Before we get to Chapter 3 of the book I wrote nine years ago, I just want to say that it totally sucks that George Carlin died. He was arguably the best comedian in the history of comedy and was definitely the best bullshit caller in the long and storied history of calling bullshit and I will miss him dearly.
Chapter 3
Sunday, April 18, 1999
Morning sunrays dotted across the landscape of a gated, upper-middle class community, broke through the window of a red and white two-story home and brought light to a pink and white bedroom. A gray Siamese cat, asleep on the plush pink carpet felt the sun dance across his eyes. He awoke, yawned and stretched.
Without any warning, the cat leapt onto the occupied bed of a young woman.
She shoved him off with her arm.
"Not now, Gus," she said.
The cat, a relentless member of its species, refused the admonishment and jumped onto the thick, brown hair of the young lady.
"Meow," he screeched into her diminutive ears.
Deborah Van Klein jumped out of bed. She looked at her alarm clock.
"Six-thirty," she said to Gus. "What the hell is your problem. We're not on the farm anymore."
The look on Gus's face told her without a doubt that Gus had neither interest in nor understanding of her words.
"You know what I'm saying," she said. "Like, there's no chores."
The cat licked himself while up against the door.
"Oh, hell," said Deborah as she opened her bedroom door. The cat dashed away and she couldn't blame him.
Her room was a mess. Two nights of partying with these city kids-or suburban kids, whatever-had totally hindered her respect for responsibility. Her desk was okay-too okay. It looked like it hadn't ever been used. The screen saver on her Compaq Presario computer bounced a picture of her cat from corner to corner. On her nightstand piles of new school papers, phone numbers, makeup and hair supplies had taken over the space. The bulk of her laundry was lumped in unfolded piles on her dresser. She knew her walk-in closet was a raging mess. She hadn't even completed unpacking, so cardboard boxes filled with memories awaited her handiwork.
As she cleaned each problem corner by corner, (the way she had been taught) her mind wandered to events of the previous evening.
She had been at Jessica's second party, hoping to run into Ethan. This time, she and Lisa arrived earlier on the off chance that Ethan would still be there when she arrived, but he wasn't. In fact, according to her friend Steve (whom she had met during her brief stay in remedial English class) he had not shown at all.
She knew she looked desperate and she hated herself for it. She had never been desperate. In her school in Orange City, Iowa, she had been Miss Popularity. Men practically sold their parents' tractors to buy her gifts. They begged her father for dates. They wrote her love poems.
Oh well, she sighed.
After making her bed, she looked over the room. A mild sense of accomplishment tingled in her brain.
She turned on her little, white, Sony television and VCR in one, put her Tai-Bo exercise tape in the VCR and began her workout.
Later, in the shower, she calmly reflected on the events of the previous night. Many men had asked for her phone number. Using a trick her mother taught her, she reversed the control by asking for their numbers.
If Ethan doesn't happen soon, she thought, I'll call Steve. He was, after all, captain of the football team and very cute.
She had drank too much nasty keg beer, smoked too much shitty marijuana and listened to countless people complain about Ethan's absence. Apparently, some kids were counting on him to bring drugs.
She didn't know why she liked him. He was beautiful, even a nun could see that. He was popular, everyone knew that. But was he the kind of guy she could go with? She didn't think so, but she had to find out. He liked her. He had called her innocent and pure. She thought that was a good sign.
She gazed at her young face in the mirror as she blow-dried her hair. Anyone at this school would love to be with me, she thought. She hoped Ethan was anyone.
She could smell breakfast being cooked downstairs. Her mother, queen of hearty eating, was no doubt preparing another cholesterol-filled morning feast.
She went into her closet, found a tasteful, Channel blue dress suit (size 1-she was very proud) and dressed in front of her full-length mirror.
Lately, she had taken to fondling herself in the mirror. She rubbed her small hands over her tight, little stomach and her firm C-cup breasts (a touch too big for such a little girl, but no one complained). She ran her hands over her firm buttocks as she pulled her dress down.
"Honey, time to eat," called her mother.
"Great," she muttered to no one.
In her bathroom, she removed a small jar of prescription diet pills from her medicine cabinet. The pills had not been prescribed for her, but they worked better than Dexatrim or even Ripped Fuel. Hell, they ought to, she thought. They were practically one hundred percent amphetamines.
