Boys of Alabama

by Genevieve Hudson

  The two trucks slowed when they drove through the treeless streets behind the mall. Davis turned up the Pink Floyd song that charged the air around their truck. They rolled through a stop sign just because they could and idled in the road for longer than Max expected. Davis switched the music to the local rap station and slid the windows down. He yelled wooooo into the night.

  At the Chicken Shop, they piled their trays high with fried food. Chicken strips with extra pepper sauce and waffle fries and tots. They each ordered their own refillable extralarge soda cup. The sizes still amazed Max. They each held at least a liter of liquid, and everyone would get seconds.

  Dude, said Knox, pouring two extra packets of salt onto his fries. Did you know that someone found a rat’s head at the Chicken Shop off Fifteenth Street?

  Shut up, said Lorne. That’s a bag of baloney.

  A bag of baloney, thought Max, and he filed the saying away in the must-use section of his brain.

  Oh, it’s true, said Knox. I saw pictures. They got pictures. It’s nasty. It’s like you can see the fried little rat head and its little rat teeth. The woman who found it, she was just about to chomp down when she looked and saw something staring at her.

  Nasty, said Lorne.

  She could have gotten rabies, Knox said. I’m fixing to check every last fry and tot before I bite.

  Knox dumped the contents of his fry sack onto his tray and started his search through them.

  She couldn’t have gotten rabies from eating a fried rat head, said Davis. It doesn’t work like that.

  Hold up, said Knox. You do you, and I’ll do me. Good luck not eating a rat head.

  Whatever, said Davis. He dipped a fry into a swirl of mustardketchup-barbecue he had blobbed together.

  Well, well, ladies. Fancy seeing you here, said the voice of Pan, who stood before their table with his tray of fries and diet cola, Max knew it had to be diet cola, steady in his hands.

  Sitwithus, Max said in his head.

  Davis started to hum the theme song to the TV program Psychic South.

  To what do we owe the honor, Lord Darkness? Did you need some chicken for your cauldron? said Davis.

  You should really try stand-up comedy, Davis, said Pan. You’re freaking hilarious. Scoot your fat ass over. I’m joining you.

  Oh wait, I’m sorry, said Knox. That’s right, you don’t eat chicken. Cause you’re a vegetable-tarian now.

  Davis made room for Pan beside him.

  Yep, said Pan. A vegetable-tarian. That’s right.

  See these, Knox pointed to a sharp tooth, crooked and stained with a fluoride patch. We got these because we are predators that are made by God to kill and eat animals.

  Well, said Pan. Thanks for the biology lesson. Looks like I’m evolving at a higher speed then.

  Max didn’t know what to do with Pan among them. He looked to Lorne, who seemed more engrossed in his sandwich than in Pan’s presence. Lorne uncrossed his legs and opened his knees.

  Hey, said Pan, staring right at Max. Good game tonight.

  Thanks, said Max. We lost.

  As if you even watched it, said Lorne.

  Not a chance in all of hell, said Pan. But I’m being polite and I’m assuming it was good.

  We lost, said Boone.

  He’s just being a gentlewoman, said Davis, mouth full.

  Max watched Davis’s molars come together across strings of chicken thigh. Flecks of it hit his lips. Pan folded into their conversation with an ease that girded Max. Pan knew how to talk to them, even though they said nothing. It seemed to be a conversation strung together with pantomimes and insults and jokes about how sweaty testicles could get. Boone farted his armpit into Pan’s face. Pan spit a chewed fry into Davis’s lap.

  Cars pulled in and out of the lot outside and Max’s nuggets stayed uneaten, though he had unskinned them from their crispy batter, which now lay in crumbs around his wrapper. He sucked the sparkle of his soda. He wanted, already, another one.

  I got a serious question of some kind, Knox asked.

  Lorne leaned back in the booth. Max thought he saw Pan look at Lorne.

  How long do you think you have to put your dick in a girl for her to get pregnant? said Knox.

  How is that even a question? said Davis.

  Like where did you put it? asked Boone. The ass or the other place?

