Beautiful Children

by Charles Bock

  Kenny's chest, narrow and blurred, rose and fell in the elevated mirror. Virtual Kenny rubbed the back of his neck, stared down like he was gathering his thoughts. Like he was gathering himself. Which was bogus, Kenny of all people rendering judgment, feeling disappointed, neglected, whatever the fuck, just total and utter bullshit—especially when Kenny had been the one who had ruined it all, Kenny had been the one who'd grabbed a place that friends were not supposed to grab. Only now it was Newell who wasn't able to share in the victory of his little gum-square caper, Newell who wasn't even able to look at Kenny, Newell feeling all guilty and bad, hurting Kenny's feelings?

  And how much more fucked was it when that sulking molester bastard walked right past the candy aisle?

  Kenny picked up a clear snub-nosed bottle of water from a promotional display. He examined the label and took the bottle with him toward the fountain drink station. He ignored Newell and the whole deal messed with Newell's head, messed with it bad, and he looked at the bins and candies, and every single item was stupid and made him want to retch, and at the same time, each candy looked hellsa lots better than what he had in his pocket. Newell picked up a Charms Blow Pop and examined it and put it down. He did the same thing with one of those jewel candy necklaces. Now Newell sneaked a glance at the clerk and the midget. A kid just standing there in the candy aisle all this time and not choosing anything? If Newell was behind the counter, he'd be suspicious. Then again, if he was an adult, he wouldn't be working the midnight shift at the 7-Eleven.

  Right now his mom was bent out of shape and coming up with plans involving some sort of military school. His dad was playing down his mom's concern, making excuses, responding to her in a way that straddled the border between condescension and insult.

  From one side of the store a cooler door slammed. From another, the microwave screeched, the high beep that means it's done.

  If right after losing his cell phone, Newell had called its phone number, he could have tracked the thing down. Why hadn't he thought of calling sooner? He wouldn't have this problem. Wouldn't even be in this situation.

  Then again, if he somehow slipped away from Kenny right now and called, even if the person on the other end was willing to give his phone back, he'd still have to go and get it, and how was he supposed to do that?

  Newell was thinking about the possibility of calling his cellular phone tomorrow, and whether he could somehow recover the phone without his parents ever knowing, when he heard a familiar voice, matter-of-fact: “You charged me for the water too, right?”

  The boy's head jerked as if on a swivel, toward the sight at the register kiosk, and who was standing to the side of the dwarf, positioned politely, so as not to get in the way of those swinging little legs. A cold chill ran down the back of Newell's neck. He watched Kenny receive his change. “Great,” Kenny said. “You have a nice night, too.”

  From the counter, Kenny picked up a large red cardboard cup, and took a sip out of the zany straw. Now he wearily turned so Newell saw his profile, long tangles in front of Kenny's face as always.

  From where Newell was standing it was impossible that Kenny couldn't see him right back. But Kenny did not address Newell in any fashion. Rather, he bypassed the candy aisle completely for a second time. He headed toward the mart's front door.

  The prospect of abandonment burgeoned. Newell's fear was delicious, tingling. He was going to be left here.

  But no. Kenny idled in front of an unoccupied video poker machine. He placed his soda cup upright in the crook between his chest and his upper arm, began sifting through his change, then moved a hand into his right pocket, his elbows beginning a slow, played-out version of the bizarre chickenlike flailing routine that Newell had seen so many times. This time it ended with Kenny scavenging a dollar from his pocket, then stopping, picking at his chin.

  Now his former friend looked up from the terminal and toward the boy at the mouth of the candy aisle.

  “I'll be outside. Whenever you're ready. Don't take forever.”

  And then the laser chime system; the door closing behind Kenny; the night curling around the back side of posters for twenty-four packs of cola, appearing in the wall of Plexiglas windows with all the color and depth of a vacant television screen. An uneventful, almost disappointing normalcy rushed into whatever space had been created by Kenny's absence. Newell became aware of the scruffy guy unwrapping his burrito to find a steaming mess; the indignant and contrary voices of the dwarf and the counter guy; the frat boys making their way to the register.

