by Timmy Reed
Like I said, everything was filled in very neatly, except for the blank white sky, which made the drawing seem incomplete and sort of frightened me. At the very top, printed across that sky, the page had been titled in red crayon, all in caps: “MOM PLACE!”
[The next three and a half pages of Miles's journal are missing and unable to be transposed for your reading pleasure. Sorry for the inconvenience. The following entry is only a fragment at the end of a larger entry. —Ed.]
. . . and if there are things like that in the world, feelings . . . no matter how short-lived . . . but feelings like that buzzing away inside the folds and tissues of a person's brain, about another person no less, or about anything for that matter, about life and living and being alive in general I guess, well then I thought the world was okay maybe and I would open up my bag of pretzels and enjoy them in the pool.
~
My head is KILLING me.
The Beaster Bunny called yesterday to inform me of some ketamine he beasted from the animal hospital. Ketamine is a feline tranquilizer, but it gets people fucked up too and makes them hallucinate. Or so I had heard. Beaster Bunny was hanging out with his Jewish friend Dradel from the art school and also a couple chicks they were trying to fuck. There were only two girls though, which kind of left me out of the loop.
But they wanted to snort K and drink beer and they needed somewhere to go. Honestly, I was exhausted from skating all day. I'd already planned on taking some bong hits and riding my bike up to Blockbuster maybe, then calling it a night. But, as usual, I suck at saying “No.” So we ended up breaking into my old house, which is easy as fuck. Like Simple Simon . . .
The house was empty of course so there was nothing to do but get drunk and listen to this cornball classic rock station on the contractors' staticky boom box. I didn't mind though, some of the tunes weren't so bad and one of the bitches, Dradel's girl Sonja, was actually pretty hot. We had basically the same haircut, Sonja and me, but hers was dyed black on one side. And she had earrings in her face like Robby. Still, she had a nice body and I dug the way she did her makeup. But I didn't stand a chance. She was all over Dradel, who was like twice my size and drove a Land Rover, even though I suspect he was borrowing it from his mother because I found a Jewish Mothers Association pamphlet in the back seat with an events schedule from some synagogue in Mount Washington. Besides, my lip was still all busted and stitched up in gnarly black thread. So I didn't even try.
Robby got me to jury-rig a table from a piece of plywood and a pair of horses that were lying up against the wall. We stood around it to play Flip Cup. Since I was the odd man out I had to switch sides every game. That means whichever side I was on inevitably lost because they had an extra player. So we gave it up after a while and decided to just drink on our own. Fine with me, I was getting myself hammered. Eventually we started bumping the ketamine. I got a little less than everyone else, because Robby had promised to get the girls “really spun.” He swore he'd steal more though and I could have it. Whatever's clever, I told him, and did whatever he gave me.
I didn't feel anything special at first, just more and more drunk. Sonja and her friend were already pretty fucked up though, giggling and giving each other the crazy eyes. They weirded me out. Robby was trying to ease the tension I guess, so he rolled up a blunt and we went out back to smoke it.
There's a tree alongside the house covered in these big brainy fruits called Osage oranges. They're fluorescent green and stinky and full of this gummy ooze that starts to pus out from the rotten parts when they've been on the ground for too long. The squirrels LOVE these things. They grind them up in little bits and carry the seeds off to their nests. I used to throw them at cars on the street. Otherwise they're completely worthless, I think. The girls found a few uses for them though . . .
They kept picking the wretched things up. They were amazed that such a fruit even existed. “They're beautiful,” they kept saying. “They look . . . prehistoric.” And “Touch it! Ewww! Touch it! It's a BRAIN! Look! A BRAIN!” Osage oranges do look a lot like brains, but I'm not sure what's so beautiful or prehistoric about brains. Robby and Dradel were trying to distract the girls, get them to go back inside. No dice on that score. These chicks were obsessed. I just leaned back on the old lacrosse net, watching. I was starting to get a pretty good head going. I couldn't stop laughing for one thing.
