Okay, I've got some notes this time! They're pretty long, cause I forgot to
post any last chapter. Here goes:
Cake-Eater: My girl! You're the only person who noticed the Bombay thing! I was rather surprised that no one else mentioned it, but I knew you wouldn't let me down, and you didn't! Sorry about the review thing, I guess I meant chapter three; I'm an idiot. But you love me anyway, right? I know it was a weird image to end the last chapter on, but I liked it. I've been reading a lot of post-modern stuff lately, so if my writing gets a little strange imagery-wise, that's the reason. If it bothers you, let me know, and I'll let up (that goes for anyone). I'd been missing my fluffy Bashie cuteness so much, I had to douse the last chapter in it. What can I say? I'm hopelessly addicted.
Kelly: I know what you're talking about, believe me; all my family lives in Saskatchewan, and while I hate most things about their weather, the sunsets, stars and thunderstorms are not among them. And aurora borealis? If we got that here, I'd be in heaven... glad you liked to hear the Bashes' political rantings... more to come. The US is a great country, but they're scared and angry, and I think they're making some bad decisions. I can't help thinking: If Al Gore was here, this wouldn't be happening. I really liked that guy...
Star: Ooh, I'm really glad you like the lengths of my chapters, and relieved, since this one is no shorter. I too enjoy longer updates, and Kelly agrees with you, so I'm happy as a pig in shit! I think you're crazy enough to benefit from electroshock therapy, no matter what you think of Axl Rose (kidding! That stuff is scary; have you read/seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?). Got a little Nick Stahl in there for you to spot, let me know if you find it!
QteCuttlfish: Okay, I have to ask: what does *g* mean? I've seen *bg* too. Forgive the computer virgin! Don't worry, I know exactly how it feels to finish a fic and want more immediately; I'm flattered my story produces this effect!
RockAndRoll: "Informative and passionate," huh? That's what I go for; my life is ruled by a combination of passion and information, and I always imagined Fulton as being the same. Probably just my obsessive love, but yeah. Going to school with the Bashes would beat the shit out of heaven, if you ask me! Something else that beats heaven: Billy Elliot, I totally agree with you there. If that movie can make *me* want to be a dancer, than you know it's something special, given that being forced into ballet for one year at age six before I was kicked out for beating up another kid (she deserved it, the snotty little bitch) was one of the worst experience of my life. And a fellow Clash addict? lycanthrope loves your taste in music as much as Fulton does: how bout the Sex Pistols?
Grasshopper: *drags Portman over, and attaches him to Grasshopper's ankle with a pair of handcuffs* Here you go, your own personal hetero slut puppy. Enjoy.
Graceful Fall: Hey, you've been reviewing all my stories! Thank you, and I'm glad you like. Cool name.
Solis, Tai and Selena: Don't know if you guys are reading or not, but if you are: UPDATE, YOU CHICKENSHIT MOTHERFUCKERS! You're killing me, you really are. But I love you guys anyway, and as soon as you update, I'll be kissing your asses all over again. Pay me no mind.
SchizoAuthoress: Because I felt like using your full name this time... Aww, you got me all choked with your review of chapter seven, you naughty little thing... you're too kind. And crazy sexy cool, too, of course. Incense and peppermint... now that'll always make me think of you...
Okay, now that *that's* done... I'll be starting on a new chapter of A World Apart: Wolfsbane now, so it might be awhile before the next update. Don't worry, it won't be too long, things are moving pretty fast now, and that means lots of inspiration.
Portman's POV:
I was lying in the living room, stretched out on the old futon that we'd had for as long as I could remember. I had an open bottle of Stella in one hand--Bud must have sprung for it, my mom never bought imported beer--and was eating an apple while I watched a Roadrunner cartoon on TV.
I didn't look up as my mom came in, raising a hand in acknowledgement and mumbling a greeting instead--this was one of my favourites. The coyote had filled the space between two large, overhead cliff walls with boulders, supported by planks and tethered to a string. When the roadrunner stopped beneath the deadly device to eat the seeds lain out as bait, he yanked the string. Nothing happened, of course; the boulders remained impossibly suspended and the roadrunner finished his meal and took off with a cheeky "meep-meep," leaving a tail of dust behind him. The coyote was understandably miffed, after all, it had seemed like a fool-proof plan, and stood beneath the trap, angrily jabbing the rocks with a pole. A cascade of pebbles began to fall, and the coyote turned to the audience with a stricken expression and held up a small sign: For the love of God, why am I doing this? And then he was crushed by the falling boulders.
The show cut to commercial; it took awhile for me to finish laughing, but when I did I twisted around to face my mother. "Did you say something?"
"I asked if you got the mail. And my cigarettes."
"On the counter by the phone. Leave the bills, I'll get to them in a day or two." My mom was a total space case, and even worse at math than I was, so I always took care of the bills and things.
"You know," she called over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom. "I got a call from your school at work today. They said you've barely been in for the past couple weeks."
I waited until the sound of running water had died before responding. "Oh yeah? What'd you tell them?"
"That you'd caught a bad case of the flu, but would be back on Monday. Is that it sweetie," her voice took on a teasing note. "Did you have the flu?"
"Oh yeah," I said dryly, "fever, vomiting, the whole works. It's been awful."
She emerged from the bathroom, rubbing her face with a hand towel, and tipped me a wink before disappearing into her bedroom to get changed. "Well, dear, I hope you feel better soon."
"Your concern is touching."
