This Could Be Anywhere But Here

Chapter Two

Day two and it still hasn't sunk in that I'm back here in South Park yet. Yesterday was mostly spent cornered with questions and lectures from my parents. Mom keeps saying that there are plenty of options open for me because I have a Communications degree, so I shouldn't be this indecisive on a career choice. I already know it leaves a lot of options open—that's why I chose it. You can't get any more general than Communications, except for Liberal Arts, but who takes that seriously? I barely take this seriously.

Basing your major off the sole reason to keep yourself in sports isn't the best idea that you can come up with. My freshman year of college—when I was still officially "undecided"—I overheard an upperclassman talking about one of his assignments. All he had to do was keep up with the news and then write a report on what he saw during the week. I quickly tuned my ears closer to the conversation because that sounded easy enough. I watch TV anyway. Then, the guy mentioned a public speaking course. I never really had trouble with that, so that was another pro on the list.

I decided my major through eavesdropping. Who does that?

Academics always took a backseat to my interest in sports, though. It's been like that forever. When I was younger, it was football. Then it was hockey. Now, it's baseball and has been for the last seven years.

I knew that if I had any shot of playing ball for college it required good grades. I wanted the easiest way possible to achieve them—something that wasn't piled with required reading and thick essays. Sure, I still had to do work, but in comparison to other studies? Communications sounded like a breeze.

Thought it was a genius move at the time, but now I don't know what to do with this degree that I don't even feel like I've earned.

Today, Mom has spent half the afternoon preparing dinner. She keeps calling it her "Welcome Home Dinner."

I'm actually looking forward to it. I used to take her cooking for granted, valuing pizza and soda over a well-cooked meal, but I guess you don't realize how much you miss something until you're eating cups of soup that are 69 cents every night.

"Bet you didn't feel like comin' back home after all that college partying, huh, Stan? All those chicks?" Dad nudges me in the arm with his elbow and suggestively raises his eyebrows while we eat at the dinner table. He's always trying to be cool with me. Referring to girls as chicks, saying things like: getting totally wasted, and my all-time favorite: smokin' a doobie.

"Yeah, I remember when I was in college. It was party all the time. We slept all day, even through class, and partied all night. Those were the days. Me and the guys. We even had competitions on who would get the most chicks. Back then—"

"Randy," Mom interrupts his slightly over-embellished trip down memory lane and he shoots a quick glance her way with an obvious taint on his pride.

I laugh briefly before stabbing another green bean onto my fork, "I don't miss it too much. It's actually kind of nice to be back."

And that's not a lie to appease my parents. When I first stepped into my room last night, I realized that a part of me actually had been home sick. There's always a feeling of comfort in the house that you grew up in.

"We missed you so much, sweetie," Mom chimes in. "Oh, and guess what? I forgot to tell you. Shelly and her boyfriend are looking for an apartment together. That's why she couldn't make your graduation."

I almost choke on a vegetable. I can't believe that Shelly found someone that has the patience to be in the same room with her, let alone actually live with her. This guy already fits the criteria of a serial killer.

Actually…that would make sense.

"Wow, I didn't think she'd ever find someone who could tolerate her enough to live with her."

"Of course she would! Don't say things like that about your sister, Stanley."

So, it's kind of mean, but it doesn't faze me. Shelly is still a nightmare. She's always been shitty to me ever since we were kids. Nothing changed when we got older, we just see less of each other now. Maturity didn't do a damn thing. I know that searching for an apartment is a lame excuse, but Mom most likely doesn't want to admit to me that Shelly probably just didn't want to come to my graduation.

Not that I really care, but I'll be polite for now, "Sorry. Where are they looking?"

"Over on the other side of town, where your mother and Shelia volunteer," Dad mumbles. He hasn't seemed too interested in the conversation after we shifted topic from his "good ol' days."

"You volunteer with Mrs. Broflovski? Since when?" Unlike my father, I'm actually kind of interested. Mrs. Broflovski was always up in arms for some ridiculous cause. I can only imagine what she managed to rope my mom into this time.

"Just last week. She brought 'sexting' to everyone's attention at a town meeting. Apparently it's the new craze with kids. With little Ike in high school now, she's really worried. She asked me to help out."

"'Sexting?'" I smirk.

