"I never got to spin the bottle because Patty took my turn," I said.
"She might not have been called a whore if you had gone instead. Think about it."
"Unless she kissed me, of course. I think her fate was set already."
I thought fondly of little blonde Patty. She was a beautiful little girl. And though I didn't have the courage to tell her back then because of the stupid talk from the other kids, I liked her very much, even when the other goddamn kids called her a whore. One thing I knew for sure back then was that Patty wasn't a whore and I sympathized with her unfortunate circumstance. The day before I moved away to Texas, I rode my bike all the way to Patty's house. I rode fast and determined, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, and leapt from my bike while it was still moving when I reached her house. Leaving it on its side in the street, I ran to the front door and rang the bell. I remembered hoping that her father wouldn't answer the door and fortunately, he didn't. When she answered, I took her by the hand without saying a word and led her to the side of the house. Next to the air conditioner, she looked to me to say something, anything, about why I was there. But I didn't say a word. I didn't know what to say anyway. All I knew was that I liked her. I leaned over and kissed her, a long lingering soft kiss. We slowly embraced each other, my hands on her hips, her arms draped across my shoulders. As my lips pressed against hers, I could feel the emotion overcoming her. Her lips quivered as we kissed. She knew, without me saying anything, that I liked her and didn't think of her in the hateful way the other goddamn kids did. And after five minutes, I pulled away from her and smiled. I didn't know what to say. I turned and ran for my bike. Picking it up, I mounted my trusty BMX bicycle and headed for home. I never saw or heard from her again after I moved away.
"Her fate, huh? That was unfortunate," Jason said.
"It sure was," I replied. I still didn't know what to say.
9.
Jason's house was exactly as I remembered, all sorts of run down and kind of smelly inside, like an old gym sock or a moldy bathroom towel. He inherited the house from his parents who died in a traffic accident a few years ago. They were hit by a guy on a severe alcoholic bender; apparently he had been drinking heavily for two weeks and slammed head-on into Jason's parents one night after drinking a six-pack and climbing behind the wheel of a Ford F150. Jason's folks were coming home from a late movie, celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary with popcorn and sodas and Sylvester Stallone. Jason's mom loved Sylvester Stallone. She never had a problem with expressing her innermost sexual desires about Rocky; she was very honest about her feelings for the Italian Stallion. I liked that about her. I liked a lot of things about her. Jason's father didn't mind that she liked Sylvester Stallone so much. He took her to that movie to make her happy. She was a cool lady, really cool. It's a shame that his parents are gone and too bad his mom didn't live long enough to see my success. She treated me like one of her own.
"Hey Jason, can I use your phone? I gotta call the wife and then my accountant," I asked. I had to check in with my two bosses; the boss of my life and the boss of my money.
"Sure. The phone is in the den." He pointed to the next room and I made my way in there. I mean, I tried to make my way in there; it was a complete mess. Boxes and crap stacked everywhere, just like it was when we were kids. He was the messiest of all my friends, a real pig. He used to throw his clothes everywhere and he had this hamster named Waldo that stunk up the whole room. He never cleaned out that goddamn hamster's cage. That hamster was a real sneaky bastard too. You wouldn't think a hamster would be such a sneaky bastard but he bit me all the time, even when I was being real nice to him. I hated that fucking hamster. He mysteriously disappeared one day though. I think their cat got him but I'll never know for sure. No one really knows for sure. And I think it will stay that way (unfortunately).
I sat on the couch and picked up the phone. It was one of those old rotary phones. You know, the kind with the big, round dial on the front. If you have never used one, it makes it hard as hell to dial. You have to wait for it to spin around, all slow and shit. It reminded me of the time I tried to write some stories using an old Royal typewriter, one of those manual typers. What a fucking pain in the ass! I like to write using a computer and a word processor. That's the way to go, with a Spell Checker and a Thesaurus and Grammar Checker. I like to use a modern phone with buttons too. But this old phone brought back crazy memories from when we were kids. I started to dial my home number (the dial spinning in slow circles and shit) when Jason started screaming at me from the kitchen.
