Haskell himself, p.11
Haskell Himself, page 11
We stood a few yards from Dr. Freed’s office. The California flag drooped in the still air. We saw no bus. No school administrator. No teachers. Just a crowd of nearly four dozen students, surrounding Henry and Lucky. Winston and Nate stood directly behind their leader, and I was behind Henry. Were we about to get into a brawl? A second felt like an hour, and then Lucky smiled, signaled for his pals to move before he raised his fists in the air, obviously preparing for a fight. Lucky took the first swing, but Henry grabbed his arm before it made contact, kicking Lucky in the stomach. Lucky immediately fell to the ground. Before he could get back on his feet, Henry put the heel of his foot onto Lucky’s forehead. The other hooligans did nothing. Winston stood there, his jaw wide open, and Nate trembled, as if he feared he might be the next victim.
It happened so fast, I think all of us were shocked, maybe even dazzled by Henry’s quick self-defense.
Bending down on one knee, Henry spoke into Lucky’s ear, almost in a whisper. “Listen, Monsieur Miller. If you ever lay another hand on Haskell, you won’t be just lying on the ground. You’ll be in the hospital, with broken arms, broken legs, and broken ribs. Is that clear?”
“Yeah, who’s going to do it to me?” Lucky asked, his voice barely audible.
“I am, you moron. Who else do you see volunteering for this job?”
Henry pressed his heel harder on Lucky’s forehead until the poor dweeb screamed. “Stop it!” Lucky’s arms swung at Henry’s leg, but Henry jumped, his two legs landing hard on Lucky’s arms. The doofus screamed again, an excruciatingly painful expression on his face.
“You want up? Apologize, right now.”
Under his breath, Lucky mumbled, “I’m sorry.” As the doofus rose to his feet, he took another swing. Henry caught Lucky’s fist with his right hand and twisted the arm hard behind his back until the poor hooligan screamed louder than before. “All right! All right! Enough!”
“I learned self-defense because of idiots like you. Now leave my friend alone.”
The bus finally arrived. Henry and I sat together in the front as we watched Lucky dust himself off and board. Before he made his way past us, he tried punching Henry in the shoulder again. Henry dodged it by merely moving his shoulder in the nick of time—and poor Lucky, his knuckles hit the metal bar above the seat with such force, I wondered if he had broken his hand. It must have hurt like the devil because he let out a loud, painful yowl.
“You better put some ice on that as soon as you get home!” someone shouted.
“It’s going to swell up big time.”
“Someone I know is going to need some X-rays!”
“And his mommy.”
“She’ll make it all feel better. No worries.”
“Mommy will kiss his little boo boo!”
“And sing him some lullabies so he’ll go fast asleep.”
And these girls—the same ones who had stood behind Henry and me in line—began making all sorts of baby sounds and noises. Really annoying. I was glad they took my side now. I couldn’t say I felt sorry for Lucky. I felt relieved he was getting a dose of humiliation. See what that feels like, you doofus! Still, I didn’t think any of this teasing was necessary.
I waited until the bus headed out of the parking lot before I thanked my hero. “That was very brave of you. I appreciated your help.”
“Your first day at school and you’ve made an enemy. How did you manage that?”
I shrugged.
“How did you become so lucky?” He laughed at his own pun and then lowered his voice. “Talk to me, buddy boy. Why did he call you Judy?”
I didn’t want to answer him for fear he’d stop liking me. I shut my eyes for a moment. The strange feeling that ran through my blood was a weirdness I couldn’t identify. Only one other person had ever been this nice to me. Once in school I was asked to accompany Annie Freedman on the piano, and since I played by ear and knew every popular show tune, we did a whole repertoire during an assembly. It was very rewarding. Lots of girls thought I was “incredible” and “amazing,” but afterwards, during recess, Mark Tucker, a fellow thirteen-year-old, mimicked the girls and kept complimenting me in a girly voice. He also made fun of my big ears. “Fly away, Dumbo!” I put up with the teasing for a few days, and perhaps it would have gone on for weeks had Mr. Varnish not overheard Tucker and told him he must stop his taunting. “If I hear one more tease coming from that mouth of yours, you’ll spend a half day in the hallway wearing the dunce cap. Is that clear?”
