Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack!, page 6
Then Dinky said to him, “I’m not interested in the bizarre anymore.”
“How come?”
“I’ve got to think about myself. I’ve got to concentrate on getting off all this blubber.”
“Can’t you do both?” Tucker asked.
“I’ve got to read more,” Dinky answered. “P. John has read all of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., except a few stories in Welcome to the Monkey House.”
“I only read God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater,” Tucker said. “But I wouldn’t think P. John would like Vonnegut.”
“He likes him because he’s a self-made man,” Dinky said. “He says you’d never find Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., on welfare.”
After Tucker had petted Nader for a while and listened to a little of a new record album, he saw Natalia standing in the doorway. She had her old mischievous grin on her face, and her hands were behind her back.
“Come on in,” Tucker said. “How’s the discussion going?”
Natalia made a face. Then she produced a spiral notebook folded open to a page, with a balloon drawn on it.
Inside the balloon were the words “If I could be reborn, I’d be a—”
Tucker picked up a pencil and finished the sentence, “Aries instead of a Pisces, because Pisces are wishy-washy and Aries are dynamic.”
“I’d be a Gemini, instead of a Libra,” Natalia said, “because Geminis have two ways of looking at things.”
“That makes them two-faced,” Tucker said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Natalia said, “because they’re not really one person. They’re twins in one person.”
“I don’t know much about astrology,” Tucker said, “just that Pisces are wishy-washy and Aries are dynamic. My mother’s Aries. She has a really good mind.” He felt relieved because they were actually beginning a conversation, but then Natalia drew another balloon and passed it to him for his turn. At first, Tucker felt self-conscious playing the Balloon Game again. There was something weird about sitting in the same room alone with a girl, passing a notebook back and forth and writing down things without speaking. But after a while there was not anything he would rather do.
The hi-fi was playing softly in the background. Nader was curled up asleep inside one of the guests’ coats. A light snow was beginning to fall outside—Tucker could see it in the lamplight through the window.
And once, in answer to Tucker’s question: “I think Tucker Woolf is—,” Natalia had written inside the balloon, “fishing for a compliment.”
Which made them both laugh, and was the only way, really, to handle it: not to let it get heavy.
When they became aware of the shouting in the living room, they thought it was another rebirth.
“It’s not, though,” Natalia said after she listened for a second. “It’s Marcus, and he was already reborn earlier.”
“Then it’s probably the discussion period,” Tucker said.
“It doesn’t sound much like a discussion.”
Natalia was right. It was a fight between Marcus and P. John.
Mrs. Hocker had offered Dinky a piece of chocolate-fudge cake which Marcus’ mother had made, and P. John had ordered Dinky to refuse it.
Marcus had taken it as a personal insult.
Marcus had started screaming at P. John, “If she doesn’t taste my mother’s cake, I’ll split, man, and take your left ear with me!”
By this time Tucker and Natalia had run down the hall and were watching the scene near the entrance to the living room.
“You try taking my left anything!” P. John answered, standing up to face Marcus, and P. John had a point, because Marcus didn’t even come up to P. John’s shoulder.
“Just taste the cake, honey, just a taste,” Mrs. Hocker said.
“Let’s all cool off, now,” Mr. Hocker said.
“Susan doesn’t eat chocolate anymore,” P. John said.
“That’s my mother’s chocolate!” Marcus said, crouching like a jungle cat about to spring.
“Dinky,” Mrs. Hocker said, “it’s only polite.”
“I don’t eat chocolate anymore,” Dinky said.
“She’ll have a taste later,” Mr. Hocker said.
“She will not!” P. John said, and then Marcus sprang, catching hold of P. John’s neck, and trying to pummel P. John’s stomach with his fists.
P. John caught Marcus’ arms and twisted them around behind his back, while Marcus winced with pain.
Then Marcus began to cry, and P. John let him go.
“Get out of our house,” Mrs. Hocker said to P. John. “Get out right now.”