"You want a Coke? I can make vanilla Cokes, remember?" Jason asked. He loved to make vanilla Cokes when we were kids. He'd make three or four of them every time I'd come over. Maybe that was why he was such a fat fucker when we were kids. I guess he still liked to make them. "Come on, you know you want one."
"OK." I did want one. Man, did that bring back memories too. I dialed my home number and listened to the line ring. It seemed to ring forever. I guess the wife was out shopping. My wife's name is Jessica, just like my daughter, in case I didn't tell you before. My daughter's a junior, as in Jessica Jr. My wife's Mexican and in Mexico, they do that shit. Mexicans are pretty crazy. They make the best food and beer, though. And women too, that's for sure. My wife loves to shop, almost too much. If we were dead broke and I found twenty dollars in my pocket and it was the last twenty dollars we had and I made her a proposition between giving it to her to buy some food for the family or to buy herself a new pair of shoes, she'd go for the shoes. Every single time. I know her so well, I'd bet millions on it. Anyway, the answering machine picked up. The stupid message came on.
"You've reached 512-555-6681. We are not in right now ..." We sure had a boring message on our answering machine. No imagination whatsoever. Although, I hate messages with imagination too. You know, the ones where some dumbass records a song or some clip from a movie, making the message ten times longer than it really needs to be. Then you have to wait ten minutes just to leave a five second message. I hate that shit too. "... but if you leave a short message, we'll make sure and call you back. Thanks!" We're going to have to change that message when I get back, really. Or just not use an answering machine at all. That's the way to go. The machine beeped so I left my message.
"Hey sweetie. Just calling to see how you are doing. I made it to Montgomery in one piece and I will call you back in the morning. Don't bother calling because I will probably be going to sleep soon. I didn't sleep one bit on the plane. The flight was really rocky. But I hope to get a good night's rest and I will call you first thing in the morning. Give the babies a big kiss for me. Bye." My message was almost as boring as the machine's message. I hate leaving messages on machines. It's true.
Jason brought me a vanilla coke and he plopped down on the couch next to me. He was really fat when we were kids but he was pretty slender now (more slender, that is). He must have lost over 100 pounds, at least. Maybe 150. He was looking pretty fit and trim. I wished I looked fit and trim. I'm kind of pudgy, you know? I should ask him how he does it, drinking 100 goddamn vanilla cokes and still looking kind of slim. He had all of his hair too, that bastard.
"You look really good, Jason. You've lost a lot of weight since we were kids. What does your wife think of you losing all this weight?" I wish you could have tried that vanilla Coke. It was fucking delicious!
"I lost the weight before we met. She didn't know me as fat Jason, just the skinny one and all. She laughs when she sees pictures of me when I was a kid. I looked like a different person."
"You sure did." I wasn't kidding either. He must have lost 200 pounds. He really was a fat fuck when we were kids. That didn't keep us from being friends though. I didn't hold it against him. It didn't matter to me even though I sure did notice that he was fat back then. Everyone noticed. "You look great though. Where is your wife, by the way? She out shopping?" I bet his wife liked to shop too. All women like to shop. It's in their genes.
"No,
she's not a big shopper. She probably went to the store to get some groceries." Man, he sure was a lucky bastard if that was true. But I doubt it.
"That's kind of like shopping, I guess."
"I guess so," he said, sipping on his vanilla Coke. He really liked them a lot. He was sipping it like it was the last vanilla Coke on the goddamn planet, what, the way he was licking his lips and making all kinds of gratification noises. "So, tell me, what really happened on that plane, you passing out and all? You can tell me now that we're not at the airport anymore."
"I told you, I took a pill that this bartender gave me. He said it would relax me for the trip. He must have slipped me something illegal. I think he was mad that I didn't tip him. It's a long story."
"You want to tell it? We got all night."
