The Comedown

  Link wants to know.

  One of his favorite Ocarina glitches was something the Internet had nicknamed Crooked Cartridge. Performing it was potentially damaging to the entire system, but it was worth it. What you did was you made Link run around the Kokiri Forest while you simultaneously lifted the left side of the game cartridge out of the console—slowly, slowly—until Link either glitched out or disappeared altogether. If he wasn’t invisible, the new Link was a fibrous bundle of color or an anamorphic outline or half-bodied—and he could run through anything: people, fences, rocks, trees. EJP had this theory about himself that his cartridge had been fucked with at birth, and that was why he was the way he was. This was at face value a bad thing, because an error in the code was an error in the code. But if he could be more like Link, it could be a good thing.

  And this morning he was thinking he could’ve actually proven it if his mother hadn’t called him downstairs. It was six thirty. Time was not on his side. The little situation in the N64 pipe was not cashed. He blew off the smoke and put the whole thing in a shoe box and put the shoe box under his bed. Then he shouted down to her that he was coming and Visined his eyes in the bathroom. He thought for a moment he could smell what he and his mother were going to cook. She would say “waffles, eggs, and peanut butter toast” as soon as he entered the kitchen.

  “Eggs and bacon, sweetie,” his mother said, looking hard at his eyes. “Start on the toast.”

  He felt like he was looking through Vaseline, which was kind of funny, but he resisted making the joke to his mom. He put the bread in the toaster and thought, I’m sorry, Mom. Her back was to him and saying something like What the fuck is wrong with you? in response. The idea of his mom saying “fuck” was too funny to him. She was working diligently on the bacon. She had an unpleasant day ahead of her, he knew: she had to go pay Grandma Alice a visit, which meant reading the newspaper aloud to herself for a few hours while listening to Grandma Alice’s ventilator.

  “What’re you laughing about?” she said, turning around. She said it like she used to say it when she tickled him as a child. She hadn’t used this tone of voice with him for a while—probably because she was afraid she’d embarrass him—and now that she finally had, it made his stomach drop. He and his mother would never again be in a situation where she was tickling him; instead she would only sound like she was tickling him and he would have to remember the feeling of being tickled. He swallowed, and the sobering reality of the day came into focus: Joey Gipson, gym class, his truancies, the fact that Addled_Astrolabe was born gay, the uselessness of his high, how quickly they’d eat breakfast.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  In the car on the way to the high school Alexander said: “Your mother thinks someone’s bothering you at school.” He said it quickly, as if it were the last item on a meeting agenda.

  “Nothing’s happening.”

  “I didn’t think anything was. Boys will be boys, right?”

  EJP nodded: “Right.” Boys will be boys was Alexander’s way of acknowledging the bus incident. During the bus incident, EJP had gotten punched twice in the stomach, hard enough for some bile to come up, and then Dennis Delpiere had held a pencil across EJP’s throat while David Olson, a bit player who was trying to cozy up to Joey Gipson, had written the word “faggot” in black Sharpie across EJP’s forehead. It hadn’t taken long. They’d done it in the back of the bus, between cul-de-sacs in a subdivision, and EJP had stayed quiet as instructed. The bus driver pled innocent and EJP’s mother refused to let him back on the bus until “reforms were made.” (The word “reform” didn’t exist in Braxton High’s data set.) EJP stayed home from school the next day, his thrice-scrubbed forehead still ghostily projecting “faggot” in every mirror. The principal was the one who’d told Alexander that boys will be boys, “especially on the bus.”

  “Maybe we’ll get you back on that bus soon,” Alexander said. Then he reached across EJP to open the passenger door and EJP stared at the front steps. “Thanks,” he said, and got out. He stepped into the school’s intake valve and was swallowed by the building’s Soviet-era interior. He stood there a few seconds holding the shoulder straps of his backpack. Kids were going to their lockers, eating muffins wrapped in napkins, taping posters to walls. Abe Verdega, who walked with a limp and always smelled a little like gasoline because his dad owned the Quick Pump, was getting head-smacked by some biggish male tormentor unknown to EJP. Julie Cosworth, who sometimes spoke to herself and wore long dresses, was looking in a mirror stuck to the inside of her locker. Them and not me, thought EJP. I can be invisible.

