i
My white tux hangs over the bathroom door, pressed and starched for Kerry's prom. I stand naked and wet at the mirror, presiding over a haircut. Having received second-hand intelligence involving my date's virginity, I took liberty of conducting a thorough manscape in the shower. This is no trim--I have shaved my entire pubic zone. As devoid of growth as the day I came.
If not for consideration for Kerry, it might have been a fashion cue taken from porn I was watching at the time. Actors seemed to favor the baby-faced groin, leading me to deduce such baldness was in vogue.
To say I felt prepared was for the moment. All over, when taking hold of that notch of flesh over the pubic bone, and acquainting myself with surfacing clusters of red bumps.
If time had been on my side, the thought might've prevailed to at least hit a drug store for some topical ointment. No such case. Time to fasten on an eat-shit promenade grin and remain calm, a feat undermined by the social plausibility of a white tuxedo rental. Not even the light pants could spare me discomfort, coinciding with what was the most humid afternoon May could offer.
I'm shoveling prime rib and green beans onto my dinner plate at the Westin plaza. It's starting to resemble a war zone down there. Every trip to the men's room reduces me to a Tourette-style itching which stifles all surrounding conversation. Oh to wonder, which venereal condition Kerry will think I've been hiding--an inevitability once stepping out of my suit. It might have done me good to have brought a clean bill of health along. Not that this would have made my breakout any less jarring.
But unbeknownst, there would be different concerns in store for the weekend. Kerry's modesty guided way to a reprieve from my more manicured misgivings. She demanded lights off before climbing atop the combined single beds, which, in actuality, were more like cots compensating for the size of adult cats--a featured amenity of the Sleaze-side timeshare. For two nights Kerry and I would commune there with four couples. They, too, seemed content to part with three hundred dollars to undertake this horrid post-prom bender.
Truly, it was the most intensive example of early-onset alcoholism I had seen. Early Saturday morning--in the aftermath of Kings, followed by dark claustrophobic fornicating--I'm naked in the bathroom, purging the last day's ingest. No sooner am I lamely crawling back onto the cots when the patter-clunk of pong is heard down the hall.
Kerry and I were set up, let it be known now. I was no boyfriend--filling a need, rather. And while I floated in a drunken stupor all weekend with the worst of them, she would keep me at arm's length. My prom date, sweet once during get-to-know-you movie dates and coffees, had let down a deceptive veil alongside a periwinkle dress.
No longer would I see the unassuming virgin. And actually, the respective behavior differences were so vast, I found myself impressed how embedded within her craft I had actually been. If any young drunk epitomized the Jekyll-Hyde effect while in their element, Kerry Sikes was the deranged doctor himself.
It would seem we'd realized our true naked worth. Me with a low tolerance for Smirnoff Ice. Her with the Freudian doppelganger.
Had this anything to do with malt beverages, she would not vocalize it so. The girl turned on me quietly. Wherever I roamed--in the house, on the boardwalk, or the beach--there she would not be. We go to bed on night two, no prospect of repeat intercourse. A real prize I felt like, let me tell you. To think it took another week before we had the nerve to end such a farce.
ii
"Really? A cigarette? Already at this hour? Sam? That is so bad!"
We have a work routine. The mornings I drive, Sam bikes to me and we take my truck. Today, I am rolling up the Metz driveway alongside his '88 Mercedes wagon. No need to knock on the porch door--Mrs. Metz already has him out there against the paneling. Escorting my Fuji cruiser to the outer limits of their yard, I watch from the corner of an eye as she socks him good on the upper arm.
Back at the porch, Sam is laughing off the mortification at being made live entertainment for a troupe of jogging moms with strollers. His mother has worked herself up to the point of some heavy breathing. Face-saving is doing him no favors. She posits herself to take another shot at his arm, turning to me first before execution.
"An idiot! Tell him he's an idiot!"
I consider whether Diane Metz is actually livid at the ritual breakfast butt, or if it's a displaced reaction to a newer routine--sneaking out for apartment roof sex with Liz. Either way, nothing can be said on my part to neutralize the tension out here at eight-forty in the morning. I whip out a treaty smile for these poorly timed moments, readjusting a salt-crusty Jansport bag hanging about my back. Mrs. Metz fixes to administer the punch, but Sam retreats to the car before she makes contact.
Starting the wagon takes love. Levels of which most are unequipped to give. Sam strokes his dashboard and air-kisses the steering wheel while trying to turn the engine. Usually it's his third twist, but five tries are required for today.
I dee-jay while Sam races through another American Spirit. Air and Ratatat electronica come i-Tripped through the radio as we head down the boulevard for South Mantua Gardens.
We cook under the sun until five, manning beaches and their inhabitants with more customer service finesse than most people will ever know. When the day is done, we'll drink gin and tonics with Liz at her place overlooking the north bay.
Whatever residual hang-ups are left over from Kerry, I get them all out now. A trinity of swim, run, and booze is the expedited strategy of choice. Amazing, what endorphins and inebriation can do. Summer reading was certainly not getting me there. (I was mud-dragging myself through Achebe's Things Fall Apart all summer.)
iii
Dr. Levinson is Peter Griffin in a white coat. He is also a local GT who will prescribe me proton-pump inhibitors. These medications are in response to GERD, that agreeable condition which finds your body producing an excess of acid flooding your esophagus.
Such was my predicament. A brush burn-style scar in my esophageal lining due to corrosive enzymes creating all kinds of symptoms, mostly a depleted appetite brought on by abdominal pain.
My family tried to explore the psychology of it, gauging my emotional and stress levels at any time. I am eighteen, remember--such levels have been here, there, and everywhere for years. Especially now when you consider the obligation combo meal I had prepared before me--a sandwiching of SATs, college applications, and girlfriend, with a micromanaging parent on the side. Little wonder the efficacy of the digestive tract wasn't coming up roses.
The slightest overeating offset the world. I'm talking two pretzel rods as opposed to one. My stomach would go into timeout, forsaking any apt movement propelling my meals downward. If I wanted to maintain weight, it meant eating through these pains.
This made holidays a treat. Thanksgiving and Christmas found me carrying my stomach around the house while intestines staged their coup. What of these proton-pump inhibitors supposedly regulating my gastric patterns? Those futile Protonix capsules, which on most days seemed to spin out into obscurity like the SS Minnow.
Chronic indigestion would rear its ugly head all the way to Obama's first term. That is until I would happen upon the cure-all. A special thank you is in order to the doctors Bragg, whose valiant efforts afforded me the opportunity to incorporate their apple cider vinegar into my diet. A little bit of that, some honey, dropped into water? Surely, Dr. Levinson was getting paid off by some underworld proton-pump conglomerate the way he pushed those pills.
The vinegar cured my GERD. Gone. I was shitting more than twice a week. There was coffee again. There were tomatoes. Now, I could enjoy the remaining three years of collegiate life in (reasonable) comfort.
Thanks again, Braggs.