Sacré Bleu!
February 27, 2007
We played the same scene over and over again everyday. The ground against the curb seemed to be paved with our own footsteps, scuffing against the asphalt, pacing back and forth, kicking rocks absently out of their places in the tar. The curb itself felt molded to fit us, several of the spots blank where paint had been scraped off by bored fingernails, and where the concrete had chipped from a 90 degree angle to more of a sad, downward curve. Everyday I would sit and stare at the chipping and the broken shards and wonder when they'd come back around to repaint it; well, almost everyday. Sunday's weren't included in the loop, due to the after-church crowd.
There were always the families willing to brave the long-standing liquor store to avoid the lines at local supermarkets, just to get that little something that they needed: some crackers to go with dinner, more milk as they had finished off the last of it that morning, or maybe just a treat for the kid that finally had the sense to behave in the pews. And there was always the chance that one of those families were acquainted with our parents, and would be walking up their driveway with our sin on their lips faster than we could get up off the curb. And though my parents were nice people, I had never felt an ounce of guilt staying at Derek's house while they stewed away at Mass; I was thankful already that they didn't make me go, but if they had found out what I was doing? My ass would be in Confession until I was forty-three and didn't even remember the word "alcohol."
But it was Saturday. Bleak, dreary, and not exactly promising. The sky had the tinge of hope that the sun was behind those clouds, but the our chance of seeing it was limited, and the colours of the sky above us reflected the oil stains on the ground, hopelessly useless. Smoke was drifting lazily up to match the clouds from a fire we had smelt before he had heard the sirens, languid and falsetto, bouncing in our heads long after the orange licks of flame had disappeared from the streets. People were passing by the little store, mouths moving rapidly to talk to the person in the seat beside them while tapping their fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. People were getting out, going to the movies, going to lunch, going on dates, working, talking, listening, breathing, lying, creating. Because that's just what you did on a Saturday.
But all I cared about right now was getting drunk.
And even after four years of screw ups and misguidance, I still chose my seat on the curb next to my best friends in place of proper salvation. Years and years of meaningless, inane babble from nun after nun, grandpa after grandpa, and concerned peers and teachers had finally dug me a pit of apathy large enough to shove all of their bullshit inside of it. All of which led up to my glorious teenage years, which involved, every afternoon, for the greater part of an hour, standing outside in the cold and scamming beer in front an Arabic run liquor store, being shot accusing glances by the passerby on the streets. We always found that to be one of the most rewarding parts; we're not going to shoot you, we just want alcohol.
We mostly went home empty-handed, the patrons either having enough sense not to buy underage high school students beer, or maybe just trying to hold on to the last little part of them that still felt like an adult, because it's common knowledge that the greatest joy of being a parent is having completely control over another human. But some gave in - muttering that they 'knew what it was like to be a kid' before snatching the money out of our hands and stuffing it into their pockets quickly, buying us the cheapest, shittiest beer, maybe hoping that we'd learn a lesson and therefore justify what they had done for us.
We had some regulars, maybe once or twice every two weeks, that would just take the money and buy it, no questions asked, no explanations needed. But we were always trying to get new affiliates, placing bets on the top responses: ignorance of our presence, scoffing and turning away, or just a shake of the head.
Sometimes, a person would just take off with the money. Luckily Aidan was a fast runner despite being at least four inches too short for the average senior, and he could keep up with the guy for about four blocks, excluding the possibility that he hadn't jumped back into his car yet. Aidan was good, but he wasn't a dog. He knew when he had lost.
I had known Aidan since fourth grade, and he was probably the one guy I could always tolerate, no matter the situation. He was easy going, even in the prospect of losing hard earned money - when he caught the guy once, he was completely calm, barely breathing hard, and had kicked him lazily a few times before taking the money back. His family was a good bunch, and they let me crash whenever I wanted too, and never seemed too concerned with Aidan's alcohol consumption or questionable company.
