Paydirt

By Philip MacHale

A story of jumping into the charm of adulthood by a teenager whobelieves the rules will support him should he step out of bounds. IfAmerican Graffiti had the seriousness of Rebel Without A Cause.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 28, 2002
• ISBN: 9781524542498

Philip MacHale

PHILIP MACHALE began the detour from writing his Viet Nam novel when an Italian casting director suggested work in a Liz Taylor movie. He decided acting was only the other side of telling a story, so he spent the next twenty-five years doing minor parts in major movies and major parts in minor movies, living mostly in New York where he did some stage work, a bunch of commercials, and you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up soap operas. When he returned from Europe, he had three novels in his suitcase. They were rejected. He’s been battling the odds ever since. He takes personal responsibility for killing a lot of trees, electronic dots, and most devastating of all, the patience of his wife and two sons.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

AAAAOOOOOO. Good morning, boys and girls! It’s the Old Coyote. Settle back, get easy. It is exactly two minutes past the hooo-oowlin hour here at KBLG, 1140 on your radio dial in Billings, Montana, heart and soul of the Yellowstone Valley. This here is your first friend, and mine, Terry Michaels, howlin to bring you joys, takin you toys, findin you boys, with the pick of the pack, top of the heap, gold of the old. Only the best; cause all the rest don’t make the test. First dedication goes out from Larry and Gary to Sharon and Karen. You guys out there gotta work this one out for yourselves. AAAAAOOOOOOO. It’s the chart-buster movin up like a bullet from Dion and the Bel…

Chuck Brown is only getting the busy signal. Doesn’t matter anymore, his dedication will be too late. Have to use his own words. Hit tunes just say it better. Everybody knows the lyrics, so even if you blow it, they understand what you mean.

In one extended motion, Chuck swings out of the upper bunk bed and grabs his Levis crumbled in a heap near the phone. Not that crumbled, they are still too stiff because his mother doesn’t realize the importance of the lived-in look. For half a breath, Chuck thinks about a really old pair of Wranglers, but since they’d move to Billings, he hasn’t seen anything but Levis on the kids. Being the New Guy is bad enough, really stupid to let everybody know you don’t even know how to dress yourself.

Feeling his way along in the dark, Chuck finds the set-tubs in the utility room. The Lava soap scrapes his face, the zit cream will be gone for sure. The redness from all the scrubbing should calm down by the time he reaches Poly Drive. Back in his windowless closet under the stairs up to the first floor, Chuck shuts the door and turns on the light. A splash of Old Spice and a dab of Brylcreem, and he is far away from the Princeton look his Ivy League parents demand. Chuck’s only job is to remember which audience his hair has to play to. This is the half of his life his mother can’t even guess about. A few strokes in his dirty honey hair and Chuck has a modified Duck’s Ass Kookie himself would be proud of, cruising the Sunset Strip. A last glance in the mirror, a couple rolls of his t-shirt sleeves, and Chuck Brown is squirming himself out the basement window. The radio he leaves on, because he always leaves the radio on.

Outside is silvery clear. The August moon sharpens the edge between the developer’s streets and the farmers’ furrows. The sub-division encroaches right to the economic edge of the sugar beet farms. The battle joined; sugar will win out only as long as new homeowners stop pouring into the Yellowstone River Valley. Chuck only wants to be in the middle. He doesn’t want to be on the plow blade of anything.

Chuck skirts the neighborhood dogs and pulls the kid’s bike from its garage. Sometimes, like now, Chuck wishes he hadn’t sold his bike when they’d left Laramie in June. Or even better, he still had a big brother who could drive him through that no-man’s land of no-bicycle-no-driver’s-license. Or the best would be if Chuck has his own customized ’54 Studebaker. Hand-rubbed black lacquer paint job, white Naugahyde rolled and pleated interior, brand new ’64 Vette engine, when they come out next month, Hurst shifter with four-on-the-floor, heavy-duty forward rake, and real cherry cheaters for exhaust…

Daydreaming might be a waste of time for some, but for Chuck, if opportunity does knock, he’ll know which door to open in a speed shift. Chuck Brown always has a plan. At the worst, he wishes he had the guts to just take his parent’s car. Except, Chuck doesn’t know how to drive. Just turned seventeen and he is reduced to stealing some little girl’s bike to go out on a date. Why in the world does he think he’s going to get anything at all from Susan Lemier? Every time she agrees to sneak out for him, he shows up on a bike. He is definitely going to get shot-out-of-the-saddle for being such a screamer.