  He walked down the hall to his locker. There were no notes stuck to it telling him to go fuck himself. The janitor had scrubbed off the very real-looking, very hairy dick Dennis Delpiere had drawn on there last week. Inside, nothing had been disturbed: not his Portal poster, not the potted cactus his mother had given him. He thought hard about it: he was at the very least still a little high, and if he wasn’t a little high, he was stoned. This was a good way to feel, morning-stoned. This was as good as he could feel in a hallway of Braxton High. Then there was a flash of the Thought, and his brain’s electricity went momentarily haywire. He silenced it. Better today’s problem be—hiccup—It’s better if today’s problem is the Thought and not Joey Gipson. He closed his eyes and hung his head in the safe metal module of his locker. Today’s problem is not Joey Gipson.

  He would see Gipson, Stockton, and Delpiere during gym, which was fifth period. First period was biology, which was too easy to waste time doing the homework (C-minus), and then calculus, where he at least did the homework because it would’ve been embarrassing not to (A). Nothing happened in either class. Well, he was blinking too slowly in biology and got called a burnout by Denise Earlwick, but no one cared about her opinion. People were already organizing Senior Spirit Week, he realized as he walked under banners that read SENIORS ’08 CELEBRATE! It was weird to think that the group “Seniors ’08” also included himself, Abe Verdega, and Julie Cosworth. They, too, were technically being encouraged to “celebrate.” Another occurrence of the Thought. Another.

  Here were two questions he didn’t think Addled_Astrolabe would’ve been too thrilled to see asked: “Do you/did you hate gay people?” and “Do you/did you hate your own thoughts?” These were both true enough of EJP, glitching through the hallways of Braxton High on September 17. He really did dislike the idea of a man sleeping with another man, though he would never hold it against Addled_Astrolabe for being born like that. Many people would, though: Grandma Alice always used to call homosexuals “them” and “unnatural.” It was an unpleasant, even dangerous, way to be born. EJP pitied gay people the same way he pitied anyone born with a disability: the world wasn’t made for them. It seemed unfair that the world was made for other people and not for them.

  As far as high school was concerned, there were correct ways to be born and incorrect/deformed ways to be born. And without question the worst and most disgusting deformity was gayness: regardless of your skin color, your weight, or the size of your house, it was an absolute nightmare to be born gay, because it had to do with nothing but your own perversity. Which was why EJP always deleted his browser history and hated the Thought and pitied gay people but didn’t—because he couldn’t? because he was too weak?—hold it against them.

  Third period was English, where he functioned as the class dictionary (import class: dictionary was a joke he sometimes made to himself as he walked in the room), and where they were halfway through a book he hadn’t started. Third period was prime fuel for the Thought, because in the absence of a seating arrangement he found himself always sitting behind Chris Finn and Eliza Strobeck, who sat next to each other. The two of them made this period the worst of the day—worse than history and gym, worse than the bus rides home used to be—and yet every day he forgot about it and went home thinking the Thought was manageable, and had to be reminded again the next morning that it wasn’t. This day’s only problem cannot b
e the Thought. In a more just world, he’d be able to sit through third period with a blunt smoldering between his lips, blissfully thinking no thoughts at all.

  Here is how the Thought began: Chris Finn and Eliza Strobeck were the exceptions to every social rule. They were not popular and they were not unpopular. Chris ran track and was in mostly AP classes except for science and calculus. He was black and had a double-peaked upper lip and was maybe five inches taller than EJP. He always wore his varsity jacket, which fit him perfectly. Eliza was in all APs except for government and she did drama, though not in a high-profile way (she was usually given the female supporting role, but once or twice [Guys and Dolls, Oklahoma!] had managed to steal the show). She was white and about EJP’s height, with rosy cheeks and good, but not great, taste in clothes. The two had probably met in class—nobody really talked about where they met. But that was exactly the thing: nobody talked about them. They had been dating for a year and were very public about it and had no major social support network and thus no specific roles to fill—not the Tough Black Kid, not the Hot White Girl. They were a sovereign country. They kissed in the hallway. They held hands. He drove her to school. What was it about them that set them free? EJP had a theory: it was love. A glitch can’t be in love, but a glitch can recognize it from miles off.

