Clay's Way

by Mastbaum, Blair

  “We’ve arrived, my pretties.” I slam on the brakes, and the truck skids to a halt, nearly hitting a couple squeezing out of the back seat of a Porsche.

  A tan guy with a preppy haircut and light blond highlights flips me off. I secretly think he’s kinda cute.

  Courtney waves at him. “Hi.”

  Andrea hides her face in her hands. “Oh my God, that’s Daniel.”

  I flip on the high beams. “Daniel! Andrea here wants to suck you off. She just told me.”

  Courtney accidentally laughs.

  Andrea sinks down in the seat. She’s embarrassed to be seen with me. Her look turns into sadness, then to anger. The jump out, embarrassed.

  I ruined their entrance. I zoom down the street to park. I run my fingers along my buzz cut hair, take a deep breath, and walk to the house. I see myself in the glass of the front door. I don’t have a shirt or shoes and Clay’s dirty blue surf shorts hang obscenely low off my hipbones. I shove the big wood door open and a blast of cold, fake-feeling air comes at me like it’s filtered by a purification system. It’s totally dehumanizing. It’s such a perfect night outside--bright stars, warm tradewinds, yellow moon, and these fuckers have the air conditioning on full-blast. I get a chill up my spine and all the tiny blond hairs on my arms stick up and my nipples get hard. The tile feels freezing on my bare feet. I feel my balls and dick shrink in the artificial coolness.

  A couple girls turn and looks at me for a second, then light up a joint.

  A blond guy wearing a vest checks me out. “Who are you?”

  “Clay Anderson’s brah. He invited me.” I talk in a pidgin accent. “It’s Sam.” I give him a shaka sign.

  All these Port Lock guys are totally intimidated by Clay and his bros and the locals. “OK, brah. No worries. Like beer?” He tries to speak local talk with me and points at the drink table. What a fake.

  His tanned friend wearing surf shorts that have never been used for surfing comes over and nods at me.

  I flex my bicep and smile at him with the most winning smile I can manage.

  He smiles back and pours a drink for himself.

  Everyone’s buying my act. I feel like bowing.

  A table is set up in the entry with all kinds of alcohol--wine, vodka, mixers, beer, real glasses, even some sick-looking pate. There’s no keg, no junk food, no plastic cups and spilled drinks or loud anarchistic music with lyrics about not fitting in and hating the status quo. There’s nothing to make me feel comfortable here, which helps my act. This isn’t a party, this is adult dress-up and all these fuckers are training to be good capitalists.

  I pour a big gulp of Scotch into a wineglass and spill some coke on top of it. It makes a stain on the pressed white tablecloth. I down it fast, which burns my throat down to my stomach.

  A guy who looks like he has fucking bronzing lotion on stares at me, offended.

  “Eh, brah. Howzit? It’s Sam. You no remember me? Out at reef.” I gargle through a mouthful of Scotch.

  “Oh, yeah. What’s up? I’m Trevor.” He has no idea who I am, but I know who he is. I’ve heard about Trevor. Trevor Wilson, the infamous ‘80s-style party coke boy who has parties all the time in his parents’ abstract fucking box of a house while they travel the world exploiting third world labor to make their stupid aloha shirt clothing line.

  I can’t believe I’m here. It’s like Darwin said: survival of the fittest. It’s always the scrappiest species that prevail. Coyotes and spiders and rats and people like me.

  These passive capitalists are on the way to extinction. They’ll be too busy watching TV, shopping, and paying their maids in these huge air-conditioned houses to notice when Diamond Head erupts again. They can’t even see that I think this party is a fucking joke, that I don’t belong here, that I’m dangerous. All I have to do is be confident and I’ve got power that I’ve never had before.

  I spot Tammy. Shit. My ears ring and I start sweating. I duck down and run into a dark hall. What the fuck is she doing here? She can’t be here. She knows me. She knows my personality and how I behave. She’ll see through my act and tell people and I’ll end up with a broken arm.

  I spy on her around a corner.

  She’s surrounded by her closest friends.

  I rub my feet on the carpet till static electricity builds up. I want to get as amped-up as possible. The Chinese believe we all have an electric energy field that gives us power. I want to shoot a bolt at Tammy and knock her to the floor, convulsing.

  Tammy says hi to the girls I drove here, Andrea and Courtney.

