CUMBERLAND FARMS EDUCATION

    So, after Na-Na Johnson saves me from certain death at the hands of the notorious David White and The Orange Face brothers,  perceiving  me as being “strong” because of my mustache, he leaves me with the comment that he wants to know all about it. Uh-oh! What am I gonna do now?! I know nothing about this stuff! I don’t know the first thing! What will I tell him when he asks me?!

    An epiphany. Cumberland Farms sells Playboy - and Penthouse Forum magazines, too! They’re there in the back corner of the store, right above the Monster Truck and Soldier of Fortune magazines. Yes! Hassan used to let me look at them when there was nobody in the store. Jim Whitford is a real dick about it though, as usual. He never even lets you get near them. Says you have to be eighteen to look at them.  That’s the law. Fucking Dudley Doright. I’ll get him, though. I’ll find a way. I’ll enlist Skinny’s help. He’ll enjoy that. We’ve hardly been up there at all lately, ever since we had started the ‘healthy’ stealing at the A&P a while back. When we walk in, Jim Whitford is not happy to see us again, a pained expression rushes to his face.

This time the store is empty though, and with no customers distracting him, he folds his arms and zeroes in on us, observing our every move. We head to the magazine section and start perusing. Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News is what we’re looking at now, but our focus is on the Playboys and Penthouse issues. This time though, time he stands right over us. Damn. This is going to be a bit more difficult.

“Are you boys going to buy something - or just stand here and read? This is not study hall, you know.”

“No, I-I think we’re going to buy this Sports Illustrated magazine, right, Skinny?”

“Yeah, Sparky Lyle is on the cover.”

We are just biding our time, trying to stall, hoping some customer would come in to distract his attention. As the minutes tick away though, our morale begins to flag.  Just as it appears that all hope is lost, roly-poly Mrs. Acker tramps in, being pulled by her little hot dog, Fritz, who is yapping loudly and incessantly. Saved! This is perfect. She always comes in with a laundry list of maladies and ailments, and would pester you for hours with insane medical questions. As if somebody who works at Cumberland Farms would know the answers.

 Jim Whitford has to stand there and be polite, answering her insistent questions. Like, which worked better - Pepto Bismo, or Phillips Milk of Magnesia? He is fucked.  He knows it, too. You could see him start to sweat as he tries to keep one eye on us - and answer all her rambling questions, too. Needless to say, it can’t be done. The second he turns away, we each slip a small Penthouse Forum under our jackets, Skinny slipping his in easily, me fumbling with it for a few seconds, before finally sealing the deal.

“Oh, Mr. Whitford, we’ve decided not to purchase anything tonight. Goodnight!”

He grimaces. As we stroll into the parking lot, Skinny and I congratulate each other. Whitford destroyed again! Yesss!

That night, I stay up till like 5 o’clock in the morning, absorbing every detail of what I read in that magazine. The letters in this Penthouse Forum are amazing. I had seen tons of pictures before, especially since we scored all those Penthouse mags in the junk that time. I have never scoured the articles with such studiousness, though, as I do in this session. I can’t believe the stuff I am reading! Apparently, I am one of the few guys in America who had not been seduced by their babysitters, when they were 12 years old. Obviously, I’m missing out on a whole secret world here. Pangs of jealousy and remorse pound my core. I have been severely deprived my whole life. This whole phenomenon is called - Menage-a-trois. Apparently, women of all ages (babysitters included) are just dying to do this. I had heard the word before, but for some reason, had always thought it was a French word that had something to do with lemon meringue pie, or something. I learn all about it… what an education I am getting from these Forum articles and letters! By the end of the night, I have convinced even myself that I have actually performed these acts. I am ready for anything Na-Na would ask me now, and I feel a lot more confident about seeing Esperanza again.

Thank God for my mustache!

So, in the last episode, Na-Na Johnson saved me from certain death at the hands of David White and the Orange Face brothers - because I had a mustache….and I stumbled upon, quite by accident, a particular black male myth.

I’m pretty sure they thought it was a particularly ‘white’ thing. Some kind of crazy white phenomenon. Maybe that’s why Na-Na seemed so fascinated by it. Because they never did it. He was so impressed. I’m still intrigued, though, as to where he received this information about facial hair somehow being a result of it, and how exactly it made you strong. Again, thank God for my Sicilian heritage - we always got hairy faster. Actually, it was quite a prestigious honor that Na-Na even thought that about me. I had achieved such a lofty position. I mean, it was a pretty big deal - nobody I knew had ever done it, even though a couple of them lied about it.

In truth, I had barely even kissed a girl yet. Esperanza’s kiss was practically my first one. I didn’t even know what a vagina really looked like. I mean, I did, but not up close and personal, you know?

I need to find out about this stuff, somehow. But who could I talk to about it? Where could I go? Who could I ask? Certainly not my father. Rule that out right now. Skinny and Ricky know even less about it than I do. I’m sure Na-Na would soon…maybe even tomorrow, be pumping me for more details, so I have to know something about it. Especially if I want Esperanza to think I’m anything more than just a dorky kid.  No, this is important.

An epiphany. Cumberland Farms sells Playboy - and Penthouse Forum magazines, too! They’re there in the back corner of the store, right above the Monster Truck and Soldier of Fortune magazines.

