school started, Porter Watson and Wimpy Miller stopped by on their way to pull a train on Geraldine Stubbs. Clarence was standing in his socks under the walnut tree in the front yard drinking a quart of beer. As Duane climbed into the backseat of the Fairlane, Porter yelled, “Hey, Clarence, how’s it going, man?”
“Shit,” Duane muttered when he saw his father start ambling toward them.
“What you boys into tonight?” Clarence asked.
Porter grabbed a cigarette off the dash and stuck it between his lips. “Geraldine Stubbs,” he answered with a grin. Porter’s black hair hung past his square shoulders as thick and shiny as any woman’s. He wore cheap rings shaped like skulls and marijuana leaves that had turned his fingers a bluish-green color. He’d had more girls than you could shake a stick at. Earlier that summer, his mother had banished him to the garage after he brought home a dose of crabs and spread them all over her new couch.
“Who?” Clarence said, running a hand over his stiff, gray crew cut.
“One of them retards from over on Reub Hill,” Wimpy spoke up, pulling a little black comb out of his mouth and running the spit through his thin red hair. Wimpy had a flat stupid face, long yellow teeth. He reminded Duane of a can opener.
“Nice?” the old man asked. He leaned against the car and tipped up the foamy beer.
Porter shrugged, took a drag on his cigarette, then said, “Well, she ain’t much to look at, but she sure likes to spread ’em.”
“Yeah,” Wimpy cracked, “that’s why they call her Peanut Butter.”
Clarence slung the empty bottle in the grass. “How old?” he belched.
“Fifteen,” Porter said.
Clarence pulled out a wrinkled pack of Red Man, dug out two fingers of chew, and shoved them in his mouth. He took a long look at the hills that surrounded the holler. The leaves were turning fast. Bright patches of red and orange stood out against the green pines. He hadn’t had a hard-on in six months. “Hey, like I’m always tellin’ Duane,” he finally said in a solemn voice, “puss is puss. It’s all good, just some better than other.” He sounded like some ancient philosopher who’d mulled over the problem for centuries. Then he bent down and peered in at Duane, made wacky up-and-down signals with his bushy eyebrows until Porter backed out of the driveway.
But Duane couldn’t go through with it. They parked in front of Geraldine’s old house and leaned on the horn until she finally came out. Stumbling through the weedy yard with her head down, wrapped in her shabby clothes, she reminded Duane of a timid ghost hovering just inches above the ground, searching for an empty tomb to hide in. Then, to make matters worse, he had to sit beside her in the backseat all the way to Train Lane while Wimpy argued with Porter about who was going to get firsts. Geraldine never said a word, just sat scrunched up against the door staring out the window, sucking down the beers Wimpy handed her. She smelled like pee, had gray lint stuck in her frizzy brown hair.
“You’re too damn picky,” Porter said later, after they let her out. “Fuck, your old man woulda tore that up.” He jabbed Wimpy in the arm and they both laughed.
“I ain’t him,” Duane said, staring down at the big wet spot in the middle of the backseat.
Wimpy shook his head. “Yeah, Duane, what you wanta do?” he said, lighting a joint. “End up like that crazy Lard and his goddamn Cher?”
“Nancy,” Duane corrected. Almost everyone made fun of Lard McComis. Besides being the fattest kid in Knockemstiff, he was crazy in love with Nancy Sinatra, the famous singer. He knew everything about her, down to the size of her feet and what kind of ice cream she liked to eat. But though Lard was a couple bricks shy of a load, Duane still considered him sharper than Wimpy any damn day.
“What?” Wimpy said.
“It ain’t Cher, it’s Nancy!” Duane yelled. Then he turned and watched Geraldine as she
“Shit,” Duane muttered when he saw his father start ambling toward them.
“What you boys into tonight?” Clarence asked.
Porter grabbed a cigarette off the dash and stuck it between his lips. “Geraldine Stubbs,” he answered with a grin. Porter’s black hair hung past his square shoulders as thick and shiny as any woman’s. He wore cheap rings shaped like skulls and marijuana leaves that had turned his fingers a bluish-green color. He’d had more girls than you could shake a stick at. Earlier that summer, his mother had banished him to the garage after he brought home a dose of crabs and spread them all over her new couch.
“Who?” Clarence said, running a hand over his stiff, gray crew cut.
“One of them retards from over on Reub Hill,” Wimpy spoke up, pulling a little black comb out of his mouth and running the spit through his thin red hair. Wimpy had a flat stupid face, long yellow teeth. He reminded Duane of a can opener.
“Nice?” the old man asked. He leaned against the car and tipped up the foamy beer.
Porter shrugged, took a drag on his cigarette, then said, “Well, she ain’t much to look at, but she sure likes to spread ’em.”
“Yeah,” Wimpy cracked, “that’s why they call her Peanut Butter.”
Clarence slung the empty bottle in the grass. “How old?” he belched.
“Fifteen,” Porter said.
Clarence pulled out a wrinkled pack of Red Man, dug out two fingers of chew, and shoved them in his mouth. He took a long look at the hills that surrounded the holler. The leaves were turning fast. Bright patches of red and orange stood out against the green pines. He hadn’t had a hard-on in six months. “Hey, like I’m always tellin’ Duane,” he finally said in a solemn voice, “puss is puss. It’s all good, just some better than other.” He sounded like some ancient philosopher who’d mulled over the problem for centuries. Then he bent down and peered in at Duane, made wacky up-and-down signals with his bushy eyebrows until Porter backed out of the driveway.
But Duane couldn’t go through with it. They parked in front of Geraldine’s old house and leaned on the horn until she finally came out. Stumbling through the weedy yard with her head down, wrapped in her shabby clothes, she reminded Duane of a timid ghost hovering just inches above the ground, searching for an empty tomb to hide in. Then, to make matters worse, he had to sit beside her in the backseat all the way to Train Lane while Wimpy argued with Porter about who was going to get firsts. Geraldine never said a word, just sat scrunched up against the door staring out the window, sucking down the beers Wimpy handed her. She smelled like pee, had gray lint stuck in her frizzy brown hair.
“You’re too damn picky,” Porter said later, after they let her out. “Fuck, your old man woulda tore that up.” He jabbed Wimpy in the arm and they both laughed.
“I ain’t him,” Duane said, staring down at the big wet spot in the middle of the backseat.
Wimpy shook his head. “Yeah, Duane, what you wanta do?” he said, lighting a joint. “End up like that crazy Lard and his goddamn Cher?”
“Nancy,” Duane corrected. Almost everyone made fun of Lard McComis. Besides being the fattest kid in Knockemstiff, he was crazy in love with Nancy Sinatra, the famous singer. He knew everything about her, down to the size of her feet and what kind of ice cream she liked to eat. But though Lard was a couple bricks shy of a load, Duane still considered him sharper than Wimpy any damn day.
“What?” Wimpy said.
“It ain’t Cher, it’s Nancy!” Duane yelled. Then he turned and watched Geraldine as she
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