Ben Stolurow

Bad Boy Blues

“You’re all in very serious trouble,” said the principle, glowering unconvincingly at us from behind his vast, mahogany desk.  “Your teachers tell me that you three have been organizing some kind of…” he faltered, searching for the right word, “some kind of war between the first and second grades.  Is this true?”

            There was absolute silence.  He looked from Cooper to David to me, and back again as if expecting one of us to break down and give a tearful confession.  No one spoke.  Even as grade schoolers, we knew that principal Buzz was way out of touch; far too interested in checking out his twenty-something assistant, to care about the goings on of the first and second grades.  He had clearly been put up to this interrogation by our teachers, who stood behind him giving whispered encouragement. 

            “Well, isn’t anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked, his would be incredulous tone more pleading than indignant.

            It was as if we were carved out of stone.  Finally, unable to control herself any longer, my teacher, Emily, stepped foreword to address the room.

            “Every day after lunch more than half the class comes in bleeding, bruised and covered in sand.  I’m sure something’s going on and that these three are in charge, but whenever I ask anyone what happened they just tell me that they fell off the monkey bars.” She sounded exasperated.

            “It’s the same with my class,” said Rob.

            “And mine,” added Sheila.

            They all looked at Buzz, who in turn looked hopefully at us.

“Sounds like you should get rid of the monkey bars,” said Cooper, his elfin features dripping with saccharin concern.

And that’s how it always was.  Cooper would cook up some hair-brained scheme--throwing snow balls at the windshields of on coming cars during winter break, removing neighborhood traffic signs, or fixing a batch of homemade fireworks--get me involved, and then charm our way out of trouble when we both got caught.  Every time, I was sure our luck was going to run out, and every time I told myself this was the last foolhardy plan I was going to let Cooper talk me into.  But, when the phone rang a week later, and Coop started in with some new lunacy about bicycle jousting I would inevitably find myself atop a rickety tricycle, staring down the shaft of a lance and wondering what the hell I was doing. 

There was just something special about him, some unique pheromone scent, or extra, mutated chromosome that made him irresistible to girls and boys alike.  When we walked down the halls together, heads would turn, and whispers would follow us.  Needless to say, this was a good feeling, and I allowed myself to believe that at least some of the whispering was on my account. 

In any case, I was able to cultivate a certain cachet amongst my first grade peers, whether this was because of my relationship with Cooper, or because of some, as of yet undiscovered, leadership qualities, I neither knew nor cared.  The power was exhilarating, and being Cooper’s partner in crime had its fair share of rewards. 

During the month-long war between the first and second grades, I was the ultimate-fascist, dictator of the first grade, a title borrowed from my fairly depraved baby sitter.  It was my duty to lead lunchtime raids on the second grader’s play-structure stronghold, while Cooper, a second grader turned Benedict Arnold, devised a way of destroying their munitions, a mound of sand clumps that functioned as grenade-like projectiles.  At the time, I was thrilled to be in charge.  I felt majestic and powerful.  In retrospect, I realize that I was being mauled by troll-sized second graders, and taking sand clods to the face on a daily basis, while Cooper escaped unscathed.  Later I would realize that this sort of arrangement became a trend throughout our relationship--me doing the dirty work, and Cooper reaping the social rewards.  At the time, however, I was so wrapped up in our adventures that I never realized how skewed things were.  As long as we continued to wreck havoc with impunity I had no reason to question.  I was Tonto, and Cooper Kimosabe.  But, I was soon to realize that even the Lone Ranger’s infallibility could only last so long.

It was a chill Monday afternoon in my sixth-grade year.  The sky was gunmetal grey, and streaked with clouds that loomed like giant spectral birds of prey, ready to swoop down and swallow us up.  We had been to Chinatown earlier that day, and Cooper had unearthed a stash of medieval looking fireworks in the back of a particularly seedy shop just off the main drag.  With our pockets bulging, and my wallet considerably lighter--Cooper had conveniently left his at home--we picked our way through the weeds and brambles that surrounded Coop’s expansive back yard.  Once satisfactorily hidden, we unloaded our haul.  And what a haul it was.

