Clay's Way

by Mastbaum, Blair

  Kendra stood there, tall in the doorway, and looked between me and the TV screen. She quickly turned away, like she accidentally walked into the wrong room and she didn’t even notice me.

  I freaked out and escaped through Jared’s window, which was the first time I used a window as a door. The next day when I saw him at school, I told him I felt sick and had to go. I don’t think Kendra ever told him, but since then I’ve only seen her from a distance. I was 14-and-a-half and I’ve avoided her since.

  She walks back in. I’m freaked out now, thinking about her expression that day. She sits on the arm of my chair and puts her legs up on top of me.

  I jerk away as she puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Oh, my God, Sammy, relax. Are you OK?” She laughs.

  “Uhh... no… fucked up.” That sounded stupid and I can’t get this joint to resemble a joint.

  “Me, too. Let me help you with that.” She takes the pot and the papers. “God, I haven’t seen you in like two years. You haven’t changed a bit. Well, except you’re taller, and your hair is... purple?” She laughs. “What are you doing here?”

  “You know Clay?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She’s saying something about him with her tone and I don’t like it. Did they fuck or something?

  “We’re friends. He brought me.”

  “He’s cute, don’t you think?” She nudges my side, like she’s kidding me.

  “Whatever.”

  “He won’t even talk to me. Not nearly the gentleman you are, Sammy.” She makes me feel too handsome and polite. “Jared was talking about you the other day. I asked about you. You guys need to come over to my apartment and hang out. I’ll buy you beer. Gotta girlfriend, Sammy?”

  “Uh... no, not now. I was going out with Cynthia for a while.” I shouldn’t have lied.

  “Swinging bachelor.”

  I smile, but inside I’m grossed out at being thought of as a bachelor.

  Is Kendra a spy? She rubs my head. “You’ve got a beautiful head. Are you coked up? You’re grinding your teeth like crazy.” She finishes the joint with a lick. Her tongue’s moist and plump.

  “Yeah, sure am. Me and Clay did some on the way over.”

  “Never thought I’d see you on coke.” She lights up the joint and takes a big hit. She makes it look elegant.

  “Wow, I feel old. You did it with Clay?”

  I wish, meaning, did it, like sex.

  She hands me the joint. “He turns wild on that shit.” She tilts her head at me, like she just remembered what I said about doing it with Clay. She looks out the front door. “Fuck!”

  I lean forward on the couch to see what she’s looking at. A couple guys are re-lighting the burnt-up mattress. The flames grow huge in seconds.

  She gets up and runs to the front door and I follow her. “You guys! The cops are gonna come and take our keg away!”

  I lean out the front door. A guy with a Mohawk lies on the grass looking at the sky and a blond guy with no shirt on jumps up and down smoking a joint on one end of the burning mattress, which is only, like, a foot from the front porch. A girl tries to melt a beer can on a fire in the barbecue. Dogs are everywhere running and play-fighting. It’s like a whole new society with no rules. I wanna go wild. I wanna strip my clothes off and run around the yard.

  Everyone starts to pour beer on the fire. White smoke flies up into the night sky.

  We walk back inside and Kendra starts talking to a big dude with tattoos, the guy who gave me the pot and papers. It seems like she wants to fuck him. She looks really pretty. Her red hair is long and tied back. Her skin is smooth and shiny, and she’s still wearing all black like I remember.

  The pot guy looks at me. “Where’s my joint, dude?”

  Me? I look down and notice the half-smoked joint in my hand. I’d forgotten about it. “Here, thanks.”

  “Wanna go upstairs, or take a walk or something?” the guy asks Kendra. He looks away, trying to seem aloof.

  “I don’t think so, Mark.”

  Mark reaches down the front of his jeans and Kendra rolls her eyes.

  “Quit scratching your balls. It’s gross.”

  “Know where the bathroom is?” I get up, embarrassed to watch Kendra with this dude. “I have to piss super-bad.”

  “Yeah, I think there’s one upstairs.”

  “OK, cool seeing you.”

