Sam Lipsyte - Venus Drive

Dana gets mad at me all the time.

Like when I try to squeeze her sno-balls behind the maintenance shed fifth period.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” she says. “We’re in school, you idiot. You’ll get us expelled.”

“Nobody ever gets expelled,” I tell her.

It’s true.

Except for the time Steve Redillia stuck a knife in John Preston’s ear. Other than that, no one gets kicked out. And no one in the history of Nearmont Regional High School East ever got the boot for copping an honest feel — off his own girlfriend no less.

Hey, we live on a chunk of dirt called America.

We have a little piece of paper.

It’s called the fucking Constitution.

But Dana is a terminal Jervis, and she’s always getting pretty pissed. Like if I spark a bone in her car, or make her blow off a stop-sign, or make her pull over so I can tag that sign (because I’m a tagger, and a legend in this town), or all three in whatever order, Dana gets pissed.

“You’re going to get us busted,” she says.

“Nobody ever gets busted,” I tell her.

Which is not truly true. Chief Howie arrests me all the time. He’s some kind of uncle of mine, from the alcoholic semi-retarded branch of the family (like there are others) and he arrests me whenever he feels like it. For whatever. Sometimes just to talk.

Like tonight when I’m tagging the dumpster behind Dave’s Good Spirits Wine and Liquor all bent out because of Dana and the beanie incident, with her thinking I was goofing on her religion when I’d just been thinking about the whole Torquemada thing because of this report I gave for Ms. Fredericks’s class and felt bad for Dana because they would have fucked with her in Spain and just wanting to show my solidarity and finding in my closet this beanie from when my neighbor Todd Feld had that party at the Jewish temple and they gave out free beanies at the door with his name on it so I’m standing in her living room with the Todd Feld Autograph Beanie on my head and Dana’s being a total cunt and then I hear her dad shuffling around at the top of the stairs going “Dana, Dana,” like he’s going to ask her where he put his eyes because they’re not in the glass and since weirdness always increases exponentially I throw the beanie down on the rug and bolt, saying “I’ll be back,” but of course it comes out more squirmdog than superheroic, and now I’m here alone behind Dave’s when Chief Howie pulls up in his cruiser.

“Got a minute?” says Chief Howie.

“Busy,” I say. I roll the almost empty spray can under the dumpster with my foot and lean up against the tag, hoping the paint’s as quick-dry as advertised.

“Wrong answer,” says Chief Howie, and gets out of the car. He comes over like a TV cracker sheriff and administers the beat-down, cuffs me and throws me in the back seat, careful to press my head going in like they do on all the shows. We drive up Spartakill Road, past the Burger King and the Hobby Shop and the Pitch-n-Putt, until we’re going by all the big houses with the huge lawns I used to mow and the big bay windows that you can look through if you want to see people alone or in groups feeling like shit and not knowing why.

“People up here treat me like the garbage man. Which is what I am.” Chief Howie winks in the rearview. “Know what that makes you?” He takes a pull from something in his hand. I can hear bottles clinking together on the rubber floormat.

“Don’t worry about me,” I say.

“Why would I worry about you?” says Chief Howie.

We turn on Venus, cop wheels crunching on the gravel edge of someone’s driveway. I make out the shapes in the darkness, gigantic mounds of earth, big sleeping tractors, rows of brand-new houses wrapped in moonglow plastic. I’ve been up this way already tonight because at the end of the drive is the model house where Dana and her father and her father’s eyeballs live. It’s Dana’s cousin’s company’s development, but so far they’re the only customers.

“That dumb hebe,” says Chief Howie.

I don’t say anything because I don’t know what he knows about me and Dana, if he’s actually trying to fuck with me or we’re just up here because he felt like driving, because if you are just driving around it makes some sense to end up here if you’re curious about what all the dark shapes are and then one with a few lights on in it.

The lights are out in Dana’s living room and you can see the TV screen reflected in the big front window. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s on the screen, but what it looks like it is is pussies. That’s right — in the plural, shaved and flaming, smooching in a close-up grind. What’s a blind man doing with porn? Or is it Dana? Stretched out on the couch, spelunking with one hand and pinching her little sno-balls with the other.

I see Chief Howie has taken a sudden interest in the cinema. I see he’s staring at the window, too.

“My, my,” he says. “There ought to be a law about that.”

“There is, Sheriff,” I say. “It’s called the fourth amendment. Privacy and shit.”

“You little fuck!” says Chief Howie, whips a bottle back over the seat at my head. The ability to duck is a perfect example of why the nature-versus-nurture argument Dana’s always yapping about is a pile of crap. It’s both. Still, what does it get you? There you are, cuffed in the back seat while your pissed-off retard cop-uncle pulls off the curb and drives you far, far away from the big soft couch where your girlfriend is all alone with her juicer on frappé, just hoping you’ll come back like you half-assed threatened to, and now you are driving cruel distances from anything that could be reasonably called joy. So the bottle doesn’t open a big red smile on your forehead. So fucking what?

There’s no question left in my mind that this Saturday night is shot, is history, is a tiny meaningless point on the time lines Ms. Fredericks makes us copy down in World Studies. Chief Howie dumps me down at the bottom of the hill, takes off the cuffs, “impounds” my shake, my papers, a few bucks from my wallet.

“Go home,” says Chief Howie, and peels off like somewhere there’s a crime being perpetrated besides his own sorry-assed life.

A brisk nipplebreeze jaunt across the moonlit links of the Nearmont Country Club and I find myself once more in a familiar spot, leaning on the big white birch in front of Steve Redillia’s house, wondering whether I really want to go in there again.

As part of my project to ascertain whether I really want to go in there again, I crouch down in the bushes next to Steve Redillia’s house and peek through the basement window. Bilious smoke of the kind hangs nimbus-like in the half-lit room, and there’s Steve Redillia flopped out on his ratty couch, headphones on, Zildjian sticks flying in tight four/four air-drum formation. Steve Redillia is the third best speed metal drummer in New Jersey, or so he was told by Archbishop Chickenhawk of the Non-Dead, when he tried out for them and didn’t get the gig, and so he has repeatedly informed us.

I hate listening to music with him, not only because so-called speed metal is slow as shit as far as I’m concerned, but because he’s the type who when you listen to a song with him will in the middle of it nod his head and say, “Nice,” like in the middle of all that double-kick-drumming and guitar he heard some subtle shit your dolt ass could never comprehend. Then, if you don’t immediately smile and agree with him, Steve Redillia gives you this look, goes off on how nobody actually listens to music, and then maybe starts throwing shit, with you, as closest representative of a species he detests, the target.

“You fucking twats don’t get it at all!” he’ll say. “Goddamn puppets on a string!” And then objects, sharp and heavy, will receive the gift of flight.