Nemo - 5057 words
My image in the security monitor hanging from the ceiling inside the entrance to the Circle K was that of a skinny teenager dressed in his high school uniform, shirt tucked into light khaki pants, navy sweater-vest crossed with the black strap of his side satchel, hair tidy if not purposefully in his eyes and a splatter of someone else's blood down the right, white shirtsleeve. I went unnoticed by the old man clerk with his nose in a Playboy Forum as I walked around the perpetually seated "Cation: Wet Floor" sign to the self-serve food and beverage station and its spongy, black rubber mats. The old man and I had an understanding. I'd be done here and on my way soon enough.
The hot dogs on the rolling rods of the hot dog cooker looked as though they had been there all day and the nacho cheese dispenser had the same pattern of orange-gold, caked on crust as had been there the day before. The chili was burnt. In the bun warmer there would be either stale buns or nothing at all. I hadn't come there to eat as apparently no one did. From in front of the hot dogs one could almost make out the titles of the articles in the current issue in the old man's hands.
The black hanging basket above the microwave was where bananas came to die. Oranges and soggy apples drooped in mourning above year old single-serving packets of popcorn in neatly arranged cardboard sleeves. Once I had seen the clerk juggle the oranges when the dirty magazines were older than the fruit. Pornography and circus tricks. It was a wonder the old man hadn't gone further in life than cashier at a convenience store that didn't even sell gas. They did sell slushies, though, and the overall disgusting lack of maintenance to the establishment meant less lines, fewer people to wait behind or have to see and hear as they went about their lives of lesser importance or interest. A 64oz slushy cost a dollar fifteen. I'd gotten three ones off the loser I'd left in the side alley by the school yard. If I didn't feel like going home right away, I could return and get another.
Between the lid and cup dispensers was the line up of two frozen beverages varieties: Wild Cherry Fanta and Coca Cola. The red light was on in the corner of the red syrup mix though the coke flavored one spun in the proper consistency beside it, ready to dispense. While cherry alone was alright, the coke was a waste unless mixed with its neighbor. I leaned against the counter where the burnt cheese and sticky soda spills were absent and decided to wait.
The door rang in admittance to its next customer. I didn't look over and from experience I doubted that the clerk did either. I listened to boots on the floor, the way they stuck and pulled free of the tacky tile before finding the rubber mats and scuffing against them with the toe-heal shuffle of a flip-flop walker. I hated him instantly, even more when he smiled at me like a long lost friend as he leaned past to grab a cup.
"Hey."
I raised one eyebrow in response but said nothing in return. Blonde hair, brown eyes, band shirt layered under collared button down as though it somehow made TOOL more presentable, the guy could have tatooed the word "douche" on his side of his neck instead of the blue flaming skull and it wouldn't have made it any more obvious. He grabbed one of the 64oz cups and snapped the domed slushy lid on top, slipping it over the soda troth under the cherry nozzle. I watched, seeing into the future with the foresight he lacked, a premature smirk threatening to crack across my face.
He pulled the handle across. Cherry syrup splattered and spat out at him, spraying him in little red waves and droplets until he wrenched the handle back into the off position. I smiled till the sound of his chuckle ruined the moment.
"That's what I get," He said. He shook himself out as though the spots of red could be lifted with a few smart shakes. He turned towards me, nodded to my right sleeve, "Guess we both got kind of over enthusiastic."
I looked at the spots of blood I'd taken with me from the short lived struggle and cast him an unamused stare. "Are you an idiot?"
He smiled, laughter in the way he breathed. He threw the mess of a cup away and grabbed a handful of napkins from the wad set on top of the empty napkin dispenser. I watched him struggle with the bits of napkin that came off and stuck to his syrupy hands then walk to the coolers to grab a bottle of cherry Fanta, a case of Natural Light and a packet of Reeses peanut butter cups.
The clerk looked up from his dirty magazine. "Gonna need to see some ID, Son."
The young man emptied his pockets on the counter in three tries till he found the credit card and drivers license somewhere at the bottom, buried under the newly resurrected wads of paper receipts and loyalty punch-cards. "Add a fountain drink for me?"
"What size?"
"Uh... coke?"
The old clerk shook his head. "Size. It doesn't matter what you put in the cup, all costs the same to corporate. Just gatta know the size for inventory."
"Oh. I threw a cup away, do I have to pay for that one too?"
"Nope, just the one you walk out of here with."
"Right, thirty-two then."
