Blazed

by Jason Myers

  BAM!

  I get shoved again by a third kid I didn’t see.

  “What the fuck?” I say.

  BAM!

  Another shove by the first asshole.

  When I turn around, all three of them have me surrounded.

  “Not so tough now,” the guy that went after Kristen barks. “Not so fucking tough now, are you, bro?”

  “Relax,” I say.

  I try and move past them and around the corner of the building, then—

  BAM!

  I get shoved again and nail the store window.

  “Give me your fucking money!” one of the kids shouts.

  “Screw you,” I say.

  “What’s that?” he goes, then pulls out a switchblade.

  I’m trapped against the building.

  “Give me your wallet,” one of them says again.

  “Fuck you, you dirty pieces of shit.”

  “Nope,” says the kid with the knife. “Fuck you.”

  He comes right at me and I close my eyes.

  Wait for the blows and the blade.

  Take a deep breath.

  Just breathe.

  Fucking breathe, man.

  But they never come. Instead, the two dudes who Kristen was talking to when I was talking to Tyler come jumping in.

  One of them pummels the kid holding the knife with a backpack. Just slams it right into that cocksucker’s head and he drops hard.

  Then the other guy punches the street kid to my right in the back of the head. That kid buckles over and when he does, I pound my right fist into his face and knock him down on his ass.

  The other street kid, who’s got fucking dreadlocks and baggy jeans, he takes off running across the street, yelling at this huge pack of street kids standing on the corner watching to help out.

  “Shit,” says the kid with the backpack. “We gotta bail now. Come on.”

  I step around the corner and grab Kristen’s arm. “Let’s go,” I say.

  Before we take off in a dead sprint up Ashbury, Kristen fucking kicks the street kid who pulled the knife on me two times in the face. I spit on him.

  “Fucking loser!” she screams.

  We start running, but I turn back.

  “What are you doing?” she goes.

  I kick the dude three times, screaming, “You pussy fuck! Don’t touch her again. You fucking pussy piece of trash! You never touch her again. Fucking creep!”

  “Jaime,” Kristen goes. “Stop.”

  She grabs me and tries to pull me away.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  I spit on the dude again.

  “Now, Jaime. Come on.”

  I kick him one more time.

  “Jaime!” she screams, yanking me backward now.

  “Hey,” I say, calmly turning toward her. “You okay?”

  “I’m fucking fabulous,” she goes.

  “Great.”

  I’m smiling.

  “Let’s go, dude.”

  She grabs my hand and we run away laughing.

  48.

  THE FOUR OF US FINALLY come to a stop when we get to my father’s house. We catch our breath in the driveway. All the lights are turned off inside.

  “Fucking thank you,” I say right away to those dudes. “Jesus Christ. I thought I was gonna get cut.”

  “No problem, dude,” the kid with the backpack says. “I’m Eddie.”

  “Jaime.”

  “Brandon,” the other kid says. “Fuck those dirty-ass street losers. Just fuck them. I hate them.”

  “Pure garbage,” Eddie snorts. “That’s what they are.”

  “Fucking trust fund runaways,” Brandon snaps. “They read Into the Wild and decided their parents sucked for making a ton of money and giving them nice things and making sure they had all the food they ever needed.”

  “They probably didn’t even read it,” says Kristen.

  “No shit,” Eddie laughs. “They probably watched the movie. Fell in love with Emile Hirsch and took off in the middle of the night with their parents’ credit card in their sock.”

  All of us laugh.

  These dudes are rad.

  Eddie’s got black hair that hangs down to his shoulders. He’s a little bit taller than me and skinny. He’s wearing tight black jeans, a red hoodie with a white zipper, and a pair of black Nike Cortez.

  Brandon’s got short blond hair that’s all messy. He’s my height and he’s got black plugs in both ears. He’s wearing a blue-and-black flannel shirt, white jeans with both knees ripped out, and a pair of all-black Chucks.

