Porchball

By Michael Bronte

We had just come off one of the most memorable years in American history. Our boys were dying by the thousands in the jungles of Vietnam and the war protests were rocking our world. The assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy rocked it even more. Our cities were being torn apart by riots, and then 1969 slung off ‘68 like a skater in a roller derby.
The Mets and Jets won their respective titles in 1969, two unbelievable victories almost impossible to imagine. Neil Armstrong landed on the moon, Ted Kennedy and Chappaquiddick happened in 1969, as did the SDS campus takeovers at Columbia and Harvard, along with the Charles Manson murders. Most memorably, our boys were still coming home from Vietnam in body bags, and the new President Nixon talked peace while the hippies stoned themselves out on pot and LSD while positioning the counter-culture as the alternative to “The Establishment.”
Brownie wrote his own history in 1969: he smoked his first joint, and got laid, both of those momentous events taking place in the sun and the mud at Woodstock. He also matriculated at Alliance College in Schenectady, New York, in September of that year, the unrest of the times serving as a confusing backdrop for an innocent teenager growing up in a not-so-innocent era.
There was no war in Schenectady, but people died, and Detective Michael Gravachevsky watched it happen. A fraternity house cook at Alliance fronted the evil crime network Gravachevsky had run into head-on, and here the lives of two boys from the Berkshires in Massachusetts, Brownie and his best friend Badge, become inextricably tangled in Dandy Don’s web of crime, bribery, depravity, and degradation. One of the boys takes the high road, the other doesn’t. From professors to ballplayers to strippers, Dandy Don ruins the lives of everyone he touches.
Porchball is a book that that deals with loyalty, betrayal, and deception, all twisted together as the characters’ lives are funneled into a single situation where the only common goal is to stop Dandy Don at all costs. Ultimately, it’s the code by which the game of Porchball is played that rises above all other of life’s principles. When a fraternity brother explains that no one cheats at the game, Brownie doesn’t quite understand. The answer is quite simple: “Everyone is taken at their word,” says the fraternity brother, “and everyone does the right thing.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bronte
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310667442

Michael Bronte

Michael Bronte is a graduate of Union College in Schenectady, New York, and George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and lives with his wife of 38 years in New Jersey. "All of the heroes in my novels are everyday people," says Bronte. "Any of them could by your next door neighbor. None of us really know what we're capable of until the time comes for us to reach beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives. Remarkable feats of courage are performed everyday, by everyday people. It's amazing."​ As a young teenager I remember reading paperback mysteries under a huge oak tree outside my parents’ neighborhood grocery store in Dalton, Massachusetts, a small town located in the heart of the Berkshires. I can recall pulling a book from the rack and getting locked in to those novels as the fragrant summer breeze of Berkshire County tried to turn the page before I was done reading it. I don’t know why, but I was greatly affected by a book titled The Fan Club, by Irving Wallace. When I was done reading it, I can still recall thinking that someday I’d be able to write a book like that on my own; I knew I could do it.Well, the idea stayed dormant for over thirty years while I did what I thought I should have been doing for a living (looking back, it all seems so trivial sometimes) until I rekindled my infatuation with writing novels. Now, many years after that, and many mistakes and many failures later, there are several Michael Bronte novels available for those of you who like mystery, suspense, action-oriented stories with true-to-life characters.

Book preview

Brownie took in the new car smell and took a whiff of his pits as he waited for Badge to come back. It was hot, real hot for the Berkshires, and it wouldn’t be good to smell bad where they were headed. Badge was back in a flash, yanking a couple of longnecks from the six-pack he’d just bought.

There’s a church key in the bag, said Badge.

Brownie popped the tops off two of the big brown beauties and took a long pull. God that’s good, he said as he wiped some frost off the bottle. It’s so cold it barely fizzes on the way down. The beer helped cool the heated excitement that still bubbled inside him from the day’s events. They drank in silence for a few long minutes as they motored toward their destination.