The clerk rang him up with the press of a few buttons on the cream and grey discolored monitor that would have been considered old even twenty years ago. The younger man left his things on the counter, took only his bottled drink, and came back around the U-shaped food area to grab his cup, giving me a smirk as he passed, making sure I watched what he was doing as though my presence made me co-conspirator. He took his 32oz plastic cup, filled it a little ways with the coke slushy mix that was still right and ready, then stopped, poured in some of his red soda, and returned for another layer of frozen coke. He repeated this several times until the drink was full of waves of putrid rosey brown. There was still drink left in his bottle, though, and he turned to me.
"Since you're waiting, here." he held the bottle out to me. "Same thing," he said, as though I was unable to read both the label on the bottle and the label on the slushy machine.
I ignored him, looking elsewhere.
He shrugged and set the bottle on the counter. "Well, it's here either way. I didn't drink from it. Later."
He collected his things from the counter, smiling at his own ingenuity to the clerk as he held his mixed drink and candy in one hand and his case of beer in the other.
He left and the door chimed again, too stupid to realize the difference between coming and going.
I took a cup and mixed a small drink same as his with the bottled remains and waited for the red light to fade.
***
I'm not certain if it was the sound of his nose breaking or my knuckles popping against the cartilage that rang out the loudest but it had that crunching, satisfying ring to it that caused my smirk to tweak just a bit more in one corner.
"Holy fuck!" the bully sputtered, a mustache of red causing a spray of blood with every breath and word as he backed up, kicking up cigarette butts and stray bits of glass and gravel, recognizing a bad decision one punch too late.
"You're stalling," I informed him.
"You're crazy!"
I took one fist to his left eye, followed with another under his jaw. I watched the skin of his neck grow taut around his adam's apple as his chin jutted up from the strike, imagined a killing blow. He stumbled back against a wall with the sense to slide down to the ground and assume defensive posturing: hands over his bowed head, knees guarding his chest. I considered kicking him once for good measure.
"Jesus! Stop! I'm sorry!"
I cocked my head slightly, watching the bloody thing at my feet tremble. "Why should you being sorry affect my reasons for wanting to punish you?"
He had no answer. They never did. I grabbed a handful of hair from the crown of his scalp, pulled up till his temple cleared the cave of his elbows and slammed my fist into it, knocking confetti into his vision. He slumped, a dead weight hanging from my grasp of fine brown strands and I let go, watched him lean too hard to the left and slide down till his face met concrete. Another day, another fool. Maybe I'd get to take on two or three at a time tomorrow. The idea thrilled me.
I wiped the blood off the front of my shoe on a clean patch of skin on his arm and picked my black side satchel up off the ground where I had lain it, slipped it back on. Students who thought themselves to be sneaky and indiscreet shuffled noisily back around corners to pretend they hadn't been watching. They were integral in their own way. The rumor mill was to high school what the news was to adults: it let them know what to be afraid of. In a few months time, I'd own the school. I'd taken out the sophomores during their first attempts at hazing, slaughtered the juniors who thought the sophomores were simply too big of pussies to put me in my place as a "fish". Just one more rung and the next four years would be in maintenance of my new dictatorship.
Stepping onto the sidewalk from the side alley, I chose the direction that would cross the school yard towards home. It was longer and more meandering but the glances and obvious whispers behind cupped hands were reason enough to wander. Cowards. All of them. A cookie cutter sea of uniforms with personalities just as varied. An autonomous collective of idiots who had waited for a messiah to save them from bullies who equated grade level with superiority. How easily they accepted the destruction a regime that wanted their respect for one that demanded their respect and complete devotion. A few students smiled at me as I made my way past the art room, students who used to wear targets for being geeks now with lap easels sitting in the lawns outside with the art room door wide open to better capture the landscape of trees and rooftops on large pads of paper. I made no attempts to smile back. I inclined my head, graciously accepting their approval though I hardly required it.
It was the same for the lawns outside the band hall, where instruments were displayed rather than hidden while rides were waited for behind the school. Choir students in their own circles on the same curb worked out harmonies loudly but pleasantly enough not to require punishment.
The football team was sans several of its star players on the practice field. They lined the white benches with broken bones, black eyes, and bruised ribs. There I did smile, a predatory grin as I sought the eyes of every player whose face my fist had kissed. Some stared back with hatred, most looked away. It only added to my satisfaction.
