Dog Days
By Emery C. Walters
Published by Queerteen Press
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Copyright 2014 Emery C. Walters
ISBN 9781611526431
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.
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Dog Days
By Emery C. Walters
Thursday
Friday
Saturday Morning
Saturday Afternoon
Sunday
Monday
Monday Again
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Thursday
It was the first time since I’d landed last Thursday that I had time to sit and listen to the peacefulness of the island around me. The last few birds putting themselves to sleep; someone’s air conditioner, an occasional car going by slowly on the narrow road that ran past the property. In tune with the ocean’s heartbeat, the wind made music by playing through the tops of the palm trees, and their fading shadows danced against my bedroom wall.
It was the first time I felt like I maybe, possibly, could have a future, make a life here, and have a new family as well. I didn’t know what to make of it all, the bad or the good, but I was learning to accept life as it came, and to not judge so much by my own understanding, maybe not to judge at all. Though I saw no possible way that much of what had happened so far could have been called anything but dreadful.
I can’t say ‘everything started to go bad when I landed’, because it goes back so much farther than that. Maybe it all started when my mom first started doing drugs when she was my age. Maybe it started before that, when her dad started drinking when he was her age. I don’t know, but that ‘sins of the father’ crap sure casts a long, long shadow. I’m never going to have children; so it can all stop with me. The family I make will not be a typical one.
So there was my mother, already smoking dope and making bad choices by the time she turned seventeen. I was conceived that night, but she didn’t know by whom. All she knew was when her dad found out she was pregnant, he said she had to marry someone, and he suggested his old pal Anthony, who just happened to be his supplier of illegal substances.
I should feel sorry for her, but she made her choices and to my knowledge, never regretted them. She and Tony were terrible parents, but my grandmother helped to raise me. She’s probably the only reason I turned out as well as I did. That and the fact that my so-called parents didn’t want to waste their dope on me and that I didn’t want to be anything like them.
Last Thursday was my seventeenth birthday. Of course there was no party, there never was, but my stepdad came into my room in the morning and said, “Pack some shit, Aiden. I found your dad and he wants you. You’re getting on a plane at eleven A.M.”
To say I was confounded and bewildered barely touched the surface. A feeling of joy suffused me like I had never felt before, and I was amazed and gladdened and even a bit ashamed that I had always thought he hated me. I couldn’t catch my breath for worrying about what I was leaving behind at short notice—a few friends, some plans we had made, a summer job, but I could work around it. Imagine—my father, meeting him, getting to know him, oh my God! The questions I would have! Leave it to my mom and stepdad to make something so miraculous be so difficult to grasp, let alone to prepare for it.
I threw some clothes and a book or two and my iPod into my school backpack, got dressed and tumbled downstairs to grab a bite to eat. Surprisingly, my mother apologized for the short notice. She cast her eyes at Tony and stammered, “Sorry it’s such short notice but it all just came together, right, Tony?” As she always did, my mom looked at Tony as if he was god, like his approval was everything. Tony smiled and added, “We’ll send your shit over if he wants you to stay a while. Clothes and whatever. Don’t worry about it.”
It wouldn’t have done any good if I had. Within an hour I was being dropped off at the airport with my backpack, my fears and excitement, and a ticket to Maui in my hand.
We’d moved a lot when I was a kid, mostly because we had to, and sometimes even in the middle of the night. I think Tony worked a fairly steady job, maybe in construction, but most of it went for booze and cigs and other stuff I won’t mention. Sometimes I wondered what was wrong with my mother that she never complained, never demanded nicer clothes for us. I wondered if maybe she wasn’t all there or had some kind of mental retardation. Neither of them paid me much attention, except for a couple of times when out of the blue Tony went ballistic and beat the crap out of me and I had no idea what for. It only happened the two times, and both right after his brother had been there. Uncle Ward would sit there drinking whiskey, watching every move I made like a hawk after a wayward chicken. I didn’t like him and wouldn’t leave my mother’s side while he was there.
I checked in, excited but trying to act cool. Then I went through security, no problems other than almost falling over trying to tie my shoes again afterward. I checked my wallet to see how much money I had—stepdad had told me he would stuff some more in there for me but there was only the twelve dollars I’d had to begin with. I guess he must have forgotten. He’d told me that my dad would take care of everything like an allowance and such when I got there, and I would definitely not have to get a summer job. That was neat—and I believed every word that liar said. I have no idea what came over me. I took five dollars and bought some cookies and a soda, and then I spent six dollars more on a box of candy for my dad. I hoped he liked sweets. I picked out chocolate covered cherries since they were a local product.
I felt about six years old sitting there in the waiting room, watching everyone and the planes land and take off, waiting for my flight to be called. I especially watched the kids my age; there was one girl who was so pretty, with the traditional blond hair and blue eyes but not stuck up at all, you could tell, because she was playing with her little sister. There was one guy who caught my interest as well, but he did look stuck up. At least I’d look stuck up if I looked that hot! When those two caught sight of each other, it really got to be fun watching them. Half of me wanted to sit next to the girl and the other half wanted to sit next to the boy. I had to laugh at myself.
