Fulton's POV:
You ever have those times when you suddenly become aware that you're happy, that at this particular moment in space and time, you are truly glad to be alive? Everybody has them, I think; they often pop up when you're doing something relatively simple, and later on you can remember having the feeling, but not where you were or what brought it on, and trying to remember what it actually felt like is even harder.
I woke up that morning after the Trail of Dead concert in the throes of the most passionate one of those feelings I have ever had, and for a few moments I couldn't remember what the hell I had to be so damn happy about. Then I realised why the bed was so cramped and it all came back to me in a rush. I must have let out a little gasp or something because Portman laughed and said, "Ah, she stirs, the lady stirs. Welcome back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty."
"I'm impressed. Quoting Shakespeare, and at this ungodly hour, no less. So you were listening in English after all."
"Yeah, some of the material must have seeped in while I was asleep. Guess this means I should give those night-time weight loss tapes a shot."
"You'd better. I'm sick of looking at your fat ass all the time."
He gave me a playful shove which, coming from Portman, was enough to send me crashing unceremoniously to the floor. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked up at him. He returned my gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes and said hurriedly, "So, we heading back to school today, or we gonna hang out here?"
I shrugged. "Dunno. What do you want to do?"
"Let's head back tomorrow, then we won't have to worry about that damn curfew."
"Like we do anyway. It's pretty ironic, don't you think, that they only care what time we get in when we're away from home?"
"Yeah," Portman grinned as he rose from the bed and removed his shirt in one beautiful, fluid motion. "You'd think it'd be the other way around."
He plucked a shirt and a pair of socks from one of the boxes by the bed and started putting them on. I had to consciously restrain myself from making a flying tackle to stop him as I watched the last intoxicating glimpse of his smooth hairless chest and shockingly well-defined pectoral muscles disappear under a long-sleeved, faded black Pearl Jam t-shirt.
While Portman headed home to take a shower, I went upstairs to do the same, my mind filled with decidedly unchristian thoughts. Had the kiss from last night meant anything to him, or was he just stoned? If he felt like I did, what next? Should we talk about it? Will it fuck up our friendship? Can I kiss him whenever I want now? All these questions and more raced through my mind as I climbed the stairs. When I reached the door connecting the basement to my apartment, I paused, listening for any telltale signs of who was home or what was going on. Given my father's rather volatile nature, I have learned this is wise. Hearing nothing, I ventured inside.
The door lets onto the hall, leading on the left to the bedroom and bathroom, and on the right to the kitchen, which in turns opens directly onto the living room. It was in the latter that I found my mother, draped half-on, half-off of the old green sofa which constituted the entirety of furniture in the little room, save for a wobbly coffee table adorned with deep gouges and littered with beer cans and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.
Her legs were splayed in different directions over the sofa's arms, and her head and upper body hung over the edge, her short, unkempt red hair brushing the carpet. I approached her, and saw with no surprise that her eyes were glazed and unfocussed, the pupils fixed and dilated; she didn't seem to notice my presence at all. My mother is basically a nice person, and I love her and everything, but she has a tendency toward excessive self- medication that often overrides her better qualities.
I picked her up and set her back properly on the couch, then knelt down beside her, took her chin firmly in my hand and turned her face toward mine.
"Hi Mom," I said, loudly and clearly. "How are you?"
Her eyes cleared and flickered around the room as she took in me and her surroundings before she responded, "Fulton, honey, there you are. Your father's been looking for you. He was quite upset..." Her voice trailed off and her eyelids fluttered as she smiled benignly.
I shook her shoulder gently. "What does he want? Where is he?"
"The car...gone to get more beer..." Her eyes closed again and she sighed happily. "Darling, could you get me a glass of water?"
I went to the kitchen to comply, but when I returned, she was either asleep or passed out, so I set the glass down on the table and picked up the pill bottles scattered about on the floor. It drove Dad nuts to see them lying around. I checked the labels, looked like she'd been mixing them again. Percodan and amphetamines, always a good combination; they'll put you out like a light, but give you some seriously whacked out dreams so real and intense you often can't tell if you're asleep or awake. I snaked a couple of the amphies before sticking all the bottles back into her purse.
