Norman Partridge - The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

The other part, the biggest part, was fear.

Anyway, I get nervous and expectant just thinking about the way Anelle made me feel, even now. What was that old Carly Simon song? “Anticipation,” or something like that? Back then, that could have been my theme song. I still remember the funny rush that crept up my spine every time she entered the classroom.

Summer was the worst time, of course. It was hard to keep in touch with her when school was out. No more than three blocks separated our houses, but Anelle’s house stood at the end of a court that was bordered by a dead end street and a cemetery. One way in and one way out — that was her joke. I didn’t know any of Anelle’s neighbors, and I didn’t have any relatives in the boneyard, so it was tough for me to find an excuse to walk by and try to catch a glimpse of her.

I tracked Anelle like I was a bounty hunter. That wasn’t hard, because her dad bought her a brand new Pontiac for her birthday (June 12th, if you care). So I knew her car and I looked for it everywhere, cruising the streets in a bruised Dodge that was my first car. I don’t particularly have any fond memories of that Dodge, apart from the fact that it was the car I drove when I hunted for Anelle.

Anyway, Anelle always used the same gas station, and I hung out there with a buddy, Pete Hatcher, who worked the pumps. Pete didn’t mind my company. He was always fixing up some junker in hopes of making a big resale profit, and I was pretty handy with cars. The guy who owned the station let us use the equipment when the main mechanic wasn’t busy with it, so Pete had a really good deal going in more ways then one.

So the price of seeing Anelle was a little free work. That was okay with me. I didn’t begrudge Pete my labor, because Anelle gassed up that Pontiac pretty often. She never let the gauge fall beneath three-quarters full, like she had some phobia about running out of gas. I’d fill her up myself if Pete was busy. Believe it or not, I even got a rise out of doing that little thing for Anelle. It was nothing compared to the other things I did for her, but it made me feel good in a tingly way I can’t put words to.

That summer I learned a lot about Anelle Carney: where she bought her cheeseburgers (no onions, extra mayo), where she shopped for clothes (jeans and loose blouses, never skirts), which swimming pool she like to hang out at on hot days (she used Coppertone, and I still dream about rubbing it on her). Damn, I remember spending whole afternoons working on a suntan, just because Anelle always had a deep tan and I figured she’d find that attractive.

She liked to go to the library, too. It was easy to figure out when she’d show up there — all I had to do was count three weeks from the day of her last visit, because that’s when her books came due. On due day, I’d hang around reading until she came in. Anelle thought that I was a real bookworm, and I guess I was, though I stuck to Westerns and didn’t sample the glitzy romances that she liked to read.

The best place to catch her was the movie theatre. She had a job there — nights, except for Wednesdays and Thursdays — working behind the candy counter. The deal with her old man was that she had to pay for her own gas and insurance since he’d popped for the new car. One of those lessons in responsibility, I guess.

It was kind of a drag, that job. Anelle didn’t like the people she worked with. The cashier was a bore and the projectionist was always trying to peek down the front of her usherette uniform. So she didn’t like it much, and I didn’t either, though for me her job had its good points.

It was good because I knew exactly where she was most nights, but it was bad because the movie only changed once a week (this was pre-multiplex), so I couldn’t actually see her that often. And on top of that there were bad pictures that summer. Real turkeys. I sat through at least two Robbie Benson movies, endless disaster epics, even some junk about a mule that played football.

I always went on Tuesday night, because the crowd was pretty thin and I knew I’d get a chance to talk to Anelle.

Tuesday night — my big night of the week. Was then. Is now.

It was on a Tuesday night that I kissed Anelle Carney for the first time.

I can’t remember the name of the picture they were showing that night. That’s not so strange, because I only saw about twenty minutes of it. All I remember is that it starred Doug McClure and a pack of rubber dinosaurs.

Anyway, I watched the coming attractions, not wanting to seem too eager about hitting the candy counter. I always liked to wait until the picture got started before I went for popcorn. By then the lobby was clear, leaving Anelle with plenty of time to chat.

It wasn’t long before I lost patience with Doug and his sad rubber pals. I left my seat and headed for the lobby. I remember all that like it was yesterday. Where I sat, what I was wearing. Christ, I even remember checking to see if my fly was zipped before I pushed open the padded doors.

I stepped into the lobby slow and cool, smiling like I knew the movie was a big joke.

No one appreciated my little act.

The lobby was empty.

I walked up to the counter, figuring that Anelle was crouching behind it, stocking paper cups or napkins or something. But she wasn’t there. I turned and glanced at the glassed-in box office, which was a closed booth outside the lobby, thinking that maybe the cashier got sick and Anelle was pulling double duty. But a chunky girl sat there, hunched over the same paperback she’d been reading when I bought my ticket.

I stood there, glancing from the counter to the door of the ladies’ john. No Anelle. Popcorn popped in a big glass case. Hot dogs revolved on little chromed rollers, tanning themselves under orange heat lamps.

No Anelle.

And then I heard her scream.

I dodged around the counter just as an angry roar eclipsed Anelle’s scream. Pure male. Pure rage. There was a narrow doorway between the soda machine and the popcorn popper. Gold letters on the door spelled out MANAGER. I grabbed the knob.

The door was locked.

A muffled voice came from behind the door, pleading. Another voice shouted down the first. “I’ll teach you, you little — ”

I kicked the door. The bottom half flexed, giving everywhere but around the knob and hinges. Something thudded against the other side. The knob moved, and the door opened an inch. I got a glimpse of a green eye, chestnut hair. Then thick fingers tangled in the hair and pulled the face away.

I pushed through the door.

The projectionist stared at me. He had his forearm around Anelle’s neck. Her blue and red usherette blouse was unzipped. Her skin was scratched where he’d ripped off her bra, and the button of her jeans was undone.

I didn’t want to look at those things. I looked into Anelle’s eyes. They were wide open and wilder than eyes should be.

“Close the door, boy,” the projectionist hissed. “I’ve seen the way you look at this little tease. Take a good look now, buddy. There’s enough here for the both of us.”

His right hand kneaded her breast, and I noticed a red crescent where she’d bitten the soft flesh at the base of his thumb. For a second I wondered how much a wound like that would hurt, and then my hands balled into fists.

Anelle’s lips parted. Her teeth parted.

She said my name, and then her perfect teeth sank into the projectionist’s hairy forearm.

He howled and I sprang. The three of us hit the floor together. I could feel Anelle’s breasts pressing against my chest. I could smell her hair and her breath, and her breath did smell like toothpaste.