Oddly enough, I had met him when a kid had fallen off the playground bars at school and landed on his head. He had to be air lifted out. I stood next to Aiden, then just a kid in my class that wrote with blue pencils and had a picture of Star Wars on his lunchbox, and watched as the boy was lifted onto the stretcher and flown to the hospital.
"That's weird."
I had looked over at him. "What?"
He raised his head to the bars, studying them curiously, but not intently. "I know all about these bars now, but I don't even know who that kid was. Isn't that weird?"
I told Aidan he was weird and walked off. The next day, I gave him a dollar to eat a Starburst that had fallen on the ground, and he told me to go buy more Starburst instead. After that, he's all I can remember. Every day, every weekend.
I had known Derek since around middle school, and he was probably the one guy that only I could tolerate, no matter how good the guy's intentions seemed. He was just a jerk. Plain and simple. But we were lab partners in ninth grade, and there was no getting rid of each other after that. We just stuck.
It's been the three of us these past four years. Derek stuck with me because he didn't have anyone, Aidan stuck with us because he never really minded, and I stuck with the pavement because it felt like it's all I would ever see. I scuffed my shoe against the black, hardened ground again, wondering how many kicks it would take to get my foot permanently implanted into the dried tar.
"Hey -- you!"
I was jolted out of my daydream and shook my head to clear my mind. I daydreamed a lot, especially at school, inattentive towards anything that lacked even the subtle hint of a creative flow; I thrived on it, since there was so little to be found in my aura.
The sky was still grey, now dulling to a steel layer, overlapped lightly with white streaks and swirls. It felt like the entire setting was affected by it, reflecting the never-approaching-always-promised storm that continually passed us by, leaving only colorless windows and lights in the hazy afterglow.
"Hey, hey you!"
Derek was standing in front of me, nodding his head across the street towards an expensive looking apartment complex. I snorted at how much of an oxymoron statement that was, before sighing and shifting my position. My ass was getting cold and starting to hurt. We'd been here for over an hour already, and still no takers.
I glanced up at the unlucky person who was on the receiving end of Derek's desperate pleas -- because that's what Derek did, he pleaded. Aidan would ask it as a question ("Buy us beer?"), and when they shook their heads, he would shrug a shrug of "finding it reasonable" and let them carry on their way, staring vacantly at the parking lot attached to the apartments with thoughtful disinterest. I would try and avoid asking all together and simply motioned to the money in my hand and gave them a pointed look, which was usually understood and denied instantly. But Derek? No. Derek pleaded.
"Come on man, let it go," I said, picking at the skin around my nail. "Don't cause shit."
"No, I know this guy. Or, I think I know him. He's this…weird artist guy."
My attention caught, I looked up and peered around Derek to the "guy" standing on the opposite side of the narrow two way street. He was dressed entirely in dark colours, his long jacket hung loosely at his sides as he stepped up to the entry gate and fished around in his pocket for something. Cigarettes. His hair was dark and hung in drapes around his neck and shoulders, contrasting vividly with the paleness of his skin and the black sunglasses against his eyes as he slammed the package a few times until a small stick flung forward, which he held up to capture in his mouth. He didn't look our way once, whether because he didn't see us, or he already had and was trying not to again, was impossible to tell, but I felt increasingly awkward. He felt closer than a street away, like he could sense me here as I sat there staring at him like an animal in a zoo. Wild and elusive artist; watch him smoke.
"How the hell do you know that guy?" Aiden asked calmly, raising his eyebrow. I could hardly blame Aiden for his curiosity; Derek was a douche bag, no doubt about it, but he had his own opinions about how people should act and behave in public, and the last person he would have affiliations with would be an artist. That kind of thing just never interested the guy, and if it didn't interest Derek, then it negatively effected him, according to his own logic.
"John owns that apartment complex," Derek replied, nodding his head towards the building.
Our friend John (named "friend" merely because we saw him every other day), was one of the guys that would buy us beer, no questions asked. Derek apparently knew him from a friend that had a friend that threw a party that knew him and blah, blah, blah. I lost attention when they started the typical talk about high school chicks, and I doubt that Aiden ever really paid attention to Derek in the first place. That's just the kind of vibe he sent out.
