Cemetery Street, John Zunski [read any book TXT] 📗

I curled into a ball.
“Isn’t this sweet,” Rex said picking up a textbook. “He has his little bitch’s name written all over it.” I felt the rush of air from the textbook before it smacked the top of my head. My head exploded with pain. “That little cunt ain’t nothing but a headache,” Rex laughed as he tore the paper cover off the textbook and held his lighter under it. I lay helpless as Shannie’s name burned.
“Faggot, do yourself a favor.” Nugent groaned regaining his feet. “Grow eyes in back of your head. You’re going to need them - I’m going to kill ya.” Standing over me, he spit on my face before he planted a boot in my crotch.
“New assholes, they think their shit doesn’t stink,” Rex said leading the gang out of the boy’s room.
“How did you find out?” I asked Count.
“The word is out.”
“I got myself into this, I’ll get myself out.”
“Don’t play hero. You’re messing with mean mothers.”
“I can fight my battles.”
“As I see it, that asshole Byrne didn’t fight his own battle. By the way,” Count asked before I walked in my front door. “Was there a zit-faced red head, about your size, maybe an inch or two taller with them?”
“Yeah. What about him?”
Count poked my chest. "You ain’t fighting this one alone. I have a score to settle.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s a Shannie thing.”
The next morning on the way to school, Count said. “I gave our situation some thought. Be patient. You might have to take a couple for the team. Short of you getting your ass kicked, I’m gonna bide my time. Remember, I’m watching. I’m going to pound every one of those fuckers into the ground. Until I do, just keep your head on a swivel.”
The next two weeks I had my share of problems with Byrne and his boys, but nothing too bad. Little things like sneaking up behind me and dumping my books, a smack across the back of my head, or an occasional body check into lockers. The scariest shit happened in the second floor boy’s room, I was taking a piss in the middle of three urinals when Byrne and Mike Manson walked in and stood at the urinals on each side of me. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t lay a hand on me. They laughed as I ran out.
“Hang in there,” Count encouraged me.
One morning Count asked if I was willing to take a few demerits. “You’re gonna miss homeroom.” I followed him behind the Junior High. After the first period bell rang we slipped through the back door. “Bingo,” Count said looking through the window. “Stay here. Just watch. Whatever happens don’t show your face. When the shit hits the fan, get your ass to class.” Ed Nugent knelt in front of his locker. No one else was in the hall. Count strolled through the door and down the hall. Nugent didn’t look up. Without a word Count kicked Nugent’s head. It flew into the open locker. His head was stuck. Nugent managed to get to his feet. He pushed against the lockers. He couldn’t free his head. Panicking, Nugent pushed harder against the lockers. His cries grew to screams. High pitched wails danced up and down the halls. Count turned the corner before the first teacher appeared. I laughed all the way to first period.
A P.A. announcement instructed everyone to remain in first period until further notice. I snickered when a fire truck pulled into the parking lot. It took the jaws of life to free Nugent’s head. Later that day, I felt joy walking past his mangled locker.
After the Nugent affair, my tormentors forgot about me. They were busy looking over their own shoulders. “Round two,” Count informed me a week later. We were on our way to the weight room and Count was munching Ex-lax.
“One stuck in the chamber?” I snickered.
“Something like that.”
We walked most of the way to school without a word, our silence broken by an occasional fart. “I love sausage but sausage hates me,” he said. During our workout, he told me he wasn’t feeling good and he was going to the shitter. “Work your Pec’s and Delt’s, I’ll be right back.”
Count never made it back to the weight room, he wasn’t at football practice either. Officially he never made it to school that day. Dozens of stories spread through school. Each one claimed to be the definitive version of what happened to Rex Byrne in the first floor boy’s room. Details were sketchy, some rumors said he was beat up by the Jamaican Posse. Other’s said the Junior Mafia, but according to Ms. Horne - our section’s algebra teacher - this is what happened. “Rex walked into the restroom when someone jumped him, slammed him through the stall’s door and dunked his head into the toilet.”
The class broke out into a chorus of moans and groans.
“I always knew he was a shit head,” quipped Jenny Wade.
“Jenny, I didn’t hear that,” laughed Ms. Horne.
After practice, I raced up Cemetery Street, through my yard and across Fernwood.
“Hi Flossy, Count home?” I asked winded.
“He’s sick as a dog. The boy got himself a good case of the shits.”
“Too bad.”
“That’s what the dumb ass gets confusing Ex-lax for a Hershey Bar.”
“Can I talk to him.”
Better not, he’s sleeping. He had himself a rough day.”
“Okay. Tell him to give me a call. Thanks.”
“Can do. Hey, James, what happened at that damned school today?”
“I dunno,” I shrugged.
“That goddamned principle called here asking if Junior was around. He said something about somebody getting beat up and he wanted to ask Junior about it. I told him Junior was so sick he couldn’t beat himself today. Then the good-for-nothing asks me if I’m sure. Imagine that. Those bastards don’t even trust a mother. Did I give them a piece of my mind.”
Count didn’t call that night. I had to wait until morning to hear his story. “That bonehead is a creature of habit, once I learned his routine, everything clicked. When he has shop first period, he always takes a smoke break.”
