The Ghosts of 27th Street (part 2)
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VI, The Boy With the Thorn in His Side
Down a two-mile stretch, beyond Cloister and Tide, past terracotta mansions, four stories high, walls infused with seashells, elevators inside, there was a small opening in the holly; and there, between the holly, an alley of hedge, shaded by oak and palm, a long grassy pledge; and there at the end, at the very edge, there was a small hill, which opened to a stunning view: a golden dune, with goldenrod and cordgrass and yucca and buttonwood foon; and right there, on that dune, there was a walkway, all made out of wood, a secret beach, where three young men stood.
I can’t believe you actually live here, Oscar said, marveling at the row of mansions overlooking the beach, his dark curls wobbling in the wind, barefoot, his shirt off for some reason, chest too hairy for his age, abs chiseled, almost, him nearly as resplendent as the mansions themselves.
The opulence was imposing, even for me; one mansion in particular was postmodern in its design: grid-like architecture, all white, Roman pillars, visible fountains, ponds with faerie sculptures, a pool facing the ocean, a diving board that looked like two crazy straws attached to a laser cannon that was probably not a diving board at all, colorful blocks all stacked atop each other, as if a multi-millionaire got bored one day, decided to build the wackiest shit possible on one of the most expensive private islands in America, when people in the country are literally starving—which is where my head went; co-opting righteous criticism to bolster my self-image, all without action, so pissed about my privilege, ungrateful, bitter about my incredible circumstances, longing for misfortune, never careful what I wished for.
Oscar approached the dune to get a better view of the abstract mansion, then, after a long look, he turned to me, jaw hanging. But there I was, looking totally out of place and unamused with my eyeliner and ripped jeans and long-sleeve button-up now rippling in the wild wind, saying nothing; I just casually shrugged, removed a cig from my new pack, then a lighter, then put the cig in my mouth and cupped it with my hands as to thwart the wind, and only managed to light the thing after a dozen tries. Then I sat down on the edge of a raised dune, facing the ocean, watching the tide go in and out; and that’s where I took a long drag, exhaled, leaned back, propped myself up with both hands behind me, fingers all plush in the pillowy sand, cigarette dangling from my lower lip, filter all moist, smoke having no time to twirl before becoming one with the wind, far far away from any other smokestack. And I was wishing to be home.
I didn’t want to be there, on that secret beach, on that day. I had come to this place often, so the magic was gone—if it was ever magical to begin with (as being a jaded youth tends to suck the magic out of everything). I wanted to be home, smoking weed, playing video games, listening to music, but it was only 3 PM or so, and if we showed up at my place before 4 PM, my mom would know we left school early—considering the time school got out plus the time it took to travel home—which would raise some suspicion about my school-skipping habits, something I desperately wanted to avoid. So the suggestion had been made by Oscar—when we had stopped for gas and cigarettes—to just hang at the beach for a little while to pass the time, despite the November chill, and there just so happened to be a secret beach right next to my house.
So that’s what we did: we drove over two causeways, down many roads, through long natural archways of oaks, and eventually, we arrived at the secret beach on the 27th street of the private island community to which I belonged but did not belong. And when we arrived, there was a man sitting on a bench, on a laptop, and we waved at him from a distance, and he waved back, and then I got back to moping, feeling sorry for myself, running down the clock, waiting to go home.
But no one else seemed bothered by the beach, especially not Hannibal, who was running wild down the shore, with Robert chasing right behind him, shouting for him to come back. That was when Oscar sat down next to me, close enough that his hand rested near mine, almost touching, and we both gazed out at the Atlantic.
I thought I was well-off, but you must be pretty loaded, Oscar said.
I sat up lotus, took a drag, and said: I’m not, my stepdad is.
Right, but still.
Do you smoke? I gestured with the cigarette.
No—my parents would kill me.
And then there was nothing but the sound of waves crashing upon the shore.
Oscar broke the calm: Do your parents know?
That I smoke?
No, not that, Oscar said nervously.
I thought about his question for a moment, waves crashing, then I said, with a raised eyebrow: Do they know what, then?
Oscar looked into my eyes for only a second before looking away all furtively, then he said: Do they know—do they know that you’re gay?
My eyes narrowed, face flushed. I didn’t know how to answer the question. Instead, I just said: What? Where’d you hear that?
Some girls at school—actually, everyone is saying it. They say you and Robert are, well, you know.
I heard I was voted most likely to shoot up the school—not that I was gay.
Oscar laughed nervously at this, then he said: Yeah, I’ve heard that one too. I was a little afraid of you—haunting the halls, all pale and towering over everyone, like a Frankenstein ghost or something, but—he paused—obviously much better looking.
Frankenstein's the doctor, I said, grinning, since “unapproachable” was one of the adjectives I was always striving for.
More waves before Oscar said: Is it true, though?
Then there was a long pause before I said: Sexuality is stupid, like, a box, I think.
(But, by all cultural standards at the time, I was straight as an arrow—at least behaviorally. Playing up this image of pansexual ambiguity was something I curated intentionally, because bucking sexual norms in a southern community—which very much enforced the standard sexual norms and believed those who didn’t conform needed Jesus and/or electroshock therapy—was one of the most powerful acts of cultural rebellion a young person could perform at that time. It felt powerful, a figurative fuck you to the Dixie establishment, like taking the thorn out of your side and stabbing it into the foot of the man who put it there. And of course, back then, I wasn’t fully aware of this reasoning—this fashion-statement sexuality—it just sort of happened due to a perfect mix of pop-culture exposure and contrarianism.)
So, considering all that, I said: Yeah, so, I’m pretty much open to whatever.
