Clay's Way (12 page)

I’m such a loser. 

              The eye feels less centered now.  My head wants to tilt to one side.

              She slips on wet leaves, spasms, and raises her arms to catch her balance.  “It’s coming, Sam.  The big part of the storm is coming.” 

              “I hope so.”  I’m starting to spin.  I’m forgetting the words that leave my mouth as soon as I say them, and I don’t want to say anything stupid or give myself away.  She’ll think I’m using her to get to Clay, and I’m not, even though I wouldn’t put that past me.  I’d do anything for him to love me.  I think I’d kill.

              The winds pick up quickly.

              I see headlights coming up the hill. 

              Clay drives up the street in Tammy’s car.  The windshield is shiny and clean except for a few lime-green leaves.  My peripheral vision vanishes like I’m in a tunnel.  I start to sweat.  My eyes never stray from Clay’s face.  They’re red and watery, but I don’t care if he knows I’ve been crying. 

I’m an emotional haiku poet. 

I have a right to cry about the boy I love.

Chapter 11

Angry typhoon, friend,

Over sea, your brisk winds blow;

Discontented eyes.

              Tammy sits in her car like a queen, with no reaction to the fucked up Toyota.

              Clay parks her stupid car, jumps out, and runs over to where his mom’s hood is totally smashed in.  He starts laughing.  “Gnarly!  What the fuck happened here?”

              “
Kahuna
 
kilo
 
hoku
 granted my wish and finally destroyed this rusting hunk of metal.”  Susan smiles at him.  “We were worried about you.”  

Clay looks at me and doesn’t look away.  We could be on wild horses jumping over valleys and we could keep this eye contact.               

              Tammy gets out of the car.

              The folk music stops.  Weird, instrumental stuff that sounds like the musical equivalent of having a bad trip starts playing inside on the stereo. 

              I feel my eyes crossing.  My vision blurs.  I look at Clay’s fuzzy face. I can’t hear anything but flutes in a sound tunnel, echoing indistinct drones.  I’m dizzy.  My stomach’s feels like it’s going to float away.  I’m defying gravity.  I’m falling.  Everything’s fading.

              I’m underwater.  It’s my worst nightmare.  Sharks are circling me, their  big fangs piercing through depths of cold, dark water.  Scavenger fish are organizing efforts.  The cold penetrates me to my bones.  Swirling trees in circles, with color rings flaring off their surfaces.  Strange light barely makes it to my brain.  I smell cut grass.  I lose my breath.  Cold water soaks through the back of my shirt.  I try to focus my eyes.  A shape, a body, is holding me.

              “Sam?  Sam?”

              I’m thinking what? but my mouth can’t make the “W” sound.  I see Clay’s dragon tattoo on his arm and it looks like it’s floating above his skin.               

              He slides his hands underneath me. 

              I see him through hazy clouds. 

              He’s holding me.

              I feel his heartbeat.

Susan walks over to me.  “Sam?  Are you with us?” 

              Tammy makes a grunting sound, like she’s about to throw up.

              Clay looks at her, then loosens his grip on me and sits up straight, like he’s just helping out one of his surf brahs who wiped out on a massive wave.

              Tammy peers at us.  She doesn’t move from the driveway.  She just stares--scared, sad, cold, still.

              Susan leans down and rubs my leg.  “You OK?” 

              “I don’t know.”

              She rubs Clay’s head affectionately, then looks at Tammy.

              Clay looks at her too.  I can see him struggling – half way between anger and feeling sorry for her. 

She’s alone on the driveway.

              Susan gestures to her.  “Come on in, dear.  It’s going to start pouring again any second.  I’ve got some nice wine.  Come in and have a glass.”

              But Tammy won’t move from her place on the driveway.  She won’t let her feet touch the grass and dirt.  She can’t help the look on her face, like she’s seeing something paranormal, and it scares her.

              Big raindrops start plopping on the cement, the beginning of a huge tropical soak.

              Susan takes a step toward her.  “I’ve got some comfy clothes for you in my bedroom.  Come dry off.”

              She stumbles forward, almost falling off the driveway.  

              Clay looks down at me, still sitting in the wet grass in the rain.  “Do you feel all right, dude?”

              “Uhh... yeah,”

              Tammy stops on the front porch and just stands there, looking at us. 

              Clay looks at her.

              Susan holds the screen door open. 

