It's Just People

I couldn't hold it anymore, my laughter. "You know she's got a boyfriend, don't you?" I asked him. He looked at me with this dopey, beaten puppy dog look. And then he grabbed his coat, said something about "I just remembered" yadda yadda yadda, and left.

Chelsea looked at me, furious, dumbstruck. "Why would you say that?"

"Why would I say what?" I knew what she meant. I just didn't know how she could possible mean it.

"You didn't have to tell him about Pete." Well, I said to myself, I just thought someone should tell the poor bastard.

There's that place between what's good and what's not, the information and the truth. And, no, it probably wasn't my responsibility to tell this guy about Pete. I don't even like Pete. That's not the point. If I was this guy, this sad sack bumming around a bar looking for someone to take me home, I would want a guy like me telling me what's what, putting me in my place, giving me the skinny, letting me know. And I'd never been mad at Chelsea, never once. I didn't think she was that kind of girl. And it was only then that I realized, maybe it's not a question of "That Kind" of girl. Maybe it's just people. And maybe I'm not that far behind.

Little Red Letter Day

She rubs my back and says, "You're gonna be fine, baby." But it starts up again. I can't breathe, there's too much tears, and she says I'm hyperventilating. It's hard to catch my breath but I know I have to. My cheeks feel hot, it's all bubbles and snot and salt.

There are always transitions and some are worse than others. As a thirteen-year-old it's hard to process. The end seems bleak and right around the corner. I don't know that school hardly matters, that the little red letters, they don't matter. They aren't who I am.

I'm crying because I never had to try. I was always the best and it was always easy. And now things are difficult. Wasn't it always supposed to be like this? "Breathe, baby, breathe," she says.

And eventually I do. I calm down, I blow my nose, I splash cold water on my face. I have my first panic attack out of the way at thirteen, I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. And now I know I have to try. That the pluses won't come as readily as they did before, as I always knew, or thought, they would. Maybe that's why I'm crying. Maybe I just don't want to try. Why should I?

She keeps rubbing my back. It feels good. It's after the storm, when everything is quiet and still. There's a deep sense of relief, this powerful feeling in my stomach. Or maybe I'm just hungry for dinner.

Who I Think about When I Think about Someone Else

Yeah, babe, sure, I think about other women sometimes. But not the ones you're probably thinking I think of.

Not, like, your friends, or your roommate. Or anyone from college or an ex or something like that, none of my friends. Not even a celebrity. I mean, I have, I have thought about all those people. But that's not who I think about anymore. When I think about someone else.

They're strangers. Well, maybe stranger isn't quite the right word.

They're not girls I see on the streets, or on the bus, or in the mall, or anything like that. They're a little more sought after. I don't know what the terminology is for a stranger you seek out, but that's the best way I know how to describe it.

Here's what happens. I'll think about someone, or I'll see a post or a friend online. And maybe I click that person's picture, or post, or maybe I search that person's name when I'm thinking, Hmm, I wonder what so-and-so is up to...

Then maybe I'll look through his or her photos. And maybe one—or someone in one—stands out. Or maybe I scroll through their list of friends for someone cute, but that's a very rare occurrence. Usually it's a byproduct of stalking I'm already doing. Not stalking sorry that's not the right word. I hope.

So I'll see a photo, a photo where some girl catches my eye. And then I click on that name, look at that page, look at those photos. Maybe sometimes there's a website or something, I don't know, it varies. And then I look at the photos. I see her having fun, laughing, laughing with friends, hiking, singing, hanging out with her cousins, whatever. I know her likes, her dislikes, what kind of music she listens to, where she grew up, what she's doing and what she wants to do. There's history there, there's future, and it makes the fantasy that much more realized.

And, babe, yeah, I know you're real, too. Sometimes it's just that, well, a fantasy of something unattainable won't cut it. I need a fantasy of something real. Does that make sense?

