Sean groaned. “I’m dying.”
Raymond entered the next stall. “You’re lucky. I think I’m going to pull through.”
There was an awkward pause, and finally Sean ventured, “I’ve been thinking about Ashley and Steve.”
“Another one of Jardine’s favorite subjects.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Do? There’s nothing we can do except hope and pray that they never get together.” He thought it over for a moment. “Or we could kill Cementhead — or Ashley — or ourselves. Take your pick.”
“So you don’t think we should tell Steve that she likes him,” said Sean hopefully.
“I don’t know the purpose of life, Delancey, but I’ve already ruled out the possibility that Jardine was put on this Earth to make things more pleasant for Cementhead.”
“He wouldn’t be good for her anyway,” Sean decided.
“Right. He’d string her along all year, and then blow off to Theamelpos in Jardine’s spot, leaving both her and Jardine brokenhearted. She won’t even be able to talk to me about how cruel life is, because I’ll be in Secaucus experiencing it firsthand.”
At that moment, the lights died without warning, and a strange rattling sound rose in the building.
Sean groaned. “Oh, no! Not the windmill! Not now!”
Suddenly, the electricity came on again, and Mr. Hyatt announced, “There is no cause for alarm. The malfunction has been corrected …”
In the background, the PA carried the half-demented voice of Engineer Sopwith shrieking, “For God’s sake, DO something!”
Then the lights went off again, and only the rattling remained. As Sean was preparing himself mentally to wait out the blackout, he heard a new sound. In the next stall, Raymond was drumming and chanting a sort of souped-up fox-trot in time with the SACGEN noises. And there it was again, so religiously repeated amid the strange sounds — “Theamelpos … Theamelpos … Theamelpos …”
Four
The red motor scooter putt-putted down Sean’s street, with Raymond hunched over the handlebars, Sean hanging on for dear life, and six dogs of varying mixed breeds in hot pursuit. The sound was a combination of the scooter’s feeble motor, and full-throated bays, barks and yaps as they turned into the Delancey driveway in a wide, ungraceful arc, stopped, and dismounted, ready to do battle with their canine pursuers.
Sean, who had been avoiding dogs ever since his aunt’s deranged Chihuahua had taken a chunk out of his leg (hampering his jump shot for almost a month), smiled weakly at the pack. “Nice doggies.”
Raymond was disgusted. “That’s not how you talk to dogs. Beat it! Scram! Get out of here! Go guard a prison camp!” The dogs scattered. “That’s how you talk to dogs.”
The partners had spent that Saturday afternoon at the DeWitt Public Library. Determined to get a good head start on the poetry assignment, Sean had resigned himself to a few extra hours of Raymond. He had searched the library for information on Gavin Gunhold, but unfortunately, the files had absolutely nothing on the Canadian poet.
“Don’t sweat it,” was Raymond’s opinion. “To get info on a total nobody like Gunhold, we’re going to have to go to the big library in New York.”
And Sean agreed. So, to pass the time while Raymond worked on his political science project, due Monday, Sean wrote up an analysis of “Registration Day.” Briefly, the narrator represented the human race, and the stuffed moose with moving eyes was nature abused and exploited by man. It took twenty minutes, and filled three quarters of a page. From there Raymond directed him to the periodical section to study articles about people whose lives had blossomed after a trip to Theamelpos.
Raymond, meanwhile, was handling his new project very much like the old one. Faced with an in-depth analysis of the political system of the country of his choice, he had scoured the globe in search of a nation so insignificant and small that “How much fancy politics could there be for me to not understand?” Of the two-hour library visit one hour and fifty-seven minutes were spent searching for this wondrous country; the remaining three were spent rejoicing when he found it.
“This place is perfect! They have a king, period. That’s the whole government. If the king wants something, that’s it. I love it! None of this representation of the people, no elected officials, no courts, no Bill of Rights to get Jardine all mixed up. Just King Phidor, long may he reign. What a break! I can write it up tomorrow night in half an hour.”
