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I, Pale Spectre
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 a 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, bearing to look at myself no longer, so I flipped the jewel case, scanned the words: SUGGESTIVE THEMES … a rebellious youth … YOU POSSESS THE POWER … ponders his purpose … MILD ANIMATED VIOLENCE … the lone survivor … DRAGON GENE SPLICING … a great journey … LEGENDARY ROLEPLAYING … shrouded in mystery … TEEN (13+)
I had heard good things about Breath of Fire III: they say it has a timeless art style, a complex ability system, a jazzy soundtrack; they say the story’s not bad either: the main character grows up, changes, gets older; they say it’s a bildungsroman—whatever the fuck that means—but there I was, a pale spectre, about to throw the game right into the Atlantic Ocean…
So I guess I’ll never know.
II, The Headmaster Ritual
Flashback 24 hours.
It’s Friday morning. Barack Obama had won the election just three days prior, so it was a week of celebration, or a week mourning, depending on who you asked. I didn’t care about politics, of course, as my dark hair was like that of an overgrown fern and my blue eyes were dark with eyeliner and my canvas messenger bag was full of Nietzsche books I had never read in my life and my arms were wrapped in all sorts of colorful bracelets and my girl jeans were ripped at the knees and I had spent the night before wired on Adderall playing Starcraft while listening to The Sundays and my left ear was hooped and my dark collared shirt was two sizes too big because I thought it looked cool in a gloomy post-punk kind of way and my cigarettes were right there in the glove box and I thought the whole world was kind of a joke, so obviously I didn’t care about much at all, other than myself, thinking everything was pretty much meaningless because we all die so we might as well just do whatever we want, within reason; and on this specific day, I extolled these anti-values from the cramped backseat of what was basically a real-life Hot Wheels car: a white 1991 Pontiac Firebird with the fluttering eyes and curved profile of a femme fatale, two doors, parked on a side road just outside the school zone; it wasn’t my car; it was my friend Robert’s, because I couldn’t drive, even being of age—because I claimed to have nowhere to go , but in truth I was just too lazy to take the tests—so my mom would drop me off in the morning, and when she was out of sight, I would creep off campus, get in the Firebird—which Robert always left unlocked for me—and snuggle up the best I could in that cramped backseat with a thin pillow and one of those old 5th Generation iPods—the kind that plays videos—which was originally Robert’s, but he had given it to me for keepsies, for no reason other than I had asked him for it, eager to please, so he was just that kind of friend: a good one, a good friend, my best friend.
On this day, I happened to be watching Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children, and after watching, for the umpteenth time, the fight scene with Tifa and Loz in the church—which always gave me goosebumps with its piano rendition of the original game’s battle theme—I contorted myself like a broken plastic straw into the passenger seat, popped open the glove box, grabbed my soft pack of Marlboro Lights, and then kicked open the door and bent myself out of the car, stretching my 6’2 self out right there on the cement sidewalk, looking all around, absorbing the atmosphere: dark, broken, homicidal decay that oozed from every surrounding building, as if the buildings themselves had been addicted to meth for over three hundred years, which was roughly the age of this town, which was a nationally recognized historic port town known for its booming illegal narcotics trade—due to the ease of trafficking because of all the ports—and the school itself was only minutes away from the druggy ports and the real bad part of town we called Wolf Street—because of its name, but also because of the literal wolves—and the pulp mill, with its smokestacks that billowed rancid clouds of gas, which made the whole town smell of rotten eggs every afternoon around 1:30 PM sharp, and all this was only one bridge and two causeways away from the private island community to which I belonged but did not belong, where I lived with my mother and wealthy stepdad; it was as if there were a literal line dividing the haves and have-nots of the county, and I was skirting that line, pretending to be a have-not, both to be cool and because, well, it just wasn’t wise to be wealthy on Wolf Street.
So I leaned back on the Firebird, slid a cigarette between my lips, sparked it, took a nice long drag, exhaled, sighed pleasurably, popped in my earbuds, slid my thumb across the iPod click wheel, navigated to The Smiths, Self-Titled, and clicked play: It's time the tale were told, of how you took a child, and you made him old. But this was too downtempo for the moment, so I thumbed the old click wheel back to The Smiths, Meat Is Murder, and clicked play once more: Belligerent ghouls run Manchester schools; spineless swines, cemented minds. And this fit the moment, so I took it all in, leaning on that Hot Wheels car, tapping fingers to Marr’s aural attack, absorbing Morrissey’s doomed literacy, cool breeze swaying both sweetgum and water oak as if in time with the music, while I puffed clouds of poisonous gas and tried real hard to look like a post-punk James Dean, looking down on all the belligerent ghouls, believing myself to be quite literally too cool for school; all while Mom was back home, none the wiser, keeping her second husband’s business books in order while watching her soaps and her No Spin Zones and her SlapChop infomercials, believing her only son was not a total fuck-up, that he just pretended to hate everything for funsies and suffered for fashion. It’s just a phase, she would say, and she had been saying this for nearly two decades, probably even in my utero.
But I must have lost track of time, because the bell rang out and just like that a wave of teens—many in Obama ‘08 t-shirts, with slogans YES WE CAN and CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN—flooded the sidewalk. Then a pick-up truck with quite a few McCain bumper stickers and at least two confederate flags somehow attached to the hood slowly rolled down the street, in its bed a few teens, all with trucker hats and mullets; they spit out thick wads of snuff in unison at a tall black kid wearing a YES WE CAN, and then they screamed something like GO BACK TO AFRICA WITH YOUR MONKEY PRESIDENT, and that black kid took off after the truck on foot, as if intent on stopping it with his bare hands, at which point the good-ol’ boys in the back yelled GOTDAMN HE FAST then started with the hootin’ and hollerin’, and the driver stomped the gas, blasting off down the one-way, nearly hitting a garbage can before skidding off into a side road, tailpipe backfiring, distinct smell of diesel left behind, at which point the black kid threw up his hands and gave up, which I watched with some morbid curiosity, myself basically immune to race-based discrimination due to my ghostly complexion, a prilevege I never really thought about back then, but one I certainly reaped the benefits of.
And it was around this time I pulled out my Motorola, checked the time, and realized it was 15 minutes into lunch, a time when juniors and seniors were allowed to leave campus, as long as they were back in time for next period; but I, a seventeen-year-old sophomore held back a grade or two for basically never showing up to class, was not allowed to be off campus to begin with, and many of the faculty knew it and could spot me from a mile away—due to my peculiar dress and ridiculous hair—particularly the principal, Mr. Saunds, who kind of had it out for me ever since the year prior when he caught me skipping class but was unable to get ahold of my mother due to her phone number being incorrect in the school database (in a stroke of administrative genius, the parent paperwork could be turned in by the students themselves), so he had no quick way of reporting my truancy in both school and life itself.