The practice field marked the southern boundary of the school. Past it were middle class subdivisions and grocery stores, weaving into more grungy market places around which the poorer demographics lived in single story homes with dead grass and overgrown weeds that could be celebrated as native wildlife preserves. I thought of stopping by my Circle K, remembered I hadn't checked this one's pockets, and carried on without. I only crossed the streets at crosswalks and kicked the cars that parked within them at the lights. A mile or so down from the stores was the park, more middle class areas surrounding the Frisbee golf area and far past, where proper golf was played, was the more affluent side of town where homes were built with pretentious spires and half-circle driveways like modern day moats. I took the trail leading through the park towards home.
I didn't mind long walks. Not through my town.
"Look out!"
I ducked, missed the rogue Frisbee flying through the air. It fell a few feet away, an orange spot on the green grass that stood out even under the shade of a large tree.
He approached, blonde hair and a flaming skull tatoo on his neck. I grimaced at my luck.
"Sorry about that," he said, jogging past to collect his projectile. I watched him. The Ramones and plad, carpenter shorts and socks with his sandals. It would have been fun to have struck him over the head with a lead pipe.
He stood upright and waved his Frisbee at the flange of equal douches who stood back in the proper field of play. They laughed and ridiculed him, teased his lack of skill and waved him over to throw again. He smiled at me and ducked his head between his shoulders like a retreating turtle.
"Real sorry. I'll try not to do that again," he promised.
Responding would have only given him what he wanted. I grimaced at him and continued on my way under the shade of the large tree. If he did it again, I promised myself I'd kill him.
Home was hop over an iron fence at the edge of the sixth hole on the golf green. I always took the cart paths, never cut through the rough until necessary. I collected the lost balls as I walked through, giving my trespassing meaning until I was over the fence and standing upon our own green, manicured lawn cut much shorter than the rough behind it. I put the balls in a small bucket set aside for them then walked up the slight rise in the lawn to the pool deck, opened the back door into the kitchen where my mother smiled at me, welcoming me home.
"Are you hungry? I'll have dinner ready in about an hour." Her half apron was covered in greasy swipe marks from her hands and the room smelled of beef.
I nodded, giving my approval in the form of a smile. "I'll be down for dinner. I've got to do some laundry first."
"What about your homework? Are you still doing well in school?"
"Got an A on that English exam. Test in History on Thursday. I'm not too concerned. I'll pass it."
She had my smile, minus the hunger in the eyes and with much more joy but we showed the same amount of teeth when our lips pulled back into the expression. Some people said I was the spitting image of her when she was my age. I was never sure which one of us should have found that more insulting. "Just do your best," she told me. "I bought that new detergent that's supposed to be good for darks and there's a new bottle of bleach in the top cupboard for when the other one gets empty. If you're doing whites, can you put some of mine in as well? I didn't have enough for a load."
I nodded, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and headed upstairs to grab my hampers of worn and blood stained clothing. The cat rubbed herself against my leg as I stood at the washer, my dress shirts and my mother's socks and underthings set to slowly agitate themselves clean. I kneeled down, scratched the cat under her chin on a white patch of her calico coat and between her twitching ears. She purred loudly like a drum roll waiting for the punch line. My father's suit pants hung with freshly ironed pleats from the bar stretched above the ironing board and folding station. He'd be home soon. My stomach grumbled with anticipation of dinner.
The cat and I headed back downstairs to try and sneak a piece of meat in the meantime.
***
"Do you need a ride?" he asked.
The rain had soaked me through. Dark clouds made five pm look like eight and the wind had mistaken November for February. I clutched the strap of my bag in pale hands, refusing to lift them to press away the flat waterfalls of hair pasted to my face that made rivers run down my chin. The inclement weather meant no fights that day. I was anxious.
He looked at me from across the passenger seat, window down, frowning in polite concern while sitting in an oversized winter coat with fur around its unused hood. I couldn't see what band it was today. I guessed Green Day or Radiohead. There were CD cases, neon Frisbees and fast food bags all over the beige floor mats and seats. The '86 Lincoln had seen better days.
I pulled out on the handle and let myself in, pushing his garbage and music to the floor as I scooted over the leather and closed the door behind me. He rolled the window up. I looked at the dashboard and shoved the air-conditioner far over into the red and set to high. I hadn't seen a tape deck in a long time.
He chuckled lightly, easing off the brake and merging back into the traffic of the surface street. "Sorry. Heater doesn't work. But at least it's not raining in here."
I was almost surprised to hear the coat was for function and not just another extension of his ridiculousness. On the pedals, his feet were still in sandals. I felt good about ruining his interior. It warmed me just a little but not enough to keep from shivering.
He looked over at me. "Take the wheel," he said, and then let go, started taking off his coat.