There were fantastical, dog-headed bottle rockets, spinners, crackers, screamers, whirly gigs, Roman candles, and a whole assortment of multi-chrome cherry bombs--all lavishly decorated with dragons and Chinese characters. 

We started off small, just doing the cherries, and the little spinners.  Each time another one went up I was sure someone would hear, but they never did.  Cooper’s magic seemed to be holding strong.  After five or six rounds of this, Coop started to look a little bored.  Eyeing the still sizable pile he said, “Lets make one really, really big one.”

Somehow I had known this was coming.  From the moment he had first laid eyes on the fireworks, I could tell that one big bang was going to be the final result.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I said, nervously, “We might get hurt, and besides, someone’s bound to hear.”

“Don’t be such a stick-in-the mud,” said Cooper, “No one’s going to hear us.  My parents are out of town, and my mom says that Mrs. Thatcher down the street is on so much Valium she wouldn’t hear WWIII, so she’s nothing to worry about.”

I must have looked apprehensive because he patted me consolingly on the shoulder and said, “Come on, have I ever steered you wrong?” 

Of course the answer was yes.  Cooper had steered me wrong more times than I could count, but, in that moment, he looked so excited that I couldn’t say no.

“Ok, lets do it.”

I picked up a hand full of rockets, and, using a roll of duct tape Cooper had produced from nowhere, bound them together into a giant, explosive bouquet.  Still feeling like this whole experiment was a really stupid idea, I twisted the twenty or so fuses together into one dread-like mess and lit it.  Cooper was already twenty feet back, and the sound of ignition sent him scurrying behind a picnic table.  Once I had made sure the thing was well lit, I ran to join him, and we both peered between the slats expectantly.  Ten seconds went by, then fifteen, then thirty, and nothing.

“There’s something wrong,” said Cooper, “are you sure you lit it right?”  His tone was accusing.

" Of course I did,” I said defensively, " and if you're such an expert then why don't you go take a look at it."  I indicated the smoldering mass with an outstretched thumb.

            He looked at me incredulously, as if the answer to this question was the most obvious thing in the world.

            "Well, if you must know, there are three elements to our little operation that have guaranteed our success thus far," he counted down on his fingers, " cunning, sex appeal, and brute animal strength.  If I got blown up, we'd be down cunning and sex appeal."

            I gave him a ha-ha very funny look and his mock consternation melted into a devilish smile.

            "I'm just kidding,” said Cooper.  “Relax.  We both know you're better with your hands.  If I go out there, I'm liable to make things worse.  You, on the other hand, have that Midas touch with crafts and stuff.  Go.  Work your magic."

            Cooper was always making little concessions, and backhanded compliments to coax me into complacency.  Like everything Cooper did, they worked like a charm. 

            "Okay, I'll do it.  But you owe me so big for this one" 

            "What do you want? A cookie? Go!"  He shooed me out from behind the table and promptly assumed a fetal position with his fingers in his ears and his eyes squinted shut.

            "What are you doing?" I asked.

            "Taking the necessary precautions, just in case things don't go so well." He grinned. "Do you think I could have your Pokemon cards?"

            "You're a d-bag," I said, as scathingly as I could, and turned towards the soon to be conflagration smoking, twenty feet in front of me. 

            The only thing I could think was, "you're brain damaged, you're brain damaged" over and over again as I tip toed ever so slowly forward--each step making it exponentially harder to keep images of my mother and father weeping over a Tupperware container of my remains from floating to the forefront of my imagination. 

            "Are you okay?"  Cooper's muffled voice said from behind three inches of slatted tabletop.

            "Have you heard a bang?"

            Cooper was silent.  I turned back to the task at hand. 

            It had been almost a minute and a half since I'd watched the multitudinous fuses burn all the way down.

            The fireworks must be duds, or else I hadn't tied the fuses right.  There was no way the whole thing could go off now.  It had just been too long.  There was nothing to worry about.

            I relaxed a little, letting my shoulders come down from around my ears, and took another resolute step. 