  Late last year was the first time EJP noticed how they looked when they kissed. When they were both sitting, Chris sort of cupped her head in his hand and pulled her to him and she leaned in, smiling, and then met his mouth with hers in a two-halves-of-a-whole way. Sometimes when they were walking in the hall she’d skip in front of him and pull on the open flaps of his varsity jacket and his head would droop a little so he could kiss her. EJP’s favorite was when he stumbled in on them after they’d already started making out, which happened most frequently in English before the bell rang to start third period. It usually took a few seconds for them to realize he was in the room, but when they did they pulled apart and waved at him. He wasn’t used to the feeling of waving back, but he enjoyed it.

  After a few months of watching them kiss, it occurred to him that it must feel a certain way to be receiving that kiss. He thought about how it must feel for Chris to be kissing Eliza, and then he wondered how it would feel for Chris to be kissing anyone he loved. He’d probably get hard. Chris, who had a handsome profile, who had a very strong jaw across which there was already a dark swatch of stubble, would get hard and kiss more with his tongue, would go deeper into her mouth, would pull her head closer, would pull EJP’s head as close as possible.

  That was the first occurrence of the Thought, and in the following months there were more: Chris is about to have sex and he’s standing over a bed on which someone is lying prone and hairless and it turns out that person is EJP. Chris is running track and there’s EJP sitting in the bleachers in a miniskirt and a skintight sweater, cheering Chris on. Then they kiss under the bleachers. Then they both undress and Chris touches the palm of his hand to EJP’s bare stomach. The shitty, shitty fucking Thought. The Thought that was ruining him, making him spend so much time on Reddit, making him avoid conversation with his mother and Alexander. He tried to find small ways to keep himself from thinking the Thought, but they were almost as bad as the Thought itself. Once he bought a shirt with a pink-and-white unicorn on it and wore it under the Sewanee hoodie his mother had given him. That kept the Thought at bay, but not for long. Another time he’d stolen a black dress from the back of his mother’s closet and worn it in his room while getting high and playing Donkey Kong. The thought hadn’t revisited him for three days after that, and his mother never missed the dress. Another time he’d gone into a wig store and in the back tried on a girl’s blond wig with bangs and a bow above the right ear. That worked wonders for keeping the Thought away.

  The worst occurrence of the Thought had been on a night not so long ago: he’d imagined Chris and Eliza kissing in front of the lockers and then tried not to let his brain swerve. But that was giving him blue balls so brutal he thought he’d maybe die, so he allowed himself for the sake of his own health to imagine Chris was kissing him. And then before he knew it, Chris opened his eyes during this particular kiss and pulled back and said: “I love you, Eddie.”

  Most of the time all his thoughts re: the Thought were focused on its disgusting nature, but in his more private, stoned moments, he was embarrassed and a little infuriated that it was for Eliza and not him that Chris was a human being. A human being with things he loved and hated, a human being who changed his underwear and probably felt nervous about some track meets and excited about others, and who’d probably had Eliza over to meet his parents more than once. He and Eliza had certainly talked about what colleges they’d apply to and whether they’d get married before or after they graduated. But to EJP he was just a pair of lips and a washboard stomach and the Goddamn Thought and nothing else. Not a human being, and especially not a human being who would ever come close to loving him.

  Pathetic motherfucking glitch. He had fourth-period lunch, which was too early to be hungry, so he went to the bathroom and ate half the bologna sandwich his mother had made him and listened to Abe Verdega whimpering in the next stall, as he often did. It was a postcrying whimper, the worst kind. EJP pounded on the wall of the stall. The whimpering quieted and Verdega’s feet left the floor.

