by Jason Myers
Fuck that, actually. Dude looked like he stepped out of a Hot Topic catalog.
He was so gross.
The first time I saw him he was wearing a black AFI T-shirt that looked two sizes too small on him. I was embarrassed for him, and part of me is embarrassed for myself because I was with a girl who wanted that.
She was so pretty, though. And she was reading a James Morgan book the day I met her.
She bought a root beer float the first time we, like, really kicked it together. She asked me to split it with her. Later that day, she played the Murder City Devils song “Boom Swagger Boom” on her iPhone. We were at the playground near her house and she did this awesome dance to it just for me.
It was really sweet. I smiled a lot that day.
I thought it was really cool that she wanted to use the same straw for the root beer float.
Back in my room now.
I snap a blue in half and drop one of them on a new sheet of foil.
When I’m finished smoking that, I put the Growlers back on and slam the rest of that beer while I pack my backpack.
Like, fuck it.
There’s no way I’m gonna let a fucking girl ruin an entire album for me. I love this band too much.
Plus, I totally listened to them before she ever did.
17.
I’M ON MY SKATEBOARD, FLYING down the street with an address written on a small slip of paper. Besides grabbing my laptop from the house, this is the other thing I need to do before I leave tomorrow morning.
It takes me about ten minutes to get there. Right away, I see his car. It’s parked in the driveway, next to a really nice white house, even though I was prepared to break into the garage.
I dump my skateboard in some bushes about half a block away and open my backpack. I take out two cans of spray paint, one red, one black, and then I slide the black bandanna that’s tied around my neck over my face and shake the cans for a couple seconds.
I wait for this dumb truck to drive by and clear the intersection up ahead before I go back and survey my new canvas.
I go ahead and spray the words: Shave the rest of your hair, dick, on my principal’s white Mercedes-Benz.
I write: Quit talking shit.
I paint: Your secretary’s a whore.
I tag: I’m better than you, bitch. And so is my mother.
When I’m through, I sprint back to my board, pull on my backpack, and skate away listening to that Cage song “Agent Orange.”
I’m laughing, too.
I’m stoked.
And like, fuck that guy.
No one says shit about my mother in front of me.
That dude’s a piece of shit.
Like six blocks later, I stop skating for a second and drop a baby blue down my throat.
Now I’m ready to leave Joliet, I guess.
My business is finished here, I’m thinking as the chorus begins. . . .
“People said his brain was infected by devils . . .”
18.
MY MOTHER’S RIGHT PINKIE FINGER is in a splint. It shattered when she hit my face. They did surgery on it, which I wasn’t aware of at all yesterday. To me, it just shows you how tough my mother can be. Like, she spent all morning and most of the afternoon with a shattered finger.
According to the doctor, she’d ingested the majority of the booze and drugs about an hour before I found her. That’s some tough living right there. And it makes me super happy, as fucked up as that may seem.
I stand in the corner of her hospital room, underneath the TV that’s hanging from the ceiling, with my arms crossed.
“There he is,” my mother says slowly. “There’s my boy, my big hero, my Jaime.”
She looks terrible. Her face seems sunken, and the bags under her eyes are so dark and big.
“Jaime,” she whispers. “Come here. Let me touch you.”
“Why?”
“So I know that this is real.”
My eyes well up. I’m so pissed at her. Goddamn it, she tried to kill herself, and she’s handed me right over to the one person she’s tried to keep away my whole life.
“Please,” she whispers again. “Please, Jaime. I’m your mom.”
And she’s right.
She is, even if I barely recognize her right now. Even if I’ve barely recognized her over the last year or so.
She’s still the woman who raised me all by herself, and sacrificed everything that was sacred to her so I could even fucking be here right now.
She’s still the most amazing soul that ever existed.
She’s still the beautiful lady with the best taste in music and books.
So I go to her, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to go to your mother when she needs you the most.
She lifts her left hand, and I take it in mine and squeeze it. She smiles so big and pretty.
“That’s nice,” she says. “It’s so nice to see you again, Jaime.”
“You too,” I say back.
Then she frowns and pulls her hand away and sits up.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“Your face,” she says. “What happened to your face?”
As hurtful and sad as it is for me to hear that question spill from her lips, it’s exactly what I wanna hear from her. It’s perfect. She really doesn’t remember anything about what happened the other day. So I figure that at some point yesterday, she put two and two together. Her busted right hand and my black left eye.
This had to have been what triggered her suicide attempt. But she drank too much, and she took too many pills, and now she can’t even remember why she tried to take her life.
It’s disgusting.
It’s also the best scenario that can come from this total disaster.
I sigh and shake out my shoulders. “I got into a fight at school yesterday,” I tell her. “That’s what happened to my face.”
