by Peter Butler
He climbed from his van and walked over to the sign. It had definitely been rained on as the writing had bled and run down the sheet making his words look very sad, like they were crying. Larry was sad, because he would need to allocate some time to make a new sign. He decided he didn't mind having to do that as this idea had clearly worked a treat.
He picked up the cardboard sign, but dropped it immediately when the rancid smell reached his nostrils. He looked closely at it as it lay on the ground and could see the yellow discoloration and realization suddenly hit him.
That little piece of excrement has peed on my sign. Larry pulled a face at the irony as he looked at the horridly deformed cardboard. As he rushed off to wash his hands he realized that Zac had used his sign to send a message back to him.
***
Dillon sat alone on a bench, a book held in his lap but he wasn't reading, his mind was elsewhere. He had lied to his parents about the cause of his facial injuries, consoling his guilt by telling himself that some of the damage had been caused by a crash. Just not the bicycle crash he had described to them. His father was skeptical when he had been unable to locate any damage to the bike, but Dillon stuck to his guns until the subject eventually changed.
He was trying to make sense of what Sherri had said to him. It was pretty clear that he'd been sprung doing his thing behind the curtain while he ogled her. That was kinda embarrassing but she seemed more interested in what he was doing than in making trouble for him. And then there was the suggestion that he come and see her on his next birthday? Given what she had seen him doing, she had to be inviting him to have sex with her. Even though the actual day was a long way off the thought elicited some action in his groin area. He wondered if other guys had this same problem, it seemed almost anything even slightly about sex was enough to get things started. Sadly, apart from what happened in Mrs Kemsley's spare bedroom behind the partially open curtains there was very little relief available to him.
A hand touched him on the right shoulder and he spun around in shock. There was no one there. Then a tap on his left shoulder. He spun that way, but saw no one. Then a female laugh came from his right side and he turned to see Emily Kane walking around the bench to stand beside him.
'Hello, Dillon.' She smiled broadly at him, but instantly changed to a look of shock when she saw the state of his face.
'Hi...' He fumbled for some more words but seemed dumbstruck. He needed to cross his legs because he was still effected by his residual thoughts of Sherri. Thank goodness he had a book in his hands. He wished it had been an atlas or a large binder instead of Hemingway's thin novel, The Old Man and the Sea, which seemed to be an apt metaphor for his recent life.
'My God! What happened to your face?' Emily exclaimed as she sat beside him.
'Nothing much... I.. I just came off my bike.'
Emily looked at him, questioningly and gently reached out and touched the purple bruise on his cheekbone, under his right eye. 'Looks more like someone punched you. I had a bruise exactly like that, once.'
Dillon pulled back from her touch in shock. 'Are you saying someone once punched you?'
She nodded. 'He only did it once, the bastard. And he'll never get the chance to do it again,' She studied Dillon's messed-up face and bit her her bottom lip in sympathy. 'At least I could cover mine in makeup.'
Dillon looked incredulously at her. 'Was it a boyfriend? Are you saying a boyfriend punched you? Or were you mugged?' His mind raced. How could a guy do that? He'd been quietly observing Emily Kane for some time and the only guy he had seen her with was Zac. And lately she was never with him. Before he could check himself, he was asking out loud, 'Are you saying... Zac... punched you?'
'It doesn't matter, it's ancient history. The guy's a Neanderthal, his knuckles almost drag along the ground.'
Dillon shook his head in anger and disbelief. 'The prick hit you too...' His mouth gaped open when he realized what had formed in his head as a thought, had actually been said out loud.
Emily looked shocked. 'Did you just admit that Zac hit you, too? That damage to your face wasn't from falling off your bike?'
Dillon realized he couldn't rebuild his lie, now. She had worked it out because of his stupid gaff. They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing but from totally different points of view. Dillon hated that Zac could hit a girl, especially the one sitting beside him. Emily was thinking that Zac had hit Dillon to send her a message and because he was jealous of Dillon.
He had to get off this awful topic that was tearing him up inside, so he said with a lopsided smile, 'Some of the damage came from a crash. Zac and his two goons just got to add a bit to what I'd already done to myself.' He'd worked out just how far he could stretch his mouth before it would begin to tear the cut open again, and he pushed his grin to the limit, causing Sherri's little band-aids to have to work overtime. He'd practiced smiling in the mirror at home and decided at best he looked like James Dean after a beating, at worst, a ghoul that had just crawled out of a grave, after a movie-director had called, "Action!".
The more she thought about it the more Emily was convinced that what Zac had done to Dillon was, in some way, because of her. Zac had been a big mistake, her initial attraction to him had been stupidly based on the lifestyle his father's money provided him. He was reasonably good looking also, but the problem was, he knew it. She knew Zac was still hot for her because he told her so, every chance he had. He hadn't accepted that he was totally out of her life.
This attack on Dillon had elevated him from an annoying used-to-be, to the top of Emily's hit-list.
She had been interested in Dillon for a long time, he was good looking, intelligent and judging by his pants, interested in her also, but he was so gentle and shy she had been forced to make all the moves. That, also had been attractive, she liked to be the one in-charge for a change. Maybe Zac - the bastard, had observed this and decided to take some action; and his idea of action usually involved fists flying without any warning.
