Kill Me Now

by Timmy Reed

  Mister D made a joke about Chodak's mother bathing him in the Jones Falls. I couldn't help saying something, even though I wanted to hear Chodak do it himself. I would have preferred to hear it out of his mouth. Or any mouth besides mine.

  “That's not so bad,” I found myself saying, loud enough for the whole lab to hear me. “All I ever do when I'm feeling dirty is dump a glass of ice water on my crotch.” I got sent to the Black Chair for that one. Then the headmaster made me talk to the school psychiatrist.

  ~

  Big news! Last night I snuck out with Gary. We went to U.B. Fields with all these St. Paul's girls. Well, we didn't actually sneak out because my dad wasn't even home and he wouldn't have given a fuck anyway. But the girls snuck out. And we met them. We took a cab. We sat in the back seat outside Open Sundays while the driver went in to get us beer. The cabbie was this fat Russian dude named Stan. “Shtaann,” is how he says it. It's funny to hear him talk.

  Supposedly Stan had done this for Gary a few times already this summer. Gary had his business card. Stan gave me the card, too. Pretty cool, right?

  When we got to the fields with our thirty-pack, the girls weren't there yet. We drank beer and waited. I smoked a cigarette. Gary packed a dip. We lit off a couple M-80s. Then the ladies showed up.

  You could hear them first, through the bushes. They were still on the trail. They sounded high-pitched and far-off, like fairies. Or chickens . . . The field lights made everything look weird. Like the sun was about to come up. And the electricity made a buzzing noise like flies hovering over a turd.

  The girls had brought a box of wine with them and a fifth of some broke-ass vodka called Boris. We all started to get pretty drunk. Tyler Sommerly was with them. He's in the grade above us at B.L. He must have driven. Someone else brought playing cards. We sat in a circle and played Fuck the Dealer. I didn't understand the rules really, but I pretended to as best I could. I was glad when the others got bored of playing.

  Gary had been sort of working Kari Dunham I guess and after a while I looked around and noticed they were gone. I wanted to hook up with Samantha Maddux, but she was playing aloof. Too pretty, I guess. Fuck her. I ended up making out with her friend Amy, who is slightly chubby but with a cute Irish-looking face that reminds me of Princess Leia. I told her I wanted to get a motorcycle license instead of a regular one, except I was worried about having a place to put my skateboard. She laughed, even though I was being serious. Then she took my hand and led me into the woods.

  First thing I remember her saying is she got right up close to my ear and told me she thought I was cute. She actually said that. And like an idiot, I asked without thinking, “What about my spot?”

  “I think it's sexy,” she whispered.

  “Really?” IDIOT! RETARD!

  “Yes, really. Where'd you get it?”

  “Some Viet hooker splashed me in the face with a glass of burning sherry,” I told her. “It happened in Nam.”

  I don't think she got that I was joking at first. Then she said, “Really?” and I was sure that she didn't get that I was joking.

  “No,” I told her. “Not really.”

  After a brief moment of awkwardness, we started kissing again.

  I had barely got one of her boobs out when she began to massage my crotch with the heel of her palm. Then she started to take it out. We sat down on her sweatshirt and kissed for a while as she jerked me off. There were dead leaves on the ground all around us. They made a crinkling noise. It was nice, except she had rings on and they kept pinching me. But I didn't say anything. Then she started to go down. At first it was basically like I thought it would be. Only better. Wetter. And more realistic. But there was also an occasional brush of the teeth, which I'd never seen happen in porno. I didn't know what to do with my hands either, so after squeezing her tits a little, I just put them on top of her head. It was dark in the woods. I sometimes thought I could hear animals noises mixed in with the sound of her sucking.

  Don't get me wrong. It was awesome. I could scarcely believe this was finally happening to me. But the truth is I felt kind of bad about it too. I brushed her hair back whenever she lifted her head up to rewet her mouth. I'd look at her face and her lips would be all puffy. But then she'd go back down. I mumbled words of encouragement. Corny stuff like, “Mmmm, yeah. You're good at that,” or “That's real swell, baby. Keep going,” or even just “Thank you.” It did feel swell though. So swell in fact that I couldn't help kind of working my dick around in there. Sort of humping her face. Controlling the way she moved her head with my hands. I felt bad about that. I was scared I'd make her puke. Or hurt her throat. But she was fine. It just felt too good to keep still is all. I tried to control myself.