  Everything’s collapsing. They’re gonna tell Tammy I’m here.

  Andrea uses huge gestures describing how she had to hold on when I flew around corners.

  Tammy’s my poison. She can beam Clay out of me.

  Courtney waves a couple muscled pretty boys over and they talk about something--me, I think. They’re gonna find me and “ask” me to leave with their Republican tact unless I do something.

  I dive down below a dark wood table and crawl to the stairs. I leap up them, not looking back. I run forward into the security of a dark hallway and walk out on a deck above the front door. Instantly, I feel different. The air is soft, warm and moist, compared with the dry temperature-regulated environment inside. I feel my pores and lungs open up inviting the clean Hawaii air. I take a deep breath and look up to the stars.

  They just float there, still and permanent. They’ll to be the same tomorrow no matter what I do.

  I can do this, even with that bitch Tammy here.

  A couple pickups drive up in a row, like a convoy of military vehicles.

  Cool. Some of Clay’s bros and the local boys. They always crash these parties.

  Manny gets out of the first truck and opens the door for his girl, all gentleman-like. “Like drink, Leilani?” He acts all official with her. It’s cute.

  I sneak down the hall to the top of the stairs and crouch down so I can see the front door.

  The local guys and their girlfriends walk into the house. 10 or so guys jump out of the back of a pickup right outside the front door and say their typical greetings. “Eh, brah.”

  “Where’s the sistahs?”

  Their girlfriends, beautiful girls with long black shiny hair and strong pretty faces, smile and walk in. One fixes the plumaria behind her friend’s ear. “Aloha. Hi Charlene. How’s it going?”

  Trevor walks up to them, all puffed up and proud, but he backs off when he sees the locals. He can’t really tell them not to be here. They’re the real Hawaii. There’s an unwritten law that you don’t fuck with them. He stands aside, overwhelmed by their boisterous island charisma and connection to the waves and nature and mana of Hawaii.

  They bring Hawaii and aloha spirit in the house with them without even trying.

  I love watching the Port Lock kids get walked over by Clay’s friends. I lift a glass that someone left on the top of the stairs and smell the purple contents. Red wine. Should work fine. I swirl it around, then swallow it. “Woody, yet smoky, with a hint of chocolate-dipped berries.” I run down the hall to explore.

  I pick a door and open it.

  A naked girl rides a naked guy on a huge bed with pink pillows. His legs are spread far apart and his balls are smashed under her bouncing up and down.

  “Go get’er, brah.” I slam the door and try another. I feel like a detective. I open it. I think it’s the parents room. There’s a big bed overlooking windows and double doors leading out to a deck with a view of the ocean. I go to the medicine cabinet to look for narcotics.

  Rich people always have codeine, Valium, or at least some sort of back pain pills.

  I find a plastic bottle of Valium and gobble three two. I look in the mirror. I look like a wild animal. I flex my arm muscles and tighten my stomach so I can see the rows of individual bulges. I splash water on myself. I look confident and cool, strong and sexy.

  I go over to the closet and open the door.

  It’s bigger than my bedroom a
nd full of ridiculous things that have no use. On one side, there are rows and rows of dresses and women’s pants and suits in bland businesswoman shades of gray and brown and black. Boring.

  I turn around to look at the dad’s side. It’s all dark blue suits, a rack of ties, pants. Oh fuck, a full on blue Naval uniform, with tons of pins and medals tacked on. I take the clear plastic off of it and hold it out in front of me.

  He must have done some evil things to get all these awards. He’s definitely a fascist. These are Vietnam awards. He killed babies and farm workers for these. He occupied lands that weren’t his with stupid grunt boys. It’s almost like staring at an original Nazi flag or something.

  I have to put it on. I pull of my shorts and grab the uniform off the hanger. I step into the pants. They’re too big, so I find a belt to hold them up, then put on the jacket with no shirt underneath. I place the hat on carefully as a finishing touch and walk over to the mirror.

  The Valium combined with the Scotch is soothing my muscles and relaxing my spine.