  “OK, Sammy.” She pinches my cheek. “You look happier, or something. I knew my mom was wrong about you. Just kidding.” She rubs my head. “Give me a kiss, cutie. I’m in a little argument with my boyfriend. Come save me later.”

  I kiss her and smile. I wanna find Clay. I walk off, trying to act like I don’t have to piss worse than I ever have. I climb the stairs. The carpet’s destroyed and has burn holes all over it. I spot the bathroom ahead. The door’s open.

  I hear someone taking a shower--the sound of water hitting a plastic curtain. I’m not sure if I should go in. I stand in the doorway. Fuck it, I tell myself. It’s cool. This party’s pretty mellow like that. I walk in and take a deep breath. I hold my dick out over the dirty toilet and piss. Relief.

  “Franky?” Clay screams from the shower.

  “No, it’s Sam.” I’m jealous. Why would Frank be in the bathroom when Clay’s taking a shower?

  “Oh, Sam, hey. Can you close the door, brah? It’s cold.”

  I look in the mirror to make sure I look OK, then peek around the corner. I see his shoulder, his calf, and his hip—all flush up against the clear plastic curtain.

  “You still in here?”

  “Yeah. Why’re you taking a shower?”

  “I don’t know. Felt like it. Where have you been?”

  “Talking to that Kendra girl.”

  “Think she’s hot?”

  “I guess.”

  “I guess?”

  “Uh.. I mean... she’s my best friend’s sister.”

  “So?” He’s quiet for a second. “Dude, come here.” He sounds like he’s scheming. The adventure in his voice inspires me.

  I walk over to the shower. I feel the humidity and heat, like from a rain forest, drifting out from around and over the curtain, which is dirty with mold at the bottom.

  Clay rips aside the curtain. He stands naked in a stream of hot water with a goofy smile. “Get in.”

  I freeze and absorb flashes of him like photos: Dark pubic hair. His dick, not much bigger than mine. The hair on his legs. His torso.

  I have no control over myself. I step into the shower. Instantly, I’m warm and wet. My clothes get heavy. Bluish-red hair dye runs down my neck and chest and T-shirt. My camo shorts turn warm and stick to my legs and hang down low. My shoes get soggy and squishy. It’s like some sort of fucked up womb. There’s no better place to be in the world than this tiny wet, warm, steamy space. The smack of the water hitting my clothes is deafening. I look down at the streams running off my T-shirt, then up to Clay. I stare at him in the filtered light shining through the curtain. We’re only inches apart.

  “You have all your clothes on.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’m pathetic, desperate, turned on.

  “I feel like God!”

  My dick’s the hardest it’s ever been. I need to touch him. I have no control over myself. I reach out for his chest. My hand clenches up before it makes it there. I sort of hit him, my hand fumbling on his bare chest, then falling to my side. He looks at me, saying nothing.

  Please kiss me.

  He jumps out of the shower. His balls bounce as he jumps. He turns and looks right at me, rubbing his chest with his hand. “I love you, man.” He says it like he’s talking to a dog.

  Involuntarily, my hand goes to my dick--but I can’t jerk off here.

  Clay dries himself with a dirty towel and steps into some cut-off army pants. He looks at me and smiles. “Taking a shower with your clothes on. That’s pretty punk.”

  “Uh... yeah.”

  He runs out, leaving the door open.

  For no
good reason, I feel like I should cry--maybe because I don’t know what to do after this. Everything else will be a disappointment.

  I rinse out my mouth and let water hit my eyes so they get more red. It’ll make me seem more out if it. I turn the water off. That was the coolest and weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. I get up and walk out of the shower and wipe the fog off the mirror. I’m dripping with color and water. I see this shocked happiness in my face. I stare at the veins in my forearms. They’re sticking out almost as much as Clay’s.

  I have to find him. I walk down the hall leaving wet footprints in the carpet. I look through a half-open door.

  Clay’s sitting on the floor. He looks calm. The carved wooden plaque on the door says STEVE.

  I see the guy who’s probably Steve.

  He looks at home in the room.