              Tammy just stares, like she’s going to throw up, and mindlessly wanders to the door.  Her high heel gets caught in a crack, and breaks off.  She falls over.  Her butt smacks down in a puddle in the grass.  She says fuck, then stands up quickly.  The back of her dress is muddy.  It sticks to her butt.  Her hair’s a stringy mess.  Streams of hairspray-laden rain run down her face.  She squints her eyes and looks at us for a split second.  Then her expression totally changes and presto chango, she looks more graceful and honest than she ever has and I’m almost impressed.  She looks away and Susan ushers her into the house and lifts up the back of her dress to avoid getting mud on the carpet. 

              I can see her underwear for a second--silky and leopard-printed, with mud stains.  I burst out laughing, then feel horrible for her.  I tell Clay, “Shouldn’t you go inside or something?”

              He falls back into the wet grass shouting, “I don’t know what to do.”  

              We both stand up and a curtain of rain showers us, making smacking sounds on the pavement and aluminum roofs and cars.  A raindrop catches his eyelash and sticks.  Another drop streams down his face and caresses his lip.                “Come on, man.”  He walks to the front door. 

              I follow him inside, watching sexy-looking raindrops evaporate from his neck.  Being in the house makes what happened outside seem even more outrageous.  Situations like that can only take place outside, with all the forces of chaos around.  I don’t know where Tammy is. 

She’s probably making herself over in the bathroom. 

              Clay sits down at the dining room table and lights up a cigarette, like he hasn’t done anything wrong.

              I watch him, waiting for the moment when, in his own dumb ass way, he’ll smack his forehead and realize that he just fucked Tammy over for me.  It doesn’t happen.  Instead, he just keeps taking hits off his cigarette and looking vaguely out the window. 

              “Girls are weird, right?”  He shrugs his shoulders.  That’s supposed to be enough.

              “I came over to see if you wanted to go watch the storm from the park.”

              “That sounds nice,” he says in a sort of jokey way that makes me feel like the joke.

              The radio music goes off and the local report starts.  “Waves are building to eight and 10 feet on Oahu’s eastern shores from Makapu to Sunset.  Damage reports have been filed from the Big island to Molokai.  Stay tuned for further developments.”              

              Clay puts out his cigarette in a plant and says, “Fuck, I wanna surf.”

              “You’re crazy.”

              He looks like a dog on a chain, ready to bite through it.  “You wanna go down there with me?”

              “Where?”

              “The beach, stupid.”

              “Uh...  no.  You can’t surf.  You’ll kill yourself.”

              He gets up and scratches his head. 

I see the waistband of his underwear and the thin line of hair going down to his dick when his shirt rises.

              He raises his arms and takes his shirt off in one solid motion.  “Well, I’m going.  You can come if you want.”

              “OK, let’s just hang out, though.  Watch the wind.”

              Clay goes out the back door and brings in a long board and a short board.

              “Who’s that for?”

              “Tammy.” 

              My heart drops. 

              “Just kidding.”  He smiles at me in a very direct, confident way.

“Ha.  Ha.  Fuck you.”

              I get my backpack from the screened-in porch and follow him into the kitchen.  He hands me the short board and grabs a towel from the laundry room, flinging it over his shoulder in the kitchen doorway.

              I cower behind him, trying to be invisible.  “Laters, Momason.  We’re outs to surf.”

              “What do you mean 
out to surf
?  You’re 
not
 leaving Tammy here.  You deal with this.  Go in there and take a shower with her.” 

She doesn’t want to hang out with Tammy, either.

              Clay smells his armpits.  “I’m clean.  Why’s she so upset, anyway?”

              Fuck.  I feel like I’m gonna lose it.  I want to kill him.

              He knows why she’s upset.  He knows everything.

              Susan turns red.  She’s gonna start screaming any second.

              Clay steps closer to her.  “Mom, seriously, she’s fine.  You’re gonna be here, aren’t you?”  He rubs her shoulders, lowers his voice and whispers with a babyish tone, “You can take care of her.”

              “I’m too tired for this bullshit, Clay.  I mean it!  Don’t leave this house!  This isn’t my responsibility!”

              Tammy appears at the end of the hall, and stares at me, with chunky crap in her hair and still wearing her muddy dress.  She looks like Carrie from that horror movie.

              I get a chill in my spine that makes me squirm.  I want out of here.  I can’t take the guilt of being the person who caused Clay to lose interest in her.

              “I’m outs.  We’ll talk later about your hippie rules.”  Clay storms down the hall.

              I glance at Tammy, then look at Susan.

              She’s furious.