What did you think of that procession this morning? Brownie asked when it seemed as if one of them should say something.

Badge chugged the rest of his beer and passed his empty bottle. I thought it was weird.

Brownie traded the empty bottle for a full one. Thirsty?

Don’t want them to get warm.

Don’t forget you’re driving.

Relax, Mister Sensible. Who’s gonna catch us? Those cows over there?

Brownie sneered and leaned back, letting the air dry the sweat off his skin as it blew through the brand new 1969 Impala Badge’s parents had bought a couple of weeks ago. The air was cooler over the mountain, thick with the smell of farmland. Sure was a long procession, he said, getting back to the subject of Tommy Rudin’s funeral. He pictured the string of shiny cars as they glided past the community center while he and the rest of the team waited for the team bus to arrive earlier that afternoon. Car after car passed, headlights on, their tires rolling quiet over the grainy asphalt; the loudest noise was the thunderous rustling of the trees. He could still see the fluttering American flags on the lead car as it rolled eerily past the nuns gathered under the huge maple in front of Mount Carmel Church. They were silent as well, their heads bowed as the car passed, heavy rosaries swaying in rhythm with the trees as if in song.

Wondering if the bus had shown up yet, What’s going on, some of the other players asked as they came out of the community center. The only answer was another gust of wind through the trees. It was as if God himself was protesting Tommy’s death.

Who was that woman? Brownie asked, meaning the one they passed outside the cemetery gates when the bus rolled through town after the procession. The placard she carried had but a single word painted on it. Why? it questioned.

Badge said, Beats me. Sure gave me the willies though.

Indeed, it was a cold awakening for a lot of the guys, and they talked about it all the way to Pittsfield instead of concentrating on the game they were about to play. None of them had known anyone who’d been killed in Vietnam before.

It all seems so stupid, Brownie went on. Even the guys at the lumberyard think so. Crazy Popsie must have asked me a dozen times yesterday, ‘Why did Tommy get killed, Brownie? I don’t understand why he had to go over there anyway. Why did Tommy get killed? Are you going to go to Vietnam and get killed, Brownie?’

What did you tell him?

"I just told him to shut up and stack his bark slabs, but it’s still bothering me. Why did Tommy get killed?"

No deferment, Badge answered. We won’t have to worry about that. Guys who go to college get deferments; 2-Ss: no army, no war, no death.

Brownie said, I heard an anti-tank shell exploded in the middle of Tommy’s chest as he walked through the elephant grass.

Badge just looked through the windshield. You’re getting a 2-S. Don’t worry about it.

To Brownie, the deferment meant more than simply being excused from the draft, however. He had it all mapped out. First he’d play ball at Alliance in the spring—he’d try out at third base maybe, but he might think about pitching if his fastball was good enough. After that, he’d try and play in the Cape League next summer. That’s where the pro scouts went when the college seasons were over. With a good tryout and any luck… who knew? For a second, he even pictured himself in a Red Sox uniform.

There were other things, however, that he wasn’t so clear on. One of them was the inexplicable guilt he felt for taking that 2-S college deferment. Maybe it was just him, but the thought crossed his mind more than once that maybe he was less of a man than the guys who didn’t get deferments and had to go and do their duty, even if it involved going to Vietnam. Remembering the procession, he certainly didn’t want to end up like Tommy Rudin, however, but not everyone who went to Vietnam got killed. On the other hand, it was an immoral war, wasn’t it? There sure were a lot of people saying that. It all seemed so confusing.

"Did you hear that someone spray-painted the word PIGS on the wall outside the police station?"

Some freaks did it, Badge said through a juicy belch.

How do you know?

Trust me, I know.

Brownie believed him. He’d seen Badge hanging out with a few longhaired hippie types recently. Hey Badge, have you ever smoked any grass?

Sure. Who hasn’t?

Aren’t you worried about getting caught?

Pulling back on his windblown hair, Badge said, Who gives a shit? Let’s talk about something else.

