What worries me is that the venom is growing restless, like it’s tired of the passenger seat and wants to take the wheel for a while. It’s always been an impulse, but I’m beginning to wonder where Locke ends and the venom begins. This concept terrifies me, sure. But if my mother knows about it, there’ll be more therapy. More long talks, more warnings to my teachers. Plus, Mom might cry. I can’t let that happen.
“You haven’t had an angry in a while.” An “angry.” I used the term maybe once when I was nine or something, and it stuck. Moms. “How’d it feel?”
“Like it always does. Really good and then really, really bad.”
“You know, if you wanted to go back to seeing Dr. Reiner…,” she says softly. That’s a laugh. Dr. Reiner was a shrink I saw, who was convinced that the venom was a product of some sort of sexual repression, a projection of my inner kink. He’d ask me about what I liked “to do” to girls, and whether I ever wanted “to do” things to other boys. When I told him that I knew I was straight and that gay sex never appealed to me, he asked me why I wasted his time by closing my mind. Well, he didn’t say it quite like that, but I’m no moron, and he wasn’t the champion of subtlety. You can always tell with people like that, whose sole purpose in life is to explain away what’s wrong with other people. So I broke one of his windows, and we don’t talk anymore and everyone’s peachier for it.
“Dr. Reiner was a chump, Mom. I think I’ll be okay.”
“Honey, maybe you should just give him another chance—”
“I gave him a chance. It didn’t work.”
She pats my knee again and gets back up to continue fixing dinner. “Whatever you want, honey. I’m just worried about you, is all. No harm meant. Whenever you need me, I’m here.”
I love my mom and my brother more than life itself. It’s not fair that they have to deal with the utter fucking mess that is me. I’m not even sure I could put up with it.
I wake up to the sounds of the doorbell and realize that I’ve fallen asleep. I take a quick look at the clock. Shit. Eight thirty. Randall’s here.
“Mom, I’m going out, okay!” I yell as I yank on my coat. “I’ll make curfew!”
From somewhere in the apartment, there’s a muffled, “Have fun, sweetie!”
I throw open the door and there’s Randall, all spiky blond hair and vintage suit. He has his acoustic slung over his back and a big Cheshire cat smile on his face. He’s shabby but stylish, awkward yet handsome—the kind of boy most skater girls dream of. He could be playing either the owner of a casino or a punk rock troubadour. I envy the whole dichotomy of it all.
“Why do you always wear black, Stockenbarrel?” he asks. It’s a Chekhov line; our joke.
“I’m in mourning,” I say dramatically, “for my life.”
He throws his head back and brays, his face all squinting and teeth. I think that’s what gets Randall so much attention—even I can’t deny that smile. When he smiles at you, you feel chosen. “You ready to go?”
I nod and we walk slowly down the stairs and out onto the street. I give him a smoke and light one myself.
“I thought you were quitting.”
“What are you, my mom?” I sigh.
He shrugs. “Just wondering. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sorry. Long day. So remind me of their names again.”
“They’ll be a bunch of folks there, but you’re thinking Casey and Renée. This’ll be nothing big, just hanging out. But they really want to meet you.”
“Well, I’ve heard the names enough, I guess. It’s totally okay that I’m coming, right?”
“A small gathering, dude, nothing more.” I know this tone of his. He’s making sure I don’t get scared away, thinking this is, God forbid, a party. It’s somewhere between sweet and infuriating, but I let it slide. I’ve flaked out on meeting Randall’s outside-of-school friends enough times for it to be unfair. I owe him one. “Anyway. Why was your day long?”
“I had a venom moment in front of Lon today.”
“Ah.” I know what that “Ah” means, too. It means, Ah, you did what you always do, which is embarrass those around you by going apeshit. Randall’s like that: He doesn’t hide how he feels when it comes to me or the venom, so I can’t blame him for expressing those opinions, even if he doesn’t just come out and say them. He knows I can read his tones and movements.
