Seems that we're leaving town & family
Jump in the van and bring the high wire
Tapping into the asphalt vein
Can't see the ground from where we're standing
-Dealership, "Perfectly Happy"
***
Fulton
I remember the first time Portman and I heard our first Nirvana song. It was at this mall in Chicago, I think the October or November after the Junior Goodwill games happened, remember that? I was staying over at Portman's place for a few days, not telling him why other than the fact that I just wanted to visit my brother-on-ice. Anyway, we walked into this music store and there was this big commotion because of this album that just came out. We walked through the crowd and we saw this CD called Unplugged From New York from this band we never heard about. We asked who were these guys and everyone in the store gave us this really mean stare back, saying stuff like "They're the best rock band ever" and "Show some respect" and a bunch of other shit. Just so that we wouldn't embarrass ourselves any more, Portman and I scrimped up all the money that we had and bought the CD.
We went back to Dean's home and, curious, we played it on his own boombox. What we heard was magical. It's as though this guy was saying thing that Dean and I have always wanted to say but never could. Actually, I didn't think of it like that at first, but it was so cool, we decided to buy another one of these guys' albums, expecting more of that soft, calming stuff. When two days of playing the same CD over and over again wasn't enough, we got Nevermind, and we were so humbled. For both of us, this was the really hard, painful, sad shit that hit home.
I guess Portman and I have been Nirvana fans ever since. Kurt Cobain, I think, is a great singer with this loud and crying voice that can bring down the walls of Jericho, as Portman would sometimes tell me. We only have, I think, their first three albums, which sucks, because we're all forever stuck with them. I even give these annoying rants to Dean about why Cobain had to blow his head off so soon and send us over to the boy- bands and all this 'my-daddy-left-me-SO-I-HATE-YOU' shit like Korn and Limp Bizkit. So having your Hummer filled with music by Nirvana really gets us pumped up, especially when driving down Route 36 to Stillwater. It's not very far from Minneapolis, but I wish it was. At least, taking a road trip is always fun when you have Portman sitting right next to you, singing along with Cobain's wailings as he drums on the dashboard like the crazy, testosterone-filled hockey enforcer that he is.
Then I stop to this flower place to get some fresh dozen of roses. Thinking it really was for him, he goes "Awh! For me?"
"No, they're for my mom."
"Whoa, we're going to visit your mom? Cool!"
And he becomes even more excited as we go down Route 36. I've met his parents before, but he never met mine, so for him this was a real treat. I could tell by how he's now suddenly singing and dancing right on his seat.
As I drive down the road, I start to get, how do I say, impure thoughts. That's what happens when I drive my Hummer, because whenever I get the stick to switch gears, I just want to move my hand over to his thigh and squeeze it. But I have to fight it. He's not yours anymore! Fight it, Fulton, fight it! But I want to touch him so badly!
Finally, I can't help it anymore and, as I switch gears again, I make my move and hope he doesn't (does?) notice. Just as I get really close, a voice comes from the back seat.
"Boy, don't you dare!"
What was that? I immediately back my arm away from Portman and look at him, who is still singing and banging like nothing happened. It wasn't from him. I look at the rear- view mirror and I see him with this steady look of anger.
"You stupid pansy!" Dad goes. "You just wait until we get home and let me give it to you. Got that boy?"
The sweat quickly comes through my forehead as he dispenses with the insults. "What? I don't give a damn if you bring a friend along. Hell, invite him over and let him watch you pull your pants down to see your red ass! That way, he won't come back to our house and queer it up! You got that!?"
What if he means it? If Portman sees it, will he leave for good?
"I don't want him in my house, you got that?"
"Shut up!"
And Portman stops singing and turns to me confusedly. Oh shit, did I say that out loud? Portman looks around the car with a little shock and says, "Okay, bro, I'm sorry."
"No, not you."
"Then who?"
"No one. I guess I was just thinking out loud. I'm sorry. Please don't stop singing. It's okay."