That was Badge’s answer to a lot of things lately, especially since he’d grown his hair longer. Badge’s recently acquired hippie-ish look didn’t suit him, Brownie thought. Most of those hippie guys were real scrawny-looking. Badge wasn’t.

Did Marcia say anything to you today after the game?

Badge passed his second empty bottle. About what?

About her graduation party.

I don’t give a shit about her party. Hand me another beer.

We’ll be at the Showboat in another fifteen minutes.

Just gimme the fucking beer if you’re not gonna drink it.

Badge could be a real jerk sometimes. Marcia Adams was Badge’s on again-off again girlfriend—when he wasn’t pissing her off. She was a cheerleader and probably the smartest girl in school. Brownie pictured her in her cheerleader’s sweater with the big, bouncing Mawconak High School M on it. He would have given anything to get a peek at what was underneath that sweater.

How’s your arm? Badge asked, changing the subject again. Sore.

Have another beer. It may not make it feel better, but after another one or two of those, you won’t care.

Badge had a point, and Brownie cracked open another longneck. He guzzled it quickly as they churned along Route 20 from the Massachusetts side toward the Showboat in New Lebanon, which was on the New York side. It was in January of that year that New York lowered its drinking age, and with Fallston only eighteen miles from the New York State line, it was as if God said, Go forth, and be shitfaced. The trip to legalized sauce was called the trip over the mountain.

Badge said they were going over the mountain to drown their sorrows. They’d lost the county championship to Pittsfield that afternoon when Mousy Pellegrino launched a three-run shot in the tenth inning. Brownie figured surely that ball was still orbiting the globe. He’d pitched his heart out the whole game, and the only mistake he’d made was throwing Mousy that fastball. He should have listened to Badge. He’d shaken off the curve twice when Badge came out to the mound, pulled off his catcher’s mask, and asked him if he’d caught any good beaver shots in the stands.

Brownie grinned widely. Beaver shots? Mousy must have thought they were laughing at him when they started chuckling, but it was just Badge’s way of getting Brownie to relax.

Just wanted to make sure you were loose, Badge said as he hawked a big spit wad into the dirt at Brownie’s feet. Throwing Mousy a fastball might be a mistake. You really think you can throw it by him?

I think he might be sitting on another curve, Brownie replied, really having no idea.

Badge spat into the dirt again. Well, no balls, no glory. Let it fly, hotshot.

Brownie let go with everything he had, but Badge was right. He could still hear the hiss as the ball tunneled through the atmosphere into Mousy’s kitchen. Brownie didn’t even turn around when he heard the incredibly loud sound of Mousy’s bat striking the ball, knowing instantly that if the ball didn’t go over the fence, it would go through it.

They rolled into the Showboat parking lot—just a big field, really—just as they finished the six-pack. Badge drank four, Brownie two, and he was already buzzed. I gotta pee, Brownie said, turning toward tree line at the edge of the field where he could relieve himself. The sun was down, and a cool dew had already formed on the ankle-high grass. Even though it wasn’t his car, he took a long look at the brand-new Impala as he walked around it, praying that nothing happen to it as car after car rumbled past him into the field. Having to explain away a dent or a scratch to Badge’s parents was a totally unappetizing scenario. He’d rather take his chances in the elephant grass half a world away.

CHAPTER 2 The Showboat

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida blasted from the Showboat, echoing off the trees at the edge of the field. On his way back to the car, Brownie saw someone leaning against the Impala with Badge.

Badge gave his newfound friend a hug and said, I’ll see you inside.

Who the hell was that? Brownie asked.

My cousin.

Yeah, right.

No really. I’ll introduce you when we get inside.

Hey Badge, someone yelled. Brownie turned to see Mousy Pellegrino walking toward them. Good game today. You guys want a beer?

Sure, said Badge.

Looking at Brownie, Mousy added with a cocky grin, Sorry I had to ruin your day, sport.

