“God bless us, everyone,” I scoffed.
Then Milo stopped walking. I stopped, too. He looked at me.
“Hold up,” he said, “I gotta talk to you about some stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Best Friend Shit.”
“Yeah,” I said, “OK.”
“OK,” he said softly, “are you OK?”
I looked down at my loafers. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer.
“I think so,” I finally mumbled.
“I just don’t want you to be hurting more than you’ve gotta be, man. I mean with the draft goin’ on, and school, the everyday shit hurts enough.”
“Bruce’s death doesn’t hurt the way it did,” I admitted, “or maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. Now I just feel numb all the time.”
“Numb,” he mused. “Well shit, that’s an easy fix.”
He clapped his small hand on my shoulder, and we continued toward the house. He led me down the side of the Harris residence, past the porch, and up against the trash cans, out of sight. He pulled a poorly rolled joint from his jacket.
“We’ve just gotta get you double numb, that’s all.”
“You think that’ll work?” I asked.
“For a few hours, maybe.”
“Cool.” I nodded and took a matchbook from my pocket.
I handed it to Milo. The wind blew the first match out.
Suddenly, muffled rock music shook the house, signifying that the party had kicked into gear. Two matches later, the joint stayed lit.
Milo took a long toke, working his eyebrows over his frames in that stupid Groucho Marx way that I hated. But I laughed in spite of myself.
“Shhhhhh,” he hissed as he exhaled.
But then he began coughing loudly, which made me laugh harder. He put his finger to his lips, choking down his coughs as he handed me the joint.
I hit it with purpose, inhaling until the back of my throat caught fire and my eyes dried up. I held the smoke inside like that, there with the quiet pain. As I exhaled, the wind picked back up. The smoke whisked away like a tiny tornado and the tip of the joint blew out.
“It’s almost 1968,” Milo said with wonder.
“I know. It’s the eve of destruction.”
“Nah, man, it’s the Year of the Monkey.”
“The what?” I asked, clearing my throat.
“Every twelfth year is the Year of the Monkey. The monkey represents cleverness. It’s, like, a year for smart people to thrive.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That we’re fucked,” he said. “Majorly, majorly fucked.”
And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed and we coughed and we laughed and we laughed and we laughed.
―
The deeper into the night we went, the more crowded the party became.
The wrestling team claimed the kitchen, and their lettermen jackets looked comically out of place with the décor. A pink stove and pink refrigerator sat tactfully on the pink tile floor; but so did the keg, which trumped any shade of emasculation. Milo and I could’ve hung out in there, but I knew I’d make the others uncomfortable (when your dad’s the coach, your presence is always suspect.)
So we posted up in the living room, where most everyone else had gathered. The cigarette smoke was thick and dreamlike, drifting through bodies and conversations, filling up pockets of empty space. The coffee table and furniture had been moved, save the TV and an armoire cabinet displaying Rachel’s mother’s collection of carnival glass. The room had been transformed into an unsanctioned dance hall, complete with a live rock-n-roll band.
They called themselves The Kryptiks—the band was comprised of three shaggy-haired juniors and a skinny sophomore on vocals. As they burned through the familiar tunes of 1967, I had to admit they were pretty good for a bunch of underclassmen.
Their bassist stood next to the TV, which Rachel had left on. Big bands in tuxedos boogied on the muted screen while The Kryptiks played a garagey interpretation of The Hollies’ tune, “Carrie Anne.” I leaned against the green floral wallpaper and watched the other kids dance.
Milo had been right—double numb was better than numb. My head didn’t feel as cloudy, which was kinda funny, since I was stoned. But my clarity came with heavy thoughts that left me with no urge to join the others on the dance floor.
My gut was full of beer and my head was full of smoke, but I was hyperaware that every boy on that dance floor would be reporting to his draft board in the coming months, same as me. I didn’t understand how they danced around that fact, but they sure as hell found a way; they shimmied and shook around the new year like the hands of a clock that’s attached to a time bomb.
“Hi, Ronnie,” someone yelled above the music.
I turned to my right. Some majorettes giggled together and passed around a bottle of gin. They waved and giggled again.
Flirty giggling—I still wasn’t used to the sound.
Girls had never been into me before my brother died. But now I had a bleak sort of fame at school—not popularity, but notoriety—and near strangers were eager to lick up every ounce of trickle-down grief they could get.
It’s messed up, I know, but girls were finally into me. So instead of complaining, I cleared my throat and walked over.
“Hey y’all,” I said, smiling.
“What?” Lena Jacobs, the one nearest me asked.
“Hey,” I said, louder.
I was used to repeating myself. Complications from a tonsillectomy had left me with a scarred vocal cord, which meant my voice was raspier than other boys my age. Medically speaking, this wasn’t a big deal. Socially speaking, it meant patiently accepting the fact that people couldn’t tell what the fuck I was saying.
“You look real pretty tonight.”
She smiled a bright-red candy smile, and her friends giggled again.
She sure did look pretty. They all did. They had knowing eyes and delicate smiles, and bodies that only an old-timey poet could properly wax lyrical about.
The band began hammering out Jefferson Airplane’s “Somebody to Love.”
“Ask her to dance,” one of her friends dared me.
But before I could respond, I heard a familiar rumble from the kitchen.
“Ramrod! Ramrod! Ramrod! Ramrod!”
I smiled as the boys in the kitchen chanted louder.
“Ramrod! Ramrod! Ramrod! Ramrod!”