This jumpstarts Dad back on topic, "Apparently, it's doing it through text and picture messages. It's like cybering with a phone. I don't see how those little picture phones can do anything for a person, though. How's the quality on them, Stan?"

There's no way the conversation's even going in that direction, "How's Mrs. Broflovski been?"

"Oh great! We've both just been so excited to finally have you boys home."

I force a smile and don't focus on what that means, "Are you that bored now that you've started protesting?"

"It's driving me nuts," Dad says with an exhausted tone.

"Randy!"

"What?"

X x x X

I make it a point to dodge Mom and Dad after dinner tonight. I don't want to be cornered again about life choices. Avoidance sounds like my best defense. The first moment away from them, I seize the opportunity to take a walk and visit Kenny.

I didn't tell Kenny what day that I'd be home, so I'm just going to surprise him. I'd rather see him at the store instead of heading to his place in the bad side of town anyway. I hate going over there.

Outside, the first thing I do is take in a deep breath of fresh mountain air. It may be summer, but it's still the mountains. That cool air never goes away—my kind of weather.

The town is quiet for the middle of the day, and my head is still trying to wrap around the fact that I'm back here again. I wanted to get out of here so badly when I was younger. Anticipation used to gnaw at my patience as the college season drew near. I was ready to get the hell out of here—check out the normal world. Change was so appealing. But when you're away for so long, there's no place like home, right?

My intentional destination is the Stop-N-Go, but as old habits would have it, I make a right down the block when I'm off my lawn instead of crossing the street and going straight. It's not like I'm headed totally out of the way, but my feet just naturally take me down this route. I've walked it a thousand times before. This is the way to the old bus stop; the way to Kyle's house.

He only lives a few numbers down the street. When the home comes into view, I don't stop, but I keep sight on it. There's a minivan in the driveway, and I recognize it right away to be Mrs. Broflovski's. She always needed a minivan to fit all her supplies when she was protesting. But, something new catches my eye. There's another car in the driveway that I've never seen before. It's an older vehicle—probably not as old as mine, but it's not new. I assume its Kyle's since I doubt Mr. Broflovski would have his back bumper adorned with band stickers, but it's not like I would know.

I turn my head away from the house and continue forward, no intention to stop. I've made enough phone calls to Kyle to last me a lifetime and he didn't return a single one of them. If he wants to talk to me again, he can seek me out. I'm long passed trying to fix things.

Another block or two down the road and I can't seem to shake the thought of Kyle. Every driveway I walk by reminds me of his.

I wonder if that really was his car.

College was the change that I hoped for, but the opposite of what I expected. Kyle and I told each other we'd go to the same university since our freshman year of high school. Who else would I put up with in a dorm room besides my best friend? Our plan was specifically this: Get the Fuck Out of South Park for Four Years. We didn't even hesitate on whether or not we would come back. We knew we wouldn't, it was just going to happen that way. We planned on returning for holidays, of course, because our mothers would kill us otherwise, but that was it. We needed a break from South Park, plain and simple.

But here I am, four years later, walking past his house like a stranger. Even though we didn't attend the same universities, Kyle and I both stuck to the other half of our plan: we never came back to visit besides short periods through the holidays. I haven't seen or even spoken to him since the month of June that we graduated high school.

I tried calling. I tried emailing. I tried calling his parents. I tried bugging Ike. I even tried snail mail. I was one step away from booking a flight to New Hampshire to ask him why the hell he'd been avoiding me, but I was too pissed at the fact that he was avoiding me to go that far.

So, I didn't.

I still don't even know why I've never heard from him. Hell, the longest time we've had apart from each other before that was when we went to separate camps, and that was only a few weeks that one summer after fifth grade.

At first, I missed him so much it hurt. I was suddenly alone after being used to having that one person constantly there for me my entire life. It was like a fucking divorce. I hated him for a while. After that, I was numb, and after that, I didn't care—because ignorance is bliss and after a while you begin to take the hint and start to deal.

I realize that I can't expect to keep in touch with everyone that I grew up with. That's just the reality of things. People grow older, they grow apart—it happens. But even with that in mind, I know that Kyle and I were different. We didn't have a friendship that just "grows apart."