  Eddie opens his backpack and pulls out a pint of Wild Turkey whiskey and the remains of a twelve-pack of PBR.

  He hands a beer to each of us.

  “So you live here?” he asks me and Kristen.

  “She does,” I say.

  “Not you?”

  “Nah.”

  I open the beer and tell them about my situation. When I’m done, both of them cheers me and Brandon goes, “Welcome, my man.”

  “Thanks for saving my fucking life.”

  “That dude wouldn’t have cut you,” Eddie snorts. “Just robbed you.”

  “Well, it was still awesome what you did.”

  I take my wallet out and try to give them both a hundred dollars. Kristen is on her phone, not really paying attention, texting someone.

  “Fuck that,” Brandon says. “Buy the beers the next time we see you.”

  “I’ll probably never see you dudes again,” I say.

  “Come to the Mission tomorrow,” Brandon says.

  “I don’t know where that’s at, man. I just got here last night.”

  “There’s a bus that’ll pick you up right on that corner and take you there in five fucking minutes. Maybe less,” Eddie goes.

  “Well, what’s going on there?”

  “Our band is playing a show in front of the Twenty-Fourth Street BART station.”

  “What’s your band?”

  “Devil Feeder,” Eddie answers. “It’s the two of us. I play bass and Brandon drums.”

  “Sweet. What time?”

  “We’re going on right at four,” says Brandon. “You’re gonna wanna be there on time, too. I doubt we’ll get more than two songs in.”

  “Why?”

  “Cops will shut it down pretty quickly. We don’t have a permit to play.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  “It’s fun,” says Eddie. “There’s nothing to get besides it’s fun. We stole a fucking Live 105 banner from one of their booths at Outside Lands last year. Figure, if we hang that up before we play, people will think it’s official till at least the second song. Maybe the third. It’s gonna be dope regardless. It’s gonna be fun, and that’s the whole point of being in a band.”

  “Cool. I’ll totally come by.”

  “With beers,” says Brandon.

  “Sure. With beers.”

  “Here,” Eddie goes, then hands me the Wild Turkey.

  I take a swig. A small one. And hold it in my throat for, like, ten seconds before I finally choke it down.

  “Damn,” I say, coughing. “Rough.”

  Kristen puts her phone away. “You guys live in the hood?” she asks.

  “Nah,” Brandon says. “I live in the Sunset on Taraval and Forty-Sixth.”

  “I’m in the Excelsior,” Eddie goes.

  “How deep?”

  “A few blocks past the Safeway.”

  “That’s deep,” Kristen goes. “How old are you guys?”

  “How old do you want us to be?” says Eddie.

  Kristen laughs and takes a huge pull from the whiskey and just downs it tough.

  “Funny,” she says. “But really?”

  Eddie’s eighteen and Brandon’s seventeen.

  Kristen takes another whiskey drink and then takes her bullet out.

  “You boys do coke?”

  “Sure,” says Eddie. “I live for the drip.”

  Kristen hands the bu
llet to him. As he’s taking it from her, he squeezes her hand and winks.

  “You’re a babe,” he says.

  “Is that right?” she goes, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Yup,” says Eddie.

  “And what about it?” Kristen goes.

  “Nothing,” Eddie says. “I’m just musing.”

  “Lovely.”

  He lets go of her and does a bump and then passes the coke to Brandon, who does a bump.

  This is when Tyler shows up. Of course that’s who Kristen was texting.

  He’s real heated, too.

  “What the fuck is this?” he snaps. “Who are these guys?”

  “That’s Brandon and Eddie,” says Kristen. “They saved Jaime’s life a few minutes ago.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Eddie laughs. “Are you for real?” he goes.

  “What are you talking about?” Tyler asks.

  “I don’t know,” Eddie says, waving a hand in the air. “Like the letter jacket and the cardigan.”

  “Fuck you,” Tyler snorts.