"I heard he's a fag," Derek continued, spitting on the ground in disgust. "Lives alone, artsy type. You know."
Ah, so that was it. Derek hated anything out of the ordinary. Anything that he couldn't immediately understand. Anything that wouldn't accept him as a possible candidate for interpretation or analysis. He was like that in the most usual of ways, and it got frustrating that everything that bothered him was definitely going to bother the rest of the outside world.
"Just leave him alone, Derek," I sighed, resting my head in my hand. My brain was starting to function properly from lack of alcohol and I was almost feeling guilty about coming out here.
"Shut up, William," he shot at me, before, "Hey, you! The faggot!"
The man across the street looked up, the bag in his hand clinking gently against his side. It looked like paintbrushes, but I couldn't be sure. I was trying not to look at him, trying to ignore Derek's voice and his shoes and his cruelty and his plain fucking stupidity.
He stared at us, eyes hidden behind those expensive glasses, and waits for Derek to continue, looking startlingly unfazed at the title he was given. Maybe he gets confrontations with jackass kids all the time that have no respect for anything. It wasn't difficult to believe.
"Buy us beer?"
Suddenly, I felt incredibly guilt-ridden, not to mention drenched in utter humiliation. I didn't want this guy to know I was out here scamming beer. The other nobodies that passed by, sure, but not this man. Not him. I could amount to more. I wanted him to know that. I turned towards Derek and hissed, "Shut up, man," at him.
He sneered at me. "What the fuck is your problem, dude? I'm sober, and that fucking pisses me off."
"I don't give a damn if your drunk or sober or fucking dead, Derek, you don't ask guys like him to buy beer," I snarled.
"Why?"
"Because, it's just…it's wrong, okay?"
"Is it because he's a faggot?" Derek asked, before his confused face turned into a glare as he growled at me, "Are you calling me a faggot?"
For someone so sure of themselves, Derek had often seemed a little to quick to jump to conclusions. I stole a glance at Aiden before answering, and found that the boy was smiling lightly at me, the same thoughts crossing through his private little mind.
"No, Derek, just…don't bother the guy."
"Will both of you shut up?" Aiden said calmly, jerking his head towards the other side of the street. "He's listening to you, you know."
I shut up instantly and swiveled around; the man was watching us calmly, sunglasses dimming the light on his face as he inhaled softly, revealing rigid cheekbones, before blowing the smoke back into the air around him.
"Buy us beer?" Derek repeated, his voice a little more strong on account of his injured pride. I bit the inside of my lip and tried to hold back my fist, hoping to make a better impression than 'the kid with the violent outbursts.'
The man ruffled up the back of his hair with nimble fingers and stared at each of us in turn. When he let his gaze fall upon me, I squirmed slightly, my body and mind feeling as naked as my desire for the bottles sitting on the selves in the store behind me.
He smiled gently, and said "no," in a finalizing, bemused tone that caught me completely off guard. I hadn't expected him relent to us, but I hadn't expected him to really answer either, and especially not in the careless, demeaning voice he had used.
Derek didn't take too well to the reaction, however, and spat on the ground disgustedly. "Fucking fag!" he yelled, looking away momentarily as if so furious that he couldn't barely stand the man's presence.
But when Derek turned back around to glare in what he hoped was a hostile, threatening manner, the man grinned at us and did the unthinkable.
He blew us a fucking kiss.
Aiden was the first to react, letting out a small giggle as Derek's mouth fell open in shock and I had to grab on to his shirt sleeve to avoid him running across the street and pounding the artist's face in.
"Fucker!" he shouted again to the man's retreating back, turning away only to eye Aiden with a death glare, daring him to laugh again; but it was no use, because by the time I had let Derek go and run across the street, the guy was already inside the building.
