High School Honey

by Bill Bowler

Chapter 7: Beer

The desire that had been Vronsky’s only one for almost an entire year and had replaced all earlier desires, and the desire that had been an impossible, horrifying and therefore all the more seductive dream of happiness for Anna — that desire was gratified. — L. N. Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Floater was finishing dinner, sitting at the table with his parents. His father was reading the financial section of the afternoon paper while his mother spoke.

“Did you hear, Sam? The Bronfman boy got into Harvard. Straight A student. Perfect score on his SAT’s. Are you listening to me, Sam?”

She turned to Floater. “Do you know the Bronfman boy?”

“He’s a total jerk,” said Floater.

“Listen to him, Sam. Mr. Know-it-all who’s failing World History. Oh, and Bernice told me today that Al Kramlin, you know, commodities, had a stroke on the eighth green just as he sank a putt for an eagle. Are you listening to me, Sam?”

“Sorry, Doris, what did you say?”

Floater rose from the table, mumbled, “Can I be excused, please?” and, without waiting for an answer, walked out of the dining room, through the living room, and down the long, circuitous hallway to his room at the end.

With the stereo in his room blasting, Floater hopped into the shower. He washed with perfumed soap, shampooed and conditioned his hair. Then, standing in front of the bathroom sink with a towel wrapped around his waist, he brushed his teeth, gargled with mint mouthwash, and rolled deodorant on his armpits.

He looked at himself in the mirror and saw a boy who was skin and bones, all ribs and elbows, with bushy brows, a big nose, and a sharp chin. He cursed and popped a pimple on his cheek. His jaw was still smooth from his last shave a week ago.

He parted his hair with scientific precision and exited the bathroom, back down the hall to his bedroom where, with the stereo still blasting away, he put on his underwear, shook talcum powder onto his crotch, and selected a pair of skin-tight iridescent bellbottoms from a closet full of garments.

He slipped into a tapered shirt, pulled on a pair of pointed felt Beatle boots, splashed cologne on his face and behind his ears, and gazed with mixed feelings at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Ready for action, he killed the stereo music and walked out to the garage.

* * *

Headlights swept across the dark exterior of the Fleanor residence on Railroad St. as Floater’s Galaxy pulled up in front. Flea came out and hopped in. Floater pulled away from the curb and headed north.

It was fifteen minutes to the state line, to a deli just on the New York side. They drove with the top down on a mild, clear May evening. The sky was an intense dark blue, with a narrow band of reddish-purple along the western horizon. The air was that perfect temperature, not warm or cold, that washes over you in mild, gentle, refreshing waves.

While Floater drove, Flea leaned his head back and looked up at the sky with the air rushing through his hair and the treetops flashing by as they raced down the road.

The deli parking lot was full of cars with New Jersey license plates. As the two boys walked into the store, Floater took out a draft card to prove he was eighteen. The card, acquired on the black market, was that of Alfred Czywszynski, five-foot five, 190 lbs., red hair and green eyes. Alfred had graduated from Brookbank High two years earlier. He bore not the slightest resemblance to Floater.

Flea and Floater entered the crowded deli, pulled two sixes of Big Cat half-quarts out of the cooler, and got in line at the register behind eight or nine other teenagers. The important thing, Floater was thinking, is to relax. Think old, and you’ll look old. He looked older than half the guys in line anyway, for Chrissake.

When Floater’s turn at the register came, the grocer put the six-packs in a bag, looked over his glasses, and said, “Do you have some identification, son?”

“Yeah, whaddaya think?!” said Floater and handed him the draft card.

The grocer examined the card and asked, “That’s a Polish name, isn’t it? How do you pronounce it?”

“Konfowski,” said Floater, who could never quite remember what name was on the card.

The grocer handed him a pen. “Could you sign your name, please?”

Floater scribbled a line. The grocer compared Floater’s scrawl to the signature on the card, glanced around the store, and took Floater’s money. Floater scooped up the bag and hurried off towards the door with Flea.

“Mr. Konfowski,” called the grocer.

Floater kept walking.

“Mr. Konfowski?”

“He’s calling you,” said Flea.

Floater accelerated towards the door.

“Mr. Konfowski!” called the grocer. “You forgot your i.d.”

Proceed to Chapter 8...