Brownie didn’t know Mousy very well, but he knew Mousy and Badge had become acquainted over the last couple of years. They were both all-county athletes, and Brownie wasn’t part of their mutual admiration club. They followed Mousy back to his black GTO, where two of Mousy’s friends pulled some beers out of a cooler. Badge chugged an entire beer in one pass, tossing the empty can into the trunk. Not to be outdone, Mousy’s can was close behind. Brownie downed half his can, knowing he was already approaching his limit and wondering how those guys could chug like that.

Wanna go inside? Mousy asked.

Badge said, Sure, and they hauled off toward the Showboat.

Brownie downed the rest of his beer and ran to catch up, struggling to hear the conversation as the music got louder and louder. Mousy commented on Badge’s choice of schools.

"You got into Alliance? That sounds more like Brownie’s kind of school."

Screw you, thought Brownie, rankled at the implication that somehow getting good grades meant he was less of a ballplayer. He was as good as Mousy, maybe even as good as Badge.

Did you apply to UMass? Mousy asked Badge, acting as if Brownie wasn’t even there.

Yeah, but my old man is pushing me toward Alliance. I’m not sure I want any part of it. I think I’d rather just get a job and make some money.

Mousy shook his head. "Yeah, but you’d probably get drafted and end up in ‘Nam. Ya gotta either get a 2-S, or knock up a chick, or ka-pow." Mousy made a gun with his thumb and forefinger.

It had been a big day in the Brown household when Brownie got his acceptance letter. Badge, on the other hand, almost seemed let down.

Inside, they fought their way through the tight crowd. Just like the name indicated, the place was shaped like a huge boat, with a horseshoe bar at the bow, and a stage at the stern, where a band played above the jammed dance floor. The lead guitarist’s giant Afro made it look like he was peeking through a hedge, and the female singer’s breasts wobbled underneath a purple tie-dyed t-shirt as she belted out a Janis Joplin song. Brownie felt the notes from the bass guitar thud against his chest.

Badge headed straight for the bar and got three more beers. Not interested in further ego-matching, Brownie took his beer and decided to move off and check things out. There were girls with headbands there, he noticed. Badge said girls who wore headbands screwed, and girls who wore headbands and knee socks would screw them both. He wondered how Badge knew about such things. He recognized some of the faces as he cruised around, and was surprised when someone yelled, Great game today, Brownie. He didn’t know who said it specifically, but it made him feel good to know that someone recognized the effort. He turned to say thanks, bumping straight into someone whose drink splashed all over his shirt.

Hey, no turn signal, she said, brushing the drink off his chest. I guess you’ll have to buy me another one.

Was she serious? thought Brownie.

That was some game you played out there. Too bad you threw that fastball. Mousy couldn’t hit a curve to save his life.

It sounds like you know something about baseball, Brownie stammered. Inside, his mind raced. She was acting like she knew him, and he really liked the way she touched his chest. She wasn’t wearing a headband.

I should. When I was little, my dad thought I would change into a boy if he played ball with me often enough. Our whole family is full of great ballplayers. Mark is one of them.

Mark? Are you Badge’s cousin? He said he was going to introduce me, uh... us. Brownie thought: what a line that was, but she was smiling. It was hard to tell if she was smiling at him, exactly, but what the hell: smiling was good. He also noticed she was wearing an expensive-looking, red, V-neck sweater, with a single gold chain dangling teasingly into the swell underneath the V. Her skirt didn’t hide much of her deeply tanned legs either. He was a very observant person.

Actually, we’ve met before. Do you remember the 4th of July at Mark’s house a couple of summers ago, when that huge storm came up out of nowhere and broke up the softball game?

Yeah, the big maple tree got hit by lightning.

That’s right. I was there, but you probably don’t remember. I had the ugliest braces. It looked like I was trying to swallow a TV antenna. She smiled coyly. I thought you looked cute trying to throw the ball harder than Mark.

Cute? Cute wasn’t bad, thought Brownie. And he wasn’t nervous at all—not the way he usually was around girls, but usually he wasn’t three-quarters bombed either.

