”
“No, MY dad is nuts.”
“Well, my MOM is nuts.”
“So’s mine.”
“Oh, yeah? I bet YOUR dad isn’t fleeing to another state to get away from YOU, Laurie.”
“I bet YOUR dad isn’t accusing you of treason for wanting to spend a few days with your mom, Alex.”
“Well, that’s just because my dad doesn’t WANT me.”
“Well, my mom doesn’t want me, but I just went and spent Christmas with her. And she got me a swell present.” Laurie started to cry, which is pretty rare for her.
“What?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Wait, isn’t she, like, too old?”
“Apparently, some random guy she met online didn’t think so.”
And the grown-ups don’t think WE can be trusted together.
Somehow, Laurie and I wound up hugging each other for a bit too long then, until suddenly we both jumped up and away. Laurie fled to the upstairs bathroom to take a shower, and I went to the couch, watched MTV, and tried not to dwell on the scent of her hair. Holding her had felt so right, and so wrong, that I knew it was going to be a long evening. Which reminded me: I hadn’t told Laurie about the groovy new plan for our intergenerational New Year’s festivities. Fortunately, when she came back down and I laid the news on her, she took it well. Or at least she only hit me twice and called me “The Nerd King.”
After a couple of hours shopping for snacks to bring to the oldsters, Laurie and I stopped at my house to drop off her overnight bag. I didn’t feel like facing my mom, but it turned out she wasn’t home anyway. There was a note on the table:
Hi, Honey. I am sorry to have snapped at you. I was upset, as you may have noticed, but everything will be fine. Also, I meant to tell you that Judge Trent called me. She’s so impressed with your progress that she said you
don’t need to see a probation officer as long as you keep writing letters to her every few weeks. I am proud of you, even if I do not always show it.
Love,
Mom
PS—I will be out with my date until at least midnight tonight. If you need me, I will have my cell phone on. I am sure you and Laurie will be fine, though. Behave!
PPS—I bought bagels and Philadelphia cream cheese (ha-ha) for tomorrow morning’s breakfast. I look forward to catching up with Laurie.
“See?” Laurie said. “Your mom loves you. Plus she’s not trying to pump out a replacement baby.”
I didn’t have a reply for that, so I just kind of patted Laurie on the arm. She dropped her bag on the couch in the living room, and we walked out into the cold setting sun, our arms reloaded with chips, dips, cups, plates, candy, cheese, crackers, and even little noisemakers for Sol and company.
At the home, there were pathetic little decorations up for the occasion, to supplement the lame-o Christmas tree from the week before, which was one of those artificial jobs that they create to give the illusion of a real, yet sickly, one. Why wouldn’t they just make a healthy-looking plastic tree? They also had a dorky electric menorah, so the Jewish patients wouldn’t feel left out of the overly commercial and transparently manufactured good cheer. And, of course, now they had added the horns and streamers so the fogies could celebrate a new year of captivity.
I was in a weird mood, I guess. Laurie has always been one of those people who can just shrug off their sadness at will, though, so she jumped right into the party spirit. While I was gloomily filling cups with bright blue juice at the nurses’ station counter, she was getting Sol up out of bed for a hug. It was incredible: Here was this guy who hadn’t been able to walk three steps a few days before, and within seconds, she had him hustling from room to room inviting everyone out to the nurses’ station. She even gave Claudelle a CD to put into their little boom box. I don’t know where she got it, but it was this Christmas with the Rat Pack disk, which had nothing but Frank Sinatra and his buddies singing holiday tunes. Sol was almost dancing along, and the other residents were emerging from their rooms with smiles on. Laurie even got Mrs. Goldfarb out of her room a second time, after Sol had temporarily convinced her that she wasn’t wearing pants. Within moments, everyone was munching, drinking, and shuffling feet along with the music. God knows how, but Laurie even convinced Sol and a few others to put on cone-shaped party hats that she had produced from somewhere.
Even I had to admit two things:
—Laurie was good at this stuff
and
—This wasn’t such a painful way to spend New Year’s Eve.
I was almost starting to feel rather cheerful myself, right until Sol’s fit.
I was chowing down on these little pretzel morsels with cheese and pepperoni in every bite, and Laurie was saying to me, “You know, when you told me your sentence, a hundred hours seemed like forever. Can you believe you’re more than halfway done?”
I was about to tell her how I planned to keep on at the home after I finished my mandated time, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me. The hand belonged to an angry Solomon Lewis. “Wait a minute, Alex. You’re not a volunteer? I’m your sentence? I’m your PUNISHMENT?”
“Oh, my gosh, Sol. I always assumed you knew. I was assigned to spend a hundred hours here by the juvenile court, with the patient of my mom’s choice. She picked you because she said we would be a good match.”
“So now I’m a charity case, heh? I never thought I would live to see the day when I would be a burden for the state to put on somebody else’s back.”
“It’s not like that. They thought I could learn from you, so I wouldn’t…um, you know…get arrested again.”
“What in the world did they arrest a clean-cut boy like you for anyway?”
“Well, it was nothing, really.”
“Nothing? Like what kind of nothing? Jaywalking? Skipping school to be with your darling, here?”
“No, I…I got drunk and tried to drive my mom’s car to my dad’s house. But it was no big deal. Really.”
“No big deal? You didn’t hit anybody?”
“No, I didn’t hit anybody. Well, except a lawn gnome.”