After that, I hopped into the shower. Dad must have wanted me to pick him up a six-pack, before giving up and driving to the liquor store himself, at least that was what I'd surmised from the semi-coherent ramblings of my mother. He was always getting me to pick up beer and shit for him, and since I'm pretty big for my age and have a good fake I.D., it's never any problem.
Hopefully I'll be gone by the time he comes back; if I run into him he'll probably try to start something. When Mom's popping pills like they're popcorn and Dad's plastered before noon, I'd say it qualifies as an 'avoid all contact day.'
My mother and father have been serious substance and alcohol abusers, respectively, for as long as I can remember, but while my father's exploits have made me vow never to take a drink in my life, for some reason I don't feel the same way about drugs. I keep away from the hard stuff, sure, as well as anything habit-forming, and I'm careful to keep excursions into even the more harmless pills like my mom's amphetamines to a minimum, but I gotta say I'm a big fan of weed. I mean, it barely qualifies as a drug in my opinion. It merely provides non-addictive, harmless fun without any adverse side-effects, short or long term. I wish the government would get with it and legalise the shit already. If I had children I'd far prefer them using pot than drinking, I mean, you don't hear about people getting into car wrecks or beating up on their kids because they were stoned, do you?
I do have to be careful though, because there's no way I'm going to get all drug-dependent like my mother. My dad's convinced I'm going to wind up just like her, many of our worst fights have stemmed form his belief that I'm destined to become a 'goddamned junkie.' I'm not that concerned, however. During some of her more lucid moments, my mom told me that she got so heavy into pills because she was always depressed when she was young, and while I know that sort of condition is highly genetic, I seriously doubt I carry the genes. I just can't stay sad for very long at all. I don't know why, it just fades away real fast, no matter what. I guess I compensate for that with my quick temper and propensity for violence, but I'd pick my way over hers any day.
I finished my shower, dried off, got dressed, quickly checked the kitchen cupboards for food and, finding none, said goodbye to my happily oblivious mother and headed for Portman's, rather pleased with myself for having successfully avoided my father. It was only later that I came to wish I hadn't.
You ever have those times when you suddenly become aware that you're happy, that at this particular moment in space and time, you are truly glad to be alive? Everybody has them, I think; they often pop up when you're doing something relatively simple, and later on you can remember having the feeling, but not where you were or what brought it on, and trying to remember what it actually felt like is even harder.
I woke up that morning after the Trail of Dead concert in the throes of the most passionate one of those feelings I have ever had, and for a few moments I couldn't remember what the hell I had to be so damn happy about. Then I realised why the bed was so cramped and it all came back to me in a rush. I must have let out a little gasp or something because Portman laughed and said, "Ah, she stirs, the lady stirs. Welcome back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty."
"I'm impressed. Quoting Shakespeare, and at this ungodly hour, no less. So you were listening in English after all."
"Yeah, some of the material must have seeped in while I was asleep. Guess this means I should give those night-time weight loss tapes a shot."
"You'd better. I'm sick of looking at your fat ass all the time."
He gave me a playful shove which, coming from Portman, was enough to send me crashing unceremoniously to the floor. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked up at him. He returned my gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes and said hurriedly, "So, we heading back to school today, or we gonna hang out here?"
I shrugged. "Dunno. What do you want to do?"
"Let's head back tomorrow, then we won't have to worry about that damn curfew."
"Like we do anyway. It's pretty ironic, don't you think, that they only care what time we get in when we're away from home?"
"Yeah," Portman grinned as he rose from the bed and removed his shirt in one beautiful, fluid motion. "You'd think it'd be the other way around."
He plucked a shirt and a pair of socks from one of the boxes by the bed and started putting them on. I had to consciously restrain myself from making a flying tackle to stop him as I watched the last intoxicating glimpse of his smooth hairless chest and shockingly well-defined pectoral muscles disappear under a long-sleeved, faded black Pearl Jam t-shirt.
