Fat people were a rarity in 1970. None resided in my neighborhood south of Boston and only a few attended my university. My best friend at work was well overweight, but I thought of Wayne as chubby, but not fat.
Our menial duties at a chain discount store next to the Quincy Shipyard consisted of restocking the cosmetic aisles with mouthwash, shampoo, deodorants, and toothpastes. This job required little physical exertion and even less mental strain, which suited the chubby 22 year-old Bronx native just fine. My parents had higher expectations for their second son and one December afternoon in the storeroom I said to Wayne, “You’re well-read. You’re smart. You deserve more from your life than this dead-end job.”
“Don’t knock being on the bottom. The salary covers my needs. No one gives me any shit, plus if God expected me to make something of my life, he would have given me a rock star’s body instead sticking me with one better suited for a sumo wrestler.” Wayne weighed over 280 pounds and his heart problem exempted him from the serving in Viet-Nam. He was the only employee without a store uniform. None of light blue shirts were sized for XXXL.
“Too bad you weren’t born in Japan. Sumo wrestlers are honored in Japan.”
“Then I’d have to eat raw fish.” Wayne shivered with revulsion and loaded several boxes onto a cart.
Perspiration stained his shirt. It didn’t take much for him to sweat.
“I ate raw whale once at a fish shop in Haymarket Square. The meat tasted better than beef.”
“That’s almost cannibalism. Whales are mammals.” He cleaned his smudged glasses with a paper towel. “You wouldn’t eat Flipper, would you?”
“No and I ate whale just that once.”
“Glad to hear it.” Wayne pushed the cart into the store. “Are you coming over after work?”
“I really should get home.” I had several chapters of Kafka’s DAS URTEIL to read for my German 101 exam.
My parent’s house was nine miles away. No buses ran to my hometown from the store. Hitchhiking home sometimes took hours.
“I’ll get my old man to give you a ride.” His stepfather worked as a welder on the late-shift at Shipyard. Wayne gave the old man three bottles of Boone’s Farm each Friday and his mother $60 for rent every payday. The rest of his income was spent on his extensive record collection. “I have the new Love LP.”
“Okay, but just for a little while.” I loved Arthur Lee and figured that Kafka could wait till midnight.
The store closed at 9. We tramped up the hill to his street. Thousands of stars swam in winter sky. Wayne huffed every step of the way. It was a good thing he didn’t smoke cigarettes.
We entered his parents’ double-decker house.
“How was work?” His hillbilly thin mother was in the kitchen.
“Work is work,” Wayne spoke his mind with his mother.
“Better than sitting on a park bench. Sit down and I’ll make you something to eat” His mother reheated meat loaf and mashed potatoes.
They tasted good after the cold.
Wayne ate two helpings.
After dinner we went upstairs to his room. It accommodated a bed, table, two chairs, a sofa, black-and-white TV, and a stereo. The windows overlooked the Fore River. His Pioneer stereo system was light-years ahead of my parents’ Zenith Hi-Fi. Nearly 2000 LPs were alphabetically stacked against one wall according to genres. Wayne picked up a double LP from his coffee table and pushed back his greasy long hair. He never used a comb.
“You know I could steal records out of the store real easy.”
“I don’t want any trouble and I got money for records.” Wayne unwrapped the plastic from Love’s OUT HERE and placed the LP on the turntable. The first song was SIGNED DC. I had heard it once on WBCN. Wayne sat on the sofa and lit up a joint. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t be stupid.” I should have realized that ‘stupid’ was every 18 year-old boy’s middle name.
The next morning I rode the T to take my final exam of the semester. I needed the full two hours to fill out everything I knew about Kafka in the booklet. I could speak German, but my spelling in that language was as bad as it was in English. I was counting on my teacher’s connection with my high school teacher to avoid a failing grade.
Professor Klein knew Bruder Karl. They both hailed from Bavaria. I handed in my test and wished Fraulein Klein ‘Wieher Noel’. The next day of school wasn’t until January 10.
My results came in the mail a few days later. I had passed all my courses and Professor Klein had given me a C- in German.
I was safe from the draft board for another six months, yet my parents were not pleased with average grade and I promised to improve next semester. There was still two weeks till Christmas and the store needed extra help for the holiday, so I worked double shifts Monday to Saturday. Wayne was also pulling overtime.