It had been almost two weeks since Fulton's first skating lesson, and we'd been to the rink every night since. We'd decided to take a break tonight to rest up, and I was looking forward to a little R + R. We could never grab more than a couple hours of sleep before school started, and as a result, our attendance was lagging a bit. When we did show up, we slept through every class; needless to say, our teachers were overjoyed, and I even had one of them compliment me on my improved work ethic. Nice, huh? Just goes to show that all teachers are looking for is a kid who sits still in class, and doesn't talk back. They'd be just as happy if I replaced myself with a cardboard cut-out.
My mother reappeared in a short black dress and nylons. She still had a nice set of legs, but I wished she wouldn't wear so much makeup all the time. She had exchanged one face for another, trading her smudgy black eyes and dark red lips that made good tips at the bar, for shimmery, silver-blue eyelids and a wet, glossy mouth. I imagined kissing her would be like kissing a cosmetics counter, all that goop would come away on your face and hands; it was almost grotesque. So used was I to seeing her with makeup, that without it, she always looked sick and washed out. Without eyeliner, her eyes seemed smaller, squinty and pink and mole-like, and her lips looked thin and dull. All that preening, deception, really, and for what? To impress some guy? It hardly seemed worth it, especially given her rather low expectations when it came to the opposite sex.
She stood in front of me and turned her back so I could do up her dress. "Are you going out tonight, sweetie?"
I shook my head. "No way, I'm beat. I'm just gonna veg, and go to bed early. Where are you headed?"
"Nowhere," she said, looking at me oddly. "You don't really have the flu, do you?"
I supposed staying home and turning in early weren't typical Portman behaviour. Why did people always have such fixed expectations of me? "No, mom, I'm just tired."
I didn't tell her that I'd blown off plans to go out with the boys that night, or that I'd been doing a lot of that lately. None of the kids I knew were anywhere near as interesting or fun to be with as Fulton (which was kinda weird, considering how quiet he was). I'd asked him several times to hang out with me, go dirtbiking or catch a movie or whatever, but he always said he was busy, citing work or some other excuse.
"Uh, Dean?" My mom was in the kitchen, trying to look busy. She was twisting her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit, and a sure sign that something bad was coming. "Bud's coming for dinner and he said he'd really love it if you were there, so if you're not doing anything, maybe you could join us."
Bingo. And now I was trapped; I should have told her I had plans. "Mom," I began, but she cut me off.
"He's such a nice man, and he really wants to get to know you..."
Yeah, I bet he does. "Christ, Mom, the guy looks like a kiddie rapist!" That really pissed her off, and I had to backpedal a bit. "Fine. I'll make dinner, swap a few words with Bud, and then that's it, okay?"
Hardly my idea of a fun evening, but my mom was very grateful, so I put a few steaks on to broil, and when Bud came over, I gritted my teeth and pretended to enjoy his hearty back slaps and asinine jokes. It took longer than I expected, because Bud liked his steak well-done, if you can believe it. What kind of pansy eats well-done steak? The same kind who thinks jokes about "chinamen" are the height of humour, I imagine. Bud. What a stupid fucking name.
I was wolfing down my steak as fast as I could, and was just beginning to think I'd escape the meal unscathed, when the man broke off from sweet- talking my mom, and turned to me. "So, Dean, Mary tells me you play hockey. How's that working out for you?"
I saw my mom, her eyes fixed on mine, mouth frozen in a wide, skeletal smile, silently begging me to be nice. "Great, really great." My stomach twisted in nausea as I spoke. I was disgusted with my mother and with Bud, with this whole stupid charade, but mostly with myself for playing along.
"Bet it helps with the ladies, eh, son?" he flashed me a leering smile and an exaggerated wink, burying his elbow in my ribs just in case I hadn't got the message the first few times.
Once more, I could feel the weight of my mother's gaze, but this time, I couldn't help myself. "You have no idea. I mean, where would I be without hockey? Just some loser virgin kid, jacking off into a sweatsock, instead of the father of three illegitimate children, with a fourth on the way, I'm told. Oh, don't worry," I continued ruthlessly, ignoring their shocked expressions. "They're all different mothers. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's not to make the same mistake twice, am I right, Bud?" Now it was my turn to elbow him in the ribs, winking and grinning lasciviously.
He smiled back nervously, obviously unsure whether I was serious or not. "Oh, my, would you look at the time!" I exclaimed, rising from my seat. "I'm afraid I'm late for another deflowering, so if you'll excuse me..."
As I shut the front door behind me, I could hear my mother giggling nervously. "Kids!" she sighed, in a what-can-you-do voice. And then, "More steak, Bud?"
It was raining outside.
My boots were old and full of holes, and the rain kept leaking in and soaking my socks, and if you can think of anything more depressing than walking around a shitty Minneapolis neighbourhood in the rain with wet socks, I'd love to hear it.
The familiarity of the situation was sickening; how many times had this happened before? Normally, the first thing I'd do was surround myself with loud, drunken people, and then get loud and drunk myself. Drink a little beer, raise a little hell, and before you know it, Bud is gone, replaced by the next guy in line, and you get to start all over again. It was the dance we did; you got lost in the music for a while, but the steps never changed. Turn, dip, turn, ignore your aching feet and above all, keep smiling, because this was a dance, and everyone knew that dances were supposed to be fun. Whee.