While Portman headed home to take a shower, I went upstairs to do the same, my mind filled with decidedly unchristian thoughts. Had the kiss from last night meant anything to him, or was he just stoned? If he felt like I did, what next? Should we talk about it? Will it fuck up our friendship? Can I kiss him whenever I want now? All these questions and more raced through my mind as I climbed the stairs. When I reached the door connecting the basement to my apartment, I paused, listening for any telltale signs of who was home or what was going on. Given my father's rather volatile nature, I have learned this is wise. Hearing nothing, I ventured inside.
The door lets onto the hall, leading on the left to the bedroom and bathroom, and on the right to the kitchen, which in turns opens directly onto the living room. It was in the latter that I found my mother, draped half-on, half-off of the old green sofa which constituted the entirety of furniture in the little room, save for a wobbly coffee table adorned with deep gouges and littered with beer cans and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.
Her legs were splayed in different directions over the sofa's arms, and her head and upper body hung over the edge, her short, unkempt red hair brushing the carpet. I approached her, and saw with no surprise that her eyes were glazed and unfocussed, the pupils fixed and dilated; she didn't seem to notice my presence at all. My mother is basically a nice person, and I love her and everything, but she has a tendency toward excessive self- medication that often overrides her better qualities.
I picked her up and set her back properly on the couch, then knelt down beside her, took her chin firmly in my hand and turned her face toward mine.
"Hi Mom," I said, loudly and clearly. "How are you?"
Her eyes cleared and flickered around the room as she took in me and her surroundings before she responded, "Fulton, honey, there you are. Your father's been looking for you. He was quite upset..." Her voice trailed off and her eyelids fluttered as she smiled benignly.
I shook her shoulder gently. "What does he want? Where is he?"
"The car...gone to get more beer..." Her eyes closed again and she sighed happily. "Darling, could you get me a glass of water?"
I went to the kitchen to comply, but when I returned, she was either asleep or passed out, so I set the glass down on the table and picked up the pill bottles scattered about on the floor. It drove Dad nuts to see them lying around. I checked the labels, looked like she'd been mixing them again. Percodan and amphetamines, always a good combination; they'll put you out like a light, but give you some seriously whacked out dreams so real and intense you often can't tell if you're asleep or awake. I snaked a couple of the amphies before sticking all the bottles back into her purse.
After that, I hopped into the shower. Dad must have wanted me to pick him up a six-pack, before giving up and driving to the liquor store himself, at least that was what I'd surmised from the semi-coherent ramblings of my mother. He was always getting me to pick up beer and shit for him, and since I'm pretty big for my age and have a good fake I.D., it's never any problem.
Hopefully I'll be gone by the time he comes back; if I run into him he'll probably try to start something. When Mom's popping pills like they're popcorn and Dad's plastered before noon, I'd say it qualifies as an 'avoid all contact day.'
My mother and father have been serious substance and alcohol abusers, respectively, for as long as I can remember, but while my father's exploits have made me vow never to take a drink in my life, for some reason I don't feel the same way about drugs. I keep away from the hard stuff, sure, as well as anything habit-forming, and I'm careful to keep excursions into even the more harmless pills like my mom's amphetamines to a minimum, but I gotta say I'm a big fan of weed. I mean, it barely qualifies as a drug in my opinion. It merely provides non-addictive, harmless fun without any adverse side-effects, short or long term. I wish the government would get with it and legalise the shit already. If I had children I'd far prefer them using pot than drinking, I mean, you don't hear about people getting into car wrecks or beating up on their kids because they were stoned, do you?
I do have to be careful though, because there's no way I'm going to get all drug-dependent like my mother. My dad's convinced I'm going to wind up just like her, many of our worst fights have stemmed form his belief that I'm destined to become a 'goddamned junkie.' I'm not that concerned, however. During some of her more lucid moments, my mom told me that she got so heavy into pills because she was always depressed when she was young, and while I know that sort of condition is highly genetic, I seriously doubt I carry the genes. I just can't stay sad for very long at all. I don't know why, it just fades away real fast, no matter what. I guess I compensate for that with my quick temper and propensity for violence, but I'd pick my way over hers any day.
I finished my shower, dried off, got dressed, quickly checked the kitchen cupboards for food and, finding none, said goodbye to my happily oblivious mother and headed for Portman's, rather pleased with myself for having successfully avoided my father. It was only later that I came to wish I hadn't.