And what if he gets caught swiping Nancy’s bike? What will the guys think? What a rep to start football practice with—a police record for petty theft, emphasis on the word petty. Besides, he’d really be hurting his folks. This is really against their rules. To say nothing of losing a good babysitting job. One thing about thinking things out ahead: Chuck sees the flip side, too.

Sue has to come across this time. She’s been prick-teasing him ever since he first saw her working behind the counter at the J.C. Penny’s over at Broadwater Shopping Center. He even half-thought about buying some Just the Cheapest Penny’s blue jeans so he could stare at her up close. She must have had a plan, too, because she gave him her phone number the first time he asked.

The little girl’s bicycle is small and sluggish with a huge basket and a dippy cross bar, just in case he might be wearing a skirt. Nothing like Chuck’s old Schwinn racer, but, any thing beats walking. Chuck is down Broadwater and over to Central Avenue within fifteen minutes.

The Big Ditch irrigates the demarcation between the farms and the houses on the western edge of Billings. Cross the bridge, and he is on a double rutted dirt road. Chuck uses the path as a gut check, the peddling is all uphill to Poly Drive. Chuck keeps his mind off the punishment his thighs are taking from the bike by thinking how great it must be to farm. Keeping things simple. Plant something, win or lose at harvest time. Know exactly where you stand come the fall. Don’t even have to come up with some serious adult answer when people ask what you want to be when you grow up. Chuck-the-farm-boy also likes the idea of having his feet planted in one spot. Three grammar schools, only one junior high, but this is going to be his second high school, and it’s his senior year. Every new school means he has to wait on the sidelines until the New Boy finds a game the Cool Guys will let him play. Farm land seems like something you can spent an effort on, get to know, and you won’t have to worry about it dumping you. Kind of like Susan Lemier, if Chuck can believe everything she’s been telling him all summer.

Or maybe it’s like Susan Lemier if you don’t believe a word she’s saying. What if they fill in the Big Ditch and all the farms go residential? Sure, the farmers will get tons of bucks, but where will their kids keep their horses? Chuck is kind of glad he’d be away at college if the Ditch dies. Course, he doesn’t have to worry about property values like his dad does. Maybe plans just don’t work the older you get. The Ditch is history by the time he hits Poly Drive.

The road sets off yet another world. The farms and prairie reach no farther. On the one side is the violent, yearly ripping of the land to plant the next crop; on the other side of the asphalt divide, the planting is a one-time thing, Kentucky blue grass only has to be nurtured. If the weathered farm houses are waiting for a foreclosure sale, the $60,000 low-slung ranch houses sit securely on their trimmed lawns. Should there be a mortgage attack, these homes will show nothing. Their fate will be settled in bank offices, not by counting the number of rusting tractors in the front yard.

Still for all the money, the western end of Poly Drive is just another frontier outpost. Street lights are not part of the city budget for such pioneers. The only illumination Chuck has is the moon and the orange glows of the doorbells. Teenagers are already curfewed; parents asleep, stocking up for tomorrow’s work day. Porch lights would serve no purpose. Western hospitality rarely extends to the really unexpected. Only fools step off Poly Drive without attaching their own safety rope. Chuck stays in the middle of the road to avoid the dogs.

Time to check the old pits, coast for awhile so he wouldn’t break a sweat. A review all around, he’s golden. Maybe. Sue might not even be there. Her dad might have caught on. His rule is no dating during the week. Summer school and clerking at Penny’s are more than enough for the dislikes of his daughter. Chuck also has the idea a transfer kid is less than enough for the likes of his daughter.

Lindale Lane is ahead. Chuck swings the bike to the right. From now on, he has to stand on the pedals. Just a final test to see how much he wants to get there. Chuck fires-up and digs his legs into the pushing, swaying of the bike. A couple of times, the steep hill almost grinds it all to a halt, but brute strength keeps it all alive. The sweat doesn’t matter now, this isn’t a nervous perspiration. His muscles, not his mind, are cooking now. No chance of anything bad coming out, if it’s just physical. Sides, Sue always said he has a manly smell.