"No, not really." There was a small picture frame on the table next to the couch and I picked it up. It was a picture of Jason and his kids. Man, they looked just like him. What a shame. It's pretty weird seeing your childhood friends as parents. I mean, I remembered him as the kid who the other kids dared to stick his finger in his butt and then put it in his mouth. And he did it. Now he's somebody's father. I guess, on the other hand, he probably thinks of me in the same way, except that I never put my finger in my butt. Looking at the picture really made me miss my own kids. I wondered what they were doing besides terrorizing our cat. His name is Mr. Bonkers and he's still mad at me for having kids in the first place. He's never gotten over it, that goddamn cat. It's not my fault he got dropped down the priority ladder. "These your kids, right?" I asked.
"Yep. They're my seed. Look just like me, huh?"
"That's for sure. Poor kids."
"Hey!" Jason yelled and then he slugged me in the arm. My goddamn vanilla Coke spilled everywhere. Actually, he frogged me. Frogging is like punching except that when you make a fist, you stick the middle-finger knuckle out. It really hurts. I decided to retaliate. I jumped him and gave him a good frogging on his left arm. I could feel his tricep knot up after I slugged it. He cried Uncle and I climbed off. He was such a wimp, just like when we were kids.
"You owe me another vanilla Coke. You spilled mine," I said. It spilled all over my goddamn shirt. I was soaking wet and sticky.
"Whatever you say." He was kind of sore that I frogged him, especially since I was the one that made fun of how his kids looked in the first place. I kind of felt bad about that. I mean, if anyone says anything about my kids, even looks at them sideways, I go crazy. I go completely nuts. He got up and went into the kitchen to make me another vanilla Coke. I could hear him rattling around for all the things he needed. He was really quiet and shit, talking-wise. He wasn't saying a goddamn word, the wimp bastard. I started to feel really bad then. I always feel bad when someone's not talking to me.
"Hey, Jason?"
"Yeah?" He waited a few seconds before he said that, like he had to catch his breath or something. He was really playing it up.
"I'm sorry. You forgive me?"
"Yeah." He started to make my drink. He was making all kinds of noise in the kitchen, banging things around. I didn't feel so bad anymore.
"Hey, now you can tell me about what happened to Darren Reedy. You said he had a kind of bizarre death. What did you mean by that?" It got really quiet in the kitchen; all the clanging stopped for a bit.
"Do you still smoke?" he asked.
"You mean pot?"
"No, cigarettes, you dummy. I don't smoke pot anymore. I want to smoke a cigarette out back on the patio."
"I'm still on the wagon but I'll go out with you." I felt really stupid. That goddamn bartender had me all screwed up and paranoid. I told you pot makes you paranoid, even when you're not high. I used to be a regular smoker, though. I maintained a two-pack-a-day habit after college. I was a real fucking professional. I didn't smoke anymore because of my kids but I told him I'd join him out back anyway so I could sniff his second-hand smoke. That was the most I got out of cigarettes these days, second-hand smoke.
"I have to call my accountant first," I told him.
"Isn't it kind of late for that?" he asked. He was right. What a fucking genius. I decided I would call my accountant tomorrow. He brought me my fresh vanilla Coke and we stepped out back.
The backyard looked just like it did when we were kids. The grass was kind of tall and shaggy and I could see an old, rusty tricycle and a dilapidated swingset in the distance. It was a little hard to get a good view of the yard since it was kind of dark outside. I could see the pool, though, and it was bone dry. Not a drop of water was in it. We used to have some crazy volleyball tournaments in that goddamn pool. We sat down on some rundown lawn chairs and set our feet on his rundown lawn table. Everything about his house was rundown. It was exactly like I remembered. Everything was rundown but there was plenty of rundown things to sit on. He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of the delicious smoke in my direction. He knew I quit smoking three months ago. I wrote him long, agonizing letters about it. I had so much nervous energy to burn that I was writing all the time instead of smoking. In a two week period, I wrote my entire novel, four short stories, a dozen poems, and ten letters to Jason. I was fucking crazy. Those goddamn cigarettes. They were sapping the life right out of me. I took the smell of the smoke in anyway and sighed. It still smelled good to me.
