Boys in Gilded Cages

by Jarod Powell

  Still, icy, nature felt exactly the same as a busy street. It was just as comfortable. His agoraphobia had nothing to do with people, as was explained to him a couple years back by one in a long line of family counselors. No, his agoraphobia had everything to do with the hyper-sensitivity he had towards his own human inadequacies. Rationally, he understood that all people have their own shortcomings, but for reasons unknown to him, he was the only person who deserved to have them exposed in front of the world. Maybe if he knew what exactly made him flawed, he could overcome them. He couldn’t detect the scars in his mannerisms or his face or whatever, nor did he understand the complexity of himself. He expected no one else to, including doctors or Scientology auditors or his parents. “One day,” his mother once snarled when he announced he was not showing up to his Junior prom, “You’re going to be old and lonely, just like all old people. Only, you’ll have no reflective thoughts to keep you company.”

  He kept his head down while she spoke, which seemed to only agitate her more. “What do you have against being young and happy?” He had nothing against it, he wanted to say. He just found that the fight was too hard to bother. He was already defeated, for some reason. Being defeated, he agreed to show up to his senior prom at Esther B. Williams high.

  Being in Hawthorn, the high school gymnasium was in the middle of town, and its main focal point—all lit up, almost like Ground Zero or some type of indoctrination center. Fields, a church, some houses, dirt, and a cultish environment stand guard all around, a place where the Gods were mechanized beasts called tractors, that Jamie had only heard of in that Robert Redford movie and a country song fetishizing it on the radio one time on the way in to town. The gym was barren on the inside and sparsely populated, with a bored DJ playing that tractor-sex country song over and over again. Zombie-fied cheerleaders that were plainly good-looking, in a rural kind of way, held pep rallies there. Teachers pace the floors, always stoic and silent, and behave like government agents. It was in weird-ass Hawthorn where Jaime’s affliction was fostered and matured.

  After thirty minutes of Prom festivities, Jamie’s mother, who was there to chaperone, was asked to leave for showing up drunk, and for being inappropriate with Jerry Winkler, the only twenty-two year old that ever existed at Jaime’s high school. Jaime considered this not only a betrayal of motherly duty--for Jerry Winkler was one of the few people with whom Jaime had a casual friendship, which presented a gross conflict of interest--but it was also the exact worst case scenario Jaime had feared before agreeing to go.

  Jaime’s mother had no interest in enriching her son’s

  life or experience. It became apparent that if Jaime sought the party once and a while, he’d see his mother more often, but as the fun-loving lush

  that Jerry Winkler liked to take in the back seat of his Jeep.

  After that, none of the other moms would talk to Jaime’s mom. Dad ordered her into rehab, for what, who knows. When she refused, it was only a matter of time, and Dad took Jaime to Nashville with him.

  It was at most forty degrees outside during the warmest part of the day, a chill belied by the intense Wyoming sun, and by the beads of sweat forming under his shaggy, heavy bangs. He was neither prepared for, nor was he happy about, his recent move from Nashville, also a place with detestable weather. But he had a faint determination to pour himself into the mold of this new lifestyle, as there was no third option, and no sense in a smart boy like Jaime to have to use the last resort.

  The steepness of the route was unfortunately underestimated. It looked like flat land in the view from the guest house, but for some reason, the muscles in his thighs started to throb, along with his temples--unusual for a jogger. He also noticed that his mother’s house was no longer in view, which was a little alarming. He checked his cell phone for the time, and calculated that he had twenty minutes until he

  was officially late for the party. However, his mother often encouraged being slightly late to parties. “Ten minutes late, you’re fashionable. Twenty minutes, you’re not allowed to eat,” she’d said on more than one occasion. Jaime was always sure to be on-time.

  It was starting to get dark, and his mother had already called four times, none of the calls Jaime had answered. Walking uphill for what seemed like forever had made him sweaty and not presentable. He eventually just parked under a tree a few feet away from the trail and smoked a cigarette, which then became two, and then three. His meditation was interrupted by the nasally voice of an older woman.