A dogleg to the left, back to the right, Chuck is resting the bike next to the curb behind some bushes. He makes a quick survey of the Lemier’s house. No noise, but Chuck can’t tell if the screen on Susan’s window is unhooked. He vaults the fence and jogs through the next two yards. Up ahead he can make out the ship rigging of rafters and studs of the half-framed house that is their Special Place.

Every board at the construction site shifts under Chuck’s penny loafers. Each step threatens to trigger a stack of crashing bricks or a barrel of tinkling nails. He finds her sitting in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She appears to be pondering the black wall of the Rim Rocks, rising just in back of the house. The Rims are a sandstone shelf abruptly stretching five hundred feet above the Yellowstone River Valley floor, cutting straight and trim as a gutter for the river to flow through. All along Poly Drive the rocks create a vertical horizon high into the twinkling deep blue of the night sky.

Or Susie might as easily be bouncing her foot to a tune only she can hear and merely staring out into space. Chuck leans over to kiss hello. She’s wearing the Tigress perfume he gave her for her birthday. Chuck starts to follow up on the initial peck. Sue’s cardigan is on backwards. A sure invitation. He reaches for the third button, the one closest to where she’d let him explore the first date.

Don’t. The sound is too harsh. Sue covers her bets; just in case something might change in the unforeseeable future. Not right now, Chas. I’ve got a lot on my mind, you know?

Chuck doesn’t have the foggiest. Yet he recognizes this is not going be a clear shot at the goal line. He settles back on his haunches, crossing his legs Indian style. What’s the matter, Susan?

I asked you see me, in our Secret Spot, because I have to see you. One (breath) last time. Sue pauses, but she knows Chuck is only concentrating on those damn buttons. She is on her own here.

You see, Chas, well, the only thing is to say it out right. Some thing’s come up. No, that’s not right. We both knew this day was coming sooner or later. Truth be told, it has always been hanging over our heads. We always knew your time was (breath) borrowed.

Once again Chuck is thrown the ball. Another incompletion. I’m not sure exactly what you mean… I…

Oh, Chuck. Don’t play dumb with me. Of course you know what I’m talking about. A gentle brush of his cheek; with the back of her hand. Chuck is left with the same stinging as if he’s been slapped. Perhaps you just don’t want to think about it. Because it’s all too (breath) painful.

Yes. Chuck drops his head a little. The drama of the moment seems to scream for it. If only he can start kissing…

I’m so sorry it has to be this way, but we both knew, my fair Charles, right from the beginning I had someone else who loved me.

Chuck knows that. He knows Sue collects boys the way he collects yards gained/ touchdowns.

Remember the first time we met? We knew there and then. Just something else Chuck hadn’t listen to. He was all wrapped up in her honey-colored tan. That and the fact his mother had dragged him away from his weight training session to go shopping at Just Children Pennys. Once he saw Sue had the same color eyes as Liz Taylor, he hadn’t heard a word she’d said that day. When she let him undo her bra on the first date, he hadn’t heard a syllable for the last six weeks.

"Oh, I remember that day, Chas. You were so (breath) handsome. With your scrumptious letterman’s jacket. Then you got closer and I realized it was for All State. And in your junior year! Even if was from scabby old Wyoming. That day, I really flipped over you. You looked so big and strong. Like you could really take care of me."

Chuck has to readjust himself with a little discreet pocket pool as Sue runs her hand over his forearm, staying much longer than necessary to make clear rational explanations. Then she remembers her story line.

"I was honest, very honest, Charles. Right from the start. I told you how much Russell loved me. I mean, loves me."

Russ Krebs. Graduated from Billings Senior High last year. Two-time All-Montana. Nine-point-eight in the hundred yard dash. Playing weight close to two-hundred. Suppose to go to the University of Southern California. Rumor hath it his College Boards had to be jacked up. Chuck knows all about Russ Krebs. What he didn’t know is that Sue is still supposed to be his girl?!

