SOUTH PARK IS A SHOW BY TREY PARKER & MATT STONE
"Timmy!"
Was that guy talking to them? None of the four replied, because they were not sure. Nobody bothered to address to them directly—perhaps, seeing their looks, nobody dared.
But, yeah, he was talking to them. He was looking at them and he was smiling. They didn't smile back: sure it was a mocking smile. People often did so.
"The hell did he just say?" Peter muttered to the others.
"The boots." Firkle said.
"Huh?"
"I think it has something to do with our boots."
Like, he was looking at their feet with owl-eyes, if it wasn't that, what else could it be?
Still, they didn't respond to it or even try to make a kind gesture. A bus came and the driver helped him get in—he was in a wheelchair, so it took a desperating amount of time. The goths kept waiting for their bus, which seemed to be in delay.
"Even the crips are posers now" Pete complained, "with those rock band shirts, whose songs I bet he never actually listened, the ripped jeans, the earring, and, gosh, are tattooes old..."
"Yeah" Henrietta lit her cigarette.
"People pretending to be cool and shit" Firkle wrinkled his nose with disgust.
"Why does that guy look so familiar to me?" Michael pondered, looking at the smoke of his cigarette.
"Remember the Wacky Races thing, years ago?" Henrietta responded.
"Yep."
"That was the winner."
"The Handicar guy?"
"That one."
"Ah. He looks...different."
"One of these assholes who looked innocent in Elementary and they dyed their hair, got piercings and tattooes and acted edgy to pretend they were hot shit, only to have it all removed by thirty so they can get an eight to five job. They really disgusts me." Pete spouted.
Michael nodded distractedly in agreement.
He soon forgot about Timmy Burch, but it seemed like destiny had different plans.
Somebody threw a party two weeks later. They didn't know who, but it was at a big house and practically all of South Park's youth—and a few reveller adults who sneaked in to have some alcohol—attended. At first they said to thelselves that it was a pathetic reunion of lame people but then they thought that they had nothing better to do and that free alcohol was free alcohol after all. Also, why couldn't they go and make them all see how pathetic they were, spend some time there and leave?
They stayed at the same corner all night and no one bothered them, just like they didn't talk to anybody. Just as they had imagined all the stupid Justins and Britneys were there, ignoring their friends right in the face to text on the phone all night, bragging about their piercings like 'look how brave I am, I don't care what my parents think', drinking till they threw up and their crushes' feet. Pathetic. Simply pathetic. Not even the music was good: it was that trap shit. If it wasn't for the good drinks and snacks they would have gotten the hell out of there.
"This freaking sucks..."
"Yeah..."
"I'm getting an allergic reaction, I swear to God...Don't we have more chips?"
"I gotta pee. I'll grab some on the way back." Michael said, standing up.
Finding the bathroom was like a tour inside of a maze, having to dodge so many people filling the rooms and the hallways. Some looked at him or, in reality, at his nose, and he had to walk faster to avoid punching them and making a fuss. When he found the bathroom, he found that there was a couple making out in the bathtub, so he guessed his only option was to relieve himself in the garden. The owners wouldn't mind and hell if they found out who did it.
Unlike the inside of the house, the garden was a haven of peace. There was only a guy smoking weed, watching the moon like one would watch the television. Michael had the freedom to unzip his fly and do his thing, showering a bunch of pink hyacinth. He saw that someone had done number two on the daisies.
When he was done, the turned around to go back to the house and found, getting out of it to the yard—him. The crippled guy, smiling as soon as he saw him.
"Timmy."
"Uh...hi..." Michael greeted him back.
Before coming in, he lit a cigarette. After doing so, he noticed that the boy was still looking at him. Did he have something in his face or something? Another commentary about his nose?
"Timmy. Timmy Timmy."
"Michael. Why do you want to know?"
"Timmy."
"Ah...You were...Tim. Right?"
"Timmy."
"...Why are you smiling all the time? What's the matter with you?"
"Timmy."
"If I was in your skin I wouldn't be smiling."
"Timmy?"
Why? Well, uh, it was evident, right? But Michael didn't point it out. It was better to leave the conversation right there.
It felt really good, smoking outdoors, away from all that people, the loud music and the lameness in general. He decided to stay a little more, even if that meant having that Timmy guy looking at him and smiling like he enjoyed seeing him around. That was the proof the needed to know something was wrong in his head. No one liked him.
"Timmy Timmy?"
"Uh, yeah. From...school." Michael lied. Yeah, sure, he knew that Yardale guy, whoever he was (the one whose party really got out of hand, apparently).
"Ah, Timmy Timmy. Timmy?"
"Yep, with my three friends. They're near the stairs."
"Timmy Timmy Timmy Timmy."
Well, 'nice' wasn't a word that really made much justice to his friends. At least, that was one that he wasn't very used to hear to describe them. It was true that they were nice, but to each other, because only the four of them understood what it was like to be in their skin and how dark the world was—the rest could go to Hell.
"What? You only see the good things in people around you? You think the world's such a happy place?"
Timmy only seemed a little surprised about that harsh question, followed by a puff of smoke coming right to his face, but he recovered his smile again, eyebrows raised and shoulders up.
"Timmy." Yep. The world was a big shit, that was something even a retard could see...but it was better to try and find the good things.
"There's no good things in this black pit."