Mr. Saunds himself had a bit of a reputation, he would drive the school-issued golf cart around all day, trying to catch class cutters, such was his headmaster ritual, and students would often recount urban legends about him, say he would sometimes climb off-campus trees, just perch up there like a shrike scanning for prey, his little head just barely poking out of the foliage, waiting to get the drop on some unsuspecting kid trying to ditch school; they also said Mr. Saunds would hide in bathroom stalls, perch up on the toilet seat with his feet up on the rim and his knees held high—so kids couldn’t see him if they happened to peek under the stalls—just waiting for some kid to light one up, at which time he would pop out, confiscate the cigarettes or the reefer or whatever non-school-appropriate stuff the kid happened to have; Mr. Saunds himself reeking of piss and shit like some sort of poop bandit—because of all the bathroom perching—which is supposedly how he got his nickname: Shitty Saunds. They even said he had a whole desk full of confiscated flip phones, iPods, weed-nug baggies, lighters, Nintendo DS consoles, cigarettes both loose and packaged, PlayStation Portables, Magic: The Gathering cards, Tamagotchis, pocket knives, and whatever else he happened to get his very hairy hands on, all labeled with the appropriate student’s name, so that he could pull them out during parent-teacher conferences and say stuff like: Look familiar, kid? Complete with Shitty Saunds’ Signature Shit-Eating Smirk. It was as if he hated the very thing that made his work possible to begin with: kids, particularly teenaged kids. And he always wore these thick square glasses over his little beady eyes, patchy rough beard always trimmed real close to his always-sweaty face, itself tanned and pock-marked, and he wore the same brown vest and slacks every day, and he was balding with a wicked hairline and little waves of brown above his ears, his reddish dome wider than the rest of his thin body, which itself was kind of phallic, so overall he looked pretty much like a penis—and that was the common reaction from kids unlucky enough to come face-to-face with him: shock and disgust, as if some dude had just pulled out their member in public; meaning that Mr. Saunds was not only a complete dick, but he looked like one too.
I scanned the area, looking for Robert, who usually met up with me at lunch but, for whatever reason, was nowhere to be seen. A few minutes passed, and my cigarette was down to the filter, so I took one final drag, bent down, crushed out the cherry, one earbud falling out, and that’s when I heard it: the electric hum of the golf cart, and that’s when I saw it: the actual golf cart, quite a ways away but slowly making its way down the road, Shitty Saunds behind the wheel, his head leaning out, no doubt looking for freshmen and sophomores to torment. I pushed the fallen earbud back into my ear: He does the military two-step down the nape of my neck. And that’s when I realized that Saunds hadn’t seen me yet, so I quickly turned to the Firebird—figuring I could just hide in the car for a bit—gripped the passenger-side handle, gave it a tug, and then a few more, and that’s when I realized that I had accidentally locked myself out, so I panicked and rushed to the driver-side door, gave the handle a few tugs, only to find that it too was locked; and that’s when my eyes went wide, shifting back and forth from the approaching golf cart to the Firebird and then to the shady parking lot just across the street, which was supposed to be for a bank but was now dotted with several unhoused individuals—many holding signs, most with tents, some with dogs, and some with many dogs—and then I glanced back at the golf cart, which was much closer now, and that’s when I heard: I SEE YOU, BOY. And now Shitty Saunds was closing in on me, hairy fist raised high out the side of the vehicle, golf cart reaching speeds of 10 mph. YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY THIS TIME. So with no option but to flee, I did a quick pocket-check for phone, iPod, cigarettes, lighter, and then, and after a car zoomed by while Morrissey sang bruises bigger than dinner plates, I bolted across the road, right into the neo-Hooverville that was the scary parking lot just a block away from the school.
All the running caused my earbuds to fall out, so I pushed them deep into my pockets and just kept running like my life depended on it. Never looking back. Voices of the dispossessed trailing behind me: Where you going, kid? Got a cigarette? Spare a few? Dogs barking, snarling. Hey, honey, how about you come over here? Green, I got green. Whatcha so in a hurry for? You want some? And at some point, a pitbull, poorly tied to a tent stake, snapped at my legs, then a dark hand reached out from that same tent, so I took a giant leap, clearing both the dog and the hand, landing hard on my feet, then continuing my heinous sprint like there was no tomorrow, right out of that ruinous hell zone and right into a thin alley between the old Fox’s Pizza and the Antique Shop run by the old lady that was just a little too friendly; then I exited the alley into downtown proper, suddenly surrounded by old brick and worn awnings and palm trees and the old city hall, complete with out-of-place Romanesque columns, the port nearby giving off that classic undead fish smell, soot and algae rubbing off as I used one hand to lean myself up against Fox’s tan brick to catch a breather, the city library just a block away.
After catching my breath, I flipped open the Motorola and dialed Robert. His Verizon ringback tone started going off: Well, sad, small, sweet, so delicate. It used to be this dying breed. Well, I've got a bad feeling about this. Taking Back Sunday. And I cringed a little bit, like I did every time, waiting for him to pick up the phone, which he did, but only after the end of the chorus, at which point Robert whispered: What’s up?
And I said: Where were you at lunch? I was all alone out there. Shitty Saunds, like, practically chased me across town. And why are you whispering?
There was a brief silence before another whisper: Had to stay over in AP Lit, finish some stuff, teacher doesn't like phones, says there’s going to kill us all or something, should be out in a few. Where are you?
I looked over my shoulder, nervous, glared down the alley, saw a dirty man in a funny shirt, wasn’t Saunds, sighed relief, then looked across the street, car passing, nothing to worry about, then I looked everywhere else, satisfied, I answered: I’m going to the library. Your mom cool with you coming over tonight?
Yeah, she doesn’t care, as long as I bring Hannibal. Oh, and I told Oscar I’d hang out with him tonight, mind if he comes along?
I paused because Oscar was new to me, a senior that I had only met a few weeks ago, at a party or something, but he seemed cool when I met him, from what I could remember, and he was old enough to buy cigarettes; so I answered optimistically, with a shrug: Yeah, I guess. Bring your PS3.
Yeah. Cool. Of course. See you soon.
III, Strange Apparition
I dug up my earbuds, removed my iPod, flicked the click wheel to random, and clicked. Lord, please don't forsake me, in my Mercedes-Benz. Dropped the iPod back into my pocket, removed the pack of Marlboro Lights, now only one cig left. All the riches and the ruins, now we all know how that story ends. Balanced the cig on my lower lip, sparked it with my blue Bic. Woody ammonia, earthy toxin, groovy decay. Music still going. I dragged, billowed, started to feel like mellow gold as that honky-tonk Stones-esque piano melody rolled its way through my brain. I tousled my already wild hair, posed against the wall, tried to blow a smoke ring, imagined myself some sort of rock & roll wyvern.