NA-NA

So, David White and the Orange Face brothers - they got me - David White has his switchblade on me, and they’re hustling me towards the stairwell. Just at that second, the boys room door, which is about ten feet in front of us, swings open. There appears a hulking, menacing figure clad in a long black leather SuperFly coat, twirling a big black umbrella. Like an angry cat, twitching its tail before pouncing on its prey. As he bops towards us, the footsteps resounding from his maroon patent leather shoes echoes throughout the hallway.

Oh my God, who is this? I had never seen this guy in the school before, and as he slowly approaches us, I wish I wasn’t seeing him now. Jesus, is he in on this, too? He looks like the kind of guy who would take considerable delight in the massacre and disembowelment of a variety of body parts. Ebony skin highlights a face positively demonic in its features. A sadistic half scowl-half sneer twists into a diabolical expression, magnified by sinister eyes, which seem to be in communion with another galaxy - or maybe Hell. I thought I’d already witnessed the crème de la crème of cruelty, but this? This is beyond what I could even conceptualize. I struggle to repress the quivering spasms moving up my body.

“Whassup, Na? We just about to fuck this mo’fucka up, an’ shit.”

They grab me roughly.

He struts up to us, and just stares right into my face, for what seems like five minutes. Like he’s studying my whole essence.

I am practically limp now, almost paralyzed, but I fight to put on a game face. He slides his umbrella point, which is bayonet sharp, across my mustache. The sneer breaks into a frightening grin.

“Yo, this mo’fucka be strong.” 

He announces this in a low, heavy voice, slow and deliberate in its manner. David White and The Orange Face brothers all peek at each other somewhat quizzically, and then back at Na-Na. It’s then that I realize that they don’t really know him much, if at all, which is amazing, because all black kids know each other. Furthermore, I detect a look of trepidation, almost fear in their eyes. What the fuck is going on? He peers at me even more intently now, his brow wrinkling into a mask of curiosity.

“Yo, how did it feel?”

I stare at him emptily, having absolutely no idea what he is referring to. After a few seconds of total silence among us, I ascertain that I better say something – anything.

“Um-yeah-it felt good, man! Yeah, good as a motherfucker! Mmm-hmm - it was the shit!”

The devastating grin again returns.

“Heh-heh.” a kind of chuckle, I think.

“Heh. Yes, my brother.”

He turns his attention to David White and the brothers, who apparently feel compelled to ingratiate him, as they start laughing.

“My man be strong, an’ shit.” 

He repeats slowly as he points to my mustache, with the razorblade-like umbrella point again.

“Y’all peasy head mo’fuckas ain’t got shit on y’all faces. Y’all niggas ain’t got shit. My man gots hair on his face… that mean he be goin’ down on females, an’ shit.”

They laugh nervously, unsure of what to do. His menacing scowl comes back, creasing his face.

“Aiight, Na.”

“I hear you, Na.”

“Right, right.”

“Now all y’all tackheads step off from my man, ‘fore I cut y’all asses up.”

They’re confused partly, and angry too, at the intervention. They hesitate, smiling falsely.

“Y’all niggas hear what I jes’ said?”

Without another word, they all disperse down the stairwell.

My mustache again! It’s my mustache, giving me that Puerto Rican appearance, which I believe had attracted Esperanza, in the first place. Now this. If I had only known that a mustache would provide all these benefits, I would have tried to cultivate it sooner. Just like my sister, Karen. She had hers for about a year now, although she was constantly trying to bleach it.

I stare at Na-Na for a minute, not sure if he is going to hold me prisoner, or stab me with his umbrella, or what.  

 “Aiight, Strong, wannna hear ‘bout that shit later.”  

Then he bops off down the hall, talking or singing to himself.

 Puzzling.

THE SCARE

    So, like I said, we get the token suspension of three days from the Principal, Mr. Rice, but when he tells me and David White and the Orange Face brothers to shake hands and make up - I knew he had most likely gone senile. I mean, he looks like the guy on the box of Quaker Oats, and he’s been here since the 40’s, when Roselle was like Mayberry. Whole different ballgame now...

    The first day back to school after the suspension, I am spooked. Jumpy. Maybe it’s in my head, but it seems like the white kids are gawking at me behind my back, like I have Legionaries Disease, or something. The black kids act eerily quiet around me, but I’m sure they are secretly signalling strategic death plots to each other. The whole mood provokes flashbacks of the time a few years ago when we visited Washington Square Park in New York City - and a mime followed me through the whole place - imitating my every mannerism.

The whole crowd of people there would spontaneously erupt into fits of uproarious laughter, and I would turn around, and suddenly, the mime would be right behind me, smoking a cigarette or reading a book, or something stupid, much to my annoyance. Fucking mimes. No wonder I hate them. Mimes and clowns.

Anyway, I am certain fiendish plans for my demise are being hatched at this very moment. Oddly enough, nothing out of the ordinary occurs the first couple of days, calming me down a bit. Then, the third day back though, I’m rummaging through my locker, maniacally scouring it for my colored magic markers for Mr. Silverstein’s second period art class. The bell had already rung almost five minutes ago, the halls are bereft of activity, and I’m desperate to get to class quickly, in order to avoid yet another suspension. I come upon the markers, slam my locker door shut - and run right into the posse of David White and The Orange Face brothers. Surrounded. It’s an ambush.

“Yo, whass up, mo’fucka?”

David White smiles cryptically through the gap in his front teeth. Instantly I hear a distinctive CLICK - and glance down to see a switchblade drawn and ready at his side.

“You be going for a walk with us, bitch.” Boo Daniels declares icily, as they tighten the circle around me, hastily pushing in the direction of the stairway. I am done.