My Hand Mitten

by Austin Thacker

  “What makes you so sure I want to play with someone as gross as you? You ugly turd!” Angry Aaron bellowed with a single stride backward, afraid of Mark and this random kindness.

  “Because we’re going to be best friends!” Mark quickly responded while his red cheeks puffed out. Aaron stopped, out of his comfort zone and stupefied—no one ever dared to communicate with “Angry Aaron.” Especially like this. He attempted to be open and played with the others, but at pickup time, Aaron watched children leave, watched their mothers kiss them on their cheeks, and their children disrespectfully wiping it off while complaining to not embarrass them, affection he longed for. Aaron accepted and embraced the name “Angry Aaron.” It made him more than the boy to be pitied for walking home alone.

  “Well…as long as I’m the cowboy!” Aaron commanded gladly while reaching out for a handshake.

  “Sounds like a plan!” Mark merrily announced while shaking his hand. Aaron saw something in Mark that day, and from then on he never walked home alone again.

  They began to accompany each other in make-believe adventures. Mark and Aaron would sometimes walk into the desert and find their way back in the morning. They would play golf in the streets, shoot cans with a poor and beaten BB gun, steal pomegranates from a neighbor’s yard. It was the life of the latchkey kid, nearing the end of disco music, Vietnam, Ronald Reagan, and the beginning of MTV. They grew callouses on their hands, like Mark’s dad wanted, and on their feet from climbing trees and old sheds. There was dirt in their socks and hair after every adventure. Mark taught Aaron about his father’s rules for fighting and how to play baseball, while Aaron taught Mark how to duck from punches and his thoughts on how to throw one. They would laugh so much from each other’s jokes, impressions of Donald Duck and Clint Eastwood with their candy cigarettes pinched to aim toward the sky from their closed lips, puffing like sailors and arguing who would be the good, the bad, or the ugly.

  “Mark…Mark…Mark!” seven-year-old Aaron impatiently said as they walked out of a dusty and old 7-Eleven and cautiously paused at the road. Aaron continued to tap his shoulder out of the urge to speak. They were heading to a shady spot under a secluded bridge, as the first days of their summer were proving to be just as dry and scorched as planned. “Mark!” Aaron said again, this time even louder, “you’re sooooo ugly, Medusa…Medusa would turn to stone if you looked at her.”

  “Really?” Mark questioned in partial amusement as he watched a few isolated cars pass by.

  “Yeah! You’d be the Ugly Mark. I swear it! I swear it on my…Mark, wait up!”

  Mark was already walking across the street, confident in his stride while opening the pack of Bazooka Bubble Gum he’d bought for fifteen cents. The cashier was friendly enough, mostly absorbed in the novel he was reading to care any more than he did, but he cared enough to realize how young they were. Mark was older than Aaron by nine months, eight years old and already taller than four and a half feet, but still young.

  “They must live close by,” the middle-aged man said for his own comfort, while scratching his receding hairline and opening his book once again. But the fact was, they had traveled a few miles south to reach the corner store in town.

  Aaron began to jog toward Mark in a hurry as his need for attention was still not fed. He continued to stare toward Mark as—in the middle of the street—he turned around and smiled back. Aaron later told the police that Mark stood in the road, smiling back for almost five seconds, but the moment was only about two.

  “Would that make you the bad then?” The words came through more like a comment than a question, but as always there was no fire in his words, Mark seemed to be pleased. “Then who’s the—”

  A finely polished 1968 Toyota Corolla came from the left and smashed into Mark’s ribs, crashing his face into the hood and creating a crunching sound of bones and teeth crumbling from the impact. He flew back about three yards, landing on his back without a sense of day in him. The 7-Eleven cashier dropped his book onto the ground with his mouth wide open, showing some recent silver fillings in his molars. The car halted with tremendous force, yet lagged and smashed into Mark with an impact of about thirty-five miles per hour. The cashier heard the high-pitched screech of the tires on the concrete and saw the body crash onto the ground. He ran to a payphone and was the first to call 911. Bubble gum and blood were scattered around the road, and Aaron acted as if he were just frozen by Medusa, mouth as wide as the cashiers and frozen in the middle of the street.

