Desert Discord Page 5

The Duro High School class of 1970 was the largest in nine years, since back before the town’s second high school was built. As “Pomp and Circumstance,” a.k.a. “The Song That Never Ends,” droned from the orchestra pit, 403 graduates filed down the center aisle and slowly filled the rows at Blocker Auditorium to stand in front of their designated seats.

  Randy Degraffenreid and Billy Dustin stood one seat apart in the eighth row, with Rebecca Drisson between them. Randy and Billy whispered back and forth, despite the glares of Rebecca.

  “You got to do it,” whispered Billy. “Right when he starts to give his speech.”

  “Not then,” whispered Randy. “As soon as he tells us to sit down.”

  “If we do it then, they might not let us graduate. Wait till we get the diplomas.”

  “No, no, we have to do it early. They’ll let us graduate. They won’t even know it’s us.”

  “You guys just shut up,” whispered Rebecca. “You’re being disrespectful.”

  Randy clamped his hand over his mouth in mock horror.

  The boys stood quietly for a time, while the last of the alphabet filed in. When Camilo Ybarra, the last member of the graduating class and the bottom of the alphabet, found his place, the music director signaled the al fine, and the orchestra concluded the Western world’s most-repeated musical passage.

  Mr. McCauley, the principal, rose from his seat on the stage and walked to the podium, standing tall and grand in his moment and his element. He tapped the microphone.

  “Parents, brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts and uncles,” he began. “Teachers, coaches, and staff.” He scanned the room slowly. “Alumni and distinguished guests.” He let his gaze drop downward to the red-robed masses before him. “And most of all, to you, the Duro High School graduating class of 1970. I say welcome, Stallions. Welcome all. You may be seated.”

  Randy, trying not to move his body or open his lips too wide, took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of his lungs:

  “WHERE YOU FROM?”

  A chorus consisting of Billy, most of the FFA, and a few football players replied:

  “DURO HIGH!”

  Randy: “ARE YOU PROUD?”

  Chorus: “HELL YES!”

  Randy: “HUMP IT ONCE!”

  Chorus: “UGH!”

  Randy: “HUMP IT TWICE!”

  Chorus: “UGH! UGH!”

  The graduating class sat down, to a smattering of laughter.

  “You’re an asshole,” whispered Rebecca.

  Mr. McCauley glowered from the podium but continued the ceremony.

  The graduation proceeded interminably, as they all do, but eventually made it all the way through the alphabet.

  After the diplomas were dispensed and speeches spoken, caps were tossed, hugs were hugged, and flashcubes popped, Billy managed to escape his parents and grandparents and head to his car. He wadded up his graduation gown and tossed it into the backseat. He had to return it to get his deposit back. His mortarboard was somewhere inside the auditorium, technically his to keep, but he hadn’t bothered to try and locate it among those littering the auditorium floor. Randy came running up, also holding his gown, and threw it on top of Billy’s.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” he yelled. “Hurry, before that queer Matthew finds us.”

  “I told him he could tag along to Dennis’s party,” said Billy.

  “Come on, I hate that little fart-knocker!” said Randy. “He can find his own fuckin’ ride. Let’s G-O!”

  Billy started his Plymouth Road Runner and revved the engine up high.

  “Look out, motherfuckers!” he yelled.

  “Woo-hoo!” screamed Randy.

  Billy popped the clutch, whereupon the car lurched forward and the engine died.

  “Come on,” laughed Randy. “You’re not even drunk yet!”

  On the second attempt, Billy managed to squeal the tires in a satisfying manner, and the Plymouth shot out of the auditorium parking lot. Reaching a stoplight, he paused to let two cars pass, then roared through the red light, both boys screaming in glee.

  The two high school graduates tore across east Duro on the warm Friday night in June, occasionally sticking their heads out the window to scream.

  “I told you he wasn’t gonna do anything,” said Randy. “McCauley’s a pussy. I could have punched him in the face and they’d still let me graduate. I could pull down my pants and moon everybody, and they’d just tell me good luck.”

  “He told me to get off the fuckin’ stage,” said Billy.

