That broke the spell. We knew the old Doberman wasn’t really mean and he knew we knew. We’d still drink our beer down in the drainage ditch, but now the dog would sit there with us and let us stroke his head. It was September, the season of the dog. Our parents didn’t know where we were and they didn’t care. It was spectacular.
Chapter 5
I met Ricky in the fourth grade and we’ve been thick ever since. He’s Germasian. His dad’s folks were actual German immigrants and his mom’s from Malaysia—Kuala Lumpur, I think. They met when Carl was in the navy. But it’s not like you might expect—the big stern German dude bossing around the meek little Asian wife. Actually, his dad’s a little dude like Ricky, and he seems kind of g*y. I’m not saying anything Ricky hasn’t said himself.
His mom’s little too—I mean, she can’t be five feet tall—but she is nowhere close to meek. She has this high-pitched, twangy voice, like an out-of-tune banjo, and you can’t go over to their house without having to listen to her lay into poor little Carl over some nitpicky thing like leaving the water running while he’s brushing his teeth. When she really gets going, you can’t understand a word she says.
Ricky himself looks a lot more Asian than German, and girls think he’s the cutest thing in the world. But he’s talked himself into believing they don’t see him as boyfriend material. Admittedly, they can be condescending sometimes, like when Kayla Putnam said she’d like to pick him up and carry him around in her purse, but Ricky’s got a lot going for him.
For one thing, he’s one of the funniest dudes you’d ever want to be around. And also he’s smart. Maybe his grades don’t exactly show it all the time, but that’s just because he doesn’t apply himself. If he actually studied, he’d have a 4.0. I make sure to learn at least one new word a day off the Internet just to keep up with his vocabulary.
I’m always reminding him of what all he has on the ball, but does he ever bother to assert himself and actually ask a girl out? No. He always has some excuse—either she’s too tall or she’s too into her looks or she’s a racist. Okay, the racist one I can understand, but somewhere along the line, you have to tell yourself, Hey, this is just high school. All I need is a girl to go out with, like a practice girlfriend.
So considering his track record with girls, it’s pretty ironic when he starts in giving me advice about Cassidy.
“Dude,” he says, “you can’t screw this up. I mean, really, it can’t be that hard just to show up to take your girlfriend to get a haircut.”
“Hey, there’s nothing I can do about that now. It’s like spilled milk under the bridge. I’m more worried that I didn’t exactly hear what she wants me to do from now on to save our relationship.”
“So, what, you weren’t listening at all?”
“I had other things on my mind.”
Ricky shakes his head. “Dude, if it was me, I’d be hanging on every word.” He’s very serious too. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t have a little bit of a crush on Cassidy himself.
“You can’t hang on every word,” I say. “There’s too much going on at any given moment. All you can do is absorb the general feel of it.”
Ricky opens another beer. It’s Friday night and we’re sitting on the hood of my car in a parking lot on Twelfth Street. “If I had a girlfriend, it’d be like church when she talks. She’d be the pontificator and I’d be the pontificatee.”
“You’re high.”
“No, really, dude. I’m the best listener in the world.”
He has a point there. He’s sure listened to a lot of my crap. “So why don’t you ask out Alisa Norman, dude? You like her, don’t you?”
He checks out a Mustang passing by, the really cool, old, fastback style from about thirty years ago. “I guess I like her all right, but she’s like almost engaged to Denver Quigley.”
“So? Ask her out anyway. Look, girls are transitional people. They don’t just break up with a guy and then sit around and wait to get asked out. They keep their boyfriend hanging on till they know somebody else is interested in them. Then it’s the ax for the old dude and hugs and kisses for the new guy. I’m telling you.”
“Right. Have you seen Quigley lately? He’s a caveman. All I’d have to do is say two words to Alisa and he’d pummel me into a thin paste. They’d have to take me to the hospital on a spatula.”
“Excuses, excuses.” I take a drink of beer and chase it with a shot of V.O. “But you know what? I’m tired of your excuses. This is it. Tonight’s the night. You’re getting a girlfriend.”
“Screw you.”
“No, really. You think you can third-wheel around with me and Cassidy forever? It’s ridiculous. Come on, get in the car.”
“Why? What do you have in mind?”
“Girls, that’s what. They’re everywhere.” I wave my arm toward Twelfth Street. “It’s Friday night, dude. The street is a cornucopia of girls. Every other car you see is full of them. Tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones, big tits, little tits, blondes, brunettes, redheads, wide asses, and asses you can fit in the palm of your hand. And you know what they want? They want a dude, dude. That’s what they want. Now get in the car.”
“Tits and asses, huh? You’re a real romantic, Sutter. You really are.”
He may be going all sarcastic on me, but he gets in the car anyway. He knows old Sutter’s got his best interest at heart.