The Encyclopedia of Exes Read online

  And the bitch of it is that Bruce is being really nice. I mean, like a normal person, which isn’t really my type, you know. I’d be willing to forgo the whole sports-page-on-the-throne thing and, you know, just write it off to bad manners or lack of pretension or plain utter cluelessness. But here he is talking about, you know, hopes, dreams, new song ideas, and he doesn’t mind that I’m being real frank with him. Like he’s telling me about this idea he’s got for a new song called “Dancing in the Dark” and I’m like, “Fuck that, man. That sounds like Lionel Richie pop bullshit. Do more ‘Atlantic City.’ And he’s laughing at that and I’m laughing, too, and we’re having the best fucking time. But I’m like, how the hell do I get out of this gracefully, ’cause I don’t want to bone this guy because I know now that a chromosome here, a chromosome there, and you’re managing a Friendly’s and telling me to refill the ketchup bottles and asking me, “Do you see why that works?”

  So he polished off his apple pie and I’m still fucking around with this bullshit ham and bean soup ’cause, what do you tell the guy? That meeting you was everything I wanted it to be, but you know what? You could just as easily be some jagoff managing a franchise restaurant and now everything’s ruined. How do you tell a person that he’s destroyed the idea of sex for you, because you realize that one guy walking down the street is just the same as anybody else, and what’s the point of trying to screw the President when you could just as easily be screwing a bagboy at Dominicks? How do you say that? I mean, without being rude?

  Fuck, I don’t know. You tell me. But you know, it was getting to be about that time and Bruce is like, “I got a couple hours before the show. You’re gonna come and hang out, right?” And I’m like, “You know what, Bruce? I’m gonna have to take a raincheck on that one.” And he’s like, “Well, why?” And I’m like, “You know, I got these plans and I can’t break them.” And he’s like, “Sure you can. Tell them you’re with me.” And I don’t know what came into my mind. But the first thing out of my mouth, I’m like, “You know what? I’m way behind schedule. I gotta get to Minneapolis by 10:00, ’cause I’m meeting a couple of girlfriends who’re gonna try to get up on Bob Dylan.”

  “Oh,” he says and shakes his head. “Yeah, man. Bob’s always a step ahead of me. Man, say hey, man. Tell him I said hey.”

  I even blew off the good-bye kiss. Just got in the car and got back on I-94. My first impulse was to turn back, you know, and go back to Chicago. But then, I’m like, what the hell? I’m in the prime of my youth. I got a full tank of gas, I got a wallet full of money, I got the whole summer ahead of me. And you know what? Screwing Bob Dylan? That could be fucking hilarious.

  EGGING

  Jeff Johnson

  egg (ĕg) n 1: something having the ovoid shape of an egg 2: Slang. A fellow; a person: He’s a good egg.

  tr.v. egged, egg·ing, eggs 1: to cover with beaten egg, as in cooking 2: Slang. To throw eggs at.

  Idioms:

  egg on (one’s) face Informal

  Embarrassment; humiliation: If you do that, you’ll end up with egg on your face.

  lay an egg Informal

  To fail, especially in a public performance.

  put/have all (one’s) eggs in one basket Informal

  To risk everything on a single venture.

  Here’s espionage: It’s fermented peach. It’s mustard. It’s rearview asphyxia. It’s teamwork.

  Okay.

  Radloff had the kid. The kid rode shotgun. Compliments of a Radloffian stray dollar, the kid chowed. Chewed a hot dog. Entertained between bites. Provided Radloff some rudimentary twelve-year-old-boy theories. (1) A bright-y about why male femmes always get roped career-wise, into cinema security and confections. It went nowhere, but was charming nonetheless. (2) Who knows? Radloff tuned it the hell out. Why? He and the kid (whom Radloff defensively referred to as a chatterbox, when genius might have been apropos) were officially on a mission. And mission involved theories, but not the kid’s. Not tonight, anyway.

  “Say we get pulled over,” the kid segued, carefully, from slipshod philosophies into The Now. The kid, by the way, looked like a young, anemic Jack Lemmon. At least to Radloff, he did. Roll a preteen-goof into a Days of Wine and Roses–era manic, slavering Lemmon, and you get the kid. He didn’t have much in the way of money or parenting, so he could’ve easily slid into dirtball- or fake gangsta–mode. But he didn’t. The saddest part was that the kid tried to do well. He was still earnest enough to believe things would work out, even though he dressed grubby and his close-cut black hair was often styled with nothing more than its own grease. His peers couldn’t even work up the energy to ostracize him. He was invisible to all but a handful of corrupted, lonely geeks. Early on in Radloff’s doomed relationship with the kid’s mother, he took to calling the boy Jack, though that wasn’t even close to his real name.