“Oh, Jaime,” she says. “Why? Why did you get into another fight?”
I shrug. “It just happened.”
She groans. “Great. What did the principal say?”
“Not much. I just had to spend the rest of the day in detention.”
“Damn it,” she says. “Do you know how much I pay for you to go to that school?”
“Does it even matter right now?” I ask. “They’re sending me to San Francisco with my father.”
This incredible look of shock and anguish washes over her face now, and she slides her left hand slowly down it.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
I make a face. “You didn’t know?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Mom, you didn’t know this was happening?”
“I did,” she finally says. “I did. I just . . .” She stops and closes her eyes.
With all the rad drugs my mother is being pumped with right now, I bet she’s in heaven.
I bet she feels so fucking good.
Opening her eyes, she goes, “I just forgot. Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“That bastard is here, isn’t he?”
I nod.
When I arrived at the hospital with Ida (she was rather curious how I had a skateboard and why I wasn’t in my school uniform still), the doctor informed me that my father was in the cafeteria having breakfast.
I rolled my eyes. Like I fucking care what he’s doing.
“Fuck him,” my mother shouts. “Just fuck him!”
“Hey,” I say, and grab her hand again. “Just relax. It’s only for eight days. I’ll be back here next Monday.”
My mother, she begins to cry. “No,” she sobs. “No, no, no. He can’t have you. He doesn’t deserve you. He ruined my life.”
I bite my tongue.
And she goes, “He’s a monster, Jaime. Don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. He’s the worst man in the world.”
Swinging my eyes back to her, I say, “I know.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want any of this
to happen.”
Again, I say, “I know.”
I say, “I’m not scared. It’ll be over before you know it.”
Her lips press tightly together and she forces a smile.
“It will be,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“You’re gonna be just fine,” I tell her. “You’ll get out of here, and you’ll be sober, and everything will be better than it was. Better than it’s ever been.”
She looks away.
This whole thing is brutal and ugly.
Turning back to me now, my mother goes, “Be strong, Jaime.”
“I will.”
“And don’t like him. Okay, my boy? Don’t trust your father, and don’t like him.”
“Right.”
“He’s a monster.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let him ruin your life too.”
“I won’t.”
19.
MY FATHER LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE all the photos I saw of him when I Googled him the other night. I guess he’s about six feet tall, maybe even an inch bigger, and he’s got strawberry-blond hair too. It’s parted very neatly from the left to right and shaved down about an inch shorter on the sides and in the back.
His eyes are brown. His face is very defined. And he seems very fit and toned. His skin looks healthy. He just looks healthy and looks successful and happy despite how awkward he gets when I appear in the lobby and stare at him.
The man who hit my mother and pushed her down.
The man who’s never spoken to his son or even fought for the chance to speak to his only son.
His name is Justin, by the way, and he’s wearing a pair of tight black dress pants that look expensive. A charcoal-colored button-up shirt is tucked into those slacks, and a black leather belt wraps around his waist.
His shoes are also black. They’re leather and they’re shiny and he’s also wearing a gold Rolex on his right wrist.
Maybe I’d be more nervous if I was meeting him before I saw my mother laid up in that stuffy room, but I’m not. And I don’t feel anything in particular at all right now except for anger and a hint of hate.
He smiles at me. Sweat gleams from his forehead.
“Jaime,” he says.
“Sure. What?” I snort back.
“Oh my god,” he goes. “My son. It’s so good to see you again.”
He steps forward, his arms spread like he thinks he’s gonna be able to hug me or some bullshit. I step to the side; he ends up holding out his hand.
Instead of shaking it, I make a fist and tap it. “Yo,” I say.
His cheeks turn mildly red. “Hi.”
“Cool.”
“It’s just . . .” He stops and shakes his head. “I mean, here you are. You’ve grown so much. I can’t believe it.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s what happens, dude. The last time you saw me, I was one and you were hurting my mother.”
“Hey,” he starts.
But I cut him off. “I’m fourteen. People fucking grow a lot in thirteen years.”
The doctor, my father, and the child welfare lady all look horribly uncomfortable after I say this. And they should.
They should feel more than uncomfortable. They should feel shame and guilt for what they’re doing to me right now, and what they’re doing to my mother.
My father sighs. “You’re right. Kids grow up. It’s so much different, though, when it’s your own family. Your own son.”
“I’m not your fucking family.”
“Jaime,” the doctor snaps. “Let’s keep this civil.”
Me and my father, we lock eyes and stare at each other.
We look so much alike, too.
“I’m really happy to see you, Jaime. I know this has to be incredibly hard for you right now, but I want you to understand that we’re excited for you to spend a week with us. I think you’ll really enjoy it. San Francisco is a great place for you to get your mind off of what’s happened.”