It was early yet, and there were still plenty of people about; normal people, I mean, with real jobs, not the kind who spent all night out here, buying or selling or whatever. These people, I called them lifers, because you knew they were never going anywhere, and because their lives seemed like prison sentences handed down by the government, or the welfare office, or whoever else it was who controlled their lives. They walked quickly and purposefully, eyes downcast. They reminded me of the horses you'd see in old movies, whose masters had put blinders on their eyes so they could only see straight ahead, and would stay focussed on the task at hand. For both the blinded horses and the blinded lifers, the task at hand was transit. The lifers never made eye contact with anyone, never looked up at the sound of sirens, or cries, human or otherwise. They kept their eyes on their feet, and their minds on their destinations. I wanted to scream at them: "Where are you going? Where do you have to be that's so fucking important?"
Across the street, an old, rusty truck cruised to a halt, engine idling. One of the women who were standing on the corner strutted over, hips swaying exaggeratedly. She leant over and exchanged a few words with the driver, then walked around to the passenger side, and got in, waving goodbye to her friends, or co-workers, or whatever you wanted to call them. An old woman with a bulging garbage bag slung over her shoulder was rooting through the trash can in front of a 24-hour billiard room. The pool hall was called, for some unfathomable reason, the Electric Bull, though the flickering neon sign read only: the tric Bu. Ahead of me, a movie was just letting out; a few dozen people, all of them men, all of them alone, began trickling out into the streets. As I passed the theatre, my eyes fell on a faded movie poster displayed in a cracked plastic case. A dark-haired woman with impossibly large breasts gazed sultrily at the passerby; "Gigi and the go-go girls: they're hot to trot," the poster proclaimed giddily.
The rain hadn't let up; the wet pavement sparkled and refelected back tiny pinpoints of light, like millions of glistening diamonds. No diamonds here, I couldn't help thinking. More like cubic zirconia. Or better yet, broken glass. I noticed how few of the people were carrying umbrellas; they mostly just flipped up their collars, lowered their heads and ploughed on. I knew this had some kind of significance, but I couldn't think what it might be. Fulton would know, I bet. Fulton...
Five minutes later, I was outside his house, knocking on the basement window. No one answered. I tried to peer through the dirty glass, but I couldn't make anything out. When his face suddenly appeared, it was like something out of a horror movie, and I jumped back, knocking over a garbage can, and sending a fat raccoon waddling away with an angry hiss.
"Fuck me, Fult, you scared the hell out of me!" I cried.
He pushed the window open and I squatted down in front of it. "Hi."
He looked at me with that thousand-yard stare of his, dark eyes giving nothing away. "How did you--" he began.
"Find this place? I was curious, so last week after practice, I doubled back and followed you. I watched you climb through this window. Do you live down here?"
"My apartment's on the first floor, but I sleep down here. Do you always follow people home?"
"Nope," I said cheerfully. "Only the ones I like. Wish I had a basement to myself." He said nothing. I shook the water out of my eyes and tried a laugh, which came out as nervous and rather forced. "Look, I didn't mean to bother you or anything. I was just hanging around, and I thought about you and... there's this party over on Carlson if you wanted to, I don't know..." I let my voice trail off.
He shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know, man. Parties, they're..."
"Not really your thing, I know. That's cool. We still on for tomorrow night?" He nodded. "Okay, guess I'll see you then. Oh, we got an afternoon game against, uh..."
"The Braves, I know. I'll be there."
"You will? Great! Well, I guess that's it..." Alright, Portman, this is the part where you stand up and walk away. But I didn't move.
"Portman, what's wrong?"
"Huh?"
"What are you really doing here?"
I leaned my forehead against the side of the building. Why was this so hard? "Shit, Fult, I don't know. I just... do you ever feel like all you're doing is staying alive from moment to moment, out of spite, or stubbornness, like a kind of fuck you to god, or fate, or whatever. You ever feel like that?" I didn't look at him, just kept my face pressed against the cool brick wall, my eyes closed.
"Every day."
He spoke quietly, but with a degree of emotion that was staggering. I opened my eyes. He was staring at me, and this time there was a smile on his face, lightweight and tentative, like it would break off and fly away if you made a loud noise, or any sudden movement. "Do you want to... come inside?"
"Only if you want me to."
His smile seemed strengthened by that, and he stepped back from the window to let me in. "I do."
It was as cold in the basement as it was outside, and almost as wet. The concrete walls were cracked, water running down them in tiny little rivulets. More dripped from the ceiling, and a couple paint cans were strategically placed around the room to catch the worst of it.
I followed Fulton into his room. The walls here were made of concrete as well, but some kind of rubbery insulation stuff seemed to be keeping out most of the leaks; there was only a single paint can in one corner, and the floor and walls were mostly dry. The rest of the basement smelled like rusty metal and dead things, but here, the pervading odours were wet clothes and marijuana. I loved that smell; I'd buy weed-scented air- fresheners if they sold them and when I told this to Fulton, he agreed heartily. It was a happy smell, one that always made me think of Johnny and the greenhouse, and good times.
There was a bare mattress on the floor against one wall, and a piece of plywood resting on cinder blocks in front of a three-legged stool that must have served as a desk, and that was about it. Clothes and books and CDs were strewn about, overflowing from the two large cardboard boxes that stood at the foot of the bed. The only other item was a small, battered ghetto blaster resting on the makeshift desk, its chord running into an outlet set high into the wall. All this was secondary, however, to the things he'd painted on the around the room. Not pictures, but words. Weird words. As in foreign language weird.
There was one that I recognised; on the inside on his door was a large red anarchy "A." The paint had dripped a bit, and dried in thin streams that looked like bloody tears. On the wall beside the desk, the words "Nemo me impune lacessit" had been scrawled in black paint, and the ceiling above the bed held the following: "Nolite te illigitimi carborundorum."
I could tell Fulton was nervous to have me in here, and I wanted to put him at ease, so I flopped down on the bed, fixing a look of only mild curiosity on my face. "Not much of a painter, are you?"
