A Semester in the Life of a Garbage Bag Read online

  “I’m the assistant captain,” said Sean, hating himself. He shoved his pen into his back pocket.

  “It’s going to feel great to get on that old ice again,” said Raymond nostalgically, winking at Sean and infuriating him further. “Feeling those blades cutting into the ice, stopping on a dime in a shower of snow — here’s Jardine! He’s got a breakway! Look at him fly! He’s coming in on goal! What a move! Another beautiful goal by Jardine! This kid can really make things happen out there!”

  This had Ashley laughing so hard that she could barely stand up. Sean looked daggers at Raymond.

  At the end of the day, Raymond and Sean came back to check their list at guidance to find there was a third man on their hockey team.

  “It figures,” said Raymond in disgust. “Cementhead.”

  Sean shrugged. “He’s on all the other teams. Why not this one?” As an afterthought, he added, “And quit calling him Cementhead.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re not going to be playing any games. We’d have to rent a U-Haul just to transport his helmet to the rink.”

  Yet, as the week progressed, Raymond and Sean found that there were many undiscovered hockey hopefuls at DeWitt, and their list was beginning to fill up. According to Raymond, sixteen or seventeen names were all they needed.

  Ashley now looked at the team with double enthusiasm, as she was hoping to use it as a vehicle to meet Steve Semenski. Raymond and Sean promised to “do what we can,” and privately vowed to die first. The two were also supposedly doing what they could to get her in to see Gavin Gunhold, but Mr. Gunhold was being stubborn.

  “You know how artists are,” said Sean, blushing. And Raymond promised to try again.

  ***

  The Korean energy experts were apparently undeterred by Howard’s creative sound track to the SACGEN video. Their government began negotiations with the Department of Energy for the purchase of two SACGEN units, and possibly more later.

  Howard was unimpressed. “They’ll be sorry,” he commented, “when they’re in the dark.”

  And, true to character, SACGEN was resting on its laurels after its triumph with the Koreans. The week was one breakdown after another, leading on Friday afternoon to a screaming fit by the computer teacher, Mr. Lai, followed by the handing in of his resignation, effective immediately. Of all the courses inconvenienced by power interruptions, computers was the hardest hit, because every time anyone tried to key in a program, a power blip would erase the memory or convert all entries into total gibberish. Here it was November and, according to Mr. Lai’s progress chart, it was September eleventh. There was not one single piece of finished work to show for two months of effort. The last straw had come when SACGEN had conked out a scant three lines from the end of the video game he was designing so he could get rich and quit. He quit anyway.

  In a parting gesture, Mr. Lai told Q. David Hyatt, in front of cheering crowds, where he could stick his windmill. Howard declared that Friday to be “Mr. Lai Appreciation Day.”

  ***

  Early Monday morning before class, the DeWitt varsity ice hockey team held a preliminary meeting in one of the math rooms. All eighteen signees were present, called there by team captain Raymond Jardine. The only nonplayer in attendance was Ashley Bach, acting in her official capacity as team secretary, equipment manager, and the only person Raymond and Sean knew who owned a book of hockey rules.

  Raymond had Ashley record everybody’s name, position, and hockey experience, and then tried to adjourn the meeting. But unfortunately there were questions. When a single hand shot up, Raymond turned to Sean and mouthed the words, “Who else? Cementhead.”

  “When’s our first game, Ray?” Steve asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Raymond replied glibly. “The schedule hasn’t been released.”

  “Well, then, when’s our first practice?” Steve persisted.

  “Our uniforms aren’t ready yet.”

  Steve seemed to accept this.

  The team actually appeared to be a fairly dedicated lot. Randy Fowler and Chris McDermott had both played in house league when they were much younger and seemed excited at the prospect of skating for DeWitt. Chris, as well as Steve Semenski, also played varsity football (although Steve never got off the bench), as did Ten-Ton Tomlinson, who was a great skater, and was sure that his talents as a tackle would be of good use on the ice. No one understood why Leland Fenster had signed up, even though he explained himself, saying, “Hockey is some high-powered vub, babies.”