We get down to Riverside, around 84th Street, coming upon the massive rock right next to a playground, what could almost be called a crag if it was a little bigger and sharper. Tonight, the rock and the entire area by it are lined with kids, but not normal kids. Circus kids: punks, mods, Goths, metal heads, indie kids, emo rockers, rude boys, all of that kind of crowd. (Randall uses these terms as though he were compiling a hipster encyclopedia). A bunch of them have guitars out; one or two of them have bongos. Surrounding them are about a hundred candles, all waxed to the ground, lighting up the entire area like a cathedral. These kinds of kids don’t exist in my little Manhattan private school universe. Parents send their kids to my school, hoping we won’t fall in with this crowd, unaware that the rich preppy kids drink and do drugs more than anyone on the planet. Randall refuses to buy it, though. He’ll go to punk shows and the skate park and return with a hundred new friends from all over the city.
Nothing big, indeed: To me this isn’t a party, it’s a fucking gala. The strings in the back of my brain get tightened and pulled; my whole body rides a wave of twitchy anticipation. My teeth chatter a bit. I’m not one of those Music People. Yes, I have my album collection and all that, but I’m not as dedicated as this crowd here. I know what I am when it comes down to it—an awkward, skinny dude with little to nothing in the ways of social skills. What the fuck am I supposed to say to this carnival of pop culture? Lots of people. Lots of activity and talking and necessary interaction. Not my forte.
The venom shifts and itches. It wraps an agitated hand around my nerves and gets ready to explode if it’s needed. An angry venom is bad, but a scared, nervous venom? I’m in trouble.
“I don’t have to be, like, a social butterfly or anything, do I?” I manage through a shaking jaw.
“No, of course not.”
“And I can leave whenever I want to? You won’t be offended?”
“Stockenbarrel,” he says, sighing, “just relax. You can do whatever. This is not a fancy dinner your parents are throwing. Have a drink. Decompress.”
“Of course I’m—No, I just planned on sitting around and trying to feel as miserable as possible.”
Randall raises an eyebrow and gives me another grin. “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Touché.
We get to the rock and start climbing up the side. People are saying hi to Randall left and right; I know he has a lot of friends besides me, but it’s weird to see him in action, working the special handshakes and goofy nicknames (at one point he calls a guy “Brad the Rad” and I almost want to go home right then and there). Finally he gets to the top of the rock and pulls me up next to him, standing in front of everyone, illuminated by the candles as if we had flashlights pointed up at us. It’s actually a nice view of this mass of teenage insanity. This evening might not be so bad.
“Hey, guys!” he calls out.
An assortment of “Hey, Randall”s and “What’s up”s come from out of the crowd of kids.
He slaps a hand on my chest. “This is Locke!”
Randall, you sneaky son of a bitch. You dirty motherfucker.
“He’s new! Everyone say hi!”
A loud chorus of “HI, LOCKE!” shoots from the group.
“Locke, say hello!”
Shit.
I raise my hand as casually and say, “Hiya.” I sound puny and quiet and stupid. Well done, Locke. Fucking genius.
And that’s that. Randall and I sit down, and Randall starts talking to this girl next to him about Henry Rollins’s neck. I finish my cigarette and flick it over the edge of the rock and onto the curb a few yards away.
“Hey, watch it!”
I glance over the edge to see a tall, beautiful black kid with a Mohawk staring up at me. It suddenly dawns on me that I’d hit him in the head with my cigarette. He doesn’t look angry, just confused and a little hurt. Man, I just keep getting better and better at this making-a-complete-jackass-of-myself game.
“Oh God, I’m—I’m really sorry, I—”
“Don’t worry about it, Locke. Just be careful.”
I lean over and tap Randall on the shoulder. He looks over at me quizzically. “Who is that?” I say, pointing over the edge. “Tall black kid, Mohawk.”
“Oh, that’s Tollevin the Tower. He’s on lookout tonight.”
“Lookout.”
Randall shrugs. “We’ve had problems with the cops before. The lookout keeps an eye open for them.”
I nod. “And how does he know my name?”
Randall looks puzzled. “I just announced it.”
“And he knows it already?”
Randall slaps my back. “People catch on quickly here, and besides, they’ve heard of you,” he says, and goes back to his conversation before I can ask him what the hell that means. So, to review: Now everyone knows my name, and there’s a kid who’s casually referred to as “the Tower” watching out for the cops, who’ll probably make an appearance tonight. Fantastic.