Immediately, Derek was off, trying to peer in each of the windows and throwing bits of sticks at the glass on the upper ones, shouting inane babble that included every vulgar word I had learned in the past five years of my life and trying to figure out which one exactly held the man who dared question his masculinity. I was almost worried about the possibility of someone else being in those apartments, but just as Aiden and I had crossed the street to try and calm Derek down, he had spotted the second best person he could have seen.
John was standing a little ways down, staring at a new piece of graffiti and tilting his head slightly, either trying to figure out the best way to cover it up or admiring it.
"John!"
He looked up, spotting the three of us and waving a hello before walking over, the roll of Scotch tape still held in his hand. He was a pretty decent guy, despite being a little on the heavy side and not really caring too much about the hygiene of his teeth.
"Hey boys, what's up?"
"Buy us beer?"
I bit the bottom of my lip to keep from choking in laughter. Derek really was like a child. All he really needed was some alcohol and a few laps around a tree before he'd calm down and forget all about everything.
My mind started to drift as Derek launched into a tirade about shitty sobriety for "the past three damn days!" and how everyone who lived in this town were complete dicks. Aiden stood silently beside me, only moving to pull out his wallet and pass over the money, mainly to get Derek to shut up and get on with business.
"Thanks a lot, John," Derek sighed as John pocketed the money and took off across the street. He then lowered his voice to spit out, "Not like the fucking fag in your building that wouldn't buy us any..."
Before I had a chance to open my mouth and tell Derek to just get over it already, we heard a loud clearing of a throat. It took us a minute, but we finally cocked our heads up to find the artist leaning out of one of the highest apartment windows, his hand and cigarette hanging carelessly.
"My name's Gerard," he said casually, as if he had been included in the conversation this whole time. "Just so you don't have to keep calling me that fag name."
Derek was grinding his teeth, and I was just waiting for him to perform the leap of faith and try and reach the guy up there. He'd probably start throwing things again soon enough.
"Fucking fag!" he shouted, completely ignoring Gerard's request.
"Derek!" I hissed, embarrassed that I had to act like this kid's mother more than his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder; it seemed to work, and Derek's fists unclenched, but as I looked up again, I noticed that Gerard had disappeared from the window.
The next thing I knew, I was suddenly weighed down with a thick, sticky liquid in a sensation that felt rather like the sky had just come crashing down on my head and shoulders, flattening my hair against my skull and staining my clothes. When I opened my eyes, I realized my first thought wasn't that far from the truth, as my vision was tinted with colour as I blinked through the thick blue curtain to chance a glance at my arms and torso. All of it was blue. Gerard shouted something above us, but as I opened my mouth, my first mistake, the blue drained into my mouth, causing me to choke and sputter before I wiped what I could away from my eyes. When I had finally removed enough to clear my vision, Gerard's words started to take form in my head and everything made a sick sort of sense.
"Sacré bleu!" Gerard's laughing voice swore, filling my ears as effectively as the blue paint he had dumped on us.
The empty bucket was held in his hands as his shining eyes slid over each of us, taking in our ridiculous faces and ruined clothes. I felt utterly disgusting in the thick blue sludge that would probably take me hours to get off, but I couldn't help but laugh. I couldn't help but laugh as I watched Derek sputter and spit some of the foreign liquid out his mouth, running around in small circles like that was supposed to rid his body of the already hardening paint on his skin. Aiden was stuck in mute shock, trying in vain to rub the paint off against the wall and remove any of the excess paint. I stood there, smiling like an idiot and soaked in blue.
The trails and spots of heavenly blue were spread spastically across the dull green/yellow of the grass, and I couldn't help but notice that it proved to light up the dreariness of the day. And I laughed again, the sound intermingling with Derek's screams and curses, not caring that paint seeped into my mouth because it actually felt good. I didn't know Gerard as a person, nor did I believe I ever would, but his method of revenge and the irony in his swearing was just too fucking genius to ignore. Gerard, the queer artist, had just turned us all into a work of art.
And suddenly, I didn't need to get drunk anymore.