It was exactly the right thing to say. He grinned broadly, and shook his head ruefully. "Believe me, I tried, but I'm pretty hopeless."
"Oh well, not everyone can be born with my talent."
"Yeah? You paint or something?"
"Just tagging and graffiti, mostly. You know, for fun. It's not my fault I'm so damn good."
He raised an eyebrow. "So you're gonna be the next Basquiat?" he asked teasingly.
"Hell yeah! I'm a young, poor, angry white boy. I'm telling you, man, that shit sells. And how about you, huh? What language is that, anyway?"
He mumbled something I could hear. "What?"
"It's Latin."
"Yeah, right. Really?" He shrugged.
"Hmm..."
"What is it?" he asked defensively.
"Nothing, that's just... cool. I've never known someone who speaks Latin before. How'd you learn it? I thought they only taught it in prep schools and Europe and stuff."
"Yeah, I picked it up from books."
Well, that was something I hadn't expected. Not like I knew, or anything, but that didn't sound like the sort of thing anyone could do, and certainly not the sort of thing that anyone *would* do. I imagined Fulton sitting on his bed, or at his sorry-ass desk, poring over some thick, dusty Latin book. Weird. But cool. Definitely cool. Guess he had more of a brain that I gave him credit for.
"You know," I said thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling so I wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "I'm not going to keep accepting all the excuses you have for not hanging out with me. Now that I know where you live, I'll be dropping by more often, whether you like it or not. So you better get used to me."
His eyes were twinkling as he smiled at me. He looked really nice when he smiled; I wished he'd do it more often. "Is that so?"
"You better believe it. Hey, I got an idea! Do you have any more spray- paint?"
Fulton went out into the basement, and came back with an armload of cans, which he dumped on the bed. "Perfect."
Two hours and three cans of spray paint later, Fulton's room was looking good. I'd shown him the basics of graffiti art, how to adjust the spray, how to use lots of colours without them blending together, and while he was no natural, he was decent enough. Together we painted band names and logos on his walls, and I did some drawings, at Fulton's request: a pot leaf, a stylized elephant, an guy impaled with a bunch of steak knives, and a big eye with the words "we never sleep" written below it. Fulton had painted more messages, or quotes, or whatever they were, this time in stylish, colourful lettering: "Klaatu Barada Nikto" (not more Latin, it was from one of the Evil Dead movies, the third one, I think), "stoned immaculate," (from a Jim Morrison poem) and my favourite: "there is no gravity, the Earth just sucks."
Once we ran out of wall space, we moved outside, and practiced tagging on the brick wall of his building. I helped Fult come up with a name and design his tag: stick man, because he was always carrying that hockey stick of his. Plus, there was the irony of a guy his size going by "stick man." I had been "chaos" for years, and my tags were very well-known around my old neighbourhood. I'd been meaning to get out and tag some stuff around here. It had stopped raining by then, the streets had emptied now that night had fallen, and we roamed around, looking for fresh targets. A city bus was our first victim, then the school, of course (it was classic; if you asked me, anyone who has never spray-painted their school is missing out on a fundamental right of passage for all youth) and the MLA office of one Gary Holdcroft. That last one had been Fulton's idea.
"Fucking Republicans," he'd sneered. "And could the guy be any more corrupt? He just signed over that park behind the hockey rink; they're turning into a mini-mall this spring. Wonder how much he made on *that* deal?" And so he'd painted "the idiots have taken over" on the large, plate- glass window. Our crowning achievement, however, had to be the police car. Fulton stood watch while I painted a large roast pig lying on a platter with an apple in his mouth, and a cop's hat on his head, on the side of a cruiser parked outside the "Ye Olde Doughnut Shoppe." Beneath it I wrote the words: "Eat shit, piggy."
After that we retired to the skate park to smoke weed and set off some firecrackers I had saved from Halloween; it wouldn't do to get caught after that last stunt. Cops got mean when they were humiliated. "Serves them right for eating doughnuts," I said scornfully. "I mean, how clichéd is that? And in a place called "Ye Olde Doughnut Shoppe? What the fuck is a "shoppe?""
I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun with someone who wasn't Johnny. It was as if we'd bypassed all the steps you were supposed to take when getting to know a person, and went right to the spot where you knew what they were thinking without them telling you. Two weeks of skating, and one night of painting, and I felt like I'd known him forever, even if there were still plenty of things I didn't understand. There were dozens of questions I wanted to ask him, but I sensed that might frighten him off, so I kept my mouth shut.
We were lying on our backs beside the bowl. The smell of charred grass and gunpowder making my nose itch, but I didn't care. Tonight had been like something out of a movie; a Gus Van Sant film, perhaps, or maybe Greg Araki, but with undercurrents of Tim Burton: Fulton reminded me of Edward Scissorhands.
"Hey, Fult?"
"Mm-hm?"
"Those Latin words in your room, what do they mean?"
"One means: "don't let the bastards grind you down" or something to that effect, and the other means: "no one attacks me with impunity.""
"Impunity?"
"Without retribution."
"Wow. Good advice."
"You think so?"
"Oh yeah, especially the first one. Words to live by. It should be our motto, you know, like on those old family crests people hang in their dens. Think you can teach it to me?"
"You want to learn Latin? It'd take awhile."
"Okay, then not the whole language, just those words."
"Well, since you've taught me to skate and paint, I figure it's the least I can do."
"Really? When can we start?"
He paused for a moment, then grinned. "What are you doing tomorrow?"