And Oscar seemed very interested in this, he said: So you and Robert—
No, we aren’t fucking, if that’s what you’re asking—he’s my best friend.
Then Oscar smiled that soft handsome smile of his, nodded, and said with cute shyness: So are you seeing anyone, then?
To which I took a slow drag, blew it out, then looked down, into the sand, and said: There was a girl once, but that was a while ago.
Oscar smiled a big smile. Good, he said.
Then we stared off into the sea. Oscar’s hand gradually inched closer to mine, and soon our hands were touching ever so slightly, but I moved my hand, assuming he was just spreading out, silence still between us—not awkward silence, just chill, ocean silence. And when I was certain there was nothing left to say, I pushed my earbuds in, pulled out my iPod, and clicked shuffle. That’s when a feathery wall of jangly guitars vibrated my eardrums, and then the vocal croon:
The boy with the thorn in his side…
Then Oscar tapped me on the shoulder and said, What are you listening to?
behind the hatred there lies…
I took out an earbud and handed it to Oscar. He moved his head real close to mine, put the earbud in, and listened.
a murderous desire for love.
And then I said, The Smiths.
And he said, Never heard of them before—but they sound good.
So I said, They’re my favorite band.
And he said, Cool.
And then we watched as a pelican dived into the ocean, and when it came back up, a fish dangled from its bill, and in one big gulp, that fish was gone.
But the ocean was real beautiful, otherwise.
VII, The Ghost in You
There we were, in an extravagant mansion, on the second-floor balcony, surrounded by all-real moss, overlooking a gated courtyard lined with hedges chainsawed into little squares, some cut like massive pinecones, others little moons, and the grass immaculate, and the palm and palmetto higher than the two-story mansion itself, which was nine-thousand square feet of layered sandstone and terracotta—five beds, eight baths, dog kennel, three kitchens, pool, wine cellar, hot tub, four living rooms, two offices, game room, marble literally everywhere—estimated at a whopping eight-million-dollar value; the whole thing a compound, really, totally fenced in with black bars connected to tan pillars connected to a massive gate connected to a digital keypad lock, and beyond that a parking garage, above which was a guest house where the maid who couldn’t speak any English lived; and just before all that, right outside the courtyard, at the front of the mansion, there was a small parking area, which was visible from the balcony, and from there, through a cloud of dope, I could see the Honda and the Firebird, totally out of place in this land of Mercedes-Benz and BMW.
Pass the bowl, I said.
Robert handed me a palm-sized blue pipe; thick blown glass, long stem, fat chamber, carb, supposedly transparent but darkened by years of use, little blue bubbles and bumps all over it, swirls of blue and black and white made it quite beautiful to look at; there was a small piece of tin—cut from a soda can—inside the chamber, with little holes poked into it, like a makeshift screen, because the chamber’s glass chipped long ago, making the opening far too large, meaning grass would fall right through, and upon sucking the mouthpiece, the grass would shoot into your mouth, embers too, which could cause little burns in the back of the throat (which wasn’t a pleasant experience, hence the soda screen); this glass damage existed before the pipe came into my possession, because it was an ancient family heirloom, handed down from my older sister, sometimes we’d call it Dragon Bowl Z, because it was legendary, like the Dragon Balls, and also because it was funny.
Robert was staring at me with a dopey expression on his face before saying: You may want to, like, uh, you know, be careful, man, that shit is, like, super powerful.
But I didn’t heed his warning; I lifted the bowl to my mouth, held the fire to the green, sucked, watched the glow, held it in for a good five seconds—felt the pressure squeeze my head, my body take on new gravity, everything squishing together like a long run-on sentence, things happening all at once—then I exhaled a huge dope cloud, which hung in the air for a good ten seconds, at which time I started coughing violently. Robert watched me, shaking his head, then I heard his voice swirling through the soundspace, mixing with birds chirping, trees swaying, and the distant sound of waves, he was saying something like: I told him it was powerful, but he never listens. And then Oscar’s laugh swirled into the mix. And then, trying to get the coughs under control, one hand clutching at my chest, another against the balcony wall, I signaled to the door and coughed out the word WATER, at which time Robert zoomed inside and came back with a bottle of water, handed it to me, and I gulped that water down as if my life depended on it, at which point the coughing subsided, slowly. Then I said, HOLY SHIT, my eyes red, watering, bugged out, and then—looking crazy as hell and totally high as fuck—I held the bowl out to Oscar and said: Dragon Bowl Z, courtesy of Moon Dog. But Oscar only shook his head, blank-faced, like he was trying to play it cool or something, and then he said: Not right now, maybe later, thanks though. And his smile was handsome but weird and twisted, or maybe that was just the weed, because I felt like I was going a little bit crazy—SOMETHING SPECIAL, Moon Dog had said, and I wondered if it was something more than that—so I handed the bowl back to Robert, who took another hit, then tried to blow a smoke ring which ended up looking like a fat blob instead; he coughed lightly, squinted his eyes, and said: It kinda looks like those Gotenks ghosts. So I observed his dope cloud real close, trying hard to see it, then said: Maybe, or maybe you, like, blew out your own ghost; and, at this, Robert looked amazed in a way that only a high person could—braindead, pretty much—staring at the dope cloud now diffusing into the sky, and then he said: That, I mean, like, what you just said, about the ghost, is, like, wow, what the fuck. And then he took another hit. And then I lit a cigarette and took a nice long drag while I watched the clouds morph into different shapes, which I perceived to be Saturday morning cartoons and little faces; so I said, to no one in particular: Do you see that? At which point Oscar looked where I was looking and said: Clouds? And I said: No, the mouse, and the little, like, the face, right there. To which Oscar said: What? And I said: It’s something, like, you know, if you look near the bottom, uh, nevermind. And then I took another drag off my cig, which, enhanced by the Moon Dog weed, tasted exquisite, and