“This can all be settled peacefully,” Mr. Hocker began.
But Mrs. Hocker was way out of control. “Get out! Don’t you ever come back! Out! Now!”
Dinky began to cry, too.
Mrs. Hocker had her arms around Marcus. Mr. Hocker was standing in front of Dinky, offering her his handkerchief and saying, “Here, here, now.”
Everyone else was just milling around helplessly, except P. John, who had gone back to the bedroom for his coat. He stormed past Tucker and Natalia without seeing them.
The front door slammed.
SEVEN
THREE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, P. John Knight got up in Creative Writing and read his new short story, “Answered Prayers.”
It was science fiction.
It was about a future world entirely under the control of one man and one woman: Mama and Papa. Everyone took dope which Mama and Papa gave them. Everyone had the same last name: Love. The people with high I.Q.’s became slaves, and took care of the machines which did all the work. Everyone else sat around in stupors, listening to television sets saying, “Mama loves you. Papa loves you,” and watching the word “Love” spelled out in endless animated designs.
There were no wars and no one went hungry. Everyone lived like everyone else, regardless of race or color, except for “the brains,” who lived in automated prisons guarded by automatons.
“Any comments from the class?” Mr. Baird, the writing instructor, said when P. John was finished.
“What does the title mean?” someone asked.
“There’s an old saying,” P. John said. “When God wants to punish you, he answers your prayers. In this world everyone’s prayers are finally answered.”
Someone else said, “What about ‘the brains’? Their prayers aren’t answered.”
P. John said, “Oh, ‘the brains’ never prayed in the first place. They didn’t believe in God.”
“But no one has a good deal in your world,” another student said.
“Mama and Papa do,” P. John said.
“What does it all mean?” a girl asked.
P. John shrugged. “It means what it says. It’s a story of the future. It’s a story of what will happen to the world after everyone’s on dope and welfare.”
Someone booed, and someone else called out, “Bigot!”
It was almost time for the last bell.
Mr. Baird hopped up on his desk, and sat with his legs crossed in front of him. “P. John,” he said. “Let me try and speak for the class. I’m picking up their vibes loud and clear.”
“No one else in this class even finishes an assignment but me,” P. John said. That was almost true. P. John regularly completed every assignment. The students liked to say of P. John that he lived a life of E’s, because P. John never received any other mark, no matter the course.
“That’s not the point under discussion,” Mr. Baird said. “We’re discussing your latest work, P. John, and while your imagination blows our minds, your philosophy is often a downer. … P. John, you don’t feel for people.”
“I don’t feel for junkies, that’s true,” P. John said. “I don’t believe in mollycoddling people, that’s true.”
“Hasn’t your own head ever been messed up?” Mr. Baird asked.
“His head is messed up right now!” someone shouted out.
“When I have problems, I have to solve them myself,” P. John said.
“Fine,” Mr. Baird said. “But what about people who don’t have your same opportunity in life, or your strength?”
“You’re not discussing my story,” P. John said. “You’re lecturing me.”
The bell rang.
Mr. Baird threw up his hands. “Okay,” he said. “There’s no more time. … P. John, you could use more compassion. You really could. … As for the rest of you, enjoy your vacation and Merry Christmas.”
Tucker waited for P. John outside the classroom. They walked to their lockers together.
Tucker said, “That was a neat story, but what did it mean?”
“It’s fantasy,” P. John said. “You shouldn’t analyze fantasy too much. You’re supposed to feel it; you’re not supposed to intellectualize it.”
“Parents don’t come off too well in it,” Tucker said.
“Maybe they’re not parents,” P. John said. “Maybe Mama and Papa are just society, or the state, or the Mafia. Don’t understand me too quickly. A famous philosopher said that.” Then P. John changed the subject. “Any more news from Susan?”
“Didn’t you see her last night?”
“She didn’t show up at Weight Watchers. I tried to call her, but I got Mr. Hocker. He said she was at church. I’m supposed to believe that.”