"Coming mother," she called back.
After church, the third different church in three weeks, Deborah sat in her room writing e-mails to her friends in Iowa. She couldn't understand why her parents hated all the churches in St. Louis. They seemed nice to her. They all had large sanctuaries, larger than she had ever seen. They all had nice services with overpopulated choirs and beautiful decorations. But, as her father said, church is not in the sanctuary but in the hearts of the congregation.
After answering a few e-mails with the same reply as to her current status with the boys of St. Louis, she called Ethan.
The phone rang three times before he answered. Though it was eleven thirty in the morning, he sounded dead tired.
"What," he said.
"Ethan, this is Deborah."
"Who?"
She felt her heart fall into the pit of her stomach.
"Deborah Van Klein, from school."
"Oh," his voice perked up, a good sign. "How are you, Deborah?"
"Fine, I was wondering if you want to study."
"Sure," he said. "Just give me an hour."
"Do you know where I live?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"How do you plan on picking me up if you don't know where I live?"
There was a pause.
"Deborah," he said. "I don't have a car."
Whoa, she thought. How could a kid be that popular without even owning a vehicle?
"Well, I have one. Can we study at your place."
"Sure," he said before giving her directions.
"Well," she said. "I guess I'll see you in an hour."
"Great," he said and hung up.
Deborah couldn't believe Ethan. How does a kid who never hangs out at parties, rarely is seen in school and doesn't own a car become popular? In Iowa, he'd be nothing more than an attractive ex-ballplayer. He'd be considered a quitter. At LSD High, apparently, being a drug using, drug selling, car-less quitter is grounds for immense popularity.
She went into her closet and came out with the perfect outfit for the study-date (as she considered it): her tightest, smallest pair of Daisy Dukes (sluttish by the standards of Orange City Iowa but by the standards of St. Louis, acceptable) and a miniature white T-shirt with a pink flower in the upper right-hand corner. She put on a pair of white Keds. She chose her white miracle bra in an effort to keep her oversized breasts from appearing less than firm.
She looked up and down her tan body in the mirror and could find nothing worthy of even the slightest criticism.
Bring him on, she thought.
Finding Ethan's house was simple. He lived off Highway 100, as did she. As she parked her white Honda Civic in the driveway, she sized up the house. It was just like hers, only instead of white with red trim it was red with white trim.
She walked up the concrete steps and rang the doorbell.
"Yes," said the old Asian woman with no noticeable accent. "Can I help you."
Deborah froze.
"Um, I'm sorry," she stammered. "I'm looking for Ethan Lee. Do I have the right-"
"Come in, come in," she said.
She led Deborah through the foyer, down a hallway and into a dining room where a gray-haired Asian man sat smoking tobacco out of a pipe while reading a newspaper.
"This young lady is here to see Ethan, Robert," she said.
"Oh," said Robert as he stood up. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He extended a hand. "I am Robert Lee, this is my wife Kim. I see you have your books with you."
"Yes," said Deborah, still a bit uneasy. "Ethan and I are going to study."
"Smart move," said Robert. "He has the third highest grades in his class. He'll be the highest after we kill the other two boys."
Robert and Kim laughed uncontrollably. Deborah glanced around the kitchen for Rod Serling.
"Just a joke," said Robert. "Kim, could you please get our boy."
Kim Lee opened a door. She heard the little woman's footsteps. She felt relief when she heard Ethan's voice.
Ethan emerged from behind the door wearing a pair of blue jeans and skin tight T-shirt. He was barefoot, but still about one foot taller than his mother.
"Hey, Deborah."
"Hello, Ethan."
"I see you've met my parents. Hope old Rob didn't scare you with his sardonic sense of humor."
"Just a little," said Robert with a smile. "I told her I would kill your competition for valedictorian."
"Well, hell," said Ethan. "That's not a joke. That's a plan."
After the comfortable laughter subsided, Kim said, "Well, go study. Don't waste your beautiful brain joking with Dad. You know he'll just make you dumber."
Rob slapped his wife on the rear with the front page of the newspaper.
Ethan and Deborah savored the sounds of the Lee's giddiness as they descended the stairs.
Deborah Van Klein was overwhelmed by Ethan's basement-apartment. The entire furnished basement was his.