felt really smooth on its way down my trachea, and even better filling up my lungs. Then Robert attempted to pass me the bowl again, but I shook my head, said: No, I am, like, zotzed, on that one hit. So Robert placed the bowl under the tall window behind him—the lip of which was more like an alcove, where he had also placed his pack of cigarettes—then produced a cig, and then, while lighting the thing, said: Zotzed, that’s a good word, man, where’d you hear that? And I said: Huh, I don’t know, maybe I made it up. And then Robert said: No, I’ve heard it before, in a book or something. And I said: Yeah, maybe. And then Robert paused for a bit, dragging off his cig, and then, staring off into the great gray sky, he said: I think I see what you were talking about, with the faces. And then he was pointing. And then I, also pointing, said: Yeah, see, right there, shit’s crazy. Then I took another hit of nicotine as I watched Oscar lean over the thick railing of the balcony—which was really more of a low wall of columns—and then he said: I still can’t believe you live here, this is like somewhere Steve Jobs would live. So I said, for no reason whatsoever, in a totally serious tone: Steve Jerbs. And then Robert burst out laughing at this for some reason, and then I started laughing, and then Oscar—who seemed confused at first—also started laughing, and then my mom came out the front door, which was right below us, and she stepped out into the courtyard to get a good view of us, but by that time we were long gone, inside, with the door closed, as if we had never been out there smoking Moon Dog weed on that balcony to begin with. But then I heard my name being shouted from outside, so I opened the balcony doors all slow, stuck my head out of the curtains, and said: Hi, Mom. And she, down below in the courtyard, said: Honey, Steve and I are going to a reception tonight, I left some money on the kitchen counter, hope you boys have fun, love you! And then I said, Love you too, then quickly shut the double doors behind me, at which point I turned to Robert and Oscar, who were just kinda standing there, pale as ghosts, staring at me—probably thinking my mom just caught us smoking weed—so I told them: It’s all good, she’s actually going somewhere. And Robert responded with: Your mom is so oblivious sometimes. And I said: Yeah, thank god. And then everything was hazy but otherwise right as rain, whatever that means.
At that point, we were all standing in my bedroom, a place designed more to be looked at than lived in—which is what Robert said the first time he saw the place about a year prior (something I never forgot)—the room itself something like a Siamese twin, two distinct squares fused together; one big, one small; the main room and the office alcove. The maid had been through hours earlier. The main room was made up perfectly, like a show room: darkwood dresser, long mirror above it, massive king-size bed on the east wall, decorative pillows no one ever used, carved darkwood headboard, two bedside tables, also darkwood, fancy lamps on both, and three doors: the main door, the balcony door, and, right by the bed on the south wall, a bathroom door with tub and shower separated by sliding glass, and a sink made of only the finest porcelain. The second square was just a few steps to the right of the balcony, and it was more like an alcove, a mini-office, with a flat-screen television attached to the wall, which pulled out and swiveled, below it a PlayStation 3 (which Robert had hooked up the moment he got in); and there was a large L-shaped marble desk on the far wall, upon which were two computer monitors, keyboard, mouse, portable turntable, dozens of vinyl records snug between the turntable and the hardwood cabinet—which was connected to the desk itself—inside which were many PC game boxes, all lined up in rows, and books, many books. Miscellaneous items littered the desk itself, notably a messy pile of tarot cards, upon which I had placed Breath of Fire III when I had come in earlier, and near that, in the corner of the desk, a pill bottle.
So I grabbed the pill bottle, twisted off the child-proof cap, and tapped out three little pills. The pills were semi-transparent light blue with orange dots inside. I popped one myself, then held my palm out to Robert, who also popped one, then to Oscar, who said: What is it? And I said: Adderall. And he said: How long does it last? And I said: I don’t know, maybe 12, 14 hours. And he said: No, thanks, I have to get up early in the morning, for a track thing. So I shrugged and popped the final pill myself. Doubling.
Then I turned to the turntable and started leafing through my records: Loveless, Sea Change, Meat Is Murder, Standing on a Beach, The Velvet Underground & Nico, Pale Spectre / Plastic Flowers 7”, Viva Hate, It’s My Life, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, Low-Life, Metal Box—actually the Second Edition version—then Viva Hate again, then Loveless again, before finally deciding on Metal Box; then, as I was sliding the vinyl out of the packaging, Oscar tapped me on the shoulder, so I turned around and saw him holding a tarot card—Ten of Swords—then he said: I didn’t know you were into this stuff. And I flirted: Oh, the eyeliner didn’t give it away? And Oscar liked this, because he grinned real wide, then said: Can you tell my fortune? And I said: That’s not how it works. And then he said: Well then tell me how it works. And I said: Well then just give me, like, one minute. Then I put the record on the turntable and dropped the needle, at which point the speakers sounded all fuzzy before a dubby bass groove started, which was when I started doing a little back-and-forth sway thing, gliding through the room all high as fuck, swirling; and then the metallic guitar noise started like a mythical Siren being pushed through an industrial shredder, and then the vocals: Slow motion, slow motion, getting rid of the albatross. And there I was, slow grooving, mind swirling, showing off in my own high special way, kinda lost, but still with it, still forming memories, waving my arms like they part of the warm breeze from the air vent, like a tubeman in slow-mo, Oscar looking me up and down, smiling; and that’s when Robert shook his head and sat down on the floor in front of the PlayStation 3—which was one of those original fat models with backwards compatibility—and booted up The Legend of Dragoon, ensuring I would never play Breath of Fire III that night, which is something I neither thought nor cared about since my first hit of Moon Dog weed. And Hannibal, meanwhile, on the bed, curled up, wide smiling at me but giving Oscar little glares every now and then, calmer now but still full of angst.