“Awesome.”
“I’m sure he saw the out-of-order sign on the door.”
“Did you put it there?”
“Does Rock Hudson have AIDS? Anyway, I did my best to fill the bowl. Of Course, I didn’t flush.”
“Of course.”
“Then I sat and waited. I grabbed him by the back of his neck, slammed his head against the stall door a couple of times, you know those things just don’t open as easily as they should. When I got it opened, I used his head as a toilet brush. Flossy always told me to clean up after myself.”
I laughed. I actually felt sorry for Byrne.
“I made sure I did a good job cleaning the bowl. The bitch was, I never used a breathing toilet brush. It was hard remembering to bring it up for air. Should of seen his face,” Count snickered.
All was quiet until Halloween. As the day approached, I had other things on my mind. The Ortolans involved me with their Halloween obsession. They put more effort into Halloween than my parents did Christmas. They were the first people I met that went crazy decorating for the holiday.
“Want to help us?” Diane asked as we sipped spiced cider in the Ortolan’s kitchen. It was the Sunday before Halloween.
“Sure, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Turning the living room into an unliving room.”
“Changing the parlor into a funeral parlor,” Shannie added.
“Putting the fun in funeral,” Diane said.
“How are you going to do that?” I asked.
“You’ll see. On Wednesday, we need you to help Count bring our coffin over from Fernwood,” Diane smiled.
“Your coffin?”
“You know, a box that you stuff stiffs in,” Shannie winked.
I blushed.
Wednesday night the moon played hide and seek with the tombstones. When it wasn’t hiding behind the clouds, it cast shadows of gravestones across Fernwood. Count and I carried the coffin through the shadows. A breeze rustled the trees. “You ever get weirded out living in a graveyard?” I asked.
“No.”
“I’m freaked.”
“Ain’t no big deal.” A minute later, Count paused. “Shhh, you hear that?” he asked.
“Hear what?”
“Christ, I hope it ain’t that damned graveyard dog again.”
We held the white casket between us. “Graveyard dog? what the hell is a graveyard dog?”
“Shhh. There it is again.”
“I don’t hear anything!”
“That.”
“What?” I strained my ears.
“That.”
“That’s the wind.” I tapped my foot.
“Dumb ass I know what wind sounds like, that’s not wind.”
“You’re hearing things,” I complained. “Lets go.”
“There it is again. It’s not the dog. It’s a voice. I can’t believe you’re that deaf.”
“I guess I am. Come on, let’s go.”
“Look!” He said pointing to the dirt beneath my fidgeting feet. “It’s coming from there.” I was standing on a fresh grave.
“Me not even dead a week,” a voice moaned. “ya bas-teds already be walking on me grave.”
“Jesus Christ!” I jumped from the fresh dirt, dropping my end of the coffin to the ground.
Count laughed. Shannie materialized from behind the tombstone. “A little jumpy Just James?” Shannie teased.
“You knuckle fucks,” I barked. “Someday, I’m going to piss on your graves.”
My friends hooted.
The next night was Halloween, the scene hella cool. The coffin sat on a pyre in the middle of the parlor. Inside, Shannie played the part of a dead princess. Dressed in black and painted the color of driven snow, her golden hair rested upon her chest. Four candelabras stood guard behind the casket. The light of their candles flickered through the fog. Spider webs entombed the giant bookcase, obstructing the view Poe, Hawthorne, and King enjoyed from Diane’s shelves. Three cauldrons rested at the foot of the pyre beckoning trick-or-treaters.
Along the front wall of the parlor Diane sat at the organ. Two candelabras rested atop the organ, their light illuminating blonde hair dancing over a black cape. When the doorbell rang she belted out her rendition of The Fugue.
Dressed in a black tuxedo, his face painted gray, Count played Lurch. While hiding in fog, he opened the front door. As our visitors gained the threshold, he would jump at them, terrorizing the unsuspecting. Mounting the stairs, he would turn and gesture with an extended arm. “Follow me.” In the living room he motioned for the Trick or Treaters to approach the pyre.
Everyone focused on Shannie in her coffin, maybe waiting for her to lunge, or maybe just captivated by her appearance. I waited under the pyre. As ‘mourners’ viewed the coffin, Count gestured to the cauldrons directing them to select their treat. Whatever their reason, no one expected my ambush as they reached for their treat. Some screamed, some retreated, some laughed. One kid had an accident.
Between visitors we compared notes and sipped warm cider. When the doorbell rang, we rushed to our spots. All except Shannie, she never left the coffin.
My heart raced as Diane played the first cords. Waiting for my cue, I savored being close to Shannie. I felt the table shake as she shifted in the coffin. The light fragrance of her perfume waltzed with the candle’s aroma. It was exotic.
I dreamt about a future with Shannie. What it would be like to be unencumbered by parents or school. I pictured us holding hands, making out, making love. I imagined her grown up and how beautiful she would be, even more beautiful than Diane. I imagined our special day, Shannie in her wedding dress, flowers in her hair. We were dancing, her eyes reflecting my smile.
“You’ve never looked so beautiful Shannie,” a familiar voice said.
The music stopped.