And the rest, as they say, is history. Or, as they say in Latin: antiquitas.
Cake-Eater: My girl! You're the only person who noticed the Bombay thing! I was rather surprised that no one else mentioned it, but I knew you wouldn't let me down, and you didn't! Sorry about the review thing, I guess I meant chapter three; I'm an idiot. But you love me anyway, right? I know it was a weird image to end the last chapter on, but I liked it. I've been reading a lot of post-modern stuff lately, so if my writing gets a little strange imagery-wise, that's the reason. If it bothers you, let me know, and I'll let up (that goes for anyone). I'd been missing my fluffy Bashie cuteness so much, I had to douse the last chapter in it. What can I say? I'm hopelessly addicted.
Kelly: I know what you're talking about, believe me; all my family lives in Saskatchewan, and while I hate most things about their weather, the sunsets, stars and thunderstorms are not among them. And aurora borealis? If we got that here, I'd be in heaven... glad you liked to hear the Bashes' political rantings... more to come. The US is a great country, but they're scared and angry, and I think they're making some bad decisions. I can't help thinking: If Al Gore was here, this wouldn't be happening. I really liked that guy...
Star: Ooh, I'm really glad you like the lengths of my chapters, and relieved, since this one is no shorter. I too enjoy longer updates, and Kelly agrees with you, so I'm happy as a pig in shit! I think you're crazy enough to benefit from electroshock therapy, no matter what you think of Axl Rose (kidding! That stuff is scary; have you read/seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?). Got a little Nick Stahl in there for you to spot, let me know if you find it!
QteCuttlfish: Okay, I have to ask: what does *g* mean? I've seen *bg* too. Forgive the computer virgin! Don't worry, I know exactly how it feels to finish a fic and want more immediately; I'm flattered my story produces this effect!
RockAndRoll: "Informative and passionate," huh? That's what I go for; my life is ruled by a combination of passion and information, and I always imagined Fulton as being the same. Probably just my obsessive love, but yeah. Going to school with the Bashes would beat the shit out of heaven, if you ask me! Something else that beats heaven: Billy Elliot, I totally agree with you there. If that movie can make *me* want to be a dancer, than you know it's something special, given that being forced into ballet for one year at age six before I was kicked out for beating up another kid (she deserved it, the snotty little bitch) was one of the worst experience of my life. And a fellow Clash addict? lycanthrope loves your taste in music as much as Fulton does: how bout the Sex Pistols?
Grasshopper: *drags Portman over, and attaches him to Grasshopper's ankle with a pair of handcuffs* Here you go, your own personal hetero slut puppy. Enjoy.
Graceful Fall: Hey, you've been reviewing all my stories! Thank you, and I'm glad you like. Cool name.
Solis, Tai and Selena: Don't know if you guys are reading or not, but if you are: UPDATE, YOU CHICKENSHIT MOTHERFUCKERS! You're killing me, you really are. But I love you guys anyway, and as soon as you update, I'll be kissing your asses all over again. Pay me no mind.
SchizoAuthoress: Because I felt like using your full name this time... Aww, you got me all choked with your review of chapter seven, you naughty little thing... you're too kind. And crazy sexy cool, too, of course. Incense and peppermint... now that'll always make me think of you...
Okay, now that *that's* done... I'll be starting on a new chapter of A World Apart: Wolfsbane now, so it might be awhile before the next update. Don't worry, it won't be too long, things are moving pretty fast now, and that means lots of inspiration.
Portman's POV:
I was lying in the living room, stretched out on the old futon that we'd had for as long as I could remember. I had an open bottle of Stella in one hand--Bud must have sprung for it, my mom never bought imported beer--and was eating an apple while I watched a Roadrunner cartoon on TV.
I didn't look up as my mom came in, raising a hand in acknowledgement and mumbling a greeting instead--this was one of my favourites. The coyote had filled the space between two large, overhead cliff walls with boulders, supported by planks and tethered to a string. When the roadrunner stopped beneath the deadly device to eat the seeds lain out as bait, he yanked the string. Nothing happened, of course; the boulders remained impossibly suspended and the roadrunner finished his meal and took off with a cheeky "meep-meep," leaving a tail of dust behind him. The coyote was understandably miffed, after all, it had seemed like a fool-proof plan, and stood beneath the trap, angrily jabbing the rocks with a pole. A cascade of pebbles began to fall, and the coyote turned to the audience with a stricken expression and held up a small sign: For the love of God, why am I doing this? And then he was crushed by the falling boulders.
The show cut to commercial; it took awhile for me to finish laughing, but when I did I twisted around to face my mother. "Did you say something?"
"I asked if you got the mail. And my cigarettes."
"On the counter by the phone. Leave the bills, I'll get to them in a day or two." My mom was a total space case, and even worse at math than I was, so I always took care of the bills and things.
"You know," she called over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom. "I got a call from your school at work today. They said you've barely been in for the past couple weeks."
I waited until the sound of running water had died before responding. "Oh yeah? What'd you tell them?"
"That you'd caught a bad case of the flu, but would be back on Monday. Is that it sweetie," her voice took on a teasing note. "Did you have the flu?"
"Oh yeah," I said dryly, "fever, vomiting, the whole works. It's been awful."
She emerged from the bathroom, rubbing her face with a hand towel, and tipped me a wink before disappearing into her bedroom to get changed. "Well, dear, I hope you feel better soon."
"Your concern is touching."