Oscar said: C’mon, tell my fortune. And then I said: Oh right, OK, let’s see. And just like that, I assumed lotus on the wooden floor and said all solemnly: Hand me the cards. At which point Oscar handed me the cards, all while Public Image Ltd’s Metal Box spun waves of darkness in the room, meaning it was quite spooky atmosphere in there as I was preparing to read those cards. And, of course, I didn’t know the first thing about how to perform a traditional card reading—the whole idea of it just fit the image I was going for: spooky, strange, and mystical—so I pretended like I knew what I was doing, shuffling the cards, placing them in a nice stack on the hardwood floor. And then I said: OK, draw one, don’t look at it, just place it face-down in front of you. And that’s when Robert turned to me and said, It’s not Yu-Gi-Oh, to which I responded with a quick shush, and then Oscar drew a card, placed it face-down, and said: Why don’t you draw one, too? So I also drew a card and placed it face-down. And then I said: OK, on three, flip your card. And Robert was rolling his eyes, hard.
One. Two. Three.
I looked down at my card: A young man on a ledge, extravagant dress, holding a flower and a bundle on a long stick, a dog at his feet, perhaps trying to warn him of the ledge.
Then I looked at Oscar’s card: Two people, a man and a woman, standing nude, chained to a post, perched upon the post was a red figure, hairy chest, bat wings, goat horns, terrible grin.
I looked up at Oscar, he looked up at me, our eyes locked for a good few seconds, expressions deadly serious, the doomed noise of Metal Box fading out, the end of the first track, so I could hear the tranquil digital flutes and birds from the television, which Robert sat transfixed by. Then, suddenly, I let out a nervous laugh, and Oscar, mirroring me, did too. And then, feeling amphetamine hyperfocus coming on, I started going off about the cards:
You got The Devil, but that’s not always, like, a bad thing, I think. The cards aren’t black and white like that. The tarot isn’t about telling fortunes, it’s really just a bunch of symbols, symbols that you can interpret however you want; The Devil usually means, like, addiction, temptation, taboo, materialism, being trapped by dark thoughts, not being in control of yourself, stuff like that; but that’s only upright. See, you have it in reverse, which could mean something like giving in to bad thoughts or overcoming some sort of barrier—be it, like, good or bad, or both, who knows; again, it’s not really, like, a fortune. It means whatever you want it to mean. You take the symbols and, maybe, like, figure out some insight about yourself.
Oscar was nodding along, looking relieved, almost. And then he said: What about yours?
Oh, The Fool, right. Well, that one is, like, pretty self-explanatory. Reversed it symbolizes some sort of reckless behavior—you see how he’s about to walk off the cliff? Like, totally unaware? But it could also mean a new beginning, maybe something, like, really cool is beyond that cliff, maybe it’s the start of a new adventure or something, could also be the start of a new nightmare, and the dog, there, at his feet, is like, the obvious warnings, being ignored, or something. (And really feeling the two addys now): The Fool could be the beginning or the end or both and, you know, the hero in most video games and TV shows is usually portrayed as some sort of, like, Fool card, because you have to be a fool, in some ways, to start an adventure, I guess; either foolishly brave or just plain stupid, ignorant, right? And this is also why The Fool is the number zero in the tarot because, well, zero is the start of all numbers, I guess, but also because zero is, like, unlimited, it has no fixed value, it’s, like, pure potential, you know? So The Fool is potential, good or bad; reckless, silly potential, the hero or the zero, or the villian sometimes. Have you ever heard the song called Zero by The Smashing Pumpkins? (Oscar shook his head.) No way, I’m sure you’ve heard it. You’ll recognize it. They play it on one-oh-six all the time.
So I rummaged through my vinyl collection, then eventually dropped the needle on Mellon Collie right in the perfect spot, so that heavy riff, like a chainsaw revving through a distortion pedal, immediately started up. Then I sat in my office chair and swiveled to the keyboard, woke up the computer—some sort of Final Fantasy wallpaper illuminating my face—and pulled up YouTube. Then I spun the chair around, as if I were in a command center, and said: Well, have you heard this before? And Oscar said: Actually, yeah, I think so. And then I said (really really feeling the two addys at this point): Yeah, this was recorded right when Billy was losing his hair, and there’s, like, actually a video of him playing this with short hair, which he only had for, like, a month before just shaving it all off. He’s one of the few people who, I think, actually looks kinda good with a shaved head, so I guess he kinda, like, lucked out in the dome zone. (Robert, still playing his game, laughed at dome zone part.) Anyway, look, here—(I pulled up an early recording of The Smashing Pumpkins playing “Zero” while “Zero” was still playing on the turntable)—isn’t he so handsome with his short hair? Oh, let me put this on mute.