Then, over the music, I heard someone shout, HAIL. Startled, thinking it might be Saunds, I turned and saw the same dirty man from earlier: tan, disheveled, baggy stained jeans, open flannel revealing a t-shirt upon which the words HERE’S A LIST OF WHO ASKED FOR YOUR OPINION, stylized in all caps, alongside a picture of an anthropomorphic Saint Bernard holding a blank sheet of paper while looking very aggressive and malevolent. The man’s dark hair was spiked into little horns with what looked like actual mud in lieu of hair gel, and he had these hypnotic feline eyes, but they were glazed over like little donuts, and his jawline and cheekbones were gaunt but immaculate—like a cokehead, or a pillhead, or a methhead, or one of those other heads, certainly a human head, on drugs. But all in all, he would have been quite handsome if not for the patchy shave job, dirt face, obvious drug addiction, and yellow-green stains all around his crotch area.
The dirty man made twirling hand gestures as he walked up to me, stopping about four feet away, at which point he stared at me for some time, handsome smile on his face, and I stared right back, awkward but unafraid, because we were both out in the open, pedestrians all around us, there was even a cop accosting some woman across the street, although there was this feeling that time had stopped, that I was peering out from some sort of temporal bubble, but I was not afraid, as I had dealt with the homeless before—during my school-skipping escapades—finding most to be harmless, plus I had a morbid curiosity about their lives—a writer’s fascination, almost—as if they were walking stories rather than walking people. So, I took out my earbuds, draped them over my shoulders, and gave this dirty man my full attention.
The dirty man had a radio voice and spoke weird English: May I beseech thee for a smoke, good lad? And this prompted a moment of silence, with me just standing there, kinda slack-jawed, processing the anachronism, then I wrist-flicked my pack of Marlboro Lights open to reveal the nothingness inside: All out, I said. And this caused the man’s handsome face to warp into wrinkles, frowning, which made him look much older than I initially assumed, and then he said: This is a most woeful turn of hap; I am sorely famished for a smoke, dear boy, yet have not a single coin wherewith to barter. And then there was yet another weird silence wherein my lips were quivering, about to burst with laughter, smoke escaping from the sides of my mouth as I lifted my palm to both hide my amusement and remove the cigarette from between my lips; the cigarette which, after swallowing laughter, I held out to the man and said: You can have the rest, I guess. And then the dirty man’s wrinkles vanished, and his eyes lit up as he daintily plucked the cigarette from between my fingers—there was a star tattooed there, on his wrist—and then he started huffing it down with animal-like fervor, gumming the filter, at which time I noticed he had only a few teeth, all of which looked like little corn kernels. I wanted to gag but kept myself together.
The dirty man looked quite pleased and, between long drags, he spoke, all while gesturing poetic: Ah, the aroma, the taste, the vapors coursing down mine throat, mine lungs swelling and falling, the smoke becoming as mine very flesh, the buzz, THE BUZZ, most wondrous and sweet; I thank thee, good lad.
And as I watched this dispossessed Shakespeare, I felt a shiver run down my spine, like I saw something of myself in him, as if he were me from the future—a homeless bum out of time, stuck in the past, trying to relive his youth, begging his younger self for sticks of corporate death, as if his very life depended on shortening that same life through arsenic and formaldehyde—but then I shook my head, snapped out of it, remembered that I was seventeen and invincible, the only kid on the planet, that I was lucky and always had been lucky and will continue to be lucky, and that I will never end up like this dirty man, and then, wanting to remove myself from the situation, to stop the weird dissonance, I said: OK then, I’ll see you around. And then tried to get the hell out of there.
But the dirty man just watched me intently, smoking, as if trying to work some sort of hypnotic gaze on me. So I blinked real hard, and then I fidgeted, and then I said, well uh bye then, and started my way down the sidewalk toward the library, about to put my earbuds back in, and that’s when I heard the dirty man shout, HARK, which startled me, so I turned back to him and saw him rummaging through his pockets as if looking for something very important, which piqued my interest, and then the man removed a crumpled piece of printer paper from his pocket, held it out to me, and spoke: O kind lad, for thy goodness, I bestow upon thee a vellum most precious.
My eyes shifted from the paper to the man’s dirty face to the mean-looking Saint Bernard on his shirt then back to the paper, a weird dread overcoming me, so I stepped back and said: Uh, no, no thanks. I’m good. I have to, I have to get—
But the dirty man only stepped closer, ball of paper aggressively outstretched like the dog on his shirt: You must take it, boy; this artifact hath brought great comfort in the lonely alleyway nights, ‘neath moon and star, surrounded yet so alone, huddled ‘neath tattered sack, garbage my closet friend and only cloak, drinking from puddles the wealthy stomp and splash upon me, living on naught but apple cores and melted cheese scraped from the wrappings of yon McDonald’s; this parchment is most dear to me, boy, and I would have thee take it, behold it, and keep it, to use in those long cold nights when thou art far from the touch of another soul—be it man, woman, or otherwise.
And as he spoke these insane words, he gazed down on me, covered me in shadow, which is when I realized he had to be about seven feet tall, and then the thought crossed my mind that this man could most definitely kill me if he wanted, and just like that my writer’s curiosity shattered, the dread was no longer weird but profound, almost prescient, like this was my impending doom; I suddenly felt as if I couldn’t say no, so I apprehensively took the paper from the dirty man’s hand, stepped back a good distance, and said, I’ll uh check it out later thanks, which is when I tried to turn, get the hell out of there, but the man’s face twisted into some horrible thing and he shouted in his golden radio voice, LOOK UPON IT NOW, which caused my legs to tense up, and my eyes were wide and trembly, my strength sapped, as if some terrible hex had been cast upon me; so I looked down at the crumpled paper, the hobo vellum, and started unfurling it; an image revealing itself as if in slow motion: first the tip of a bed, faded red sheets; then a pair of legs, bare, hairy; then the stomach, then the pelvis, nude, then the manhood, then the other man, then the third man, then my stomach twisted into a knot, the sodomy, the fellatio, I wanted to barf; and it was all somewhat faded as if the printer had been low on ink, and the ink itself was smeared in places as if by some milky liquid, which I could also assume was exactly what I thought it was.
Speechless and shuddering, I dropped the paper, voice in my head repeating why why why, and then I looked up, slowly, expecting to see the dirty man looking right back at me, maybe even closing in on me, but he wasn't there. He was gone. So, I frantically scanned all around me, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was gone.
That’s when some random people walked by, as if the bubble burst, and this made me feel safer somehow, but my mind was swirling with questions: who was that, where did he go, why did he give me that paper, why did he talk like that, what the actual fuck?