We played the same scene over and over again everyday. The ground against the curb seemed to be paved with our own footsteps, scuffing against the asphalt, pacing back and forth, kicking rocks absently out of their places in the tar. The curb itself felt molded to fit us, several of the spots blank where paint had been scraped off by bored fingernails, and where the concrete had chipped from a 90 degree angle to more of a sad, downward curve. Everyday I would sit and stare at the chipping and the broken shards and wonder when they'd come back around to repaint it; well, almost everyday. Sunday's weren't included in the loop, due to the after-church crowd.
There were always the families willing to brave the long-standing liquor store to avoid the lines at local supermarkets, just to get that little something that they needed: some crackers to go with dinner, more milk as they had finished off the last of it that morning, or maybe just a treat for the kid that finally had the sense to behave in the pews. And there was always the chance that one of those families were acquainted with our parents, and would be walking up their driveway with our sin on their lips faster than we could get up off the curb. And though my parents were nice people, I had never felt an ounce of guilt staying at Derek's house while they stewed away at Mass; I was thankful already that they didn't make me go, but if they had found out what I was doing? My ass would be in Confession until I was forty-three and didn't even remember the word "alcohol."
But it was Saturday. Bleak, dreary, and not exactly promising. The sky had the tinge of hope that the sun was behind those clouds, but the our chance of seeing it was limited, and the colours of the sky above us reflected the oil stains on the ground, hopelessly useless. Smoke was drifting lazily up to match the clouds from a fire we had smelt before he had heard the sirens, languid and falsetto, bouncing in our heads long after the orange licks of flame had disappeared from the streets. People were passing by the little store, mouths moving rapidly to talk to the person in the seat beside them while tapping their fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. People were getting out, going to the movies, going to lunch, going on dates, working, talking, listening, breathing, lying, creating. Because that's just what you did on a Saturday.
But all I cared about right now was getting drunk.
And even after four years of screw ups and misguidance, I still chose my seat on the curb next to my best friends in place of proper salvation. Years and years of meaningless, inane babble from nun after nun, grandpa after grandpa, and concerned peers and teachers had finally dug me a pit of apathy large enough to shove all of their bullshit inside of it. All of which led up to my glorious teenage years, which involved, every afternoon, for the greater part of an hour, standing outside in the cold and scamming beer in front an Arabic run liquor store, being shot accusing glances by the passerby on the streets. We always found that to be one of the most rewarding parts; we're not going to shoot you, we just want alcohol.
We mostly went home empty-handed, the patrons either having enough sense not to buy underage high school students beer, or maybe just trying to hold on to the last little part of them that still felt like an adult, because it's common knowledge that the greatest joy of being a parent is having completely control over another human. But some gave in - muttering that they 'knew what it was like to be a kid' before snatching the money out of our hands and stuffing it into their pockets quickly, buying us the cheapest, shittiest beer, maybe hoping that we'd learn a lesson and therefore justify what they had done for us.
We had some regulars, maybe once or twice every two weeks, that would just take the money and buy it, no questions asked, no explanations needed. But we were always trying to get new affiliates, placing bets on the top responses: ignorance of our presence, scoffing and turning away, or just a shake of the head.
Sometimes, a person would just take off with the money. Luckily Aidan was a fast runner despite being at least four inches too short for the average senior, and he could keep up with the guy for about four blocks, excluding the possibility that he hadn't jumped back into his car yet. Aidan was good, but he wasn't a dog. He knew when he had lost.
I had known Aidan since fourth grade, and he was probably the one guy I could always tolerate, no matter the situation. He was easy going, even in the prospect of losing hard earned money - when he caught the guy once, he was completely calm, barely breathing hard, and had kicked him lazily a few times before taking the money back. His family was a good bunch, and they let me crash whenever I wanted too, and never seemed too concerned with Aidan's alcohol consumption or questionable company.
