Dan Wakefield - Going All the Way - A Novel

“I’ve had it with Naptown, anyway,” Gunner said. “I know that much.”

“Maybe so,” said Sonny, who didn’t really know.

They left the cemetery at dusk, the long straight rows of streetlights started coming on, laid out orderly and predictably, the way the city was. There was something dull but reassuring about it.

On the way home Gunner mentioned casually that Marty had a girl friend from college coming in for the weekend, and wondered if Sonny’d like to be fixed up with her. Marty said the girl was pretty sexy-looking and wasn’t short on brains, either. Sonny said sure, very casual, just as if such opportunities came along all the time. Gunner said the date would be for Saturday night, and then if Sonny liked the girl, they could all do something on Sunday, too. If he liked the girl. Sonny could only think about whether the girl would like him . He didn’t even know her but he was already worried.

Sonny tried to work himself into a casual mood as he got dressed for the date on Saturday night. In the shower he sang “Bye, Bye, Blackbird” at the top of his voice, and after he got out and dried he slapped Old Spice After Shave Lotion all over himself with stinky abandon. Casual him. Devil may care. But beneath the loud, jaunty singing and the smell of Old Spice, he was terrified by the thought that his date might really be a great sexy girl and he would ruin everything. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that she wouldn’t really be smart or sexy at all and there wouldn’t be anything to be nervous about. But it wasn’t usual for a girl to describe another girl as “sexy-looking” to a guy she was fixing her up with. Marty, of course, was sophisticated, and there was the possibility she really meant it and the girl was really sexy-looking. There was always that possibility. You knew there was no possibility at all when a girl tried to fix you up with a friend and described her by saying she had “real personality” or, even worse, was “loads of fun.” If there was one thing Sonny couldn’t stand, it was a girl who was “loads of fun.” That meant she was homely and plain and hated sex and tried to make up for it by talking a blue streak and faking a lot of laughs and suggesting “fun” things to do like why don’t we all go to the zoo and feed peanuts to the polar bears. Girls who were loads of fun always loved to go to the zoo. You couldn’t lay a hand on them in the fucking zoo.

The deal for the evening was that they all were going to have dinner at the Italian Village Restaurant, and then go dancing out at Westlake. That was a very sexy plan if you had a good date; it showed you could have a real sophisticated evening in Indianapolis. Sonny put on a new sport coat his mother had bought him at Medallion Men’s Wear—a plaid number—and a pair of white-linen slacks that were tight in the waist but looked debonair as hell, a sharp, thin black knit tie, and his old white bucks. He looked himself over in the mirror and judged the whole outfit to be pretty damned sharp, but goddam if he didn’t have a pimple on the end of his nose. It seemed like whenever anything important was going to happen he sprouted a big ugly pimple on the end of his nose. He squeezed it, but instead of breaking, it just became redder and more clownish-looking. He put some of his mother’s pancake makeup on it, and that helped a little. It wasn’t so red then, it just looked flaky and cruddy.

The pimple really depressed Sonny, because that was one thing he thought would stop happening when his real life began—getting a goddam pimple on the end of his nose at a crucial time. But there it was again, blooming right on the end of his nose, even though he was a college graduate and a veteran of the U.S. Army. He guessed he would probably have a fucking pimple on the end of his nose the day he died, and they would have to spread pancake makeup over it when they fixed him up for the casket display. People would pass by and say, “My, he looks natural—he even has a pimple on the end of his nose.” Sonny suspected he’d be able to hear them say it, too, even though he wouldn’t be able to talk back. They probably had it rigged up that way for you in hell, so you could hear the last shitty comments and not be able to reply.

Sonny was getting himself in a terrible state, and he was thankful that Gunner picked him up early so they had time to stop at the Key for a drink. Sonny had two seven-and-sevens while Gunner drank a beer, and he wished he had even more when Gunner told him the unexpected good news.

“We got the house to ourselves,” Gunner revealed. “Marty’s folks are gone for the weekend.”

Sonny had to take his hand off the drink to keep the glass from rattling. “Terrific,” he said.

“Here’s the plan. When we get back from Westlake, we’ll hit the den and shoot the shit there for a while. Then Marty ’n I’ll slip upstairs to the bedroom. You and the babe’ll have the den. You know—I mean, if you want to make out with her.”

Gunner said it as if it would be Sonny’s decision to make, according to his own whim. He said it so matter-of-factly that Sonny actually felt a little cocky, like he was a regular make-out artist.

“Great,” he said, nodding at Gunner. “That couch in the den looks real nice and cushiony.”

Gunner slapped him on the back and said, “I recommend it highly, ole buddy,” and both of them broke up laughing, just like a couple of cocksmen planning to knock off their piece for the night. The movie in Sonny’s mind showed a couple of hooded, desert marauders riding down on the tents of the frightened, waiting women. He even forgot about the pimple on the end of his nose.

Marty’s college girl friend was Gail Thayer, from Cincinnati. To Sonny’s astonishment and terror, she was a goddam dream. Maybe not everybody’s dream, but Sonny’s. She was tiny and dark, with glossy black hair and big greenish-gray eyes and perfect white teeth circled by a lush little mouth with lipstick that was deep dark red. She had on a plain gold sleeveless dress with an emerald pin that looked like a bug, crawling up her tit. She wore white heels and sleek, seamless nylons. Sonny loved to see women in stockings, but it depressed the hell out of him when they had the seams crooked or were loose and all wrinkled up around the ankles. That ruined everything. But Gail’s were just right, glistening tight against her legs, like a shiny second skin that could be peeled off.

Marty proposed they all have a drink before taking off for dinner, and Sonny silently blessed her. The carefree, cocksman feeling he had worked up before over drinks with Gunner had completely crumpled when he got a load of Gail. His date. Oh, God, his date. Holy shit. He couldn’t speak or think, but luckily Gunner had sparked a nice casual conversation as he mixed a batch of martinis. Sonny was only vaguely aware of Gunner smiling and handing him a glass, but after a couple of deep slugs he was able to tune in to the story his buddy was telling. Evidently when Gunner heard Gail was from Cincy he had launched into a hilarious account of how Shortley had played Withers High of Cincinnati in his junior year and got their ass racked.

“We were undefeated going into that ball game,” Gunner was explaining. “But we knew Withers had been the state champs of Ohio the year before and had fourteen returning lettermen. We were scared shitless, but tried not to let on. The coach could tell we were shaking in our goddam cleats, though, and he gave us this fiery pep talk, you know, like in the movie of the Big Game. Our coach was this guy Herman E. ‘Nails’ Nedrick, and he talked like Pat O’Brien playing Knute Rockne, you know, and he finished up the talk saying ‘Men—’ ” Gunner stood up and pointed a menacing finger, imitating Herman E. “Nails” Nedrick, making his voice deep and bellowing just like “Nails” used to do it, and said, ‘Men, you may have heard a lot about how tough these Withers guys are, but Men , I’ll tell you something right now and I want you to remember it.…’