  Eventually she got tired and gave up. I wasn't going to come I guess. I felt bad about that too. I felt bad about everything. We kissed a few times, gently, because her lips looked sensitive. Her tongue was all warm when I kissed her. It was weird.

  Then Amy took me by the hand again. We walked back to the field and sat down with the others in a circle behind the crease and we sort of cuddled while Tyler told a bunch of dead baby jokes. Eventually he started kind of fucking with me. He kept telling me he thought my little sisters were hot. “Just wait 'til they're in high school,” he kept saying. I just kind of fake chuckled and shrugged it off. Amy looked sort of pretty under the lights, in a plain sort of way. But I didn't feel like kissing her again.

  The beers had gotten warm, but I drank two anyway. I was drunk. Gary had already called Stan for a ride. He was on his way. Gary and Kari were apparently fighting. We headed up the trail to wait for the cab. I managed to steal the ass-end of the Boris before leaving.

  On the ride home we swilled vodka and talked loudly. Stan was in a good mood. He was rocking out to some really loud ethnic music, full of howling and chanting and finger cymbals. It sounded like a carnival or something. Me and Gary kind of got down to it also. I was headbanging and stuff. Stan asked me to roll the bottle under the seat so he could have a sip. I slid the bottle up and he drank from it. I told him how I stole the bottle from the girls. He laughed. He asked how we'd done with our lady friends—“Haf any pussy you've gotten?”

  Gary announced that he five-carded his chick. He demonstrated this by cramming all of his fingers into the coin slot on the bulletproof divider. He tried to wiggle them. It was a tight squeeze.

  How about me, Stan wanted to know.

  “Maybe I got some pussy,” I told them. “But it was dark out. And I was in the woods. So maybe not . . . Do most pussies hiss when you fuck them?”

  Everyone broke out laughing. Me too. But especially Stan. I thought he was going to crash into the old cemetery next to South Homeland Mews. He almost did. It was scary. I patted myself on the back for making a funny, but I ended up keeping mum on the subject of my blow job. Until now. In the journal. Which doesn't really count, does it?

  ~

  Ever since I first heard the expression, I have always wanted to “Cheat Death.” But I don't really like the word “cheat” too much. It implies some form of trickery. When basically all I want to do is rob his ass. “Break yourself, Death,” I'd bark. “Empty your fuckin' pockets.”

  ~

  I got yelled at yesterday by my mother when Miss Sandy Diamond called to talk to her about an incident involving me and her son Donald earlier in the afternoon. Donald had come by for some reason or other. Mostly to pick up stuff in my bedroom and ask me questions about it. At least that's what it seemed like to me.

  Anyway, he was looking at this needlepoint ghost my mother gave me my first Halloween. Halloween is my favorite holiday. It's also my birthday. So this was my first birthday present that Donald was holding. Now, I don't believe in putting sentimental value on my toys or anything, but he was picking at it. So I shot him in the foot with a BB gun. It was only a little spring-load pistol. And he was wearing sneakers. But
it scared him, I guess. I shot at the wall next to him, too. The shot bounced off and came back to me. I nearly caught it.

  So Donald snitched on me and the outrageously hot Miss Sandy Diamond called my mother to talk. They're new friends, my mom and Miss Sandy. They're both divorced. They both enjoy light beer and red wine and coffee. They both love to talk.

  My mom never punishes me. I've seriously never been grounded. By my father either. They've told me I was grounded, but it never sticks. We just yell at each other a lot and my mom goes crazy and I storm outside. It's what comes natural to us. And it works okay, I guess. Miss Sandy, who used to be a family counselor, also happened to suggest that my mother not punish me for shooting her son in the foot. She said she thought I should come over instead and talk to Donald and shake his hand, apologize for shooting him, and then we could be friends. Miss Sandy would make a snack for me and Donald to munch on during our conversation. She said that I might need therapy.