So I put the YouTube video on mute and let the vinyl play, and that’s when Oscar leaned over my shoulder, looking at the video, and he said: Not as handsome as you. And I took this as sarcasm and started laughing, then performed an image search of Billy Corgan, and we both proceeded to comment on Billy Corgan’s various looks throughout the ages—me commenting way more than Oscar because I was speeding out of my mind at this point—right up until “Zero” finished playing, at which time Robert said: Can we listen to something, like, good? And I glared over the back of my chair and said: What do you mean, good? And Robert said: Like Bright Eyes or, uh, how about Dylan, don’t you have a Dylan record? And my expression went sour for a moment but perked up as I realized that this was the perfect opportunity to fuck with Robert, so I bent over to the turntable, lifted the needle, and then turned back to the PC, searched up Wesley Willis on YouTube, and clicked the first result, at which time a cheap-sounding keyboard loop started up and then a deep voice started talking over it: My mother is a dope fiend; my mother smokes paraphernalia as I speak; my mother buys cocaine from a dope man; she loves to smoke that crack pipe. Then Robert started cracking up, and I started cracking up, and Oscar too was cracking up, and then we spent the next hour listening to crude Wesley Willis songs—including “I Wupped Batman’s Ass,” “Suck a Cheetah’s Dick,” and “Rock ‘n’ Roll McDonald’s”—me explaining all about Wesley Willis because I was speeding hard on amphetamines and could not stop talking, until eventually Robert said: Smoke? And I said: Sure.
And then we were out on the porch, Robert and I taking hits from Dragon Bowl Z and chain-smoking, talking real fast about all sorts of stuff because we were high as fuck, swirling. At some point, Oscar brought up the topic of food, so I pulled out the Motorola and ordered a couple pizzas, which arrived over an hour later, at which time we chowed down in my lavish downstairs kitchen, which included a wall made almost entirely out of windows so that you could see into the pool area with the hot tub and the massive palm trees. Oscar said, in a joking tone, We should go skinny dipping. At which point Robert and I both looked at each other and said almost simultaneously, FUCK NO. Then there was a pause before I said, It’s too cold, as if that were the only reason not to do it, and we all started laughing.
So we finished our pizza and went back upstairs, me feeling kind of gross and fat because this was my second meal of the day, and I typically only had one meal per day. Even though I was very thin at the time, I was still self-conscious about my weight, which caused me no end of terrible angst. This feeling-fat feeling, combined with the weed suddenly making me hyper self-conscious, made me despondent, like I was dragging around a huge raincloud, pouring. So I went to the PC, put iTunes on random, turned it up real loud, and then went out on the porch all by myself. It was dark, maybe around nine or so, and I started to count my cigarettes, listening to the music and ocean waves in the pauses between, which was calming, but the raincloud was still there, drizzling. I had counted eleven cigarettes.
I smoked a whole bowl by myself and then lit a cig, all while Robert and Oscar were inside, beyond the curtain, playing The Legend of Dragoon or something. And while I was out there, on the balcony, time seemed to stop. I heard David Bowie through the curtains: It’s not the side-effects of the cocaine, I’m thinking that it must be love. And the trees and sky above felt like they were closing in, like I was being overtaken by some psychedelic blackness, as if I had become the raincloud itself and was meddling with the sky, obviously very high, tripping out. And when my thoughts eventually turned to smoking another cigarette, I noticed there were only three left.
And then there were only two, as I stood there, looking up, cig dangling from my lip, smoke twirling, watching the moon, on that private island community to which I belonged but did not belong, far away from the city lights, where the stars burned oh so bright like the youth I was so in the midst of. The raincloud still there, right above me. Then Oscar just appeared on the balcony, from the curtain, like a thief in the night, and said: Whatcha doing out here? And he said it just like that, all playful, flirty. So I said: Nothing, just smoking. And he said: Well, I missed you in there. And then, trying to avoid talking about my gloom, I said: I wanted to play Breath of Fire III, but Robert hogged the television. And Oscar said: But there are, at least, eight televisions in this house. And I said: Yeah, but that’s not the same, and anyway, I’m, like, too fucked up right now to play a video game, so it’s whatever. And then I blew smoke at the moon like caution to the wind. And that’s when Oscar said: Something bothering you? And I said: No, just ate too much. And Oscar said: Your stomach hurts? And I said: No, it’s just, it’s whatever, don’t worry about it. And my head was swirling pretty bad now, so I sat down on the sandstone, my back to a column, stars above me. Then I said: I just smoked too much, is all, I’ll be fine. And Oscar said: You need to be careful. And I said: Whatever. And then, suddenly unsure how much time had passed, I followed up with: What time is it? And Oscar said: It’s, like, twelve. And I said: Last time I checked, it was nine. And then he said: Well, we’ve come out a few times since then, don’t you remember? And that’s when I realized that whole hours in my night were missing, and this spooked me a bit, so I said: What about Robert? To which Oscar replied: He was watching a movie on TV, Night of the Living Dead, he told you about it, then he fell asleep, it’s still on, his dog is under your desk, I don’t think he likes me very much, keeps growling. So I said: He’ll warm up to you. Then I looked up at the waning gibbous—my face all serious moonlight—and said, softly: Just you and me then. And Oscar said: Yep. At which point a song was fading out, so for a moment, there was only the sound of distant waves.