As to drown out my noisy thoughts, calm myself, I pushed my earbuds in, and that’s when I realized this whole thing had happened within the span of four minutes, because the same song was playing—Beck was singing the second chorus: Strange apparition, haunting my brain; piss on the ashes, of a dream that got cremated. Or maybe it was on repeat—I didn’t actually check—I just stood there, listening to the outro, and watched as a cool breeze blew the vile vellum through the air and right into a sewer grate—where it belonged, I thought.
And then a car horn went off, and I jumped; it sounded close, so I turned and saw the Firebird pulled up to the sidewalk, Robert in the driver's seat, his thin arm hanging out the open window, his long brown hair waving gently in the breeze, his beard totally wild and not-age-appropriate at all. He shouted, HEY MAN, and this cleared my mind, dispelled the hex, so I ran up to the driver’s side, put my hands on the hood and, wanting to check my sanity, said: Did you see a guy just now, jeans, had one of those Big Dog shirts on?
And Robert said, No.
IV, Falling & Laughing
The display showed 1:40 PM, or around there, volume knob twisted full left, AC knob about middle, slider in the off position, no air coming out; we were parked in the McDonald’s parking lot, windows down, Firebird running. I could see the smokestack skyline, those great pillows of smog. I was taking big gulps of Sprite, talking with my mouth full of fries:
You know, he said something about eating cheese off McDonald’s wrappers, out of the trash, or something, I couldn’t really understand him, he talked in this, like, weird, like, Shakespeare english, or something.
That’s fucking crazy, Robert said, taking his time eating McNuggets, which were in a brown paper bag between the driver and passenger seat, right near the shifter.
I reached into the bag for more fries, still chewing my previous handful: Yeah, whole thing was really sketch, should have kept the paper, I was just, like, freaked out, you know?
Are you sure this really happened? You exaggerate sometimes.
I fucking swear, I said, glaring.
And he was wearing a Big Dog shirt?
Yeah.
And he showed you pornography?
Yeah.
And it had … stains … on the paper?
Yeah.
Jesus, Robert said, shaking his head.
Do you think he could get in trouble for, like, showing porno to someone who is, like, technically a minor? Isn’t that like a federal crime, or something, distributing porn to kids?
Robert sipped his sweet tea: Yeah, maybe. I mean, like, prison would probably be better for him anyway, like, compared to where he’s at now, in an alley, drinking puddle water. Fuck. Prison would be like an all-inclusive resort for this guy. In fact, more hobos should go to prison, better quality of life.
Laughing real hard, I covered my mouth to prevent fry chunks from flying out, and after nearly choking, I said: Are you going back to class?
I don’t need to. Passing either way.
Cool, then let’s, like, go your place, get the PS3, pick up Hannibal—get Oscar later, I guess. Oh yeah, we need cigs, too, unless you have some? And weed, we’re out of weed, I think.
We’ll figure it out, Robert said, then he nodded, pushed the brown bag into my lap, twisted the volume knob full right—appreciate your concern, you're gonna stink and burn, Kurt sang out—shifted gears, pulled out of the parking lot, into the main road proper, near the marshside causeway, on the Atlantic, seaside, sun’s rays piercing through the smog and reflecting iridescent off the water as we cruised on by.
Robert drove a few blocks only to find that the road back home was blocked by a bad wreck, so he shouted over the heavy grunge, LOOKS LIKE WE’RE TAKING WOLF STREET, and then he got in the left lane at the next light and prepared to make a U-turn.
I was head down, flipping through a CD case, eager to find something else to listen to—not being a big fan of Nirvana—and it only took me a moment to produce a burned Memorex with the words ORANGE JUICE–GLASGOW SCHOOL written upon it in poor handwriting with thick black pen, so I pressed the eject button on the stereo console, removed In Utero, and inserted the burned disc, and that’s when the jangly guitar and bouncy bassline kicked in, then Edwyn Collins’ goofy dandy-like baritone: You must think me very naive, taken as true, I only see what I want to see. And I was singing along the whole way as we turned onto Wolf Street, where we narrowly avoided a stray dog and waited for a group of baggy-pants kids to cross very slowly while they gave us these maniacal looks—at which point I double-checked that my door was locked—and that’s when Robert stepped on the gas, speeding down the road, obviously trying to get out of there as fast as possible, passing homes of burned wood and shattered windows, some riddled with bullet holes, missing doors, overgrown yards full of forgotten toys, roaming packs of dogs, maybe wolves, broken people walking around all bent up, some just holding up spoons at the stop signs, and others splayed out on the cement, not a cop in sight. And that’s when we hit a red light at the four-way, which was located right next to a derelict parking lot that, on this day, had been turned into a makeshift car wash with tents by a crew of individuals that could only be described as thugs with very baggy clothing and weird under-shirt lumps near their belts and Black-&-Milds-that-were-not-Black-&-Milds permanently hanging from their lips like some sort of growth. So, of course, Robert rolled the windows up and stared at the stop light ahead, very obviously trying not to make eye contact with anyone over there at the car wash, but I watched with that writer’s curiosity of mine, Edwyn Collins’ offbeat croon rounding out the end of the song: falling again, cause I want to take the pleasure with the pain, fall falling, falling and laughing, falling and laughing. And that’s when a duragged individual walked up to my side and knocked on the glass; he was a huge man, thick, no hair anywhere on his head, his face a dark blob that was both childlike and scary as hell, yellow eyes, huge diamonds in his ears, all black hoodie, hood down, baggie dark jeans, boxers showing, thick globs of smoke ballooning off the fat blunt hanging from his puffy lower lip. Y'ALL LOOKIN’ TO BUY? And I just kinda stared at him from behind the looking glass, blinking, barely understanding him on account of the loud Orange Juice, signature dumbfounded look on my face. So, after a few seconds of staring, I turned the volume down, then the big man shouted once more WELL Y'ALL LOOKIN’ OR WHAT? And that’s when I turned to Robert, who was looking back at me, his eyes like supermoons thrown out of orbit, and I said to Robert, Uh well we are out of weed, to which Robert made no movement whatsoever and said nothing—for he was the type to just go along with every stupid thing I did—so I turned back to the window, rolled it down just so, and, voice cracking a bit, said to the big man, meekly: Yes, please. And that’s when the big man smiled wide, revealing a row of gold teeth, and then he said: WELL THEN PULL UP IN THAT LOT OVER THERE—he pointed over there—AN’ I GETCHU, at which point we pulled into that lot over there and waited for that big man to getchu—whatever that meant—my desire to obtain even a small amount of weed compromising my judgement, which was already compromised by the intoxicating folly of youth.