Slugger

I pick up Warren at his house because he's fifteen and I just got my license. I'm feeling good in my mother's station wagon, I lean my elbow on the door armrest like I've been driving most of my life. Warren gets in and gives me a nod and a smile and a "'Sup." We have big dopey smiles on our stupid little faces. Then we drive to McDonald's and get chicken nuggets.

"Do you have a way you always eat them?" I ask.

"What?"

"I would always take one bite of cheeseburger, or one bite of nuggets, then eat three fries with it, and then take a swig of Coke. That's how I ate all my Happy Meals." That's how I'm going to eat this meal, despite the look that Warren gives me. One bite of nugget, three fries, swig of Coke, and I've got a car outside.

We drive back to my place and play video games. Warren beats me, every time, pummels me. I get upset about it sometimes but not today, let him beat me. We drink more Coke, poured into shot glasses, tossing some back and sipping others slowly. I'm a gunslinger in a saloon.

My mom brings us two thin crust frozen pizzas, one pepperoni and one sausage. We eat them while we watch the three original Star Wars in a row, like we did in fourth grade. When we're done it's two in the morning and we each open another can of Coke.

"This is just what we always do," Warren informs me.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you have a car. And, like, look at us."

I grab a piece of paper from my dad's printer and one of his pens and we make a list:

          1. Drive to Corey's

          2. Crash Lisa's slumber party

          3. McDonald's again (milkshakes)

"I think McDonald's is closed already," I say.

"Is there any other place where we can get milkshakes?" There isn't.

          4. Hang out in the park

          5. Just drive

It's all we can think of. We decide to just start driving and see what happens. Maybe we'll get some milkshakes, maybe we'll get some girls, maybe Warren will get tired soon.

My parents' room is right above the garage so we open the garage door with our hands. I slowly turn the key in the ignition, as if that would keep the car quiet, but it turns on the way it always turns on. I back out and Warren starts lowering the door, then stops. He crouches under and disappears, returning a few seconds later with something in his hand. When he gets in the car I see it's my dad's old wooden Louisville Slugger.

"What's that for?"

"Just drive," he tells me. And I do, pulling out of my driveway and onto the street, and I turn on the headlights.

I don't know what's open, I don't know what, if anything, there is to do. Two freshmen in the middle of the night driving in a mother's station wagon. Part of me wonders what we're going to do besides just drive around, and the other part is wondering if my mom checks the gas tank. That's crazy though, she wouldn't. Would she? Did she wake up when we left?

"Slow down a little," Warren tells me, and I do. He rolls down his window, and before I can ask what's going on he smashes a mailbox with the bat. I just stare at him, stupid. I don't want to swerve onto the other side of the road, but I don't speed up or pull over, and then he smashes another one. He's laughing and telling me to "Wait, hold on," and he smashes a third. "Dude, this is awesome! Did you see that one fly?" And that's when we see the cop.

The cops in our town will pull you over for going twenty-six in a twenty-five, so I'm not feeling good about our chances. So neither of us are surprised when the cop pulls into the street and turns on his lights. We start swearing, and I gun it.

I'd raced cops a hundred million times in video games and arcades. I'd watched a hundred thousand car chases in movies and TV. I didn't even think about what I would do if a cop came after me. And I don't know what the penalty is for smashing mailboxes. Was it a federal offense? Am I Warren's accomplice? Would they even care since we're minors? I just drove.

There aren't many places to speed to in this town. But we were close to the baseball park, and I figured I could probably lose the cops there. When I turned into the entrance I floored it, just like I've seen, the pedal against the floor. There were no other cars, no people. I could see the diamonds going by. There's where I played when I was eight, there's where I played when I was twelve... I brake a little before turning out of the park, onto North Wilde Avenue, and I floor it again. Wilde is straight but hilly, and I hoped no other drivers were out this late. The cops were further away now.