I gawked, slid over into the middle of the bench seating, grabbed the wheel, almost too surprised to be angry. I'd never driven before. I was sure it wasn't supposed to happen in that way. The car bumped into the right curb and I adjusted too far into the left lane, was honked back into our own, tried to find the middle while still leaning far across, into his lap, while he tugged his arms through his sleeves as though nothing was wrong. He wrestled slightly with the coat behind his back, leaning forward till my hair and shoulders made his T-shirt damp, then placed the heavy coat on my back, took the wheel once more, and continued on driving towards the red lights of the intersection.
I glared at him, waited for the car to stop, and punched him in the face. "Are you an idiot?" I demanded. The coat was warm and smelled of good hygiene.
He rubbed his jaw, making odd sounds as he tested its range of motion with side to side slides, then chuckled away all seriousness. He pushed my soaked bangs from my forehead. His fingers were calloused and I imagined an acoustic guitar stored away in the trunk or corner of his apartment, waiting for some appropriately inappropriate time to take it out and pretend people actually wanted to hear him play. "You're cute," he said. He turned in his seat and readjusted the coat over my shoulders. "Want to park somewhere?"
I looked at him, nonplussed, and slid back into the puddle on my side of the car. The red of the traffic light broke into hundreds of reflected pieces on the long, forest green hood of the town car like blood splatter. The stale smell of french fries and discarded onions rose along with the smell of damp.
"Sure," I said.
We waited for the red light to fade.
The rain was worse without the rumble of the engine or sound of the road rolling past. Sometimes it rose to a thunderous roar and then instantly became a thin drizzle, promising an end that deceived gleefully and broke apart into a rage that came down in sheets. I found the rain more interesting than his skin. He felt warmer than I did, that much I appreciated, but the attention to my neck, my ribs, my stomach, my hips, the way my wet things needed to be peeled off and thrown to the back seat with a heavy plop were hardly things to get enthusiastic about. My skin was numb from cold. The fur of his jacket hood felt nice against my cheek when I turned my head, though, and his lips along my veins gave my blood reason enough to run warmer. It wasn't the same rush as from a fight but it was still something.
I thought of Big Red gum and thick slugs when he kissed me, bit his tongue for the awkward intrusion for which he complained like a baby. I'd always liked the taste of blood when it wasn't my own. I thought of the state of my text books in my bag while his tongue made further useless gestures down my chest--I was already wet, he wasn't doing me any favors. When he bit a nipple I gave him a hard pound on the shoulder with the pad of my fist, thought about my mother and whether she had looked like a boy at fifteen or if I looked like a girl. Hit him again for good measure even after he moved on, pulled his blonde hair hard as punishment for pleasure when his lips embraced me lower.
The rain picked up. I watched the drops fall, splatter and run down the windows. Caught our reflections in the glass as the darkness outside made them less opaque, offered weird, tilted angles like in a fun house mirror. I remembered how as a child, the nurse, before giving me a booster shot, would tell me to look away as though watching the needle enter my arm made it hurt more. I always watched. I knew she was right, that the anticipation could make it worse by tensing or imagining the pain before hand. But I never wanted to be the kind of person who let his own fears get the better of him. I preferred to face things head on and unflinchingly.
A ketchup coated condom, condiments for lube. It was hard to be all that impressed with Mr. Ingenuity.
I couldn't get into my wet uniform as easily as I'd been stripped of it. I sat under his coat in the passenger seat, cleaned myself off with old McDonald's napkins, placed them in the empty slushy cup sitting in the cup holder.
"I have some shirts and stuff in the trunk. You can borrow something dry to go home in."
My mother would notice. Nothing I couldn't explain away with a story of a good Samaritan. "Do you have Metalica?" I asked.
He gave me a confused stare. Went for his CDs.
I kicked his hand. "Just get me something dry."
He got out of the Lincoln and ran around the back. The rain was nothing more than a drizzle. With the clouds moving on and the last pools of sunlight shooting down before sunset, I could see the golf center from where we'd parked in the playground parking lot across the road. There weren't exactly many children out to play in the rain. I somewhat despised the thrill the sight of a swing set gave me still, the sense of flying it could grant. I felt very grounded in the car. Mortal.
The trunk slammed shut and he ran back to the front seat, sliding in with exaggerated urgency for the little the rain amounted to. He handed me boxers with Snoopy on them, long khaki shorts and a green polo shirt, all wrinkled and smelling of exhaust. I felt like turning them down on principle.