It had been almost two weeks since Fulton's first skating lesson, and we'd been to the rink every night since. We'd decided to take a break tonight to rest up, and I was looking forward to a little R + R. We could never grab more than a couple hours of sleep before school started, and as a result, our attendance was lagging a bit. When we did show up, we slept through every class; needless to say, our teachers were overjoyed, and I even had one of them compliment me on my improved work ethic. Nice, huh? Just goes to show that all teachers are looking for is a kid who sits still in class, and doesn't talk back. They'd be just as happy if I replaced myself with a cardboard cut-out.
My mother reappeared in a short black dress and nylons. She still had a nice set of legs, but I wished she wouldn't wear so much makeup all the time. She had exchanged one face for another, trading her smudgy black eyes and dark red lips that made good tips at the bar, for shimmery, silver-blue eyelids and a wet, glossy mouth. I imagined kissing her would be like kissing a cosmetics counter, all that goop would come away on your face and hands; it was almost grotesque. So used was I to seeing her with makeup, that without it, she always looked sick and washed out. Without eyeliner, her eyes seemed smaller, squinty and pink and mole-like, and her lips looked thin and dull. All that preening, deception, really, and for what? To impress some guy? It hardly seemed worth it, especially given her rather low expectations when it came to the opposite sex.
She stood in front of me and turned her back so I could do up her dress. "Are you going out tonight, sweetie?"
I shook my head. "No way, I'm beat. I'm just gonna veg, and go to bed early. Where are you headed?"
"Nowhere," she said, looking at me oddly. "You don't really have the flu, do you?"
I supposed staying home and turning in early weren't typical Portman behaviour. Why did people always have such fixed expectations of me? "No, mom, I'm just tired."
I didn't tell her that I'd blown off plans to go out with the boys that night, or that I'd been doing a lot of that lately. None of the kids I knew were anywhere near as interesting or fun to be with as Fulton (which was kinda weird, considering how quiet he was). I'd asked him several times to hang out with me, go dirtbiking or catch a movie or whatever, but he always said he was busy, citing work or some other excuse.
"Uh, Dean?" My mom was in the kitchen, trying to look busy. She was twisting her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit, and a sure sign that something bad was coming. "Bud's coming for dinner and he said he'd really love it if you were there, so if you're not doing anything, maybe you could join us."
Bingo. And now I was trapped; I should have told her I had plans. "Mom," I began, but she cut me off.
"He's such a nice man, and he really wants to get to know you..."
Yeah, I bet he does. "Christ, Mom, the guy looks like a kiddie rapist!" That really pissed her off, and I had to backpedal a bit. "Fine. I'll make dinner, swap a few words with Bud, and then that's it, okay?"
Hardly my idea of a fun evening, but my mom was very grateful, so I put a few steaks on to broil, and when Bud came over, I gritted my teeth and pretended to enjoy his hearty back slaps and asinine jokes. It took longer than I expected, because Bud liked his steak well-done, if you can believe it. What kind of pansy eats well-done steak? The same kind who thinks jokes about "chinamen" are the height of humour, I imagine. Bud. What a stupid fucking name.
I was wolfing down my steak as fast as I could, and was just beginning to think I'd escape the meal unscathed, when the man broke off from sweet- talking my mom, and turned to me. "So, Dean, Mary tells me you play hockey. How's that working out for you?"
I saw my mom, her eyes fixed on mine, mouth frozen in a wide, skeletal smile, silently begging me to be nice. "Great, really great." My stomach twisted in nausea as I spoke. I was disgusted with my mother and with Bud, with this whole stupid charade, but mostly with myself for playing along.
"Bet it helps with the ladies, eh, son?" he flashed me a leering smile and an exaggerated wink, burying his elbow in my ribs just in case I hadn't got the message the first few times.
Once more, I could feel the weight of my mother's gaze, but this time, I couldn't help myself. "You have no idea. I mean, where would I be without hockey? Just some loser virgin kid, jacking off into a sweatsock, instead of the father of three illegitimate children, with a fourth on the way, I'm told. Oh, don't worry," I continued ruthlessly, ignoring their shocked expressions. "They're all different mothers. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's not to make the same mistake twice, am I right, Bud?" Now it was my turn to elbow him in the ribs, winking and grinning lasciviously.
He smiled back nervously, obviously unsure whether I was serious or not. "Oh, my, would you look at the time!" I exclaimed, rising from my seat. "I'm afraid I'm late for another deflowering, so if you'll excuse me..."
As I shut the front door behind me, I could hear my mother giggling nervously. "Kids!" she sighed, in a what-can-you-do voice. And then, "More steak, Bud?"
It was raining outside.
My boots were old and full of holes, and the rain kept leaking in and soaking my socks, and if you can think of anything more depressing than walking around a shitty Minneapolis neighbourhood in the rain with wet socks, I'd love to hear it.
The familiarity of the situation was sickening; how many times had this happened before? Normally, the first thing I'd do was surround myself with loud, drunken people, and then get loud and drunk myself. Drink a little beer, raise a little hell, and before you know it, Bud is gone, replaced by the next guy in line, and you get to start all over again. It was the dance we did; you got lost in the music for a while, but the steps never changed. Turn, dip, turn, ignore your aching feet and above all, keep smiling, because this was a dance, and everyone knew that dances were supposed to be fun. Whee.
It was early yet, and there were still plenty of people about; normal people, I mean, with real jobs, not the kind who spent all night out here, buying or selling or whatever. These people, I called them lifers, because you knew they were never going anywhere, and because their lives seemed like prison sentences handed down by the government, or the welfare office, or whoever else it was who controlled their lives. They walked quickly and purposefully, eyes downcast. They reminded me of the horses you'd see in old movies, whose masters had put blinders on their eyes so they could only see straight ahead, and would stay focussed on the task at hand. For both the blinded horses and the blinded lifers, the task at hand was transit. The lifers never made eye contact with anyone, never looked up at the sound of sirens, or cries, human or otherwise. They kept their eyes on their feet, and their minds on their destinations. I wanted to scream at them: "Where are you going? Where do you have to be that's so fucking important?"