Then we remembered: Lisa lives at the end of Wilde. Sure enough, after one of the crests, we see a pile of cars lining the street. One car is pulling out of the driveway, a Jeep Wrangler, and I'm able to pull in and kill the lights. Warren and I hop out and hear a voice, "Warren? Hunter?" The voice belongs to Becky, one of Lisa's best friends. Lisa and I dated for a couple months, if you can call it that, and I'm sure she thinks that's why we're here. We don't say anything, we just run around the house, through the yard, past the trees, and onto the bike path. We're safe, and we start walking.

I don't ask Warren what he was thinking and I don't really care. I get a text: Did u just run outside my house??? I don't respond. Then I remember: The bat. The bat is still in the car. I freak out. Is that evidence? If the cops pull over and look for the car, will that be the thing that does us in? Am I getting all worked up over nothing?

The bike path hits Buffalo Street and we take a left, heading back to the car. We turn onto Wilde and walk the block or so to Lisa's, getting quieter and slower, not quite sure if we're going to run into an officer or a gaggle of weirded out teenage girls.

The car is still there. There are no cops, no girls. We get in. There's the bat. I drive us back to my house, I turn off the headlights before we reach it, we open and close the garage door by hand, and sit on my downstairs couch. We finish our Cokes from earlier. They're room temperature now, and flat.

My Hemisphere

We're done for. Now I know what people mean when they say we're not getting out of this thing alive. There's no coming out clean. I've looked into the belly of the beast, and it looks like a goddamn chocolate chip cheesecake. Fuck April, January is the cruelest month. More like cruller month. I'm so lonely.

Let me tell you how this thing started: Fuck New Years. Fuck all the little happy couples and champagne flutes and balls and resolutions. People saying they'll be better, people saying they'll eat more green leafy things, and take up Pilates but not care about body image, and drive less, and tip more, and see the world, and be more politically correct, and just generally get upset at way too much shit, and actually actively listen, and all the regular things you're supposed to say. I see resolutions like drugs, only I like drugs. Just something to take your mind off of how unbearable your life really is, and all the people you actually hate that you have to see every day.

But me? I buy cheesecake. If I want to do a thing I'll do a thing, I'm not a fan of saying I'll do it first. I've let myself down too much this way.

Sarah, she thought I was serious. She dribbled a little bit of her drink on her dress, I made a stupid joke. Look out for the lush, something like that. It was an alcohol-infused joke, which, in my experience, those can either go over really well or really poorly. I thought I said it jokingly enough, made it big but not loud, goofy but not ridiculous. And Sarah did a really good job of hiding that she was mad at me right up until midnight. Everyone's counting down, getting their bubbly ready, solidifying their kissing partners. Three, two, one, HAPPY FUCKING—and I turn to her and kiss her. It's like a peck. It's nothing. It's even less than nothing because at least nothing can turn into something. It's one second and it's done, one second is all it takes.

I asked Sarah to join me in the bathroom. I asked her what was going on. She didn't appreciate me making a drunk girl reference in front of all our friends. I said it wasn't a big deal, she said that wasn't the point, I said, she said, I said she said I said she said and we made up and had sex. Later, not there in the bathroom, although that didn't stop Louis from thinking we did when we came out.

The next day when I woke up she was gone. There was this little note telling me something about space, she needed it, or we needed it, half of me was too groggy and the other half was too blind with rage to make out the sentences in any proper order. I couldn't help but thinking that I was one of her resolutions. The absence of me was a clean start to a crisp fucking new year.

Maybe I can't get too mad. Maybe she picked up a thing or two from me. Maybe she didn't feel like saying she'd do anything. Maybe she just wanted to do it, and then did it.

So I get cheesecake. Chocolate chip with a fudgey base and chocolate drizzle. I get donuts and pancake mix and bottles of whiskey. I get sea salt and black pepper potato chips, fruit snacks, and I eat frozen Cool Whip like it's goddamn ice cream. Because the only thing the new year signifies—at least in my hemisphere—is that the months to come, they're the coldest ones.