“She was at church,” Tucker said. “The Heights Church is holding a five-day bazaar. All the merchants and organizations in the Heights have booths set up in the church house. Dinky’s working in the DRI booth.”
“What’s that?”
“Drug Rehabilitation, Inc.,” Tucker said. “DRI, for short. It’s her mother’s organization.”
“Hasn’t she sent me a message?” P. John asked.
“Not since the day before yesterday.”
Help Yourself had a booth at the bazaar, too, and Tucker had been helping out. Dinky had sent P. John a message telling him she’d see him at Weight Watchers. What had happened between then and now, Tucker didn’t know.
“I’ve got a Christmas present for her,” P. John said. “How’m I going to get it to her?”
“I could pick it up now, I suppose,” Tucker said.
“I guess it’s the only way,” P. John said. “Would you mind, Tucker?”
Richter School was a private school, and most of the students came from what some people called “good families.” That was supposed to imply that the families were what Tucker’s mother liked to describe as “comfortable.” The fathers were in professions like law, medicine, public relations, banking, advertising, publishing.
Most of the students lived in large apartment houses with doormen, and some lived in town houses like Tucker did.
P. John lived on the third floor of a rickety old building on West 13th Street, no doorman and no elevator. It was Tucker’s first visit there.
“My mother’s dead,” P. John said out of the blue as they climbed the worn stairs. “There’s just my father and me.”
The first thing Tucker saw when P. John opened the door to his apartment was a huge poster of Mao Tsetung on the kitchen wall, and beside that, a poster reading BEAT THE SYSTEM!
There was a lean, boyish-faced man at the stove. He was stirring a large pot of spaghetti sauce. He had an apron around his waist; he was wearing worn khaki pants, desert boots, and a white T-shirt with a picture of Bach on the front. He had long salt-and-pepper hair, and a wide, friendly grin.
“Welcome!” he said. “I’m Perry. Who’re you?”
“This is Tucker Woolf, a classmate,” P. John said. “He came by to pick up something.”
“Stay to dinner, Tucker,” said Mr. Knight. “P. John, I’ve invited Mac to dinner, and Dewey. Dewey’s here from the Coast.”
“Thank you, anyway,” Tucker said. “I’m expected home.”
“Only four for dinner,” Mr. Knight said. “That’s a pity. I’m cooking enough for an army. I’m adding to what we had last night, Johnny.”
“Only three for dinner,” P. John said. “I’m not going off my diet again.”
“No one’s twisting your arm, Johnny. I really admire you, turning down your favorite dish.”
P. John said nothing. He led Tucker into the next room. All four walls were bookcases. There was a card table filled with magazines and notebooks, and a large steel file cabinet beside it.
“My father’s writing a book,” P. John muttered. He went across to a claw-legged bureau and picked up a gift-wrapped parcel that was obviously a book.
There was an old couch with a worn throw across it, a threadbare rug on the floor, a few captain’s chairs, and a long coffee table made from a piece of slate and some bricks.
“Do you want to sit down?” P. John said.
“Maybe I just better go along,” Tucker said.
“Sit down and stay awhile,” P. John’s father called from the kitchen. “Johnny never brings friends here. He’s ashamed of me.”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” P. John called back. “I just don’t agree with most of your opinions.”
P. John handed Tucker the gift-wrapped book. “Tell her there’s a card inside.”
“What’s Johnny’s girl friend like?” P. John’s father called in. “He won’t tell me a thing.”
“She’s very nice,” Tucker shouted, but Mr. Knight appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on his apron, lighting up a cigarette.
“Why don’t you call home and see if you can stay for dinner?” Mr. Knight said. “You’ll like these two old friends of mine. They’ve seen some hard times. They have a lot of interesting stories to tell.”
“All adding up to one thing,” P. John said. “They’re out of work, and they want to borrow money.”
“I really have to go home. Thanks anyway,” Tucker said.
