Partying with the Id

When I couldn’t decide who had a custody When I couldn’t figure out my destiny

They, those small friends, were there.

I was kind To my mini-mates, “fake” entities I gave them names, whole identities. While they supplied an inner light Even if it poorly reflected off their accessories.

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Cathal-Marie Harmon Prindiville

Sigmund Freud once described children as polymorphous perverts. It seems that certain adolescent boys have honed perversion into an art. It was a Friday night fall ritual. The local diocesan high school, where all four attended, had recessed for the weekend. Each of them, John, Jeff, Joe, and Charlie, attended to their afternoon responsibilities. Jeff had to finish stocking at a local grocery store that paid nearly $2.00 per hour. Charlie had applied to the same store but was rejected because he was not 16. Jeff, one year younger, obtained the job, remarking he had simply lied about his age. Joe and Charlie met at Hamburger Heaven, and after gobbling three double-decker hamburgers, proceeded to John’s place, three blocks away. Theirs was an insular community perched on the distant environs of Chicago. One by one, they descended on the expansive veranda of John’s home on Elm Street. Joe deposited four packs of English Ovals on the table. English Ovals were the choice of Sean Connery, “Bond, James Bond!” The cigarettes were also less likely to roll off of the sinks in the high school boys’bathroom. It was late afternoon when John broke open a well-worn deck of cards. “Are we ready?” They each lit a cigarette. The perfume of their collective smokes permeated the veranda. “BOND!! JAMES BOND,” they chanted. “Here’s to the id, the god of goofing off!!” They played spades, followed by other games, including hearts. John dealt as they toked on bottles of soft drinks. Theirs was an esprit de corps that superseded games. First and foremost was the presence of the Queen of Spades, an omen, the beast. When deployed, their tribute was, “Have a feast. Eat the beast.” John had said that card games were meaningless without a healthy dose of kibitzing. Their conversations invariably focused on sex and sports. Outside, the chill and upcoming cloudy darkness became pronounced, and an edgy breeze troubled the landscape. Sodden, dead leaves rained across the ground, accompanied by twigs, branches and a staccato of acorns that pelted the veranda, roof, and windows. Occasional clumps of brown leaves attached to dried twigs convulsed in the wind, rising, and dissipating into decaying finality. Silent, cold hands sculpted the dance into unholy wind devils. The warmth and camaraderie on the veranda intensified into an atmosphere steeled against a rapidly approaching maelstrom. Across the vacant street, Circe squatted, watched and waited.

Beyond awareness, a dark shadow lurked. The specter of Vietnam also lurked in the lives of many middle- and working-class American boys, especially boys of Hispanic and African heritage. Equally menacing was an impending menace that would consume lives of strong, passionate leaders of America. These were but shadows unworthy of awareness of these Four Horsemen of the Oblivious. From the warmth and security of the veranda, John broke open a box of fireworks, including dozens of bottle rockets and cherry bombs. Within minutes, squirrels, birds, and other creatures had abandoned the neighborhood. The fusillade of bottle rockets abated. Without warning, a lone crow appeared in the sky. She glided through the air with the presence of a B29 Superfortress over Nazi Germany as flack exploded around her. Without visible effort, the pilot adjusted her wings and the bird soared higher. She swerved back over her target as the bombardier adjusted the crosshairs and unloaded her payload and the airship disappeared. John excused himself and retired to the 15