            Boooooooooooooooom! Kapow! Wheeeeeeeeeezeeeeeee!  Spewwwwww! BANG!!!!

            The whole fucking thing went up in one pandemonious eruption of Hellfire and bottle rockets. 

            I was thrown to the ground, maybe by the force of the explosion, or maybe by my own reflexes trying to save my dumb-ass from self-destruction.  Either way, I ended up face first in the grass, my ears ringing and my nostrils full of the smell of sulfur and burnt hair. 

            "Holy shit.  Holly f-ing shit."  Cooper was standing up now, gaping, open-mouthed, at the small crater where a nice patch of weeds had recently stood.  It was well over a minute before he noticed me, immobile and charred, lying spread-eagle on the ground.

            "Are you okay?"

            My nearly imperceptible nod was confirmation enough for him.

            "Did you see that?" he continued in amazement.  "That was the single coolest thing I've ever seen.  I think I just had a religious experience."

            I was too happy to be alive to care much about Cooper's ridiculous antics, or even his evident lack of concern for my wellbeing.  I simply picked myself up, gingerly touched my singed eyebrows and took a seat at the picnic table to collect my thoughts.

Cooper stopped whooping after a few moments and came to join me.

            "That, my dear buddy, was definitely the most bad-ass thing I've ever seen.  You are fucking James Bond, albeit a slightly char-broiled James Bond, but you are just that savage."  He patted me on the back.

            Despite his vanity, his arrogance, his exasperatingly self-satisfied demeanor, Cooper was impossible to hate. 

Believe me, I tried my damnedest to do it.  I harnessed the wafting aroma of my diminished eyebrows, the sight of the blood oozing from my scuffed knees and the sheer intolerability of his goddamn charm, and tried to say, "Cooper.  Go fuck yourself!" But I couldn't get the words out. 

            Instead, I smiled weakly at him and said,

            "By James bond I assume you mean Sean Connery, not some bull-shitty wanna-be like Pierce Brosnan or Timothy Dalton?" 

            "Of course.  An act that death defying is definitely original Bond status, none of that knock-off bull." 

            "Well, in that case, I guess I'll forgive you for almost getting me killed, again." 

            "Come on," he said, "you're fine.  In a couple weeks, your eyebrows will grow back and this whole business will just be another harmless memory." 

            For once, he was wrong.  Although my eyebrows did grow back, more vivacious than ever, the seeds of doubt had been sown.

            Over the next year, Cooper and I grew apart.  I made new friends in my own grade, and I presumed Cooper was doing the same.  Our weekend adventures faded into grade school legend, and it seemed our friendship had run its course. 

Until, after months of silence, Cooper called me up, out of the blue, and invited me over to break in his new trampoline.  I was a little wary, but time had made me forgetful, and I decided there was no danger in a little harmless bouncing, for old times sake. 

            The sky was sapphire blue with wild tentacular clouds drifting overhead like giant jellyfish.  We set the sprinkler beneath the tramp, so that the rising jets would arch through the black mesh and tickle our feet.  Cooper's mom laid out a pitcher of lemonade, a stack of Dixie cups and some chocolate chip cookies.  We bounced.  Cooper told me about his new girlfriend.  We ate cookies and drank lemonade.  The day slipped by in lazy reminiscence, and by dusk I felt wholly at ease, ready to set aside my myriad misgivings and take up the old ways. 

            "It’s getting a little chilly out," I said, feeling the encroaching nighttime chill and turning up my collar.

            "Don't worry about it," said Cooper nonchalantly, "we'll just bounce a little to warm up."

            He rose serenely, and began to bounce around me in circles, getting closer with each succeeding bound.  I waited for an opening and leapt to my feet, following him in his spiraling, concentric path.  After a few circuits he managed to get behind me in the dark and put his hand around my chest as if to wrestle.  I smiled, remembering our childhood WWE rumbles on the old trampoline, and then I heard an odd metallic click.

            "What's that?"  I asked Cooper, and then I felt it, the cold caress of a knife on my neck. 