Are you here alone? he asked boldly, hoping he didn’t sound like a total dink.

Just with some kids from school, she said. I’ve never been over the mountain before. This place is great. The band struck up a tune by Three Dog Night. Oh, I love this song. C’mon, let’s dance. He dropped his beer on the nearest table as she pulled him through the crowd.

She looked great on the dance floor, he observed lustfully, noting that she didn’t have a straight line on her entire body. The band went into another song, and they both continued without stopping. Brownie thought himself to be decent on the dance floor, certainly capable of getting through a couple of songs without looking like a total spaz. The lead guitarist went into a solo, and Brownie rocked to the steamy notes as if he was the only one out there. Slowly, the bass drum took over and the bass guitar joined in, the beginning of a sweaty, ten-minute musical assault. Steady, rhythmic, constant, it went on and on until the keyboards brought back the original melody, beaming the searing notes into the crowd. The female vocalist pumped the crescendo to its peak before the song slammed to a halt, leaving everyone on the dance floor sweaty and cheering at the masterful performance. The Showboat was on fire.

That was great! she said, fanning herself with both hands.

Sure was, said Brownie, feeling his shirt clinging to his back as he looked for the bottle he’d set down earlier. Would you like a drink? he asked, not finding it. He needed another beer like he needed another foot.

I told you earlier: you owe me one.

She took his arm as they made their way to the horseshoe bar, and he liked it. He ordered two Schlitzes, handing her one. They clinked bottles.

To college, she toasted.

To college, he toasted back, downing a third of his beer in one pull. Where are you off to?

Vandermont, in Saratoga. It’s an all-girls school.

I know the school, Brownie said, thinking he’d heard of it somewhere. Good school.

You know, you won’t be too far away at Alliance.

How did you know I was going to Alliance?

Mark told me. One of the main reasons he’s going there is because of you. I don’t think he’s too crazy about going to college. He thinks his parents are forcing him into it.

He told you that?

In so many words.

Brownie nodded politely, but he really didn’t want to talk about Badge. Trying to steer the conversation, I guess you were at the game today. Do you go to Pittsfield High?

Yeah, but I can’t wait to graduate.

Why’s that?

For the independence, I guess. I’m tired of playing twenty questions with my parents every night. You know how it is. If you get in ten minutes past curfew it’s, ‘Where have you been? Who did you go with?’ You’d think I was a little kid.

She was no little kid, thought Brownie. Do your parents know you’re here?

Are you kidding? My dad would kill me, especially if he knew I was drinking beer. She took tiny sip. Maybe he’ll be asleep when I get in.

Geez, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. I mean, I could get you a Coke or something. I mean, I didn’t mean to force you to…. Brownie thought he sounded drunk.

Relax, Wallace Brown. You didn’t force me to do anything. I’m here because I want to be here.

Wallace? Nobody called him Wallace, except his mother, especially when she was really mad at him. It sounded different coming from someone else—better somehow; at least it did just then.

He finished his drink in no time. She handed him hers and said, Here, I can’t drink all this.

He took it, but he couldn’t even taste them anymore. The band came back and broke into a slow song by The Righteous Brothers. Brownie stood there for a few awkward seconds before the little voice inside him said: Ask her to dance, stupid!

I’d love to, she said, all twinkly-eyed. She led the way.

Brownie weaved out to the dance floor behind her, observing her carefully the entire way. He was a very observant person. She got into position, and the red V-neck sweater crushed into his chest. Her breasts were full and soft, and she laid her head against his cheek. Slowly, he rocked back and forth, oblivious to the rest of the people around them. Even her hair smelled good.

Finding an empty table when the song ended, Brownie said, I’ll be right back. His molars were floating. It seemed like it took forever, but she was smiling when he returned.

I thought you’d deserted me, she teased.

Not tonight, he was about to say when the slob staggered over.

You wanna dance? the slob spat out. C’mon, let’s d-do it.