But he didn't go back to singing. Instead, he asks, "What were you thinking about?"
Annoyed, I say, "What is this, the National Enquirer? It's nothing."
"Dude, you said 'Shut up' to someone. Are you okay?" Now he probably thinks I'm a lunatic. Why don't I get a straightjacket while we're at it?
"It's nothing, Dean. I swear."
Then, he moves his hand over my thigh and rubs it. "You're thinking about something. What is it? You can trust me, bro, just as I always trust you."
I didn't budge and I keep driving, but my dad's still there sitting at the back seat, now angrier than before.
"Well, boy, are you gonna tell him or not?"
Then Portman, who's totally oblivious to what's going on in my head, goes, "What? Is someone following us?" He raises his hand off my thigh and turns around to see no one else on the road and, I hope, no one in the back seat.
"No, I just was thinking too loud." I said.
Then, Portman moves his hand back on my thigh. "Man, what's up?"
"Nothing!"
"The hell it's nothing! What are you thinking about?"
I take another glance in the rear-view, and Dad's gone. The relief just flushed through my body. I just continue driving.
"Fulton, are you ignoring me?"
Portman
After traveling through back roads for what felt like hours, Fulton stops his Hummer in front of a fence and gate that was completely covered with dead vines. I get out and give myself a good stretch as I gander at the place. Fulton goes to the gate and shows me that there's a rusted lock over it. Fulton and I get back in the Hummer. He turns the car on and with full force plows through the gate. The muddy dirt road is barely visible with the grass having grown on it. At the end of it, there's this huge but partly burnt house, which looks like something out of those World War II movies. The whole house is surrounded by dried-up plants, auto parts, and trash that hasn't been picked up for years. A huge tree grows next to the house, and a rusted truck from the old days could be seen next to it. Fulton stops the car and we get off to take a look from near the Hummer.
"Man, this place is a dump." Okay, my apartment wasn't exactly any better, but this was bad.
"This was where I lived when I was a kid, before I moved to Minneapolis." Fulton goes and sighs through his voice. "I know it's not much, but it's home, I guess. My dad tried to sell it when we moved away."
"Where did he place the ad, the obituaries?"
Fulton liked that one, and we both smirked at it. "I guess it needs a little fixing. I could call a contractor."
"Forget the contractor; call a mortician. This is a mess."
Fulton then starts walking through the old, oiled-up car parts that nested to one side of the house.
"Hey, Fult, you sure whoever owns this hell hole won't mind us trespassing?" Wait, since when am I worried about getting in trouble?
"No, 'cause, technically, I own this hell hole."
"It's yours?" I follow him through the junk and ask, "Well, then, why don't you do anything about it? This is some fine ass property you have, bro."
Fulton doesn't say anything and he makes it to the back door. I catch up to him, knowing he won't give me an answer to that. Fulton takes a crowbar from nearby and pries the door open. The door opened to this small, mildewed kitchen with all of these really old appliances. Cobwebs grow on every corner here, probably because it's so damn cold outside. Fulton opens the refrigerator and shows me two bottles of Buds. He takes them out, and immediately I could tell that they were there for a good few years.
"Man, do you think we'll find a wine bottle here, too?" I joked, but Fulton just closes the fridge and walked out of the kitchen into the living room, which is mostly burnt at the other side. An old TV, a broom stick, a plain lounge chair, and a few '70s knick-knacks dot the room. I also note that there's this pressing crack in the ceiling right above the chair, but Fulton doesn't answer.
Then, after I steal, uh, procure some old photos from a nearby box, Fulton and I go up these creaking stairs and into this one small, pink room, which is right over the living room. It has a plain twin bed with no sheets, something totally useless for big enforcers like us to sleep on, a single poster of Heart on one side, and this long, thin piece of wood which lied against a set of wooden drawers. There are no toys, no books, no nothing. Fulton sits down on the bed and, noticing that he did it in a weirdly natural way, I could safely assume that this was his room.