“You think I’m gonna start hanging out, and stop thinking about finding my mother lying in that shitty bed?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You think I’m going to enjoy myself while my mother sits in a mental hospital?”
“Oh, come on,” my father snaps. “You’re my son too. I’m your father.”
“You’re a fucking sperm donor, dude. I don’t have a father.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Right,” I sigh. “Right . . .”
Pause.
“Please go on, man. I’d love to know what you think is fair.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m betting my mom would love to hear it too.”
“Okay,” the doctor says. “That’s enough. You two have a plane to catch. I’d suggest you accept that, Jaime, and make this as easy on yourself as you can.”
“Piss off,” I go. “I’ll be outside when you’re done signing all the paperwork, Justin.”
20.
THE MOST IMPORTANT THING I’M taking to san Francisco besides my laptop and notebooks and camcorder are thirty baby blues. I take them from a safe under my mother’s bed, along with five thousand dollars (she has more than a thousand Oxys and twenty thousand in cash in this thing).
My father stays in the car. He said he had to make some important phone calls.
“Great for you,” I said back. Then, “I bet it must be neat being you and stuff,” before going into the house.
I dump the Oxys into a Tylenol bottle, and then take the last three from my own stash and put them in the tiny pocket of my jeans.
After I’m done stuffing my backpack, I grab a fairly large black suitcase from a closet in the hallway and pack it full of cut-off jean shorts, tank tops, tight black jeans, flannels, slip-on shoes, and a green parka.
Holding a piece of aluminum foil in my left hand, I chase the dragon. I don’t smoke it all, but I smoke enough.
Not even my stupid fucking father sucks enough to leave a stain in the lovely glass castle I’ve just built.
In the kitchen, I slam a beer.
I’m numb.
I look around the house and it means nothing at the moment.
This is what really matters. Feeling nothing.
I put my headphones on and play that Angus and Julia Stone song “Big Jet Plane.”
It seems kinda fitting, even though I’m not taking some gorgeous girl I’m in love with on a trip.
I walk outside. My father is leaning against the car, smoking a joint. I laugh.
He quickly puts it out. He says something, and I take my headphones off.
“What was that?” I ask him.
“I said, it’s just something I do from time to time. Not a lot. Just when I’m stressed. But I don’t do it all the time.”
“It’s just pot,” I say.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I mean that it’s just pot, dude. Who cares? Most of the kids in my class do the same thing during lunch.”
“Really?”
I make a face. “Yeah, man. Really. You get stoned. So what? There’s a ton of shit you’ve done that you need to answer for, but smoking joints ain’t one of them.”
21.
WE FLY FIRST CLASS. IT’S a direct flight from O’Hare to San Francisco. The two of us, we both pull out our laptops the second we get in the air.
I’ve rejected all my father’s attempts at conversation so far. He looks stressed out anyway. And not just because of me and my sudden reappearance in his life.
Right before takeoff, he bit a Xanax bar in half and washed it down with a glass of white wine. He’s on his fourth glass now.
He pounds the keyboard with his fingers. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes and rubs his face in obvious frustration.
Finally, I take my headphones off and go, “What’s got you so creased?”
He looks almost shocked that I’ve addressed him. “Excuse me?”
“What’s
got you so creased?” I repeat.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“I had a number of meetings that I couldn’t push back, and I’m trying to decipher exactly what happened in my absence.”
“Sucks.”
“It’s not ideal.”
I make a face. “I’m really sorry if my situation is fucking up yours, man. This is the last place I wanna be.”
“Your language.”
“What about it?”
He sighs.
And I say, “I’m sure you know where it came from.”
A smile cuts across his face, and he laughs. “Yes, I do.” He laughs again and leans his head back against his seat. “I’ve never heard anyone cuss that much. Never.”
“Rappers don’t even cuss as much as my mother.”
“I used to give her so much shit for it, and how she—”
“Never knew she was doing it,” we both say at the same time.
We laugh. It’s the first time me and my father have ever laughed together, and it comes at the expense of my mother.
My father goes pack to pounding his keyboard, and I turn and look out the window.
“So how’d you get your black eye, Jaime?” my father asks, just like that, without even looking at me.
“I got hit. How do you think?”
“Who hit you?”
His questions irritate me. I scowl. “This kid at school yesterday.”
“Why’d he hit you?”
“Because I decked him for talking shit.”
My father finally looks up from his computer. “You get into a lot of fights, don’t you?”
Shrugging, I go, “Not a lot. Some. But not a lot. How would you know anyway?”
“Your mother told me.”
“When? You didn’t see her at the hospital.”
“Last week, I think. Maybe the week before. It came up in our conversation. She’s said it before too, that you get into fights frequently.”
I get nauseous.
My cheeks begin to burn.