were asleep. Fell into bed, the splendid magic of the booze tumbling him into the bliss of sleep.
Later, came “Funtime,” Harry’s label for the exploits, stupid when sober but exciting and daring when drunk. The evenings always began the same, drinking leisurely in the car while talking casually, joking, listening to Marty and Randy’s conversational routines in the backseat. Buddy noticed after a while that Harry did not drink much, if at all, but encouraged Buddy and the others to do so, supplying an endless amount of booze. Including the gin that became Buddy’s personal drink. He loved the beautiful exotic smell of the gin and what it did to him. Finally, Harry would cry out: “Funtime.” And off they’d go.
To the movies where they caused disruptions, laughing too raucously at scenes that were not funny at all, spilling food, particularly popcorn, all over the place, tearing wrappers off candy bars and sending them flying through the air, guffawing, scuffling mildly, knowing that the usherswere high school kids, most of them easily intimidated, not eager to notify the theater manager about the noise and distractions.
Other nights they merely cruised the streets, searching for mischief, Harry intimidating other drivers by driving too fast or too slow, cutting in, tailgating.
One weekend Harry obtained some fireworks in New Hampshire while on a trip there with his parents and showed off his display of lethal-looking bombs, an evil grin on his face. Off they went to the countryside, the outskirts of Wickburg, where they blew up mailboxes with the miniature bombs, delighting in the
whomp
of the explosion, giddy and laughing as they roared away. What made this especially exciting, Harry said, was that blowing up mailboxes was a federal offense.
Sometimes, their exploits were senseless, war-whooping their way through Jedson Park, disturbing couples making out in the dark, tossing debris into the decorative pots, pissing in fountains. The next morning, Buddy would shudder, recalling dimly the events of the night before. Those mornings presented him with his first hangovers—stomach in distress, eyes like raw wounds, head bulging with pain plus the knowledge that he had acted shamefully the night before. Looking at himself in the mirror, seeing the perspiring sallow flesh, the bloodshot eyes, the unkempt hair, he vowed that he would not allow Harry to lead him into further “Funtimes.” But somehow by nightfall, he would capitulate again, following Harry Flowers wherever he went.
More than Harry, however, was the liquor that forgave everything. “Funtime” with Harry Flowers and the stooges gave him camaraderie, a sense of belonging to something. Drinking, however, gave him bliss in his loneliness. When he drank and began to drift, the lovely vagueness takingover his sensibilities, he did not need comrades or companions. Needed nobody. Especially did not need his mother and father.
Artie’s screaming began two weeks after the vandalism. The first time it happened, Jane vaulted from her sleep, unsure of the sound, unable to identify it immediately as screaming. There was silence for a moment, and she heard a door close and then a shriek, this time muffled. Instantly and completely awake, she checked the digital clock on the bedside table:
2:11.
When the screaming began again, she said out of bed, went to the doorway and listened, shivering a bit in the chill of night. The sounds came from the bathroom across the hallway from her bedroom. More screaming, more shrieking, sheer terror in the sound, which set off a kind of terror in her own self.
The oak floor was cold beneath her feet as she paused near the bathroom. Silence within now. Then, whimpering, like a small animal trapped and crying. As she opened the door slightly, she recognized the soothing murmurs of her mother and father. Peeking in, she saw her father sitting on the edge of the bathtub holding Artie in his arms while her mother knelt on the
Later, came “Funtime,” Harry’s label for the exploits, stupid when sober but exciting and daring when drunk. The evenings always began the same, drinking leisurely in the car while talking casually, joking, listening to Marty and Randy’s conversational routines in the backseat. Buddy noticed after a while that Harry did not drink much, if at all, but encouraged Buddy and the others to do so, supplying an endless amount of booze. Including the gin that became Buddy’s personal drink. He loved the beautiful exotic smell of the gin and what it did to him. Finally, Harry would cry out: “Funtime.” And off they’d go.
To the movies where they caused disruptions, laughing too raucously at scenes that were not funny at all, spilling food, particularly popcorn, all over the place, tearing wrappers off candy bars and sending them flying through the air, guffawing, scuffling mildly, knowing that the usherswere high school kids, most of them easily intimidated, not eager to notify the theater manager about the noise and distractions.
Other nights they merely cruised the streets, searching for mischief, Harry intimidating other drivers by driving too fast or too slow, cutting in, tailgating.
One weekend Harry obtained some fireworks in New Hampshire while on a trip there with his parents and showed off his display of lethal-looking bombs, an evil grin on his face. Off they went to the countryside, the outskirts of Wickburg, where they blew up mailboxes with the miniature bombs, delighting in the
whomp
of the explosion, giddy and laughing as they roared away. What made this especially exciting, Harry said, was that blowing up mailboxes was a federal offense.
Sometimes, their exploits were senseless, war-whooping their way through Jedson Park, disturbing couples making out in the dark, tossing debris into the decorative pots, pissing in fountains. The next morning, Buddy would shudder, recalling dimly the events of the night before. Those mornings presented him with his first hangovers—stomach in distress, eyes like raw wounds, head bulging with pain plus the knowledge that he had acted shamefully the night before. Looking at himself in the mirror, seeing the perspiring sallow flesh, the bloodshot eyes, the unkempt hair, he vowed that he would not allow Harry to lead him into further “Funtimes.” But somehow by nightfall, he would capitulate again, following Harry Flowers wherever he went.
More than Harry, however, was the liquor that forgave everything. “Funtime” with Harry Flowers and the stooges gave him camaraderie, a sense of belonging to something. Drinking, however, gave him bliss in his loneliness. When he drank and began to drift, the lovely vagueness takingover his sensibilities, he did not need comrades or companions. Needed nobody. Especially did not need his mother and father.
Artie’s screaming began two weeks after the vandalism. The first time it happened, Jane vaulted from her sleep, unsure of the sound, unable to identify it immediately as screaming. There was silence for a moment, and she heard a door close and then a shriek, this time muffled. Instantly and completely awake, she checked the digital clock on the bedside table:
2:11.
When the screaming began again, she said out of bed, went to the doorway and listened, shivering a bit in the chill of night. The sounds came from the bathroom across the hallway from her bedroom. More screaming, more shrieking, sheer terror in the sound, which set off a kind of terror in her own self.
The oak floor was cold beneath her feet as she paused near the bathroom. Silence within now. Then, whimpering, like a small animal trapped and crying. As she opened the door slightly, she recognized the soothing murmurs of her mother and father. Peeking in, she saw her father sitting on the edge of the bathtub holding Artie in his arms while her mother knelt on the
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