Oddly enough, I had met him when a kid had fallen off the playground bars at school and landed on his head. He had to be air lifted out. I stood next to Aiden, then just a kid in my class that wrote with blue pencils and had a picture of Star Wars on his lunchbox, and watched as the boy was lifted onto the stretcher and flown to the hospital.
"That's weird."
I had looked over at him. "What?"
He raised his head to the bars, studying them curiously, but not intently. "I know all about these bars now, but I don't even know who that kid was. Isn't that weird?"
I told Aidan he was weird and walked off. The next day, I gave him a dollar to eat a Starburst that had fallen on the ground, and he told me to go buy more Starburst instead. After that, he's all I can remember. Every day, every weekend.
I had known Derek since around middle school, and he was probably the one guy that only I could tolerate, no matter how good the guy's intentions seemed. He was just a jerk. Plain and simple. But we were lab partners in ninth grade, and there was no getting rid of each other after that. We just stuck.
It's been the three of us these past four years. Derek stuck with me because he didn't have anyone, Aidan stuck with us because he never really minded, and I stuck with the pavement because it felt like it's all I would ever see. I scuffed my shoe against the black, hardened ground again, wondering how many kicks it would take to get my foot permanently implanted into the dried tar.
"Hey -- you!"
I was jolted out of my daydream and shook my head to clear my mind. I daydreamed a lot, especially at school, inattentive towards anything that lacked even the subtle hint of a creative flow; I thrived on it, since there was so little to be found in my aura.
The sky was still grey, now dulling to a steel layer, overlapped lightly with white streaks and swirls. It felt like the entire setting was affected by it, reflecting the never-approaching-always-promised storm that continually passed us by, leaving only colorless windows and lights in the hazy afterglow.
"Hey, hey you!"
Derek was standing in front of me, nodding his head across the street towards an expensive looking apartment complex. I snorted at how much of an oxymoron statement that was, before sighing and shifting my position. My ass was getting cold and starting to hurt. We'd been here for over an hour already, and still no takers.
I glanced up at the unlucky person who was on the receiving end of Derek's desperate pleas -- because that's what Derek did, he pleaded. Aidan would ask it as a question ("Buy us beer?"), and when they shook their heads, he would shrug a shrug of "finding it reasonable" and let them carry on their way, staring vacantly at the parking lot attached to the apartments with thoughtful disinterest. I would try and avoid asking all together and simply motioned to the money in my hand and gave them a pointed look, which was usually understood and denied instantly. But Derek? No. Derek pleaded.
"Come on man, let it go," I said, picking at the skin around my nail. "Don't cause shit."
"No, I know this guy. Or, I think I know him. He's this…weird artist guy."
My attention caught, I looked up and peered around Derek to the "guy" standing on the opposite side of the narrow two way street. He was dressed entirely in dark colours, his long jacket hung loosely at his sides as he stepped up to the entry gate and fished around in his pocket for something. Cigarettes. His hair was dark and hung in drapes around his neck and shoulders, contrasting vividly with the paleness of his skin and the black sunglasses against his eyes as he slammed the package a few times until a small stick flung forward, which he held up to capture in his mouth. He didn't look our way once, whether because he didn't see us, or he already had and was trying not to again, was impossible to tell, but I felt increasingly awkward. He felt closer than a street away, like he could sense me here as I sat there staring at him like an animal in a zoo. Wild and elusive artist; watch him smoke.
"How the hell do you know that guy?" Aiden asked calmly, raising his eyebrow. I could hardly blame Aiden for his curiosity; Derek was a douche bag, no doubt about it, but he had his own opinions about how people should act and behave in public, and the last person he would have affiliations with would be an artist. That kind of thing just never interested the guy, and if it didn't interest Derek, then it negatively effected him, according to his own logic.
"John owns that apartment complex," Derek replied, nodding his head towards the building.
Our friend John (named "friend" merely because we saw him every other day), was one of the guys that would buy us beer, no questions asked. Derek apparently knew him from a friend that had a friend that threw a party that knew him and blah, blah, blah. I lost attention when they started the typical talk about high school chicks, and I doubt that Aiden ever really paid attention to Derek in the first place. That's just the kind of vibe he sent out.