Well, Russell has rethought his dedication to me and is going to Rocky Mountain. Right here in Billings. Chuck knows exactly where the college is, even that the campus is on the other end of Poly Drive. His dad is the New Professor there. Chuck, himself, is the new boy on the Buildings and Grounds crew at Rocky Mountain. Maybe it was our very bad luck that Russell went to California right after graduation. Our—yours and mine—luck has just run out. My boy friend’s back. Least one of them is getting to use the Hit Parade tonight. If he’d been around, I wouldn’t have thought twice about letting you ask me out. When you finally did. You were so shy and adorable. I wanted to take you to bed and cuddle all night long.

Chuck can’t even begin to imagine this, but he does remember vividly the feel of the leather interior of Sue’s father’s brand-new Caddy rag top. Chuck ran out of his house, not really wanting to see—or hear—his parents’ reaction when Susan came by to pick him up. She was so sharp that night. Her hair tied up in a scarf, like a Hollywood starlet. Her eyes shadowed just like Liz Taylor’s; no, Sue was a star that night. Definitely all grown up. There were lots of hints about who she was auditioning for her leading man at the drive-in, too. Then the contract was signed when she took him up to the Rims, and actually let him undo her bra.

What you and me had was wonderful, Chas. Now it must come to an end. You were able to take me away from his love for a time, but it was only the sweetest of (breath) vacations. It’s over.

This time, Chuck readjusts his wallet. In the compartment behind the picture of Davey is the rubber. After twenty minutes of hanging around until the lady clerk left the counter, he’d bought it the day after Sue had told him on one else—except Russell—had ever touched her THERE. And if Charles didn’t stop immediately, she’d have to let him go all the way. Of course, she wasn’t afraid to let him get around third base because she knew someone as smart as he was would know what to do when it was time. That had been last Monday night. Talk about being a day short and a dollar late.

You know, with Russell, it’s like he’s an (breath) animal. Sue drawls out the last word so as to relish the shiver going up her back. Maybe she is about to settle for second string. Like Kookie on ’77 Sunset Strip.’ She pauses. But not like she really expects Chuck to say anything in the face of that competition. So you see, Chas, I had to set this straight between you and I before, well, if Russell ever found out you’ve been seeing me, touching me like that. We both know he’d have your balls.

She gives them a familiar brush just to let Chuck know how valuable they might be in his future. She quickly withdraws her hand. Like always, this is her varsity sport.

Chuck downshifts. Probably best he and Sue keep slipping past each other. Girls and football don’t mix too well, anyway. Always trying to get you to skip practice, then when you do, you get benched on Saturday. They go out with the guys who did play the game.

If you change your mind, Susan… I guess I’m leaving it up to you.

You’re so clever to find just the right song for just the right situation. We’ll be going to the same high school, right? After all, I am the head cheerleader.

That’s not exactly what I was thinking about, Susan.

I’m not following you, Chuck. Sue was up and dusting herself off. This dump-the-chump was supposed to be over.

Ah, what happened Monday? When you said…

I know damn well what I said! (no pause) Look, you’ve gotta realize something. I meant it then, but this is now. I let you get passionate with me while you’re all hot and bothered, I might was well commit suicide.

I know you said it, but I didn’t think you actually… It had been a real toss up when she said she let him go all the way, but she’d kill herself afterwards. It’s hard to be selfless when the buttons on your Levis–too new or not—are straining like frying popcorn.

Well, I did. A woman like me can’t afford to get knocked up.

I have a…

"And you don’t think those filthy things break! God. The only way that works for sure is to pull out before you come. This is exactly why I don’t date boys. Geez."

Then why did you let me…

Because I am a woman. Do you have a cigarette? No, of course you don’t. You’re a good little boy in training. Thank God, when you get to college, they don’t give you that old song and dance about butts killing your wind.

You mean Russ… ? Imagine how fast he’d be if he didn’t smoke; if all the rules about coffin nails are right. But coaches’ speeches or not, Chuck has been singing the song and dancing the dance ever since he first heard his father cough up a lung every morning. Some things are so common they make sense all by themselves.

Don’t sidetrack me, Chuck. I’ll try to explain this. Once. Okay, I’ve been dating an older man. I’ve come to allow my body to know and do certain things. But not with the likes of you. You don’t have a rich daddy.