  Me and Mom yelled at each other a lot about this. My mom wanted me to go over there for her sake and the sake of her new friendship with Miss Sandy Diamond. She said I was out of control. That I made bad decisions. That I never think about the future. I louse everything up. Couldn't I think of someone else for once?

  I yelled back. I said I thought about the future all the time. Constantly I think about it, I said. And about her too. Never myself. Then I grabbed my bike and rode over to the old house on Charles. I smoked two joints there and spent the night. I watched the contractors' mini black-and-white TV. I got a banged-up old skateboard from the garage and rode it on the hardwood floor for fun, doing manuals down the long hallway. I slept beneath an oilcloth. When I came home this morning, my mom was at work. I microwaved popcorn and watched cable until she was due to get back. Then I split for my dad's.

  ~

  Secret: I used to masturbate into my socks. Even after I'd been skateboarding in them and they were really gross. I only stopped doing it after my mom started asking questions. Then I became more careful. I use tissue paper now.

  One time the Beaster Bunny told me that he would sometimes jerk off in an old glass of water that had gone stale by his bed. Then he would pour his load out in the toilet.

  I asked him if he used the same glass every time or if he used a disposable Styrofoam cup.

  “Um, neither,” he told me. He looked confused about the question. And from then on it was only cans of grape soda at Robby's house for yours truly, Retard . . .

  ~

  Back when my mom and my dad were still living together most of the time, my manners were constantly being called into question. There was always something wrong with the TONE OF MY VOICE. Everything I said was supposedly rude. Especially toward my mother, who's a nervous woman that talks in jags when she's nervous and she's always nervous so . . . She will endlessly voice the obvious if no one interrupts her. My father would rain temper tantrums upon me whenever I pointed this out. He had his own way of dealing with Mom's constant chatter and instructions. He would make small grunting noises and look down at one of his documents. He always had a stack of documents lying around. I think they were props. His grunting sounded like a bear. Its meaning was obvious. Grunting meant, “Fuck off.” But that wasn't considered rude for some reason. Or at least nobody got on his case about it. They were too scared . . .

  I spent most of my time outside as usual. Or up in my room. Apparently I couldn't help being rude, or at least sounding that way to my parents, so I just kept to myself. I called them the Tone Police. I was afraid to say anything . . . But occasionally they'd think something I said was funny and they'd tell me about it. Express enjoyment. This confused me. I had to walk a tightrope. The whole fucking house was made of eggshells.

  I hated watching the fights that broke out when my folks detected rudeness in my voice. Especially because I didn't usually mean to be rude. It was as if I had committed the ultimate sin. Use of a Less Than Charming Tone. My dad would threaten to kick me out of the house. Or he would refuse to pay my tuition. I'd tell him not to bother. Fuck school, right? He'd call me names. Chase me around the house. My mother would get scared of my father's temper and go to defend me. “Why do you always defend him?” my father would snap. Then they'd start fighting. Something would get broken. My little sisters would cry. Someone would inevitably declare that they were moving out. Maybe the neighbors would call to see if everything was all right. Someone would assure them it was. My dad would tear off in his BMW to go look at a battlefield or something. He was obsessed with ruined forts and places of war and he was always visiting them. Or something.

  Now I'm staying at my father's house, because of the fight with my mom. I don't like fighting with her. I don't like fighting with my parents at all, but it's worse with her than my dad. I can laugh at him when I'm alone afterward. He's a buffoon. But sometimes my mother will cry. It hurts my chest to see her like that. She'll get very sad. For days. She really takes things to heart. You can see it in her physical appearance. She'll look older. And pale. Like a washcloth left out to dry. It makes me feel bad to see that. I imagine that's maybe what it feels like when you find out that by accident somehow, you killed somebody . . .

  My father hasn't been home for dinner yet this week. I don't mind. I microwave French bread pizzas and eat them out on the deck. I watch crows circling above the earth movers parked in the back lot. They cut in and out of each other in a violent way, but without touching. Against the pink sunlight, they look almost like large, low-flying bats.