"Wow," she said as she took in the place. He had his own kitchen, his own bathroom, a walk-in closet, a washer and drier, a television room complete with an entertainment center, an oversized computer desk and a huge bed. He even had his own entrance.
"Nice digs," she said.
"Thanks. By the way, I do appreciate retro references like that."
She laughed.
He loved her laugh.
"Is that a statue of-"
"Yup, Jesus himself."
"Have a seat," said Ethan.
She sat down on the couch and placed her History book on the coffee table.
"Want some coffee. It's almost ready."
"Um, no thanks."
Deborah felt wired from her second diet pill.
Deborah confessed that she didn't need to study, but that she wanted Ethan's notes and pointers on Rhabomeyer's test style.
"Well, ah, Deborah," said Ethan. "The truth is this test is not worth studying for. At least, not for me. I remember it all."
"Really," she smiled. "Then how about I study you?"
"What, you mean cut me open and analyze my innards?"
"No, I mean tell me about yourself."
She crossed her legs and caught him staring as he poured his coffee. She threw a smile at him.
"Not much to tell."
"Well, why don't you tell me about your parents?"
"They're consultants in the computer network field. They travel a lot. Dad was one of the original investors in Dell, so he's doing all right. Mom paints a lot."
"So," Deborah searched for polite phrasing. "You were adopted."
Ethan laughed. She loved the sound of his laugh.
"What makes you say that?"
Her little brown eyes seemed to frown at him.
"Yes," he said. "My parents abandoned me when I was an infant. The Lee's adopted me. But as far as I'm concerned, they're my parents."
"Of course," she said, feeling a bit ashamed.
"Tell me about your parents."
"Well, we owned a farm, corn mainly. Dad got a job with some feed supply company and he sold his land. The company transferred him and here I am."
"You like St. Louis?"
"I guess. The school's kind of crazy."
"I guess."
"Ethan," she said as he sat next to her on the couch. "The first time we met, you said that nobody loves you but a hungry dog."
"I was kidding. I got a hungry dog, a best friend and two loving parents."
"But what about all the people I met who claimed to be friends with you, all the girls who claim to have been your girlfriend. I mean, were you like a star baseball player or something?"
"Second in the rotation."
"Why'd you quit?"
"So I could pursue my career as a trapeze artist. Didn't the rumor mill furnish you with that information?"
She laughed again, and Ethan could have sworn that he just overheard and angel laughing at one of Yahweh's jokes.
"I mean it. Why?"
"Let's not talk about baseball, okay."
"Okay. I'm sorry," she pushed herself away from him, extended her legs onto his lap. "What do you want to talk about?"
"You. You were a cheerleader, right?"
"Yes. How could you tell?"
"The stomach," he said pointing to her exposed bellybutton. "You must have been a hard worker."
"Sure was."
The sliding glass door opened and a bleached blond male with a nose ring entered.
"Hey, Ethan."
"Sorry, Man," he said. "All gone."
"You know when?"
"Tuesday. Mad shit on Tuesday."
"Cool," the kid said before disappearing.
"Let me lock that," Ethan said.
She lifted her legs off him. He locked the door, walked over to her, reached for his coffee and kissed her on the lips.
"Hey," she said. "I didn't give you permission."
"Sorry," said Ethan. He blushed for the first time since junior high.
She stood up. Ethan didn't know what she would do. Maybe she was mad, he thought. Maybe she was leaving.
"Kiss me," she said.
The ensuing kiss lasted nine minutes. She tasted like a peppermint dream. He wished he hadn't had all that coffee.
"I have a proposition for you," she said. "Take me out on a date. Borrow your Mom's car and take me out on a date."
She realized she sounded desperate and hated herself for it.
"Sure," he said, washing all her self-hate away. "Tomorrow evening."
"I'm not allowed to go out on school nights."
"Lie. Tell your parents you're studying."
"Okay," she said.
She kissed him again, gently on the cheek.
"I better get home. Can I leave out this door?"
"You can enter it, too."
After she left, Ethan could still smell her. He sat on the couch and breathed her scent.
Ethan thanked the statue of Jesus for bringing him a beautiful, intelligent woman who was no slut.
"What are the odds?" he asked Christ.
He rolled up a joint on his coffee table. As he smoked the joint in his bathtub, he found himself imagining a life with innocent, little Deborah.
Deborah Lee, he thought, what a beautiful name.