“Buddy who?”
“Repperton.”
The name was familiar. I worked on my side of the pizza and tried to put a face with it. After a while, it came. I had had a run-in with him when I was one of the dorky little freshmen. It happened at a mixer dance. The band was taking a break and I was waiting in the cold-drink line to get a soda. “Repperton gave me a shove and told me freshmen had to wait until all the upperclassmen got drinks. He had been a sophomore then, a big, hulking, mean sophomore. He had a lantern jaw, a thick clot of greasy black hair, and little eyes set too close together. But those eyes were not entirely stupid; an unpleasant intelligence lurked in them. He was one of those guys who spend their high school time majoring in Smoking Area.
I had advanced the heretical opinion that class seniority didn’t mean anything in the refreshment line. Repperton invited me to come outside with him. By then the cold-drink line had broken up and rearranged itself into one of those cautious but eager little circles that so often presage a scuffle. One of the chaperones came along and broke it up. Repperton promised he would get me, but he never did. And that had been my only contact with him, except for seeing his name every now and then on the detention list that circulated to the home rooms at the end of the day. It seemed to me that he’d been dismissed from school a couple of times, too, and when that happened it was usually a pretty good sign that the guy wasn’t in the Young Christian League.
I told Arnie about my one experience with Repperton, and he nodded wearily. He touched the shiner, which was now turning a gruesome lemon colour. “He was the one.”
“Repperton messed up your face?”
“Yeah.”
Arnie told me he knew Repperton from the auto-shop courses. One of the ironies of Arnie’s rather hunted and certainly unhappy school life was that his interests and abilities took him into direct contact with the sort of people who feel it is their appointed duty to kick the stuffing out of the Arnie Cunninghams of this world.
When Arnie was a sophomore and taking a course called Engine Fundamentals (which used to be plain old Auto Shop I before the school got a whole bunch of vocational training money from the Federal government), a kid named Roger Gilman beat the living shit out of him. That’s pretty fucking vulgar, I know, but there’s just no fancy, elegant way to put it. Gilman just beat the living shit out of Arnie. The beating was bad enough to keep Arnie out of school for a couple of days, and Gilman got a one-week vacation, courtesy of the management. Gilman was now in prison on a hijacking charge. Buddy Repperton had been part of Roger Gilman’s circle of friends and had more or less inherited leadership of Gilman’s group.
For Arnie, going to class in the shop area was like visiting a demilitarized zone. Then, if he got back alive after period seven, he’d run all the way to the other end of the school with his chessboard and men under his arm for a chess club meeting or a game.
I remember going to a city chess tourney in Squirrel Hill one day the year before and seeing something which, to me, symbolized my friend’s schizo school-life. There he was, hunched gravely over his board in the thick, carved silence which is mostly what you hear at such affairs. After a long, thoughtful pause, he moved a rook with a hand into which grease and motor-oil had been so deeply grimed that not even Boraxo would take it all out.
Of course not all the shoppies were out to get him; there were plenty of good kids down that way, but a lot of them were either into their own tight circles of friends or permanently stoned. The ones in the tight little cliques were usually from the poorer section of Libertyville (and don’t ever let anyone tell you high school students aren’t tracked according to what part of town they come from; they are), very serious and so quiet you might make the mistake of dismissing them as stupid. Most of them looked like the leftovers from 1968 with their long hair tied back in ponytails and their jeans and their tie-dyed T-shirts, but in 1978 none of these guys wanted to overthrow the government; they wanted to grow up to be Mr Goodwrench.
And shop is still the final stopping place for the misfits and hardasses who aren’t” so much attending school as they are being incarcerated there. And now that Arnie brought up Repperton’s name, I could think of several guys who circled him like a planetary system. Most of them were twenty and still struggling to get out of school. Don Vandenberg, Sandy Galton, Moochie Welch. Moochie’s real name was Peter, but the kids all called him Moochie because you always saw him outside of the rock concerts in Pittsburgh, spare-changing odd dimes from the crowd.