Brownie looked at him sternly, but the slob was too busy leering to notice him. The slob reached.

I’m sorry, I’m with him, she said.

Aw, c’mon, the slob begged. Just one dance.

Brownie stood. The slob met Brownie’s stare and pushed him back into the chair. Brownie fell back, tripping awkwardly and stumbling to the floor. He froze, not knowing whether to get up and make something out of the situation, or whether to just sit there and hope the slob would vanish. The slob reached again.

I’m with him, she repeated, slamming a hand into his chest. Her voice was steely now, no longer sweet. She stooped and helped Brownie off the floor.

The slob turned away and looked for another victim.

Boy, was he cute, she sneered.

Brownie didn’t laugh. He should have stood up to the jerk instead of acting like a wimp.

Thankfully, she changed the subject. Listen, I’ve had a great time, but I have to go. She nodded toward a table full of giggling girls, all of whom were pointing at their watches.

Great. They’d probably seen the whole thing.

If I’m not home by midnight my dad will hang me up by my thumbs. Take care of Mark for me. She moved toward him. Their lips met. Will we see each other again this summer?

I… I don’t even know your name, Brownie stammered.

I know. She smiled and slipped a piece of paper into his hand: Jessica Badger—684-0159.

CHAPTER 3 Message Absorbed

William Billy Badger loved John Wayne movies, and he was glad one of his favorites was on since he was going to be up until at least midnight. He saw headlights flash through the window and decided to pretend to be asleep.

He detected the smell of beer and cigarettes on his daughter’s clothing as she brushed by, and he knew instantly she hadn’t gone to a bake sale. Thankful that she’d made it home safely, he decided not to give her the third degree. He was proud of his daughter. She was smart, just like her mom, but she was young and inexperienced, and he prayed that she had enough sense to not go and get herself into trouble. With the moral climate the way it was these days, Billy Badger was sure there were plenty of eighteen-year-old girls who were screwing a different boy every week, and he was sure there were plenty of boys who’d like to do it to his daughter, too. At eighteen, boys did their thinking with their peckers, and she was becoming a lot to think about. He scolded himself for thinking about his own daughter that way, but it was true. She tried to ease up the stairway, stumbling as she tried to get over the creaky first step. Shit! she whispered coarsely. He chuckled, hoping it sounded like a snore. He let her get away, then got up and went to bed.

* * * * *

Thank God her father had nodded off in front of the TV and she wouldn’t have to play twenty questions until tomorrow. Taking off her sweater and her black miniskirt, she folded them neatly on the back of the simple wooden chair in her room. It was her favorite outfit. Boys seemed to pay a little more attention to her when she wore that outfit, or so it seemed for the last few months. It was kind of like dogs panting, she noted with a sly grin. She unhooked her brassiere and looked at her body in the mirror. Not bad, she whispered to herself. She felt her breasts and they filled her hands completely. They seemed to be growing by the day. Quickly she brushed her teeth and slid under the covers. She thought about Wallace Brown before finally falling off to sleep, wondering if he’d call anytime soon.

* * * * *

Get up goddamnit, or you can kiss your ass goodbye!

His father’s hand clamped on his arm and hoisted him up like forklift. The voice was a saw blade, and Brownie wondered it if was going to cut through his head. He managed to stand, realizing immediately that was a huge mistake.

Feeling a little queasy, are we?

His father gave him a swift kick in the ass, propelling him into the desk across the room. Brownie almost heaved into the wastepaper basket, thinking his entire body was trying to turn itself inside out. He looked at the clock: 3:32 a.m.

You’d better start talking if you know what’s good for you.

It didn’t take long to decide whether or not the truth was in order. Badge and I went over the mountain, Brownie coughed out. We went to the Showboat.

Well, you must have had a hell of a time. I just got a call from Mrs. Badger. She found Mark passed out in their basement. Seems that he threw up all over their pool table.

Despite his discomfort, Brownie couldn’t help but laugh.

