The Bulb People Read online

  I think a lot of it’s about control. Mom is so used to taking charge of things in her professional life that she can’t imagine she could ever screw up her personal life. But she has, big time, and I figure she’ll do just about anything to avoid admitting her mistake.

  “If only people would quit trying to bleed me dry,” Bob says, “I’d pull Bridgestock into the 21st century, all right.”

  Or maybe into the 19th century, if he’s extremely lucky.

  Bob has excuses for everything: crooked Sheriff Fergueson demanding payoffs, the “cheapskate banks,” etc. The latest villain is Mr. Handcrost – the rich guy he is building a mansion south of town. At first, Bob was delighted to be hired for the project, but things have gone sour.

  Although Handcrost has retired from running a large corporation, he still wants to be in charge of something. And Bridgestock is small enough for him to be the head honcho. Melody Acres, with its supposed flood of new residents, would spoil that, so he is trying to derail Bob’s plans.

  Handcrost has already offered a good price for the vacant land, but Bob won’t take it. Then Handcrost threatened legal action, but Bob’s rear end is well covered, thanks to Mom and her high-powered law firm.

  Whatever. In my opinion, this town is just too mean to change.

  Bob gets over his self-pity routine and leaves, driving his Cadillac the short distance to his office rather than burning a few calories walking. He does this in order to “make the right impression.”

  If Mom didn’t keep up the payments, the repo men would have already taken Bob’s Caddie. What kind of impression would that make?

  Mom kisses my cheek. “Be good, now Ryan.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say.

  She turns to Katie. “You’ll watch out for him, won’t you?”

  “Sure, Mom!” Katie replies with her most genuine phony smile. “Everything will be just fine.”

  I want to vomit again.

  I stand in the doorway watching Mom get in her car and start the engine. Then I walk out to her.

  She rolls down the window. She looks so sharp in her business outfit. Her car fits perfectly, too. It’s sleek and sporty with black leather interior and a stick shift. Mom’s gold bracelet jingles whenever she changed gears.

  “What’s the matter, Ryan?” she asks.

  “Does it have to be this way, Mom?”

  “What way is that?” Mom says.

  “I mean ... with them, and this town.”

  “I know that this has been a difficult time of adjustment,” Mom says, “but things will turn our way soon.”

  I look back toward the house where Katie stands smiling in the doorway. Just when are things supposed to turn our way, I wonder?

  “Everything will look better once we have a nice new house in Melody Acres,” Mom says.

  She is in clueless mode again, but is there a tiny chink in her bright and optimistic armor? I can’t tell – I’m just a kid whose opinions don’t count.

  Mom pulls out of the driveway and heads off for the airport. Soon she is out of sight around the corner.

  I walk back toward the house just as Katie is leaving it. She shoulders me aside.

  “Excuse me, twerp,” she says. “See ya later!”

  For the first time, I have truly murderous thoughts about Katie. As I watch her stomping down the walk in her Leopard Girl running shoes, her braids trailing in the wind, I imagine a large, bloody knife sticking between her shoulder blades. My fingers itch to be on the knife handle.

  ***

  Spider arrives to pick me up for school, and I forget about Katie for a while. The weather has turned cool and damp, so I wear my jacket.

  “Another big day at Bridgestock Middle School, huh Ryan?” Spider says.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Why so glum, Ryan?”

  “My mom’s left for the week,” I say.

  “Oh, I get it.” Mark looks back toward our cheap rented house. “That kind of leaves you hanging, eh?”

  I nod. “Listen, Spider, maybe I’ll take you up on the jujitsu class.”

  “Cool!” Spider says. “We’re going Saturday morning around 10:30. Can you make it then?”

  “I don’t see why not,” I say.

  “We’re hoping to spend all weekend,” Spider says. “Carl is arranging an overnighter for us at one of his buddy’s houses. I’m sure there’ll be room for you, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  I hadn’t thought about staying overnight. I was thinking more about learning some strangle holds to use on Katie.

