*Before I begin, I must warn you, I have made a change. Portman now lives
in Minneapolis instead of Chicago. I apologize for this transgression, I
tried writing it the correct way, but having Portman and Fulton as
neighbours turned out to be just too tempting, as it allowed them to know
each other better, and for me to explore their families in a coherent
fashion. Once again, I apologize for this, and hope that my readers can
look past my own self-indulgence.
Portman's POV
Hot, sweaty bodies pushing, grabbing, slamming into me again and again. The air around me was alive with energy, the pulsating beat reverberating through my body in waves. I looked over beside me at Fulton. Staring straight ahead he too is lost, carried away by the crowd and the music. It's as if I'm falling, disappearing into an abyss of sound waves, completely overtaken by some beautiful, musical force. The drums pound out an intoxicating rhythm and the guitars wail accusingly as the voice sings out: 'Reason to doubt, so pry your eyes, from the film that never ends. I'm so damned, I can't win, with my heart in my hands again. Ride the apocalypse.'
Riding the apocalypse, that's what I was doing. The world was coming to an end, we were all going to hell, who cares? Not me, not so long as the music kept playing. Suddenly a particularly enormous guy slammed into Fulton, sending him crashing into my arms. Fulton looked at him, then at me, and grinned, jerking his head upwards. It was as if he had read my mind. A few moments later we were in the air--thanks to King Kong back there--sailing over the crowd, riding them, riding the apocalypse. In times like these, all sense of memory, all your past concerns and future dreams seem to fade away. There is only the present, only these single moments spread before me like photographs, spanning all eternity. I have always been here, and will always be here. There is nothing else.
We eventually retired from the pit for awhile in order to relax, rejuvenate, and replenish the marijuana supply in our bloodstreams. We'd already chomped some mushrooms earlier that evening, and the combined effects of the drugs lead to a very heady experience, indeed. We sat together on the floor among other isolated pockets of people, swaying to the music, which had now turned to the rapturous melodies of How Near, How Far: 'She stands with arms stretched out, towards the mountains and the clouds. Oil painted eyes, blind yet hypnotized. I swear I know not why these eyes have always left me dry. How near, how far, how lost they are...' I listened, watching the four boys from Texas thrash around on the stage. Spectacular. You could see the heat from all the bodies rising up in a great cloud, hovering above the pit.
"This music," Fulton said slowly, staring straight ahead. "This music, it...it..."
"It makes the world go away," I finished softly.
He turned to look at me then, met my eyes and held them for a long moment before saying, "Yes."
One word. He could level me with just that one word. Yes. I reached out my hand and touched his cheek, staring into his dark, dark eyes that seemed to hold everything in their orbs, all the world's knowledge, all its pain and sadness and joy and hope and...love.
"Yes," he said again, and the next thing I knew I was kissing him and the world was spinning all around me and I could feel his tongue, his soft, full lips and oh dear god, he was kissing me back. This is it, I thought, I've reached the high water mark. Life can't possibly get any better than this. *Stop time.*
***
Walking back from the concert in a kind of daze, I felt spent. So much energy, so many emotions, and instead of feeling as if I had reached the end of it, I had the sense of something new just beginning. But maybe that was just the drugs talking. Maybe I would wake up tomorrow and this feeling would be gone and life would be the same as it had been before, but I didn't think so.
We didn't speak much, we just walked, appreciating the feel of the cool night air on our hot skin, breathing it in in great thirsty gulps. It was well past midnight and we were in our neighbourhood now, walking down the cracked and broken sidewalks, alongside chain-link fences and run-down convenience stores and discount butcher shops with overturned garbage cans in front of them. Three guys suddenly came tearing down the street toward us, and as we backed up against the fence to let them pass, we heard the wail of a police siren approaching. The kids, who weren't much older than us, ducked into an alley and vanished from sight. Moments later the cop car came into view. It sped down the road and continued on past the alley, then took a left and it too disappeared. Fulton and I resumed walking, enveloped by silence once more.