As we idled there, waiting, there were only the sounds of hip-hop and hollering, and the engine purr. I watched as Robert sank into his seat, melting, only the tip of his head visible from the outside looking in, and I couldn't help but follow suit, sinking myself. And then, trying to convince myself more so than anyone else, I said: Look, we’ll be fine, we’ve done stuff like this before, we’re lucky, we always come out good, right?
But Robert said nothing.
Then there was a pop pop off in the distance, and we both jumped in our seats.
Was that gunfire? Robert said, anxiously looking at me with those trembly moon eyes.
I, I don’t know, probably just, like, fireworks or something; I said after taking a big gulp of nothing. Then I slowly brought myself up, peeking out the window, seeing nothing but the back of the ruined gas station, windows and doors all boarded up, and the parking lot, cement cracked up, pot holes, faded white lines for parking but no cars in sight apart from our own, for who in their right mind would ever park here.
Robert talked real low and fast: We should leave, right? I mean, this is stupid, right? We can get weed on the Island, let’s just—
But he was interrupted by a loud knock on my window, which caused us both to yelp for our lives. And when we looked up, we saw the big man, standing there, very big, very scary, a bemused expression on his blob-like face, as if he were powering himself with the nervous-white-boy energy we were very obviously generating.
My hand trembled as I reached for the window switch, turning to Robert before pushing it, this dire look on my face—his too—tears almost. Then I turned back to the window, rolled it down just so, and said: S, sir?
WHAT Y'ALL BUYIN'? The car shook.
I looked at Robert for input, but he had lowered his head into the steering wheel, closed his eyes, maybe he was pretending this whole thing would just go away if he willed it hard enough. So, with Robert out of commission, I turned back to the man and said: W, weed, please.
FORTY? TWENTY? WHAT Y'ALL THINKIN'? The big man was digging through his pockets now. AN EIGHTH?
Shaking, I said: Uh, just, uh, t, twenty.
But the big man was quiet for a moment. I noticed he was desperately patting down his pants. Then he said: SHIT, I’M OUT.
W, what? I said
LOTS AT THE CRIB THO. The big man looked at me with those yellow orbs, as if asking me something with his eyes, then said: Y'ALL GOOD?
I paused, confused, then said: Are, are we good? For, for what?
And that’s when the big man placed his huge hand on the hood of the car, which made a loud thud, which must have caused Robert’s foot to spasm, out of fear, into the gas pedal, producing a loud rev, which startled the big man, who, in one fast motion, pushed off the car, placed a hand inside his open hoodie, and, frantically started screaming, SHIT SHIT SHIT. WE GOOD? WE GOOD?
Fumbling and freaking out a little bit, I got closer to the window and said: Sorry, my friend, he, uh, he hit the gas by accident, I think, our bad.
WELL SHIT, THANK JESUS. WE GOOD. LET ME IN. DRIVE TO PICK UP MY GAS. GIVE Y'ALL A SPECIAL. SINCE Y’ALL DOIN’ ME A SOLID.
I was just blinking up at the man, hands trembling, thinking to myself: Is this how I die?
Then Robert’s head snapped up. He was looking directly at me—eyes somehow even bigger than before—and whispered: Wait, what, what is he saying?
And I whispered back: I think he’s, like, asking us to take him to his house to, uh, pick up some weed, or something, I don’t know.
He doesn’t have weed? Robert whispered, incredulously, exasperated, a little too loud; so the big man raised a browless brow, still looking down into the car window.
I guess not, I mumbled.
That’s when Robert stared off, pale, as if looking at some oncoming hell parade, an impending storm, some sort of calamity, saying nothing but transmitting this psychic aura of pure no no no no no no—and so was I, suddenly realizing we were way out of our depth. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps we were at a crossroads between survival and: TWO TEENS FOUND DEAD OFF WOLF STREET, CAR STOLEN, REWARD FOR ANY INFORMATION. I wanted more than anything to leave, for Robert to stomp the gas and get the fuck out of there, but then there was that feeling, that same paralytic feeling from before—with the dirty man—as if I couldn’t control myself, as if a hex had been placed upon me, as if I was trapped in the circumstances of my own making and now had to see it through, as if I were too weak-willed to say no or even stand up for myself, like this was some sort of temporal thread that needed to be looped and tied off; I thought that, if I left now there would forever be this loose end, haunting me, looking for me—some big black guy, slighted by me, made a fool of, now forever out to kill me, I would have to watch my back in the city, forever.
So I looked directly up at the big man and said: How, how far, you know, to, to your place?
The big man paused for a moment, blinking as if looking at an alien, then, not even answering the question, said: YOU WEARIN’ EYELINER, BOY? SHEEEIIT. THAT GAY AS HELL. Dragging out the syllables just like that.
I felt an embarrassment so strong that I wanted to both cry and die, but before I could do anything, the big man let out a booming laugh then said, JUST DOWN OVER THERE, and then he pointed over there, and then, like an afterthought, he said: FUCKIN’ WHITEBOYS BE CRAZY.
Seconds later, just like that, the big man was crammed into the backseat of the little Firebird, and we were driving down the road. I could see him through the rearview, his yellow eyes darting back and forth, scanning cars as he took small puffs from his blunt. The inside of the Firebird was pretty much a smoke cloud at this point—a smoke cloud that stank of some mixture of strong weed and body odor and musky aftershave and citrusy cologne. I was snapping one of my bracelets on my wrist, a nervous habit, then the big man shouted, JUST TURN RIGHT DOWN THERE—he pointed right down there—and Robert followed the directions in this perfectly still, robotically silent way, like learned helplessness, his eyes one-hundred-and-one percent on the road. TURN THE MUSIC UP, the big man boomed and the car shook; so with a trembly hand, I pressed the FM button—knowing that Orange Juice would probably be met with this man’s ridicule—and then attempted to turn the volume knob slightly but, due to the trembliness, I inadvertently turned it way too far right, blasting STEAL THE RHYTHM WHILE YOU CAN, SPOONMAN then THAT WAS SOUNDGARDEN WITH SPOONMAN AND YOU’RE LISTENING TO ROCK ONE OH SIX POINT ONE WHERE THE RIFFS ROCK AND THE MUSIC NEVER STOPS, and Robert covered his ears, as if by reflex, causing the car to swerve, at which point I scrambled to turn off the radio, and the big man, unfazed, said: SHIT, Y'ALL WHITEBOYS GOT ANY GUCCI MANE IN THIS WHIP? Then he took a big puff of his blunt before saying: TURN RIGHT HERE, and he pointed, and then Robert turned the wheel a little too hard, jerking everyone to the right, and then we were driving through a nasty side road, massive project off in the distance, Section 8, smokestacks behind it, and I was just sitting there, in the passenger’s seat, lanky arms wrapped around myself, trying to keep my skeleton from jumping out of my skin. I kept asking myself why why why, why can’t I just say no to people, what the fuck is wrong with me, why can’t I stand up for myself? And then I thought that perhaps we were driving to our own funerals.