  “You shittin’ me.”

  “No I’m not. That’s what he said. After he shook my hand, I just gave him this little salute, and he said, ‘Get off the stage, Dustin.’ Can you believe that shit? I just said, ‘Yes sir.’ What a pussy!”

  “Done with that shit,” said Randy.

  “Done.”

  They both screamed out the window again.

  When they got to Dennis Robb’s house, the windows were open and music was blaring from the top floor, but kids were streaming out of the house and getting into their cars. Billy spotted Dennis in the front yard and waved him over.

  “What’s going on, man?” asked Billy. “Is your party over?”

  “No, man,” said Dennis. “My old lady is being a bitch. She says I can only have ten friends in the house, so she’s making a bunch of people leave. I’m sorry. She’s just being a jerk. You can try coming back in a couple of hours.”

  “Aw, man,” said Randy. “That really sucks!”

  “Sucks,” agreed Billy. The graduates drove away, thwarted. There had to be a party somewhere. It was Friday night, and it was graduation.

  They meandered around town for half an hour, looking for another gathering. There was no more screaming out the window. They briefly crashed one gathering at the house of a girl they barely knew, but there wasn’t much going on, so they left. Randy got a paper cup of punch but tossed it into the street when he realized it wasn’t spiked.

  “You think we could steal some beers at your house?” said Randy. “All my parents have is liquor, and they keep it locked up.”

  “We can try,” said Billy. “My old man is pretty good about keeping track of his beer. If we take more than a couple, he’s gonna notice and give me hell tomorrow.”

  “But it’s fucking graduation!” said Randy. “Getting shit-face drunk is a tradition. We have to figure something out.”

  With no better plan, they drove to Billy’s house. As they turned up Billy’s street, he cut the lights, then turned off the engine so they could coast silently up to the house.

  “Stay here,” said Billy. “I’m gonna try to slip in the kitchen door through the garage. I think there’s a couple of sixes in the fridge. I’ll be right back.”

  Several minutes went by. Randy waited, wishing Billy had left the keys so he could play the radio. He started thinking that Billy must have gotten caught and was probably getting chewed out. If Billy couldn’t go out again, then Randy was stuck unless he could find another ride.

  Finally, Randy gave up and stepped out of the car to find out what was going on, but suddenly the front door to the Dustin house opened and Billy came out, somebody following behind him. It was Billy’s little brother Del Ray, who was fifteen but taller than his big brother. Billy had something in his hand and was grinning deviously.

  “I scored,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “What did you get?” asked Randy, and Billy showed him. It was a bottle of André Blush.

  “Oh, man!” said Randy. “I hate that fizzy shit! You couldn’t steal beer?”

  “This is better,” said Billy. “Get this … my grandma gave it to me.”

  “You shittin’?”

  “Nope. She just handed it to me. She just said, ‘Billy, what you looking for?’ [Billy did this in his best Grandma voice.] I just told her straight up, ‘I’m looking for something to drink, Grandma. It’s graduation night,’ and she said, ‘Oh just take this. I have two.’ She drinks it
for her old-lady digestion. It was already open, but it’s mostly full.”

  Randy was not convinced. “That shit is for ninth graders. You can’t even get ripped on it.”

  “Don’t worry, I have a secret weapon,” said Billy. He walked around to the driver’s side. “Oh, by the way. We gotta take queer-face with us. Sorry.”

  Del Ray climbed into the backseat. Randy gave him a disgusted look.

  Billy handed Randy the bottle and fished into his jeans pocket. “I got something that’s gonna save the night.” He produced something and turned on the dome light to show what he held in his hand. It was four white pills.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Valiums. Ten mils apiece. I ripped off my old lady. She’ll never miss ’em.”

  “How many do we take?” asked Randy. “Two each?”

  “No, man. We put them in the wine. Like this.” Billy took out a small piece of white paper, put it on the dashboard, and dropped the pills in the center. He then opened his pocketknife and crushed the pills with the side of the blade. After he got the Valiums adequately pulverized, he folded the paper in half, pulled the cork on the André, and tapped the fragments into the wine. Holding his thumb over the opening, he tilted the bottle back and forth to dissolve the drug. Wine foamed up in the neck of the bottle.

