Tamer Animals

by Justin M. Woodward

  After he had chugged about a fifth of the remaining liquor, he slammed the bottle back onto the counter and spit into the sink. He half coughed, half sneezed and it felt like razors were crashing through his sinuses. He then washed the sink out, wiped the counter down, and twisted the top back on the bottle. He put the bottle back into the cabinet and scanned the area again to make sure he had cleaned it well enough. He figured his father would be furious if he knew what he had done. Something told him that his anger would be less about the underage drinking and annoying desperate teenage angst and more about how he was following in his footsteps.

  He began walking towards the staircase to go to his room when his legs seemed not to want to move. Of course, he knew it was the alcohol making quick work of his teenage body, but the knowledge of that didn't stop him from staring down at his feet and chuckling dryly before uttering a short, distasteful comment to the empty room: “Oh, great… now someone's touched me too.”

  Phyllis called out again from the other side of the house that they were going to be late for school, and the boys looked at each other and smiled.

  “She's such a spaz!” Sam said as he threw his hands into the air. They both laughed. Patrick thought he saw something in his brother's eyes behind the laugh though—a glint of pain.

  “Come on,” he said, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We’d better get going.”

  Sam's face flashed an awkward, sad kind of expression, one of admiration. He looked up to his older brother with such reverence, and he felt a little pathetic being so excited to have him touch his shoulder.

  The two boys gathered their things and made their way into the kitchen. Their mother stood at the coffeemaker with her head down, her eyes closed.

  “You okay, mom?” Patrick asked.

  She looked in his direction, managing not to make eye contact. “I can't get this thing to work,” she said. Her tone was an angry one.

  He walked over to the coffeemaker, and she stepped out of his way. Lifting the lid, he pushed all the buttons. Nothing worked. He traced the cord out of the back of the machine and discovered that the coffeemaker was not plugged in. “Right here,” he said. “We just forgot to plug it back in after we used the toaster is all.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding defeated, pathetic. He gave her a sideways hug and said that they were leaving for school.

  When they were in the car, Sam spoke up. “This is all my fault.” He toyed with the zipper on his backpack.

  Patrick thumbed through his CD case for something to pop into the player. He didn't like to ride in the car without music. “It is not,” he said. Finally, he found the CD he was looking for: My Chemical Romance: Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge. He popped the disc into the player and looked over at his brother who was absentmindedly staring out of his window. The music blared much louder than he had intended and Gerard Way bellowed, “LONG AGO, JUST LIKE THE HEARSE YOU DIED TO GET IN AGAIN!!!”

  He fumbled for the volume knob and turned the music down to a good calm level—a level a mother would approve of. He reversed the car out of the driveway and began the drive to the middle school. They probably were going to be late, but who gave a shit? It was the last day of school. Still, he didn't want Sam catching hell from an ambitious middle-school-teacher over something that wasn't his fault, so he drove with haste.

  “What happened is not your fault,” he reiterated. “And anyway, it's been six months. It's over.”

  “It is my fault though.”

  “How is it your fault, Sam? Did you ask for those boys to hold you down while Isaac Matthews groped you?” He hated himself already for saying it out loud.

  Sam stirred in his seat. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Finally, he gathered the courage to say what he had wanted to say for so long.

  “There's a reason they did that to me though, it wasn't just random,” he said as he looked at Patrick. “You love me, right?”

  “What?” He could feel his face heating up again as it reddened. Of course he loved his brother. It wasn't something that needed to be said. Was it?

  “Never mind…”

  “No… I do, Sam. Love you, that is.” There was a long pause in which the awkwardness was so thick in the car, it almost oozed out of the cracked-open windows.

  “Well then, hear me out,” Sam was gathering his confidence. “I just can't have you laughing at me or judging me, it's why I haven't said anything yet. I know nobody will understand.”

  “I won't laugh,” He was sure of this, he didn't feel like laughing at all. Puking, maybe, but not laughing.