We entered a more residential area, and now disembodied voices came floating out of the windows toward us. A baby cried, a man yelled and a woman screamed. A group of teenagers was hanging out on a doorstep, smoking, talking and laughing. An old man with stooped shoulders shuffled slowly down the street, two large paper bags full of groceries in his arms. The people here were hard and sad, almost as worn-down as the buildings they lived in. They were born here and they died here. A few got out, but they were in the minority. Sometimes I felt as if this place were a vacuum, sucking away at the souls of all who lived here.
I knew it would probably get me eventually, just as it had got my mother. When she and my stepfather split almost a year ago, he stayed in out old apartment and my mom got a new place about half a dozen blocks away. Her latest boyfriend had moved in a couple of months ago, and while I couldn't stand him (the feeling was mutual), I liked the apartment just fine; it put me closer to Fulton.
Some people say this place is alive, that it's hungry and cruel, and I usually feel the same way, but not tonight. Tonight this place isn't evil, it just is. It is my home, a place I know like the back of my hand, every street, every corner, every brick. It's a place I understand, a place I share with Fulton. I looked over at him then, wondering what was going on inside his head. Was he thinking about the same things I was? Maybe, but I doubted it. With all those books he read, I bet he was off in another world, imagining a different place, a better place.
We reached the entrance to my apartment, and stopped outside the door. "Do you want to come up, get something to eat?" Fulton's father spent most of their money on booze, and his mom spent the rest on pills, so they never had much food at his place.
"Sure," he smiled. Illuminated as he was by the soft yellow glow of the streetlights, he looked a lot younger than 15, almost angelic, like he's just been sent down to earth.
We climbed the five flights of stairs to my place (the elevator had been broken for weeks) and I was just fishing my keys out of my pocket when I heard moaning coming from inside. Then there was the crashing and tinkling of something being broken, followed by a heavy pounding against the wall, loud squeaking and more moans.
"My place?"
"Your place." I returned my keys to my pocket and headed back down the stairs.
It was only a few minutes walk to Fulton's building. His parents lived on the ground floor, since his dad was the superintendent. This meant they got full use of the basement and boiler room, which were situated half underground. This was a good thing, since their apartment was only a one- bedroom. We went down the alley that ran alongside the building, separating it from the pawn shop next door. Fulton pushed open the window to the basement and slipped inside. I followed, but as soon as my feet hit the floor I froze. It was so black I couldn't see a thing. I could hear Fulton moving around in the dark, and the room was suddenly lit by a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
The floor and walls were cement, and the boiler and electrical boxes ran along the right wall, the wires, pipes and ducts all threading up through the ceiling. Fulton slept on the left, in an old storage room. It too was lit by a single bulb, with a cast iron cot against one wall.
I had helped Fulton clear out all the old paint cans and two-by-fours and scrap metal about eight months ago, up till then he'd been sleeping on the living room couch, which hadn't been good for anybody, he'd just spent most nights at my place. Now, I came here more often; it was private and isolated, and Fulton the electrical genius had managed to put an outlet in there for his ghetto blaster, as well as run a cable line off some poor sap, which he had hooked up to a little t.v. and vcr he'd got from God knows where.
The bed was too small for both of us, but Fulton kept an old mattress under his bed, which he pulled out whenever I spent the night. We both sat down on the cot, and Fulton leant over to rummage around in one of the cardboard boxes at the foot of the bed. Eventually he gave up his search and leaned back against the wall.
"Sorry, dude, I thought I had some Cheese Nips, but I must have finished them off. You want to go see if there's anything upstairs?"
"Nah, I ain't that hungry."
We sat there in silence for a while, then Fulton said, "Man, that was a killer show."
"Sure was. Those guys are the best."
We just sat there on the bed, carrying on with conversation while Fulton rolled a joint to wind us down, and we toked on that, gradually filling the little room with smoke. We talked and talked, about what I don't really remember, we were both kind of out of it, and I kept going back and replaying that kiss over and over in my mind. I don't know how long we sat there, talking and smoking, because the next thing I remember was waking up to find myself lying on the cot, Fulton crammed in half on top of me, with his head on my chest and my arm wrapped around his shoulders. So this is what it feels like to be in love, I thought to myself, as I stared happily up at the ceiling, waiting for Fulton to wake up.
