THE GOLD FISH: Wesley (1.8)

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Dollar bills safely stowed, the bare-footed Barbie burst out the front door and skipped down the cracked concrete steps to the sidewalk below, already relishing the refreshing iciness of that orange Slurpee. But the incredible sound of blaring rock sent the thought flying from her mind.

The music was coming from the front porch of the Sullivans, a family of ten who lived across the street. Inconceivably, the Sullivan’s home was identical to Barbie’s own red-bricked row house, a home which often felt, to her anyway, way too small. But somehow, Mr. Tom, Miss Ellen, and their eight kids ranging in ages four to eighteen managed to live in the same sized space. It boggled the mind. It shouldn’t, therefore, be too surprising that the Sullivan kids were often outside where breathing and elbow room could be found in greater abundance.

By virtue of their sheer numbers, the family seemed to possess its own gravitational pull. It was a rare day when there wasn’t some collection of Sullivans and neighborhood kids lounging on the porch or playing on the sidewalk. But on this particular day, a greater number than usual were gathered, drawn by a giant speaker that had been snaked through the Sullivan’s front window.

Correction. The kids hadn’t been drawn by the speaker. They had been drawn by the oldest of the Sullivan kids, Wesley, an 18-year old hippy-in-training and cultural prophet who was indisputably the coolest kid on Pitney Road. Golden-haired and beautiful, fringed suede vest grazing his slender bell-bottomed thighs just so, he looked to Barbie like he walked off the pages of Tiger Beat. Or belonged on stage with The Partridge Family.

Not that Wesley would have appreciated those references. No way, Jose, he might have said. Wes preferred progressive rock bands like Pink Floyd and Jethro Tull, and the mind-expanding articles of Rolling Stone magazine. Which, of course, made him even cooler. So whenever Wesley made a rare public appearance, a greater number of kids than usual seemed to sense his groovy pheromone in the air, and they emerged from their own homes to cluster around him like moths to a golden flame.

Case in point: at this moment, Barbie’s sister Karen was amongst the group of gathered acolytes, her long frame draped across the Sullivan’s porch steps like a discarded rag doll, her purposefully languid body at odds with her enraptured face. Lounging next to her in a similar pose and wearing an equally adoring expression was Shayleen, a 14-year-old Sullivan who happened to be Karen’s best friend.

Not to be left out of the Sullivan friend roulette, there was also a Sullivan of suitable age and best-friend material for Barbie. Her name was Bridget, or Bridge, as Barbie liked to call her. She was on the porch as well, but unlike Karen and Shay, Bridge’s face wore a scowl that was a cross between abject boredom and hostile skepticism, which even at a distance was easy to detect. Bridge was only 4 months younger than Barbie, but due to a late December birthday, was a whole school year behind her. Despite this age difference and a tiny frame, Bridge gave off a vibe that was older and wiser. And definitely wilder. No doubt having seven siblings had taught her a thing or two about a thing or two, and like a feral kitten, one of those things was to always keep her back arched and claws out.

The more important fact about Bridge, at this moment anyway, was she was always eager to get away from Pitney Road and do something. And walking to 7-Eleven definitely fit the bill. Barbie crossed the street and headed her way.

As Barbie approached the Sullivan porch, Wes’s voice rose above the music, “Bowie is far out, man... like a messenger from outer space. He challenges everything. Gender, sexuality, cultural taboos. He’s asking the questions, you know?”

That got Barbie’s attention. She didn’t know Bowie or what gender was, but as heretofore established, she liked a man who asked questions. So she sidled up to listen closer.

Wes was on a roll. “You really need to think to grok it. It seems symbolic of the artificiality of our world. But that’s the point, man.”

Grok? What the heck was grok?

Bridge didn’t seem to know either, but was irritated nonetheless. She scanned the faces of the enraptured as if to say, “are any of you idiots buying this bullshit?”

Apparently, they were. Including Barbie, who to Bridge, had seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “Barbieeeee. Thank God! Whatcha doing?”

“Going to 7-Eleven,” Barbie mumbled, her mind still occupied on grokking.

Bridge sprang to her feet. “Right on. I’ll go with you.”

But Barbie stood motionless, unable to tear her eyes away from Wes, who was working himself into a lather. He raised his arms in triumph. “It’s why the infinites tear Ziggy apart in the end!”

“What’s he talking about?” Barbie whispered to Bridge.

“Who knows? Who cares?” Bridge had had about all she could take from her older brother and was eager for a change of scenery. She grabbed Barbie by the arm and pulled. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Wes had moved on to an air guitar solo -- not nearly as interesting to Barbie as whatever grok meant -- so she allowed herself to be dragged away.

The girls hit the sidewalk and started down the street, being ever so sure not to step on any cracks and break their mothers’ backs. Bridge turned to Barbie. “Whatcha getting, anyway?”

“Cigarettes for my Mom. And a Slurpee.”

“Right on.” Bridge gave her a meaningful look and held up her crossed fingers. “For orange.”

That was the thing about Bridge, thought Barbie. She was a bossy pants and a wild thing, but she was also a good friend who remembered stuff.

Barbie held up her own and echoed “for orange,” before giving her friend an appreciative smile. “I’ll share it with ya.”

“RIGHT ON!” said Bridge. Then added “should we hitch?” and rolled her upper lip against her gums until it disappeared altogether.

When Bridge’s eye teeth had decided to emerge a few years ago, there seemed to be no room for them at the petite inn of her mouth. So they came out above the rest of her teeth, like fangs, giving her a dangerous, sort of vampire-ish look. Rather than be self-conscious about her jumbled chompers -- what Barbie’s grandfather Pop would have called summer teeth, some are here, and some are there -- Bridge embraced them. She liked her fangs. And loved to flash them, particularly when she was feeling mischievous. Which was often. Barbie usually loved this devilish grin. A lot. It gave their adventures together an extra little dose of naughtiness. But not this time.

The two girls used to hitchhike all over the place together. They’d hitch all the way to the Montgomery Wards in Towson or up to the Orchard Swim Club on Joppa Road, just to see how far they could get. Moms and cars full of kids would pick them up, and it was a hoot. Talking to weirdos. Seeing the insides of strange cars. Squeezing into the backseat with smelly grandparents who patted your knee. It had been fun. But in the past year or so, it started not to be fun. More and more, only solitary older men picked them up. In fact, the last time they had hitched -- and at this memory, Barbie gave an involuntary shiver -- a pervy old guy had fiddled with himself and asked if they knew what happened to little girls who hitchhiked. Barbie was stunned into silence, but Bridge had shouted, “they get where they want to go! Duh!” This response was not quite what the old man had in mind and had hissed “maybe this time.” He let them out of the car, but Barbie had gotten the feeling he really didn’t want to.

So nope. Barbie had no interest in hitchhiking. Not anymore. But she also didn’t want Bridge to know she was scared. “Nah... let’s just walk,” she replied in as light a tone as she could manage.

Bridge nodded in agreement. “Right on. Let’s cut through the tunnel then.” She fished in her pocket and pulled out a crushed Tiparillo cigarette. “I’ll share this with you.”

“Where’d you get that!?”

“Stole it from my Dad. He’ll never miss it, and if he does, he’ll think one of the older kids took it.” Bridge flashed her fangs.

“Right on,” said Barbie with a giggle. A stolen smoke was the right level of thrill.

Next → The Tunnel (1.9)