  ~

  Summer is sooooo boring. I want to go to the beach. Or maybe not. Maybe I want a job. Robby once said he could get me some work with him at the animal hospital, but I would need a work permit with a guardian's signature, and I would only be able to work so many hours a week. Animals are all right, but what would I spend my new money on? Besides herb, I mean . . .

  LIST OF THINGS TO DO WITH MONEY, IF EVER I SHOULD GET SOME:

  Buy an island. Or a mountain.

  Buy a boat. Or a truck. Buy both.

  Buy a chainsaw to clear land.

  Build a house. A castle.

  Buy gun for hunting.

  Buy more guns, for protection.

  Build a fence. A big one.

  Two pools: one empty, one full.

  Hot tub.

  Invite girls. Mail-order brides.

  Big TVs. A movie theater.

  A greenhouse. Seeds. Camouflage.

  Security system with cameras like Scarface.

  Armed guards. Snipers.

  A cavalry. Air force. More boats. A whole fleet.

  Go nuclear.

  Invite more girls.

  Invite Mom.

  ~

  Today I met the Killer. Well, I met him before, but today I actually met the Killer. His name is Mister Reese.

  I woke up early and after a pipe I set off to my mother's, carrying an empty knapsack. I was going to collect some comics and things to take back to my dad's since I figured I'd be staying there for a while. I knew Mom ought to have left for work already, but now that I think about it I wonder if I went over in the morning because I secretly hoped that she would be running late and I might bump into her. Either way, it turned out she was. Running late. Her car was still there. I stood on the welcome mat for nearly a minute without putting my hand on the doorknob. When I finally touched the knob it was warm from the sun. My palm was sweating. I felt bad for whatever I'd done I guess. But at the same time, for some reason, walking through the front door struck me as being a pretty weak thing to do. I pictured her sitting at the kitchen counter in her PJ's, mulling over her coffee and cigarette, watching Good Morning America all by herself. Her face would light up when she saw me. She'd reach out for a hug. I'd squeeze her sheepishly and everything would be peachy again. Then she'd ask me nicely to apologize to the Diamonds and the fighting would start all over again. She'd lose cont
rol of her breath. Maybe start crying. That would rile me up. I'd say something mean and take off. She'd weep in the car before she left and then pretend she was invincible for the rest of the day while she tried to manage the office at work. I decided to climb up the back of the house and go in through my window instead.

  I've always been adept at climbing things. When I would be picked last for touch football at recess I would always tell myself I could climb a tree higher and faster than anyone else in school. Too bad they never picked teams for that. Anyway, getting up to the deck in back is an easy reach from a set of wooden steps that runs alongside our rowhome. These staircases run all throughout the development. They're key arteries for Hide and Go Seek Tag. From the deck you just have to shimmy up the drainpipe and use the molding over the French doors as a foothold while you push through the loose screen in the window. Sometimes I climb in that way even when there's no reason to. I just like the feeling of it. It's sort of exciting. Romantic maybe. It reminds me of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, which my dad used to read me when I was little and I couldn't get to sleep. I could never sleep right. Even when I was a baby.

  So I was balanced on this narrow piece of molding, clinging to my windowsill with purple fingers, when I felt a thump on my leg. I looked down at the pavement behind our deck, but there was nobody there. Turning back to the window, I spied a little something below me on the deck. A little something orange. A carrot.

  “Who's there?” I called out, figuring it must be Donald Diamond or one of the other neighborhood twerps. No answer. “Fuck you very much for the carrot,” I yelled. No answer. I looked over my shoulder again. This time I nearly fell and broke my neck. Still no one there. But I could hear something. A wet coughing sound, like someone crinkling newspaper. The way my grandmother used to sound before she passed away. I climbed down to the deck and picked up the fallen carrot. It was only the middle part of what looked like a good-sized carrot. Only it had been neatly carved into the shape of a hare. I eyed it half a minute in wonder, running my thumb along the back of its ears and down its spine. I heard the coughing again, only now it sounded closer and maybe tinged with laughter. Coming from directly below me. I squatted down and peeked through the floorboards. There was the freckled dome of an old man squatting by my garage door.