  Not once did Raymond so much as hint at the fact that they were a hockey team in name only. Oh, yes, they would train, and play, and have their moments of glory sometime in the future. He pointed out that varsity ice hockey had a very late season, and everyone assumed that he knew what he was talking about. Sean was already plotting how to deny all responsibility when this team was uncovered as a fraud. Most of the people he hung out with were in this room, so he stood to lose a lot if he was blamed along with Raymond when it all came out.

  After everyone was gone, and Raymond was drawing up an official summary of the meeting to submit to the office so the staff would know that he, Jardine, was involved in athletics, Sean got the chance to ask Ashley how her prize date with Sheldon Entwistle had gone Friday night.

  “Don’t ask,” said Ashley. “When I’m in the city, I love taking carriage rides through Central Park. Did you know there are some people who are allergic to horses?”

  Raymond looked up. “What happened?”

  “His throat closed up! The poor guy could hardly breathe! We had to gallop to the hospital! And while we were in emergency, someone spray-painted ‘Eric loves Jean’ on the horse! The driver was sooo mad!”

  “Is Entwistle okay?” asked Sean.

  “He’s fine. But we went straight home after the hospital, so it wasn’t much of a night.”

  “Well, he got a good tire gauge out of it, anyway,” said Raymond. “You did a great job, Ashley. We appreciate it.”

  “It’s too bad I didn’t get a chance to meet Steve at this meeting,” Ashley reflected wistfully. “If I were the coach, I’d put Steve at center. He looks like a center — the broad shoulders, the sleek figure, the face of a great goal-scorer — do you think Steve’ll get to play center?”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Raymond, secure in the knowledge that there would never be a hockey game. But from the expression on the team captain’s face, Sean could tell that, in Raymond’s opinion, the only position Steve was fitted for was cleaning the locker room floor with his tongue.

  “I’ve also been spending a lot of time studying Gavin Gunhold’s poems,” said Ashley. “I’m really anxious to start helping you guys with the work — as soon as I can go and meet Mr. Gunhold. I was thinking of maybe having him autograph my Xerox copy of ‘Fruit Fly.’ It’s my favorite.”

  “You know, Ash,” said Raymond, “he hasn’t written anything in a while, and he’s really cranky about it. So we figured it wasn’t the time to hit him up for favors. We’ll ask again when he gets over his writer’s block.”

  ***

  To combat Gavin Gunhold’s writer’s block, Raymond and Sean decided to try their hands at some more poetry. But today Sean’s house was off limits. Mr. Delancey was coming home from work early and bringing with him the people from Stead-E-Rain to install the revolutionary new weather-sensitive fully automatic sprinkler system for the lawn. So Raymond and Sean traveled on the motor scooter out to the DeWitt-Seaford town line to tap the creative energy of Raymond’s home.

  Raymond’s neighborhood was much older than Sean’s, lined with small neat houses, and so abundant with weeping willow trees that the bright afternoon sun touched the pavement only here and there. The front lawns, sidewalks, and streets were teeming with kids at play, ranging from toddlers up to eight- or nine-year-olds, all of whom stopped what they were doing to greet Raymond.

  “Hey, everybody, it’s Jardine!” announced one seven-year-old. He picked up a large dirt bomb and fired it
with deadly accuracy against the mudguard of the scooter.

  “That’s the kid who loaned me the machine gun,” Raymond called over his shoulder to Sean as children mobbed the scooter and gave them a cheering escort down the street.

  “Yo, Jardine! What’s up?” asked a little boy on a tricycle.

  “Keeping ahead of the snipers, kiddo,” Raymond replied.

  “Jardine, could you play house with us?” called a little girl holding a baby doll.

  “Not today. Jardine’s a serious student. Taking a trip this summer, you know.”

  There was a loud chorus of boos from the kids. “No one’s going to send you to Theamelpos, Jardine,” said one of the bigger boys.

  “Yeah! Stay in Secaucus, and you can come and visit us!”

  “No dice!”

  The crowd parted, and Raymond pulled into the driveway of his house. Automatically, Sean headed for the front door, but Raymond called him back.

  “Not there, Delancey. That’s Jardine’s parents’ place. Jardine lives over here.” He indicated the garage, a small brick structure detached from the rest of the house. The garage door had been replaced by a permanent wall of aluminum siding, on which was painted JARDINE in large black letters.

