Wallace - War and Watermelon

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Table of Contents

For my brother Bobby, the kindest person Ive ever known,
and his new grandson, Tyler Robert Patrick Brady.

MONDAY, AUGUST 11, 1969:

Adult Swim

I look across the pool and see Patty Moriarity and Janet DeMaria hanging out by the refreshment stand. Theyre in two-piece bathing suits, but not bikinis. Theyre the type of girls that are over our heads. Not at the top of the list of coolest girls, but close to it. Were pretty much near the bottom of the guys; low-middle at best.

Junior frickin high school, Tony says.

Well be starting seventh grade three weeks from tomorrowthe day after Labor Day. Switching rooms for different classes, though not as much as my brother, Ryan, did when he went there. The third floor of Franklin School was condemned last year because of the roof, but well still be using the rest of it. And taking shop.

We lie in the sun for about half an hour. I never tan much; I get freckles. My family is mostly Scottish, if that explains anything.

We walk past the refreshment stand, but those girls arent around. Gary Magrini is leaning against the bricks like hes holding up the wall. Hes sneering, as always, but he gives us a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Garys on our towns junior football team with us. Hes very tan, and there are some black hairs growing around his nipples. Tonys got that dark curly hair, too, but pretty much only on his head.

I say our football team, but its not mine yet. The coaches will make the final cuts tomorrow afternoon. Me and Tony are right on the cut line.

They announce an adult swim for noonnobody under eighteen is allowed in the water for fifteen minutes.

Lets go! Tony says. The only time he ever wants to swim is when were not allowed to.

We sit on the edge of the diving area with our feet dangling in the pool. Its not crowded today, so there are only about twenty adults in there. I keep my eyes on the stuck-up lifeguard with the white cream on his nose; Tony watches the chunky girl guard with the long black hair. When neither of them is looking our way, Tony whispers, Now.

We slide off the edge and into the water, staying under as we swim toward the diving boards. We work our way behind two old guys who are hanging out near the corner. One of them has both arms over the edge of the pool and is slowly kicking his feet. The other one is bobbing up and down, keeping a hand on the wall.

We face away from the guards, out toward Route 17, and Tony starts laughing.

What? I ask.

Nothing. We did it.

Weve been in the water for eight seconds, so we havent accomplished much. But anytime we get away with anything, Tony thinks its a triumph.

We hear a whistle and I turn, but its just the girl guard scolding a little kid for running near the pool. We sink underwater again, and I stay down for at least half a minute.

Tony was under for less time and must have burst out of the water like a drowning duck, because the other guard is already pointing at him and telling him to get out. I dive under again and swim to the other side.

I come up near the ladder and can see Tony parked on a bench behind the diving boards. The lifeguard is twirling his whistle around on its lanyard and facing Tony. Hell be benched there until the adult swim is over.

I figure Ive taken enough of a risk, so I climb the ladder and shake off. I point over at Tony and give him a ha-ha expression, but then I feel a tap on my shoulder and the other guard is frowning at me.

You can go join your friend on that bench, she says.

Why? I say, all innocent-like. Im dripping wet, of course.

Get moving.

This is sweat, I say. I was playing volleyball.

She rolls her eyes. I walk over to Tony and we crack up laughing.

Patty and Janet stroll past. We get an amused glance from Janet, whose streak of sunburn across her forehead isnt quite as red as her hair. Patty is looking good, with her sun-blonde hair reaching her shoulders.

Hey, Patty, Tony says.

She stops and looks over. She has no expression, but the way shes standing is sort of challenging. Shes got a bit of muscle and some other new developments up top.

She kind of scares me. Not like she could beat me up or anything, but just that she could cut me down with a look or a few words. She could make it really clear where I stand in the eyes of girls our age. At least the popular ones. Where I stand is not very good, and we all know it.

Tony, on the other hand, does not seem to know his rank in the pecking order. He raises his hands, curving his fingers like hes holding two tennis balls. Eee, eee, he says, squeezing the air.

Patty scowls and walks away. Janet laughs a little, then follows Patty. I punch Tony on the arm. Idiot, I say.

Hes smiling and nodding.

Junior frickin high school, he says again. Cant wait for that.

Theres a breeze tonight, so I throw my bedroom window open as wide as it goes. I can hear the hum of a plane landing down the hill at Teterboro Airport, and I see the red and white lights of the Empire State Building just a few miles farther to the east.

The Mets lost again. Shut out by the Astros. I cant stomach listening to the post-game, so I switch the radio over to WMCA and catch the end of Baby, I Love You. Then they start playing some awful Bobby Sherman song, and Im too tired to reach over and switch to another station. So its playing when my brother sticks his head in my room and points to the radio.

Youre still listening to that Top Forty crap? Ryan asks.

Still? I got the radio three weeks ago for my twelfth birthday. How long is that? What are you listening to?

Ryan smiles. Dylan. Hendrix. Stuff you dont hear on AM. He rubs his chin, where a scruffy blond beard is trying to establish itself. The fuzz on his face is a lot lighter than the very long strands on his head, which reach his shoulders.

My radio doesnt get FM. I fiddle with the dial and try to find another music station. The only one that comes in clear is playing the same stupid song. Little Woman.

Turn it up, Brody! Ryan says. He fakes like hes really into itmiming the lyrics, swiveling his hips, and narrowing his eyes. Hes lean like I am and wiry.

I switch back to the post-game. Somebodys interviewing Ron Swoboda about the Mets slump. Everybodys quick to blame the manager, he says. Thats too easy. Were the ones losing. The players.

Ryan laughs. Worst team in the history of sports. He takes a seat on the edge of my bed. Great concert coming up this weekend. Big-time scene.

You going?

He glances toward the door and lowers his voice. If they let me use the car. Hes been driving for almost a year, but not often. You dont need to drive much in this town; its not more than a mile from one end to the other. And the buses take you into the city or to Hackensack.

Where at?

Upstate New York. Some farm. They say everybodys gonna be there. Jimi, Santana, Jefferson Airplane.

I dont know much about those groups, but I nod as if I do. On a farm?

Some hippie dudes. I figure they might let me go if I take you.

Me? This sounds adventurous.

Yeah. Dad will think Ill stay out of trouble if Ive got you with me.

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