  “Dude,” I go. “Piss off.”

  “Fuck you too,” says Tyler.

  He grabs Kristen and tells her about this party in Hayes Valley.

  “There’s a cab on its way right now,” he says.

  “Maybe she doesn’t wanna go,” I say, looking at Kristen.

  She looks away from me. Tyler pulls out a Baggie of coke and puts it in her hand.

  “Sounds fun,” she says.

  Tyler shoots me a look. “What’d I tell you.”

  “You’re a dick,” says Brandon.

  “Mind your own business,” Tyler says.

  “You dress like a dick too,” snaps Eddie.

  “Oh really,” Tyler snorts.

  He starts toward Eddie, but Kristen grabs him. “Just stop it,” she says. “Jesus, man. Just stop it.”

  The cab shows up. Tyler walks over and sticks his head through the passenger-side window and then opens the back door.

  “You don’t have to go,” I tell her. “We’re better company anyway.”

  Kristen comes over and gives me a hug. “I have to,” she says. “What a wild fucking night, though.”

  “Day,” I say. “The whole day.”

  “Right,” she goes.

  “Morgan.”

  “Yes,” she says. “James motherfucking Morgan.”

  “So rad.”

  “Yes, it was. Have fun with Dominique tomorrow, dude.”

  “Hopefully she’s cool.”

  “She’s the best, Jaime.”

  “Let’s go, Kristen,” Tyler snorts.

  “You know he sucks,” I say.

  “He’s all right,” she says back. “You’ll see.”

  “You’re better than all right.”

  “Obviously I’m not,” she goes, and lets me go and hops into the cab.

  I flip the car off as it pulls away. Pretty sure Tyler flips me back off with both hands.

  D-bag.

  And the three of us, me, Eddie, and Brandon, we kick it for another hour in the driveway and finish the beer and whiskey and listen to this band I’ve never heard of, the Shipping News, and they’re really good, and then the Murder City Devils, who I love so goddamn much.

  49.

  AFTER I JACK OFF TO these images of me fucking Yolandi from Die Antwoord—twice—I get out of bed, smoke an Oxy, and jot down this idea for a new poem I’ve been kicking around my head for the last two days.

  Something big, something that spans time [insert random Buffalo ’66 joke anywhere now], about a girl, lots of images, something nostalgic . . .

  This is what I write before chasing the dragon some more. On my way to the shower, I run into my father in the hallway. He’s walking out of his bedroom, holding a bottle of champagne, wearing nothing but the towel around his waist.

  “Oh, hey there,” he goes.

  It’s pretty much awkward.

  No, it’s totally awkward really.

  “What’s up with you?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Just relaxing with Leslie. Sunday Funday.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “What?”

  I grin. “Nothing. Just sounds like something sorority girls make up their freshman year.”

  “Christ,” my father says. “It does, actually.”

  “Have fun.”

  I start back up for the bathroom when he goes, “Hold on, Jaime.”

  I sigh and turn around.

  “Yeah. What?”

  “Did you have fun last night?”

  “Sure. I got to sit next to one of my heroes at dinner. It was awesome.”

  The smile that appears on my father’s face now seems forced. “What about everything else?” he asks.

  “Everything else?”

  “The party you guys went to. The food. The conversations.”

  I make the okay sign with my right hand and nod. “Splendid,” I say. “All of it. Really splendid.”

  “Now you’re being sarcastic.”

  Dropping my hand, I go, “Sorry. This is already really weird, though. I don’t know you and you’re trying to have this conversation with me about last night and you’re only wearing a towel.”

  “Right,” he says, looking down. Flipping his eyes back up to me, he goes, “Maybe I can throw on some clothes and me and you can go do something together.”

  “Like what?”

  He bunches his face and squeezes his forehead. “I don’t know. Something. What do you want to do?”

  “I’m gonna go see someone I met the other day.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I nod. “So just keep doing your thing. Keep making Sunday a Funday.”