Three days before Christmas Wayne and I punched out at closing. He buttoned up a thick overcoat with a fake fur collar and pulled a cheap Chinese Army cap with flaps onto his head. I had on a ski parka, jeans, and Fyre boots. As we passed the records department, I grabbed two LPs; Wes Montgomery’s A DAY IN THE LIFE and the Mothers of Inventions’ FREAK OUT.
“You said you weren’t doing anything stupid.” Wayne waddled toward the exit. He moved fast for his size.
“No one’s will stop us.”
I waved to the two girls at the cash registers, who were counting out the night’s take. Marie was sweet on Wayne. She looked like a young Jayne Mansfield. Sookie was skinnier than the super-model Twiggy, but 20 year-old girls weren’t interested in teenage boys.
“You’re on your own.” Wayne pushed open the glass door. The air was cold and he cursed under his breath. “Shit.”
The 20 year-old assistant-manager trailed us out of the store. His title added 30 cents to the minimum wage of $1.45/hour. This extra wealth granted him the delusion that he was a big deal with the checkout girls, but they called him ‘Mr. Big-Shot’ behind his back.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” muttered Wayne. “I’m holding an ounce of pot.”
“Shit is right.”
Possession of marijuana was a felony in the State of Massachusetts and I flicked the LPs under a black 1965 Thunderbird.
“Stop right there,” shouted the assistant manager.
“What for?” Wayne’s words turned to frozen mist.
“I saw you steal those records.” The assistant-manager eyed our hands and looked under the cars.
“What fucking records?” Wayne was tough for a fat boy, then again his older brother ran with a biker gang on the West Coast.
“You can’t talk to me like that?” The assistant-manager stepped within Wayne’s reach.
“I can talk anyway I want once I punch out.” The squat New Yorker didn’t take any shit.
“Tell me where those records are or you’re both fired.” The assistant-manager’s voice peaked an octave higher.
“Then fire me.” Wayne bumped into the skinny 20 year-old’s chest.
“That’s assault.” The assistant-manager spun toward the store. His loafers lost traction and he slipped on the snow, hitting the ground face first. Both of us laughed, as he scrambled to his feet like a duck running on ice. Blood streamed from his nose.
“You think that’s funny. I’m calling the cops.” His clothes were wet from the slush and he stomped off to the store.
“It was funny.” Wayne pointed to the T-bird. “Get those records.”
“Are we giving them back?” This was my first act of larceny.
“Not to that snitch. Go to the back door and find the girls. They’ll put them back in the record bin.” He walked off to his house.
“Okay.”
I crawled under the car. Snow covered the records. I brushed them off and then ran from the parking lot in a crouch. I pushed open the back door. Sookie and Marie were wearing their coats.
“Can you return these to the record bin?”
“And why would we do that?” asked Marie with a frown.
“Because it would help me and we can go smoke pot with Wayne.” I eyed Sookie. She wasn’t even looking at me.
“Okay. You go. We’ll meet you in 30.”
“You know where Wayne lives?”
“Yeah and don’t do anything else stupid,” smirked Sookie.
“I’ll try.”
Wayne was waiting on his porch.
“The girls are coming here to smoke some weed.”
“Cool.”
“They’ve been here before?”
“Sure.”
He checked the street for the cops and then ushered me inside. His mother had food on the table; a tuna-and-cheese casserole.
Wayne said nothing about the LPs.
His stepfather arrived after dinner and watched HARPER’S VALLEY PTA on the TV. He had worked a double-shift. A cigarette died between his fingers and Wayne plucked the smoldering butt out of the old man’s fingers. His mother waved for us to leave and we climbed the stairs to his room.
“Merry Christmas.” I handed him the two records.
“Thanks.” Wayne laid Miles Davis’ BITCHES BREW on the turntable and I loaded the bong with Panama Red. We listened to PHARA0H’S DANCE in a reefer haze. The checkout girls arrived ten minutes later. Marie threw off her long sheepskin coat and sat on Wayne’s lap. Her friend, Sookie, stood in the corner like she had a curfew.
“You guys are lucky.” Marie’s breasts were popping out of her store uniform.
“Lucky how? We got fired.” No one in my family had ever been canned from a job.