  “Well… do you remember when I used to spend the night over at Clark Hoover's house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well this particular night, we were doing our usual thing, drinking cokes and playing Super Smash Brothers Melee on Clark's Gamecube, and then Isaac Matthews had just dropped in—you know I've never liked him—but him and Clark were friends and so I just dealt with it. But we were playing a tournament, and Clark's mom called out and said that Isaac was at the door, so she let him in. Anyway, he ended up staying the night, and he had brought these… porno movies over, and we watched them.”

  “That's all?” his brother let out a short bark of a laugh. “Every kid watches porn at some point or another, no biggie.”

  “No, that's not all,” Sam said. “He put the movie in, and we were all watching, and then he just pulled out his penis in front of Clark and me. He told us to pull ours out too.” His face was red, his voice shaking. He continued, “And then after Clark had fallen asleep, Isaac asked me to touch his penis, and I did. He asked me if I liked it, and I said that I did.”

  “Did you?” He didn't know what else to say; his heart was beating in his throat.

  “I don't know. Maybe. Maybe I'm gay, I don't know. But then he told everyone that I was a fairy—a sissy. He humiliated me in front of everyone in the locker room.”

  “I think he's the sissy,” Patrick said. They had arrived at the middle school now, and he had pulled the car into a parking space. “Listen, Sam,” he said. “If you're gay… then who cares, you know? But don't let these fucking punks push you around, understand?”

  “Yeah,” Sam smiled. “But what if I'm not gay?”

  “Makes no difference. You're just Sam, okay? You're my brother, that's who you are. Besides, you're only in the 6th grade, you've got a long time to figure out that kind of thing.”

  “About to be 7th grade,” Sam said with a small smile as he got out of the car and shut the door.

  Patrick arrived at school—late, of course—and pulled into the parking lot behind the building. The only spots that weren't already taken were the ones in the very far end next to the baseball diamond. He got out of his car, slid his cell phone under the driver's seat, locked the doors, and walked towards the building. As he walked, he admired the senior lot on the other side of the school, the one where even the furthest spot was still a hell of a lot closer to the building. Seniors got to decorate their spot at the beginning of the year. They also got out of class ten minutes before everyone else, so they could avoid the rush and leave earlier than the rest of the school. But he still had to make it through his junior year before he could join in that presidential bliss.

  With his backpack slung over one shoulder—it was so heavy, but only nerds used both straps—he rounded the corner of the band building and made his way inside the main hall just as the tardy bell started to ring. This is what Hell must feel like, he thought. Always late to something you didn't want to go to in the first place.

  The hallway was a total mess. It was as if the teachers had given up early this year. Posters hung askew on the walls, papers littered the floor, locker doors stood open at attention. Suddenly, a voice came flooding over the intercom system, babbling nonsense about making it a great day or not, the choice is yours.

  He rounded the corner in the direction of his first class when he nearly bumped into Garrett Matthews. The two boys simultan
eously made that Ope sound that people make when they're in someone's way. Upon realizing who it was that he had nearly collided with, his face flushed red. Garrett looked as if he wanted to cry, his lip quivered, his fist clenching and unclenching.

  “I guess it's a good thing I didn't run into you,” Garrett said. “I might have ended up in the hospital.”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself.” he retorted. “Or maybe you wanna save that sexual tension for another guy.”

  Garrett let out a frustrated scream as his fist came crashing towards him so quickly that Patrick—although expecting it—still barely dodged it. The locker behind his head made a metallic slamming noise, and Garrett pulled his hand back, shaking it as if it was on fire. The sound of it echoed down the halls and caused the door closest to them to open. Coach Mathis, a history teacher, peered in their direction. He shielded his face from Garrett dramatically, as if he was in immediate danger of being hit. Coach Mathis looked at the locker behind his head.

  “Now just what the hell are you doing, Matthews? It's like you don't want to play football next year!”