Apparently, not clear enough. Tucker harassed me in the hallways, after school, and at lunch until Varnish caught him flicking my ears as I bent down for a drink of water at the water fountain. “That’s it, Tucker!” Varnish made him sit in the middle of the hallway actually wearing a dunce cap, a tall triangular hat, white with red stripes, made of metal. Though it resembled a birthday party hat, it was much larger, maybe the size of the cone you might see blocking an intersection. Varnish made him stay on the stool wearing the dunce cap two whole hours, and during the breaks, kids crept past him, often laughing and pointing fingers. When his punishment ended, Tucker ran out of the school and dashed into his father’s limo. That evening, Mr. and Mrs. Tucker insisted on a face-to-face meeting with the Headmaster and Mr. Varnish, and I can’t say exactly what went on there, but Varnish turned up the next morning, bright and early, and little Tucker never showed his face again.
We later heard he was enrolled in a military school in upstate New York.
Bullying at Bonvadine Academy was taken very seriously. Maybe that’s why I loved Mr. Varnish so much. No one had ever rescued me in that way, until Henry, my one-time rival, kicked Lucky Miller in the stomach.
I needed to say something. He asked me two questions, and I would answer at least one of them.
I cleared my throat.
“So here’s the scoop. You ready?”
Henry nodded. “Go for it.”
“Lucky was nice to me when we first met. We both liked the Beatles. He went kind of berserk when he heard I had purchased a copy of the latest Beatles album for Hope with the rare butcher cover.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“The four mop heads are dressed in butcher smocks, surrounded by pieces of raw meat and plastic doll parts. Anyway, it’s a rarity, and he was impressed, and he was all ‘Let’s hang out, bud.’ Wanted to see my comic books, my posters. And all was just fine until he insisted I write his book report for him, from start to finish. I said I’d help. I wouldn’t write the whole thing. That’s cheating.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“And then he threatened me. If I didn’t write the book report, he basically said I’d be without a bodyguard, opening myself up to getting killed by gangs of ruffians who would leave me for dead in a ditch.”
Henry shook his head. “The guy’s a complete moron.”
And now I wondered if I should address the other question—regarding why he called me Judy—and I figured, why not go for broke?
“Before all this happened, Lucky spied on me one day while I practiced making baskets. I was a bit clumsy and yet determined to figure out the best way of tossing a ball into the basket. While I did this—I don’t know what got into me—I started humming.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, you got me. I was doing my own rendition of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Sang some of the lyrics as well. He heard me and made some crass comment to his sister and my cousin.”
“Figures.”
“Yeah. And then in my government class today he said out loud, so the whole class could hear, ‘Hey Judy, when you singing at Carnegie Hall’?”
“He’s a fucking idiot.”
“In front of the whole class! Well, I’m glad you agree.” I let out a deep breath. “I mean, who doesn’t like Judy Garland? My uncle likes Judy Garland. Mr. Varnish, my history teacher, said she had the greatest singing voice in the twentieth century.”
“I think she’s great, too.” Henry grinned.
Well, that was a relief.
“And you know, Haskell, I used to enjoy watching her TV show. I was so sorry when they cancelled it.”
“Me too. Love the episode when she sang songs from A Star is Born.”
“Can’t beat ‘The Man that Got Away.’”
“Right? What a moment, when she sings that in that smoky nightclub?”
“She really got ripped off. The Academy Award belonged to her.”
“I know. What was the Academy thinking, giving the trophy to Grace Kelly for a good but not remarkable performance?”
We both sat back, our heads against the smooth plastic seats of the bus, smiling and laughing. I had a pal who loved movies, appreciated one of my favorite singers, and was willing to stand up and defend me.
