Maureen and Sylvia

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“So, whatta you want to do?” said Fuzzy.

Gary didn’t know. “I wish I had five hundred dollars,” he said, relieved to be able to think and talk again.

“How come?”

“This ad is in every month,” said Gary, who had been thumbing backward through the magazine with the flying car on the cover. “You buy these war surplus Army jeeps. They come shipped in a crate, and you just put them together.”

“We could go in together,” said Fuzzy.

They got pencil and paper and figured that, in maybe two years, Gary could raise his half, if he got a summer job. Gary looked at the paper. It was true. He could do it, and even though they both knew that it would not happen, it felt good to know that someday they would be old enough to raise enough money to own a car.

Without agreeing on a plan, they walked downtown together, past the school and the Episcopal church, the Methodist church, and the Presbyterian church, cut through the weeds behind the Regal Theater and toward Beckman’s, where they entered without a word, sat at the counter, and ordered a vanilla phosphate and a cherry Coke. “The usual,” said Beckman.

Beckman, like most adults, was hopelessly out-of-date, out of touch, and funny looking. He had a little tuft of hair which Fuzzy said looked like he had skinned a mouse and glued it on his head. Below the dead mouse was an inch of freckled skin, then an inch-wide line of white hair around the back of his head ending above each ear. He wore old-lady glasses that slid down his pointed nose, and he always wore the same coat sweater, covered with pills. All that made him look old, but he wasn’t stooped or wrinkled and his voice wasn’t old, so maybe he wasn’t that old. Gary couldn’t even decide if he was a nice guy or not.

Beckman made their drinks and took their dimes. As they left, headed somewhere or other, two girls on bicycles pulled up and stopped, blocking their path. Angela Courtney was in most of Gary’s classes. She was the smartest girl in the class, and she and Gary competed for the highest marks. When he decided to ask a girl out, Gary intended to ask Angela, and assumed she would say yes. With her was Maureen O’Reilly, who was a year younger.

The girls straddled the frames and leaned on the handlebars of their bikes. They all just looked at each other. “Hi, Fuzzy,” said Angela.

“Hi, Angela,” said Gary. The boys put their hands in their pants pockets. Fuzzy said nothing. Maureen smiled.

“Whatcha guys doin’?” asked Angela.

“Nothin’,” said Fuzzy. “What you guys doin’?”

“Nothin’,” said Angela. They stood and looked at each other and smiled for a few minutes, then Angela said, “Well, gotta go,” and she and Maureen rode off. They could hear the girls screeching and giggling as they turned the corner of Elm Street.

The next day Gary arrived and went to Fuzzy’s basement. Mary Anne said, “Upstairs.” Gary just looked at her. She pointed up and nodded.

He walked slowly up the stairs. Fuzzy could not be upstairs during the day, because the Marianos never used their regular kitchen or regular upstairs living room or dining room except for Sunday dinner and on holidays and confirmations.

When Gary told his parents that the Marianos lived in their basement, his mother had said, “That’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t say things like that. I’ve been in their house. It’s very nice.”

“Of course it’s nice, Mom. They never use it.”

He could tell she didn’t believe him, but it was true. In Gary’s basement they just stored stuff that they would eventually throw out. Gary’s father did have a workshop with a few power tools but he hardly ever went down there. However, the Marianos, in their basement, had a full kitchen and living room (not a game room but a real living room) with couches, carpeting, and floor lamps that looked the same as their upstairs living room except it had a more lived-in look because they actually used it.

He stood in the archway between the front hallway and stared in disbelief. There were people in the Marianos’ upstairs in broad daylight. There, in front of him, in the incredibly unused, impeccably clean living room on the clear plastic-covered couch sat Fuzzy and Angela, as if they belonged there. Fuzzy had one arm resting on the back of the couch, behind Angela’s shoulders. They were inches apart. “Hey, Gary,” said Fuzzy.

“Hey, Gary,” said Angela.

Gary said nothing. They acted so casual, as if this were nothing, sitting alone together upstairs on Fuzzy’s mother’s couch in the pristine living room. There were two Cokes on the coffee table, making round puddles on the glass top. Fuzzy’s mother would kill him. At that moment Gary smelled something in the never-used kitchen and Mrs. Mariano appeared in the living room with a plate of cookies which she set in front of Angela. “Fresh from the oven,” she said. Then she pinched Fuzzy’s cheek and said sweetly, “Oh, hello, Gary,” but she did not offer him a cookie. Then she disappeared. Fuzzy took a swig and wiped his mouth with his hand. He didn’t invite Gary to come into the room. Fuzzy turned to Angela and said, “Like I was saying, I’m really looking forward to college, then maybe business school. This town is changing. The world is changing.” Then he turned to Gary, “You want to do something, like later? I’ll call you.” Then he turned back to Angela.

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