The bugs up in the trees were buzzing so loud it sounded like someone screaming. I watched Sonja and her friend split open an Osage orange with their fingers. They started smearing the pus on each other's bodies. Like paint. I swear. I've never seen semi-hot chicks engaged in such fruit-loopy behavior. Robby was looking pretty fucked up himself at this point. He'd given up on the prospect of fucking I guess and sat down on the lawn. Dradel kept trying to take Sonja's hand though. I don't think he was that fucked up yet. He still had his heart set on screwing. Sonja just kept smearing the green gook on his face and cackling. Dradel was getting pretty annoyed. I just kept drinking. I couldn't tell if the beers had gotten warm or if it was just my mouth. I didn't care much either way. I couldn't stop drinking. My head started to spin. I felt a sudden urge to look in the mirror. I had to see myself. I tried to walk in the house, but I couldn't do it. It felt like my body was missing, like I was just a head walking around on a pair of feet. Like one of those little mushroom guys from Super Mario Bros. I decided to just lie there against the lax goal, watching fireflies and getting bitten by bugs.
When the girls started eating pieces of the fruit, Dradel grabbed Robby and decided they were all going home. I don't blame him. You're not supposed to eat that shit. They were feeding it to each other. They wanted to bring some inside the house. And cook it. Fuck that, I said. Or thought. I'm not sure which. Those bitches were crazy . . .
Robby and Dradel tried to get me up but I mumbled something about how I was gonna stay there and sleep in my old bedroom. After I heard their car pull out of the driveway, I threw up. A lot. I had been holding it in. For the sake of the girls, I guess. Whatever. This morning I woke up on the lawn, covered in bug bites and vomit. My head was still spinning. The sun was high already and my vision was full of purple spots. I sat up and rubbed my fists into my eye sockets real hard. Blinking, I noticed two gray bunny rabbits on the lawn, so close I could touch them. They were picking at my vomit and the little green leftovers of the Osage oranges for food. I farted. And they panicked. I had interrupted them. I was sorry when they ran away. I had scared them. It was all my fault.
~
I was rolling down the sidewalk on my skateboard, carefully counting each cicada carcass as they crunched beneath my wheels, when Mister Reese's hatchback pulled up right in front of me. I jumped in my skin. I was afraid he would notice, I didn't want him to know I was scared. I took my foot off the board and stood there, trying to look tough. The old man got out of the car holding a brown paper bag. The bag was wiggling, wriggling, beating like a heart. He tipped his hat to me. I waved back timidly, with a flick of the wrist. I couldn't take my eyes off that bag. He must have noticed because he chuckled. His smile looked . . . wicked? A grimy chill ran up my spine. One of his teeth was dead black.
He reached into the bag and yanked out a snow white rat by its tail, which was fleshy and pink like a worm. I probably jumped again, I'm not sure. The poor animal thrashed around a bit before Mister Reese shoved it back in the bag. He tipped his hat once more and headed inside, quietly chuckling to himself. I stood there a while, alone on the sidewalk, feeling stupid and weird about life in the world that I live in.
~
I went to see my physician today. My pediatrician actually. I still go to a pediatrician. I had asked my mother to make the appointment. She looked worried when I asked her. It's no secret that I hate going to the doctor. I don't usually volunteer for a checkup. I told her my allergies were acting up. I was lying. I pretended to sneeze. I'm not sure if she bought it, but she made the phone call anyway.
This morning she left money on the counter for cab fare and the co-pay. I called Russian Stan for a ride.
What had really been bothering me was a painful rash that had been getting worse every day for the last week. I used to get hives when I was a kid, in big puffy chains across my torso and wrists. But this was different. The hives would go away after a few hours. The doctors said they were caused by stress. This new rash was different though, achy and budding. And it stuck around. It was a darker pink too, almost brown in places. It was living in my left armpit and the fleshy canal between my thighs and my testicles. The skin down there was all chapped. There were cracks like coin slots developing on the surface. I wondered if it was shingles. Or if my first brush with oral sex had given me some kind of freaky VD. I wondered if I could get any painkillers. The world felt heavy.