  I walk in, holding my breath, dripping, and shivering a little. Inside Steve’s room, it’s much quieter than the rest of the house. A dim lamp is on. The floor’s covered with dirty brown shag carpeting, and there’s lots of ancient-looking records, bongs filled with dirty water, the smell of a million smoked joints, two ashtrays, and cool posters of surfing and bands I’ve heard of, but don’t know much about--the Beatles, the Clash, and Led Zeppelin. It’s cozy in here, my mom would say, except they’re smoking pot and fucked-up. That would ruin it for her.

  I walk in, dripping big drops of water onto the carpet.

  Clay's lying on his back with his wet armpits open proudly.

  Steve sits on his bed, a mattress on the floor. He leans over his two-foot long bong, holding on with both hands, and takes a huge hit that makes his cheeks go all Skeletor. He looks about 21, and he has brown hair and a chipped front tooth. Trippy music comes from his big, old speakers.

  “You took a shower with your clothes on? I’ve done that.” He laughs. “You want some dry clothes, little bro?”

  I sense this open way about him. “Sure, man. Thanks.”

  He reaches behind himself on the bed, and throws me some flowered surf shorts plus an old David Bowie T-shirt that smells like his room.

  Clay watches me while I change.

  All I can see is my limp, cold water-shrunk dick and these ugly-looking hairs that have just begun to grow on my inner thighs. I take my wet underwear off and walk into the shorts as fast as I can, catching my pubic hair on the zipper. I pull the T-shirt on.

  Clay laughs and smiles at me. He looks really fucked-up. “That’s a trip, man. You look like Steve.”

  “You think?” I straighten out the T-shirt on my shoulders.

  Steve looks at me and sits up straight. “I’m pretty cute.” He says this in a goofy way, then turns around to change the record.

  Clay lies back, looks at the ceiling, and rubs his chest.

  I watch Steve put the needle down. The record scratches.

  I lie back.

  “This has been Steve’s room since the fourth grade.” Clay looks around at all the posters.

  “I never had the same room for more than two years,” I say. “My mom likes moving.”

  “Oh, Sammy, you poor little gypsy.”

  “Shut up.”

  Steve hands me his huge bong. You wanna hit?”

  “Sure.” I lean over the huge green see-through tube and suck in part of a big hit and am instantly and totally stoned. I’m almost scared because now I can’t stop thinking that I’m sitting in a room with two dudes I don’t know--and one of them I’m in love with, and if he finds out, he could be really freaked. I look around the room to avoid having to make eye contact with Clay or Steve. “This room has a lot of history in it.”

  Steve takes the bong from me, and tweaks up his lighter flame. “There’s no such thing as history, dude. It’s always now.” He hunches over the bong and sucks in another huge hit.

  “No, it’s not… it’s right… now. I just left you behind.” Clay grabs the bong from Steve, takes a huge gulp of smoke, and lies back. “Nature is unknowable… Surfing is the only time I’m whole… the only time I’m…at peace.” He turns around and looks at me, waiting for a response.

  The only thing I can think of to say is this haiku I wrote: “Unknowable waves, wake a lonely dog to bark, remind him it’s winter.”

  Clay lifts his head. “You’ve got it, man.” He looks over at Steve, who’s totally passed out. He moves the bong under Steve’s desk and lies flat on his back on the floor with his head on the mattress just inches from Steve’s feet. He closes his eyes.

  I’m gonna be in trouble because my parents don’t know where I am. I wish I lived here. I lift my head to look at Clay’s smooth stomach and the line of hair above his shorts.

  The next song starts playing. It seems like it was made for little kids or stoners. I crawl over and get the album cover. It’s super trippy. All the Beatles dudes are dressed up as different fuzzy animals. I reach up and turn the light out.

  Clay’s passed out with his head on Steve’s futon.

  I guess I’m sleeping in here too. Cool.

  The Beatle dudes chant, “Smoke pot, smoke pot. Everybody smoke pot, smoke pot.” I fall asleep, slightly spinning from the beer and pot.