He was spacing out again, this time by staring out of the small window. I sit right next to him to snatch the view of the river from the room. With all of this country quiet and us alone in this big old house, I couldn't resist being close and intimate with him. Then as I embrace my Bash Brother with my arm, Fulton speaks to me.
"My stepbrothers would always beat me up because I always looked too girly for them. When I could, I ran to my bedroom, but they always locked me in, just for the hell of it, sometimes for hours without letting me go down to eat. Sometimes, when I went to sleep, I dreamed some knight in shining armor would come across the river with his horse, slash his way through the house, take me in his arms from this room and make our escape across the river to Wisconsin. For me, crossing that river to Wisconsin was salvation."
To break the dull and sad mood, I go, "Dude, we can drive there now. We go there all the time!"
Fulton isn't totally impressed as he answers, "Like I could drive then, much less drive across a river."
To that, I say, "A Fulton among the Reeds." Fulton nods mindlessly.
But as I finish saying that, I remember something that I kinda didn't want to remember.
"You know who else was among the reeds, dude?"
Fulton turns to me, not having a clue of what I just asked, and shakes his head.
"Moses!"
"Who?"
"You don't know who Moses is?"
He shakes his head again. Oh, this is a surprise.
"He's from the Bible. Check it out: In the old days of Egypt, there was this mean ass pharaoh who was killing off all the Hebrew babies because there were too many of them. Then, there was this one woman who had a baby herself and she didn't want the Egyptians to kill him, so she put him into this basket and let it float on the Nile River to protect him. You don't know your Bible stories, bro?"
He shakes his head yet again, but at least he's listening.
"Anyway, she put the baby in the basket to hide it among the reeds. Later, this Egyptian princess was taking a bath in the Nile when she saw this basket among the reeds. She opens it and finds this cute little baby boy. You know what she did? She took him like if he was her own son, and even asked the Hebrew mom to help her out."
Then Fulton gives this 'Oh, I get it' look in his face. But then he asks, "Well, what's so special about what happened to a baby? It's nice that the princess saved him, I guess."
"Well, that baby was Moses. You never heard the story of Moses?" Fulton shakes his head again, and I throw to him a few events like the burning bush, the sticks-turning-into- snakes thing, the ten plagues, and he's tripping out at the stuff I tell him. Then I come to the part about the Red Sea. When I tell him about how God parted it (and going into great detail what "parting" means), how the Hebrews and Moses walked across the sea on dry land, and how the pharaoh and his henchmen tried to walk across it, too, only to have the water implode on them and have them drown, Fulton blows himself over because he's totally amazed.
Then I pull out some of those photos I snatched and we both look through them. Fulton points out who's who in every picture. Whoa, that's his stepmom? Man, I've seen some ugly ass chicks back in the slut houses in Chicago, but this gal takes the cake!
After a while of gawking at all of these not-so-Kodak moments, (the pictures are on Fuji paper) we come to this picture of this beautiful woman in her 30s holding this tiny baby. Her soft, baby-like face looks just like Fulton's. I ask, "Fulton, is that your mom, your real mom? And that little booger must be you!"
Fulton nods.
"Well, you said we were going to meet her. Was this what you had in mind?"
Fulton then takes me by the hand, downstairs, and back to the Hummer, taking out those roses he bought earlier.
Fulton
Then, with the flowers I take Portman to this spot next to the old tree, and there it was: The little tombstone that read my mom's name.
When Portman sees this, he clutches my hand tightly as I put down the flowers.
"I miss you, Mom." I go, "I know I don't visit you much, but I'll try to do better." I miss her so much. I hardly knew her because she died when I was like three years old, but the one thing I remember about her was that soft touch of her hands on my skin.
Just like how Dean did it.
"Anyway, mom, this is my best friend. His name is Dean Portman, and both of us play hockey now. We're the Bash Brothers, mom. I wish you could be proud of me."
It's funny. Why do I think she'll answer me?