  The driver jumped out of his vehicle with a cigarette in his hand, ran to a payphone, and called AAA, then 911. He was the second person and last person to call the police. The middle-aged man checked his car before he helped Mark, feeling the dented hood with care and gentleness. He was shaking from despair and anger. What the hell was that boy doing in the road? The man thought with burning rage, then ran to the boy with a phony face of distress, accompanied by the corner store clerk who turned Mark on his side as he began to cough, cry, and wheeze from the shock. The man was silent, though—Cleveland Jones, two-time DUI felon, had been trying to light a cigarette before hammering on the breaks.

  “You got a light?” Cleveland asked the clerk.

  “No, sorry man,” the clerk responded without a glance up, taking off his shirt to substitute as a pillow for Mark’s head. Aaron was frozen until a police officer asked him if the boy was his friend, and where they lived. All that came out of Aaron’s mouth was barf, all over Jones’s Corolla.

  The doctor told Mark’s parents that because of his extra foot in height, he was not pulled under. They were all very grateful, even after three broken ribs, a shattered wrist, twenty-one stitches, and his broken baby teeth. Mark lived, and his mother told him that it was because of God. God had a purpose for him, and he was going to achieve great things. Mark listened to every word as if it were law.

  Years later, Mark found out that his father and mother both picked up other jobs in order to pay for his expensive medical bills, since they were at fault for allowing their child to wander so far from their home. They felt awful, watching him try to peel a banana with his hand and teeth, having trouble standing from his crushed ribs, and waddling around in pain. Therefore, Mark’s parents bought him a birthday present that was far more impactful than any present he had ever been given. When he ripped the newspaper off that Ringling Bros. magic kit, his eyes and cheeks lit up with color, then he screamed with joy and laughter, wiggling his body, his sling, his titanic bandage over his ribs and on his forehead, like he were about to launch into the stratosphere. From card tricks to little plastic bunnies popping out of hats, Mark loved it. It became Aaron and Mark’s obsession, the compelling force that bonded their friendship, what made them unique to each other, different than the other classmates in school.

  “If only I could poof away Amy,” Aaron said angrily while blushing.

  “She must have done something horrible,” said Mark. “You can’t even talk to her without turning red!”

  Aaron looked down very shamefully and spoke with a tiny voice.

  “Ye–Yeah that’s why.”

  You’re Asking Too Much

  The wind rushed through the cacti, hissing as the rain spiraled down, drumming an upsetting offbeat melody. Even though Mark’s anger was raging, he never lost his desire to become entirely invisible. With his headlights off, Mark began to follow the old yellow Toyota Camry with a wild grin on his face. Tyler was the first who rolled out from the scene on Sixth Avenue and Elm Street, heading east on Elm toward the endless darkness, as Mark went north on Sixth, turning right on a parallel street to Elm, called Lester. He then turned off his lights, turned off Lester onto Fifth Street, and left on Elm, following gullible Tyler, sharing the same endless darkness and the Toyota’s headlights. The Camry was speeding through those older buildings from the seventies and eighties, past some houses that Henry even helped build, but all Mark could think about was the
rush he felt, the excitement and all the endorphins that made him almost weep with joy. It was a secretive, dangerous chase, death sneaking behind Mark as Mark snuck behind Tyler. He felt death’s presence and sensed comfort, comfort to be as close to death as his wife was now. As they passed Fourth Avenue and hit about fifty-five miles per hour, Mark began to yell with exhilaration.

