Free Something Right Behind Her by Claire Hollander Page A

a regular gardener? Why the heck is he on the train?”
    “He’s on his way
to visit family - he doesn’t take the truck into the city - you know, limiting
consumption and all of that, Andy! What is wrong with you? Why were you even
getting on in Bedford when Daddy specifically told you to go to Mt. K?” My Mom
sounded freaked out, not so much by the car, but by the fact that I didn’t
follow the instructions Dad gave me.
    “I forgot.” I
heard my Mom sigh, like she was trying to control herself or employ some
strategy her therapist had given her to cope with me . It seemed
really fucked up then to me that here we were, mother and daughter, trying
really hard to communicate using other peoples’ words . It annoyed me
so much, I kind of stopped trying. “Why the hell does it matter where I get on?
I was late and this station is closer. I didn’t want to waste gas, you know,
consumption and all that.”
    “Oh, goddamn it,
Andy.” Mom did not appreciate that one. “I’m calling Dad and you can talk about
it with him when you see him.” She hung up and I leaned back in the seat and
rested my eyes, figuring I’d just have to accept my stupid, waste-of-time fate.
    I lay like that
with my head back for five or ten minutes. I wasn’t asleep, just thinking. I
didn’t care what I looked like and I kind of piled my hair on one shoulder to
keep it out of the way. All of sudden, I felt eyes on me, and I looked up.
George the Dirtbag, of all people, sat perched on the set of seats across my
aisle. He was grinning at me with a big stupid grin.
    I was pretty
glad to see him for a few reasons. One was that George the Dirtbag always made
me feel pretty good about myself. He had a way of staring at you with those
enormous baby blue stoner eyes that made you feel like a fucking celebrity.
Second reason was George the Dirtbag was going nowhere faster than anyone else
I knew, so you couldn’t feel like a loser with him. He almost never went to
class, got stoned wherever, whenever. He also lived over in Milltown, not the
best side of town, though that was the kind of saddening thing about George.
His mother seemed sort of skanky and he didn’t have a Dad that anyone knew of.
The only thing George the Dirtbag really had going for him was that he was sort
of a prince among Dirtbags. All those pot-head freaky girls were in love with
him. There was another thing about George that made me feel good.
    Sharon told me
in Spanish class one day a few weeks ago when we were supposed to be practicing
vocab that George the Dirtbag thought I was “muy bonita!” Ay Dios Mio!
    “Hey George,” I
said, really friendly, and he smiled back, looking a little confused, as if
there might be some other, more suitable George sitting behind him.
    “Hey Andy Berg,
looks like we’re traveling companions today,” he said. He sounded like maybe he
smoked a joint with his breakfast. “Where are you headed, all by yourself this
afternoon?”
    I laughed. He
had a ridiculous way of talking that I had forgotten about, making everything
sound sort of formal. “I’m going to meet my Dad for lunch. It’s something we do
everyone once in a while,” I said. I wasn’t sure how much George would get
about my family situation. I was pretty sure he wasn’t headed to the city to go
to a high-priced midtown restaurant. “How about you? Where are you off to?” I
asked, trying to be nonchalant. Who knew where a guy like George might be
headed?
    “Oh, you know.
My brother got this new place, needs a helping hand.” George trailed off.
    “I didn’t know
you even had a brother,” I said, which was true.
    “Half brother, actually.
Get this – he’s actually my Dad’s kid, but with my mother’s cousin, which
was how my Mom and my Dad met. None of us see my Dad much, though. Anyway, he’s
not my brother or my cousin, he’s something else. I guess there’s not a word
for it.”
    I wanted to say
the word was fucked up. George was funny, though. He told the