  “But Coach, he—”

  “Get in here,” he said to Garrett, his voice firm. “And Hall, you get to class, hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Patrick walked away from the confrontation unscathed as Garrett was marched into Coach Mathis's room, probably for a referral to the principal. The whole thing between him and Garrett was incredibly awkward and totally out of their control.

  It had happened like this: Patrick's father had come home from work on the day of Sam's appointment with Dr. Fishtank with one hell of a migraine. He got those sometimes. A lot of the time. He had taken a few swigs of Jim Beam (had the bottle seemed a little low?) and paced the kitchen saying he just didn't know what he was going to do, he just didn't know. Of course, Phyllis had told him what had happened to Sam, and Sam's insistence that it wasn't as bad as it seemed had only seemed to make him angrier. Phyllis tried to calm him, but somehow, she knew that would be fruitless. When Gary Hall decided to do something, it would not be stopped, especially not by his wife. Eventually, with a little help from Jim, Gary had gathered the courage to go and confront Isaac Matthews, a twelve-year-old boy. He insisted through slurred words that he was just going to talk, just talk. Phyllis had known better, but what could she have done? She considered calling the law on him herself, but ultimately, she decided against it. Let him get himself in trouble, she thought.

  After some prodding, Gary had gotten Patrick to tell him where the Matthews' lived, and he had driven to their house and had knocked on the door continuously until someone had finally opened it, looking annoyed.

  “Can I help you?” The man said.

  “Are you Matthews?”

  “My name is Rick Matthews, yes.” His jaw seemed to dislocate, moving from side to side. “Who are you?”

  “Your boy, Isaac. I need to see him now.”

  Rick could smell the sweet stink of liquor emanating from Gary. “What's this about?”

  “I just need to… (hiccup) talk to your boy is all.” He smiled a paper-thin smile.

  “I'm afraid I can't let you do that, sir.”

  Gary stepped forward and put his hand on the door as if leaning on it for support. He moved as close to Rick as he could and whispered, “Why not?”

  Rick's eyes flashed a nervous gleam, and he tried to shut the door, but Gary's hand was still holding it firmly open. “Honey, call the police,” he shouted.

  “What a great idea! I was thinking that same thing. You see, your boy—your faggot boy—has been messing with my boy, and I think the law would love to talk to him.”

  Rick hadn't waited to find out what Gary had been talking about. Taking the baseball bat which he had been clutching behind the door in his left hand, he pointed it at Gary's throat. “You get the fuck off my porch.”

  Gary threw his hands in the air and staggered backwards. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I'm leaving.” He half-turned on the porch before swinging back around grabbing onto the bat. It was too easy. He pulled Rick towards himself with the bat. All Rick had to do was let go of the bat, and Gary would have fallen flat on his drunk ass, but no, he held onto the bat. Gary pulled and pulled on the bat like a mime with an invisible rope. As soon as Rick was close to him, Gary had head-butted him, breaking his nose.

  Soon after, he was hauled off to jail for that stunt, and everyone at the school knew it.

  Patrick waited anxiously for the bell to ring after his first class. The school always held morning break after the first class of the day, and he needed to find John Queen and talk to him. He tapped his pencil on his desk like a nervous junkie as he stared at the clock. Kelsey Martin was side-eyeing him furiously.

  “Will you stop that?” she whispered.

  He stopped, his face turning a deep shade of red. Sighing, he placed the pencil down flat on the desk and crossed his hands in front of him.

  Finally, the clock struck 9:15 and the bell rang for morning break. he found John outside by the snack machines. John was kneeling in front of the drink machine messing with the coin slot.

  “What are you doing?” Patrick asked him.

  John stood up quickly, a smile forming on his lips. “Nothing, what's up?”

  “I need your share of the money.”

  “Have you got the other guys' money yet?”

  “No, but I will.” He knew what John was getting at. The other two guys were the ones he needed to be pestering about the money, not him.

  They stepped aside as two girls approached to use the drink machine. They looked the girls up and down with their eyes once they had passed and then looked at each other. Their eyes were saying Nice ass? Yeah. Nice ass.