  I don’t know, said Knox. The other place.

  Davis rolled his eyes. You got to be careful, brother.

  Like longer than a minute, right? If it’s under a minute, it’s probably safe, right?

  Pan put his head on the table and shook with laughter. When he lifted his head, his eyes were streaming tears stained black from his liquid liner.

  Knox’s going to be a daddy, Pan said.

  Why don’t you shut that piehole, Pan? said Lorne. He needs advice not a freaking psychic fortune-teller.

  Psychic fortune-teller?

  Max wanted to leave.

  Maybe Pan could stir up some abortion juice in his cauldron for your girlfriend, said Boone.

  That’s not funny, said Knox. You know I wouldn’t do that. I’m against all that stuff

  Yeah, Lorne said. Don’t even joke about that.

  Boone put up his hands like Don’t shoot.

  I’m only being practical, fellas, Boone said.

  No one’s pregnant! said Knox. Jeez. I’m just asking hypocritically.

  Hypothetically? offered Lorne.

  Yeah, said Knox. Hypothetically, how long do you think the thing has to be in there to, you know, do any impregnating stuff?

  Depends on the man, said Pan.

  As if you would know, said Davis.

  The edge of Max’s soda cup was red from his broken lip. He ran a tongue across it. It looked like lipstick.

  Did she want it? asked Lorne. If she didn’t want it, I don’t think she can get pregnant. The body doesn’t take it. So, if she didn’t want it. You don’t have to worry.

  Knox shrugged.

  I think she wanted it, he said. I couldn’t really tell. It was late and stuff. We’d been sipping on the moon.

  A family-shaped group padded to their SUV outside the window. The night caught the light from all the fluorescence in town and glowed with it. Max wondered if there might be a world not long from now that never gets dark at all.

  My ride’s here, dudettes, said Pan. Thanks for the titillating conversation, but I’m about to blow this proverbial popsicle stand. Knox, success with fatherhood.

  F you, dude, said Knox. No one’s a father! It was under sixty seconds. She might not have wanted it. No one’s a daddy.

  In the parking lot, a girl with a bowl cut stood next to a silver Honda. Pan waved at her. His ride. She held a skateboard to her side. Her pants were baggy, and her chin nodded when she saw Pan push through the glass doors.

  So, even if it’s under a minute, it like counts and stuff? said Knox.

  I would feel bad for you, said Davis, if you weren’t such a tater tot.

  FOOTBALL PRACTICE ENDED EARLY. Pan stood in the middle of the parking lot waiting. He adjusted his plastic Dracula fangs and waved at Max. Max walked over to him. He shoved a hand into his pocket and fiddled with a pen cap. He usually showered after practice, but he hadn’t that day. He could smell himself. Maybe Pan could smell him, too. He wondered about the flavor of his pheromones. He held the handle of his gym bag, something tidy and all black from Germany. Not cool like the brands of America.

  Honey, Pan said, I’m taking you to the mall.

  You are? Max said, trying to sound normal. But my mother is usually my pickup.

  Yeah, well, call her and tell her change of plans. My mom has the car today, but I got a ride coming in a few. You can be my escort to the comic book store.

  Do you like Tintin? Max said.

  Never heard of her, said Pan.

  A motorcycle descended on campus streaming blackness behind it. Pan’s ride. The man on the motorcycle flipped up his reflective sunglasses to rev
eal eyes of different colors.

  Pan, half powered, said, This is Uncle Quaid.

  Max arranged himself on the motorcycle behind Uncle Quaid. A truck filled with beefy defensive linemen slowed as it passed them. Max tried to pretend he was busy getting adjusted into his seat and did not notice Knox in the truck scowling and curious. Max felt the stares, the watching, even with his back turned. But he thought: This is fine. They’re friends with him, too.

  Pan folded into the sidecar of the motorcycle. His knees stuck up so that he could wrap his arms around his thighs and make himself into a small package. He looked like a present of a person. Max held tight to Quaid’s body which stank like a barn of hay. He was sour and animal. The man’s leather jacket felt freshly dead, and Max worried that if he held too tightly to the hide, he might startle life into it.