“The assistant manager wanted to call the cops.” The blonde cashier had graduated from Weymouth High School last summer. Her job at the store was full-time. She had planned on attending beautician school in the summer. Her make-up was impeccable. “He said you beat him up. I told the manager that you hadn’t stolen any records and he had slipped on the snow. They did a quick inventory. Nothing was missing. The manager was angry he had lost Wayne, He said you were his his best worker and hoped you come back.”
“So we’re not fired?”
“No, you’re fired all right. He only wants Wayne.” Marie grabbed the bong out of my hands. “What’s on the stereo?”
“Miles Davis.” Wayne hummed two bars of the melody.
“You guys are really high.”
“I guess so.” Wayne rose from the couch.
“Hi.” Sookie settled on the sofa next to me. Her eyes sparkled within twin rings of kohl-blackened mascara and her mouth glowed with pale pink lipstick. Small gold loops hung from her earlobes and she twirled a long strand of brown hair.
I returned the ‘hi’.
“Anyone want to hear anything special?”
Wayne had been to Woodstock and was our music guru. The next record was IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY followed by Dave Mason’s ALONE TOGETHER and Pink Floyd’s WISH YOU WERE HERE.
At midnight Sookie offered to drive me home. I said sure and we crept downstairs. Wayne’s stepfather snored in front of the TV. Out on the porch Sookie motioned for me to wait, while she fetched the car.
“She’s a nice girl.” Wayne blew into his hands. The temperature had fallen below freezing.
“Yeah.” She was nice. I must have seemed worried, because Wayne asked, “What’s the problem?”
“My parents will kill me about being a shoplifter.
“Don’t tell them a thing.” Wayne bounced on his feet to keep warm.
“What about money?” I needed cash for school.
“My friend drives cab in Boston. You can make twice as much hacking a taxi.”
Snowflakes floated in the dark. Headlights approached the house.
“What about you? Are you going back to work?”
“No way. I’ll sign on unemployment and after Christmas we can hitchhike down to New York to buy a pound or two of weed, take the bus back, and sell ounces for cash.”
My Calculus 101 professor had given me a D+, but I was good at simple math. Ounces sold for $20 at my college. A pound cost $150. The profit was $170.
“Count me in.” I pulled on my gloves.
A tan ’65 LeMans skidded to a halt. The convertible was a present from Sookie’s parents for her 20th birthday. They came from Hingham. It was a town with money. I sat in the passenger’s seat.
“You two have a safe ride home.” Wayne winked at Marie’s friend.
“I passed driving school with top honors.” Sookie drove with both hands on the steering wheel. Her car had good heat.
We made out in the Blue Hills, a forested reserve surrounding my neighborhood. Her body was unearthly thin. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her eat food. My hands fumbled beneath her silk shirt to encounter a lace bra and panties. She pushed me to the other side of the car.
“Not now.” It was almost 1 am.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” My hands were warm from her flesh.
“Going to Vermont with my parents.” The dashboard lights illuminated her face with an angelic glow.
“Oh.” Her holiday plans left me out of the picture.
“What you doing for New Year’s?” Her question begged an invitation.
“Maybe go to New York with Wayne.” I wasn’t saying why.
“I’ve never been to New York.” She backed the car out of the dirt road, the ties spinning on fresh snow.
“I’ve been once with my parents and older brother in 1962. We stayed at the Hotel Manhattan, ate at Tad’s Steakhouse, rode to the top of the Empire State Building, and saw the Rockettes.”
“I always dream about New York.”
“Really?”
“Sure, it has to be better than here.”
“What’s wrong with Boston?” I liked Paul’s Mall, Durgin Park, and the Boston Club.
“Nothing other than it’s a small town and this town is even smaller. The only thing to do is make-out in the woods.”
“I like making-out in the woods.”
“I’m sure you do.” She shifted the car into drive and headed toward Route 28. “But you can’t tell me you don’t dream about living someplace where people have fun. Where they don’t go to sleep after dinner. Where they never sleep.”
“I used to lay on my backyard praying for a UFO to take me to someplace like that.” The suburbs had been claustrophobic for me as a 10 year-old.
“Then if you let me drive you to New York, this car can be the UFO.” She turned on the radio.
“This isn’t a sight-seeing trip.”
WBCN played Fairport Convention’s MATTY GROVES.