            "Are you talking to me?"  Cooper whispered in my ear, his grip tighter now.  I could feel his hot breath on my ear and the oscillations of the blade, up and down, with each swell of the black mesh.

            "Ha ha, very funny Coop, you've been watching too much Taxi Driver, now let me go."

            In the moment as we rose to the crest of our next jump, I wasn't sure he would.  Then the knife was gone.  His arm relaxed and I wriggled free.  Spinning on the spot, I saw a cackling Cooper close and pocket a tiny blade.

            " You should have seen the look on your face" he said. "Priceless."

            That was the end of Cooper and me for a very long time.  No phone calls, no cards.  Not even a nod of acknowledgment in the hall.  A few months later it was summer, and then Cooper was off to high school.  I began to think that I would never see him again.

That he would simply become a bittersweet memory lingering forever in the back of my mind.  But I was wrong again.  Two years later on a blustery Tuesday afternoon, I got a very unexpected phone call.

            "Hey."  The voice was deeper and maybe a little deflated, but still unmistakable.

            "Hey." I mimicked, not sure what to say.  There was a pause, as if Cooper was contemplating something on the other end.  Finally, he spoke.

            "I'm riding my bike across country, and I want you to come with."  I had no idea what to say.  Two years without a word, and now Cooper wanted me to ride cross-country with him.  What?  He seemed to sense my misgivings, as he always had in the past, because he added.  "I know I did some pretty messed up shit to you back in the day, but I'm older now.  High schools put a little damper on my ego."  I could feel his sad smile through the receiver, "I need you to be there, man.  I don't think I can make it all by myself.  It won't be all the way, just Nevada and Utah, the desert parts, and maybe a little of the Sierras."  I remained silent, "Come on man," he said, " It'll be just like old times." 

            I don't know what made me say it, maybe something in his voice, a pang of guilt, a note of nostalgia, it doesn't matter.  All I know is that before I could stop myself I had opened my mouth and said

            "Ok Coops, but no bullshit this time."

            "No bullshit. I promise."

            The trip proved miraculous; a catalyst for relationship renaissance.  The road was an unforgiving forum that forced us not only to coexist, but to co-depend.  After a week, we were inseparable once again, boundless commandants of the road, racing to reap the endorphin rewards of hundred-mile days.

            Over the course of the trip I learned that Cooper had been very unhappy in middle school.  Yes, he had been the resident object of desire, but such reverence bred jealousy and fear.  He had been a friendless, phantom deity, unable to connect with his peers, and stranded in social purgatory. 

            On our final day he told me that he had considered me his only real friend in middle school.  That he had been hurt when I had made other friends. 

            "That's why I pulled the knife," he explained looking purposefully at his spokes.  "I felt like I was losing control." 

            At the end of ten days, the hatchet was buried six feet under, and our relationship had settled into its final incarnation.

            Recently, we visited Disneyland together for spring break.  It was a pleasant day, and neither one of us seemed to have much of an agenda.  We floated from ride to ride, enjoying the sun and each other's company.  Eventually, we found ourselves at Pirates of the Caribbean.  The line was enormous, but we decided, what the hell, and waited anyway.  After a half an hour we got our seats on the tiny little boat, along with twenty other tourists, and the ride started.  There was yo-hoing, cannon balls, sacked villages, the whole sha-bang-a-bang.  It was great.  On our way out Cooper was strangely silent, and there was an all to familiar glint in his eyes.

            "What do think would happen if we jumped off inside Pirates," he asked innocently

            "We would go to jail.  My mom's brother got really drunk one time at Disneyland and did just that.  They caught him, and put his ass in private Disney jail, somewhere in Toon-Town."

            "Come on, we're sober, we'd never get caught.  That ride is huge.  How would they find us?"

            "No."

            "Come on, just this once, for old times sake?"

            I looked him straight in his sparkling cupid eyes and said,

            "No Coop.  Sorry."

            He looked crestfallen, but unsurprised.

            "I'm going to go ride Indiana Jones," I said, "Wanna come?"

            "Okay", he said, "But you owe me big time."

            "No Coops," I said, "This time, you owe me."