Portman's POV
Hot, sweaty bodies pushing, grabbing, slamming into me again and again. The air around me was alive with energy, the pulsating beat reverberating through my body in waves. I looked over beside me at Fulton. Staring straight ahead he too is lost, carried away by the crowd and the music. It's as if I'm falling, disappearing into an abyss of sound waves, completely overtaken by some beautiful, musical force. The drums pound out an intoxicating rhythm and the guitars wail accusingly as the voice sings out: 'Reason to doubt, so pry your eyes, from the film that never ends. I'm so damned, I can't win, with my heart in my hands again. Ride the apocalypse.'
Riding the apocalypse, that's what I was doing. The world was coming to an end, we were all going to hell, who cares? Not me, not so long as the music kept playing. Suddenly a particularly enormous guy slammed into Fulton, sending him crashing into my arms. Fulton looked at him, then at me, and grinned, jerking his head upwards. It was as if he had read my mind. A few moments later we were in the air--thanks to King Kong back there--sailing over the crowd, riding them, riding the apocalypse. In times like these, all sense of memory, all your past concerns and future dreams seem to fade away. There is only the present, only these single moments spread before me like photographs, spanning all eternity. I have always been here, and will always be here. There is nothing else.
We eventually retired from the pit for awhile in order to relax, rejuvenate, and replenish the marijuana supply in our bloodstreams. We'd already chomped some mushrooms earlier that evening, and the combined effects of the drugs lead to a very heady experience, indeed. We sat together on the floor among other isolated pockets of people, swaying to the music, which had now turned to the rapturous melodies of How Near, How Far: 'She stands with arms stretched out, towards the mountains and the clouds. Oil painted eyes, blind yet hypnotized. I swear I know not why these eyes have always left me dry. How near, how far, how lost they are...' I listened, watching the four boys from Texas thrash around on the stage. Spectacular. You could see the heat from all the bodies rising up in a great cloud, hovering above the pit.
"This music," Fulton said slowly, staring straight ahead. "This music, it...it..."
"It makes the world go away," I finished softly.
He turned to look at me then, met my eyes and held them for a long moment before saying, "Yes."
One word. He could level me with just that one word. Yes. I reached out my hand and touched his cheek, staring into his dark, dark eyes that seemed to hold everything in their orbs, all the world's knowledge, all its pain and sadness and joy and hope and...love.
"Yes," he said again, and the next thing I knew I was kissing him and the world was spinning all around me and I could feel his tongue, his soft, full lips and oh dear god, he was kissing me back. This is it, I thought, I've reached the high water mark. Life can't possibly get any better than this. *Stop time.*
***
Walking back from the concert in a kind of daze, I felt spent. So much energy, so many emotions, and instead of feeling as if I had reached the end of it, I had the sense of something new just beginning. But maybe that was just the drugs talking. Maybe I would wake up tomorrow and this feeling would be gone and life would be the same as it had been before, but I didn't think so.
We didn't speak much, we just walked, appreciating the feel of the cool night air on our hot skin, breathing it in in great thirsty gulps. It was well past midnight and we were in our neighbourhood now, walking down the cracked and broken sidewalks, alongside chain-link fences and run-down convenience stores and discount butcher shops with overturned garbage cans in front of them. Three guys suddenly came tearing down the street toward us, and as we backed up against the fence to let them pass, we heard the wail of a police siren approaching. The kids, who weren't much older than us, ducked into an alley and vanished from sight. Moments later the cop car came into view. It sped down the road and continued on past the alley, then took a left and it too disappeared. Fulton and I resumed walking, enveloped by silence once more.