  If Newell wanted, this was his chance. All he had to do was go to any of them and say that he'd been touched in a bad place by the bad man.

  Candy bars were stacked inside flimsy cardboard boxes. Significantly more bars remained in the box with Hershey's milk chocolate with almonds than in the neighboring box (Hershey's milk chocolate). Next to these, Newell saw, were Nestlés. From what Newell could see, a lot more Nestlé chocolate bars were left than Hershey's bars. Probably this meant Hershey's bars were a lot more popular than Nestlés; although it occurred to Newell that it was equally possible that Nestlé candy bars were way better; anyone who paid attention to chocolates knew how much better a Nestlé bar was, everybody loved Nestlé bars, they were flying off the racks, every day they had to be replaced. Newell was not allowed to have chocolate, though, so he couldn't speak to the accuracy of this hypothesis.

  When your formative years had been spent with you not being allowed to partake in eating chocolate, you ended up with an exaggerated interest in matters such as this. Although, actually, such an interest might turn out to be useful, especially when you got caught in a no-win situation. For example the one Newell was in.

  With what Newell's father would have called an excess of sass, a case of beer was set down on the counter. One of the frat guys reacted to something with a comedic double take, smearing laughter over his buddies. This distracted Newell. His attention turned to the sight of the frat guys taking out wallets and pooling their money and showing proper identification. Newell noticed the scruffy guy was among them. He also saw that the dwarf had stopped kicking his legs, and sat motionless, his face crimson.

  The leader of the frat guys told the dwarf it was cool. Suppressing another laugh, he took the alcohol in his arms. His friends followed, heading toward the door and making no attempts whatsoever to contain their amusement. The laser chime rang and someone shouted, “Damn, dude, you know you're fucked up when you start seeing trolls.”

  Back at the counter the tub of goo tried to rub the dwarf's head in consolation but the dwarf jerked from under the massive hand and knocked it away. Twin lights flared from outside, reflecting off and spreading along the wall of glass, as if someone were shining a pair of searchlights into the store. For an instant, Newell felt as alive as he ever had. Yes, he thought, and stared into the glare, watching as the late model sports car backed out of its spot, starting its turn, its metallic grille visible.

  The sports car screeched and peeled out and disappeared, revealing in the far background, underneath the metal canopy, the FBImobile, dormant amid the gas pumps. Newell could see the solitary body in front of the opened car hood, Kenny looking down, going through the motions of wrapping the tail of his shirt around his hand, readying himself to duck underneath the hood.

  The thought of biting into chocolate conjured sensations of the film that—those few times Newell had actually tried chocolate—had felt totally gross on his teeth, and now his prime opportunity for chocolate consumption did not seem so prime. It made more sense for him to just get out of the store, and he was on his way when, by chance, he laid eyes on the smallish box. It was a minty green and had a sophisticated script across its face. Looked a little fun, kinda.

  A digital clock and lighted advertisements for cigarettes hung above the store kiosk and its full circle of angled corner surfaces and counter space. Connected to its ceiling by a series of vertical support beams, the kiosk looked like a cross between a control cente
r and an open-air cage, its design allowing for an unencumbered view of any area in the store. Newell stopped in front of the register. The midget murmured thoughts that did not sound charitable. Newell acknowledged him and set down the single pack of candy cigarettes. Ho hum. Just your average kid buying your average piece of sweets.

  The blob's face was cartoonishly oversize. His large almond eyes showed neither kindness nor malice.

  “What about in your pocket?”

  A wisp of hair marred the blob's lip like a bad milk stain. “Come on, li'l man,” he said.

  “Dude, what are you talking about?”

  “All you fuckers,” the dwarf hissed. “Think you can get away with whatever you want.”

  The blob cast a stern look. “Easy there, Raoul,” he said.

  Newell looked at them as if they were speaking a language he did not understand. The blob's attention returned to him. “You can pay for it,” he said, patiently, not unkindly, “or you can put it back—”

  The dwarf broke in: “I say we string him by his—”

  “Or we can call your folks. Or we can call juvie.” The blob waited. “Up to you, li'l man.”