Looking into Dillon's contorted face as he tried to smile broke the shackles around Emily's dark mood, for the moment. She pushed an emerging desire to make Zac pay for his actions to the back of her brain, and slowly smiled back at Dillon. He really was good looking underneath all the bruises and cuts.
'I can let you have some makeup, if you like?' She grinned.
Dillon surprised himself by quipping back, 'You telling me the stuff I usually wear has worn off?'
'Afraid so,' she pulled a face and nodded. 'But, on second thought you don't need any, those cuts and bruises give you a bad-boy look. Some girls like that.' She tilted her head to the side like she was checking out her theory from a different angle.
As short as it had been, this was the best conversation Dillon had ever had with Emily and it was having an effect on him. If Hemingway's words had touched him, it was now being reciprocated. Realizing this he blushed and pushed the book further into his lap.
'Are you saying I need to get beaten up to get a date?'
'It can't hurt!' She gave him a cheesy grin at her joke.
A female voice called impatiently to her from a distance. 'C'mon, Em...! We haven't got all day.'
'Seems I have to leave you.' She gazed at him with a look he couldn't read. It seemed to be half mirth, half uncertainty and that made no sense. Then she glanced at his lap and grinned. 'Hemingway!' she chuckled, 'So, you're moved by the classics, eh?' He was dumbstruck for the second time and just watched as she raised her eyebrows questioningly. There was no way he was going to have a smart reply because he was in shock at her frankness. It got bolder. 'I like books about animals. If you ever find a good one about giraffes, I'd love to check it out.'
And she was gone.
He watched, open mouthed, as Emily and her friends walked away, her trademark miniskirt flicking it's few spare inches of fabric from side-to-side as her hips gyrated rhythmically.
Hemingway's Old Man was almost tipped out of his boat as Dillon realized th
ere was really only one way to interpret Emily's parting line.
***
Instead of riding into the lumber yard of Rafferty's Hardware Dillon wanted to check out the side of the building first. As he rounded the corner he noticed immediately that Zac hadn't re-painted the wall overnight and was relieved. His father had pointed out over dinner how upset Larry really was over this whole incident. He had explained that Larry suffered from a condition called OCD and was prone to anxiety attacks when his well ordered world was suddenly thrown out of whack. And having to deal with graffiti two nights running had certainly qualified as "out of whack". Dillon had never heard of OCD, but it made total sense, when his dad explained how sufferers fuss and concern themselves in great detail over things that the rest of us just accept or ignore. Certain things that he had seen Larry do in the past suddenly became understandable to Dillon.
The brick wall still had tiny pock-marks of color scattered over it, but unless you stood very close to it you probably wouldn't notice. He looked up at the newly installed cameras and smiled as he rode beside Larry's Transit van and looped in front of it to go back to the mouth of the alley. As his bike rounded the passenger side of the van Dillon jammed his brakes on and froze at what he was looking at.
'Oh no!' He said out loud. Larry must be shitting himself...
Dillon rushed into the lumber yard, parked his bike and quickly headed through the doorway to the hardware department and was greeted by Herb with a worried look on his face. 'Hey there, Dillon. You been using your face as a way to stop your bike?'
Dillon raced up to him and asked, 'Yep, sort of... How's Larry doing, Herb?'
'He's actually smiling today. It seems the graffiti kid has moved on to other walls because Larry left him a large sign warning him not to come back.'
'So he doesn't know?'
'Know what?'
'About where he's doing his graffiti now?'
Dillon's father had seen his son come in and noticed the agitated way he was talking to Herb. He drifted over, and said, 'What's going on?'
Dillon turned to him, glad to have someone more responsive to talk to. 'Herb said Larry hasn't seen the new graffiti?'
'What new graffiti?'
Dillon gave a shake of his head. 'You need to come with me,' and headed towards the front door.
The three of them stood facing the passenger side of Larry's van, unable to speak. The side of the white van from the passenger window back to the tail lights featured a giant, brightly colored painting of a man, wearing a dunce's cap with a hammer in his hand. His other hand had a bright red swollen thumb that he had supposedly just hit with the hammer. The man's pants were down around his ankles and what looked like a large dildo was protruding out of his rear-end. An unmistakable "Z" filled the bottom right corner of the "artwork".
Minutes later the neighborhood was rocked with a shrill, anguished scream that had nearby residents running to lock their doors.
***
Larry had to be helped back to his office. Jerry and Herb each draped one of Larry's arms over their shoulders and wrapped their own arms around his back and part carried, part dragged him through the store to the astonished looks of the few customers that still remained after the terrifying screams had invaded the place. Jerry knew the drawer where Larry kept his bottle of Johnnie Walker Red - to be used for special occasions only. He poured a good shot into a plastic cup from the water-cooler. He had to hold the cup to Larry's lips for the first sip as Larry had disappeared into a state of anxiety that left him able to do little other than tremble and shake. The whiskey seemed to have a restorative effect on Larry as his eyes suddenly locked on Jerry's hand; the one that held the plastic cup, and he grabbed at it, urgently. Larry cupped Jerry's hand and plastic container as if they were one, and dragged them back towards his lips for a second drink. This time it was a series of large gulps that emptied it of shiny amber liquid. Larry shook his head like a wet terrier as the alcohol burned its way down his throat and up into his brain.