We parked in front of a two-story box next to another box next to another box; smooth red brick, ropes of ivy and streaks of black mold all over the walls; rectangular windows, some with units, others wide open, glass broken, cheap drapes flapping out, flower pots dangling, flowers dead, others barred; cage-like metal staircase with broken railing, a man in a sleeping bag in the shade below; brown metal doors, some all dented up, some with children’s drawings of little families and dragons and basketballs and DESHAWN’S HOUSE and frowns; clothesline out front, an older woman, apron, hair up in a grocery bag, doing something with the clothes; basketball hoop growing out of broken cement, kids dribbling, hollering, cursing; a slide and jungle gym in the overgrown grass, an older man—shopping cart filled with blankets and cans—mumbling and flailing his hands, no children there; paper bags, blunt wrappers, discarded toys, beer cans, plastics everywhere; there was an orange couch on the sidewalk, missing cushions, three guys—bald, dreads, beanie—sitting upon it, talking to each other, gesturing at our car, laughing as they did so. It was uncanny, as if we had just parked in an episode of The Wire. I was freaking out, silently, in my head.
WELL? YOU GON LET ME OUT?
Shaking, I pushed the door open and got out as quick as I could, ducking my head, covering my face with one hand—trying to hide from the whole project that I was wearing eyeliner—then pulled the seat up and let the big man out the back, at which time he patted me on the shoulder and said, JUST A FEW, and this collapsed me back into the front seat, where I closed the door as fast as possible, locked it, then leaned back and closed my eyes, breathing heavily, at which time I heard the big man say, LEFT MY STUFF SO YOU KNOW I’M GOOD. And that’s when Robert and I both looked at each other, mutual terror, then slowly turned our heads to the backseat, where we saw what must have been ten large baggies all filled with pills, which looked maliciously like children’s candy; and upon seeing this, we snapped our heads back to the front, as if in sync, double-checked that the doors were locked, and then looked at each other and mouthed, silently, at the same time: what. the. fuck.
And then I watched as the big man gestured to the men on the couch and then to the Firebird and then walked off into an alley between two boxes. The men on the orange couch were looking at our car, nodding. Robert and I both slid down, melted into our seats, trying hard not to be seen.
He’s going to kill us, Robert whispered. We are going to die.
Stop, I mumbled.
Why do I just, like, go along with everything you say?
I sat there, silent, some guilt bubbling up as Robert continued:
I could have just, like, driven off; we could get weed on the island, from Rob, much safer.
Rob’s a flake, and his parents are always home, I mumbled.
Better than being dead.
He’s not going to kill us, I said, raising my voice a tad, trying to sound confident, not confident at all.
Maybe he’s setting us up—why else leave, like, hundreds of dollars worth of pills in the back seat? Maybe the cops are on their way right now, as we speak.
And, as if on cue, a siren went off in the distance, and Robert’s expression changed to a told-you-so kind of thing, to which I rolled my eyes because, in the projects, sirens were always going off, but cops were never to be seen—the sirens were just part of the atmosphere.
Rationalizing, I said: Look, he’s obviously a real dealer, this is probably his, like, career or something, he’s not going to just set up two kids for no reason, ruin his livelihood, that’s stupid.
Robert, looking very serious now, retorted: He could be working undercover, for the cops, as a plea deal or something, I’ve seen that on Law and Order, it happens all the time.
And what, the cops want to pinch two white kids? Don’t they usually go for, like, the big fish? Suppliers and stuff. I snorted.
Robert was silent for a moment, as if thinking real hard, then followed up with: We could just drive off right now, with his stuff, he’d never know.
I was looking at him like he was crazy.
Then he continued: Give me, like, one reason why we shouldn’t just dip right now.
So I said: Uh, well, because he would, like, want to kill us—and he knows what your car looks like.
At this, Robert sighed and sunk even lower into the car seat, then he said: OK, we’ll give him, like, 5 more minutes and if—
But suddenly there knock on the glass. ROLL YO SHIT DOWN.
I peeked up at my window. It was the big man, yellow eyes seeming to glow horror. I rolled down the window just so, then, voice cracking, said: Y, yes? And that’s when the big man’s hand reached through the crack in the window, opened, and dropped a huge baggie of weed on my lap, to which I did a double-take, and then said: This, this is twenty?
The big man’s expression changed from blank to all smiles, gold teeth glittering brilliant in the sun. His booming voice rang out: THAT’S FOUR. GOT YOU SOME SPECIAL, SINCE Y’ALL DROVE. ‘PRECIATE IT. Then the big man looked over his shoulder, then back: HAND ME THEM PILLS. So I handed him the pills, still a little shaky, unsure of what was going to happen here. The big man looked over his shoulder once again before pocketing the pills, and then he stuck his hand into the window and said: WELL?
I blinked, said: W, well what?
The big man’s face twisted ever so slightly, and that’s when I realized he was waiting for money, so I dug through my pocket, pulled out a twenty that mom had given me for lunch, and placed it in the big man’s big hand. Y’ALL NOT SO BAD, COME BY SEE ME ANY TIME. And then the big man turned, started to walk off, but before he could get far, I said: Hey, what’s your name? And that’s when he looked back over his shoulder and said only two words: MOON DOG; then he walked away for good this time, vanished into the projects, as if he had become one with the ghetto; the men on the orange couch were gone too; the only sounds were those of children shouting, balls dribbling, sirens going off in the distance, and the purring Firebird. I was looking all dumbfounded, hardly able to believe that my stupid antics had paid off, shocked that the guy’s name was actually Moon Dog.
Robert, hollowed out from the ordeal, scratched his beard as if in disbelief, then looked down at the huge bag of weed nugs and said: That much—for twenty?
With Moon Dog’s disappearance, it was as if a ghost had left the car, taking the tension, anxiety, and dread along with it. I exhaled loudly, sat up straight, shoved the weed into the glove box, and said: Told you, nothing to worry about—now, let’s get the fuck out of here.
So Robert put the Firebird in reverse and pulled out of there faster than I had ever seen him pull out of anywhere, ever. And just after the turn, a little ways down the street, I looked in the rearview and noticed two cruisers pull into the project, then park, then make the whorp noise, then turn their lights on, and then the kids around the hoop fled in all directions, to which I whispered, holy shit, and Robert, too, said, holy shit, a little louder. Then I wondered if the whole thing was actually a setup, and then Robert asked me if the whole thing was actually a setup, and then he made a quick turn at the next light and was driving all slow so as not to break any laws—as if we didn’t have a huge-ass bag of weed in the glove box—and the rest of the drive was very anxious indeed, dreadful almost, but we never saw those cruisers again, so I guess we were in the clear, literally, figuratively, and existentially.