He reached over and squeezed my hand.
“You’re going to need some self-defense lessons, buddy boy. I don’t know why Lucky takes this bus. He has a car, but for whatever reason, he’s on my same bus a couple times a week. I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You help write my term papers, help me study for tests, tutor me in math, write all my book reports. In exchange, I’ll teach you everything I know about self-defense. Fair enough?”
Now he was making fun of me.
I didn’t care. I had what I assumed could be a good friend, something I’d wanted all my life. A friend who loved theater and movies and acting. A friend who could teach me self-defense. Someone who appreciated me and hopefully understood me better than I understood myself. I sat back in my seat, closed my eyes, and crossed my fingers, making certain my words remained in my head, quite silent, so I didn’t embarrass myself: Please, let this become what I hope it becomes. A friend. A real friend. Someone I can trust and depend on. A life-long friend. A person I can be honest with and share everything with, even my heart-breaking humiliations and my embarrassments. Finally, I had an ally who would help me fit in.
K__14__L
HENRY STONEMAN’S BEDROOM
As soon as we entered the kitchen, using a side door, Henry shouted, “Mom? Monsieur Hodge is here! Remember him?”
His mom shouted back from far across the house. “You have your piano lesson in three hours! I haven’t heard you practice for more than a few minutes,” his mom yelled back.
“I am fully aware and ready, Mom! I’ll be fine. Ho praticato e sono pronto.”
Henry spoke Italian. What did this kid not do?
He led me up the stairs, and we entered an attic room with high ceilings, pitched with octagonal roof lines. On his walls were pictures of various movie stars—his idols, he said: John Wayne, Randolph Scott, Spencer Tracy, Cary Grant, and dozens of others.
“I’ll change. I’ll be right out.” He disappeared into his walk-in closet and reappeared a short while later in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a massive portrait of Beethoven on it. His jet black hair was barely long enough for a mini-pony tail, loose strands falling partly across his eyes, and he had the deepest dimples. It wasn’t that he was just good looking; his features made him extraordinarily exotic. He told me he was half Arab and half Sephardic Jew. His father’s family was originally from Casablanca, dating back hundreds of years, and his mother’s family was Muslim, originally from Tunis. He could have easily passed for several nationalities.
I didn’t want him catching me staring, but I couldn’t help myself. For one thing, he had a darker complexion than most boys at school, his skin near perfect without any blemishes or pimples. He had a slight cleft in his chin, not deep but certainly noticeable, and his small ears were for the most part unseen because his hair nearly covered them. When he shook his head and his hair swung to one side or the other, I saw ears that were flat against his head, not protruding out all Dumbo-ish—like mine. He also had bluish eyes and long eyelashes. It was as if God had anointed him as a near-perfect example of male handsomeness, and I wasn’t sure if I merely envied him or I wished I could trade places and be him.
Maybe he had a girlfriend. I wouldn’t ask. Why wouldn’t he have a girlfriend? Who wouldn’t want him as a boyfriend? Or maybe he wasn’t into girls?
“I thought EH had a strict haircut policy. Nothing below the earlobes? How do you get away with wearing your hair long?” I asked.
That got me out of my head for a moment.
“Dr. Freed made an exception since my long hair often gets me my TV roles.” He sat down at his upright piano and removed the rubber band holding his pony tail together, allowing his hair to fall naturally a few inches above his shoulders. “I’ll play something for you. I’m working on this Chopin mazurka. I’ve been practicing it slow. For you, fast speed?”
“Why not?” I said.
I had played this piece myself, so I was quite familiar with it. The difference between our two versions? I played the music with my shirt on.
He pulled his shirt over his head. I wasn’t sure if he was showing off his lean physique or if he took his shirt off so he’d feel unhampered.
The shirt now lay on the floor, Beethoven staring up at me with his cruel, dark, penetrating eyes.
“I get sweaty when I play, and I don’t want my shirt all wet.”
Oh, that explains everything.