As I’m sitting there trying to make sense of all of it, a voice beside me says, “Locke? You’re Locke?”
I turn around, and sitting there is an angel. A really, really inappropriate angel.
She’s a Goth girl with a spiky blue fairy cut, her face a light shade of pale with dark patches under her cheekbones and eyes. Her lips are flawless shining black with a single ring piercing her lower lip down the middle. She’s wearing a corsetlike top that pushes her breasts up and outward, vinyl pants, massive death-boots, and a spiked collar. From the bottom of her right eye, an upside-down cross curves down her cheekbone, as though she’s crying evil. She’s beautiful in a way that I can’t describe, but in a way that you can see under all the makeup and buckled-up leather. Her voice, her posture, the curve of her eyes, the way her lip ring makes her full lower lip puff up a little on either side…Jesus. I cannot take my eyes off this girl.
“Um,” I begin, “uh, I, um, yeah. That’s me.”
She bows with a bit of flourish. “Finally, we meet. Randall mentions you constantly, but it seems like every time you’re supposed to come out with us…Well, you tell me.” She smiles. “Sounds like you two are pretty good friends.”
“Best, actually. Best friends.”
“Oooh. Sounds official. Let me know when you guys head up to Brokeback.” My face must turn as red as it feels, because she smiles and scratches lightly at my shoulder with her long black fingernails. The sensation stays on my skin like an aftertaste. “Just messing around. No worries.”
“Sorry,” I say, and then, with all the eloquence of projectile vomit, “I’m just really, really, really not used to meeting new people is all, y’know? I’m a little on edge. This is a lot to take in over, like, five minutes.”
She nods slowly, smiling still. I’m trying to keep my eyes off her cleavage, and I’d be failing miserably if she weren’t so beautiful. “Want a Djarum?” she says, holding out a pack. I’ve heard about these—clove cigarettes, like smoking incense, big in the Goth scene—but I’ve never had the pleasure. I grab one immediately and light it on a nearby candle, an action that seems unspeakably cool to me.
One drag tells me I haven’t been missing out on much. Gag. Ugh. Yech. Medic. If I wanted to inhale potpourri, I would’ve hit up Gracious Home on my way here.
She lights her own and glances over at me. “Good, huh?”
I force a smile. “Great.”
“So, what sort of scene are you a part of?”
Well, shit. This is the music thing I’m so worried about. I have to calm down and not be a fucking nutcase. Maybe a raver? No, that’s moronic, look at yourself, don’t say that. Hip-hop? God, no, you’re about as convincing a hip-hop fan as you are a fucking jellyfish. Classical? Country? Polka?
“Well, I don’t really have a scene.”
Her pointed eyebrows arch. “Really?”
Okay, work it. I’ve gone with the honest answer, so I might as well stick by it. “I’m a music fan, but I like a lot of different stuff. I don’t fall into any scene or category. I listen to a lot of Tom Waits, if that helps.”
To my surprise, she says, “Cool.”
“If you say so.”
“Well, it’s cool that you can stay outside the boundaries of all the scenes in that way. Too many kids just buy the right clothes and go through the motions, so they can be dumped into a category, right? I mean, look at me, all dolled up like Siouxsie. And some of the schmucks here…” She waves her hand, displaying the schmucks. “I’m impressed. Plus, Tom Waits rocks.”
Locke, you are an accidental genius. You are the fucking moron Mozart.
Suddenly “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” comes tinkling out of her pocket. She reaches in and yanks out a cell phone, which she flips open. “Just a second. Hello?…Yeah…Well, no, we’re just hanging out…. Okay…one song? Okay…one song…okay, bye.” She snaps it shut and pouts. “I have to go home after the first song, dammit. How bogus is that?”
“Utterly bogus. There is none more bogus.” Wow, Locke. Just…wow.
She laughs. “Well said, Locke.”
I repeat: moron Mozart. Idiot Einstein.
