Inflating a Dog (The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy) by Eric Kraft (novels to read for beginners .txt) 📗

Two louts were sitting in front of me. One was known as Greasy; I don’t remember his last name. The other was Nicky Furman. A low groan came from Greasy. “Oh, man,” he muttered, “I would really like to get into Patti’s little snatch.”

“Mm,” said Nicky.

“I mean,” said Greasy, superfluously and boorishly, “I would love to fuck her.”

I was shocked to hear this, because fuck was rarely used in those days. It had not yet become what it is now, a limp bit of oral punctuation that lies in a sentence like a slug, flaccid from overuse, as impotent as a comma. It had power then. It was outrageous. I was outraged that Greasy should employ it to name what he wanted to do to Patti. I would have liked to give him a piece of my mind, but I didn’t because I had seen the damage he could do to boys my size.

In the privacy of my own mind, I told myself that what Greasy wanted was not at all what I wanted. I wanted romance, love, a love taller than the tallest mountain, oo-oo-oo, deeper than the deepest sea, oo-oo-ee, a love that would never die, a passion for the ages. I wanted to know the magic of all her charms, under the moonlight, one summer night, which meant, I can tell you, because I was there, pretty much the same thing as wanting to fuck her, but in a loving and beautiful way, oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-ee, ohhhh yeah.

“Yeah,” said Nicky. “She’s a great lay.”

What? How did he know?

“You fucked her?” asked Greasy.

“Yeah,” said Nicky, as if it were not a particularly interesting thing to have done. “She’s a great lay, a terrific piece of ass.”

He was slandering the piece of ass I loved! I didn’t want to believe him. He hadn’t — Patti would never have — he couldn’t — this was just —

“Bullshit,” said Greasy. I was beginning to feel a kinship with him.

“If you say so,” said Nicky. He let a moment pass. He snorted. “I’ll tell you something funny, but you got to promise not to tell anybody.”

“What?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.”

“I had a rubber that I swiped from my father’s bedside table, because I didn’t want to get her in trouble, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I never used a rubber before — ”

Uh-oh. This was not good. It put him in  a bad light. It was not the sort of detail he would include unless he was being really honest.

“ — so I open the package and I take the thing out and it’s a little flat round thing. I don’t know what the hell to do with it. So I start fiddling around with it, trying to figure out which end is up, and she says, ‘What’s taking you so long?’ And I say, ‘I don’t usually use this brand. I’m not familiar with it.’ And then I see that it’s all rolled up, so I figure I gotta unroll it, which I do. So I’ve got this long rubber bag that I’m trying to get onto my pecker, and it ain’t easy, let me tell you that. When I finally get it on, there’s a big bubble in the front, like a balloon, and when I stick it into her, it goes ‘pop.’”

“No shit.”

“I told my uncle what happened, and he cracked up. I thought he was gonna bust a gut. And then he tells me you’re supposed to put the thing onto your prick and roll it down. You don’t unroll it first.”

“Oh, sure,” said Greasy. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” said Nicky. “I didn’t know that. I already told you.”

Silence. Then Greasy, convinced now, asked, “How did you get her to let you do it?”

“Just asked,” said Nicky.

Just asked? That couldn’t be. It couldn’t be that easy, couldn’t have been that easy.

“What did you say, exactly?” asked Greasy. I bent over my notebook.

“I said, ‘You want to get into the back seat?’”

Damn. You had to have a car. Wouldn’t you know.

“Yeah?” asked Greasy. He waited a moment and then prompted Nicky with, “And?”

“And what? We got into the back seat.”

“You didn’t say anything else?”

“No. I said, ‘You want to get into the back seat?’ That’s all. She knew what I meant. Everybody knows what the back seat is for.”

“Yeah,” said Greasy, and he laughed a laugh that sounded very much like the sound that would be made by the outrushing air if one inflated a dog till it was as round as a ball, then gave it a couple of slaps on the belly, and let it go.

Chapter 8

You’ve Got to Ask for What You Want

I TOLD MYSELF that if I couldn’t get what I wanted from Patti, I would have to learn to be content with what she was willing to give me, which was friendship. She didn’t consider me a candidate for boyfriend, but she did consider me a friend, and as her friend I often got to walk her home after school. We walked, and we talked, but we didn’t touch. On nice days, we sometimes took a very long way home, strolling all the way downtown, where we stopped at the malt shop at the corner of Bolotomy and Main.

This shop was called Malt’s; I think that whoever originally opened it intended to call it Malts, so that people wouldn’t mistake it for the shop around the corner called Shoe Repair, but the signmaker’s rascally sidekick, that old demon apostrophe, crept in, and as a result many a Babbingtonian believed that the shop was originally owned by the eponymous Malt, who had concocted the drink that bore his name, a personage of whom all Babbington ought to be mighty proud. Malt’s was an institution of long standing, but its time had passed. Old people went there, and parents brought children there, but no one from Babbington High went there. That’s why Patti and I began frequenting it. We went to Malt’s because we wouldn’t be seen by our