Buddy Repperton had come by a two-year-old blue Camaro that had been rolled over a couple of times out on Route 46 near Squantic Hills State Park—he picked it up from one of Darnell’s poker buddies, Arnie said. The engine was okay, but the body had really taken chong from the ton in the rollover. Repperton brought it into Darnell’s about a week after Arnie brought Christine in, although,Buddy had been hanging around even before then.
For the first couple of days, Repperton hadn’t appeared to notice Arnie at all, and Arnie, of course, was just as happy not to be noticed. Repperton was on good terms with Darnell, though. He seemed to have no trouble obtaining high-demand tools that were usually only available on a reserve basis.
Then Repperton bad started getting on Arnie’s case. He’d walk by on his way back from the Coke machine or the bathroom and knocked a boxful of balljoint wrench attachments that Arnie was using all over the floor in Amie’s stall. Or if Arnie had a coffee on the shelf, Repperton would manage to hit it with his elbow and spill it. Then he’d bugle “Well ex-cuuuuuse… ME!” like Steve Martin, with this big shit-eating grin on his face. Darnell would holler over for Arnie to pick up those attachments before one of them went through a hole in the floor or something.
Soon Repperton was swerving out of his way to give Arnie a whistling clap on the back, accompanied by a bellowed “How ya doin, Cuntface?”
Arnie bore these opening salvoes with the stoicism of a guy who has seen it all before, been through it all before. He was probably hoping for one of two things—either that the harassment would reach a constant level of annoyance and stop there, or that Buddy Repperton would find some other victim and move on. There was a third possibility as well, one almost too good to hope for—it was always possible that Buddy would get righteously busted for something and just disappear from the scene, like his old buddy Roger Gilman.
It had come to blows on the Saturday afternoon just past Arnie was doing a grease-job on his car, mostly because he hadn’t yet accumulated sufficient funds to do any of the hundred other things the car cried out for. Repperton came by, whistling cheerfully, a Coke and a bag of peanuts in one hand, a jackhandle in the other. And as he passed stall twenty, he whipped the jackhandle out sidearm and broke one of Christine’s headlights.
“Smashed it to shit,” Arnie told me over our pizza.
“Oh, jeez, lookit what I did!” Buddy Repperton had said, an exaggerated expression of tragedy on his face. “Well, ex-cuuuuuu—”
But that was all he got out. The attack on Christine managed what the attacks on Arnie himself hadn’t been able to do—it provoked him into retaliation. He came around the side of the Plymouth, hands balled into fists, and struck out blindly. In a book or a movie, he probably would have socked Repperton right on the old knockout button and put him on the floor for a ten-count.
Things rarely work out that way in real life. Arnie didn’t get anywhere near Repperton’s chin. Instead he hit Repperton’s hand, knocked the bag of peanuts on the floor, and spilled Coca-Cola all over Repperton’s face and shirt.
“All right, you fucking little prick!” Repperton cried. He looked almost comically stunned. “There goes your ass!” He came for Arnie with the jackhandle.
Several of the other men ran over then, and one of them told Repperton to drop the jackhandle and fight fair. Repperton threw it away and waded in.
“Darnell never tried to put a stop to it? I asked Arnie.
“He wasn’t there, Dennis. He disappeared fifteen minutes or half an hour before it started. It’s like he knew it was going to happen.”
Arnie said that Repperton had done most of the damage right away. The black eye was first; the scrape on his face (made by the class ring Repperton had purchased during one of his many sophomore years) came directly afterward. “Plus assorted other bruises,” he said.
“What other bruises?”
We were sitting in one of the back booths. Arnie glanced round to make sure no one was looking at us and then raised his T-shirt. I hissed in breath at what I saw. A terrific sunset of bruises—yellow, red, purple, brown— covered Arnie’s chest and stomach. They were just starting to fade. How he had been able to come to work after