"Timmy." He disagreed. One just had to look with a bit of attention. Anyway, you only live once, right? So what was the use of living a miserable life, only seeing the bad?
Michael's lips curved.
"If it works for you..." he said, taking a drag to his cigarette.
Timmy nodded, his hands clasped.
"...Your friends don't seem to bother about you being missing, huh?"
"Eh. Timmy. Timmy Timmy."
"We're not an indivisible pack. They won't mind."
Their attention turned for a second to the stoned guy who emmited a shriek and raised a hand to touch the moon. They both found themselves smiling at that.
"Timmy Timmy?"
"If you mean those posers like Avril Lavigne or My Chemical Romance, no."
"Timmy Timmy." Timmy shook his head. "Timmy Timmy...Uh, Timmy."
Now that Timmy was pointing at it, Michael saw that he was wearing an Iron Maiden shirt this time.
"Old school, huh?"
"Timmy! Timmy Timmy Timmy Timmy...Timmy Timmy Timmy!"
"Wow, lucky you." Michael threw the remains of his cigarette to the lawn and expelled the smoke. "Welp, to be continued in the next episode."
He was going to leave like that. However, Timmy grabbed his hand.
"Timmy."
Michael saw him getting something from the bag in the rear part of his chair, making him gestures so that he had a bit of patience. With a hand obviously not used to use a pen, he drew something in his arm, which, with a big of light, found out were numbers. A phone number. His.
"Timmy." Now Timmy let him go.
And that was what he did.
"Where was the bathroom? In Iraq?" Pete asked him when he sat with them.
"This fucking house's filled to the top, I had to wait." Michael simply said.
He covered his arm with his sleeve before any of the others could see it.
Needless to say that he never called Timmy or made any kind of effort to see him again. Why? Because he tried to engage in conversations with him didn't mean he had to actually try. He was quite an individual, but not the kind of individual who would catch his attention. He was just not dark enough, just...edgy, yeah.
But he did. Deep down, Michael had to admit that he had caught his attention. He couldn't help thinking that nobody had tried to approach them since Stanley Jock Marsh. And now this guy, who they knew from school and they had not even exchanged a single word then, came and...Also, why him in particular? Why was he so interesting? Was it because of his height? His nose? What? The conversation at the Yardales' yard was in his mind for quite some time. That smile.
Days continued to pass as hollow and gloomy as always. existence had no sense. Every day was the same shit. His parents were still nagging about him getting a job, surely in hopes that he became part of the mindless zombie horde, and the only thing that could make him feel a bit alive what the company of his friends and the taste of cigarettes and coffee.
Michael's gaze was lost in his coffee when, suddenly an exclamation made him raise his head.
"Here you go, Timmy! If you need something else, tell me, okay?"
"Timmy!"
What the fuck.
Timmy apparently knew the young man working in the coffee shop, because of the way he talked to him and smiled. After waving at him, he went to one of the tables, which his friend had conveniently prepared for him, and read a book in a portable lectern. Stephen Hawking, he saw from there.
Michael felt how his heart started to beat faster. Him again. Why? Was he chasing him or something? Was this some kind of joke?
It was worse when Timmy raised his head for a moment and his eyes met Michael's. He couldn't try to hide: they were in front of each other, three tables away.
A smile appeared on the handicapped's face. He grabbed his iced mocha and drank, looking at him all the time. Then, he engaged again his reading, but he was still smiling. He knew Michael was watching. And it seemed like he liked it.
"What's up with you, Michael?" Firkle asked him.
"Me? What?"
"Dude, you're all red." Henrietta pointed out.
Yes, he could feel his ears burning. No need to see that his dead pale skin had turned red. Fuck.
"I...don't know. Aren't you guys feeling hot too?"
"No."
"I don't really feel so well...I gotta go to the restroom and...splash some water in my face."
His friends were looking at him as if he had just gone mad. Did he look so bad? Michael tried not to look at Timmy when he unavoidably had to pass by his side, but he knew he was looking at him, and that he was still smiling. Why did he have to smile all the time?
He closed the door and closed his eyes, opening the cold water to splash some in his face and see if that helped him go back to his senses. He left practically all of his makeup in his sleeve when he wiped his face, so he had to touch it up.
The door opened and—who came in?
Michael avoided looking as if it was a bear and not a man. He tried to focus on that fucking line that he simply couldn't get right and was making him look like a panda. It was as if he was losing IQ everytime that guy was around. He just couldn't stand it. It was so, so ridiculous.
Maybe it was time to...face the truth.
Michael looked at himself in the mirror, ignoring the horrible makeup and his blush. He had to be honest with himself. Perhaps he was seeing this guy around for a reason. He had been thinking about him for days and now there he was—wasn't that some kind of sign?
The door of the accessible toilet opened and Timmy came out. He didn't look at him in his way to washing his hands. But there was that smile.
He thought of his friends. What they would think. What they would say. Timmy was still a conformist, no matter his tattoos or the music he listened. He was not one of them. Too cheerful. Too happy. And, also, Michael was suddenly gay? Or bi or pan? Like all those posers who pretended to be into that stuff, just to be so 'open minded and cool' and shit?
He pressed his lips, then, his whole body seemed to relax.
Well, he was such a non-conformist that he wasn't going to conform with what his friends thought about him.
Clearing his throat, he turned to Timmy.
"Uh, hi."
A smile was forming in his own lips, matching the handicapped's.
THE END