  “Those are bad for ya’, you know,” The voice offered.

  “Really? I hadn’t heard,” Jaime replied, hoping his sarcasm was enough to ward this person away from him. His eyes met with a harsh blue light, intrusively scanning his face and his person.

  “You lost? You look lost,” The woman observed. From what Jaime could see, she was wearing a police uniform. “You a cop?” He asked.

  “Not quite. Security guard,” she said, pointing behind her. “For that house over there.” Jaime concluded that she must have been unnecessarily hired for his mother’s party as a frumpy prop.

  “Oh. I live over there,” Jaime said, and pointed in a nonspecific direction.

  Ms. Security Guard burrowed her brows. “Well what are you doing sitting out here? There’s mountain lions, you know.” He, in fact, did not know that.

  “I’ll be okay. I’ve got a mean look.” After a second of silence, he assumed the joke fell flat. “Just wanted to be outside for a minute.”

  “Well, don’t freeze to death,” She said, walking away. “’Night.”

  “’Night.”

  About thirty minutes after the party was scheduled to begin, Jaime was still sitting underneath the tree. He knew his mother would be incensed. She had little patience for the unsociable, and couldn’t understand for the life of her how anyone could be pathologically scared of a party. His father was more sympathetic to his condition, but eventually it became obvious to Jaime that it wasn’t sympathy his father felt for him, it was toleration--toleration only sustainable because Jaime was the definition of a quote unquote latchkey kid. Eventually though, Jaime became too much for him to handle, even from a remote location. The condition had not only taken over Jaime’s life, it had taken over his as well. Jaime honestly wasn’t aware of this until his father broke the news, over dinner, that Jaime would be moving over a thousand miles away.

  “I work over fifty hours a week, Son. Your mother works none,” He explained. “If nothing else, she’ll be present. We at least owe you

  that.”

  “I don’t get a say?” Jaime countered.

  “It’s for your health, Jaime.” He said, keeping his eyes on the floor.

  “And for mine. You can’t go on running the streets while I’m at work. You need someone who’s going to be home.”

  During this conversation, it came to Jaime’s attention for the first time, that he had no clue what his father even did for a living. He knew he made lots of money, and that probably meant a high-stress job. He knew he lived in a decent-sized house in a crime-free neighborhood, and he knew his father had an indistinct disinterest in everything, since Jaime could remember.

  Jaime was far too perceptive to actually believe that he wasn’t wanted, or that he was the cause of his parents’ divorce. Instead, he had always undertaken the old adage that ‘life is a bitch, and then you die,’ and cut away all of the psychological malarkey. He tried his hardest to not care if his parents wanted him. They were in their own little world, out of touch with humanity, preferring instead status and imitating sitcom families’ behavior. It was their goal to ensure Jaime’s idea of life was just as limited. It was apparently their responsibility to split him apart so that he had no bearings, ever. But Jaime was just along for the ride; an outside observer who could find the humor in his family while enjoying the material perks. He liked to think he stepped outside the bubble, and walked right into a world with no romanticism, no psychobabble. Not so jaded that he shunned the world
completely like the goth classmates he taunted with his few friends, but jaded enough to express his rage effectively without becoming a victim of the stupid world. Apparently, no matter what he said or did, he was a part of it all whether or not he was willing to be.

  He considered calling his mother to get directions, or just to tell her he wasn’t coming. Instead, he sat. He became extremely tired, nearing sleep. His phone rang and rang, but he didn’t bother to check if it was his mother, and it didn’t occur to him to just turn off the phone. He just sat and smoked cigarettes, leaving the butts around the tree. Finally, he checked his phone for the time: 11:30p.m. “Shit,” he said aloud. “Watch your language,” he heard a familiar voice demand. “Why are you sitting out here?”

  It was his mother.

  He could sense that she didn’t know what to say. She assumed that something must be terribly wrong, but she couldn’t be sure. So she decided to do what she never did, and feel her son out before deciding to get angry.