  “This is gonna be fuckin’ great,” he said. “Who wants the first hit?”

  “I do,” said Del Ray.

  “Shut up, queer-face,” said Billy. “No, seriously, I mean it, who wants the first hit?”

  While the world turned counterclockwise before his eyes, Billy stared straight down at his Burt Starnes hand-tooled cowboy boots, now stained pink with André vomit. They were his best cowboy boots, but he wasn’t concerned about that at the moment. Tomorrow he might feel some remorse, but not now. He sat on the bench in Murchison Park, hunched over, and heaved again. The world turned.

  “You can’t drive, man!” said Randy.

  “I’ll be okay in a second,” said Billy, and heaved once more, though there wasn’t much left. His boots were a mess. He only wore them for special occasions, like graduation, and should have changed into his old ones before they went out. But, oh well.

  Billy sat up, then stood up, and promptly sank to his knees on the grass.

  “Oh fucking shit,” he said. “Fucking fucking fucking shit.” He managed to climb back onto the park bench and put his head down. “I. Am. So. Wasted!”

  Randy and Del Ray stood over him. Randy was in better shape than Billy, but not by much. He swayed noticeably.

  “Give me the keys,” said Randy. “I’ll drive.”

  Billy thought it over for a moment, then struggled to unsnap the key chain from his belt loop, which had fifteen keys, some of which were only for show. He held out the wad to Randy, who reached for them and missed, and then staggered forward before recovering. They both fell into fits of laughter. Randy sat on the bench beside Billy.

  “I better drive,” said Del Ray. “I got my learner’s permit.”

  “No! Fucking! Way!” yelled Billy. “I’ll be okay in a few minutes. Is there any more wine?” He looked around, trying to focus, and spotted the mostly empty bottle lying in the grass a few feet away. He started to stand up, then thought better of it.

  “Get that for me,” he told Del Ray. His little brother complied. Billy pulled the cork, took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Okay, you can drive, queer-face,” he said. “But if you hurt my car I will … Kill! … You!”

  It was a rational decision, since Del Ray had managed to drink only a couple of swallows of the repulsive sparkling liquid and was just slightly woozy.

  “We better go, guys,” said Del Ray. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “But we didn’t find any queers to beat up,” said Randy. “I don’t want to go home till I beat up a queer. That’s why we came to this park. Murchison … Municipal … Park. Where the queers are. It’s a”—he searched for the word—“tradition!” He held the bottle aloft.

  “If we really wanna find queers,” said Billy, “we have to go to the source—that queer bar, the Quarry, over by the caliche pits. But it still wouldn’t do any good, because you’re too drunk to beat up a queer even if we found one.”

  “We have to get Del Ray to beat up a queer for us,” said Randy. “Learn him some manhood.”

  “He can’t … He is a queer,” said Billy. “Queers can’t beat up other queers. They just stand there and … slap each other.” He thought it over and then fell into fits of laughter at his own joke.

  “Come on, let’s go,” pleaded Del Ray.

  Billy looked over his shoulder and called, “Hey, queers! Come on out! Last chance to get beat up! Del Ray needs to go home!”

  Both older boys stood up. Billy began to walk unsteadily toward the parking lot, but Randy hesitated and then sat back down on the bench. He suddenly realized if he didn’t take it slow, there was a good chance he would ruin his own boots.

  Del Ray enjoyed the odd feeling of driving his brother’s car. Billy lolled in the front seat, passed out, pink drool dripping down his chin. After a couple of minutes, Randy started snoring in the backseat. The night was quiet and the streets empty.

  A pickup truck turned onto 7th Street and came toward him. He recognized it and stopped in the middle of the street to talk. The truck pulled up beside him, and the window rolled down.

  It was his friends Chris and Joe.

  “Hey, man,” said Chris, tilting back his cowboy hat. “You got Billy’s car!”