  If it was true of the Metal Gear Solid games, then it was true of the world as well: your enemies know you better than your friends. He imagined his grandma Alice, breathing through her ventilator in the hospice in Mendenhall, finding out that EJP had thought the Thought. She’d be horrified; it’d probably hasten her death by a few months. But more important, she’d be surprised that EJP was capable of such a thought. Gipson wouldn’t. Gipson had grown up with him, had been watching him on the playground since 1996, could anticipate everything about him. Gipson was an undefeatable boss because any attempt on his life amounted to an attempt on EJP’s own. He was a plague of locusts, Omega Pirate played on hard, the lung cancer that was killing Grandma Alice.

  The bell to end fourth period rang and EJP walked in a zombified shuffle to the locker room. When the doors were in sight, he Z-focused on them. He opened them, was met with a burst of pressurized mold, and walked in. He could already hear Delpiere’s voice coming from somewhere in the maze of lockers ahead of him, whispering and then laughing. He passed through the cluster of B-list lockers. All eyes were on him: a conspicuous irregularity.

  “Excited for the showers, Phillips?” someone said.

  Anything would be better than this. He was an idiot for not staying home today. If he’d been suspended for ditching, if both his parents had never spoken to him again, it would be better than this.

  He began worrying the combination on his locker. His hands were shaking. He had a minute until the fifth-period bell rang. He could feel Gipson behind him. Gipson’s hand, large and veiny, flat against the lockers, suddenly right next to EJP’s face.

  “Phillips,” Gipson said.

  EJP turned around.

  “Are you worried about being late?” He was tall, big shouldered, with hair that he’d let grow a little long since quitting football. He smiled. “Andy and Dennis are in coach’s office bullshitting about why we’re running late. So feel free to take your time.”

  EJP suddenly started talking even though he didn’t want to. The locker room had emptied of everyone except the two of them, and the lack of a noise cushion made his voice sound desperate and prepubescent. “I had to come in because I’m going to get suspended if I don’t—” The bell rang. Joey Gipson stroked his chin and nodded. “I mean, I had to be here,” EJP said.

  “Right.”

  “I’m saying because you told me not to be here, but I had no choice. Like seriously, I had no choice.”

  “Uh-huh. Rock and a hard place.”

  “I’m not gay,” he blurted. It was like a dagger to the stomach to put the words “I” and “gay” together in a sentence, even if it was that one. “You think
I am, but I’m not. I swear I’m not. I hate gay people.”

  Those words didn’t do good things to Gipson’s face. His mouth got hard and tense. His eyes got wide. “I thought we were going to have a real conversation here. But apparently you don’t want to.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gipson put his face close to his. “Fuck you.”

  Not knowing what else to do, EJP nodded.

  “I told you not to come in today and you did.”

  And then he punched EJP in the stomach so hard he crumpled immediately. Joey Gipson kneeled across his chest and punched him one-two-three, bloodying his mouth. His mind went blank with pain, but he tried to hold his tongue back so he wouldn’t bite it off. Gipson stood up and kicked him one-two-three in the ribs and then one-two-three in the back when he rolled over. Then EJP heard panting and it stopped: he didn’t look up. He pressed his face to the ground. Gipson was gone.

  For a while, EJP lay on his side and explored with his traumatized tongue the gap where his left front tooth had been. The tooth had skidded across the floor to the middle of another locker bay. It killed him to stand up and get it, but he knew he needed to, and he did. He put it in his pocket and winced and began to cry. The motherfucking glitch is crying.

  There was blood down the front of his shirt and on the floor. Gingerly, he changed into his gym shirt and shorts and held his old shirt in his mouth to stanch the blood. No bones were broken as far as he could tell. He had to go home. He had to walk home. He tried to shoulder his backpack, but the pain made him dizzy. His idiot brain reminded him that Chris Finn would never be there to help him back up.

  “Shut the fuck up!” he screamed. The locker room was eye-of-the-storm quiet. Maybe Coach Arnold was seconds away from running in and finding out about what happened. Then Joey would get detention, blame EJP, and the horrible cycle would continue.