And then, after a few stoplights and turns, we pulled into Robert’s neighborhood, which was packed with low-cost, cookie-cutter homes on a straight-shot road into something like a trailer-park-neighborhood combo, complete with Stars and Bars, kids playing kickball, and big trucks parked on every side of the road, beaten up cars in every driveway, those cheap Walmart playsets. Robert turned into his own driveway and put the Firebird in park. Then we both sat there, quiet, in the Firebird, engine purring. It was a weird silence, like we could hear each other’s thoughts or something, both of us thinking the same thing—that we had come this close to dying or ruining our lives in some irreversible way, Robert probably questioning why the hell he even hangs out with me at all. And then, when the silence became too weird, I pushed the CD button and then PLAY and then turned the knob: You must think me very naive, taken as true, I only see what I want to see. And we listened for a while, saying nothing, before Robert turned the car off. Then we got out, walked to his front door, unlocked the door, opened it, and out burst a dark blur, which pounced me, sending me right into the dirt below.
It was Hannibal. He licked my face as I struggled to get up, slobber everywhere. I kept saying, good boy good boy down down, as I tossed and turned in the dirt, Robert just standing there, looking down at me, not doing a thing about it—and that’s when he said, FUCKING MOON DOG.
And I couldn’t help but laugh, then Robert started laughing, and I like to think that Hannibal was laughing too—so there we were, in that front yard, me falling, everyone laughing.
V, Creep
I WISH I WAS SPECIAL
YOU’RE SO FUCKIN’ SPECIAL
BUT I’M A CREEP
I’M A WEIRDOOO
WHAT THE HELLLL AM I DOING HEREEE
I DON’T BELONG HEREEEEEEE
I was hollering, radio full blast, speakers rattling, not a care in the world; Robert had both hands on the wheel, windows down, scenester hair blowing all crazy; cruising five under because we were riding dirty; oaks a blur, houses too, stop signs three; tide was high, marsh was overflowing, something fishy in the air, and the smell of rain, too; the wind was nice and crisp; the clock read 2:15 PM, or something like that; Hannibal’s big head was sticking out between the seats, swinging to and fro as he watched stuff zoom by, long tongue flopping, armrests moist with slobber, the most excited animal in the car, by far.
We pulled into the driveway of a home with a perfect lawn, its backyard opening onto a wild marsh, the sky was pink in places but mostly gray. Robert put the Hot Wheels in park, right next to a Honda, which I observed and said: Is that his parents’ car?
No, that’s his car, I think, Robert said, twisting the key out of the ignition before exiting and doing a quick stretch, me following along, and then Hannibal managed to fit his head through the thin opening between the door frame and the window, at which point Robert rubbed the dino-bone-like bump on the top of Hannibal’s head and said: We’ll be right back, boy. And that boy whimpered.
The house was smooth white stucco, wide, two stories—a main floor and a basement area with a garage, some wooden criss-cross stuff going on. It had those glued-on shutters that were more for looks than function. You had to walk a whole flight of white stairs, pass a big American flag and two clay flower pots, and step on a brown-fiber doormat with no text on it whatsoever to get to the front door, which we did, at which point Robert rang the doorbell, and I stood there, unamused, with this pouty, standoffish look on my face, as I was eager to go home, take some Adderall, smoke some sick Moon Dog weed, listen to some vinyl, and play some video games. But then I remembered that Oscar, being eighteen, was old enough to buy cigarettes, and this smoothed over my angst just a little bit.
Robert rang the bell one last time, waited a moment, and that’s when the door swung open to reveal Oscar standing there, dark hair in wavy curls, wearing a pink polo and short khakis in this fifty-degree weather. I scanned him up and down, and he me, and then our eyes met, and he smiled handsomely, and I, well, I didn’t. I just stood there, looking like a goth girl at a pep rally. But he didn’t seem to mind. He spoke in this deep voice that was both somehow geeky and dangerous, as if he was too smart for his own good but trying to hide it and hiding it well; he said: Robert, come on in, and you too, uh—what was your name again? I think we’ve only met once or twice—at a party, was it?
So I told him my name, and he scanned me once more, a long scan, and then smiled, handsomely; for he was quite handsome, built like a runner, thin, big shoulders, feline, his face curved, chiseled almost, immaculate jawline, Adonis-esque, Persian in beauty, dark skin, he was foreign in some way but in which way I did not care; and as I was doing this mental measure of the young adult male Oscar standing before me, I happened to catch eyes with him again, and he smiled again, and this time I sort of smiled back, and then he directed both Robert and me to his room, which was through a hallway that was littered with photos of his family, each photo must have been taken during a different year because Oscar was growing older in each one—which kind of weirded me out, so I turned to Robert and said, Creepy, and Robert whispered, Shut up, but I kept looking at the photos as we passed; Oscar’s dad looked just like Oscar, only with a mustache, and his mother was radiant beyond words. But the interior of the home was dark, authoritarian, scary clean, strong parents-are-low-key-abusive sort of vibes, no pets, no personality, no soul, sleepovers-ain’t-happening-here-no-way-no-how energy; I caught a glimpse of the fridge and it was blank: no drawings or magnets upon it, probably not one soda in that fridge, probably full of no-sugar-added coconut water and almond milk and protein shakes; there was no humor in this house, no funny business, no comedy whatsoever, not even one of those annoying feel-good BLESS THIS MESS wall things; the place was so drab it was dreary, domineering; it was oppressive, I felt oppressed walking through that house; and soon we made it to Oscar’s room, which was less oppressive but just as dull as the rest of the home, with its light-colored walls, perfectly made bed, dressers upon which trophies both atheltic and academic sat abundant alongside pictures of Oscar himself, all through the years, which I also thought was creepy—having pictures of yourself in your room, especially baby pictures—so I turned to Robert and whispered, That’s a little creepy, which was when I noticed a small CRT television, snug in a little alcove on a desk, upon which The Complete Works of Shakespeare sat, but also the solitary controller for the PlayStation 2 Slim; the console was beneath the desk, sunken a little bit into the plush carpet; so I took it upon myself to open the lid of the console—as I was very interested in video games and anyone who played them (video games being a sort of great equalizer for teenagers during this era)—and that’s when I saw the disc for Star Ocean: Till the End of Time, which was a game I had beaten years before but remembered enjoying quite a bit, so I said: Hey, you playing this? Which was a stupid question, but I said it regardless, and then Oscar walked up to me and placed a firm hand on my shoulder and said: Yes. But I thought he was lying for some reason, I thought this eighteen-year-old high school senior with trophies and baby pictures of himself surely would not be playing such niche Japanese role-playing games, so I said: Prove it.
