godlike swimmer. The chipped front tooth of a frat boy who’d come to Behavior Modification every day, snow or shine, wearing a muscle shirt while the girls practically fell out of their desks to get a better look at his rippling and hairless flesh.
The pain of looking into Bud’s face was terrible—like seeing his own inadequacies under a microscope—but it was all Tony could do. Look. That artist’s rendering was tattooed on his eyelids. It didn’t matter how much beer he drank, it was still there.
And Melody’s first phone call from camp to him (from some cabin office, shouting over the background noise of a lot of rowdy teenagers) made things worse. He pictured her in her short-shorts, wearing love-beads and braids, with Bud standing in the doorway behind her feeling her up with his eyes. It didn’t matter that she’d sworn up and down that Bud wasn’t going to be there this summer, that Bud had gone up to Alaska this year to fish on the big boats (whatever the hell the “big boats” meant: Melody always said it as if it were common knowledge that the waters of Alaska were full of large and small boats, and we all knew which kind of boat Bud would be on) and, besides, she had no feelings for Bud anymore. “I’m with you .”
Tony shouted into the phone, hoping it was loud enough for Bud in the background to hear, “I love you!” and she whispered it hoarsely back. “I love you, too.”
It had lasted only four minutes, that call, but Tony lay with the phone in his hand for hours afterward, drunk on his back on their bed, playing it over and over in his mind.
Was it his imagination, or had she emphasized the word too?
“I love you, too. ”
(“‘I love you, too, ’ the beautiful girl whispered, impatiently …” was the way he’d write it in a story.)
And when could she call him again, he’d demanded to know. Please, Melody, when will you call again so I can be sure to be home?
But she just couldn’t be sure. Day after tomorrow if they had some free time to get up to the cabin where the only phone at Camp Wishy-Washy was. “They really discourage phone calls here,” she’d said. She might as well have said they were urging her to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. “I have to go,” she’d said. “I’m so sorry. … Like ten people are waiting for this phone.”
Tony had said nothing. She kept saying good-bye apologetically until he’d forced her to hang up to his nothing. Then, for a long time he’d kept the phone to his ear as he listened to the dead air, almost hoping he’d hear something he could hold against her—maybe a click, and then the line to Wishy-Washy reconnected: “Hello? Hello? This is Bud, Bud the lifeguard. Who’s still hanging on to this connection?”
But the connection just hummed itself into dial-tone eventually, and then a recording came on politely asking him to hang up and try his call again, and then that turned into a high pitched screeching that was supposed to scare him into slamming down the receiver—but he still didn’t. He threw up, drank some coffee, went back to bed, where he stayed, and then in the middle of the night he got in his car and drove straight up to Camp Wishy-Washy—probably driving a hundred miles and hour, but he didn’t remember anything about the drive except stopping at a filling station. There was a hole in his gas tank, so Tony could only put a few gallons in it at a time, and when the gas started splashing onto the black-top, the kid who was pumping it said, “Hey, there’s a hole in your gas tank.”
“I don’t have a gas tank,” Tony said flatly, and the kid just stared at him.
A sign nailed to a post marking a rutted dirt road said, WELCOME TO CAMP MICHI-WAU-LU-K.
“Fuck you,” Tony said to it, and stopped, looking ahead. He knewhis old Honda would never make it down that road. The car only weighed about twenty pounds and the tires were smooth as glass, so Tony parked it under the sign and
The pain of looking into Bud’s face was terrible—like seeing his own inadequacies under a microscope—but it was all Tony could do. Look. That artist’s rendering was tattooed on his eyelids. It didn’t matter how much beer he drank, it was still there.
And Melody’s first phone call from camp to him (from some cabin office, shouting over the background noise of a lot of rowdy teenagers) made things worse. He pictured her in her short-shorts, wearing love-beads and braids, with Bud standing in the doorway behind her feeling her up with his eyes. It didn’t matter that she’d sworn up and down that Bud wasn’t going to be there this summer, that Bud had gone up to Alaska this year to fish on the big boats (whatever the hell the “big boats” meant: Melody always said it as if it were common knowledge that the waters of Alaska were full of large and small boats, and we all knew which kind of boat Bud would be on) and, besides, she had no feelings for Bud anymore. “I’m with you .”
Tony shouted into the phone, hoping it was loud enough for Bud in the background to hear, “I love you!” and she whispered it hoarsely back. “I love you, too.”
It had lasted only four minutes, that call, but Tony lay with the phone in his hand for hours afterward, drunk on his back on their bed, playing it over and over in his mind.
Was it his imagination, or had she emphasized the word too?
“I love you, too. ”
(“‘I love you, too, ’ the beautiful girl whispered, impatiently …” was the way he’d write it in a story.)
And when could she call him again, he’d demanded to know. Please, Melody, when will you call again so I can be sure to be home?
But she just couldn’t be sure. Day after tomorrow if they had some free time to get up to the cabin where the only phone at Camp Wishy-Washy was. “They really discourage phone calls here,” she’d said. She might as well have said they were urging her to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. “I have to go,” she’d said. “I’m so sorry. … Like ten people are waiting for this phone.”
Tony had said nothing. She kept saying good-bye apologetically until he’d forced her to hang up to his nothing. Then, for a long time he’d kept the phone to his ear as he listened to the dead air, almost hoping he’d hear something he could hold against her—maybe a click, and then the line to Wishy-Washy reconnected: “Hello? Hello? This is Bud, Bud the lifeguard. Who’s still hanging on to this connection?”
But the connection just hummed itself into dial-tone eventually, and then a recording came on politely asking him to hang up and try his call again, and then that turned into a high pitched screeching that was supposed to scare him into slamming down the receiver—but he still didn’t. He threw up, drank some coffee, went back to bed, where he stayed, and then in the middle of the night he got in his car and drove straight up to Camp Wishy-Washy—probably driving a hundred miles and hour, but he didn’t remember anything about the drive except stopping at a filling station. There was a hole in his gas tank, so Tony could only put a few gallons in it at a time, and when the gas started splashing onto the black-top, the kid who was pumping it said, “Hey, there’s a hole in your gas tank.”
“I don’t have a gas tank,” Tony said flatly, and the kid just stared at him.
A sign nailed to a post marking a rutted dirt road said, WELCOME TO CAMP MICHI-WAU-LU-K.
“Fuck you,” Tony said to it, and stopped, looking ahead. He knewhis old Honda would never make it down that road. The car only weighed about twenty pounds and the tires were smooth as glass, so Tony parked it under the sign and
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