Page 111 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 99

no way for a guy in college to spend his summer. You guys ain’t
castrated.”
“Shut up, Rip,” Kenny said.
“Remember that like fruitcake who came here last summer?”
Rip was not to be stopped. He was one of those frank men whose
respect Rector Karg said priests needed to court. “That pansy-ass
seminarian what’s-his-name we got so drunk he kept doing those
goddam imita tions of the friggin’ Latin teacher, chanting ‘Polly
Polistina, Polly Polistina.’”
“The one that kept flipping the finger and screaming like fub
duck, fub duck, fub duck!” Kenny said. “How could I forget?”
“Fruits,” Rip said. “Fairies.” He turned to me. “You a fub duck,
O’Hara?”
“Is Mike?” I said. All I knew about fruits I learned from Rector
Karg who always told us before we left on every vacation that if a
fruit comes up to you in a bus station, kick him in the crotch and
run. I turned toward the boat and yelled for Mike.
“It’s okay, man. My folks raised me like Catholic.” Rip belched
again.
“Feel better?” I asked.
He sat down. “Yeah.”
“We’ll all friggin’ call him,” Kenny said.
The table shook as they rose and supported each other to the
sandy bank. They lurched together for a moment, stopping to watch
across the sparkling surface of lake the tiny figures in far-off anima-
tion at the municipal beach where Mike had worked as a lifeguard.
“Damn,” Rip said, “I can like sniff it from here. Let’s row on
over where the girls are.”
“You can’t drink there,” Kenny said. “Which is why we stay
here.”
“We’re drunk anyway,” Rip said. “Blame Deak.” He put his hands
to his mouth and bawled toward the boat, “Hey, Mikey-Mike!”
Kenny joined him. “Hey, Deak, come on in.”
No head popped up in the boat.
“Screw it,” Rip said. “He drowned.”
“Bull. He’s laying in the bottom asleep...”
“...passed out...”

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