  I stand up straight, push my chest and dick out, my shoulders back. The broad shoulders of the suit make me look big and muscular. I look like a dictator. This is my island nation. This feels real. This is my calling. I should be in power. I can rule firmly, effectively and fairly, although fairness doesn’t matter here with all these fuck-ups around. I bring my arm up, drawing sharp angles in the air and salute myself in the mirror. “I do solemnly swear to be true to the rules and jurisdiction of the island of Sam. May God help us all.” I walk down the hall and stop at the top of the stairs. I take a deep breath and hold my arms straight down my sides. I lower my voice and practice a German accent. “Excuse me everyone, excuse me.” I clear my throat and yell. “Excuse me, my people!”

  No one looks up, but a couple tan guys laugh at me.

  “Shut the fuck up! I have an announcement to make. I won’t be ignored!”

  The party goes dead silent and some people look up at me. I feel so fucked up I might pass out. I don’t see Tammy. Maybe she left. That would be so excellent. I hold my chin up and take a deep breath. I try to harness power from the room. I’m the center of everyone’s existence. I’m a dictator. “Clay Anderson doesn’t give a shit about Tammy Black.” I hear a gasp, I think, but it could be in my buzzed-out head. I avoid looking at the faces of the people watching me. It’s a power trick I learned about Hitler in school--never let them have eye contact.

  Tammy walks in from another room and immediately looks straight up to me. Her face mangles up on itself. She stares at me like I’m a rabid dog with poisonous drool hanging out of my mouth.

  My body tightens. My hands start shaking. I imagine her coming up here and hitting me, but she stands perfectly still, holding a wineglass by its stem. Her black dress makes her look like an evil seductress.

  I feel all my confidence, all my power and potential fall away from me.

  She’s the one person I can’t fool.

  I’ve seen her control Clay, tell him what to do, make him repress himself. I’ve seen her emasculate my idol.

  She beams the confidence out of my body.

  I might crumble into little pieces. I’m a fucking disgrace. In a flash, I see this situation from outside myself. I’m skinny, shirtless, barefoot, dirty as fuck, lacking sleep, hungry and dressed in a stupid Naval uniform.

  The jacket’s shoulders are too big and clown-like. The hat makes my head look small and shrunken. The sleeves are too long, hanging over my hands. I look like a young kid dressed up in his father’s clothes. I’m pathetic. I’m a delusional psychopathic liar. I can’t believe I convinced myself I was real, that I had power. I stand out like a homeless guy at a charity gala. I feel dizzy. I hate her. I have to use my own voice.

  “Clay’s my boyfriend. Right now, he’s on the Na Pali coast on a Native American dream quest. When he comes back, he won’t be the same person...” I feel faint. “He’s... not interested in your shit and... he even has my name tattooed on his arm…” I can’t even think of anything else good to say. This is fucking disgraceful.

  Manny runs at me with his arms out.

  I fall forward down the stairs, not gracefully and athletically like Clay would fall, but dramatically sloppy, like me. I’m outside of my body. I feel myself land in Manny’s strong arms. My navy hat tumbles down the stairs.

  Tammy runs forward. “Drop him, you dick!”

  Chapter 22

  Eyes on falling leaves

  I get lost in the patterns

  Of bright red and orange.

  I wake up on the floor. I’m sweaty and I have no idea whose fucking room this is I’m lying in. My chest has lines on it from the grass floor mats. A tropical leaf patterned sheet lies crumpled in a ball at my feet. I stand up. My head throbs with a dull headache. My muscles are sore.

  Bamboo shades hang crooked, halfway covering the window. A pile of surf magazines lies on the floor by the bed. On the desk, there’s a framed photo of a pretty, dark-haired girl with flowers in her hair and a puka shell necklace around her neck.

  I walk to the window, stubbing my toe on a surfboard leaning against the wall. The board falls sideways and slams on the floor. It makes a loud, hollow-sounding bang. It left a waxy line on the wall. I try to rub it off with a dirty sock, but it just makes the scrape more obvious. I try to put the board back but it falls again and makes an even louder thud.

  I look out the window. The house is in a grove of banyan trees, blocking out the sun. The trees have hundreds of complicated trunks and roots hanging off the branches, some reaching the ground forming new trunks. They look haunted. A blue plastic tent covers lawn chairs and a couple old couches and tables made from old phone-wire spools.

  I hear the voices of Hawaiian boys speaking pidgin. I duck down under the window.

  Did someone take me hostage?