“I know, but we won’t be any trouble.”
“We?”
“I’m sure Marie will come too.”
“I’ll have to talk with Wayne.” A ride was certainly preferable to thumbing on the highway.
In front of my house Sookie kissed me with thin lips. I felt her flat breasts and imagined more in New York. I had no idea where we would stay. Hotels weren’t cheap. Maybe $20 a night.
Early the next morning I phoned Wayne from school. He had been out of bed an hour. His mother had cooked him breakfast. Unemployment agreed with him.
“The girls want to come along.”
“Cool, we can stay at Eddie’s. He’s my brother’s friend. We went to Woodstock together.” Wayne was as proud of going to Woodstock as if he had flown to the moon. “Eddie deals pot in the East Village. We can crash with him. His apartment is around the corner from the Fillmore East. We can go to a show. This will be fun. We’ll leave two days before New Years.”
He hung up and I hitchhiked over to the store. The manager gave me a check minus the price of two LPs. He didn’t lecture me and I didn’t argue. I took a bus to the Fields Corner T station and then the Red Line train into Boston. Checker Cab Company was located behind Boston Arena. They hired me in a second. The cut was 55/45 off the meter. Tips were your own. I gave the union steward $10 to join the Teamsters. I called my mother and informed her about the new job without mentioning my shoplifting.
“It’s easy than working at the store and pays more money.”
“Is it safe?” She was concerned about the increasing number of hold-ups.
“The dispatcher says those robberies were blown out of proportion.” He said never drive into Roxbury after 11pm.
That night I drove taxi until 2am. My last two trips were into Roxbury. Both fares were so grateful for the ride into the ghetto that they tipped a dollar each. My take was $45 from fares and another $15 in gratuities. I stayed the night with my friend Nick. The sophomore from Staten Island attended my university. We had met in European History 101. His apartment was on Commonwealth Avenue in Brighton. I slept on the sofa. In the morning I mentioned the upcoming trip to New York.
“You can come out and visit on Staten Island.” His father was a doctor. Nick was in our university’s pre-med program. His grades were better than mine. “The ferry is free for go and come back.”
“I’ll think about it.”
That afternoon Nick dropped off the keys to his apartment and departed for New York in his Mini-Cooper.
The work schedule for Checker Cab was loose. Drivers worked as much or as little according to their needs. I drove taxi every night to finance a pound of pot.
Wayne and I had already lined up enough customers to sell half the pot on our return. Sookie came over to see Aerosmith at the Hi-Hat Lounge. She had received an 8-track player for Christmas. I gave her CLOUDS by Joni Mitchell and CIRCLE GAME by Tom Rush along with a silver necklace. Driving taxi paid better than working at a retail store.
Aerosmith put on a monster show for almost 300 fans. The bartender was my friend. He gave us free drinks. Sookie danced to several songs. The lead singer checked her out. He liked skinny girls. Walking to her LeMans I asked, “You have a good time?”
“I loved the band.” She held my hand. Hers was icy cold.
“So Boston’s not so bad?”
“It’s better than my hometown, but it’s not New York.” She took the car keys out of her fringed purse.
“You want to stay the night?” Nick’s apartment was around the corner.
“I can’t.” She pushed me away from the LeMans. “I’m leaving in the morning to ski in Vermont with my parents.”
“Then I’ll wait for New York.”
Christmas I rode the subway to Ashmont and the trolley to Lower Mills. My older brother picked me up at the station. My family was happy to see me. I gave everyone gifts. My mother cooked the world’s best apple pie. My father dealt with the turkey. He liked it a certain way. I handled the vegetables and I ate thirds of everything.
My mother gave me a Levi jean jacket and suede Dingo boots.
“Here’s two records.” My father’s hand held the same ones I stole from the store. “I hope I don’t have to buy them again.”
“No, I’m happy with these.” The assistant-manager must have called the house. I was lucky that my mother hadn’t answered the phone.
“Good.” He was a man of few words.
I called Wayne later that evening.
“You know if Sookie is still coming to New York?”
“Marie says yes, but who knows with women?”
“Not me.”
I was only 18. I had a hard time figuring out my thinking, let alone a woman, but knowing I knew nothing was better than thinking I had all the answers, because no one has ever heard all the questions.