  “You want to preach to me, preacher boy? You want to tell me about God and his righteousness while you speed down Elm Street to pop pills and inject heroine?” They passed Third Street and both rolled the stop sign. Mark burst with laughter, and some snot ran down his lips before he aggressively wiped it off. “Is the morphine that necessary? That worthy to step between you and your holy land?” They passed Second Street at around sixty, and Tyler passed out on the wheel, slowing abruptly. “You’re sick, you sicken me! You—” Mark gasped for air and slammed on the breaks, which slid from the pouring rain and pounded into the bumper of the Camry, sliding both down the road with a whiff of symmetrical speed. They both slid together like a child falling off a sled into icy slush, board following closely behind. They slid so far that the two cars, the two drivers, reached First Avenue, a lonely number. Tyler’s totaled Camry hit the street sign as the thunder rumbled, then slowly died off as the time went by.

  Mark barfed and lost consciousness, the vertical, cold rain wetting his cut cheek. He began to dream of the past again. It was easy to dream of the past.

  They were on a bridge, an old bridge next to the city. It had been years since he was hit by that car, all that remained were scars worked in deep and a memory ignored by many years of laughter, many years of their playful magic. Mark grew more than a foot during that time, the tallest seventh grader in their school at a height of five foot nine, beginning to broaden even at his youthful age. Aaron was nothing like this; his height was average, although very slim. The sun was setting, the day was dying. Mark was thirteen and Aaron was twelve in the fall of 1981. Aaron marched toward Mark in rage, which was too common to be a surprise. Aaron’s long hair, his KISS shirt under a thin white sweater, rolled closer while Mark watched him stomp over. He remembered his face, the young wrinkles from Aaron’s angered expression. His glaring eyes, the bruise on his left wrist, and the black eye that his mother helped him hide with her foundation. He knew Aaron would always be angry when his old man got a hand on him, and he tended never to mind the anger pushed his way. In fact, Mark enjoyed it, knowing that after Aaron felt better after his outrages, he felt more control in his life; it was a way for him to vent. A time for Aaron to speak when he needed to, and Mark could respect that; he could lend an ear and listen. But that day on the bridge stood out more than the other occurrences—it stood out like a ladybug in the grass.

  ◆◆◆

  “You’re sick, you sicken me!” Aaron yelled.

  “Really? Why is that?” Mark questioned with a little laugh.

  “Because you hang out with… With HER! I mean, to hell with her. We’re a fricken’ team, Mark. I mean, am I not good enough? I know I’m not beautiful, but at least I don’t—“

  “Save it, you nut. She’s just my friend.”

  “No, no, don’t say that. I see the way you look at her, a look I’ve only seen in movies, she’s a game changer,” Aaron aggressively stated with an overinflated grin, a face that said, I caught you, now it’s time to fess up.

  “Don’t change the path we started! She flirts with everyone. You’re no better than anyone and it’ll end just as soon as it began. I’ll have to stop this madness that you decided to get us into. I have the power to stop this!” Aaron yelled with fiery anger. As always, Mark smiled with the same gentleness and glowing face, the same gentle voice.

  “I’m not going to marry the girl, calm down.” There was a silence, and they burst into laughter. Aaron tried to fight it, like an infant fighting his pasty dinner, but soon he couldn’t help but crease up with snorts and crackles.

  “I guess not. You’re right, man, I was overreacting. Sorry about that,” Aaron stated in a tiny voice.

  “No problem. We have a plan, but life is too mad to plan. I’m going to play it by ear.” Mark turned around to look over the bridge and pulled out a block of Bazooka Bubble Gum. Aaron pulled out a very worn deck of cards he’d bought on a family vacation to Las Vegas years ago and began shuffling with his thin hands, bending and shooting them from one hand to the other, with ease and comfort. He loved that specific deck; it sat on his nightstand while he slept and his right pocket while he walked. He felt control from them. It made him feel secure.

  Mark and I in Las Vegas, he would always think with a smile while nodding off into sleep. Living in Caesars Palace, please God, please!

  “Hey, by the way, are you coming to my house tomorrow to rehearse that magic trick?” Aaron casually asked.

  “I’d never miss it for the world!” Mark stated happily. Though he didn’t know how to tell Aaron that this girl was also invited, the woman whom Aaron had decided to choose this specific day to rant about.