Sean was looking forward to borrowing the car and dropping in on Steve, and maybe Randy or Chris. But as he started to say his good-byes to Raymond, the front door flew open, and out shot Nikki like a Polaris missile. In enthusiastic detail, she described the chocolate cake that Raymond simply had to have a piece of, and led him into the house. As an afterthought, she mentioned that Sean could have some, too, if he felt like it.
When Sean got to the kitchen, a cozy domestic scene was being enacted, and his worst fears were realized. Marilyn and Carita, Nikki’s two best friends, fabled for their ability to talk a farm auctioneer into the ground, were seated at the table, fussing over Raymond.
Raymond seemed entirely oblivious to their adoration. “Hey, Delancey,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “Have a seat. The cake’s great.”
Stiffly, Sean sat down and cut himself a small piece of cake as the giggling bubbled up around him.
“And you call yourself a hurricane!” came a bellow from the TV room. “You couldn’t even make it as scattered showers! You’re a bush league bum!” The door was kicked open, and out stormed Gramp, his head engulfed in a cloud of Scrulnick’s smoke. Silence fell at the kitchen table as he approached, cut himself an enormous slab of cake and sat down, sulking.
“Kevin?” Raymond asked him sympathetically.
Gramp nodded grimly. “Kevin. He’s dead, fizzled out into the Atlantic. I tell you, Jardine, you give your heart and soul to a storm, follow it through thick and thin, and this is how it repays you. I haven’t been this depressed since the Dodgers broke up.”
“The Dodgers moved, Gramp,” said Sean. “To California.”
“The real Dodgers broke up,” the old man insisted stubbornly, “and some crook started up another team in Los Angeles with the same name and the same players.”
Raymond nodded. “My father always says that. He’s still a member of the Brooklyn Dodgers Booster Club.”
Gramp slapped the table approvingly. “You and me, Jardine, we’re the only sensible ones around here.”
“So, girls,” Raymond said to Nikki and her friends, “are you all psyched up for the big Halloween party? Meet the organizers, two superinvolved members of the school community!” He put his arm around Sean’s shoulders, only to have it slapped away.
“Fan-tastic!” Nikki exclaimed. “And I’ll bet you know everything there is to know about throwing a great party.”
“We try,” said Raymond modestly, whereupon all three girls pledged to be there, sporting costumes so inventive and brilliant that Raymond would not be able to believe it.
Gramp looked at Sean oddly. “I thought you said only stooges and goody-goodies worked on those school parties.”
“Yeah, well, I sort of got roped into it.”
The old man shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt for Mr. All-American Robot to get up off his throne and see what life is like down here in the trenches.”
There was an insistent kicking at the front door. Nikki ran to answer it, and returned a moment later with her father, who was struggling with a huge, awkward package. He set it down on the kitchen floor with a thud, and announced, “Guess what I bought!”
“What?” asked Sean.
“Guess,” his father persisted.
Gramp regarded the bulky parcel. “A house?” he ventured innocently.
“No!” Impatiently, Mr. Delancey ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal a large metal box covered with dials, switches, and meters. “It does the dishes!” Five pairs of eyes traveled to the family dishwasher. “
Oh, yeah, I know we have a dishwasher. This is better. It uses ultrasound.” Eagerly, he gathered up the cake-smeared plates and loaded them into the front chamber of the device. Then he plugged it in, flipped the ON switch, and counted off ten seconds. When he opened the door again, there was nothing there but a neat pile of fine powder on the acrylic floor of the chamber.
“It works!” cried Gramp. “They’re spotless!”
Marilyn and Carita were beset by a terrible case of the giggles. Mr. Delancey stared dumbly into his machine. “Don’t blame me,” he said finally.
Suddenly, Raymond announced, “Well, I guess I’d better be going. Nice to see everyone. Take care, Gramp.”
“Don’t be a stranger, Jardine.”
Sean walked his partner to the door.
“I wanted to stick around for the tantrum,” said Raymond, slipping into his jacket, “but I figured it wouldn’t be polite.”
Sean bristled. “Hey!”
“No offense, Delancey. I mean, every family’s got its share of — well, not exactly nuts, but —”
Sean was furious. “I know a family on the Seaford-DeWitt town line that’s got a real problem! This guy thinks he’s a garbage bag!”