Before I can continue charming the pants off this dark angel, Randall whips his guitar out and starts a-plucking. I recognize the tune as “El Scorcho” by Weezer (him and his fucking Weezer). Suddenly the whole crowd yells out, “El Scorcho! Aye caramba!” and a frenzy begins. We sway, banging our heads, screaming the lyrics we remember and garbling the ones we don’t. Kids begin dancing; soon the entire rock is a whirlwind of spikes, parkas, checkered ties, purple hair, and smiles. I’ve never been a part of something like this before; this is only supposed to happen in nineties teen comedies. These people, these candles, Randall as the host…It’s like a dream. A weird, unexpected, magnificent dream.
The Goth pixie taps me on the shoulder as the last chorus becomes one huge joyous scream. Before I know it, there are soft hands cradling my cheeks, and she kisses me—she, her, this girl, kisses me, Locke, poisoned boy. Our arms work their way around each other (I have to do that damn awkward scoot, where you sort of hop over to someone while sitting), and soon we’re in what a Victorian novelist would call a “passionate embrace.” It’s airtight. I want every possible part of her on me.
She pulls back and says, with her inky lips only millimeters from mine, “I’m Renée, by the way.”
This is Renée?
Her breath smells like a church after dark, like the graveyard in Candyland. “I’m Locke.”
She giggles. “I know.” And with that, she leaps down off the rock, gives Tollevin a hug, and trots uptown while I stare after her and make a mental note to crown myself King of the Universe.
The feeling of eyes on me jostles me out of my girl-scented world, and I turn to see Randall giving me the ultimate shit-eating grin. He leans in like a mom and pulls his thumb across my face, then gives me a thumbs-up smeared black. Again, I swell with glee.
“You could’ve told me,” I growl sidelong at Randall, “that that was Renée.”
“And miss your suave-ass moves? No dice. Besides, getting between Renée and her food is incredibly hazardous to my health, and you obviously weren’t expecting that kind of girl—Well, it was too perfect.”
“Did you set that up?” I ask, riding the adrenaline.
“Not exactly, but I was damn sure hoping for it.” There’s a moment of good vibrations between us; then, with spider-like grace, his fingers go slowly across the strings of his Gibson and leap to life. And this time, there’s no garbling.
“‘When the night…has come…’”
The kids with the bongos howl in approval and po
und on their skins, like their lives depended on it. Guitars all over the rock wake up, and pretty soon we’ve managed to start the biggest, coolest camp singalong I’ve ever heard. Kumbaya.
“‘No, I won’t…be afraid…No, I-eee-I won’t…shed a tear…’”
And as I’m sitting there feeling truly cool for the first time in ages, I see this guy sitting off to one side of the crowd, with a bottle of something or other, facing toward the river. He’s all curled up into a fetal position and sort of rocking back and forth, taking a swig from his bottle, and then rocking back and forth again. And his demeanor, the way his shoulders hunch and his head hangs, sets off a buzzer in the back of my head: familiarity. This kid hits me with a two-ton sack of déjà vu.
I tap Randall on the shoulder as the song draws to a loud finish. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing.
Randall follows my finger and frowns. “That’s Casey. He’s the Emperor of our little group.”
“I thought you were the Emperor.”
“Oh no,” he says, “I’m the Fool. Casey’s the Emperor.” He hikes his finger back toward uptown. “Renée’s the Hierophant.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“I’d be a little weirded out if you did, to be honest.”
“I want go talk to him. I’ll be back, okay?”
Randall nods like he understands. “He’s in one of his funks, though. Don’t push him.”
“Why, what are his funks like?”
Randall opens his mouth to explain, but then gets this thoughtful look in his eyes. “Y’know what? Go find out. It’d be good if he tells you himself.”
I get up and start walking through the crowd. The closer I get to Casey, the more I see that he’s dressed quite nicely. He’s wearing a white collared shirt and black slacks, and his hair is all slicked back and shiny. He looks very dapper, and I begin to wonder what he’s doing with a crowd like this. He has a round face with chubby cheeks and the tiniest hint of a double chin, but also has very dark patches under his eyes, only they aren’t painted on like Renée’s, they’re earned. As I stare at him, he takes another slug of whatever and holds the bottle out to me. I take it and take a very tiny sip, which burns nicely on the way down. I glance at the bottle. Jack Daniels. I’ve never had whiskey before.
Venomous Page 3