I Hate Everyone, Except You
Clinton Kelly
KAMIKAZE
In the spring of 1982, I got it into my head that I needed, more than anything in the whole world, to visit Action Park in New Jersey. The commercials, which played every seven minutes during reruns of Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch, spoke to the deepest desires of my thirteen-year-old soul.
“There’s nothing in the world like Action Park,” the jingle jangled. Golden-skinned teenagers frolicked in the world’s largest wave pool, flashing their symmetrical white teeth. Others shrieked with glee and unconsciously flexed their abs as they whipped through the turns of a water slide. They seemed to be having the best collective puberty ever, free of pimples, braces, and social awkwardness, all of which plagued me more than I cared to admit.
If I could just break into their social circle, I reasoned, my skin would clear up, my teeth would magically align themselves, and I could be the most popular kid at John F. Kennedy Junior High School in Port Jefferson Station, New York. And maybe, just maybe, I would develop even the slightest hint of muscle tone. Currently, when shirtless, I looked less like a boy than a xylophone, but I would occasionally amuse houseguests by grabbing two spoons and playing “Frère Jacques” on my rib cage.
Mike and Terri must have understood the magical powers of Action Park, because when I asked them at dinner one night to take me, they actually said yes.
“Awesome,” I said. “I need to buy a new bathing suit. I was thinking something white.” (I had recently seen an ad in which a very tan male model wore white Ocean Pacific short shorts. He bore a striking resemblance to me—insofar as he too was bipedal—so obviously we should have identical wardrobes.)
“We’ll shop for summer clothes when school is out,” Terri said. That was the usual routine. On the first weekend after the last day of school, Terri, my mom, would drive my sister Jodi and me to the mall, buy us whatever we needed to get through the summer, and then we’d head to the beach. Though it was never articulated as such, the ritual felt like a reward for surviving yet another year in the public school system. Just the three of us, buying new rubber flip-flops and bathing suits. Jumping waves on Long Island’s south shore. Wolfing down hot dogs with extra sauerkraut from the concessions stand. It was pretty much the best day of the year, every year. The next such outing would be our last, however. Terri was pregnant and due in early August.
“Aw, man, I can’t wait that long. I wanna go to Action Park this weekend,” I whined.
Spearing a chicken cutlet with his fork, my stepdad, Mike, said, “It’s mid-May. I doubt Action Park is even open.”
He was right, of course, which filled me with rage.
Mike was a tough-talking, bearded hairstylist who, much to my chagrin at the time, had married Terri the previous fall. He wore black leather jackets. I dreamed of collecting cashmere sweaters. He rode a Harley-Davidson. I prayed nightly for a Volvo. He was a quintessential Long Island Italian. I yearned to convert to any form of Protestantism, not because of a firmly held religious ideology, understand, but just so I could officially call myself a “W.A.S.P.” He and I had absolutely nothing in common, except for an apparent love of my mother.
The first time I’d met Mike, three years earlier, I had been thoroughly appalled. We were living with my mother’s friend Lynn, also recently divorced, and her two kids, Candice and Craig. Another single woman, Heather, and her son, Justin, a year or two older than me, also migrated in and out of the house. Three single women, five kids, three bedrooms. And although everyone knew the arrangement was temporary, it was still pretty weird. And sad. Saturday morning cartoons, for example, are considerably less enjoyable when your mother is asleep under a crocheted afghan on the living room couch.
Mike had stopped by the house one night to pick up Terri for a date. When he arrived, she was still in the bathroom, putting the finishing touches on her hair and makeup. She must have seen him pull into the driveway, because she shouted, “Can one of you let Mike in? Tell him I’ll be right out.”
Nobody responded. The house was unusually quiet; the other kids were visiting grandparents or dads for the weekend.
“Clint! Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” I said and reluctantly got up from the kitchen table, where I had been sitting by myself eating flourescent-orange macaroni and cheese and flipping through the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. I opened the door and Mike entered. He wore black leather boots, faded jeans, and a black button-front shirt open about three-quarters of the way down his slim torso. He sported at least three gold chains, dark aviator-style sunglasses, and feathered black hair. Honestly, I would have been less shocked if a 5-foot-10-inch coho salmon had stepped into our foyer.
“You must be Clint,” he said. “I’m Mike. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand to shake mine, but I was so flabbergasted by his appearance I could barely lift my arm. My hand just sort of hung there like a limp cabbage leaf. He shook it delicately, as one might have done upon meeting a fancy Victorian lady.
Jodi came running over. She was a cherubic seven-year-old with a perpetually stained face. One day she might have an orange Hi-C smile that extended well past the boundaries of her mouth. The next she could have fallen asleep on a lollypop so that it left a semipermanent green kiss on her cheek. Today she appeared to have been lining her lips with chocolate, at least I hoped it was chocolate. I resented her ability to make her Halloween candy last well past Christmas, even into early spring. She ate a half a piece or less of it every day, whereas I ate a pillowcase-worth before November first. A single gobstopper was a weeklong event for Jodi. Sometimes I’d find a half-sucked one hiding in the Connect Four box and roll my eyes. If I was particularly desperate for sugar, I’d rinse it off and eat it myself.