Across the street, an old, rusty truck cruised to a halt, engine idling. One of the women who were standing on the corner strutted over, hips swaying exaggeratedly. She leant over and exchanged a few words with the driver, then walked around to the passenger side, and got in, waving goodbye to her friends, or co-workers, or whatever you wanted to call them. An old woman with a bulging garbage bag slung over her shoulder was rooting through the trash can in front of a 24-hour billiard room. The pool hall was called, for some unfathomable reason, the Electric Bull, though the flickering neon sign read only: the tric Bu. Ahead of me, a movie was just letting out; a few dozen people, all of them men, all of them alone, began trickling out into the streets. As I passed the theatre, my eyes fell on a faded movie poster displayed in a cracked plastic case. A dark-haired woman with impossibly large breasts gazed sultrily at the passerby; "Gigi and the go-go girls: they're hot to trot," the poster proclaimed giddily.
The rain hadn't let up; the wet pavement sparkled and refelected back tiny pinpoints of light, like millions of glistening diamonds. No diamonds here, I couldn't help thinking. More like cubic zirconia. Or better yet, broken glass. I noticed how few of the people were carrying umbrellas; they mostly just flipped up their collars, lowered their heads and ploughed on. I knew this had some kind of significance, but I couldn't think what it might be. Fulton would know, I bet. Fulton...
Five minutes later, I was outside his house, knocking on the basement window. No one answered. I tried to peer through the dirty glass, but I couldn't make anything out. When his face suddenly appeared, it was like something out of a horror movie, and I jumped back, knocking over a garbage can, and sending a fat raccoon waddling away with an angry hiss.
"Fuck me, Fult, you scared the hell out of me!" I cried.
He pushed the window open and I squatted down in front of it. "Hi."
He looked at me with that thousand-yard stare of his, dark eyes giving nothing away. "How did you--" he began.
"Find this place? I was curious, so last week after practice, I doubled back and followed you. I watched you climb through this window. Do you live down here?"
"My apartment's on the first floor, but I sleep down here. Do you always follow people home?"
"Nope," I said cheerfully. "Only the ones I like. Wish I had a basement to myself." He said nothing. I shook the water out of my eyes and tried a laugh, which came out as nervous and rather forced. "Look, I didn't mean to bother you or anything. I was just hanging around, and I thought about you and... there's this party over on Carlson if you wanted to, I don't know..." I let my voice trail off.
He shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know, man. Parties, they're..."
"Not really your thing, I know. That's cool. We still on for tomorrow night?" He nodded. "Okay, guess I'll see you then. Oh, we got an afternoon game against, uh..."
"The Braves, I know. I'll be there."
"You will? Great! Well, I guess that's it..." Alright, Portman, this is the part where you stand up and walk away. But I didn't move.
"Portman, what's wrong?"
"Huh?"
"What are you really doing here?"
I leaned my forehead against the side of the building. Why was this so hard? "Shit, Fult, I don't know. I just... do you ever feel like all you're doing is staying alive from moment to moment, out of spite, or stubbornness, like a kind of fuck you to god, or fate, or whatever. You ever feel like that?" I didn't look at him, just kept my face pressed against the cool brick wall, my eyes closed.
"Every day."
He spoke quietly, but with a degree of emotion that was staggering. I opened my eyes. He was staring at me, and this time there was a smile on his face, lightweight and tentative, like it would break off and fly away if you made a loud noise, or any sudden movement. "Do you want to... come inside?"
"Only if you want me to."
His smile seemed strengthened by that, and he stepped back from the window to let me in. "I do."
It was as cold in the basement as it was outside, and almost as wet. The concrete walls were cracked, water running down them in tiny little rivulets. More dripped from the ceiling, and a couple paint cans were strategically placed around the room to catch the worst of it.
I followed Fulton into his room. The walls here were made of concrete as well, but some kind of rubbery insulation stuff seemed to be keeping out most of the leaks; there was only a single paint can in one corner, and the floor and walls were mostly dry. The rest of the basement smelled like rusty metal and dead things, but here, the pervading odours were wet clothes and marijuana. I loved that smell; I'd buy weed-scented air- fresheners if they sold them and when I told this to Fulton, he agreed heartily. It was a happy smell, one that always made me think of Johnny and the greenhouse, and good times.
There was a bare mattress on the floor against one wall, and a piece of plywood resting on cinder blocks in front of a three-legged stool that must have served as a desk, and that was about it. Clothes and books and CDs were strewn about, overflowing from the two large cardboard boxes that stood at the foot of the bed. The only other item was a small, battered ghetto blaster resting on the makeshift desk, its chord running into an outlet set high into the wall. All this was secondary, however, to the things he'd painted on the around the room. Not pictures, but words. Weird words. As in foreign language weird.
There was one that I recognised; on the inside on his door was a large red anarchy "A." The paint had dripped a bit, and dried in thin streams that looked like bloody tears. On the wall beside the desk, the words "Nemo me impune lacessit" had been scrawled in black paint, and the ceiling above the bed held the following: "Nolite te illigitimi carborundorum."
I could tell Fulton was nervous to have me in here, and I wanted to put him at ease, so I flopped down on the bed, fixing a look of only mild curiosity on my face. "Not much of a painter, are you?"