  Guys that speak pidgin hate me. I don’t belong here. I’m a white kid. A fucking haole. Why did Europeans ever invade the islands? Native people hate Europeans and I can know why. They bring their suitcases of money and their machines and arrogance and religions and force them on the locals.

  I should have locked myself in my room last night and shut the fuck up, maybe smoked a joint, or called someone normal like Jared. I pace the perimeter of the room. I’m thirsty as fuck. I have to piss. I need out of here. I need a phone. I lean down to see under the bed. Only some shoes and an all-girl porn magazine. I open it part way and see a naked girl licking another girl’s nipple. I check a row of shelves. There’s a big square box covered with a Hawaiian tapa printed cloth thrown over it and some college-looking books. Business 214, “A Better Way to Do Business in a Multi-cultural Environment.” A notebook with nothing written on the pages. A couple glass-dolphin figurines that look out of place, dried leis, and a framed photo of a young girl doing Hula at some contest. I take the tapa fabric off the box to see what’s underneath.

  A bright green lizard sits under a gnarled piece of driftwood, inside a cage carpeted with green Astroturf. His eyes turn in their big, sphere-like sockets, almost a full one-eighty, facing me. Fuck, It’s Eddy. I’m at Manny’s house. I wonder how much shit he took for rescuing me. “Eddy!” I wanna pick him up and kiss and hug him. “Eddy, how are you, man?” I stare at him through the glass. “Don’t you recognize me?” I reach in the cage to pet him and he starts doing these miniature lizard push-ups. “I’m Clay’s boy, Sam. You’ve seen us do it.” I feel good admitting that to someone. I pull out an old telephone half-buried underneath some clothes on the shelf under Eddy. I pick up the receiver. The comforting dial tone buzzes in my ear. It’s one sound that’s always a constant, no matter where you are in America: in a prison, at a payphone on the beach, or in a mansion. I dial Clay’s number.

  I know what he’s doing if he heard about last night--screaming and punching his walls and door in, throwing his surfboard and shoes through his window.

  I listen to the high-pitched ringing. Nothing. I count 20-five rings, then three more
for good luck, then an additional seven, just to see. Nothing.

  I open the door and stick my head out to look down the hall. I see Manny’s mom in the kitchen standing over a deep-fryer thing. I smell sweet bread and sugar.

  She looks up at me and smiles, like I’m just one of Manny’s friends, a normal person. Little does she know.

  I nod to her, lifting my chin up and sort of saying hey with my eyes imitating what all the surfers do, and run for cover in his room. I lock the door and let the bamboo shade down as slow as I can, so he won’t notice my movement from outside. I find Manny’s shirt drawer and look through it.

  I take a yellow Castle High School T-shirt and slide it on. It’s way too big and it smells like a mixture of laundry soap and weird cologne. I imagine the smells of the shirt disguising me. I find Clay’s keys on Manny’s dresser next to my wallet and a 20-dollar bill.

  Manny must have emptied my pockets before he put me to bed.

  I feel cared for. I hold my breath and walk out of Manny’s room and into the kitchen. The floorboards creak under my feet.

  His mom sits at the kitchen table reading some kind of newsletter.

  “Eh, little brah.” She looks up at the clock.

  I follow her gaze. It’s two-thirty. “Hey.”

  “You Clay’s friend. I’m Ana, Manny’s mom. Like malasadas?”

  “No, thanks, I’m late for something.” I feel like a rushed, shallow haole, compared to her.

  She’s slow-paced and mellow, cooking inside while her son and his future wife have fun in the backyard. “I tell Manny you had to go.” She winks at me.

  “Bye.” I charge through the front screen door.

  Clay’s truck is parked on the grass in the front yard.

  I open the door and almost gasp.

  The rear view mirror is glued back on. Clay’s surf shorts are folded on the passenger seat with a package of fins on top, neatly, like my mom would set them on my bed. It’s vacuumed and polished. The scents of Windex and ArmorAll make me sad. This was the only place I know of that contained all the things that embodied the way I felt about Clay and how he felt about me. The place where we began. I want it all back. It’s our history. The useless smells and fluids and trash and dirt had meaning to me. They helped me know who I was. My blood and cum are gone. Our sweat from jerking off and arguing is no longer. The scent of our bodies has disappeared. The spilled beer smell has been scrubbed out of the seats and the floor mats. It’s a scary, generic place.