But then a new song started playing. Airy keys filled the space between us, then a melancholy voice like a raspy saxophone sang out: A man in my shoes runs a light, and all the papers lied tonight, but falling over you is the news of the day. And Oscar said: Oh, I know this one. And I said: Yeah, it’s in movies and stuff. And he said: What’s it called? And I said: Ghost in You, Psychedelic Furs. And then I paused and added: It’s a little too slow for my tastes. Then Oscar said: Nice title, though, appropriate, too. And I said: What do you mean? And then he said: You’re kind of like a ghost, you know. And he said it in this bashful way that was kinda cute, so I looked up at him, my mind swirling but sharp—thanks to the addys—and he was looking at me with this wide, expectant smile, as if he knew I would like what he had just said, and I did; I breathed his words in like a cigarette, felt them, savored them—finally, someone who understands, I thought. So I said:
Yeah. Sometimes, up here, I feel like I’m the only person on Earth. You know, these mansions all around us? They’re mostly vacation homes for millionaires. So, even though they look all pretty and amazing, there’s hardly anyone ever in them. Empty. Kinda like how I feel sometimes. Fat and empty. I guess that’s a paradox, or something. My Mom and Steve are always out, too, doing something or whatever, so I’m usually here alone, up in my room, and most of the time that’s fine—I want to be alone. But I don’t. I do, but I don’t. Like. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I walk through this house sometimes, and even though I’m here, it’s like no one’s here. And sometimes it’s like I can see myself walking through the house, like a spectre or a ghost or whatever, like I’m haunting the place—going into the kitchen, making Easy Mac, going back upstairs, doing my bullshit routines. Like a ghost. An unsent, you know, from Final Fantasy—Auron, he’s a cool character, one of my favorites ever, but he’s dead, you know? He’s a ghost. Kinda like this place. A ghost of a home. No one is here. And all the houses here are ghosts too, neglected, longing for their families, who barely ever come around. Sometimes I come out on this balcony and just, like, chain-smoke, watch the other houses, and no one ever pulls into them. Like, that one right in front there, with the twisty driveway, never seen anyone go in or out of there in my life. There’s something empty about this whole island, like the more money you have, the busier you are, the more you leave things unoccupied, empty, alone. Money as a kind of death, a small death, like, things you once cherished now taken for granted, those things dying, slowly, starved of attention, turned to ghosts, homes you once lived in, forgotten, things you once cared about, irrelevant. Maybe I’m just being, like, stupid. Maybe there are other people out there. Maybe if I made an effort, I could meet someone, make friends with the neighbors. Maybe I need to go down the block or something, go to 26th instead of 27th, I don’t know. But I just can’t make an effort—I don’t want to. I do, but I don’t. You know? I don’t even go to school half the time, and my mom thinks I do. I’m failing classes. I saw a bum earlier today—he was actually pretty handsome, kinda looked like you—and I thought to myself: that’s me in, like, twenty years. And I can talk about how much of a fuck-up I am, about how I sit up here, in this high tower, just like playing video games on my expensive PC and listening to vinyl records, all that my mom bought for me—and, you know, some of those records cost, like, a hundred bucks—but what good does talking about it do? Talking about how I suck but never doing anything about is itself kind of like a ghost, criticism dead on arrival, or something, I don't know. I’m just a mooch, a waste of space, a fat waste of space, but you know, it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters. We all die anyway. It’s whatever. I’m just bitching. I think it’s the weed. I always get moody on weed. Like. I don’t even know why I smoke this shit. I think, maybe, if I smoke just the right amount, I can feel really good, you know? But most of the time, it’s hell, so I guess I’m trying to, like, find the perfect balance between heaven and hell.
And then I bent over, to the lip of the balcony window, pulled down the bowl, my pack of cigarettes, and the lighter, then took another hit of grass, lit a cigarette, and then fell back on the hard sandstone, all splayed out, looking up at the stars—until Oscar’s face blotted them out, him looking down on me with those real pretty Persian cat eyes of his.
Then he said: I don’t think you’re fat or a fuck-up, in fact, I think you’re really cool.
The Ghost in You started fading out.
And then there was nothing but the wind and waves.
I was blowing smoke.
Oscar was staring down at me, handsome smile.
I said: The stars were blocking my view.
And then he said: Of what?
And I said: Of you.
Then he stretched out his hand, still smiling, and said: That doesn't make any sense, I think it's time for bed.
So I stubbed out the cigarette and grabbed Oscar’s hand, pulled myself up, but was barely able to stand—on account of the head rush and all the drugs—so Oscar propped me up and led me through the curtains into my room, now dark, where I saw Robert, passed out, in my bed, television on, zombie ripping into the neck of a fair maiden, her eyes rolled back into her head. And then I said: That’s not Night of the Living Dead. And Oscar kinda shrugged, still propping me up. And then I noticed my PC monitors all aglow, so I shifted my weight toward them and paused iTunes, which had been playing a song titled “Untitled,” that had one of those long quiet experimental intros, so I fell back into my office chair and said: Have you ever heard a good song titled Untitled? Because I never have, really, like, ever, I think that’s, like, a self-fulfilling prophecy, naming a song Untitled, stupid.
And I was rambling like this for some time, on account of all the speed, until I paused to rummage through my records, looking for something to put on, waiting to stay up, but I was knocking all sorts of stuff over in the process. I remember Oscar bending over, picking stuff up in real-time, placing it back on the desk. But eventually, he somehow convinced me to stop, get up, and chill out, at which time I remember him holding one of the records I had knocked over—a 7”, the Pale Spectre / Plastic Flowers single—so I said something like: I got that one just a few weeks ago, in Charleston, haven’t listened to it, The Wake, cool name for a band, that’s why I picked it up, kinda cool cover too, looks like static or something, and I think, like, maybe they sound like New Order or something, you ever heard them? New Order? They’re that band that formed after Joy Division, Bizarre Love Triangle, you know, Ian Curtis; guy killed himself, hung himself while listening to, what was it, like, The Idiot, Iggy Pop—I have that one somewhere too.
But before I could go further, Oscar shushed me, grabbed my hand, helped me turn off all the electronics, and then led me to bed.
And although I was totally out of it, I do remember, at this point, there being a long, strange pause—us standing there at the bed. And then I remember, clear as day, taking my pants off, standing there in nothing but my boxers and button-up (which was my normal sleeping attire—in fact, I normally slept without a shirt on, so in this instance, I was being modest because of company), and I remember Oscar just standing there, looking me up and down before saying something like: So, where should I sleep?
