Robert Reed - Will Be

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2024-11-23 0 0 41.89KB 22 页 5.9玖币

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ROBERT REED

WILL BE

What lies ahead for Robert Reed? The following story should discourage anyone

from making such predictions, but we'll wager that Mr. Reed's next book will be

a collection of short stories entitled The Dragons of Springplace. Perhaps it

will even be published this April or May. But who can really say for sure?

WE WENT TO SCHOOL together. Kindergarten right up through high school. But Marv

and me were never what you'd call good buddies. In grade school and junior high,

I bet we didn't say ten words to each other. In high school, Marv was in one of

my gym classes, and because of our last names -- Donner and Dubrook -- we were

stuck in the same homeroom. And yeah, sure, our senior year we shared a locker.

And that's it. That's all. Even considering how things are going now, that's all

there is to tell. To me, Marvin Donner was this scruffy little blond twit who

always had to wear his hair longer than anyone else and who said, "Cool," and,

"Neat," while grinning way too much. The twit loved to smoke that ditch weed.

From junior high on, he was our official class doper. The best thing I remember

about him is that when we were locker mates, he kept telling me, "Don't look

behind my books, Steve. Okay? And if you've got to look, don't take any more

than you really need."

"Okay, Marv," I would tell him.

"Cool. Neat. Thanks."

Despite what you hear, a lot of us kids managed to stay sober and clear-headed

in the '70s. The occasional beer was it for me. I was this upstanding boy trying

to hang out with the college-prep crowd. While Marv Donner was stuck in some

blue-collar, pot-haze track. Shop classes and bonehead English, I'm guessing.

He was already playing the guitar. But back then, every guy tried playing it. We

thought gifts liked a man good with his fingers. Marv used to sit outside at

lunch, strumming hard and singing little songs that he must have written

himself. Must have, because I didn't recognize any of them. And because they

weren't very good. I can sort of remember their cheery noise and his scratchy

little-kid voice and how he would strum and pick until something sounded

absolutely awful. Then he would stop the show and twist the knobs, telling

stupid jokes while trying to fix what could be fixed.

Singing and pot. Marv's life in the shell of a nut.

During my last semester, I had an early geometry class. One morning, about a

week before graduation, I got to school late. One of the counselors was waiting

at my locker. Ms. Vitovsky was this chunky little woman who took everything

seriously. She said, "Steve," with a voice that made me hold my breath. She

said, "I have awful news." Then she gathered herself before telling me, "Marvin

Donner was in a car wreck."

Marvin? It took me a few seconds to put Marv and Marvin together.

I blinked and straight away, I asked, "Is he dead?"

Miss Vitovsky gave me a brave little smile, then said, "No. But he's badly

hurt." Because she thought I needed it, she put a hand on my shoulder. Then she

told me, "His car hit a light pole. He's in intensive care. At General, if you

want to visit him."

What I was thinking about was that I was late for class. I shook my head and

admitted, "You know, I barely know the guy."

"Really? I thought you were good friends."

I wrestled open my locker. Marv's books were on the top shelf, their plasticized

covers looking new. That's how much he needed books. On the spur of the moment,

I reached up and peeked behind them.

Nothing there.

"I've seen you talking with him," the counselor was saying. Explaining why she

had mistaken us for friends.

I grabbed my books, slammed the locker, then told her, "Sorry."

"By any chance then...do you know who his friends are....?"

Again, "Sorry."

"Well," she had to tell me, "Marvin is going to pull through." She touched me on

the elbow. I can remember the squeeze of her fingers and her eyes looking damp,

and I remember her voice breaking as she said, "If anyone asks, tell them. Tell

them that he should make a full recovery. Would you do that, please.?"

Our fallen comrade didn't make it to graduation, naturally.

But Marv got himself mentioned. Our principal publicly wished him well. Which

caused our valedictorian to do the same in her long, boring speech. Using their

best Cheech and Chong voices, my classmates repeated a string of bad pothead

jokes. And I made some little comment about driving into a light pole and

becoming famous. "If that's all it takes," I asked, "why don't we all do it?"

Summer was busy, and boring. I spent it stocking and clerking at my father's

little grocery store, saving up my money and having zero time for socializing.

I went to City College in the fall and found myself in a new circle of friends.

Around Christmas, I bumped into one of my old circle. Both of us were out

shopping. We spent most of our breath promising that we'd get together soon.

Lying, in other words. Then the guy told me, in passing, "I hear Marv got out of

the hospital. Finally. He's living at home again."

I hadn't thought about my lockermate for months, nearly.

But I said, "Yeah, that's great to hear." As if I already knew it. As if I'd

spent my nights worrying.

Four more years slipped past without Marvin Donner.

I met this beautiful girl named Patty, and we dated. And screwed. And while that

was happening, I started screwing her best friend, Molly. Which wasn't the

smartest trick. Then after both girls dumped me, I met Cathy, who was pretty

enough, and fun enough, and we were married just before our senior year.

I graduated from City College with a degree in business.

My father hired me. Bribed me. Whichever.

Maybe it wasn't smart to return to the grocery. But Cathy was pregnant -- with

twins, we found out -- and she had a talent for spending everything we had.

That's why I took over managing the store, working some bruising hours. Early

one morning, driving to work, I heard this odd song that just kept going and

going. It was pretty enough, I guess. And the refrain sounded like it belonged

on the radio. Light and fun, and all that. "What might be, should be, will be,"

it went. Then, "Will be, will be, will be .... "

The song never finished. The disc jockey put it to bed after five minutes or so.

"'Will Be' is the title," he announced. "By a local talent. Marvin Donner."

I could have rushed over to Musicland and bought the '45. I've met hundreds who

did, or at least claim they did. But frankly I've never been much for pop music.

Sometimes, I go for years without even playing any of my Beatles albums.

"Will Be" was in the Top Forty for three quick weeks, peaking at 31st before

quietly drowning in the disco sea.

An old classmate came into the grocery one day. He reported that Marv still

looked like the same blond-haired twit. That he was living at home with Mom.

Still. And that he was making pretty good money singing at the local clubs.

I heard "Will Be" a few times, always on the radio.

Usually I was in the Chevy, which had shitty speakers. But one time I was at my

folks', hearing it on their big cabinet stereo. That was the only time when I

really listened to the words, and some of them stuck. "The plague will come in

the blood," stuck. And, "The sandman burns the desert." Grim bullshit like that,

and no wonder it didn't sell better. That's what I was thinking. Then I heard

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Robert Reed - Will Be

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