If there's a chance at a reunion between us, I'm not going to be the one to initiate it. The ball's in his court now and has been for a while. I'm done trying. He's the one who decided that it was a good idea to end our friendship anyway.

When I approach the tiny convenience store, I cup my hands beside my eyes to peek through the front window and make sure that Kenny is working. Pushing the door open, the Stop-N-Go welcomes me with the sound of a cheap bell ringing above.

Kenny's sitting behind the cash register with feet propped up on the counter and his nose stuck in a magazine. When he hears the bell, he automatically says, without much care or attention, "Welcome to Stop-N-Go." He doesn't even look up.

His dirty blonde hair is a mess, as always. He never cares about what direction it goes in, and it shows. He looks deep in thought in some article, but seems pretty comfortable. I glance at the magazine to see if he's reading a porn mag. Oddly enough for him, it isn't. It looks like it's about cars.

Kenny is the only employee working in the tiny store. Looming above him is a large sign that reads, "Under 18? No tobacco. We card!" with rows of various cigarettes lined behind. Kenny said that he never smoked until he started working here. The boxes just stared at him all day, begging to smoke the stress away from bitchy customers. Directly behind him there's a wall of candy, cigars, condoms, and all the standard crap sold in any 24-hour convenience store.

Wow, the place looks exactly the same.

I walk up to the cash register and lean my elbows on the counter. His eyes never leave the magazine, but I tilt my head and watch him for a few seconds, just to see if he'll notice me first.

He doesn't.

"What if I was a customer, dude?"

He looks up at the sound of my voice and his usual smile appears. Whenever he smiles, it always looks like he's up to something—friendly enough to be welcoming, but telling enough to let you know that he won't put up with bullshit if he smelled it.

"Hey, Stan," he says as casual as possible, like he'd seen me ten minutes ago instead of three months, "When did you get back?"

"Yesterday."

"Hang out for a while," He nods behind the counter. "I'm bored out of my fucking mind."

The thing about working in a convenience store is that the morning rush hour is the busiest. Most people just come in for coffee, maybe a donut. The rest of the day is pretty quiet.

I walk behind the counter and sit on the floor beside a large container of beef jerky. He tosses me the magazine and pages ruffle in the air before I catch. "Page 48," he says, and I thumb through the book. There's a snapshot of a faded brown coupe sitting in the center of the page and the caption reads: "1978 Camaro – For Sale by Owner."

"Did you find a car?"

Kenny's smile lights up the dismal store and he spills into details regarding page 48. He's probably the most laid-back person that I know, but every now and then, I see this spark of passion in him. He's always loved cars. I look at the picture again, and despite the fact that there's tape on the back window, the paint job is faded, and the price says $975, I'm nothing but happy for him.

After he tells me that he's talking to the owner about it next week and puts the magazine back on the display rack, he crosses his arms and gives me a once-over with his eyes, "Well, look at you, college graduate. How's it feel?"

I shrug. God, I hope people don't keep calling me that, "I don't know. I'm kind of indifferent."

"Wow, way to be enthusiastic about shit. Come on, man, you're back home! No more exams or studying. You're all set for the working world."

"Yeah, I know, and believe me, no more writing papers is totally awesome, but I don't know what I'm gonna do. I mean, come on, I'm back at home with my parents right now. How lame is that?"

"Who fuckin' cares, dude? Half the people here are living with their parents. At least until they get jobs. It's not like living on your own is cheap. Kids right outta college are always poor. That's just how it goes."

I ask Kenny how he's been and he just rolls his eyes with a look around the store like it's his home. He says he's been working long hours, and I'm not surprised. Kenny's been working hard since he turned sixteen and could get legal papers. He likes the idea of being in control of his own money. Not having to steal food to ease the hunger in your stomach is always a plus.

I hang around the store for a while until his shift ends. Only one customer walks in the entire two and a half hours that I'm here. We spend time catching up, and create little figures on the floor out of sealed beef jerky and strips of bubble gum.

Kyle, Cartman, and myself used to always hang out with Kenny here. I don't know how he never got fired for it. I miss things like this. We're not doing much, just hanging out, but I'm having a good time. Kenny's a fun guy, always has been. He's been like a brother to me for as long as I could talk. He was pretty easy to keep in touch with because he never left South Park.

He actually answered my phone calls, too.