Without any hesitation, I said: You can sleep in my bed.
He replied with a whisper: Are you sure?
Yeah, Robert and I always sleep in the same bed, so it’s, like, whatever.
And then Oscar smiled real wide: That sounds good.
We crawled into bed, him in the middle, me on the edge, Robert on the other edge, Hannibal under my desk, hiding. The lights were off, it was quiet.
And despite the addys and grass wreaking havoc on my brain, I tried my best to get comfortable, curling up real snug under the comforter, putting good space between Oscar and me, imagining my head resting on clouds. I remember closing my eyes, trying real hard to get some sleep that night.
But it just wasn’t in the cards.
VIII, Untitled
At first, I thought it was a dream, the tickling, the warmth on my neck, the wetness there. The addys and the grass were waging war inside me, fucking with my head, and I was going through phases of wide awake, pre-sleep, and sleep, and I was even having those dreams where you wake up, brush your teeth, wash up, and get dressed, only to find out that you’re still dreaming—those tease dreams, the ones that trick you into thinking that it’s just another normal day, that everything is going to be alright, but then you wake up.
And that’s why, when I felt the hand up my shirt, the light scratching down my back, the little squeezes here and there, I thought, maybe, that I was dreaming, that I was having some sort of erotic dream. I may have even moaned, a few times, before rolling over, groaning, trying to make it stop. But the hand kept touching, feeling, creeping all over my body, down my back, over the curve of my ass, down my legs, then back up again, squeezing my neck, playing with my hair. But it was a dream, I thought, it must be a dream, I thought, this is the sort of thing that only happens in a dream, I will wake up soon, I thought, but then I heard his voice:
Do you like that?
It had to be a dream, I thought, the hand slipping under my waistband, sliding down, tickling, it was a dream; so I turned over, tried to wake up, but that only allowed the hand to caress my chest, the bump of my neck, then down below, again, under the waistband, down there, fondling, touching, and that’s when I felt the fear, the weird fear, something like guilt and mortification and embarassment all rolled into one, something hard to explain, that’s when I realized these emotions were happening in real time, not dream time; this was not a dream, so I turned over again, my back facing him, but then I felt his lips, his tongue, the slime he left on the nape of my neck, the wetness all over, his hardness, pushed up against me; and then his hand, down, again, under the waistband, squeezing, this wasn’t a dream, this was happening, and then I felt his palm gripping, tugging, pulling, and his fingers inching between me, parting me, and then sliding in, his fingers wiggling around inside, squirming, like worms, like fucking worms, and him saying, do you like that should I stop, but I was mute, unable to speak, paralyzed, this was not a dream, this was happening, but I was paralyzed, unable to move, afraid, scared, embarrassed, what if Robert woke up, realized what was happening, would he laugh, maybe he wouldn’t believe me, maybe he’d think I was being dramatic, maybe he’d think I was a weakling, because I felt like one: why couldn’t I do anything, why couldn’t I say no; his fingers still inside me, I felt myself clench around him, the moistness, the worms, so I turned again, tried to tell him, without words, maybe if I kept turning he would get the hint, maybe he would realize that I didn’t want this, but this only made me more exposed, and him more aggressive, so I would turn again, and again, and again, but it was always the same, the licking, the fingers, inside; and this went on for hours, every minute was forever, swirling, back and forth, in and out, his warmth on my neck, his quiet devil whisper, the fear, the embarrassment, the paralysis, the worms inside me, powerless, unable to move; but there was something else there, in the back of my mind, something like pleasure, weird arousal, as if I liked it somehow, but why, why did I like it, even a little bit, him touching me, attention, flattery, using me, like a toy, how could I like it while also hating it, what’s wrong with me, I wanted to say no, I wanted it to stop, but I liked it, so I didn’t understand, I wanted it to stop, I really did, but he kept touching me, using me, sheets bubbling up and down just so, his hands all over me, his fingers, inside me; my eyes, open, the whole time, vacant, watching as sunlight peeked through the blinds, estimating time by shadows on the wall, feeling lips on my neck, his hands on my body; and the sunlight didn’t help, because now I could see him, and I couldn’t bear to see him, so I closed my eyes, hard, paralyzed, waiting, waiting for it to be over, and I kept waiting and waiting and waiting until he woke up, until Robert woke up, and thank god for that, because that’s when Oscar stopped, went still, like nothing had happened at all.
But then, suddenly, Robert left, and my heart sank, because now I was truly alone with Oscar—and what else could he do? What else would he do? What was going to happen to me? Should I scream? Attack him? Why couldn’t I do anything? Why was I so weak? I had to do something. I had to work up the courage, break this terrible hex.
But then, just like that, Oscar left too; he rolled out of bed, got his stuff, and just left, without saying a word.
So there I was, lying in my bed—used, violated, alone—telling myself that maybe this was just a dream, a really bad dream, telling myself that maybe I would wake up soon.
But I never woke up.
It wasn’t a dream.
IX, The Pale Spectre Returns
The minutes felt like days, and the days felt like the worst of days. I don’t know how long I was lying there, staring up at the dimly lit ceiling—broken, unmoving—still feeling the grass and the addys waging war inside me, all sorts of thoughts going through my head: Did I lead him on? Did I come on too strong? Why did I flirt with him? Am I that starved for attention? Is this my punishment? Why didn’t I say no? Is this my fault? And so on, until I rolled out of bed, shivered, pulled up my boxers, then put my jeans back on, not really thinking anymore, just doing things, a profound blankness, like a zombie; and then I walked to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, at myself, those voidant, undead eyes, hair tousled, bruising on my neck, which I touched gently, then, without really thinking, got in the shower, turned it on—with my clothes on—and just stood there, in the shower, soaking wet, before eventually taking my clothes off, in the shower, and scrubbing at my body with a bar of soap, all over, hard, as if there were some terrible grime there, some terrible grime that would not come off, as if my body itself were dirt, and if I just scrubbed hard enough, maybe I would disappear completely.