bathroom to wash off the liquid feces from his face and sweater. Some of those shots were close, and this prompted another chorus. “Close counts only with—” “A-bombs!” “Horseshoes!” “And farting in crowded elevators!” “When you guys beat off, do you ever think of Dixie Mankowski?” “Are you referring to the Polish knob jobber?” They roared with laughter, and Joe fell back onto the floor. He was still giggling as his friends hauled him back into his folding chair. There was a brief silence, and the four broke into an impromptu harmony. “When Dixie was a girl, she went to sea, and polished all the knobs in the Queens Navy. She polished those knobs so carefully; she’s now the leading queen of the Queen’s Navy.” Dixie had grown up on a dairy in Wisconsin before her family relocated to the west suburbs of Chicago. One of The Four had spread a rumor about Dixie and the family bull. No one knew what happened between Dixie and Brutus, but it is rumored that when Brutus sees her, he displays a “shit-eating grin,” and a giant boner. Allegedly, Dixie attempted to bring Brutus to the Prom. The evening ensued and John powered up the television. The news served as a backdrop for their card and board games. Evening shadows extended, and the backdrop noises of commuter traffic abated.Above, at the treetops, a sinister gaunt shadow appeared and disappeared. It danced from treetop to treetop until an equally dark, tall and lanky shadow swept it away. None of the four recognized either wendigo or golem. They were too engaged in themselves, the moment and obliviousness.Apparitions were filed with Vietnam along with an inventory of friends who would perish in that distant land. An extra-large pizza with Italian sausage and mushrooms from Pizza Palace arrived. This was accompanied by Italian beef sandwiches ordered by Joe. He claimed he could digest anything that did not consume him first. As the feast continued, the id rolled onto his back like an old hound dog waiting for his belly to be scratched. He sniffed the air, aware of the shadows. The id was uninterested; pleasure always preceded essence. They dove into the pizza. There was a pause, and a large blue flame erupted from Jeff’s side of the table. “Fart flame!” Joe nodded at Charlie. “Do you remember when you convinced Plunger Paulie (aka The Plunger) that he ought to light a fart with his pants off?” Conversation descended instantly into more roars of gut-splitting laughter. “He singed all the hair off his nut sack!” The Plunger could not beat off for a month!And he had to wear one of those female napkins between his butt cheeks!” The Plunger made one attempt at masturbation, but he said that the result felt like a “blow job” from a crocodile. Plunger Paulie earned his nickname from a preoccupation with feces and toilets. The plunger would avoid excreting feces as he was able. He would deposit an enormous raft of waste into the nearest available commode. He wanted to block the plumbing with his excrement. This happened frequently at home. Paulie’s father gave him a plunger with the command that Paulie had to square away his mess. 16

“Do you remember when the Plunger encouraged his followers to engage in spelunking in the sewers?” “He convinced them they would discover the golden stool!” Within months, Paulie established the Plunger Club at their diocesan high school. His followers paraded through the school waving their plungers. “Plunger, plunger—whoop, whoop, whoop!” All too frequently, the Plunger’s followers spent Saturdays in detention for disrupting sport events such as football games. Rudy and his fellow Hilltoppers slaughtered their football team at homecoming, but the Plungers had a great time. Plunger, plunger— whoop, whoop, whoop! By the time the police patrol car cruised to a stop before John’s door, the fireworks were out of sight. Officer Tom Olsen, another member of their parish, stepped up to the veranda and gave the boys a knowing look. “I cannot speak with the authority of Rod Steiger, but I’ve got the motive which is stupidity and evidence strewn all over the neighborhood. When will your shenanigans end?” Just at that moment, the driver from Pizza Palace arrived with his last delivery, pizza, accompanied by additional Italian beef sandwiches. Officer Olsen shrugged his shoulders, grabbed a piece of pizza, and settled in at the table. Tom had been the bully of their parochial elementary school. He remained a bully but was now equipped with a variety of weapons and the approval to deploy them as he wished. A solitary bicycle rider raced past the veranda waving a plunger. They waited for Creature Features to begin on the black and white TV. Officer Olsen watched as the film, The Werewolf, began. Lon Chaney Jr. appeared, and the group began a well-rehearsed howling session. Officer Olsen excused himself knowing he would return. The neighborhood dogs took up the chorus. The night progressed; another familiar film began; it was Them. “THEM!!, THEM!!,” they chanted, as giant atomic mutated ants ravaged their way across the country, flattening trailer parks, truck stops, strip malls and adult book stores. As the ants descended on humanity, a Scrabble board appeared. From a vortex of emotions and thoughts, a pattern of words descended in tarot fashion: slither, spider, hobgoblin, betray, ghoul and demon. All were harbingers of darkness, and the merriment continued unabated. The Four Horsemen celebrated the state of obliviousness. The id celebrated with Them. The solitary cyclist reemerged waving the plunger with an attached girdle that he waived as a flag. There was darkness in the rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam. Ghosts and ghouls ruled the night, blocking any sense of salvation and meaning. Ground pounders slithered into dark tunnels carved out by Vietcong. All too many returned with mutilated bodies and spirits. Their stories included finding rats nestled in sleeping bags and booby traps of feces-contaminated bamboo stakes that penetrated skin and psyche. They became shadows embedded in a collective cultural ambivalence. Black satanic wings crept around the veranda, fueling a sense of despair and hopelessness. Nothing penetrated the armor of the oblivious. Outside, the feeling of dampness and decay intensified; John arose and increased the temperature of the electric space heater. The perfume of cigarette smoke staled. Another quiet, black shape lurked on all fours in the shadows. Its rancid scent penetrated the atmosphere. The creature disappeared into the darkness, unnoticed by oblivious revelers. It slithered, crouched, watched, and waited. The Four Horsemen remained oblivious. Too many Americans remained oblivious to Vietnam and social justice.

Vietnam waited.

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