The guy had dark curly hair, and I was jealous; my own hair was a rusty brown—I guess you could say it had red highlights, but still—and with my hazel eyes, I ended up mostly looking just average, though I’d seen my eyes blaze like sapphires when I got really emotional.
My flight was called, and we shuffled aboard like sheep into a holding pen; I half expected to be sheared. My seat was near the back by a window that, unfortunately, looked right out into the side of an engine. I put my pack up in the overhead compartment and then helped an old lady get her carry-on up there as well. Sure enough, as soon as I sat down, she dropped into the seat beside me, ov
erflowing both into the aisle and onto me. I barely restrained myself from groaning and rolling my eyes—and then I saw the cute guy slide into the aisle seat several rows ahead, right next to the little girl and of course beside her, was the blond older sister. It figured. I hoped she was a lesbian.
I should have hoped that lunch was free…apparently you were able to ‘buy’ food on planes nowadays and I of course, had about one dollar to my name. I should have thought I was stupid but instead I just laughed. I envisioned telling my dad—my dad—about it and how we’d laugh together. Life was good.
Just the same, six hours later I was one hungry guy getting off that plane. I got my backpack and stumbled out, watching the girl and the guy laughing together. The little sister was asleep, and the guy was carrying her, damn his handsome hide.
I like little kids—almost more than I like kids my own age—and the little girl was very cute, especially sound asleep with drool running down the guy’s expensive polo shirt. I noticed his collar was popped—Oh. My. God. She deserved him.
So I went down to baggage claim, with my stomach growling, but at the same time so nervous I was glad it was empty or I’d have emptied it anyhow. Baggage claim was where we were supposed to meet…and I looked around excitedly. I could hardly stand it. All these years. Of course I had no idea what I was looking for—did he look like me? Did he have the same reddish brown hair? The same mixed eyes? If I hadn’t been so terrified—and hungry—I’d have been thrilled to finally, after all these years, get to meet my father—a father who wanted me. Later, after we got to know each other, I’d ask my million questions and even try not to be antagonistic about it, but for now—huh—I just wanted my father like a six year old lost in the woods. I felt tears come into my eyes, and I turned to stare at the luggage coming down the chute, even though I didn’t have any.
People came and went. People took suitcases and met friends and hugged family and then walked away. People ate and drank and got their stuff and left. I kept wandering around, looking at everyone, smiling hopefully like a kindergartner in a new school, listening to my stomach growl and my heart pound.
I didn’t know what to do. I was beginning to understand what fear meant. I understood how people could die from it.
Finally I sat down, alone, nobody was left but a few ancients who took forever to get their luggage and only then because I got up and got it for them. I took a deep breath and asked myself what would a mature and reasonable adult do? Their ride was delayed. Their chauffeur got lost. Their—nothing mature here! When I did think of something reasonable to do, I went and did it. I asked at lost and found, stumbling over what to say. I had him paged, even though my stepfather had neglected to tell me his name so I just went with Mr. Alton, my last name. Nothing. I even asked a security guard; he’d been watching me for the past hour anyhow, ever since the old couple had left.
I’d not been allowed to have my own cell phone and oh, how I wished I’d just gone ahead and stolen one, now. At my wits end, I found a phone and figured out how to make a collect call to my stepfather. When he answered and heard my voice, he laughed. My heart began to sink and my mind to turn from scarlet to gray. “You dumb ass,” he got out. “Did you really believe your father would want you out of the blue like that—or any time? Really? You? Who would want you?” I guess I don’t need to say his words cut me like a knife. My heart got a stab of cold as if it had opened a vent and the blood was pouring out the bottom, sinking into my stomach, which already hurt with hunger.
He went on, still laughing. “Joke’s on you, asshole. You stupid cracker. Now you’re seventeen we don’t need to support you anymore. Go sell your faggot ass on the street instead of giving it away for free.”
That part almost went right by me. I didn’t even know for sure if I was gay or not. How could he? “But you said…” I stammered out foolishly. “My father…”
“I have no freaking clue where your asshat sperm donor is. He’s not there in Hawaii and never has been as far as I know. Be grateful you’re still in the US of A and don’t bother us anymore.” And he hung up. Just like that. I stared at the phone in my hand as if it had turned into a banana. It might as well have been: a rotten, stinking banana. I wanted to throw it so bad that I forced myself to hang it up with both hands.
My mind spat out the words, “Well, that went well,” and “Son of a bitch!” at the exact same time, two lines of words dancing past the back of my eyes in disbelief. I sank down into the nearest chair and tried not to faint.
I’m not going to say my whole life passed before my eyes. I saw myself at three, my earliest memory, being swung around in the air by my hands; maybe by a grandfather? An uncle I don’t know? Then at five, starting kindergarten and waiting to be picked up afterward, and time passed that day too, as my ride was late. And my more grown-up self told me now, they were drunk when they came. Was that my stepdad even then? Yeah, I guess it had to be. Did he ever even really marry my mother, although my…well, I don’t know, and it didn’t matter now.