  “I couldn’t find the house,” Jaime said quietly.

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” his mother said, also eerily quiet.

  “Everything looks the same out here.”

  His mother considered that. “I guess it does, doesn’t it?” She was trying to coax him into something, Jaime could tell. “Well, it’s not that late, just 10:30. There’s still some people I want you to meet.”

  “It’s 11:30,” Jaime said.

  “Hon, you didn’t set your clock back like I asked. Time zones, remember? It’s 10:30.”

  It was only a few steps to the house, and Jaime could feel his insides start to rumble. He started to sweat again, and the skin on his chest was noticeably tighter.

  “Just breathe deep,” his mother said, not looking at him. “You’re not used to the elevation. It’ll give you a headache, breathing like that.”

  They reached the house, which Jaime had never seen at night. The enormous glass panels were glowing. Every light was on in the dining room, and it bounced off the golden paint. It was terribly bright, and though the color was soothing, it made Jaime’s eyes damn-near dilate. He started to panic. He tried not to let it show on his face, but he failed.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” his mother said. “Relax, they’re our kind of people. Nothing to be scared of.” He held his breath, and met the small, smiling crowd of people.

  “Have you been hiking?” Mrs. Masters observed the film of sweat under Jaime’s bangs.

  Jaime noticed that she had a few too many teeth. When she smiled, their whiteness flickered light into Jaime’s face like a disco ball.

  “Yes,” his mother said, patting his forehead like someone would an infant. “He got lost.” She gave the crowd of people a cutesy smile, and turned to Jaime. “Not used to the outdoors, are ya’ honey?” She paused to see if her friends were inquisitive enough to continue on that thought. As predicted, she followed with, “Jaime’s in from Nashville.” Mrs. Masters gave a polite “Ooh.” Jaime rolled his eyes, and his mother looked pleased.

  “Well, welcome to our neck of the woods,” Mr. Masters sipped from his mug and slightly grinned. Jaime noticed a young man in the corner of the living room. He was a few years older than Jaime, no older than twenty-one. He exuded the plain wheat dullness that everyone else seemed to, only a little bit nervous or bored, Jaime couldn’t put his finger on it, and his presence seemed odd. He seemed out-of-place.

  “That’s our son, Kevin,” Mr. Masters chimed in. “Say hello, Kevin.” Kevin waved.

  After making pleasantries with the Masters, he went to the den to watch television and eat the store-bought pastries he had stolen from the table in the foyer. He had hoped that he would sit uninterrupted, but usually he hopes for too much. He heard a light knock on the door panel, and he turned to face Ms. Master’s congenial expression.

  “Do you know where your mother might have gone?” She asked. “She kind of disappeared and—“

  Ms. Masters turned around suddenly as Jaime’s mother touched her shoulder.

  “Oh! There you are. Have you seen Kevin?” Ms. Masters looked perplexed and uncomfortable. Jaime’s intuition told him that she didn’t fully trust his mother, who was leaning a bit from several glasses of

  wine and towering over Ms. Master’s perm. Jaime wondered if Ms. Masters was the invitee or a guest of the invitee.

  “Kevin walked home. Didn’t he tell you?” Ms. Masters tried not to look at the vanilla-colored fingernails that Jaime’s mother flailed while speaking. Jaime agreed that they looked ridiculous.

  As soon as that was settled, Jaime’s mother rushed Mr. and Ms. Masters out of the door. “You guys should visit more often!” she said, practically slamming the door on their heels. A few seconds later, a shirtless

  Kevin walked by the den and reflexively made eye contact with Jaime.

  He stopped, though Jaime could tell that he didn’t want to. “Whatcha’ watching?” Kevin asked, stammering. Jaime felt an intense cycling heat from his gut to his head and then back again.

  Usually in these situations, his brain fried on an overdose of sweaty adrenaline like a crashing computer or a dry-jointed machine. But in this instance, for reasons unknown to him, he had a clear emotion— rage—and had a clear, smooth, streamlined fantasy of redemption.

