Hooligans

We look like hell, the two of us, sitting silently and staring blankly at the two-way mirror in front of our faces. Bogie’s hair is stuck up in sporadic tufts held up with what looks like rotting tree sap. He has leaves and shit caught in his beard, his shirt is torn in about six different places and he’s got gigantic pit stains. I’ve got a three-inch gash running down the side of my cheek, covered up with a tiny square of browning medical gauze and some masking tape that Officer Doherty only gave me because I kept dripping blood all over his brand new interrogation room.

We’ve seen enough buddy-cop movies and detective shows to know that there are probably three, four, five officers standing behind that mirror waiting for one of us to fuck up or say something stupid, so we try acting as nonchalant as possible.

“Yo, Appleseed,” Bogie makes eye contact with me in the mirror, “can I borrow a comb?”

“What the fuck makes you think I carry around a comb on my person?”

Bogie shrugs, “Your hair is always so silky smooth, and I just figured it was the result of constant maintenance.”

Bogie tucks his filthy hand under his chin, adopting an expression of childlike wonder. I glare, but somehow it’s reassuring to know that

he’s still capable of acting like an immature asshole, even in times of distress.

Suddenly the room’s steel door bursts open and collides with the opposite wall. Doherty’s doughy silhouette looms threateningly in the doorway. Doherty looks like the bad-tempered, rosacea-afflicted-twin-brother of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. The resemblance is so uncanny it sort of makes me wonder if he would start browning around the edges if he stood too close to an open flame.

“What seems to be the problem, officer?” Bogie practically sings as he bats his eyelashes.

Bogie started using this aw-shucks-look-how-adorable-I-am-act when we were about six. Back then he had a blonde bowl cut, freckles, huge blue saucer eyes and an impish grin that made accusing adults melt like butter before our very eyes; it stopped working when we were about fifteen so I’m not sure why he still keeps it up. Especially now that we’re in our late teens and he’s the filthiest motherfucker on the planet. Watching him tuck a hairy, ham-sized fist against his grody beard just makes him look like some kind or sweet, retarded hippie.

“I just got off the phone with the owner of the house we caught you breaking into,” Doherty hisses at us through clenched teeth. Actually, I don’t know if they’re really clenched or not, it’s hard to see his jaw through the rippling jowls of fat around his face.

“You mean Mr. Barrett,” I say calmly, “how’s he doing?”

“The property owner,” Doherty hisses “seems to find this all very amusing. He says that it’s just good old-fashioned harmless fun.” Doherty pronounces the word ‘fun’ like it’s some kind of taboo piece of derogatory slander. He exhales sharply, his globular nostrils flaring in disbelief, “He’s not pressing charges. You’re free to go.” It’s clear that saying those words is causing him actual physical pain.

I rise from my chair and bolt to the door. Bogie rises, and then curtsies.

“Thank you for a lovely time.” I grab him by the scruff of the neck and yank him towards the door.

We’re practically sprinting towards the exit when I hear Doherty yell “OY.” I force Bogie outside and shut the door behind me before he can open his goddamn mouth.

“Yes, sir?” Even when I’m trying to be polite I still sound like an insolent little shit.

“I got my eye on you boys, hear?” He uses a bulbous index finger to pull the sagging fold of skin underneath his bulging cow-eye. His other hand is placed firmly on his bulbous waist. I’m sure the gesture was meant to be intimidating but it’s actually kind of hilarious. “You boys best stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t worry sir,” I turn to face him full on, “you won’t be hearing from us again.”

And that is the first honest thing I’ve said to him all day.

*

“Shit man! That was fucking close!” Bogie is practically skipping down the dirt road, grinning like an idiot. He stops himself, looks around. “Where’s our ride?”

“I parked it in the woods right around the corner from the baseball field in West Street,” I say, not quite as willing to let my guard down, “I’m not sure where exactly, it was dark and I didn’t turn on the headlights.”

“That’s not far from here. We could probably walk.”