It was exactly the right thing to say. He grinned broadly, and shook his head ruefully. "Believe me, I tried, but I'm pretty hopeless."
"Oh well, not everyone can be born with my talent."
"Yeah? You paint or something?"
"Just tagging and graffiti, mostly. You know, for fun. It's not my fault I'm so damn good."
He raised an eyebrow. "So you're gonna be the next Basquiat?" he asked teasingly.
"Hell yeah! I'm a young, poor, angry white boy. I'm telling you, man, that shit sells. And how about you, huh? What language is that, anyway?"
He mumbled something I could hear. "What?"
"It's Latin."
"Yeah, right. Really?" He shrugged.
"Hmm..."
"What is it?" he asked defensively.
"Nothing, that's just... cool. I've never known someone who speaks Latin before. How'd you learn it? I thought they only taught it in prep schools and Europe and stuff."
"Yeah, I picked it up from books."
Well, that was something I hadn't expected. Not like I knew, or anything, but that didn't sound like the sort of thing anyone could do, and certainly not the sort of thing that anyone *would* do. I imagined Fulton sitting on his bed, or at his sorry-ass desk, poring over some thick, dusty Latin book. Weird. But cool. Definitely cool. Guess he had more of a brain that I gave him credit for.
"You know," I said thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling so I wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "I'm not going to keep accepting all the excuses you have for not hanging out with me. Now that I know where you live, I'll be dropping by more often, whether you like it or not. So you better get used to me."
His eyes were twinkling as he smiled at me. He looked really nice when he smiled; I wished he'd do it more often. "Is that so?"
"You better believe it. Hey, I got an idea! Do you have any more spray- paint?"
Fulton went out into the basement, and came back with an armload of cans, which he dumped on the bed. "Perfect."
Two hours and three cans of spray paint later, Fulton's room was looking good. I'd shown him the basics of graffiti art, how to adjust the spray, how to use lots of colours without them blending together, and while he was no natural, he was decent enough. Together we painted band names and logos on his walls, and I did some drawings, at Fulton's request: a pot leaf, a stylized elephant, an guy impaled with a bunch of steak knives, and a big eye with the words "we never sleep" written below it. Fulton had painted more messages, or quotes, or whatever they were, this time in stylish, colourful lettering: "Klaatu Barada Nikto" (not more Latin, it was from one of the Evil Dead movies, the third one, I think), "stoned immaculate," (from a Jim Morrison poem) and my favourite: "there is no gravity, the Earth just sucks."
Once we ran out of wall space, we moved outside, and practiced tagging on the brick wall of his building. I helped Fult come up with a name and design his tag: stick man, because he was always carrying that hockey stick of his. Plus, there was the irony of a guy his size going by "stick man." I had been "chaos" for years, and my tags were very well-known around my old neighbourhood. I'd been meaning to get out and tag some stuff around here. It had stopped raining by then, the streets had emptied now that night had fallen, and we roamed around, looking for fresh targets. A city bus was our first victim, then the school, of course (it was classic; if you asked me, anyone who has never spray-painted their school is missing out on a fundamental right of passage for all youth) and the MLA office of one Gary Holdcroft. That last one had been Fulton's idea.
"Fucking Republicans," he'd sneered. "And could the guy be any more corrupt? He just signed over that park behind the hockey rink; they're turning into a mini-mall this spring. Wonder how much he made on *that* deal?" And so he'd painted "the idiots have taken over" on the large, plate- glass window. Our crowning achievement, however, had to be the police car. Fulton stood watch while I painted a large roast pig lying on a platter with an apple in his mouth, and a cop's hat on his head, on the side of a cruiser parked outside the "Ye Olde Doughnut Shoppe." Beneath it I wrote the words: "Eat shit, piggy."
After that we retired to the skate park to smoke weed and set off some firecrackers I had saved from Halloween; it wouldn't do to get caught after that last stunt. Cops got mean when they were humiliated. "Serves them right for eating doughnuts," I said scornfully. "I mean, how clichéd is that? And in a place called "Ye Olde Doughnut Shoppe? What the fuck is a "shoppe?""
I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun with someone who wasn't Johnny. It was as if we'd bypassed all the steps you were supposed to take when getting to know a person, and went right to the spot where you knew what they were thinking without them telling you. Two weeks of skating, and one night of painting, and I felt like I'd known him forever, even if there were still plenty of things I didn't understand. There were dozens of questions I wanted to ask him, but I sensed that might frighten him off, so I kept my mouth shut.
We were lying on our backs beside the bowl. The smell of charred grass and gunpowder making my nose itch, but I didn't care. Tonight had been like something out of a movie; a Gus Van Sant film, perhaps, or maybe Greg Araki, but with undercurrents of Tim Burton: Fulton reminded me of Edward Scissorhands.
"Hey, Fult?"
"Mm-hm?"
"Those Latin words in your room, what do they mean?"
"One means: "don't let the bastards grind you down" or something to that effect, and the other means: "no one attacks me with impunity.""
"Impunity?"
"Without retribution."
"Wow. Good advice."
"You think so?"
"Oh yeah, especially the first one. Words to live by. It should be our motto, you know, like on those old family crests people hang in their dens. Think you can teach it to me?"
"You want to learn Latin? It'd take awhile."
"Okay, then not the whole language, just those words."
"Well, since you've taught me to skate and paint, I figure it's the least I can do."
"Really? When can we start?"
He paused for a moment, then grinned. "What are you doing tomorrow?"
And the rest, as they say, is history. Or, as they say in Latin: antiquitas.