  My father starts laughing. “All right. Just call me or text me and let me know you’re all right if you plan on staying out late. Past dark.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Totally.”

  “Great.”

  My father starts back toward the stairs, and I head into the bathroom and get into the shower.

  While I’m in there, I think about Selena Gomez now, and start jacking off.

  “Spring break, spring break, spring break forever . . .”

  50.

  THE NUMBER 33 BUS PICKS me up and winds its way through all these hills and then back down. It’s on the way down that this big, beautiful portrait scape of the city and the Bay Bridge and the ocean fucking opens up.

  My heart starts racing. It’s sunny out and the sky is so clear and I can see everything. It devours me.

  When the bus makes this awkward, like, 180-degree turn, I glance at all the people riding with me, and none of them are looking at this beautiful painting right in front of them.

  Most of their faces are buried in their phones. Some of them are sleeping. None of them are reading. And the rest of them are looking the other way at a huge wall of brick.

  It makes me angry. There’s nothing like this in Joliet. Nothing. And if there was, I’d never take it for granted because I lived there and passed it every day.

  No way.

  This is so beautiful, so wonderful, and how the hell can you not choose to embrace something that’s both of those things that you didn’t even have to make.

  It’s just there for you.

  It’s amazing.

  I don’t get off in the Mission. Instead, I get off when the driver yells to me that we’re on Market Street, cos I asked him to when I got on.

  I’m so fucking nervous too. My palms are sweating again and my chest is tight and my breaths are short.

  I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I shouldn’t even be in this situation. I don’t know this girl. I don’t know what she’s about or what she wants or needs or what she likes.

  I hate this.

  I hate being around people I can’t trust.

  After popping my headphones on and playing Thee Oh Sees, I start moving up the sidewalk toward Squat & Gobble. This is the gay neighborhood of San Francisco. Dudes everywhere holding ha
nds and laughing and minding their own business.

  Stopping in front of a storefront window, I check myself out one last time. Make sure I look as good as I should.

  I’m wearing a pair of skinny black jeans and this blue Modest Mouse T-shirt I found at a thrift store in downtown Joliet a few months ago when me and my mother went record shopping and thrifting. This is another thing me and her do a lot. We go to thrift stores. We even drive to Chicago to thrift sometimes.

  The day I got this shirt, though, it was one of the most fun afternoons I’d had with her in a while. She was in such a great mood. She’d made me breakfast in the morning and was relatively sober. The day even started out with her giving me the Nirvana Live at the Paramount DVD.

  It was so cool to get that.

  She said that she’d overheard me playing a lot of Nirvana songs on guitar and heard me sampling some for these beats I was making and she loved it.

  My mother, she’s always maintained that they’re one of her favorite bands of all time, so she ordered me the DVD after she’d come across a great review of it online.

  It’s things like that, ya know, that have always helped to offset a lot of the bullshit she pulls. It meant the fucking world to me. Because she only bought it after she’d heard me devouring them for a few weeks and observed how much I loved them.

  That really means something, ya know.

  Later that night, we watched the DVD together after I played her the Modest Mouse albums The Lonesome Crowded West and This Is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About. She’d never listened to them before. She liked them a lot. It was a blast.

  But three hours later I found her sitting on top of the car in the garage, crying hysterically, a bottle of wine in her hand.

  When I asked her what was wrong, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “You.”

  We didn’t talk for the next two days.

  I’m also wearing my parka and my Nike Cortez and I’ve got a bandanna tied around my neck. I’ve got a backpack stuffed full with six Coronas and a bottle of champagne I snaked from the house.

  Basically, I look great, but I’m still so damn nervous and can’t figure out why I fucking care so much. But I do.

  And here I go.

  51.

  EVERY SINGLE QUESTION I HAD about why I’m doing this right now is annihilated when I see Dominique.

  Man, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. And she’s always smiling. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. It’s strange to me. It’s awesome, too.