*

Three months ago I was deemed worthy enough to receive a full scholarship to the University of my choice, courtesy of Tom Barrett; our town’s favorite fat cat benefactor. Mr. Barrett is something of a hometown golden boy; rich, successful, a former All-American athlete with a sleazy politician haircut and a hot blonde wife and daughter. I, on the other hand, was raised by a single mother on a waitress’ salary, and that scholarship was supposed to help make me the first member of my family to graduate college. My mother was excited about it. She cried on my graduation day, said it was the happiest day of her life.

Shortly after my matriculation, I got a phone call from the great Tom Barrett. He told me that the economy was tough; he couldn’t afford to pay this year. He said he didn’t want anyone to know how much trouble he was in, financially. He asked if I could keep it our little secret. He hoped I would understand, and he was going to contact the financial offices at my intended University and ask them to give me a little extra help.

I said I was fine. I said I could manage.

Two weeks later we were getting into the full swing of summer vacation. Right when we were in the middle of a heat wave, Bogie and I decided to go crash Mr. Barrett’s swimming pool. He and the family were out of town, visiting family in Arizona, they wouldn’t be back for another couple of days. (We checked).

Pool crashing was something we did every summer; one of those stupid traditions we started a few years ago when we were feeling bored and reckless and we had a hankering for a swimming pool.

I guess I’d always figured Mr. Barrett knew what was happening. I mean, we never got caught, but we didn’t go out of our way to be stealthy about it. We always left the towels in disarray and left deep footprints in the mud, one time I think Bogie actually left one of his ratty Streetlight-Manifesto T-shirts hanging from the top of the waterslide like some kind of conquering flag. But I guess Barrett never figured it out, because if he had he probably would have done a better job about hiding it.

It was sitting inconspicuously in the garage. One of the summer maintenance workers must have forgotten to close the garage door.

It was a brand new custom-designed candy-apple-red Porsche that Mr. Barrett bought right in time to unveil on his little Princess’ Sweet 16. Guess the economy wasn’t so rough on ol’ Mr. Barrett after all.

*

Bogie starts sprinting towards the car as soon as the shiny-red paint comes into view through the thick brush. “Hello, darling,” Bogie croons, “did you miss me? Because I sure missed you….”

I roll my eyes and hop behind the steering wheel, then turn and peer at the backseat. “Let’s see,” I say, “We have whiskey, scotch, brandy, gin, two bottles of champagne and twelve bottles of wine. Is that it for provisions?”

“One case of caviar,” Bogie chimes in.

I turn, and sure enough there is a wooden box crate filled with tiny hockey-puck jars. “Why do we have caviar?”

Bogie shrugs. “Rich people eat it. I figured what the hell?”

“Do you even know what caviar is? It’s fish eggs.”

“Yeah, I know. I probably won’t eat any. Maybe we can sell it?”

“Who the fuck is going to buy a case full of pre-owned fish fetus?”

Bogie rubs his chin-beard thoughtfully. “I know!” He chimes, “we can donate it to the soup kitchen!”

I pause. “Yeah, OK. Let’s do that.”

“And we should probably get some food for the road.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do we have cash?”

“Don’t think so. Maybe we can trade. Do you still have Mrs. Barrett’s diamond earrings?”

“Yeah, they’re in the glove compartment, I think.”

I fish the silver key from my pocket and start the engine.

Bogie leans back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head and his feet up on the dashboard.

“Nice shoes,” I say, noticing the hand-stitched loafers for the first time.

“Thanks. Barrett’s got great taste.”

“Sure does,” I say, grinning passively at the shiny Gold watch dangling off my wrist.

“You know, we really should thank Mr. Barrett,” Bogie stares of dreamily, “he has been most generous.”

“I already took care of it!”

Bogie raises an eyebrow at me, “You have?”

“Yep,” I snicker, “I left him a lovely Thank-you note.”

*

Mr. Barrett,

I O U 1 car,

Sincerely,

Johnny Appleseed

PS. Thanx 4 the Scholarship.