"I heard he's a fag," Derek continued, spitting on the ground in disgust. "Lives alone, artsy type. You know."
Ah, so that was it. Derek hated anything out of the ordinary. Anything that he couldn't immediately understand. Anything that wouldn't accept him as a possible candidate for interpretation or analysis. He was like that in the most usual of ways, and it got frustrating that everything that bothered him was definitely going to bother the rest of the outside world.
"Just leave him alone, Derek," I sighed, resting my head in my hand. My brain was starting to function properly from lack of alcohol and I was almost feeling guilty about coming out here.
"Shut up, William," he shot at me, before, "Hey, you! The faggot!"
The man across the street looked up, the bag in his hand clinking gently against his side. It looked like paintbrushes, but I couldn't be sure. I was trying not to look at him, trying to ignore Derek's voice and his shoes and his cruelty and his plain fucking stupidity.
He stared at us, eyes hidden behind those expensive glasses, and waits for Derek to continue, looking startlingly unfazed at the title he was given. Maybe he gets confrontations with jackass kids all the time that have no respect for anything. It wasn't difficult to believe.
"Buy us beer?"
Suddenly, I felt incredibly guilt-ridden, not to mention drenched in utter humiliation. I didn't want this guy to know I was out here scamming beer. The other nobodies that passed by, sure, but not this man. Not him. I could amount to more. I wanted him to know that. I turned towards Derek and hissed, "Shut up, man," at him.
He sneered at me. "What the fuck is your problem, dude? I'm sober, and that fucking pisses me off."
"I don't give a damn if your drunk or sober or fucking dead, Derek, you don't ask guys like him to buy beer," I snarled.
"Why?"
"Because, it's just…it's wrong, okay?"
"Is it because he's a faggot?" Derek asked, before his confused face turned into a glare as he growled at me, "Are you calling me a faggot?"
For someone so sure of themselves, Derek had often seemed a little to quick to jump to conclusions. I stole a glance at Aiden before answering, and found that the boy was smiling lightly at me, the same thoughts crossing through his private little mind.
"No, Derek, just…don't bother the guy."
"Will both of you shut up?" Aiden said calmly, jerking his head towards the other side of the street. "He's listening to you, you know."
I shut up instantly and swiveled around; the man was watching us calmly, sunglasses dimming the light on his face as he inhaled softly, revealing rigid cheekbones, before blowing the smoke back into the air around him.
"Buy us beer?" Derek repeated, his voice a little more strong on account of his injured pride. I bit the inside of my lip and tried to hold back my fist, hoping to make a better impression than 'the kid with the violent outbursts.'
The man ruffled up the back of his hair with nimble fingers and stared at each of us in turn. When he let his gaze fall upon me, I squirmed slightly, my body and mind feeling as naked as my desire for the bottles sitting on the selves in the store behind me.
He smiled gently, and said "no," in a finalizing, bemused tone that caught me completely off guard. I hadn't expected him relent to us, but I hadn't expected him to really answer either, and especially not in the careless, demeaning voice he had used.
Derek didn't take too well to the reaction, however, and spat on the ground disgustedly. "Fucking fag!" he yelled, looking away momentarily as if so furious that he couldn't barely stand the man's presence.
But when Derek turned back around to glare in what he hoped was a hostile, threatening manner, the man grinned at us and did the unthinkable.
He blew us a fucking kiss.
Aiden was the first to react, letting out a small giggle as Derek's mouth fell open in shock and I had to grab on to his shirt sleeve to avoid him running across the street and pounding the artist's face in.
"Fucker!" he shouted again to the man's retreating back, turning away only to eye Aiden with a death glare, daring him to laugh again; but it was no use, because by the time I had let Derek go and run across the street, the guy was already inside the building.