I put them on instead, slipped far too easily into clothes that were far too big. I pulled the sun visor down, flipped the mirror open, gazed in horror at my reflection in his clothes with my hair tussled from our affair.
"You look good," he said.
I looked like another Frisbee golf playing, vintage car driving, socks and sandals wearing douche bag. It was not a compliment.
He kissed my cheek and I wiped it away.
"Where to?"
I closed the mirror and set the visor right, grabbed my wet things and got out of the car, holding my pants up with one hand. The motion made my spine sing and my knuckles go white in their grip on the door before slamming it closed.
"Where are you going? You sure you wanna walk home?"
I ignored him, focused on a graceful exit.
"What's your name? Can I get your number first?"
"No," I told him. We hadn't had any trouble bumping into each other in the past.
I jay walked across the wet streets to the grassy greens of the golf course and ignored the cart trails in favor of the straight shot to the iron fence at the back of the 6th hole. It was a day for all kinds of firsts.
***
I got detention. The coach of the athletics department had managed to wrestle out of the bruised mouths of his injured players enough information to call attention to my extracurricular activities. His look of disbelief was matched by the vice principal's. The rumors had spread far enough to make the confessions credible. My lack of remorse concerned them. I smiled at them upon my sentencing: three weeks in after school suspension. I left class promptly at the bell ring through the PA system, arrived early in the disciplinary room where my time was to be spent for an hour every evening. There was never a better delinquent than me. My very presence kept the others in line as the myth of me grew larger with that conviction.
I missed the fighting. I drempt of the blood and adrenalin, cast my most memorable clashes into one mass of endless conflict with me as the victor. Sometimes I drempt of the douche whose clothes sat folded on my dresser. He bled nicest of all when struck hard in the face with the heal of my dream shoe. Bowed at my feet, covered in his own blood and tears was the only place I'd seen him in weeks.
I had a few dollars left over from my last victim, just enough to buy a slushy from my favorite franchise. Once my hour long after school sentence was fulfilled for the day, I headed for the Circle K, smiling to myself with secret satisfaction. I'd get just cherry this time. My patience deserved rewarding.
I pushed the door to the Circle K open, listened to the bell, looked up at the monitor and at how the sunlight surrounded me in white through the camera's view like the pupil to the door's eye.
"Oh, hey there!" the clerk behind the counter exclaimed.
I froze in place and rolled my eyes to see him. The douche smiled, the collar of his work shirt hardly covering the blue flames of the skull tattoo on his neck. His name tag read 'Customer Service Representative' and in large letters under it 'Danny'. He leaned over the counter, beckoning me over with a cock of his chin, smiling.
As I walked over my feet didn't stick to the floor. Someone--Danny?--had mopped. There was a couple in the self serve area getting hot dogs and some kid laughing in the candy aisle.
Danny chuckled briefly to himself for no apparent reason. "It's been a while. How've you been?"
"You don't work here," I explained to him. The old man would hear about this.
"Nah, I started here last week. Nine dollars an hour, can you believe it? I haven't even been robbed once though this guy did come in and steal a twenty-four pack three days ago. Just walked right out like he wasn't scared of anything! I got to call in my first police report. It was pretty cool." He brushed my bangs back. I shook my head to let them fall back in my eyes. "What about you? Feels like we left off on a sour note."
I slapped my money on the counter between his elbows. "Sixty-four ounce."
Danny winked and pulled the money across, ringing it up on the stone aged technology. "Don't worry. John'll be back doing the weekday midshift next week. His daughter just had a baby so he's gone up to Springfield to see her. I'm mostly here for the overnights. It's pretty cool. I get to close the store down between midnight and two to restock the coolers and stuff. You should come by. I'll let you hang out with me in the back."
I held my hand out for my change.
Danny was a stupid name.
The couple with the hot dogs and the child formed a line behind me. Danny filled my palm with change and I walked the clean floor to the rubber mats. The hot dogs were plump and fresh. The cheese and chili looked edible. The bananas were yellow. The napkins were in the napkin dispenser. The red light was on for the Wild Cherry Fanta slushy.
"Matthew!" The woman with the hot dog shouted. "Take that candy out of your pocket this instant! Do you want to go to jail?"
Danny laughed. "It's okay. I'm feeling generous today. I won't call the cops on a six year old."
"You're lucky the nice man is so forgiving," The adult man said. "You're old enough to know better. Now put that back. You'll spoil your dinner."
"But I want it!" Matthew shrieked.
"The world doesn't revolve around you and what you want. You need to learn to just suck it up and be a man."
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed against my chest, and waited for the red light to fade.