  “Huh?” Radloff groaned. He was mentally wading through the A–Zs of the mission. The attendant nuts and bolts of making it a success. Radloff was a wire in a jean jacket and tie. Unlike the young, anemic Jack Lemmon riding next to him, Radloff had long abandoned the illusion that he was anything remotely more lovable than a forty-three-year-old, wicker-boned conspiracist operating on a juggle of Sanka, One-a-Days, Newports, and stale cinnamon Chewels.

  “Hypothetically speaking,” Jack continued, stringing out the question. He paused for a second in deference to Radloff. Waited for an official Radloff-based policy regarding interaction with law enforcement. Jack checked his hot dog. Mustarded an index finger. Guided it toward his mouth, thought better of it.

  “Wait a second,” Radloff snorted. Snapped to. “Pulled over? Wait—” Jack had done it. Unceremoniously liberated Radloff from the ticker-tape portion of his mission fantasy. They crept past a fossilized Toyota Cressida that was pluming out violet clouds.

  “Now just shhh,” Radloff scolded. Jack was completely pissing on Radloff’s moment. A moment that had been roasting in the oven for twenty-five years, and now some sexy, moderately voluptuous gal in a checkered apron—who also, like Radloff, adored Conway Twitty songs—had pulled it out, set it on a beautiful Italian marble countertop, sweetly cooed for Radloff to come and get it. And Jack was mucking it up. Poking it with a rusty butter knife. Radloff shook his head from side to side. Severely. Kept his eyes on the road. Jack clammed up.

  It was 9:45. Wednesday night. Moonless. November something. Twenty-six-odd degrees Fahrenheit. Jack and Radloff were tooling along in Radloff’s Cutlass on the beltway. A beltway usually belts a city. This beltway belted nothing. It was just an asphalt airstrip bisecting, among other things, the community college from the real college. The Wendy’s from the Hardee’s. The Perry Shemenauer Realty from Odegaard Transmission. Then a slight incline, marked by concrete abutments, moist creek bed. Then the postdivorce eightplexes from the predivorce ranch-style dwellings. Gas station left. Gas station right. BBQ joint versus Christian Clothing Outreach. Still, everyone called it the beltway. Harbored aspirations for it to belt something. A viable community.

  “I’m saying we get nabbed,” Jack started up again. He wouldn’t be shushed. “Are you my dad? Or are you the babysitter? Batshit uncle? How’s this break down?”

  “In terms of?” Radloff parried, pretend clueless. If Jack was gonna dwell on the negative, Radloff’d make him work for an answer. They had time to kill. Plenty of it.

  “In terms of guardianship, Radloff,” Jack pitched the remains of the hot dog (bun mostly) into the backseat. “Jesus Christ. With respect to guardianism? Are the cops actually gonna buy that a responsible adult dad and a son go out vandalizing? Hucking eggs at, what,” Jack paused a second struggling to comprehend the full retardation of Radloff’s scheme, “trailer houses?”

  They drove for a minute in silence. Radloff felt Jack should be focused on the Jack part of this mission, which was, last time he checked, having some fucking fun. Radloff changed the subject.

  “Say, who do you think your mom hates more, you or me?” Radloff h
it the turn signal. Left. They suckled over to the westbound turn lane. Onto West Thorndale. Headed toward the outskirts. The perimeter. The light turned red before they could make it through. They sat and waited. Radloff supposed that in this instance he was in fact contributing to the delinquency of a minor. That’s the way it’d look to the cops, at least, friggin’ squares.

  “You obviously,” Jack answered, “especially if she ever finds out about this.” Radloff knew Jack was right. If he and Jack’s mom were still getting along, they’d all be at the indoor batting cage or shopping for rubberized fishing waders. Radloff slept on the couch most nights nowadays. Jack’s mom didn’t hate Jack. Their dumpy little cottage, miles away from the trailer park, was becoming a two-against-one household, and Radloff was the one.

  Jack adjusted his sweatpants, sighed impatiently. Radloff had picked him up from basketball practice and didn’t even pretend to be driving him home. As a result, Jack was only wearing sweat clothing and a nylon anorak that was petrified by its own filth. “This heater is doing a number on my feet. Sahara-style. But my nose is freezing.”