  On the support beam nearest to the cash register, cheap metal racks were stocked with the latest tabloids. Directly above the top rack, a fire extinguisher hung from a nail. Newell eyed the red hanging canister.

  If the cops called his parents, they'd find out he'd not only been eating banned sugar products, but he'd been stealing banned sugar products.

  This on top of losing his phone.

  And breaking curfew.

  And then if his mom and dad found out about in the car . . .

  Newell felt around in his pocket. The gum squares were immediately identifiable—fatter than the nickels, just as solid and hard, but with a different density, the layer of sugary dust on the wrappers immediately recognizable on his fingertips.

  “There you go,” the blob said. “What are those, six cents each? Definitely not worth juvie. Not for, for—how many do you got there?”

  “Eight.”

  “Nine,” the dwarf interjected. “That's nine.”

  “Eight.”

  “Count them again,” the blob said. “Just for the safe side.”

  Through the glass door Newell could see the FBImobile still in the parking lot, its hood still up. From this angle it looked like the engine had swallowed Kenny's upper body.

  “Hey there,” the dwarf said. “Today?”

  “Give him a break, Raoul.”

  “Plus sales tax,” the dwarf said.

  “Stop it, Raoul. There's no sales tax in Nevada.”

  “Food products are so taxed.”

  “It's gum.”

  “What the sweet hell do you think gum is?”

  “I got six this time,” Newell said.

  “Try again,” said blob. “But out loud.”

  “You put gum in your mouth,” the dwarf spat. “You fucking chew on it.”

  “You put tobacco in your mouth. You chew tobacco. But tobacco's not a food, is it, Raoul?”

  “That's cuz you don't swallow tobacco.”

  “Five,” Newell whined. “Six.”

  “You don't swallow gum.”

  “You never swallow your gum?” The dwarf considered this with a rub of his jaw. He gave a low whistle. “You're a better man than I am.”

  When or how Newell's right hand ended up back in his pocket, he didn't know. But without the gum inside the cloth pouch, he could feel a fair amount of nickels. He was aware of Raoul making dusty sounds, like he was clearing his throat, only with a nasty satisfaction. And the blob was chuckling, too; Newell could see his man-breasts jiggling beneath his orange convenience store blouse. Newell's hand gathered around a group of nickels. Now it closed into a ball. As with a child who pantomimes the actions of a game where there is no ball to play with, his arm became a whip of motion; the air suddenly sparkled; and while the blob had enough time to determine that something was happening—enough time to register the movement of Newell's arm—he could not do more than flinch, putting his hands up, calling out hey. But by then two hard pings were sounding off the back safe; by then Newell was releasing some sort of defiant sound.

  Stepping backward and to his left, he avoided the hobbit's grasp. A second helping came up from his pocket, thwack-thwack, nailing that little midget hobbit guy square on, and WHAM the hobbit lost his balance, he had to grip the counter to keep from falling. But there was a slipping and a huge CRASH and now all these glass jars and displays of baseball cards and sugar bomberinos were on the floor, spiraling in all directions.

  “Fuck,” went the blob. “My eye.” Half-bent, he was covering his face with his shirt, and just as the crones at the video poker machines finally figured out that something might be happening on this earth besides a straight beating two pair, here came the dwarf, getting his balance back, cursing up a storm. “LITTLESHITCOCKSUCKER.”

  Newell took the first of the steps necessary to get the hell out of there. And again he saw the red canister. Hanging right in front of him.

  From underneath the raised hood Kenny's head jerked. He saw the boy, coming out of the convenience store. Something was cradled in his arms. Newell looked like a running back, he was moving at high speed, pushing through the door and into the hot air; a leap; he was off the sidewalk; on asphalt, his shorts falling down beneath his hips, the denim getting in the way . . .

  “DUDE!”

  The Big Gulp cup tilted too far and Kenny double clutched and water sloshed all over the engine and made sizzling noises.

  Newell straightened and accelerated into a full sprint. “GO!” The red canister dangling from his front hand as if it were a loaf of bread.

  “LET’S GO.”

  The hood slammed. Newell reached the car and jumped on board and his breath was deep and Kenny was in the driver's seat and asking, what's going on, and now he was looking back at the dashboard and the car was not, not, not turning over.