  Quaid’s long flowing hair was drawn into a tight tail. When he took off his jacket in the mall parking lot, Max noticed the puckered scars and welts on his forearms and hands. It looked like he’d survived some kind of attack.

  Nice to finally put a name to the face, said Quaid.

  Max had heard his accent around town. It was gentle and flamboyant but distinctly Southern. Something in it sounded rich.

  A name to the face.

  Quaid held out his hand. Two fingers were missing from it, and Max shook it. Quaid talked a bit more, but all Max heard was: Pan’s been saying my name. Max spread his lips. He had been told by many people that his smile was a knockout. He liked to share it when he could. An armor to the world.

  Quaid leered at Max, flipped one leg over the motorcycle, and left them there.

  Inside the mall, Pan went into the bathroom to change out of his God’s Way uniform. He emerged, ready to show off his new mesh top and lace gloves.

  What happened to his fingers? Max asked.

  Snakes got them, said Pan.

  Snakes? said Max. A snake bit the fingers away?

  Yep, said Pan, grabbing the bottom seam of Max’s shirt and pulling him deeper into the department store they had to travel through to get to the mall corridor.

  You’d be surprised how unsurprising it is when you live here long enough, he said.

  At the entrance to the comic book store, magazines showcased muscled men in electric spandex with fierce coiffed hair. SHAZAM! said a superhero in a blue-clad onesie as he high-kicked a villain whose face was painted ghost white and whose mouth was a grimace of shining monster lips. Pan hovered over the rows where obscure titles had been filed side by side and touched each one. He lifted them gently. Occasionally he would shriek with joy at some rare edition.

  Max paused to look in a mirror that hung over the fifty-cent discount bin. The light from the overhead fixtures drew attention to all the perfections of his face. He ran his hand over his flushed cheeks. He loved his big mouth and square jaw. His eyes he did not love. Tiny and darting and set back in his head. Another thing wrong with his head was the hair on top of it. His hair should fall in a blond wave, like his father’s hair did. But Max’s hair curled. It cowlicked and greased and made him look silly. He usually sheared his curls down to the scalp so all that was visible was a thin film of fuzz. But he hadn’t shaved it since Alabama. He just let it grow.

  A song played overhead, something well-known and sung by a fabulous pop star whose voice sounded like it was screaming the words fun and sex and danger at the same time. Max bobbed his head to the fun and sex and danger and imagined what it must feel like to be her: to dance before a crowd under blaring electric lights and have people yell your name as you stripped down to nothing but the spandex clinging to the beautiful body you were born into. To prowl like a glimmering, shimmering goddess under video images of yourself prowling like a glimmering, shimmering goddess. To lift your goddess limbs above your goddess head and swim your goddess hips back and forth across a stage that was built for people like you. For boys and girls to rip at their hair and sing with you and sing at you while trying to make their lips match your lips, their voices match your voice. That was what it meant to be American, Max thought. To be able to stand on a stage and sing so loud that it rushed through every radio in the country and made the world want to dance and cry at the same time. To make music that lingered above swimming pools in the summer. Music that people swam through as they cut strokes across the clean, chlorine squares in their backyards. Music that people fell in love to and out of love to and became bored to while walking through the mall.

  Sure, Max knew his face was okay, but he was not beautiful. He was not the kind of beautiful that people wanted to cut out of a magazine and fasten to their wall with metal pins. He was not the kind of beautiful that became a poster looking out over a bed as two boys touched each other quietly beneath a quilt knit together from one of their mother’s dresses.

  Max turned away from his reflection and considered the rows of comics. The mall space and its sweet-cookie smells seemed to trivialize and commercialize the feelings looping up and out of him.

  Hey, Max heard himself say. You’re not going to tell anyone, please remember, about what you saw me do?

  No way, Jose, Pan said back. A hundred percent no.

  Okay, Max said. He leaned closer, realizing, for the first time that Pan was shorter than he was. He loomed so grand in Max’s mind that he hadn’t noticed. He came up only to Max’s eyebrows.