  Sean was incredulous. “You live in the garage?”

  Raymond shrugged. “We only have one car, and there’s plenty of room on the driveway. Let me tell you, it took a lot of nagging to get this place. You know what they say — ‘leavin’ home ain’t easy’ — even when you’re only going eight feet from the house.” He took Sean to the rear, where a built-in wooden ladder led up to a padlocked window at the very top of the sloped roof. He unlocked the window, propped it open, and climbed inside, helping Sean in after him.

  “Welcome to Jardine’s castle. This is the bedroom.”

  Crouching down because of the low ceiling, Sean examined his surroundings. The “room” was a low, attic-like loft with sloping ceiling. It held only Raymond’s bed and a small dresser, on which was placed a black-and-white twelve-inch TV.

  “Don’t you bang your head when you get up in the morning?” asked Sean, noting that the ceiling literally met the floor just beyond Raymond’s pillow.

  “Every day. It reminds me that I’m Jardine, just in case I’m dreaming I’m someone else.”

  Another ladder led down to the main floor, which was a standard size for a one-car garage. This Raymond had turned into a sitting room, with carpets on the floor and comfortable, although beat-up, furniture. The decor was dominated by the large poster of the beach at Theamelpos, which had once been in the travel agent’s office at the DeWitt Mall. The rest of the room was plastered with newspaper and magazine clippings about people who had visited Theamelpos and become rich, famous, and successful immediately afterward. References to the island were carefully highlighted in fluorescent blue magic marker. Sean stared. Raymond had certainly done his homework. There were lottery winners, Oscar nominees, millionaire businessmen, oil tycoons, best-selling authors, chefs, and art dealers, all of whom had been struggling in obscurity before that fateful trip to Theamelpos. Stock portfolios had skyrocketed, businesses had thrived, record albums had gone quadruple platinum, and all manner of incredible instances of luck had occurred while the people involved soaked up the Theamelpos sun. One farm boy on his first trip away from home had married a Scandinavian actress, won the National Ouzo Sweepstakes, and returned home to discover they had struck gold on his property.

  “Have a seat,” Raymond invited, indicating a large armchair. “Watch out for the broken spring.”

  They were just about to get to work when the telephone rang — once, twice, three times. But Raymond ignored it. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got an answering machine. Fish guts aren’t fun, but the pay is pretty good.”

  There was a click, and the recorded message came through the machine’s speaker. Hello. This is Jardine. There’s going to be a beep in a couple of seconds, so if you’re really into talking to Jardine, you can leave a message. Thank you.

  After the beep, a woman’s voice said, “Hello, this is Jardine’s mother. Don’t pretend you’re not home, Raymond. I saw you come in. I’ve got fresh blueberry pie. Why don’t you and your friend come over and have some? You’ve also got a letter from the Greek Ministry of Tourism. Are you sending away for Theamelpos brochures again? You know Uncle Alex says —” And the tape cut her off.

  Raymond heaved a great sigh. “Come on, Delancey. Let’s go meet my mom. If we don’t go, she’ll just throw pebbles at the window.”

  Mrs. Jardine was waiting for them in her kitchen as Raymond entered and snapped her a salute. “Reporting as ordered, Kommandant. This is my friend Delancey from school.”

  “Hello, Delancey,” said Mrs. Jardine. “I don’t expect Raymond to know it, but do you by any chance have a first name?”

  “It’s Sean. Nice to meet you.”

  “Great pie, Kommandant,” Raymond commented after they’d each had a slice.

  Mrs. Jardine was looking through the Theamelpos tourist brochures that had come in the mail. “You know, Uncle Alex thinks you’re going to be working with him in New Jersey this summer. And if you don’t work, how are you going to be able to keep up your place?”

  Raymond set down his glass of milk. “Jardine will be too lucky to have to work after he goes to Theamelpos.”

  Mrs. Jardine regarded Sean. “How does a nice, sensible boy like you end up spending time with Jardine?”

  Sean had asked himself that question many times. “We’re working together on a poetry assignment,” he said finally.