"Camel Lights, right?" I asked.
"That's right."
"That was my brand too." The smell was starting to make me a little crazy. If you have ever been addicted to something, you know what I mean. If you haven't been addicted to something, then forget about it. You have no idea what I'm talking about. "Anyway, tell me about Darren Reedy. What happened to him?"
"Right, right, Darren Reedy." Jason was smoking up a storm. He was already almost done with that cigarette. He sucked it down like he did that vanilla Coke; like it was the last cigarette on Earth, except that he had a whole pack, smoking wimp bastard. Right then, the phone rang inside and Jason hopped up to get it. "Hold on. I'll be right back. I have to get that."
"No problem."
He disappeared into the house and left me with his pack of Camel Lights, a book of matches, and a lit cigarette in the ashtray on the rundown lawn table. One thing about smokers, they don't give a shit about you or your effort to quit smoking. They really don't, the selfish cocksuckers. I would know because I was one of those selfish cocksuckers. Smokers are real touchy about their right to smoke, even though they are slowly killing themselves faster than what is natural. Do you know why they are real touchy about it? They are touchy about it because they truly think it is their choice to smoke. And yes, at one point it was their choice. I mean, they chose to actually start smoking. They put the cigarette to their mouths and inhaled for the first time, even though it hurt like hell to inhale that smoke. And they chose to put the second one to their mouths and smoke that one too, trying to look cool about it. But once they got that nicotine in their bodies, their right to choose was gone. Absolutely gone. Because the day I decided to stop, I couldn't. I chose to stop and I couldn't. So I don't know what kind of choice that is. And even though I haven't had a cigarette in three months, I still thought about them every day. Can you believe that shit? Every day. Every hour. I was thinking about it right then. I thought about finishing that cigarette in the ashtray. I thought about putting it to my mouth and finishing it off. It's true. And I almost did when Jason came back out. And I guarantee he knew I was thinking about it too. He sat down and finished that smoke.
"Betty and the kids won't be home tonight. They're staying at her sister's house."
"That's too bad. I wanted to meet them."
"You'll meet them tomorrow. Want a smoke?" I knew he was going to ask me that. It's all about the choice, I'm telling you. "I know you quit and all but I still have to offer, you know."
"I know. No thanks." That fucking wimpy ass, hamster loving, fat fuck, rat bastard! "I promised Jessica that I wouldn't. Just tell me about Darren before I break that promise and start smoking again."
"All right. Anyway, well ..." He paused like it was going to be a really heavy story and all. I really wanted to hear about Darren Reedy, especially since he was such a twisted bastard when we were kids. But I wasn't sure if I wanted it to be a really heavy story, you know. I don't like really heavy stories. "... you remember how he used to torture his pets, right?"
"Of course." How could I not remember? I know I've been telling you that Darren was a twisted kid even though he was our friend but I haven't told you just how twisted he was. One time, I think I was in the sixth grade, I was hanging out at Darren's house after school. He had just discovered that aerosol spray was flammable and he was spraying hairspray on the wall in his room and igniting the spray with a lighter. He was getting the biggest kick out of turning that goddamn can of hairspray into a miniature flamethrower. His mom barged into his room and started yelling at him for trying to burn the house down. He was so mad that she stuck her head in his room that he turned red and started screaming back at her, which I thought was crazy because I never talked back to my mother. I would have gotten my ass kicked. But he screamed at her and told her to get out. And when she didn't, he blowtorched the family cat. They had this old cat that loved to sleep in Darren's room (don't ask me why). The cat burst into flames and ran out of the room. It ran outside and ran in circles, screaming and hissing. The poor cat died a few hours later. That's how twisted Darren was. He was a twisted little cocksucker. He didn't care one bit about anything or anybody. I'll never forget the smell of that poor cat's fur burning. "How could I not remember?"
The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood Page 7