  “They’ll be going out at night to do high school guy stuff,” Spider says. “You and me can stay behind and practice jujitsu moves.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  Well, not really. But anything has to be better than another weekend in Bridgestock. I have plenty of money, so maybe I can bribe Carl to drive Spider and me to the movies, or a glow golf arcade or something. That sounds like more fun than practicing jujitsu moves.

  I can’t imagine that Bob would object, and if he does, a quick call to Mom’s cell will settle matters. The plans are shaping up nicely, and I’m feeling halfway decent about the coming weekend. Then Bridgestock Middle School comes in sight and my upbeat mood pretty much vanishes.

  It’s not just the unfriendly crowd shuffling on ahead, glancing back at us like we’re a pair of freaks. I mean, who are the real freaks here, anyway? A lot of these kids look in-bred, but I guess you can’t blame them for that.

  No, it’s the whole depressing atmosphere of the school, the town – it hovers around us like a poison vapor. Maybe I’m just a spoiled UMC kid, but this whole place seems wrong. Spider is much more working class than me, and he feels the same way.

  “Hey Spider man!” Somebody taunts from the crowd. “Watch out, it’s supposed to be windy today. You wouldn’t want to blow away.”

  The others laugh at this fine comedy. Mark only smiles back at them.

  “They won’t talk like this once I’m all bulked up,” he says. “That’s the next thing, Ryan, I’ll be starting this body building program and ...”

  We enter the school building for another fun day.

  7: A Fun Day at School

  A typical school day grinds past. Boring classes filled with grungy, unfriendly students and generally unsympathetic teachers – me sitting in the back row trying to be invisible. Then me rushing through the halls during breaks, ignoring the rude comments, my eyes studying the floor tiles.

  Who wouldn’t enjoy that?

  English is my worst class, but it’s also the best one because Spider is there, sitting across from me with his long legs stretched out into the aisle. A patch of sunshine seems to hover over him in the cold, unfriendly room.

  But “Dirty” Larry Nolan is also there – Katy’s romantic interest. He’s at least a year older than the rest of us, probably more, as he’s been held back. He is ugly and dumb, all right, in addition to being dirty. Why Leopard Girl would be interested in him is a mystery as he seems too low class even for her taste. Worst of all, he acts as Mrs. Thromp’s enforcer.

  Mrs. Thromp herself is moving through the classroom, smacking a big metal ruler on her palm as she throws her icy stare around.

  Whack!

  “Open your books to page 194,” she commands.

  We open our books.

  Whack!

  “Read the introductory paragraph on your own.”

  Whack!

  She’s just aching to hit somebody. Thank heaven the school board has recently outlawed corporal punishment. We finish the introduction.

  “Ronald!” Mrs. Thromp bellows.

  “Yes?” Ronald says, sitting up straighter at his desk.

  Whack!

  “Begin reading,” Mrs. Thromp orders.

  She is tall and dark. Actually, she’s very pale on the outside, like a bloodless corpse almost. The dark comes from inside her, as if she contains a vast cavern that sucks away all warmth. When she stalks alo
ng the rows between our desks, a cold air wave pushes along with her. She is as weird and mean as Mr. Johnson. I wish she’d go wherever he is.

  Mr. Johnson disappeared yesterday. They found his truck parked at the edge of town by Melody Acres, but he wasn’t in it. His room contained only worthless junk, and he hadn’t paid the rent in a while – so people thought he decided to abandon everything and get out quick. Good riddance.

  Kids take turns reciting the long poem which begins on page 194. I hope that Mrs. Thromp doesn’t call on me. In this class, even the best poetry comes out sour. Finally the last reader drones to a halt.

  Whack!

  “So,” Mrs. Thromp says, “what is the message of this poem?”

  Lisa raises her hand. She is the class brain, by Bridgestock standards. Back home she’d be pretty far down the academic totem pole.

  Mrs. Thromp points to her with the ruler. “Yes, Lisa?”

  “This poem states that all things in life have a purpose,” Lisa says. “Nothing is without meaning.”

  Mrs. Thromp nods, giving her palm a softer tap with the ruler. Lisa has apparently got it right, she looks pretty satisfied with herself.

  Then Spider pipes up.

  “Oh yeah?” He points at the tile floor. “How about that scuff mark over there? What purpose does it have?”