  “Speaking of which,” said Raymond, rising, “I’ve got to borrow the big dictionary from Dad’s study. Okay, Kommandant?” He headed out of the kitchen into the hall.

  “Just keep at it, Raymond,” she called after him. “Slowly but surely, everything that your father and I used to own is finding its way over to ‘the apartment.’” She smiled at Sean. “He’s nice, though. Any time we want, we can borrow our stuff back.” She called to her son once more. “We should start charging you rent for that place, Raymond. What do you think it’s worth? Two hundred? Three hundred?”

  “Just take a pound of flesh every month, Kommandant,” Raymond replied from upstairs, “and that way, by June, I’ll still have a hundred and forty-two pounds left to take to Theamelpos.”

  Mrs. Jardine turned momentarily serious. “I’m glad to see that Raymond has someone nice to spend time with,” she told Sean, “because underneath all that ‘no luck’ business, he really is a good person.”

  Sean nodded vaguely. Maybe so. But how far underneath?

  ***

  “The Bargain” by Gavin Gunhold

  After the hair tonic salesman’s toupee fell off

  He decided to lower the price.

  So I bought six cases.

  A bargain is a bargain.

  “It’s okay,” said Sean thoughtfully, “but I don’t think it’s as good as the others.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Raymond. “Even a brilliant Canadian poet has an off day now and then. We can write all about how this one comes from his mediocre period.”

  They played around with a few other ideas and tried some experimental words out of the dictionary, but without results.

  Sean, who had at first thought Raymond’s living arrangements to be a lunatic idea, felt strangely at home in the garage apartment now. After all, what else could be expected from Raymond Jardine, garbage bag? Idly, he imagined the fireworks if he asked if he could move into the Delancey garage. Hah! They wouldn’t even let Gramp, a grown man, have his own apartment in Brooklyn. Besides which, the garage was piled high with discarded revolutionary inventions — more little windmills that worked about as well as the big one at school.

  ***

  Until a replacement could be found for Mr. Lai, the Nassau County pool of supply teachers sent a different substitute every day. On Wednesday, it was Mrs. Hurtig, a wonderfully jolly but completely unqualified la
dy who normally filled in for absent kindergarten teachers.

  “I don’t know a computer from a toaster oven,” she announced pleasantly at the start of the class. “I can’t help you with your programs, but if you like, I can organize a singalong about ‘Rosie the Little Red Car.’”

  The whole class loved her instantly, and they spent a companionable half hour just chatting.

  They were interrupted by Mr. Hyatt’s voice on the PA system. “Attention, staff and students. There is no cause for alarm. Please evacuate the building by the shortest route. Once again, there is no cause for alarm.”

  In the background, scuffling could be heard, and Engineer Johnson suddenly shouted, “Hit the deck!”

  There was a series of sharp cracklings, and the PA system went dead along with the lights.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Hurtig. “I suppose I should do something. I am the teacher, after all,” She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then bellowed, “Every man for himself!” and led the laughing, good-natured stampede to safety.

  Out on the front lawn, the entire population of DeWitt High School was milling around in a sociable carnival of griping. Their irritation at being hit with yet another SACGEN inconvenience was mellowed by the opportunity to take a break from classes, and the students spent a pleasant few minutes mingling with friends. The prevailing attitude went from pleased to joyous when Engineers Sopwith and Johnson came running out of the building, their faces and clothing darkened with soot from a series of small explosions. The outbreak, however, wasn’t too serious, and the DeWitt Fire Department had everything under control in a matter of minutes.

  “You can’t win ’em all,” said Howard philosophically. As soon as Mr. Hyatt had come on the PA, Howard had grabbed his table and chairs and set up his poker game on the lawn. Leland, Randy, and Chris were playing when Sean found them. Sean would have liked to join them, but he had left his toothpicks in his locker, and Howard refused to negotiate a line of credit.

  “Wood only, baby,” said Leland, summarizing house policy. To Leland, toothpicks were wood, except when the bet went really high, when they became lumber. “That’s a lot of lumber, baby,” he would often protest one of Howard’s super raises. And sometimes, when the game organizer raked in a particularly large pot, he would exclaim, “Lumberyard! Zunging lumberyard!”