Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

His strategy, as much as he had one, was to hang in the back, wait for everyone to leave. That got shot to hell when he saw that the area around the table could not have been more deserted — just Bing there, alone, slumped in his seat, staring down at nothing in particular. Gravity seemed to be pulling extra hard at the flesh of the comic book artist's cheeks and chin, for it loaded his jawline with extra weight, and made his face look really heavy. Kenny watched him remove his glasses, let out a breath that was more like a sigh, and rub the corner of his eyes with the inside of his palm.

But then the guy looked up. He said, “Oh. Hey.”

“Um. Am I—”

“No. Of course not.”

“I didn't mean…”

A hand extended, waving him forward. “Please.” A smile at once apologetic and welcoming: “Bing. Bing Beiderbixxe.”

“Right. I know, hi.”

“Sorry about that. Long day. Kind of hit a wall, I guess.”

“Don't worry about — it's — I mean—”

“What's your name?”

“Oh…. Kenny. My — I… Kenny.”

“Hi, Kenny. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, hi. Right. Nice to meet you, too. Ah, I want — wanted to — I was hoping… What I mean—” Kenny stopped, gathered himself. “I thought your last issue was real excellent. How you did the Sienkiewicz and all…”

“Thank you, Kenny. What a nice thing to say.”

Bing cocked his head slightly, as if waiting for the next step. Kenny shifted from one foot to the other. He started to speak, but the wires got crossed, on the way from his brain to his mouth, the map turned upside down. Bing's face remained patient, plastered with indulgence. For a moment he smoothly rubbed his eyeglasses against the part of his shirt where the fabric lapped over the buttons.

“Anything you'd like me to sign? That's what I'm here for.”

“Oh — Oh, shit. I can't believe — Mr. Bidderboxxe, I swear I had them out to bring. I–I set them out.”

“It's all right, Kenny.” Bing put his glasses on now. As if he were a veterinarian putting a suffering pet to sleep for its own good, he nodded toward Kenny's chest. “And what do we have here?” He reached out for the crumpled papers and set them down in front of him, and here it was, the future arriving with the next moment and the next: Bing trying to smooth out the place mat so it didn't roll up at the edges; Bing giving up on the rolling edge and taking in the drawing, his brow crinkling into a pointed arrow, the comic book artist squinting a bit, pursing his lips. “You did this?”

It was as if Kenny were anesthetized, as if he were going through the motions of being himself. Bing did not seem to care, he was raising his hand and extending a finger, nudging his frames back up the bridge of his nose. He was remarking about Kenny's touch with a pencil, how sophisticated the shades of her hair and cheeks were, their contrasts. “Her expression is really great,” Bing said. “And I really like what you did with her eyes. Most of the time, when someone brings me a naked woman, they're not women, you know? Not flesh and blood. This is real. Really nice, Kenny. Let's see what else you have here.”

He emerged into the parking lot in time to watch a V -pattern of birds ascending above the disappearing horizon of traffic signals. The shopping plaza appeared as a large stucco corral, reining him in on all sides. The asphalt lot was a lake of shining tar. Kenny's head swam with the unlimited possibilities of a dreamer's imagination. If he'd known how to whistle, man would he have been whistling.

In the grand scheme, the whole thing was like a very special after-school television presentation. He saw this: the wily pro recognizing the potential that lay inside this unacknowledged and rough diamond, the grizzled vet taking an obviously troubled and shy and awkward pupil under his wing, helping someone step forward while at the same time helping himself let go. The feel-good story of the year. It had everything except the group hug while the music swelled and the credits rolled.

So maybe that had been expecting too much. Entirely possible that Bing Beiderbixxe's generosity and interest, no matter how legit it had been, also was practiced, standard. Asking about rumpled papers was part of the gig. Giving advice helped push units.

And really, how hard is it to say something nice about one or two drawings? How hard is it to show someone a different way to grip his pencil? To tell someone, keep up the good work?

Bing had not offered him a job, that was for sure. He hadn't provided a name to contact, a number to call, or an address to e-mail. In no way, shape, or form had the guy bestowed entry into any kind of future or profession. The facts were plain: he was right where he always was. Outside, alone, lost again, looking for his Plymouth.

Yet he felt everything had changed. He hadn't gotten what he'd come here for. But he'd gotten something, that was for sure.

The beat-up, boxy two-door was a relic from the eighties — the more paranoid stoners at Vo Tech thought it was an undercover FBI car. Eventually, it turned up on the other side of the lot, in a row and space parallel to where Kenny had been looking. He headed around to the passenger side, and wrapped his hand in his shirttail. He pulled open the creaking door, watched a crushed Big Gulp cup fall out.

All over the car's bucket seat and the floor, Kenny saw parts of other crushed Big Gulps, many with scenes from a crappy summer movie on their sides. He saw segments of tangled ribbons from cassette tapes. He saw loose magazine subscription cards and the hardened remains of deformed french fries. Assorted coins were in there, some of them shining, others moldy and green. And plastic soda container lids. And a corroded and ripped egg carton that once had been blue. And twisted straw fragments. And the ripped partitions of various diner place mats (pencil etchings invariably running along their margins). And the disconnected and free-floating spiral spine of a notebook. And the casings of two shotgun shells that Kenny had found when he'd been wandering through a vacant lot behind his mom's apartment complex. A sick recognition took him, heavy, pulling. The inside of his mouth was impossibly dry. He tossed a few more empty and crushed soda cans onto the cement. He threw out a pair of burger wrappers that seemed to have been fused together with dried condiments. He carefully placed his drawings in the newly created space in the front seat. He climbed into the car and struggled to cross over, into the driver's seat, without putting his knee through the drawings.

What really sucked was, not only did the FBImobile not have air-conditioning, but ever since his dad had sideswiped that light pole, something had been wrong with the driver's side, so the driver-side door wouldn't open, and something electrical had shorted out, so the driver-side window wouldn't roll down. Which meant that as the engine turned over on the fourth attempt, as balding tires backed over the cardboard with a dull pop, and Kenny started off to go get his aunt, not only did he not enjoy a refreshing swoosh of air onto his face, but he received magnified sun, concentrated heat. It meant the FBImobile was basically a mobile furnace.

It took less than a block before he pulled into the Jack in the Box drive-through circle, and by then his pit sweat was worse than usual, the back of his T clinging to him like a second skin. A late model Mazda sports car was idling ahead, at the farthest window. While Kenny stared at the menu and waited for the first noise from the microphone clown head, a car pulled up behind him. Kenny felt the beads of perspiration forming, then dripping down his forehead. His thighs were roasting inside his jeans. He distracted himself by anticipating all the certainties of a drive-through exchange, not the least of which was the polite greeting, the simple pleasure of being asked what you wanted: Hello, may I take your order please.