  “Trust me, I'll get their money,” Patrick insisted.

  John pulled out his wallet and opened it, frowning. “Here's eight bucks,” he said, handing him a crumpled five and three ones. “I'll have the rest in a minute.”

  The two girls at the drink machine started grumbling about something.

  Patrick pocketed the money. “Where do you think Dean and Tim are?”

  “I don't know. Didn't see them this morning at all. Probably hanging out in Betty, getting blazed.”

  There was a small tunnel two blocks away from the school which ran under the street. About six months prior, the guys were skipping school one day and discovered the tunnel. There was graffiti inside of it, but it was otherwise completely clean. The word BETTY was written on the side of the concrete tunnel in purple spray paint, so the guys just started calling the tunnel itself Betty. It was impossible to tell anyone was in there from the road, so it had become their hideout if they wanted to skip a class or two, or in the case of Dean and Tim, the whole day.

  Some more kids were cursing the drink machine now.

  “Well,” he said. “They need to get their ass here soon. I'm going to Wolf's place after school.”

  “I know, I know. I'll text them and tell them to meet you at lunch.”

  The bell rang which told them that morning break was now over. John walked over to the drink machine and reached into the coin slot. He pulled out an orange handkerchief and cupped his hands below the slot. An avalanche of silver coins fell into his hands. He slipped the coins into the handkerchief and tied it loosely. Handing him the bundle of coins, John said “that should cover the rest of my share.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  John Queen had always been what the adults would call a “straight shooter.” He had always participated in extracurricular activities, was a member of the marching band, and was generally thought of as a good kid. As soon as he had turned sixteen years old, he had decided to get a job at the Winn-Dixie as a grocery bagger.

  His plan was to work and save up the money to buy a car. His friend Patrick had been given a car by his parents on his sixteenth birthday. It was an old Ford Tempo, an ugly little thing, but it could take you places. John hadn't been so lucky. When John turned sixteen, his stepdad, Ronnie, handed him a
twenty-dollar bill and told him not to spend it all in one place.

  Saving up for a car had become increasingly difficult, though. Ronnie had developed the nasty habit of taking most of John's paycheck. Ronnie had taken John to get his check cashed one day after work; John didn't have a bank account yet, so Ronnie had processed it through his own. They went to the drive-thru at the bank, and he had John sign the back of the check. The teller processed the check and returned the cash in a small white envelope. Opening the envelope, Ronnie had counted the money, and taken out five of the twenties. He then had handed the crumpled envelope to John and driven away.

  John had counted the remaining cash. $143.50. Looking at Ronnie with contempt, he said, “Why did you steal a hundred bucks from me?”

  Ronnie had slammed the brakes on the car and pulled onto the side of the road. “What did you say to me? Stole?”

  “Yes. You stole it. Why?”

  “Let me ask you something,” Ronnie began. “How much of that money would you have made if I hadn't given you the rides to and from work?”

  “That's not—”

  “And how would you have gotten the job in the first place if I hadn't driven you to the interview?”

  “I—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Save for the occasional vehicle whizzing by, the car was silent. John had stared at Ronnie in fury. He had wanted to reach over to his side of the car and snatch the cash out of his pocket. If the truth was told, he had wanted to kill his stepdad—just fuck him up bad. Instead, he had turned away from him silently, clenched his fists and remembered what Ronnie had told him before, about how it would be a shame if John ever caused him to leave his mother. She wouldn't be financially stable without Ronnie. I'd like to see how stable you'd be with no kneecaps, he thought.

  When they got home, John's mother had greeted them with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. John had stood in the doorway, tempted to speak out against Ronnie, to tell her what the bastard had done. He had opened his mouth to speak, but as soon as he had started talking, Ronnie had stepped on John's foot. Hard. John had cried out, and Ronnie had immediately begun apologizing. But as soon John's mother wasn't looking, Ronnie shot John a nasty look. Tell her and see what happens.