Immediately, Derek was off, trying to peer in each of the windows and throwing bits of sticks at the glass on the upper ones, shouting inane babble that included every vulgar word I had learned in the past five years of my life and trying to figure out which one exactly held the man who dared question his masculinity. I was almost worried about the possibility of someone else being in those apartments, but just as Aiden and I had crossed the street to try and calm Derek down, he had spotted the second best person he could have seen.
John was standing a little ways down, staring at a new piece of graffiti and tilting his head slightly, either trying to figure out the best way to cover it up or admiring it.
"John!"
He looked up, spotting the three of us and waving a hello before walking over, the roll of Scotch tape still held in his hand. He was a pretty decent guy, despite being a little on the heavy side and not really caring too much about the hygiene of his teeth.
"Hey boys, what's up?"
"Buy us beer?"
I bit the bottom of my lip to keep from choking in laughter. Derek really was like a child. All he really needed was some alcohol and a few laps around a tree before he'd calm down and forget all about everything.
My mind started to drift as Derek launched into a tirade about shitty sobriety for "the past three damn days!" and how everyone who lived in this town were complete dicks. Aiden stood silently beside me, only moving to pull out his wallet and pass over the money, mainly to get Derek to shut up and get on with business.
"Thanks a lot, John," Derek sighed as John pocketed the money and took off across the street. He then lowered his voice to spit out, "Not like the fucking fag in your building that wouldn't buy us any..."
Before I had a chance to open my mouth and tell Derek to just get over it already, we heard a loud clearing of a throat. It took us a minute, but we finally cocked our heads up to find the artist leaning out of one of the highest apartment windows, his hand and cigarette hanging carelessly.
"My name's Gerard," he said casually, as if he had been included in the conversation this whole time. "Just so you don't have to keep calling me that fag name."
Derek was grinding his teeth, and I was just waiting for him to perform the leap of faith and try and reach the guy up there. He'd probably start throwing things again soon enough.
"Fucking fag!" he shouted, completely ignoring Gerard's request.
"Derek!" I hissed, embarrassed that I had to act like this kid's mother more than his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder; it seemed to work, and Derek's fists unclenched, but as I looked up again, I noticed that Gerard had disappeared from the window.
The next thing I knew, I was suddenly weighed down with a thick, sticky liquid in a sensation that felt rather like the sky had just come crashing down on my head and shoulders, flattening my hair against my skull and staining my clothes. When I opened my eyes, I realized my first thought wasn't that far from the truth, as my vision was tinted with colour as I blinked through the thick blue curtain to chance a glance at my arms and torso. All of it was blue. Gerard shouted something above us, but as I opened my mouth, my first mistake, the blue drained into my mouth, causing me to choke and sputter before I wiped what I could away from my eyes. When I had finally removed enough to clear my vision, Gerard's words started to take form in my head and everything made a sick sort of sense.
"Sacré bleu!" Gerard's laughing voice swore, filling my ears as effectively as the blue paint he had dumped on us.
The empty bucket was held in his hands as his shining eyes slid over each of us, taking in our ridiculous faces and ruined clothes. I felt utterly disgusting in the thick blue sludge that would probably take me hours to get off, but I couldn't help but laugh. I couldn't help but laugh as I watched Derek sputter and spit some of the foreign liquid out his mouth, running around in small circles like that was supposed to rid his body of the already hardening paint on his skin. Aiden was stuck in mute shock, trying in vain to rub the paint off against the wall and remove any of the excess paint. I stood there, smiling like an idiot and soaked in blue.
The trails and spots of heavenly blue were spread spastically across the dull green/yellow of the grass, and I couldn't help but notice that it proved to light up the dreariness of the day. And I laughed again, the sound intermingling with Derek's screams and curses, not caring that paint seeped into my mouth because it actually felt good. I didn't know Gerard as a person, nor did I believe I ever would, but his method of revenge and the irony in his swearing was just too fucking genius to ignore. Gerard, the queer artist, had just turned us all into a work of art.
And suddenly, I didn't need to get drunk anymore.