“That’s my point,” said Raymond good-naturedly. “Every family. See you Monday.” He walked out, leaving Sean clawing at the screen door.
***
On Monday morning, the New York Daily News published a long article on SACGEN and, naturally, Howard Newman purchased the paper to “read up on the enemy and find his weak spots.” Thus was the morning poker game interrupted, and Sean sat with three others, listening to Howard read aloud, and occasionally insert his own comments.
“‘Despite SACGEN’s unblemished record, students at DeWitt High School are inexplicably resentful of the project.’ See? They know about me. ‘It is referred to disparagingly as The Windmill, and no opportunity is lost for putting it down in typical teen fashion.’ Hear that, guys? We’re typical teens. ‘Says Principal Q. David Hyatt’ — that’s Q-Dave — ‘If SACGEN were any kind of nuisance or inconvenience, this attitude would be understandable. But with SACGEN working perfectly, this can only be interpreted as an immature rebellion against all forms of authority.’ Oooh, heavy stuff, Q-Dave.”
Everyone laughed except Sean. “Now, this isn’t fair!” he declared hotly. “They’re making us look like idiots to everyone who reads newspapers, because they refuse to admit SACGEN won’t work! Something should be done about this!”
“I t.p.’d the windmill, but it didn’t help,” said Howard thoughtfully. “Maybe I should grease the control room floor.”
Randy Fowler shook his head. “If we phone the paper and tell them about the blackouts and breakdowns, they’ll figure we’re making it up just to do rebellion against formations of authority, or whatever it said.”
“Well, this is really lousy,” said Sean. “They crack on us for being immature, and here’s Q-Dave telling lies in the newspaper. ‘Working perfectly’!”
“There’s more,” said Howard. “‘Hyatt adds: “We are confident that the students will outgrow their thoughtless reaction and come to look at their education in the shadow of this technological marvel as an honor and a privilege.’” Now this —” he slapped the paper “— this is why Q-Dave is stuck in a dead-end job. He’s a nice boy, but he just hasn’t got the brains to make it. He knows nothing about people. I’m not going to accept the windmill as anything until it’s a shoebox full of radioactive dust. And if that’s immature, well, then, goo-goo, gaga.” He laughed at his own joke, but his smile faded as Raymond walked up to the group. “Oh, no. You again.”
Raymond ignored him and beamed at Sean. “Here it is. Isn’t it a beaut?” He thrust out a white folder, which bore the title “The Political System of the Kingdom of Pefkakia,” by Raymond Jardine.
Sean goggled and turned pale. “Oh, Raymond! Not Pefkakia!”
Raymond looked puzzled. “What’s wrong, Delancey? I thought it was pretty good.”
“But — but —” Bereft of speech, Sean grabbed Howard’s newspaper and pushed the front page under Raymond’s nose. The banner headline blazoned:
PEFKAKIA ROCKED BY
MILITARY COUP
CROWDS CHEER AS KING PHIDOR BEHEADED
IN PUBLIC SQUARE
Raymond grimaced. “I don’t suppose that there’s another country called Pefkakia that just so happens to have a king named Phidor.”
“Oh, Raymond!” was all Sean could say.
Raymond looked up at the ceiling. “That’s right. Bull’s-eye. Keep lobbing those poison darts in there at Jardine. Jardine’s finished his project? Good! Let the revolution begin!” He looked pleadingly at the postage-stamp-sized photo of King Phidor during better days. “Your majesty — what happened? Where did we go wrong? But what do you care? You’re lucky! You’re dead! It’s Jardine who’s left to face the music!”
Randy looked at Raymond. “You did a politics project on a government that got overthrown on the due date? Man, did anybody ever tell you you’ve got no luck?”
“I suspected it,” said Raymond ironically.
“But what are you going to do?” asked Sean.
Silently, Raymond produced a pen and, to the title “The Political System of the Kingdom of Pefkakia,” he added “(Until Yesterday).” He shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t be so bad, except that I put that the system works great, and that King Phidor is beloved by all the people. What a drag.”
***
It was a rough week for SACGEN — three defective solar collectors, a wind tunnel malfunction, a leaky battery that ate half the floor, seven broken rotor blades, a transformer fire and a stink bomb in the control room (courtesy of Howard).