It’s not funny! his father stormed, but Brownie couldn’t help it. Looking up, he thought he saw the tiniest trace of a smile curl across his father’s face. Maybe not.

Let’s hear it, his father demanded.

Brownie told the whole story: the beers in the car, Mousy, everything, except the part about Jessica Badger, minimizing it all, of course.

The phone rang, and Brownie heard his mother calling for his father to come downstairs.

Brownie’s sixteen-year-old sister Janet came into his room, rubbing her eyes. What’s with all the noise? she asked sleepily.

This is not a good time, Brownie warned.

She took one look at Brownie and said, Oh, oh, before heading back to her room.

Sitting there, Brownie reflected back to the moment when Jessica had left the Showboat with her friends. He realized he hadn’t seen Badge for a couple of hours. He found him eventually, still hanging with Mousy and three new strangers who all looked like Hell’s Angels. There were several empty shot glasses on a table in front of them.

Eh bigg gguy, where’d dya been? Badge was almost incoherent. Llet’s do a coupla shhotts ‘a tequila. He tried to get up and fell back into his chair.

Brownie looked at his watch. It was almost midnight, which was the time he was supposed to have been home. He thought about his own alcohol haze. Where are your keys? he asked, trying to help Badge from his chair.

I g-gotm. Le’ss go, I’m drivn.

If Badge drove, they were dead.

Brownie looked at Mousy. Gimme a hand here, will ya? I don’t think he can make it.

Mousy said, Aw, he’ll be awright. He didn’t even win the bet. He only had six shots. Fuckin’ pussy. Everyone at the table roared with drunken laughter.

Brownie walked over and shot a finger into Mousy’s chest. "Take his other arm, you jerk, or I swear to Christ you won’t make it out of here on your own either." The humiliation with Jessica had been enough.

Sitting there on the bed, Brownie couldn’t believe he’d actually said that to Mousy.

They finally got Badge into the car. Brownie snagged the keys and fired up the Impala’s V-8. He heard bottles rolling around and figured he’d better gather them up or there would be hell to pay if Badge’s parents found them.

Mousy came over and stood by the open window. Hey Brown, he snickered. "How’d it go with that Jessica babe? Nice piece of ass."

Brownie tossed the bag full of bottles at Mousy’s feet and gunned the engine, spraying gravel back at him and his crew. In the rearview mirror he saw Mousy fling one of the bottles at the car just as the tires squealed onto Route 20 back toward the mountain. She was a nice piece of ass, Brownie thought in retrospect. Everything about her was nice.

His father came back in, his face as sour as before. That was Mrs. Badger again. You’re going to have to go over there tomorrow and face the music. Turning away, his father added, I’m starting to think that letting you go to the Cape this summer isn’t such a good idea.

That hurt. Getting up, Brownie swore he’d never drink again for the rest of his life. Surely his father didn’t mean what he’d just said… for one drunken mistake? Damn that Badge.

The next morning Margaret and Arthur Badger sat them both down, with Arthur sitting behind Margaret as it was obvious who was going to do the talking.

I thought you were a good boy, Wallace. It’s not like you, acting like some kind of delinquent. I think you owe Mark, and us, an apology. Mrs. Badger crossed her arms and waited.

An apology? Brownie thought: I saved his sorry ass last night, and you want me to apologize to him! Badge sat there like a statue. His teeth grinding, Brownie couldn’t believe the words actually came out of his own mouth. I’m really sorry Mrs. Badger. It won’t happen again.

I’m not sure I want you back in this house, Wallace. Mister Badger has something to show you. Mister Badger took them out to the driveway. There, scratched out in the brand-new paint of the Impala, were the words FUCK MAWCONAK.

After listening to how they were going to pay for the repair, Brownie just looked at Badge, who sat there like a block of ice. Wondering if he should do something about what had just happened, he knew Badge was playing him, yet he found his anger melting away as the minutes ticked by. What the hell, he thought, high school graduation was in two weeks; everyone will have forgotten about