The Chairman’s Challenge

The neighborhood kids had prepared for their Friday night ritual. They had gotten Mike Barnard’s older brother Ronny to buy them a case of Old Style. At 18, Ronny was only a few years older than Mike and his friends, but he looked much older than his age and had gained a measure of proficiency in altering drivers’ licenses to add even more years to his span in this mortal coil. This latest ID was almost perfect; while Ronny Barnard might not look like his name was Andresz Wysczynlowicz, the bartenders at the joints he chose to patronize, generally located just outside the neighborhood, seemed to be convinced that Ronny was indeed the 22 year old Mr. Wysczynlowicz. Perhaps the forgery job was outstanding. Perhaps the bartenders liked Ronny’s standard line when questioned: “I know it’s hard to pronounce Andresz; just call me Andy,” delivered in what Ronny thought sounded like a Polish accent. Or maybe they just didn’t care. In any case, Ronny never had any problems buying beer, so Mike and his friends always had something to do on Friday night. Mike Barnard took the “hand-off” of the case of beer from his brother’s ’82 Citation at the usual location, a virtually deserted side-street adjoining the canal that formed the southern boundary of the neighborhood. His buddies Stan Sawicki and Jim O’Reilly quickly joined him, and the trio headed into the wooded area immediately abutting the canal. Reaching their usual drinking spot, a clearing about halfway down the hill leading to the canal, each tore a white can from one of the ringers that held together each of the four six-packs that comprised their case. Just as Mike was about to crack his Old Style, Stan backhanded him in the chest. “Wait! Look down there, on the frontage road next to the canal. See the car over there? Don’t open the beers yet; it might be the cops!” Mike looked in the direction Stan was pointing. “Yeah, it could be a cop. The only other people who park down there are people making out or a couple guys queerin’ off, and it’s pretty early for that.” Jim O’Reilly, with his usual fearlessness, feigned or otherwise, rolled his eyes. “C’mon, you guys; that’s not a cop! Cop cars are always white or black. They have those huge spotlights on the side and those immense aerials. Anyone can tell an unmarked car. I don’t even know why they bother; they ought to just drive around in squads.” “I guess you’re right, Jimmy. That’s no cop car.” “Of course I’m right, Stan. And I’m also thirsty.” Jim cracked his beer and was quickly joined by Stan and Mike. The usual pointless banter that accompanied the Old Style started. “So,” Mike started. “How bad is Notre Dame gonna beat Purdue tomorrow?” “Fuck Notre Dame! I hate fuckin’ Notre Dame,” was the usual quick reply from Jim. Mike didn’t really care all that much about Notre Dame; he just loved to bait Jim. Stan just had to join the fun. “Why this hatred of Notre Dame, Jim? Your last name is O’Reilly! You’re supposed to love Notre Dame. Hell, my name is Stash Sawicki and I love Notre Dame. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Mike launched into his favorite parody of the ND fight song: “Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame, the Polacks and Jews are getting the fame; there goes Vukovich through the line, why not Murphy, or O’Brien?” “Cut the crap you guys,” an increasingly tormented Jim O’Reilly ordered, or pleaded. “I hate Notre Dame, and if you don’t stop talking about Notre Dame, I’m going to start hating you guys, too.” “Promise or a threat?” “Fuck you.” “So,” Stan continued, laughing. “If you don’t like Notre Dame, who do you like?” “Whoever’s playing Notre Dame,” was Jim’s quick reply. “Now, let’s talk about something else, and gimme another Style, will ya?” Mike tore another beer off the ringer and handed it to Jim, starting another topic as he did so. “So, Jim, are you takin’ Mary to the drive-in tomorrow night?” “Sure…just like any other Saturday night. You wanna come with?” “And join you and Mary? Yeah, you’d love the company.” “No, asshole. I meant do you have a date so we could double?” “No, I don’t have a date,” Mike replied. I haven’t had a date since Patty dropped me. Do you suppose Mary could get one of her friends to go out with me?” “That’s a taller order than we can handle.” Stan joined in. “Say, Jim, you’ve been seeing Mary for a long time. You go to the drive-in every Saturday night. You gettin’ any?” Jim answered abruptly and unequivocally and before he considered the full ramifications of his answer. “No.” He really liked Mary. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I were.” Stan laughed. “So what you’re saying is that you are gettin’ somethin’, but you won’t tell us.” “No, asshole. What I’m saying is that I’m not getting anything from Mary, and I don’t appreciate the question or the insinuation.” “So why you still goin’ out with her? It’s been months.” This, of course, was not a question on Stan’s part; it was part of the ritual taunting by which these three expressed friendship. “Maybe because I like her and I’m not a pig like you. And she’s not a skank like the girls you usually troll for.” Stan and Mike both laughed, but there was more truth to Jim’s answer than they could imagine. Jim really liked Mary, but one of the things he most liked about her, besides that she was cute, smart, and a lot of fun to be around, was that she wouldn’t let him get anywhere. No self-respecting teenage guy in the neighborhood would admit that he was attracted to a girl because of her complete refusal to round first base, but that was indeed one of the things that kept Jim and Mary together. And it wasn’t the “challenge” such a self-respecting girl presented. It was, rather, the trouble Mary’s virtue allowed Jim to avoid. Though he would never tell anyone of his fears, he didn’t want the kind of trouble such types of activity presented. It couldn’t possibly be worth it. Further, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do if he were presented with a willing partner. No, Mary, in addition to being pretty and cool and fun, was safe. And for that, Jim was secretly grateful. As the conversation continued, and the beer flowed, Mike noticed that the car that Stan had pointed out upon the commencement of their revelry had not moved. The lights had not gone on. No one had entered it or left it. It was pretty far away, but, at least from where the guys were sitting, it didn’t look like the windows had fogged up. “Hey, guys. That car down there. What do you think’s up? If it were a make out couple, they’d be gone by now, wouldn’t you think?” “Unless the guy is Superman!” Stan replied. “No, seriously. No one lays around and makes out for more than an hour.” “Maybe it’s the other alternative,” Stan opined. “A couple of guys blowin’ each other.” “I don’t even want to think about that,” was Mike’s reply. “Well, if it’s not a make out couple or a couple of queers, it’s gotta be a cop. Who else would be down there?” “Nah, it ain’t the cops. If it were the cops, they’d have shagged us by now.” “So do you want to go down there and see what’s goin’ on?” Mike asked. “What, so Jimmy can see what he’s missing by sticking with Mary?” asked a now slightly inebriated Stan Sawicki. The logical retort came from an equally tipsy Jim O’Reilly. “No, Stash, so you can learn some blow job techniques from your old man.” One would have to understand the lifelong nature of this friendship to understand why such comments elicited laughter rather than flying fists. As all three of the boys laughed themselves to tears, Mike, the most besotted of the three, prodded his buddies. “C’mon, let’s go down there and check it out.” “Alright,” Jim answered. “But let’s hide the beer first. Your brother went to a lot of trouble to get us this stuff. If we have to scatter fast, I want to be able to come back here later and retrieve the brew.” St