  The whole class laughs. Then –

  Whack!

  We all shut up quick. Mrs. Thromp looks angry enough to kill somebody. Hey, it was only a little joke! We shrink down in our seats, waiting for her to explode. But she remains calm; she just fixes a narrow, icy stare on Spider.

  “That’s very clever, Mr. Cozzaglio,” she says.

  Then she glances over at Larry Nolan. A little grin twists Larry’s mouth. We all know what that means.

  8: Larry’s Unfortunate Encounter

  It doesn’t take long for Mrs. Thromp’s enforcer to zero in. On the way home, Spider and I are half way through the elementary school playground shortcut when Larry appears out of nowhere. For such a big slob he sure can hide himself effectively.

  “Uh oh,” I says, “looks like we’ve got company.”

  “Hey, you!” Larry bellows.

  He swaggers up to us. Spider tries to ignore him, but Larry shoves him hard from behind, knocking him over. Spider rolls and pops back up again.

  “That’s not very friendly,” he says.

  “Yeah, right!” Larry advances, fists ready.

  Spider shoots out a kick – right into Larry’s knee.

  “Ow!”

  Larry stumbles back.

  Spider follows up with two punches to Larry’s face. The punches do little harm, but they sure get Larry mad. He charges and bulls Spider over.

  “Leave him alone!” I shout.

  I look around for a weapon – a rock, anything I can bounce off Larry’s skull. Maybe my geometry book would work. But things are happening way too fast for me to do anything.

  Larry is on top of Spider, furiously trying to land a punch. Spider has his long legs wrapped around Larry’s waist and is holding him tightly by the hair and jacket, not allowing any room to maneuver.

  Then suddenly:

  “Gaaaaak!”

  Larry’s face goes purple. Spider has twisted around Larry’s jacket collar and is choking him with it. Larry struggles, but Spider’s grip is deadly – like a python. The zipper cuts into the skin, sending a trickle of blood down Larry’s neck.

  “Agggggh!”

  Larry begins to sag.

  “Stop it!” I yell. “You’re killing him!”

  Spider releases the choke hold, and Larry collapses, gasping for air. But Spider isn’t done yet. He wraps his legs around Larry’s right arm and wrenches it into a joint lock. Larry shrieks, his voice going up a couple octaves.

  “That sounds pretty bad.” Spider releases the pressure slightly. “Have you got a problem?”

  “Let go, you – ”

  “Wrong answer!” Spider says.

  He throws on the pressure again. Larry’s arm pops, another shriek. Spider’s eyes glitter with cold pleasure.

  “You need to talk more polite,” Spider says, backing off the pressure a bit. “Didn’t your mom teach you any manners? Have you even got a mom, or were you flushed up somewhere?”

  “You f – ”

  A slight ratchet cuts Larry off in mid curse.

  “I know!” Spider says. “How about saying: ‘Larry Nolan is a disgusting, ugly dirt bag’?”

  “Larry .... Larry is a ... ” Larry sputters, he is slobbering at the mouth, like a dog that’s run too much.

  A shadow falls over the scene. I turn to see a high school guy – Spider’s brother Carl. He looks a lot like Spider, only all filled in with muscles.

  “What’s going on, Mark?” he says.

  Spider looks up. “Carl, am I glad to see you!”

  He releases Larry’s arm and stands up. Larry rolls away groaning. Carl takes Spider by the shoulders and looks him over.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Spider says.

  Carl looks down.

  “Is that the punk you were telling me about?”

  “Yeah,” Spider says, “Larry Nolan, the school rat.”

  “I figured on something like this,” Carl says. “I was coming to check things out, but it doesn’t look like you need any help.”

  Carl grasps Larry’s good hand and pulls him up. Larry stands rubbing his injured arm, eyes darting around for an escape route. He’d bolt for sure if he thought he could away.

  “You don’t look too bad off,” Carl says. “Here’s something for you.”

  He punches Larry in the face. Larry falls backwards as if he’s been hit by a cannon ball. Blood pours from his nose.

  Carl towers over him. “You try to hurt my brother again and you’re toast. Got that?”

  “Y-yeah,” Larry says in a trembling little voice.