Russ… ?

Russell doesn’t need one. He has his football. The world is his oyster. Already both car dealers in town want him to go to their trainee school. And he hasn’t even scored a college touchdown yet. You know why? He has Potential. A woman has to look toward the future. We’re not like you men. We only get one chance to… oh, forget it. It just won’t work out. Kay? Russell is home. For me. And I know you won’t say anything, because who would believe you? Cheerleaders would rather be caught dead than date a transfer. Oh, golly, is it that late? I have to look my best in ten hours. And Daddy’s got a golf date at six.

Yeah, me, too. I gotta get back. Bout time for my morning run. Guess all I got is football, too.

Oh, Chas, don’t be mad at me. I can’t afford to take chances, you know? What if I can’t make my husband into the good provider my Mother made my Daddy into? What happens if you can’t afford to live on Poly Drive?

I understand. Chuck is beginning to understand he was never going to mate unless they go back to wooden clubs and stone caves.

So, Chas, you run along for right now. You practice real hard and when you score a touchdown, remember there is one cheerleader who’ll be yelling just for you.

Susan faces him. She slowly moves closer. Her arms go around his neck. She pulls their two bodies together. Her mouth has been open from the beginning. Her tongue is frantic on his. She leaves without another word.

By the dawn’s early light, Chuck Brown accepts that Russell-All-State-Krebs and a house on Poly Drive are reasonable first choices in the mating game. He mounts his stolen bicycle and has the no-booby prize of knowing the ride home will be all downhill. Red in the face from a summer outdoors. White in his heart because he has to believe hard-charging will produce the Dream. Blue in his balls because that is the norm for Manhood on the rise.

* * * * * *

Chuck is in his shorts and sneakers by six o’clock, running his first mile of the day. Make All-State, and even Sue can’t help but change her mind. Especially when the Golden Indians win the State Championship while Christopher ‘Chuck’ aka ‘Charlie’ Brown rushes for a record…

CHAPTER TWO

Once again, seemingly forever, Mrs. Brown struggles to awake. As her eyes blink into focus, she begins her daily prayer: At least give my married name an E. Anything to distinguish it.

Her foot habitually eases over to the other side of the bed. Long before it actually gets there, she knows her other half is empty. She really doesn’t know how she would explain her daily sortie into her husband’s fortress should one day George still be in bed at six o’clock. He can’t have forgotten how much she liked their morning intimacies: before the day began to eat away at her; when the unkept promises could not be so vividly remembered; when they might be in some other place than Billings, Montana; even if this last chance was the best she could come up with.

Slowly Elizabeth Brown continues her morning absolutions. By now she is awake enough to see the proof that she doesn’t belong out West, not really. Over the bureau, on the far wall, are the two framed reminders lined up side-by-side at stiff, unwavering attention. One is a warrant for a lieutenant general in the Union Army; the other her certification of membership into the Daughters of the American Revolution. On her bedside table is a Matthew Brady daguerreotype of that general, still stern and puritanical and disappointed after being dragged through so many moves to so many hick towns to watch George Brown teach in so many second-rate schools.

Surely, it’s all been a freak accident. No one could have ever guessed there was anything wrong. Not with George Brown, circa 1938. Tall, rugged, full scholarship, his doctorate by age of twenty-five, an assistantship with the head of the Yale History Department: a scholarly Gary Cooper. Half of New Haven’s Debutantes were after George and his Potential. And he’d chosen a nineteen-year-old French Lit major from Mount Holyoke, home for summer vacation. There was more. Elizabeth can go on. Some days she does. His job offers. His war record. Their plans. Most mornings she accepts her statute of limitations has run out.

Ran out right at the part where he came home from the European Theater, his chest full of ribbons, and his head full of silly notions. Notions she couldn’t even argue about because her days and nights were full of childish nonsense: two growing children and Christopher very much on the way. Of course she’d known George was from Out West. It was all part of his cowboy image. Besides, the West wasn’t all that bad. Several of her father’s friends moved out to California when so may business opportunities had presented themselves during the War.

Elizabeth remembered actually looking forward to learning about the West that was geographically beyond the summer season at Saratoga in Upstate New York. George made it sound so exciting. He’d always left out the part about the ocean, something all her family’s friends talked about incessantly. She had thought George simply wasn’t a swimmer.