  “Blame GM.” Radloff fiddled with the heater level, coughed and took the left.

  Background: Radloff moved in with Jack (and, more important, Jack’s mom) seven months ago. The honeymoon had expired. It was a Robin Hood deal, according to Radloff’s own personal history of himself. He thrust himself into their lives as a helper, but was now waist-deep in the reality of the situation. The parceling out of responsibility. The zero thanks in return. He felt used. To be honest? To look upon it as an outsider? They all felt used. Radloff’s goodwill dried up early, like clockwork. That’s how it had been every time out of the gate for Radloff. Weak finishes. Jack saw him as a tool. His mother was mentally filing her nails. More on her later.

  Jack kept at it. “Just have an idea, Radloff,” he pleaded. “Have one idea. ’Cause it’s a school night, and ’cause what we’re up to is bulls—” He paused. “Trouble. You even said both of us should stick to the same story. You anticipated trouble.” He slid his feet away from the dry blast and used his mustarded finger to slap the heater off.

  “Well, number one, we’re not gonna get caught,” Radloff looked at Jack, winked. Nodded. “Sure, a backup plan’s nice. But I’m amending that as of now. And my outlook is: we’re fine.” Radloff brought the heater back up to low.

  “Gee, I admire your confidence, Dad,” Jack said. He stretched the “a” out on the “dad” part. It was a little dagger, Radloff felt, a little judgmental dagger. Radloff sighed with disgust.

  “Why,” Jack continued, “did you say stick to the same story, which we don’t fuckin’ have by the way . . .”

  “We’re fine!” Radloff screamed, paused, exhaled. The stitches were coming out of the britches. “Just time out for a second.” Radloff jabbed his thumb at the abandoned hot dog in the backseat. “How’d ya get that dinner? Me! Me. Lookit your basketball shoes. Me. I’m on your side—”

  “Whoop de shit,” Jack interrupted, threw a glance back at the hot dog. It rested nicely on the classifieds. Radloff lately had the classifieds peeled open, hunting and pecking for a $14.62-an-hour escape hatch in a neighboring community.

  “Work with me, okay?” Radloff pleaded. “In lieu of actual, official baby-making acts, and court documentation, yes, I’m your dad. I’ll take the full heat in legal situations.”

  “Good.”

  “Which won’t happen anyway. You always wanna point out how I am messing things up.”

  “Chill out, Radloff. Let’s get the job done.”

  “You know, pardon me for not actually providing the semen,” Radloff rambled in lame defense attorney-ese. “Your real dad did that. The one who named you Jimi with an ‘i’. Where’s he?”

  Jack shrugged.

  “Life’s not perfect,” Radloff continued, convincing only himself. “But believe me, I’m this close to being your long-term guardian, kid,” He lied, pinching fingers. “Sickness and health. Your mom and me.”

  “All right,” Jack said, rolled his eyes, semi-bought it, hatched an additional theory of his own. “Okay, so this mission is like a trust pact for us?”

  “How ya mean?” Radloff asked. The car traveled along Thorndale. Old houses, new houses. Most of ’em dark. Phony chalet-type facades. Crumpled, frosted lawns.

  “Say I help you on this,” Jack proposed, “you do my science quiz when we get home.”

  “Deal,” Radloff lied again.

  “Good,” Jack said and stuck out his hand to shake on it.

  “I’m shitty at science, though,” Radloff confessed and gently elbowed Jack’s hand away. They went under an overpass and kept driving.

  “Come on!” Jack snapped, reached back for the hot dog, put it in his mouth. Had another brainstorm. “Say Radloff, how’d ya like prechewed hot dog bun all over this heap?”

  “Slow down,” Radloff said, put his right hand up, and wiggled it in the vicinity of the hot dog. “I’m good at, let’s see . . .” He took the Cutlass across Devine. The road turned curbless. A touch more rural. “The rains. The weather chapters. Cloud formations. The effects of the placebo. Some intestinal stuff. Kidney charts. Table of the Elements. Many of those are two letters. Pb being your iron, so forth. What are you on, anyway?”

  “We’re on the speed of light. Formulas. Something over something else. Divided bys—”

  “Oh, nuts,” Radloff chuckled. “Better lace your shoes up tight. We’ll break into the middle school after this. Nab the quiz.” The Cutlass picked up speed.