  “DUDE. DUDE! He's fucking coming! Fucking go.”

  “I'm trying,” Kenny said.

  Another turn of the key; a whinnying. Then a roar. Newell said “Holy shit” and Kenny shifted into reverse and floored it and kept looking over his shoulder. Liquid was spilling all over Kenny and noise was cranking, the stupid radio must have been on when the car had been turned off. Newell rolled down his window and there was the shifting of gears, the screeching of tires, the smell of burnt rubber, “holy fuck holy shit”; there was a child's gleeful scream and a sudden, unexpected expulsion—white smoke streaming from the car window as if from a dragon's nostrils, the sound of a monstrous exhalation.

  Pale smoke plumed into the night and spread over the parking space like a cancerous cloud. Newell cackled and screamed and a second burst of white smoke streamed through the window.

  They were accelerating through a yellow light, speeding down a straightaway, carried along by a second wind now, one point five liters of adrenaline and testosterone and undistilled mayhem and pure, unregulated whup-ass.

  “What did you do?” Kenny asked. “What were you doing?”

  Dude, it was fucked up back there, Newell admitted it was.

  But knowledge did not stop him from doing a series of break-dance moves and swaying along to that classic Run DMC song. Knowledge did not stop Newell from tapping his fingers atop the long metal canister. Knowledge did not do one thing to stop him from nailing one of those sidewalk news boxes where six quarters got you a listing of hookers. Newell talked smack about how cool it would be to drive out to those Indian reservations in Pahrump and buy fireworks and fucking bomb people. He cooked up mad schemes for next Fourth of July. Apprehensive laughter came from the driver's side, and Newell said it must be rad to do a drive-by shooting. Turning up the radio, he shouted along at the top of his young lungs:

  I'm the king of rock, there is none higher

  Sucka MCs should call me Sire.

  6.2

  During the Fourth of July w
eekend, inspired by the men who had given their lives that freedom might flourish, and at the urging of her foulmouthed boyfriend, Cheri Blossom, exchanging her usual candle stubs for sparkler wicks, appeared on the catwalk of the Slinky Fox with sparks of crimson and silver frothing out of her breasts. Throughout the crowd, eyes popped, presidents were released from billfolds, patriots of all stripes climbed over one another, buying Cheri drinks, paying for lap dances, private dances, and extended private sessions in the VIP room. Dawn had taken the horizon when Ponyboy finally swung by in Cheri's Jeep. Amplifier reverb was a constant echo through her eardrums by then, and a red-hot wire of pain was sharp through her lower back, and except for recurring spasms in her thighs, her legs were numb. But Cheri kissed Ponyboy on the cheek with a giddy, girlish excitement and busted out an oily wad, denominations packed atop one another until they'd strained the limitations of the hair scrunchy.

  Ponyboy carried her athletic bag and unlocked the door to the apartment. He let Cheri enter first and watched her take in the sight that awaited—for not only had Ponyboy picked all of his knapsacks and chess sets and videotapes and dildos from off her carpet, not only had he vacuumed up all his potato chip remains and removed the wads of crumpled Kleenex, but he'd gone and washed the carpet, cleaned it of his bootprints and scuffs. A bouquet of freshly cut flowers sat on the coffee table in a glass vase. A dozen white, long-stemmed roses lay across the pillows of Cheri's bed. Ponyboy offered to make breakfast if she was hungry. He volunteered to run a bath if she wanted. Cheri thanked him with a soft kiss on the cheek and a warm hug, fell onto her bed, and moaned how good it felt to just lie there.

  Too wired to sleep, Cheri said. Too tired for anything else.

  Ponyboy offered supportive murmurs and took away the roses and filled a spare pitcher with water and put the flowers in it. He kneeled down and unzipped each of her thigh-high boots and helped them off. He rubbed Cheri's feet for an undetermined but blissful period of time, taking care to avoid the blisters, kneading through the knots beneath the calluses. She purred thanks and shut her eyes and enjoyed every second and felt a soft kiss on her cheek. Pulling a baggie from his pocket, Pony-boy asked if she wanted some of Jamaica's highest quality cess.