"Oh, dude. I forgot to tell you. Kyle was in here the other day."

I lift my head to look at Kenny in between a beef jerky creation that doesn't resemble much of anything. Not a lot of room for creativity in strips of beef, "What?"

Kenny nods, "He looks completely different. It's weird. I didn't recognize him at first."

"Really?"

He looks past me, like he's running the image of the new Kyle Broflovski through his head, "The hair is gone, dude. Long gone."

My eyes widen, "What? No way!" I can't picture Kyle without his fro—his Jew-fro, as Cartman used to so eloquently put it. He always had it shoved under a hat, but still… "How could you tell? No hat?"

Kenny shakes his head, "Nope, not when I seen him. His hair is as short as trimmed ball hair—ya know, as opposed to his usual untrimmed ball hair look. He must shave it now or something."

"Jesus Christ," I can't picture Kyle without his hat and his hair. I always thought he'd ditch the hat the day Cartman took a diet seriously.

If I see a skinny Cartman walking around, I'm moving to Boulder—permanently. That would just spill my tolerance for weird shit in this town over the edge.

"When did you see him?"

Kenny squints an eye in thought, mouthing off days quietly to himself, "I think it was last Friday. He's got glasses now too."

"Are you serious? I didn't know he had problems with his eyes."

"Yeah, me neither. He still talks the same though, so at least he didn't develop some fucking lame East Coast accent or anything like that."

I always wondered how Kyle changed over these few years, but I never thought it would actually happen.

I look down at myself—I'm still wearing the same winter jacket that I had five years ago, for Christ sakes. And I'm pretty sure that I've been getting the same haircut since middle school.

"Well, since you're both home now…did you try to rekindle the bromance yet?"

I scoff a laugh and shake my head, "I only got home yesterday. Besides, I gave up like two years ago, dude. If he wants to talk to me, he'll talk to me, but I'm not gonna keep calling him like some stalker."

He shrugs, "That's still really weird to me. Of all the people that you two would keep in touch with, I definitely thought it would be each other."

"Me too," I keep my eyes on the blue sleeves of my jacket. The hems trickle into the palms of my hand and the left sleeve is in better condition.

He gets glasses, and I don't even buy a new coat.

Kenny grabs a single piece of wrapped gum and throws it at me, "Don't look so disappointed." He grins, arms wide, "You have me."

"Is that a good thing or bad thing?"

"Fuck you, dude."

I just laugh and toss the piece of gum back to him.

"You were one of the first things he asked me about."

"What did he say?" I ask, trying hard to sound disinterested.

Kenny shrugs again, "Just the usual 'how is he doing' shit. He did ask me if you were still pissed at him."

"What did you say?"

"'Of course.'"

I smirk and think back to my last phone call to Kyle—my very last, and very drunken phone call. I vaguely remember trying to call him an asshole correctly without slurring, "I think the last voicemail I left was along the lines of me calling him an asshole and then just hanging up."

He laughs, "Was that the 'You're an asshoooo' one?"

I nod with a laugh.

"Well, I invited him to the party this weekend, so maybe you'll get a chance to call him an 'asshoooo' in person."

"Wait, what party?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Stan. I told you about this a million times. You have the attention span of a six year old."

I smirk.

"Token is having a graduation party at his house this weekend."

This jogs my memory. Kenny did mention this to me a few weeks ago—multiple times. He's always up for a good party. "Oh yeah, didn't you say that it's actually his house or something?"

Kenny throws his arms in the air, appalled at the idea, "Yeah, man! It's fucked up. I know his family is rich as shit and all, but they don't have to buy him a fucking house for a graduation present."

"That's weird."

"Yeah, really fucking weird. You're coming though, right?"

"I don't know. Should you be the one inviting me? It's Token's house, not yours."

Kenny rolls his eyes. "Please, like I give a shit if Token cares who I invite—which he won't. We were all friends at one point. He didn't say to keep the guest list short or anything. Everyone I've spoken to so far is going."

I nod, "Okay. Sounds cool."

"Woohoo!" He yells happily, throwing me a high five. A party to kick off being back home doesn't sound like such a bad idea. It might relieve some stress from my blank future.

Running into Kyle may be totally awkward, though. I don't know if I'm ready for that yet.