Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“No way.” Luca whipped Eddie’s leg with the phallus. “Not tonight.”

Siddharth was only half paying attention to their banter, but the sound of his friends’ voices was soothing. The lights were dim, and he was lying on the shaggy multicolored carpet in Luca’s family room. The door that separated this room from the kitchen was made of plastic and slid open like an accordion, and the wall behind the television was lined with wooden panels. He returned his gaze to the television, on which a dark-haired man was groping a large-breasted blonde. They were on a bed with silk sheets that overlooked the sea. Eddie had rigged Luca’s cable box so that Playboy came in for free.

After Arjun had left, Mohan Lal poured himself a stiff drink and locked himself in his office. Ms. Farber cancelled their hotel reservations, then went to the kitchen and removed all of the silverware from the drawers, polishing each and every piece before putting it back. Siddharth couldn’t believe it. What kind of freak would clean at a time like this? And why did she think she could go into their cabinets as if she owned them? He had ambled to his bedroom and sat on the floor, tapping his head against the closet door. Something bad was going to happen. Arjun was going to skid off the highway into the Delaware Water Gap.

By the time the phone rang, Siddharth had been sure it was the police calling to say that his brother was dead. But it was Arjun himself. He was spending the night in Pennsylvania and would push on to Michigan in the morning. Ms. Farber had taken the call. She told Arjun that they’d been counting on him. She told him they were disappointed. She put down the phone without passing it to Siddharth, who imagined punching her in the face. Mohan Lal was the one who decided to leave for Atlantic City in the morning. Marc’s father was in upstate New York and Andy was in London, so Mohan Lal said the boys could stay with Barry Uncle. Siddharth said, “Dad, I’m sick of Barry Uncle. There’s no way I’m staying with him.” When Mohan Lal replied, “Fine, we’ll cancel the trip,” Siddharth thought he had triumphed. But Ms. Farber said, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I put in a call to Mrs. Peroti?”

Marc was now on the Perotis’ brown La-Z-Boy, his arms imperiously splayed on its ample armrests. With his legs propped in the air, he looked like a reposing king. “Look,” Marc said to Luca, “you got dumped, and that sucks. And this Jeanette sounds like a real bitch. But trust me, only a few things are gonna make this better. You can get laid, or you can sleep for a couple of days. But the best thing would be to get really fucking wasted.”

Marc pulled a lever to retract his leg rest, then sprang up and headed to the opposite corner of the room. “Yo, check this out.” He grabbed his overnight bag and pulled out Siddharth’s ornate Indian slingshot, the one Barry Uncle had given him.

Siddharth tensed up. “What the hell’s that doing here?”

“It’s for Luca’s rectum,” said Marc.

Eddie laughed.

“Come on, put it away,” said Siddharth.

Marc dropped it to the floor, then extracted a rectangular bottle of liquor. It was green and had a deer on the label. He cracked it open. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking thirsty.” He took a swig and handed it to Siddharth.

He sipped the liquor, which singed the inside of his mouth.

“Pussy,” said Eddie. “Take a real sip.”

“Fuck off, Eddie,” said Marc.

Siddharth handed the bottle to Eddie, who drank some and passed it on to Luca.

“I know a chick,” said Luca. “I know a place where we can get a little pussy.”

“Where?” asked Eddie.

Luca pointed his rubber penis at Siddharth. “Ask him. I hear his little friend can suck a mean cock.”

“Who?” said Eddie.

Siddharth rubbed his neck and glanced down at the multicolored carpet. For the first time ever, he noticed that the rug’s different colors formed a design. It might have been a tree.

“Niggerski,” said Luca.

“Sharon?” said Eddie. “I thought she was a lezzie.”

“Nah. Siddharth here says she likes it up the ass.” Luca put the rubber penis near his rump and pantomimed the act of copulation. “Oh, Siddharth, give it to me.” His voice was high and screechy. “Fuck my hairy asshole.”

Eddie laughed. So did Marc.

Siddharth grabbed the bottle and downed a few glugs. The liquid passed straight into his throat and burned his belly. He gasped for air; his eyes were watering. “Yeah, I guess you would know how she likes it,” he said.

Eddie cackled, then slapped him on the back.

The door suddenly slid open, and Luca’s father barged in. Marc was quick to slip the bottle behind his back. Siddharth lunged for the remote, but Mr. Peroti got to it first. Siddharth sobered up quickly. He thought it was all over, that Mr. Peroti would get right on the phone with his father. But Mr. Peroti was smiling.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said. “You’re all a bunch of little goats.” His accent was thick, even worse than Mohan Lal’s. “Relax, everyone. Oh, look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?” Mr. Peroti seated himself on the sofa, dangling an arm around Eddie. “You boys can relax. I’m not gonna tell your parents. But you gotta promise me something.”

Siddharth nodded. He would promise Mr. Peroti anything he wanted.

“Just stay away from the drugs — otherwise I beat the crap outta yous. Oh, and no homo business, please.”

* * *

By twelve thirty, they had cracked open a second green bottle, and the words were flowing freely off Siddharth’s tongue. He yakked about Nirvana being better than Pearl Jam, about Michigan’s Fab Five being the best team that had ever existed.

“Yo, you don’t know shit about shit,” said Eddie. “Those guys are a bunch of ghetto-ass punks.”

“Yo, that’s racist,” said Marc.

Siddharth brought up his recurring worry about memories — that there was no point in having them because they just made you sad.

“Yo, what you been smoking?” said Luca.

“He’s right,” said Marc. “My grandfather — he has to wear a diaper. He’s not, like, Oh, I’m so glad I can remember a time when I could wipe my own fucking ass.”

Siddharth soon realized he had never been this drunk in his life. He couldn’t stop smiling and wondered why people weren’t drunk all the time. “Guys, I need to tell you something.”

Everybody looked at him expectantly.

“Fuck Jeanette,” he said. “Fuck her, and fuck our fucking parents.”

“Yeah, kid,” said Luca, putting an arm around him. “Tonight’s your night. Tonight we’re gonna get you a mailbox.”

“Hell yeah,” said Siddharth.

Eddie and Luca started their talk of shitting houses, bragging about a dead squirrel they had left on the front seat of a neighbor’s Corolla, a fire they had once started during leaf season; it had gotten so big that a truck had to come from another town.

“Whatever,” said Marc, annoyed. “You guys are a bunch of shit talkers.”

“Don’t believe me,” said Eddie. “My dad’s only a volunteer fireman.”

“What about you, Marc?” asked Siddharth.

Marc looked stunned for a second, but then smiled. “What was that, Sidney?”

“I said, what about you? What have you ever shitted?”

“It’s shat.”

“Huh?” said Siddharth.

“It’s not shitted, it’s shat. Learn how to speak fucking English. And I got better things to do. But trust me, back in the day, these hands got pretty dirty.”

“Shit talker,” said Luca, waving his rubber penis.

Marc took a swig of booze. “Ask any Woodford cop. They still keep a picture of me on the dashboard.”