Ordinary Good

I've been a real shitheel. I'll be the first to admit it. Well, I'm probably not the first, but anyway.

Work hasn't even been going bad. Business at the restaurant is good. I'm not exactly where I want to be, just a line cook, but I know that won't last long. I know I'll work my way up, and not in a cocky way either. I'm good at what I do. I can be better. I don't want to open up my own place or anything like that, I don't want that pressure. Just to make good food for decent people.

My friends are well. Harriet's in remission, thank the good lord. Brian and Andrea, they're expecting their first baby. Carolyn and I didn't have any negative words to each other about it, and I was even expecting to. Nothing about why we're not trying or even if we're ever going to try. We were just both genuinely happy to hear their news. No fooling.

I like where we live. I like this town. There are things to do here, there are good schools should we ever need to worry about it. My taxes are higher than I'd like, but nothing's perfect. We all have to pitch in. That's something I'm willing to do.

So I don't know what it is. But I've been sour. Mean even. Callous and abrupt. I start thinking about things, about how they could be different. I go for long walks after my shift. No drinking, no sleeping around, no dark thoughts, none of that stuff. It's just time away from her, for no reason, and it's getting longer. My pants look old, the dog's making too much noise. I'm looking at the same wallpaper but I don't want to go. And I feel like I should want to break out of it. But I'm a guy who likes a bad mood, I always have, and I worry I always will.

And I get quiet sometimes. No questions, short answers. There's that saying, where you hear a thing about yourself enough you start thinking it's real? I wonder if she felt like nothing.

Then I get home from work, late. Another walk, another sit in my car in the garage. I know Carolyn and fully expect her to be in bed asleep, or pretending. So I walk in, and there's a faint glow coming from the living room, a warm saxophone, too. I follow the light and music down the hall. Candles. I see candles, short and long and dripping, on the coffee table and the bookshelves and mantle. Cannonball on the speakers. I see an indoor picnic: blanket on the floor, champagne and glasses, cheese, grapes, dark chocolate, pretzel crisps, local preserves. Carolyn is standing. I wonder how long she's been here like this. If she's figured out my habits. If I walk in late the same time every night. Everything looks like it was set out a moment ago. And she's standing there with this look in her eye. Not a look that says she forgives me, but a look that doesn't even know what's to be forgiven. A look that's strong.

I run to her, I almost knock her onto the couch. I hold her and hold her and hold her so tightly I almost kill her. I cry. I open a door hidden behind a curtain. I feel good. I kiss her neck, her cheek, her mouth, her little earlobe. She asks me if I'm hungry. I say yeah, yes, I could eat.

Private Sounds

She says I'm weird. She locks the door to the bathroom. I didn't even know our bathroom door had a lock. She laughs. She laughs because she thinks it's normal. Because she thinks it's what she's supposed to do. I tell her to come out and she keeps laughing. Who would need to lock a bathroom anyway?

I get water and go back to the bedroom. I look at my four attempts peeled off and rotting on the floor. I smell the stale stench of latex and failure. It's all in my head, including myself. I pick it all up. I kick the clothes and socks. I hate socks.

The water is gone quickly. I get overheated easily. I'm a hot body, we both are. We can't sleep next to each other without waking up all the time. We have to throw the covers off. Looking at the bed you'd think it was passion, but it's just discomfort.

She said I shouldn't worry about it but I wanted to fight. I was mad and I wanted her to get mad with me. We have to fight at some point. But she just laughs, locks herself away. You can hear everything that goes on in that bathroom, every private sound. I'm still, listening, but all I hear is that laughter, quietly and to herself. I can feel her head shaking. I've let her down, but in what way I don't know.

I turn the thermostat down. I get into bed and take the side by the wall. She'll come back eventually and she'll feel bad if she wakes me up climbing over me. We wake up so much already. This is her pillow, it smells like her hair. She faces the wall when she sleeps. Does she face it when I'm not around?

The shower turns on. She's cooling off. I'm cooling off, too.