  “Thanks for nothing, Radloff.”

  “I’m kidding,” Radloff groveled. He sensed he was losing Jack’s confidence, not that there had been much to begin with. “Look, you’re built like a shithouse made of lightning. Those track shoes . . .”

  “Basketball.”

  “They make you fly. I bought ’em.”

  “Medal’s on its way.”

  “Just like the hot dog. Anyway, you’ll fly. No cops. No trouble. End of story. The science stuff we will address at, say, ten-ish. Once we’re home. Safe and sound.”

  More Background: The couple spent a lot of time on the couch. She composed eloquent fan letters to Soap Opera magazine on burnt umber stationery. Radloff read the sports page and his beloved classifieds, mentally composed irate missives to the editor, area businessmen. Never followed through. Jack, ignored by both of them, noodled on the floor with the Xbox. Someone microwaved something.

  The earliest seeds of hatred took root under the beer cans in the sink. Behind the replacement roll of toilet paper in the closet. In the not-plugged-in, but still stretched-out electrical cord of the iron. Radloff figured, at this stage of things, it was easier to get Jack excited over a project that involved light vandalism than it was to get Jack’s mom in a viable postcourtship stage that involved happiness. Hence the night trip, the driving.

  “Look, when you’re fifteen,” Radloff pontificated, paused. He wanted to give Jack something. Some kernel of something gleaned. Some rite of passage. “It’s just a queer age, kid. All I’m saying is watch out,” Radloff looked straight ahead at the road. There were no houses now. Zero cars.

  “There’s a lot of aggression, ’cause you can’t technically drive and yet you need your freedom. But bikes, bikes are over,” Radloff said, nodded at his own logic. “Mainly because middle school has taught you that the good pussy is in another part of town. Therefore,” he scrambled to make a valid point, “there’s lots of pubed-out, uh, pedestrian animosity. Fights for no good reason other than power frustrations.”

  “Great,” Jack said, looked out the window, not even attempting to decipher any of this bullshit. He thumbed the bun. “Why are we egging this dude’s abode, anyway?”

  “What we’re doing tonight, is a couple of things: we’re remembering fifteen, we’re acting fifteen ourselves, then we’re putting a lid on it,” Radloff explained. “Permanently.” He belched softly. He wanted to sound cool. Smooth things over. “Incidental
ly,” Radloff said, belched again. “When you get to fifteen, do whatever the fuck you want.”

  “Remembering fifteen, huh?” Jack considered this for a moment. “What happened when you were fifteen, Radloff?” Jack seethed in Hannibal Lecter fashion. Silence of the Lambs had been on HBO a lot lately. “Tell me, Radloff, tell me about fifteen.”

  “Oh, nothing too crazy,” Radloff lied.

  “Oh, nothing too crazy,” Jack mocked. “Which totally explains why we’re out here tonight. Shit. Quid pro quo, Radloff,” Jack insisted. “Quid pro quo.”

  “Well, what’s the quid part of it?” Radloff asked. “You aren’t quidding shit. I asked about your ma—”

  “Like throwing eggs isn’t quidding,” Jack huffed. “It is so fucking quidding, Radloff!”

  “All right. All right. Let none of this be an example for your life patterns. When I was fifteen, there was this kid who was, by all accounts, a friend,” Radloff said and fished in his breast pocket for a cigarette, slapped the car’s lighter. “I mean, not a tight pal, but he . . .” Radloff paused for a second to let the emphasis of this part of the sentence build. “Little fucker took a handful of Kool-Aid, ran through a crowded Taco Amigo parking lot—post–football game, hussies up the wazoo—took the sandy grains of Kool-Aid, and threw it, Nolan Ryan–style, right in my goddamn peepers.”

  “So?”

  “Obviously, you do not know the pain of granule-on-retina contact,” Radloff fumed. The lighter popped. He lit the cigarette.

  “Then what?”

  “I dropped to a fucking set of knees, kid. Even that hurt. Tar lot and all. I howled. My corneas were scorched,” Radloff fumed, while Jack cackled. “Quit snickering.”

  “Did you go blind?”

  “Am I driving a vehicle? Yes. So no, I didn’t go blind,” Radloff said, shook his head. “I mean, for four brain-screwing minutes? Yes, I was blind as a sea otter in an oil spill.”

  “What are you now anyway, forty-three?”

  “Forty-one.”