“Dewey just got a job in a department store,” Mr. Knight said. “But if Mac and Dewey wanted to borrow money, we’d lend them money. They’re our friends, Johnny.”
“They’re your friends. I don’t make loans.”
“Johnny thinks I’m a soft touch,” Mr. Knight said to Tucker.
“I don’t think it. I know it,” P. John said. “It’s open house for the takers around here. Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, and we’ll feed them and put them on the dole.”
Everyone was still standing.
Mr. Knight said, “Johnny’s still sore at me. We’d saved some money to buy him a good watch, and I spent it.”
“He gave it to some migrant workers,” P. John said. “Another of his donations.”
“You blew a wad on Weight Watchers, Johnny,” Mr. Knight said. “You could have bought a couple of watches with that.”
They seemed to forget Tucker was in the room.
“I earned every cent of it myself, working in Brentano’s,” P. John said.
“And I admire you, Johnny, but you’re still better off than a migrant worker.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“You go to a private school. You have a nice, respectable job after school in a bookstore. You can buy a little Christmas gift for your girl,” Mr. Knight said. “I don’t sing any sad songs for you, Johnny.”
“You sing them all for tramps and beggars and migrant workers,” P. John said. “Don’t I know that!”
Tucker managed to think of something to say finally. “What’s your book about, Mr. Knight?” he said.
“It’s called Reason and Responsibility,” Mr. Knight answered. “It’s about sharing privilege.”
“It’s about handouts,” P. John said.
The noise of the spaghetti boiling over in the kitchen interrupted the conversation. Mr. Knight ran in to attend to it.
“I like him,” Tucker told P. John.
“I don’t dislike him,” P. John answered.
“This is going to be delicious spaghetti, Johnny,” Mr. Knight called from the other room. “Even better than last night.”
“He really likes it that I’m fat,” P. John said. “It’s the only way he can feel superior to me.”
Tucker didn’t know what to answer. He said, “I never knew you worked in a bookstore.”
“Tell her to try and call me,” P. John said, ending the conversation and leading Tucker toward the door. “Every time I call her they say she’s out.”
EIGHT
HELP YOURSELF TO CHRISTMAS
HELP YOURSELF: OPENING DECEMBER 26THON MONTAGUE STREET!
* Give a basket of Natural Foods.
* Give a Juicer, a Sprouter, a Yogurt Maker.
* Give healthy fruit & nut mixes.
* Give a darn about your/her/his/their health this CHRISTMAS!
TUCKER’S MOTHER WAS TENDING the booth at the church bazaar.
“Where’ve you been?” she said. “It’s almost six o’clock.”
“I stopped by at this guy’s apartment.”
“P. John Knight’s apartment?” his mother said.
“Yeah.”
“Tucker, I want to talk to you about him.”
“What about him?”
“Not here. Jingle’s going to relieve me at six,” she said. “Do you want to have dinner with me at the deli?”
“Sure,” Tucker said. “I’d like to see Dinky Hocker first. Is she here?”
“She’s here,” Mrs. Woolf said, “but I think we’d better have a talk before you see her.”
Jingle arrived in a large fur hat, smiling, reeking of martinis. He said to Tucker’s mother, “Cal went into New York today to see about that job, didn’t he?”
“How much gin did it take to give you the courage to ask that question?” she said.
“I don’t need him, anyway,” Jingle answered. “I’ll run the store myself. My way.”
“Just don’t smoke too many cigarettes while you mind the booth,” she said. “It doesn’t look good.”
“Tucker and I don’t care how things look, do we, Tucker?” Jingle said. He shoved his elbow into Tucker’s side and winked. “You take after your uncle, don’t you, Tucker? We don’t care how things look. Let ’em talk,” and he laughed as though he and Tucker shared a private joke.
At the deli, Tucker asked his mother, “What did Jingle mean?”
“I’m going to get to that, Tucker,” she said. “Jingle overheard a conversation I had this afternoon with Mrs. Hocker.”