“A lawn gnome, you hit? So you drove up on somebody’s lawn?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“And this is the ‘no big deal’? You’re lucky to be alive, Alex. And you’re lucky that you DIDN’T kill anyone. ‘No big deal,’ he says. You’re even more meshuggeh than I thought.”
“But…”
“Just get out of here, you little criminal. Old I might be, and sick I might be, but handouts from a crazy outlaw who doesn’t even know how stupid he is, I don’t need.”
I was stunned. I noticed that the music had stopped, and the whole roomful of people had turned to stare at me. Laurie put her hand on my arm, but I shrugged it off and walked out.
The last thing I heard was Laurie saying to Sol, “You know, that wasn’t fair. He really isn’t as bad as you…”
Then the elevator door closed behind me, and I was headed for the lobby. It occurred to me that I was still holding a little plate of food and a Dixie cup of juice. Leave it to me to get shouted out of a New Year’s party, at a nursing home no less, and make my dramatic exit, dateless, with snacks in hand. Oh, well. If you’re going to look like the biggest goober on the planet, you might as well wash down the lump in your throat with some nice cheese curls.
When I got home, the light on our machine was blinking with a message from Laurie’s cell phone: “Come back, Alex, all is forgiven. Stop being such a drama queen! Sol is even sorry. Aren’t you, Sol?” She must have held the phone out to him, but all I could hear was a cough, and then a quick, “Get your little car-crashing tuchis back here before I…” At that point, Laurie hung up in a hurry.
There was no way I was going back there. By the time I hiked all the way to the bus, all the way back to the home, and all the way upstairs, all the fogies would be popping out their teeth, whisking off their wigs, and settling down for their sponge baths. It was much better all around if I took a nice shower, changed into raggedy old sweats, nuked some popcorn, and sat on the sofa for hours watching all the people with lives wishing each other a happy new year on TV.
But after my l-o-n-g shower, the machine light was blinking a whole bunch of times. I pushed PLAY with that sense of dread you’d get if you pissed off a karate master who had a key to your house. Sure enough, the messages got progressively worse. After the third one—“All right, wuss boy, I’m on my way over there, and I’m all pumped up to jump on you and start working your head like a speed bag”—I just hit DELETE eleven or twelve times, and waited for the invasion.
Which came as soon as I curled up in an old throw blanket and settled in to watch the MTV Beach Party Unplugged Cribs TRL New Year’s Rockin’ Eve Bash. There was a rattling of keys, a turning of tumblers, and a whoosh of cold air. I was afraid to look, but the deceptively small-sounding footsteps were coming up behind me. Then Laurie did her famous somersault couch flip, landing just opposite me with her feet up on my legs. She took a long look at me—the mop of damp, uncontrollable hair, the popcorn bucket held protectively on my chest, and the tragic little-boy frown that had saved me from her wrath a thousand times, minimum—and reached into the bucket. She scrunched up so her face was inches from mine, blew her bangs out of her eyes, and said, “You’re too pathetic to kill. Hand me the remote, will ya? Before I change my mind.”
We had a pretty good night being pals, as long as I didn’t think about my mom being out on a date when I wasn’t, or Sol evicting me from the home, or the warmth of Laurie’s legs on mine. We watched the New Year’s countdown shows and played Monopoly at the same time, while I ignored the blatant cheating that Laurie always referred to as her “little bank errors.” As payback, Laurie lent me money to buy back my properties when they went bankrupt again and again. Just once it would be cool to think that Laurie wasn??
?t nine steps ahead of me at any given moment, but hey—you can’t have everything. When there were only ten minutes left until midnight, Laurie finally allowed herself to finish me off in the game, and we went to the kitchen to make egg creams. An egg cream isn’t as gross as it sounds. It’s a New York thing: First you pour chocolate or vanilla syrup into a tall glass, then you pour in milk, then you spritz in some seltzer really fast and whip a spoon around in there. What you get is essentially chocolate (or vanilla) milk, but with an extra zap of fizzy goodness. Well, whatever you might think of the egg-cream concept, the point is that Laurie and I have been making them as a late-night snack beverage since Bill Clinton was president, and we aren’t ready to stop yet.
By the time we were done pouring, pouring, spritzing, stirring, sipping, and cleaning up, it was 11:59. We stood very, very close together in the living room and watched the ball fall over Times Square. At the big “Happy New Year!” moment, we clinked glasses and drank. Then Laurie wiped some chocolate froth off of my lip with one finger, and we stared into each other’s eyes through the whole obligatory “Auld Lang Syne” saxophone serenade. At what I thought was the exactly, precisely perfect instant, I leaned toward her, suavely raised one eyebrow, and made my voice low and gravelly: “How about a new year’s kiss?” She laughed, said, “In your dreams, buddy boy,” and punched me in the arm, hard.
This prompted an outbreak of pillow-related violence, which was only quelled when I missed Laurie’s head with a mighty overhand clout and accidentally shattered both our egg cream glasses. By the time we tweezed the last glass shard out of the carpet and threw a towel on the floor to sop up most of the brown, gooey stain, we were both feeling tired. So we set up our sleeping bags, did all our toothbrushing-type-stuff, and lay down in the living room between the TV and the chocolate-coated rug disaster area. I was just drifting off to sleep when Laurie reached over and put her arm around me. She murmured, “You know, Sol really likes you a lot, buddy. G’night,” and rolled back away from me. She fell asleep like she always does, almost instantaneously. But I was still lying there, half out of it, trying to ignore the loud tick, tick, tick of our kitchen clock and the ghost of Laurie’s arm on my shoulder, when the front door opened.