South Dakota?! To study Sitting Bull and the Red Indians?

Nothing had worked on this man. Even Daddy’s efforts in securing a post at Dartmouth were quashed by her lord and protector before any real pressure could be brought to bear. George was going off to study the savages. It could only be a misjudgment. George will soon come to his senses. Nobody really plays cowboy and Indians, not and earn a living. Eventually, some of her close friends had come to understand, somewhat. They had even managed a laugh, somewhat. A few even saw her off, as she packed up her brood and trudged West. For the entire, endless trip Elizabeth constantly looked over her shoulder, least she forget the way back.

Her friends gladly kept Elizabeth on their social lists. She very eagerly received and regretfully declined with great flourish their kind invitations. For the first two years. Afterwards, she ran out of witty phrases, and who really wanted to know all about hanging clothes out in a seventy-two mile-an-hour wind, or snowstorms in September? The engraved cards stopped coming, dying a natural death. Christmas cards served as the umbilical connection for a few more years. In the end, she demanded to go back East. George would simply have to give up teaching summer school and take care of the children. Elizabeth was going home. Length of stay to be determined.

Coming off the train, she learned New Haven was no longer home. Daddy was in the midst of a trial and would ultimately be convicted in a viciously political white collar criminal investigation. That spring, he was forced to sell the house in town to pay for the lawyers’ fees. Cash, and up front; everybody knew he was going to jail. That summer, he and Margaret took to living in an apartment, without so much as a guest room.

Given the circumstances, even Elizabeth with all her problems knew when she would be soon wearing out substantially more than her welcome. She tried to return to the West on the next train, but the low price she paid insured only a lengthy stay. No late refunds or early returns. Elizabeth tried two nights in the cheapest proper hotel in New Haven, but finally accepted sleeping on her father’s living room couch, even though she was two years older than her new step-mother.

Quite by accident, Elizabeth ran into a college classmate. Soon a few test-castings of invitations fluttered through the post. She hungrily accepted, but soon found Old Times only last through the length of the first cocktail. Dinners were constant, silent struggles to remember the proper French pronunciation for dishes she had not eaten in over a decade. She was trapped. But dammit, the key hadn’t been fully turned, even if, David, her eldest son was almost seventeen. From the moment she finally got to board her return train, she began the fight to educate her off-spring into the somethings finer. While never having the proper ingredients, Elizabeth always made sure her meals were substantially Continental. Manners were Post-perfect, as were her insistence on correct attire, thank you notes, and all other social courtesies.

Now, the last week of August, in one more draining town with curtains for two more rooms yet to be taken up, there is only one chance left. Elizabeth sits in front of her vanity, stroking her still auburn hair with her grandmother’s silver brush. Like the brush’s fifty strokes, the counting of her facial cracks is automatic. If she is completely objective, any woman forty-four years old would be very happy with Elizabeth’s skin. Especially with the hard, alkaline water she puts up with in these damnable Great Plains States. But she is far from satisfied. The sun-hardened eyes and mouth, both remembered as once bright and full, have receded into self-protection. Mimicking her own need, forcing her to furrow her brow even more, digging the lines in the mirror deeper and deeper, like some imbalanced, inverse ratio to a Law of Nature. Surely an equation that will not add up to a fighting chance.

While she tugs at the ripped threads of hair in the brush, Elizabeth tries not to get swamped by what her son Christopher represents to her. She isn’t merely being selfish. Encouraging his escape isn’t unfair. He wants the same things she does. He knows he doesn’t belong out here either.

This particular morning, though, Mrs. Brown’s bitterness focuses on the house. Naturally, it isn’t a log cabin, but it is so totally lacking in, well yes, dammit, style. Some of the summers her family spent on Cape Cod and Long Island were in homes certainly no larger than where she is now. So it isn’t grandeur she’s demanding. This carbon-copy of every other house for blocks around has, well, nothing.

It seems as if the Browns have always been lumbered with nothing, like a genetic curse, anchored with a horrible sameness: two bedrooms, one bath, with the necessity of finishing off the basement for the other bedroom. Now that her eldest children are… gone, the spare room on