We entered a more residential area, and now disembodied voices came floating out of the windows toward us. A baby cried, a man yelled and a woman screamed. A group of teenagers was hanging out on a doorstep, smoking, talking and laughing. An old man with stooped shoulders shuffled slowly down the street, two large paper bags full of groceries in his arms. The people here were hard and sad, almost as worn-down as the buildings they lived in. They were born here and they died here. A few got out, but they were in the minority. Sometimes I felt as if this place were a vacuum, sucking away at the souls of all who lived here.
I knew it would probably get me eventually, just as it had got my mother. When she and my stepfather split almost a year ago, he stayed in out old apartment and my mom got a new place about half a dozen blocks away. Her latest boyfriend had moved in a couple of months ago, and while I couldn't stand him (the feeling was mutual), I liked the apartment just fine; it put me closer to Fulton.
Some people say this place is alive, that it's hungry and cruel, and I usually feel the same way, but not tonight. Tonight this place isn't evil, it just is. It is my home, a place I know like the back of my hand, every street, every corner, every brick. It's a place I understand, a place I share with Fulton. I looked over at him then, wondering what was going on inside his head. Was he thinking about the same things I was? Maybe, but I doubted it. With all those books he read, I bet he was off in another world, imagining a different place, a better place.
We reached the entrance to my apartment, and stopped outside the door. "Do you want to come up, get something to eat?" Fulton's father spent most of their money on booze, and his mom spent the rest on pills, so they never had much food at his place.
"Sure," he smiled. Illuminated as he was by the soft yellow glow of the streetlights, he looked a lot younger than 15, almost angelic, like he's just been sent down to earth.
We climbed the five flights of stairs to my place (the elevator had been broken for weeks) and I was just fishing my keys out of my pocket when I heard moaning coming from inside. Then there was the crashing and tinkling of something being broken, followed by a heavy pounding against the wall, loud squeaking and more moans.
"My place?"
"Your place." I returned my keys to my pocket and headed back down the stairs.
It was only a few minutes walk to Fulton's building. His parents lived on the ground floor, since his dad was the superintendent. This meant they got full use of the basement and boiler room, which were situated half underground. This was a good thing, since their apartment was only a one- bedroom. We went down the alley that ran alongside the building, separating it from the pawn shop next door. Fulton pushed open the window to the basement and slipped inside. I followed, but as soon as my feet hit the floor I froze. It was so black I couldn't see a thing. I could hear Fulton moving around in the dark, and the room was suddenly lit by a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
The floor and walls were cement, and the boiler and electrical boxes ran along the right wall, the wires, pipes and ducts all threading up through the ceiling. Fulton slept on the left, in an old storage room. It too was lit by a single bulb, with a cast iron cot against one wall.
I had helped Fulton clear out all the old paint cans and two-by-fours and scrap metal about eight months ago, up till then he'd been sleeping on the living room couch, which hadn't been good for anybody, he'd just spent most nights at my place. Now, I came here more often; it was private and isolated, and Fulton the electrical genius had managed to put an outlet in there for his ghetto blaster, as well as run a cable line off some poor sap, which he had hooked up to a little t.v. and vcr he'd got from God knows where.
The bed was too small for both of us, but Fulton kept an old mattress under his bed, which he pulled out whenever I spent the night. We both sat down on the cot, and Fulton leant over to rummage around in one of the cardboard boxes at the foot of the bed. Eventually he gave up his search and leaned back against the wall.
"Sorry, dude, I thought I had some Cheese Nips, but I must have finished them off. You want to go see if there's anything upstairs?"
"Nah, I ain't that hungry."
We sat there in silence for a while, then Fulton said, "Man, that was a killer show."
"Sure was. Those guys are the best."
We just sat there on the bed, carrying on with conversation while Fulton rolled a joint to wind us down, and we toked on that, gradually filling the little room with smoke. We talked and talked, about what I don't really remember, we were both kind of out of it, and I kept going back and replaying that kiss over and over in my mind. I don't know how long we sat there, talking and smoking, because the next thing I remember was waking up to find myself lying on the cot, Fulton crammed in half on top of me, with his head on my chest and my arm wrapped around his shoulders. So this is what it feels like to be in love, I thought to myself, as I stared happily up at the ceiling, waiting for Fulton to wake up.