On one wall were pictures of him when he was a few years younger. He had changed. Transformed would be a better word. Weight lifting, gymnastics, karate? What did he do to make the muscles stand out, especially in his abdomen? Or make the blue veins thicken in his arms? I was breathing fast, and I closed my eyes, hoping I could distract myself.
His fingers flew across the keyboard. It was a black upright, a Steinway, and he played with fiery passion and feeling, with wondrous energy and spirit. At one point, he slowed down, and the melody grew softer and more poignant, exerting such exquisite control, it brought tears to my eyes. My face reddened. I almost stopped breathing. Technically, he was far better on the piano than me, and he was probably a much better actor, and certainly more of an athlete. I wondered—the hours he spent practicing piano, taking karate or self-defense lessons, as well as preparing for his auditions—when did he ever have time to study?
“So, what did you think?” Henry asked me, after he finished. “Originally, I studied piano for my role as young Chopin. I’m in the film for less than ten seconds. Most of my part was cut. In the meantime, I fell in love with the piano.” No question, he was a talented musician, and of the many musicians I knew, none of them—at least not at Bonvadine—had a body like his. What would it take, I wondered, to have a physique matching Henry Stoneman’s? I wanted my body to look like his. Simple as that. It was like when I’d peruse the Charles Atlas advertisements, poring over befores and afters of men who miraculously changed from skinny to muscular after following the instructions, which promised results in less than fifteen minutes a day.
“You play so well,” I said.
“You think so? Interesting how I slowed it down, huh? Un movimento lento e facile.”
I blanked out for a moment. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Play something for me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Play something. Anything, Haskell. Please.”
Reluctantly, I sat down and played the beginning of Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp minor. This piece is said to have sections in it that are the loudest and the softest in music literature. At one point it opens with a three-note motif at fortissimo, imitating the pounding clang of chiming bells, and then it goes pianissimo, as if bells have stopped and we hear only the soft silent air of Moscow. I tried to instill all this feeling into my playing, though Henry had little reaction. I didn’t know if he enjoyed it and it left him speechless, or he simply had nothing to say, one way or another.
Still on the piano bench, I turned so I could face him.
Henry sat in a chair near the piano, still bare chested, and put his hands behind his neck. I wasn’t sure if he was showing off, or simply waiting for me to say something as I stared at the tiny strands of black hair in his arm pits.
“You’re really good.”
I nodded.
“I’m thrilled to meet someone who shares my hobbies. I like acting, but I prefer piano-playing. It’s solely dependent on me, and I don’t have to worry about a director or someone else telling me what to do.”
“Acting’s not a mere hobby for you. I saw you in Westward. You were scary good.”
“One line. That’s all I had. I’m eager for a real role. A meaty role. Something that entails more than a few words of dialogue.”
“I’m sure that will happen soon enough.”
“I’d love to quit school. I begged my dad to just let me work with a tutor, focus on my acting and piano, and forego all this school nonsense. Now I’m glad I didn’t do that.”
“Why?”
“I met you.”
I drew in a long breath. I felt as if my whole body had gone limp with wonder. What did this mean? Had a miracle just happened? This may have been the worst day of my life, but I met someone who liked me. Maybe more than liked me.
He laughed. “Does that surprise you, Monsieur Hodge? I’ve always wanted a friend who knew a lot about movies and plays. We will have so much to talk about.”
I nodded my head. “I guess.”
“You took that acting class in New York. The Hogan method? How did you get in?”
“I tried out.”
“Well, I’m hoping you’ll give me some tips if I ever go on another audition, and I’ll teach you some self-defense moves so you don’t get trounced.”
“Sounds good.”
“You’ll be my first pupil.”
“I’m all for that.”
“So, the sooner we start, the better. Agreed?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Like you, man, I arrived at school a skinny, scrawny mess.”
“I’m a mess?”
“Yeah, you’re like a stick figure in one of those early Disney cartoons. But that’s all going to change. Let me ask you something.”