A voice and a tap on my knee; my eyes had been closed and I slit them open. It was the security guard. “Get outa here,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was being mean or nice. “Go along now. Maybe you go sleep on the beach with all the other losers who come here with no money and no job. Goddamn homeless haole trash,” he ended as he walked away. Okay, mean, then.
So, I thought, shock can also save your life as well as take your life. I’m not quite sure what I meant other than I knew that the numbness I felt was almost comfortable compared to what it was hiding. I walked out into the slanting rays of the sun, low in the sky to my left. I walked straight ahead for a while and then turned right and followed the road away from the sun, away from warmth and love and reunion and life. At that moment I had no life, no future, and no past. I sure as hell didn’t want the present, but here it was; so I limited it, unconsciously, to walking down the road, seeing the clouds turning pink up ahead, eventually coming to a crossroad and beyond it a park. I entered the park. Is this where the guard said I should go and sleep with the other homeless bums? Yeah, there it was, the beach; the mighty Pacific as I’d only ever dreamed of it, only—now—it was just water. I could walk in and drown myself, couldn’t I? But hey, is that what a mature adult would do? I mean, now that I was one—or had to pretend to be one, anyhow. Who cared? I was tired, tired and hungry and angry and devastated. Yeah, that last part went without saying, nor did I want to say it or look at it or hear it or anything like that.
I sat down at a picnic table—why the hell not, put my backpack in front of me and opened it and there, oh yeah, the chocolate covered cherries for my imaginary father. I ripped the box open and ate them, first delicately and then shoving them into my mouth and wiping my face on my sleeve. I had to anyway to blot the tears, by then. Dinner; boy that was great! Then I looked around and saw some bum digging through the trash can nearby so I stood up and went to a different one and dug through it and found some stale French fries, hell yeah, dessert!
I went back to my table and started shoving them in my mouth but the bum came over and grabbed them. “That’s mine! That’s my shit!” he hollered. “My table! Leave my shit alone, haole you!” My mouth dropped open and a laugh burbled out before I could help myself. Could this night get any worse?
Why yes, yes it could.
When I came to I was alone, and half under my—well his—picnic table, his shitty picnic table. My stuff was history; it was probably now his shit, at any rate, it was gone. As I sat up, I found I had traded my backpack and French fries for a bloody nose and torn clothing. I have to admit all I could do was cry like a baby now. It was overdue, and happy birthday to me, here was my cake and candles, tears and fiery pain in my face, in my chest, in my stomach, in my back. I wanted—I wanted my father, I thought, and then I laughed, my cries turning into out-and-out hysteria, there in the dark, with no one to see, hear, or witness the worst moment of my life. Rock bottom. After a while, when I could see the moonlig
ht and hear the ocean again, I crawled all the way beneath the picnic table, curled up on my side, and somehow, fell asleep.
Friday
Either I’m stupid or just graced with perseverance beyond human capacity, because the first thing I decided when I woke up was—I’m going to find someone to help me get this sorted out and make a success. I’d had a third grade teacher—Mrs. White—who was always saying shit like that. We’re gonna have a great day! Monday morning, another week in which to excel! When life gives you lemons…all that crap. So there I was in a puddle of old vomit, whether mine or someone else’s I didn’t really want to know, hungry, hurting, dirty, all alone, and bloodstained. I felt like I imagined a hangover would feel—yes, I was still that innocent at seventeen years and one day.
When I was able to open one eye, I could see a Parks and Rec truck pulling into the parking lot, unlocking gates, driving across the grass to empty the trash. Good morning sunshine, time to get out of Dodge—if I could stand up and actually walk. I had to—it was either that or pee myself and that’s one treat I had avoided so far these crappy couple of days. I thought.
As it was, I walked down toward the water and then along the beach until there was nobody around or in sight or even any way to see around the rocks I passed. I went into the ocean and let the waves wash me, my shorts, my shirt, and then dove under the surf and frolicked like a seal—a seal who was suddenly and painfully reminded that salt water stings open wounds. That pissed me off and brought tears to my eyes, and I gathered up handfuls of sand and rocks and rubbed myself raw. I do believe the words goddamittohell and gosh, maybe even the ‘F word’ escaped my bruised lips a few times. In fact, I had the best temper tantrum I’d ever thrown—if I’d ever thrown one—and I didn’t give a stick if anyone noticed.
Still angry and crying and unwilling to actually list the reasons why, I staggered back to the beach, up to the picnic area, and stood under a cold shower rinsing the sand, salt, and fresh blood from my body. There. Clean clothes in half an hour; good to go. And I’d peed in the ocean so that was good. The Parks & Rec guy near me shook his head and smirked, but I didn’t care. Except, I still didn’t know where to go or what to do.
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