  Because, Max said. I’ve never told a person. It’s a secret hugely.

  Aw, said Pan. You don’t have to worry. I’m not crazy. I’m telling absolutely zero people, Maximillian.

  Why is everyone calling me that? Max said. My name’s just Max.

  Max picked up the newest Superboy.

  Can I ask something else? said Max.

  Sure, Just Max, said Pan.

  What is up with Lorne? Max heard himself ask.

  With Lorne?

  Max turned the page of Superboy as if he were reading it or interested.

  Why are you asking?

  I don’t know. I notice you two talking in the field at that party and wonder because it looked like friends. Like close friends.

  What if I told you Lorne was crazy? said Pan. A disturbed human.

  Max tightened the comic he held. Pan would never give a normal answer.

  It’s true. Lorne’s a family friend. I’ve known him since I was practically in the womb. So, I would know if he was disturbed, and he is. He’s messed up in the brain sauce.

  He seems only a little angry, said Max. I don’t know about disturbed.

  Pan shifted under Max’s gaze. Pan’s eyes were the lightest brown, almost gold.

  Everyone in that family is disturbed, said Pan. Just look at his father. You know they kill animals, right? That’s like the number one symptom that something is mentally disturbed with you.

  Max picked up another comic. He needed to hold more things.

  Don’t you wonder why they’re so interested in you, huh? asked Pan. Why they are so enamored by their new German princess?

  They are not so interested, said Max.

  Oh god, come on. Don’t play dumb.

  I’m the fastest runner on the team, said Max.

  Sure, sure, Pan said. He started laughing. Don’t you think if you were so good at football, you’d be playing more? Don’t be stupid, Sad Sarah.

  Pan laughed maniacally. His eyes snapped into slits.

  What is so funny right now? asked Max.

  They want to save you, hon. They want disciples. It’s easy to see it. I can see it from way over here.

  The laughing rolled Pan’s shoulders. Pan laughed as if Max was silly, silly to think he could be special. Pan’s laughing peeled back the scab of something still sore. At him. Not with him. Max had been laughed at so many times in Germany. Walking into school with his hands wrapped in gauze, needing to miss days because of migraines, going into the girls’ bathroom instead of the boys’ because his brain was somewhere else, always somewhere else.

  Laughter ran down his spine. Max cracked his nec
k. His head hummed with the memory of the smacking on the fields. It did feel good, the pain. It did. And what had Price said? That Pan liked pain, too. Feet on fire. Feet in the flames. Laughing like a knife to the peel.

  He wondered what would happen if he leaned in and kissed Pan on the mouth. Right then. Right there. In front of the mall people. If that’s what Pan wanted. If that’s what this was. They would be physically removed from the premise. Max touched the shelf in front of him. He breathed deep to induce calmness. Pan was so strange. It didn’t make sense.

  But to me, you’re special, said Pan. More than a disciple. More than a warm body to put in a pew.

  Pan bent over and shuffled through a pile of comics on the floor. His butt tapped Max’s hand. On purpose? Max wondered.

  I think you’re special, Pan said, not looking at him, still riffling. For the record.

  You do? Max said.

  There was something different about you the very first time I saw you. Yeah, Sarah. You have that special sauce.

  I do?

  Found it, Pan said. He held up the vintage X-Men comic for which he’d searched. As Pan flipped through it, Max almost expected some kind of animal to fly out.

  MAX STOOD NEXT TO LORNE during stretches. When they lifted their arms, their shadows held hands. Lorne ran toward Max during the scrimmage. Tackled him. Max stumbled up. Lorne pushed him back to the ground and sprinted off. Cold sweat streamed down his hot flanks. Lorne slapped Davis’s butt as he ran past him, and Davis yelled Woo into the pink dusk of the horizon.

  Max limped to the bench for a break. Fiver was what Coach called it.

  He took off his helmet and shook out his bangs. Wes walked past him, gave a tight nod, and pinched his lips into a smile.