  I wake up. It’s still dark. I don’t know where I am. I lift my head. I can’t believe I’m here. The record is over and I can hear the needle scraping softly at the end of the record. This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done. I look at Clay. He’s sleeping. How could I have been sleeping here for so long and not enjoying it? What a waste. I look at the clock. It’s 3:43. A couple hours have passed, I think. I whisper, “Clay?”

  He doesn’t wake up.

  I lie beside him with my head on Steve’s mattress and softly—like it’s a spiritual experience--touch his chest. Chemicals rush through my body. I wish I could jack off, but it’s too risky.

  Still, he shows no sign of waking.

  I move my hand slowly down his chest, feeling the curves of his muscles. I trace around his nipples. He’s hot and a little damp.

  He reacts with almost imperceptibly slow movements.

  I sit up and hold my face only inches from his skin above his underwear waistband. I inhale deeply. It’s perfect, warm Clay-filled air. I slide my hand as softly as I can down his stomach and I lift up his underwear waistband a tiny bit. I push my finger in and feel the top of his pubic hair.

  He thrusts forward barely an inch and takes a deep breath.

  Someone pounds on the door. Fuck. I jerk my hand away and curl up as fast as I can on the carpet to fake being asleep. I squint my eyes so they look closed, but I can still see. I’m shaking.

  Clay and Steve don’t move.

  Kendra peeks in and takes a photo with flash, then ducks out and closes the door.

  Cool. Now this is recorded. It’s permanent. It’s real. I wish that photo were mine.

  Steve moans and flops around on his bed.

  I nuzzle into Clay’s side, where his ribs make little ridges under his skin, but he rolls over away from me, still sleeping.

  Downstairs, the party rages on.

  Chapter 6

  Fresh summer Sake,

  Evening turned fast to morning.

  What a hangover

  I have a horrible hangover in the morning and I think Clay does too by the look of him. His eyes are swollen, and he’s walking like he’d do anything to prevent his head from moving too quickly. I grab my clothes off Steve’s floor. They’re still soaking wet, dripping all over his records and everything. I check to make sure doesn’t notice. Luckily, he’s still unconscious.

  Clay and I walk out over all the passed-out bodies, and get into his truck. Everything outside looks boring. It’s back to the real world again, with adult rules and standards about what’s appropriate and all that. We drive out of the neighborhood and down the road back to Kailua.

  Clay looks dazed.

  I feel so stupid. I wouldn’t have been so daring last night if I wasn’t drunk and stoned. I stare straight ahead, so he doesn’t have to have uncomfortable
eye contact with me. I watch two girls biking down the street with their surfboards who obviously went to bed a lot earlier than we did. I don’t want to demand any attention. I want him to think I’m cool on my own – in my own head, and that the party was no big deal.

  He turns a corner like a maniac and shifts to fourth.

  I look around the inside of the truck, which reeks of smoke and sweat so bad it makes me want to hurl. The brown dashboard’s sticky and dusty and has all kinds of broken tape cases thrown all around it. There’s a rash guard with a big rip in it on the floor under my feet. The back windows rattle like crazy when we drive over any sort of bump and one panel is patched with a piece broke off of an old skateboard. I watch out the window as we drive through downtown Kailua, basically a couple strip malls and some plate lunch restaurants with local dudes hanging out in front, eating. As we wait at a stoplight, a girl that sort of looks like Tammy pulls out of Pali Bottle Shoppe, a liquor store where it’s easy to buy alcohol for underage kids.

  Clay puts his hand on my shoulder and I flinch. “Calm down, dude.”

  I settle back into the seat.

  He doesn’t move his hand off my shoulder.

  My hand starts to shake. I have to think about breathing, so I don’t hyperventilate. I can’t move, even an inch, or his hand might slip away. I brace myself as we turn again and go over a bumpy section of road where the pipes underneath are being replaced.

  He moves his hand off my shoulder.

  I want to grab it and put it back.

  He traces over my collarbone with his finger and scrapes along my chest and stomach, down to my lap, where my hipbone sticks out. He doesn’t look at me, but he slows down and turns a corner more carefully.