  “I also got Billy,” said Del Ray, gesturing with his thumb. “And Randy. They’re wrecked. Shit-faced. Billy blew wine puke all over his boots.”

  “Aw, gross!” said Chris. “I guess you can’t go running around then?”

  “No, man. I gotta drag these guys home. Shoulda just left ’em in the park. You guys doin’ anything tomorrow night?”

  “I have some family bullshit early,” said Chris, “but I can get away about nine, if you want to do something.”

  “Okay,” said Del Ray. “Call me when you get loose.”

  Del Ray pulled away in the Road Runner. He briefly wondered if he could drive Randy home, then get Billy home and inside the house and into his bedroom without waking everybody up, then just maybe, sneak out again in Billy’s car without anyone knowing.

  Naw, that’s a stupid idea. It would be nice, though, to venture out into the night, alone. It was a wicked, exciting thought, to be relished, not acted upon.

  Somebody told Del Ray once that three o’clock in the morning is the real midnight. It’s both really late and early at the same time. The stoplights shifted from green to yellow to red to green again in an uncoordinated rhythm, but with no traffic to control. But Del Ray ignored the lights and just drove, his elbow propped on the window.

  – 8 –

  Ramona Gives a Private Reading

  Saturday night, the Duro Playhouse did the final performance of Menagerie to a nearly sold-out house. Everybody did their best, even Sterling Ross, and the audience gave them a long and boisterous standing ovation. The loudest applause came when the high school girl Helen took her bows, which might have peeved Sterling, but he was gracious about it, taking the young girl by the hand and raising it high before turning to join the audience in the applause. Helen had blushed and smiled, and tears rolled down her cheeks. The cast presented Ramona with a bouquet of roses, and then it was over.

  Ramona couldn’t help get everything ready for the party, but Saskia and Erycca cleaned the house and bought the food and drinks. Even Janey, who was seldom much help with anything, arranged cheese and deli meats on a tray. Despite the fact that the Piedmans ate only vegetables and fish, Ramona wanted to accommodate their friends who weren’t pescatarians. Janey kept sneaking pieces of pastrami for the novelty of it.

  After staying at the theater a little while to oversee strike, Ramona drove home about nine fifteen. A few friends w
ere already there, but everybody knew the party would start late.

  Ramona went inside the house, where a few friends stood about with drinks. They gave her a small round of applause, and she grinned. Reggie wrapped her in a bear hug and then planted a wet kiss on her mouth.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t see the last show, baby,” he said. “I didn’t get off work till an hour ago.” Reggie was employed by a commercial pest-control company and often worked late nights and on weekends when client businesses were closed.

  “It’s okay, hon,” Ramona said. “You saw it. I must say it was pretty good tonight. A certain person”—she glanced around the room to make sure Sterling Ross wasn’t there—“did better than usual.”

  More people arrived, and the Piedman household got livelier. Even Apollo came out of his study and got a beer. Everybody was complimentary to him about his new glasses, with which he was not yet comfortable. He adjusted them constantly and blinked a lot. He found a willing audience in some former students, and started loudly lamenting the soullessness of the postmodern movement.

  Sterling Ross stopped by and had a glass of wine but didn’t stay long, saying he had to catch an early flight back to Arizona.

  “It was a real pleasure working with you, Sterling,” Ramona lied. “Keep us in mind for future productions. We’d love to have you back.”

  “I certainly will, Ramona,” said Sterling and, unfortunately, he meant it. He had milked a fair amount of money for not much work out of this little community theater, and would happily return for more.

  A little while later, Ramona heard a voice she recognized and was thrilled. It was Saskia’s friend Andy and another young man, still wearing their orchestra tuxedos, minus the bow ties. Andy was carrying his violin in its case, and his friend had a rectangular instrument case like an oversized briefcase. She gave Andy a hug.

  “Hey, I brought a friend, if that’s okay,” said Andy. “This is Simon Frost. He and I went to Pelham together.” Simon was a pale blond man with John Lennon glasses, who gently took Ramona’s hand and smiled.

  “Of course it’s okay,” said Ramona. “Thanks for coming. Are you guys going to give us a concert?”