“Would the person responsible for placing ill-smelling material in SACGEN Control Central please report to the office at once,” came Mr. Hyatt’s voice over the PA system.
“There he goes again!” said Howard incredulously. “The boy’s got no future! Think, Q-Dave!”
In addition to these breakdowns, SACGEN also decided that it no longer intended to heat the DeWitt pool. Sean discovered this during Monday’s swimming class when he dove into the fifty-six-degree water in one heart-stopping shock. As the week progressed, however, the water temperature dropped further, at a rate of two degrees per day so that, by Wednesday and Thursday, Monday’s freeze-out seemed as if it had been a sauna bath.
Engineers Sopwith and Johnson worked around the clock, but could only report that, in their opinion, everything was functioning perfectly. So Mr. Hyatt informed Coach Stryker that the pool was just as it should be, whereupon the coach offered to push the principal into the water for a first-hand fact-gathering session. In the ensuing scuffle, a compromise was reached. The water would stay cold, but Hyatt would put in a requisition for thirty bedsheet-sized Turkish towels for the students to shiver in between dips.
Concerned with the school’s rapidly growing hostility toward SACGEN, Mr. Hyatt called a special assembly so that Engineer Sopwith could present an updated report on progress. He was laughed off the platform when SACGEN seized up a scant three minutes into his speech, plunging the building into darkness. Though the power failure only lasted sixty seconds, by the time the lights came on again, the auditorium was empty.
Undaunted, the principal printed up a glowing notice to send home to the parents, and each student was given a copy. That was the day of Howard’s famous schoolwide paper airplane races out of the third floor east study hall window. The town of DeWitt registered a formal complaint on behalf of its street cleaners, but Howard reported the contest an unparalleled success as several hundred notices were flung into the wind before his very eyes. The winner of the contest was Steve Semenski, whose airplane managed to plunge down the open sunroof of a Maserati doing about eighty-five on the nearby highway.
“Born with a horseshoe up his diaper,” confirmed Raymond, whose own entry had been doing nicely until a sudden draft had sucked it down a sewer.
“Tha
t’s his name!” Ashley whispered to Sean. “Steve. What a great name!”
Not half as great as his other name, Sean thought as he watched Steve take victory bows, resplendent in his PROPERTY OF THE DALLAS COWBOYS TRAINING CAMP T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. As a friend, he should really say something to Steve, but Sean had already told Ashley that they didn’t know each other. He was hoping that Steve would find another girlfriend soon. Ashley, seeing him unavailable, would look to the men closest to her, Raymond and Sean. She would pick the one with the best jump shot who didn’t think of himself as a garbage bag. Aloud, he said, “Can we go to the art room and see those Halloween party posters now?”
“Maybe I should go over and congratulate Steve,” Ashley mused thoughtfully.
“Well — uh — you know how impatient Raymond can get.”
She looked surprised. “He can?”
Sean nodded. “He may not look it, but he can turn into a madman,” he whispered confidentially. “And he’s very anxious to get those posters up on the walls.”
The art wing was on the first floor near the main offices. Ashley sat Raymond and Sean down at a table and pulled a stack of posters from a low shelf.
“I think you’re going to like these,” she said, placing the stack on the table. “The whole class spent Monday and Tuesday painting them up.”
Raymond and Sean lifted up the top poster and stared.
ARSE PRESENTS
SUPER HALLOWEEN PARTY
FOOD, DRINKS, GREAT MUSIC
HALLOWEEN TRAMPOLINE
COSTUME CONTEST
FOR THE MYSTERY PRIZE
DON’T MISS IT!
She smiled proudly. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” said Sean, wondering why Raymond had suddenly gone so silent and so pale.
Finally, Raymond found his voice. “But Ashley, why does it say” — he pointed to the top line — “that?”
“That? That’s us. Our initials — Ashley, Raymond, Sean, and Eckerman — I couldn’t remember his first name.”
“I get it,” said Sean.
Raymond was positively white. “The other kids who worked on them — they didn’t — say anything about the posters? The wording maybe?”