'You feeling any better now, boss?' Jerry asked, as he noticed Larry's eyes had lost the dull stare and gained a slight twitchy sparkle. They begun darting from side to side like a wary animal assessing imminent danger.
Still not receiving a reply Jerry pressed on. 'We've gotta call the cops now, the little shit has gone too far.'
Larry suddenly focused on Jerry and a dark brooding glare emerged on his face. 'Under no circumstances are you, or anybody here, to call the police and lodge a complaint. What this kid is doing is personal, it is directed at me... and I will deal with it.'
'No, no, Larry. That's a huge mistake,' Jerry shook his head to emphasize his disagreement with Larry's decision. 'Whoever is doing this is too young and stupid to realize the full impact of his actions, he'll be someone just like Dillon, except his folks have given him way to much free-rein and he's gone off-track.'
Larry looked puzzled. 'Jerry, are you saying you suspect Dillon might be involved in this in some way?'
'Of course not, boss. He's a good kid. I'm just saying the kid who's doing it is actually not to blame either. He's a victim of bad parenting.'
Larry absorbed and analyzed Jerry's words and the conversation stalled for a few seconds as he seemed to stare at a small indentation on the surface of his desk. Eventually he looked back up at Jerry and said, 'I hear what you're saying Jerry, and I agree with most of it. But I have not changed my mind about calling the police so please tell everyone, especially my father, that I do not want the authorities involved... Not yet, anyway.'
After Jerry had departed the office Larry helped himself to some more whiskey. He was surprised at how well, and how quickly, it had controlled his panic attack, it was vastly superior to the pills Dr Bohen had prescribed and he wondered why he had never thought of trying this method before. Larry was feeling quite good about things now, but that didn't mean that he had decided to go easy on this Zac boy. Jerry's advice had been clear - the boy's parents were ultimately responsible for what had happened and they should share in the punishment.
Another thing Jerry had said kept coming back to Larry; He's too young and stupid to realize the full impact of his actions.
Larry poured himself another measure of his new best friend, Johnnie, and settled down to ponder which direction the punishment should take. Ten minutes later Larry's head lay on his desk cradled in his arm, his hand clutching a now empty plastic cup which his closed eyes could no longer see. Every eight and a half seconds a loud protracted snore escaped Larry's slightly open mouth. It seems, even in a semi-passed-out state his body maintained its mathematical precision.
***
Dillon had quietly left Rafferty's Hardware a full thirty minutes before he was due to officially finish his shift. It had been easy to sneak out because all the employees had been joking and goofing-off as Larry had not reappeared from his office all afternoon. Eli had departed for home straight after the fuss involving Larry's van had exploded, claiming he was "getting too bloody old for all this bullshit".
Dillon pedaled hard to put some distance between himself and the hardware store. He had a plan, of sorts, about how he was going to deal with Zac and he needed to accomplish this part of that project while he still had light. He reached the fork in the road and turned towards the forest, he still had about sixty minutes until that daylight deserted him and it was crucial that he didn't encounter Zac and the gang, as he would have no way of explaining why he was on this road which led to a tree and a sack full of spay-cans. As he rode he cast his eyes as far ahead as he could, looking for the shape of three riders heading towards him, ever ready to turn back at the first hint of trouble.
He assumed the pink paint mark he had accidentally made on the tree would have alerted the gang that their hiding place had been discovered, but he had to make this trip in the hope that they hadn't been back there in the last day or two and moved them. The cans were central to his plan.
NINE
Dillon hid his bike behind a bushy
clump of undergrowth and moved off through the vaguely familiar terrain. The light was beginning to fade so he was confident that the picnic area would see no further use today, but that also meant he had little time to complete his task. There was no evidence that three bikes had come this way recently, but he still listened intently as he eased his way along the makeshift track that led to the tree which, hopefully, still had a sack containing spray-cans tied to its upper branches.
His relief was real when he discovered that he was both alone, and the sack was still tied as he had left it. Zac, Wood and Jordy had not been back.
Dillon untied the bag and took the rope to the waters edge where he tossed it into the middle of the stream where the water flowed strongest. The rope floated and began to straighten out like a large snake uncoiling itself after a winters hibernation, it blended with the current and slowly moved down the stream. He had little doubt that it wouldn't get very far before it tangled around a rock or overhanging branch, but he didn't care as long as it cleared the immediate area.
Dillon tied the sack around his handlebar just like he attached Mrs. Kemsley's groceries, and rode off. Usually he was balanced with a bag on either side of the bars, but he was a skilled rider and made any adjustments that were required, instinctively.
By the time he was back in the built-up suburban area it was dark and he headed for home. He stashed the bag under a bush in the front garden and went inside his house.
'Hey, Dillon. I didn't see much of you at work today,' his dad said when he entered the living room.