Stan dropped me off at Saint Joseph's in Towson. The building was cold inside. I pretended to read Highlights magazine in the waiting room. I tried to look for the hidden pictures, but it gave me a headache, so I gave up. Instead I sat behind the magazine and used it as a prop so I wouldn't have to make eye contact with anyone. But I couldn't help looking at them anyway.
There was a little boy waiting with his mother. The boy's face looked green. He kept moaning. He wanted a lollipop. His mother tried to shush him. She buried his head in her lap. He bit her. She had to scold him. I pretended not to notice. I was embarrassed for her. I hate kids. But then again, adults suck too. Probably worse. I felt so depressed that I nearly got up and left. I thought about running off to the woods and letting the rash take over, gradually turning me into a monster. That's when they called my name. The nurse led me into a little room. She put me on a scale. Apparently I'd lost weight. She was concerned. She looked to me for a response. I apologized. “I'm sorry,” I said. I didn't know what else to say. Then the doctor came in.
After checking my heartbeat, Doctor Blum asked about my parents. I told him they were “great.” He wasn't listening though. I could have told him they were cannibals and he wouldn't have raised an eyebrow . . .
I wasn't sure how to bring up the subject of my rash. I was embarrassed about it. I figured he'd see it and ask me about it when he went to check out my balls anyway. I hate when they do that. It always makes me tense up and laugh. I can't help it. It's an awkward situation and I'm ticklish. I'm afraid I'll catch a wood or something. He didn't do it this time. Instead he lifted up my chin and looked in my eyes. He asked me, “What is wrong with you now? I saw you less than six months ago . . .”
“Nothing really,” I started. “I mean I doubt it's serious . . .”
“You let me be the judge of that, Miles. Now, spit it out already.” He's such a know-it-all. I was kind of surprised when he didn't call me “Retard,” not that he ever has before. It just seemed to fit at the time . . .
I lifted my arm and showed him the rash. He asked me how bad was the pain, on a scale of one to ten. I guessed a seven at first. Then I changed my answer to six. That seemed more appropriate somehow. Doctor Blum held my arm like a puppet's and stared deep into my armpit, which is just starting to get hairy. He made a few little chirps of agreement, mmhhmmm, mmhhmmm, like he was reading an editorial or something.
“And there's more,” I said, pointing to my waist. “Down there.” He dropped my arm and stretched out the elastic waistline on my boxers so he could get a good look at my crotch. He only peeked for half a second before he let the elastic snap back against my belly.
“Fungus,” he said with authority.
“Fungus? What do you mean 'fungus'?”
“I mean you have a fungal infection.”
“How would I get . . . that?” I was confused.
“Oh, fungus is everywhere.” He hiked his thumb over his shoulder. “Out there, in here, on me, on you, everywhere.”
“Definitely on me?” I asked.
“Definitely on you.”
“Um, okay . . . Why?”
“It crops up in places on your body that don't get enough sunlight. Don't worry, you don't have to change your deodorant or anything.” I could tell I was supposed to be relieved. A fungal infection is good news, I gathered. Better than VD. Or shingles. Or plague.
“Would a fungal infection ache like this?” I still wanted painkillers.
“It could. Your lymph nodes are pretty swollen. And the skin is broken in places from chafing.” He spoke to me like I was a child. I could tell I wasn't getting any Percocet. He prescribed me an over-the-counter cream.
I called Stan from the pay phone outside. “Diagnosis on rash was okay?” he asked.
“Swell,” I told him. And we took off for Rite Aid where Stan waited in the car while I ran inside for some Micatin. Then I had him get me a six-pack up the street and slipped him an extra ten.