  “Good,” Carl says. “Just so you don’t forget.”

  He winds up and kicks Larry hard in the gut.

  “Oooof!”

  Larry curls up into a pathetic little ball.

  “Nice work, Carl!” Spider says.

  “Let’s go home, Mark,” Carl says.

  The two brothers walk off together. Spider glances back over his shoulder.

  “Better call the trash man, Ryan!” he says. “Have him pick up that pile of crap.”

  Larry remains on the ground, gasping for air, blood oozing from his nose. I cannot help feeling sorry for him.

  “Should I tell Katie you won’t be coming over today?” I ask.

  Larry says nothing. This is quite a career move for him, from tough guy to helpless jelly fish in two minutes. I hand him a clean handkerchief. I always have handkerchiefs, on account of my asthma and frequently running nose. Larry snatches it.

  Man, what a deadly combination Spider has – jujitsu skill to take somebody down and an older brother to finish things off! Compared to him, I feel about as capable as an octopus thrown onto the ice at a hockey game.

  I am really looking forward to that martial arts club trip now!

  9: A Horrifying Discovery

  After doing the gasping on the ground routine for a while longer, Larry struggles to his feet. His right arm hangs limp and useless. Worst of all, my handkerchief is a total, bloody loss.

  He stumbles and nearly falls over. I try to help him.

  “Leave me alone!” he snarls.

  “Okay,” I say.

  It doesn’t seem like he’s learned much from the beating he just got. He’s as nasty as always. He’ll probably never start a fight with Spider again, though. But who can say? He does have another arm. May as well get both of them wrecked and be properly balanced.

  He starts limping away. For some stupid reason I follow along behind. Maybe I still feel sorry for him and think he might need help getting home. Maybe I am just curious. Where does this creep live, anyway?

  We walk through downto
wn Bridgestock past the Yookey Lake Bar. The door is propped open, and whiny country music blares outside:

  She only smokes when she drinks!

  She only drinks alone!

  Nothing against people who like country music, but I’m a city kid and the stuff depresses the heck out of me. Hearing the twangy notes makes me feel even more homesick for our beautiful neighborhood in the suburbs – a place where nobody listens to country music.

  We pass the hardware / sporting goods store with its live bait vending machine out front. Worms are trapped inside that machine, lying dormant in chilled little cardboard containers like Chinese takeout food. I know what they must feel like. A sign in the store window announces the upcoming Carp Festival.

  A curious pedestrian or two gapes at Larry. People cross the street to avoid him.

  He walks without purpose, turning this way and that along the residential streets – with me trailing a couple of houses behind him. The houses themselves are run down with peeling paint and lawns that need cutting. They would look nice enough if people took care of them, but nearly everything in Bridgestock is shabby and neglected.

  Larry stops in his tracks and looks eagerly around, sniffing the air like a dog. Then he takes off straight for the east side of town.

  What’s he up to now? The sensible thing for me to do is head back home, but I’ve always been way too curious for my own good. Besides, I am in no hurry to see Bob and Katie.

  After several minutes of walking, we pass beyond the final, abandoned houses on the edge of town. They are all big, tumbled down places with saggy roofs and collapsing porches. One of them has a ladder propped against it beside a smashed upstairs window, as if somebody has broken in and kidnapped the people living there. Junk cars occupy some of the driveways.

  The paved street has turned into a pot-holed dirt road. Some kind of dead animal – a large dog, maybe – lies dead across the way. A cloud of flies hovers around it.

  The corpse must stink pretty bad, but, fortunately, I am upwind from it. A beat up old car zips by, flies bouncing off the windshield like hailstones. I think it’s going to run Larry over, but it swerves at the last second.

  “Outta the way, moron!” the driver shouts.

  Larry pays no attention.

  We near Bob Warwick’s real estate empire at Melody Acres. The advertising sign on the border catches my immediate attention.

  A dark blotch covers the face of the smiling dad in the picture. He now looks like some ogre in the midst of the perfect, gleaming family. Bob will really be steamed when he sees that! He loves that picture. It’s the only thing of beauty in Bridgestock, according to him. And it cost plenty.