  Perhaps the prospect of living in the abyss known as Wyoming left him feeling like he had nothing to lose, and made him impervious to anxiety. His sudden internal animation surprised him, and pleased him. Realizing he should not waste this opportunity, he explored his options carefully. Should he kick Kevin’s ass? Maybe if he concentrated hard enough, Jerry Winkler might feel it.

  Should he kill him? Kill her?

  He was certainly mad enough to, and was enjoying this emotion immensely. In yet another involuntary flash of introspection, he wondered what it might feel like to thrust this sensation to climax, Kevin’s shattered face leaving a disgusting, satisfying mess on the marble.

  He imagined Kevin begging Jaime to stop, his scruffy goatee and long hair matted with blood. He imagined his drunken mother’s snarl, her challenging him to do it, to pull the trigger, he doesn’t have the guts. He knew how outlandish these options were, as they would most likely solve nothing. Furthermore, they wouldn’t go how he imagined they would; nothing ever did.

  After he decided how he would handle this situation, he gave Kevin a final, psychic signal to wipe that stupid smirk off of his face; a dire warning. Kevin didn’t heed to this signal.

  Jaime’s blood boiled pure, and he looked away from Kevin, waiting for him to leave, hoping to savor this slow internal burn in peace.

  When he didn’t leave, Jaime relaxed his vocal chords to warn this cretin one last time.

  “If I ever see you again, I will tell your parents. You will wish you had never been born. I may hurt, possibly kill you, if you do not leave my sight right now. Do you get me?”

  Kevin laughed nervously as if he hadn’t a clue what Jaime was referring to. Kevin had asked a simple question about television, hoping Jaime would allow them both to pretend it was a secret that he was

  fucking his mother.

  Jaime pointed his glare, with the intent of making Kevin scared for his life.

  “Do you fucking get me, Kevin?” Jaime growled demonically. Kevin left slowly, trying to appear as collected as he could.

  Jaime fell asleep in the black leather swivel, after his spark had cooled. At some point in the night, his mother removed his shoes and placed an old blanket onto his torso.

  When he woke, he felt hung over and tired and immediately wanted to go back to sleep, but was sure

  it was noon, at the earliest. He staggered into the kitchen to find his mother asleep at the counter. There were eggs burning in the skillet, filling the place with smoke. He rushed them over to the faucet, the resulting smolder loud and inconsiderate of the intense throb he had between his ears. His mother woke clumsily, whipping her messy mop of hair from the countertop, her
eyes groggy and still covered in makeup, and her squint evidencing a dull ache. This jarring image, to Jaime, made her polished, detached demeanor look scuffed and raw. He saw how fragile the woman’s equilibrium actually was. In one of those flashes, he imagined how clingy a lover, sister, or daughter she may have been at his age.

  She was dependent on men and on love. She fucks the breakfast up on purpose.

  As she got up to make coffee, Jaime wondered if she had the same disillusionment that he had, and he also wondered if her behavior was a better way of dealing with that disappointment. Most of all, he won-

  dered why he never understood something so obvious. If this had been simply shown to him, he may have rejected it as babble. Getting a glimpse of his mother in this way made him feel needed.

  “God, what time is it?” Jaime’s mother slurred, focused only on not spilling the coffee, her back to him.

  “I dunno,” Jaime said, picking up the previous day’s newspaper. “Not too late.”

  THE PROTEST

  Profiles

  The Lonely Protestor Bobby Faust vs. Father Redmond of Hawthorn Baptist Church

  By JP Andrews July 1, 2014

  On August 19, 2013, Harold Redmond, pastor for the controversial and increasingly infamous Hawthorn Baptist Church, made a phone call to Bobby Faust. Bleary-voiced, but with a sort of hopped up tremor at 1a.m. “We need you, Bobby,” Father Redmond said, near sobs. “God needs you. I need you. Please come back.”