  It had surprised Mark; the topic was so out of the blue, he didn’t even know Aaron knew he was seeing her. Their relationship was such a deep secret between the two, and he was going to introduce her to Aaron during that specific rehearsal. All Mark knew was that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, even as he watched the sun set into the mountains, he could not help but giggle from the butterflies in his stomach. He was already daydreaming about marriage, their children, and how wonderful it would be to spend their life together snuggling and talking about their dreams like their last date. That word, date, tickled his tongue every time he said it. He never felt this toward any girl, but there was no way Aaron would ever allow such a feeling after what was said.

  Rats, Mark thought to himself. He then closed his eyes, counted down from three, squeezed his eyes even harder, and spoke.

  “I even invited a stunt girl, she’s really good and is willing to do whatever we want her to do. You need to give her a chance Aaron, she won’t be that bad.”

  Aaron turned on a dime when Mark spoke of a “stunt girl” and froze in complete shock. His mouth open, skinny hands stretched out to his sides in an expression of nauseating disgust. A thought whipped through his two ears. (Angry, Lonely Aaron.)

  And he grew with anger.

  “No, you tick-infested, hairy Incredible Hulk, I will not tolerate this garbage. You need to show her the door and properly kick her out.”

  (Angry… Lonely… Aaron.)

  Mark would have rolled his eyes and laughed, but he needed Aaron’s approval. Mark could do anything he wanted, but he couldn’t tolerate what he knew Aaron would do. Aaron, the trash talker in their school with a terrible reputation for starting the most random fights out of completely nothing. He once threw a muffin at a young fourth-grade girl in the cafeteria. He later told Mark that she rolled her eyes at him and mouthed the word “ugly.” Young Julia Stratton, who still cannot walk around school in their line without holding her teacher’s hand, and is the principle’s daughter, had done no such thing. Mark turned around and spoke hastily.

  “Well, I was wondering if she—”

  “Dammit Mark!” Aaron stomped away from the bridge, but Mark followed. He was slightly angry about Aaron’s language but kept the feelings to himself.

  “No, you don’t understand. I taught her some tricks, she’s good! And we need a beautiful girl to perform tricks on, right? Everyone in Vegas has one. She is also so sweet and entertaining. She could make a crowd cheer from just her appearance, I swear, she’s also—”

  Aaron turned around. “But not like this. I’m not third wheeling for my entire adult life, it’s supposed to just be us. Not The Amazing Aaron, Mark, and Mary, just us. No squat, because if you do this, then one day you’ll leave and never look back, while I sit alone and keep buying Slim Jims, looking out for only me, caring for only me, and laughing with only me. Then I would never leave th
is dusty, crummy state! I would lose my chance for change while you two run around acting like the frickin’ Brady Bunch.”

  They both went quiet; Mark didn’t respond. Aaron knew he was angry and knew the reason why. Mark’s eyes were sober, with not even the slightest curve of joy on his face, something so normal that it was terrifying to see him without. Aaron was at a loss for words, searching to say anything at all to break such an awkward connection. He knew all Mark cared about was the girl, Mary. He knew that Mark was serious, that they were serious, and that nothing was going to stop them from seeing each other again.

  “Besides, we need a smoking hot girl, not a beautiful one,” Aaron quietly stated in embarrassment. Then Mark smiled, shattering the frightening tension off Aaron’s shoulders. He received the approval he’d longed for.

  “Yeah, well, she’s still coming tomorrow.” Mark looked at a cheap supermarket watch he’d been given as a gift from Henry and flinched. “Oh, tie my pants on a fishing pole. I have to go,” Mark said in a terrible Southern hillbilly accent while giving Aaron a wink. “When we meet up, be on your best behavior, or you’ll regret it.” He began to run, and Aaron stared at him while slowly disappearing.

  “Now you’re asking too much,” Aaron whispered, kicking the dry dirt and watching the sun fall behind those mountains. He’d made a decision the night before and didn’t dare tell Mark. Aaron decided that the next time his father hit either him or his mother, he was going to fight back, a thought that ran goose bumps up his spine and frightened him beyond compare. Aaron was going to revolt because, after all, it was the age for children to rebel.