I don’t know how long I was in the shower, but when I got out, I put a sweater on, another pair of boxers, another pair of jeans, as if new clothes were new me, but they weren’t, I was the same me, damaged, just doing things, in a fugue state, at my desk for some reason, looking down, seeing The Fool and The Devil, the Pale Spectre 7” overlapping Breath of Fire III, then a sudden surge of anger, the thoughts coming back, the nightmare, replaying, the dream I did not wake up from, the terrible dream, asking myself why, what went wrong, what the hell happened; and then, in one violent outburst, I swept my arms across the desk, which sent things flying: my keyboard, mouse, ripped from the tower, across the room; vinyl crashing into the wall, rolling out of its sleeve, cracked, broken; the tarot high in the air, whipped around by the ceiling fan, cards floating all around me; Breath of Fire III, somehow unharmed, still there, on my desk—but it would not escape my wrath, there was a special place for this one, I thought; so I picked up the jewel case, and then I said:
Fuck this game.
And within minutes, there I was, a pale spectre, on a bench, on a walkway, on the Atlantic, on a private island in a gated community to which I belonged but did not belong, waves going up and down like the addys and grass I was coming down on, cool morning breeze blowing right through me, mossy oaks getting sensual, no sleep, teenage brain basically fried, one hand dangling a lit cigarette between two fingers, the other that cursed copy of Breath of Fire III, missing the front-cover insert so the orange disc shone right through, and I could see my reflection there, off the jewel case, through a cloud of smoke: hair wild as the wind, eyes sunken all Night of the Living Dead, expression expressionless.
There I was, a pale spectre, about to throw that jewel case right into the ocean, drown it all in the sea.
But before I did that, I needed to know why. Why did he do it? Was it me? Did I do something? Was he just evil? Did I lead him on? Was I too flirty? Why didn’t I say no? I needed to know why. Why did he do it?
So I took out my phone and texted him one word:
Why?
And, almost instantly, he replied:
Why not?
And that was the last I ever heard from him…
So I guess I’ll never know.
Epilogue
Flashforward 16 years.
Here I am, on a bench, on a walkway, on the Atlantic, on a private island, on 27th Street, in a gated community to which I once belonged but never truly belonged, typing up this epilogue on my laptop, battery at 13%, waves going up and down, drug simile no longer applying because I’m clean now. But the cool breeze still blows right through me, and the mossy oaks are still getting sensual, there's just no cigarette between my fingers because I quit years ago. But that same copy of Breath of Fire III is still here, at my side, and I can see my reflection there, off the jewel case, clear as day: hair buzzed because who cares, eyes still sunken because I still stay up too late; but my expression is no longer expressionless, maybe it’s a little nostalgic. Funny how you can be nostalgic for the most terrible of things.
I came back here, to this secret beach, on 27th Street, thinking that I would find some sort of inspiration, come up with some clever conclusion to wrap up this whole story, give it a grand theme, a point, tie the whole thing together, throw a life lesson in there somewhere, make the events of that day seem mystical in some way, as if there was a purpose for every little thing that happened, some sort of hidden, esoteric meaning; maybe even come up with some crazy ending, like: The next week at school, Oscar gets arrested, in front of his whole class, for doing weird stuff in the bathrooms with freshmen, and thus justice is served, poetic justice, and finally, I can get some closure. I thought that, maybe, if I made something up, changed history in some metaphysical way, that I would feel better about what happened, learn to deal with it.
But anything I could come up with would be a lie because I never spoke to Oscar again after that night, and I don’t even remember seeing him at school for the rest of the year. He had become a ghost, a shade, a poltergeist that existed only in my mind, in my nightmares. So I have no idea what happened to him—maybe he’s out there doing something positive with his life, being successful, trying to do good, atone, maybe he misread the whole thing, maybe he regrets what he did. I don’t know.
And I don’t care.
But that’s a lie, I do care. I care so much that I wrote a whole 20,000 words on it, and I did that, I think, because I wanted to make sense of it all, try to figure out what happened, answer the why in why not, find some sort of closure.
But, of course, all I found were ghosts.
Maybe closure isn’t a real thing; maybe people don’t get over things at all. Maybe closure is just a cheap word, pop-psych bullshit, used to pretend that the bad things are suddenly OK now that certain arbitrary conditions are met, as if the bad things just go away or become less bad somehow. But the bad things don’t just go away—they still exist, in our memory, in our stories, as legends, reality mixed with fiction, stories that change but whose cores remain the same, part of who we are as living human people. We absorb the bad things—the good things too—internalize them, become changed by them, forever, in some twisted way, but maybe that’s OK, because that’s just the way it is, so maybe it has to be OK.
I don’t know.
It’s going to sound like I’m making this next part up, but please bear with me, this really happened, just a moment ago, on this bench, on this walkway, on the Atlantic, on 27th Street.
As I was typing, I heard a dog bark. So I looked up from my laptop, and out there, near the shore, I saw a black dog with three boys, and those boys were waving. They were far away, so I couldn’t make them out too well, but I think they were waving at me, so I waved back, then I put my head down, started typing, but was suddenly overcome with a certain weirdness, so I looked up to catch another glimpse, but they were gone—the boys were gone.
And now, for some reason, I can’t stop crying.
If this story made you feel something, feel free to email me at f0rrest@pm.me.