When I got home I squirted the chilly cream on my palms and began to massage it into the sensitive red flesh around my crotch and my armpit. It hurt pretty badly, but I was still embarrassed for calling jock itch a seven on the pain scale.
The fungicide itself didn't burn the rash, but felt damp and mild. Naked, I hopped in bed with my six-pack and picked up the remote control. I muted the television and started to watch a show about the tiny fish that swim alongside of great white sharks, nibbling parasites off their skin. Pilot fish, they're called. The mattress felt moist beneath me. My skin smelled gross. I was kind of relieved though. For once in my life, I knew exactly what was wrong with me. I had a fungus growing on my body. We all did. But mine had just gotten out of control and now I was going to fix it. I was mildly blissful, to tell you the truth. The fan whispered and tickled my rash. There was nothing left to do for the day, so I lay in bed completely still except for the breath washing in and out of my lungs. I felt mossy and organic. Beneath the whir of the fan blades, I almost thought I could hear myself growing. Like a forest.
~
I'm not sure that my mother is capable of relaxation. She has absolutely no grasp on the concept of serenity. She just can't unwind. But she likes to make a big deal of talking about relaxing, that's for sure. I think that's the only way she can do it. It's kind of sad, if you think about it. Like on Fridays, she'll come home and have a cigarette, maybe a couple light beers—which make her slightly edgy—and then she'll drink four cups of coffee. She puts ice in it. She says it helps her “relax.” She even drinks a cup right before bed. And while she's supposedly trying to chill out, she'll scurry around the house scrubbing the counters, the walls, trying to force-feed us, trying to make us drink milk.
She's constantly making lists out loud on her fingers. First I'll make coffee, then I'll call work, then go to the store, then cook, then serve, then chew, swallow, digest, wish on a star, and go to sleep before I have to wake up again and make coffee . . . Always listing off the groceries we have in the fridge out loud, over and over, in case we'd forgotten how to look for ourselves. Then she'll go around turning the lights on and off. Opening windows. Toying with the A/C. Adjusting the blinds. Nothing's ever perfect enough. If she catches you watching television, she'll come in and try to put a pillow behind you, or prop your feet up. She'll cover you with a blanket, even during summer when the humidity hangs around like a bad odor.
First thing she says when she comes home at the end of the week is always something like, “Now I'm going to relax. All weekend. All I have to do is relax. Don't you think it's beautiful outside? Maybe I'll go and look. Does anybody want a sandwich? I have to make a phone call. Whoa, this floor is dirty.”
As soon as the stars come out, she takes the chance to rush outside and make a wish. Meanwhile the only thing visible up there is satellites and airplanes. Because of the light from the city. I regularly remind her of this, but she likes to wish on them anyway.
“All I'm going to do is relax.” She says it at least forty times a weekend probably. No joke. “I just love the weekend. All I have to do is relax.”
“
Why don't you do it, then?” I'll snort. I'm such an asshole.
But seriously, I imagine that if you're really relaxing you don't have to talk about it. You don't even THINK about it . . . It's like she can't think of anything else to say. And she has to say something, but the only thing on her mind is how “relaxed” she's planning to get, how great it will be if it ever happens. I doubt very much that she's ever been completely relaxed. Not even during sleep. Asleep, she's all hog-grunt snoring and hacking chest coughs. She doesn't know the meaning of REM sleep . . . My mom sleeps with the TV on very loud. She's like me, she can't fall asleep if it's quiet, so she watches TV in bed. It's the only time she can sit still during a show. If you come in and hit the power button while she's snoring, she'll wake up. The rest of the day she can't even sit through normal shows. She's all twenty-four-hour news channels in the background and fidgeting. She can't sit through a movie. She never ever, ever listens to music. It makes her nervous. She's always waiting for the chorus . . . Sometimes she'll go to bed three or four times in a night, never sleeping, purely at a loss for things to do.