So Oscar proved it: he turned on the CRT, booted up the game, and showed me his save file: max level, sixty-plus gameplay hours. And then he loaded up that file and initiated a battle and subsequently completed that battle like a pro, as both Robert and I watched, transfixed by those dancing CRT lights as we so often were, so I nodded to Oscar and said: Cool. And then Oscar and I met eyes again, and he did that smile again, that handsome smile, and I smiled back, a little nicer this time, and then I said: Good game. And he said: Yeah. And our eyes lingered a little too long, which was awkward but nice, because I liked the attention, and then, after another awkward moment, I said: Motoi Sakuraba does the music for that game, he also did the music for Valkyrie Profile, which is, like, one of my favorite games of all time. And then Oscar said: Oh, wow, I didn’t know that. And then, feeling a little more welcome and loose, I said: So, what’s up with the baby pictures? And it seemed like I dropped a bomb almost, as Oscar blushed, looked away, and then Robert said something like: Sometimes he can be a dick, ignore him (meaning me). So I glared at Robert, but Oscar only chuckled softly and said: No no, that’s alright, my mom put those pictures there, she won’t let me take them down. And I laughed, and Robert laughed, and Oscar laughed too. Then I noticed a dresser near the PS2, which for some reason I was compelled to open, and, upon opening the top drawer, I caught a glimpse of a funny shirt and some paper stuffed in the back, then Oscar quickly rushed to close it and said coolly: No, no, that’s just clothes. So I stepped back, somewhat taken aback, before Oscar took my hand gently in his own—which was odd but also somewhat soothing and almost paralytic in a way—and then he moved my hand to the dresser’s second drawer handle, and then he said: This one.
So, I opened the second drawer, and that’s when I saw Oscar’s collection of old PlayStation games, and my face lit up like I had just stumbled upon some sort of treasure room. Robert, too, was enthralled by this treasure, as it was vast, containing all the PlayStation Final Fantasy games—including Origins, Chronicles, Anthology, Tactics, even Chocobo Racing and Ehrgeiz: God Bless the Ring—so we were both a bit slack-jawed at that point. Then Robert said, without thinking, something like: See, told you he was cool. And I just nodded, scanning those games, and that’s when I noticed he even had Valkyrie Profile, which I slid out of its spot in the collection and scanned front to back, nodding and hmm’ing as if I were some sort of expert appraiser, and then I turned to Oscar and said: Good game. And he smiled at me. And I smiled right back at him. And then I delicately put Valkyrie Profile back in its spot, running my finger across the rest of his collection, at which point I stopped at Breath of Fire III, slid it out of its spot, and, scanning it back to front, noticed it was missing the front-cover insert, so the orange disc just shone right through, and I could see my reflection there, off the jewel case: hair wild as the wind, eyes penciled but bright as could be, expression full of wonder. And I could see Oscar there, too, in the reflection, behind me, looking at my neck, smiling, clever glint in his dark eyes. And then I turned to him, held up the game, and said:
I’ve read good things about Breath of Fire III: they say it has, like, a timeless art style, and a complex ability system, and a jazzy soundtrack; they say the story’s not bad either: the main character grows up, changes, gets older, or something, they say it’s, like, a bildungsroman—whatever the fuck that means.
Oscar laughed at that last part, nodded, and said: Yeah. It’s a gem, one of my favorites, you can have it.
So I blinked at him, then blinked down at the game, then back at Oscar, then back at the game, then at Oscar, and finally said: You sure? And he said: Yes, I’m sure. And I felt like I could give him a big kiss while holding that copy of Breath of Fire III, which was missing the front-cover insert, so the orange disc shone right through; and I could see my reflection there, off the jewel case, manic expression of pure hype, imagining myself already high on Adderall playing the game, and just how much fun that would be.
Oscar then turned to Robert, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said: You can have one too, anything you want, I’ve beaten them all. So Robert picked The Legend of Dragoon, and that was that. We had our games, and then we were ready to go. So I turned to Oscar and said: What are we doing here, anyway? And Oscar said: I just need to get my stuff. And I said: Right. And then he said: I was wanting to stay out with you guys tonight, if that’s OK. And by this point, anything was OK with me—considering Breath of Fire III and all—so I just smiled and said: Sure. And this pleased Oscar, who gathered his one bag and nodded, ready to go, and then, just like that, we were leaving, almost as quickly as we came.
The whole scene had to have taken just about twenty minutes, which must have felt like forever to Hannibal, because when that black dog saw us exit the home, he started barking up a storm. But as we stepped down the porch staircase, I noticed that he was not barking impatiently, but viciously, at Oscar, which was not like him—such a sweet dog—so I turned to Oscar and said, He doesn't seem to like you, to which Oscar said nothing in response. And then Robert rushed to the Firebird, got inside, and started play-wrestling with Hannibal, knocking around that sweet dog’s sweet face, which seemed to cheer him right up.
Before we left for real, Oscar turned to me and said: I have to get up early in the morning, so I think I’ll take my car.
And I replied sardonically, with a smile: So, what you’re saying is, this whole trip here was pointless.
Oscar laughed and said: You got Breath of Fire out of it, at least.
So I held up the game, orange disc shining right through, and I saw my reflection say: Thanks, by the way.
And that was when Oscar said: No problem. I have a hard time keeping friends, so I don’t want to mess this up.
But I was too engrossed in the game to fully register what he had said, and when it did register, it seemed innocuous enough, so I just nodded, didn’t give it two thoughts, smiled at him; and he smiled back, charmingly, and then he said: I’ll follow you guys.
So I said: Oh, right—do you think you could buy us some cigs?
Yeah, sure, just don’t tell anyone.
Who me?
Another laugh, and then Oscar said: Hey, do you have my phone number? In case I get lost following you.
And I did not, so I took out my phone, and he gave me his number, and I sent that number a text, and he got that text, and then he looked at me with that handsome smile of his before getting into his Honda, which roared to life then sputtered idly as he waited for us to leave.
But after pocketing my phone, I just stood there, thinking, distracted, reading the back of the jewel case: SUGGESTIVE THEMES … a rebellious youth … YOU POSSESS THE POWER … ponders his purpose … MILD ANIMATED VIOLENCE … the lone survivor … DRAGON GENE SPLICING … a great journey … LEGENDARY ROLEPLAYING … shrouded in mystery … TEEN (13+); and I must have been doing that for longer than I thought, because Robert shouted, WE LEAVING OR WHAT? which got my attention, so I hustled to the Firebird, nudged Hannibal to the back, and slid into the passenger seat.
Then we pulled out of the driveway, Oscar coming up from behind, Hannibal watching from the back window, growling.
Part 2
#ShortStory