              I feel responsible for all of it.  They’re all going to end up hating me.  I walk out to the front yard.  Clay straps both boards into the back of his truck and we get in the cab.  It’s quiet.  I zip my pack open and closed over and over.  “Tammy’s gonna be pissed off.” 

              “What?  Oh, no, she’s cool.”

              “I saw what you just did.  You know that, right?  The whole surfing thing’s bullshit.”

              “Uhh, yeah,  I know,” he says sarcastically.

              “Well, that fucking sucks.  Why don’t you just tell her we wanna hang without her around?” 

              He just ignores me and almost smiles.

              I grab a beer from a sixpack on the seat between us and open the cap with my teeth.  I fill my mouth with beer, nearly downing the whole bottle.  “Fuck!”  I throw the bottle out the window and it smashes on the driveway.

              “Dude, you look sexy when you’re pissed off.” 

              “Fuck, Clay, be serious.”

              “I was.” 

              I ask him if he knows how fucked up he is.

              He says, “Yup.  I was born fucked up.”

              A big palm frond hits the hood of the truck.

              He starts the truck and backs out of the driveway.  He drives off fast over debris-covered streets like it’s a sunny day. 

              I grip the dashboard and reach around to put my seat belt on. 

              “You don’t need that.  Relax, man.”

“Like I trust you.”

We pull into the beach parking lot and he jumps out, grabs his surfboard from the back of the truck, and runs to the ocean.  He looks back at me.  “Laters.”

              I get out of the truck and stand in the wind.  It’s so strong, I can lean into it with all my weight.

              He paddles out through wide areas of storm-strewn, bubbly white water.  He looks like a seal, getting smaller and smaller.  The winds start up strong and gusty again.  A strong salt mist and foamy bubbles coat the beach.  The cold rain picks up to a full-on pour.  I get back inside the truck.  Fuck him.  He’s a fraud and a liar.  I feel like shit about the way he treated Tammy.  Why should I be the only one?

              I start up the truck, peel out on the slick fallen leaves, and take off down the road.

              The second band of the hurricane is here.  It’s hard to keep the truck straight as I barrel down the road.

              I feel like I’m going crazy.  Is Clay thinking about me, or about Tammy at home with his mom?  I wonder if he’s thinking at all, or if he’s relying only on survival instincts now, out in the water that looks like an old oil painting that’s shoved in the back corner of my garage where the world is flat and the big wooden ship is almost falling off the edge.  I pull over and down a beer for confidence.  I light a cigarette that’s wet halfway up.  The noise of the storm is deafening.  There’s a sharp crash every couple seconds.  I’m soaked and my teeth are chattering.  The beer tastes good.  I’m one with the chaos.  I’m as careless as the storm.  I peel off from the side of the road and turn up a dirt sugar cane road.  The dirt is bright orange.  It splashes up on the windshield as I bounce along the road.  I slam on the brakes and the truck starts to slide off the road toward a ditch.               

“Fuck!” 

              Everything stops.  The rain picks up.  I don’t remember getting here.  The truck sits diagonal in a three-foot ditch.  I rev it up and slam on the accelerator.  It sprays bright-orange mud behind.  I’m stuck.  I guess this is where I’m meant to be. 

              I can distinguish every scent inside Clay’s truck: cigarettes, spilled beer, dirty clothes, some oil, gasoline, Clay’s skin, cum on my dirty T-shirt. 

              I practice looking tough, doing Ninja jabs, slicing through the air.  I make mean looks at the mirror, trying to look like a samurai or black belt. 

              “Hi yah!”  I break a plastic fast food drink holder.  “Man, Clay.  Why won’t you just tell her to fuck off?  Why are you so fucked up?”              

              The future just isn’t what it used to be.

              I put in a tape.  It says 
Punk Rock 93
 on the front in Clay’s chicken-scrawl handwriting, with some hieroglyphic looking drawings of skateboarders doing tricks on the back of the scratched up plastic case. 

              A song by DI plays.  Fast drums, high treble guitars with a low, half-intelligible young scratchy voice screaming.  “Down with the government!  Down with the cops.  Down with the government!”   

              Clay’s like this music.

              I open another bottle of beer with my teeth.  I feel like pouring it all over myself.

              I look in the mirror.  Dark circles under my eyes, sweaty face.  I hit myself right below my eye.  I do it three more times.  My eye becomes hot and numb.  I do it 20 more times, harder each time.  My brain feels like it’s being jarred, woken up.  It starts to feel like a need.