“This is lame!” Brad sighed. “Let’s do something.”
“Like what?” Max wanted to know.
“Yeah,” I said. “Like what?”
“I don’t know…Something.”
I turned to Max. “What else is there to do?” After all, we were at his Dad’s house.
“Travis has got porn!” he announced, his acne-prone face lighting up. Poor Max…His complexion looked especially bad that day. Like a proverbial pizza. Lucky for me, I don’t have that problem. I get a couple pimples a year tops, thank God!
We headed down the hall past the front room. Though it always sounds more like “French Room” whenever Max says it. We spied his Dad sitting on the beat-up faded green couch in his blue mechanic’s coveralls, his name—Travis—stitched in red across the left side of his chest. Beer in hand, he was watching The Dukes of Hazzard. Which used to totally be my favorite show back in like 5th grade. But ever since they brought on those two new guys to replace Bo and Luke, I can’t stand it.
“Your Dad must like beer,” Brad whispered, counting the seven or eight empty Goebel cans cluttering up the coffee table.
“Duh!” Max replied. Then we sneaked into Travis’ bedroom.
As my Mom would say, “It looked like a cyclone hit it.” Talk about a Total Pigsty! Dirty laundry everywhere. On the floor, on top of the dresser, covering the unmade bed. Which Brad immediately plopped down on. The gurgle of water sloshed around inside the mattress beneath him.
“Careful!” Max warned. “That’s a waterbed.”
“Dah-dah, dah-dah,” said Brad kicking back, hands behind his head against the zebra-striped pillow.
“So where’s the porn?” I asked. Though I wondered, Do I really wanna see it? My Uncle Roy’s got a ton of porno mags at his house. One time, I saw a copy of Penthouse sitting on the back of his toilet. Of course, I had to take a peek. Being that I’d never seen one before.
To be honest, I wasn’t that impressed. I mean, what’s the big deal about a bunch of naked girls? I think they’d all be so much prettier with their clothes on. Especially the ones with the humongous areolas covering their entire boobs. (Gross!)
Max opened his Dad’s top dresser drawer, a pile of black socks and white underwear spewing forth. He was all like, “Check this out.” Sure enough, from beneath the rubble he removed a real-live nudie magazine. Though it was one I’d never heard of before.
“What is it?” Brad asked
“What do you think it is, Asshole?” Max snapped. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of O-U-I before?” Which is exactly how he said it. “O-U-I.” Spelling it out.
“I think you mean oui,” I corrected. Not that I’ve ever taken French. But I know O-U-I is pronounced “wee,” meaning “yes,” en français.
Max was all like, “Whatever.” You’d think he would know a simple French word like “oui.” After all, he was in Ms. Lemieux’s 6th & 7th hour Enriched English & Social Studies with the Smart Kids.
“This is boring,” Brad decided after we flipped through the magazine for a while. Page after page of naked girls.
To which Max was all like, “What do you mean ‘boring’? This chick is hot.” He turned to the centerfold—a glossy color photo of a pretty dark-haired girl wearing pink lemonade lipstick. With one hand on her boob, her tongue flickered forward. Like she was trying to lick her own nipple. (Gross!)
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t fuck her,” Max challenged.
Like I’ve said, pictures of naked girls I can take or leave…So I said nothing. Neither did Brad.
Then Max added, “She totally looks like that girl from Culture Club, doesn’t she?”
Brad turned to me, eyebrows raised. Then back to Max and he said coolly, “What girl from Culture Club?”
“You know…The lead singer.”
As much as I hated breaking the news to him, I said, “Um, Max…the lead singer of Culture Club’s name is Boy George…”
At which point, Brad joined me in perfect unison. “…’cause he’s a boy!”
Which is when it finally happened. In our mutual belittling of Max Wilson, Brad Dayton and I formed a bond. We had at last become Friends.
The next night, the three of us sat in the French Room watching Saturday Night Live on Channel 4…
“We interrupt this program for a Special News Bulletin…”
“What the fuck?!” Max groaned. He threw a pillow at the TV. We all expected President Reagan or somebody else stupid to come on at any minute.
Till the announcer continued with, “Buckwheat has been shot.” And Eddie Murphy appeared on-screen dressed as our favorite character. Next to Mr. “Can you say ‘Skumbucket?’” Robinson, that is.
We also watched this totally dumb movie on Cinemax called H.O.T.S. Which supposedly stands for “Help Out The Seals.” But really it’s all about these big boobed sorority girls having wet T-shirt contests and playing strip touch football. Stuff like that. Of course, Max totally loved it. Brad on the other hand was all like, “Whatever.” Me, I could take it or leave it.
Once the movie ended, we laid around in bed in the dark, talking about which girls at school we liked and what we’d do with them if we ever got the chance. Actually, Max was the only one lying in bed. Brad and I had the pleasure of sleeping in sleeping bags down on the shag carpet.
“I’m still in love with Lynn Kelly,” I sighed, pressing my pelvis against the floor.
“So am I,” echoed Max, most likely doing the exact same thing against his mattress.
To which Brad—lying flat on his back—said, “I don’t think I like anybody.”
“What about Carrie Johnson?” I pried. A couple months before, I’d witnessed him sticking his tongue down her throat on the dance floor at the Fun Night.
“I don’t know…” Brad sighed. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.
A few days later, we were back at Max’s Mom’s house on University in Ferndale…
I should probably explain something. Even though I live in Hazel Park, the dividing line for the HP school district cuts off at Hilton Road. Right in the middle of Ferndale. Which is the next city over from Hazeltucky and where Webb Junior High is technically located. So about half of the kids going to school with me live over there.
“They’ve been totally playing this video to death!” I groaned.
We were sitting in the French Room watching MTV when Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” came on. Which I’d seen like a bijillion times already.
Max was all like, “Who cares? Martha Quinn is hot!” Totally drooling.
Brad was all like, “Whatever.” Then he got up from the blue faux-velvet love seat and headed towards the kitchen.
“Where the Hell you going?” Max called out.
“To call the Party Line,” Brad informed us, walking away.
In case you don’t know—because why would you?—the Party Line is this phone number you call where you can talk to all these different people. Mostly guys. But sometimes girls. I don’t know how it works exactly. All I know is…you dial an exchange, like 542 or 543 or 545, followed by 9998. Usually you get a busy signal. But sometimes if you’re