Clay's Way (3 page)

             
 
She looks around the room.  “It’s a mess in here.  How can you live like this?”

             
 
“I’m an animal.”

             
 
“Why are you
 
dying
 
your hair again?  Your natural color is so nice.”

             
 
“Why’d you lock my window?  I couldn’t get in.”

             
 
“Carry your key.  Someone’s going to break in.”

             
 
“Who,
 
like the natives?  Hawaiians in loincloths are going to steal our television?”

             
 
“OK, Sam, very funny.  Where’s your key?”

 
 
             
 
“I lost it.”

             
 
“How many keys have you lost?”

             
 
“Eighty.”  I laugh. “Now leave.
 
Aloha, Mom.”

             
 
“I don’t want stains all over the bathtub when you rinse your hair.  Scrub the tub and don’t use our towels.”  She leaves and closes my door behind her.

Not that I liked her before, but she’s meaningless now that I have Clay.  I don’t even
 
need food or air anymore.

Chapter 3

It’s
 
birthday 16:

Flowers outside my window

I feel…average

             
 
It’s 12:38 p.m. and now I’m 16, which means nothing.  My parents won’t let me drive till I’m 17.  I can’t buy beer or even cigarettes.

             
 
Clay doesn’t know it’s my birthday. 

             
 
It’s Sunday.  I peek out my door.  My parents are doing their normal afternoon nonsense on the back patio.  They refused to acknowledge my 15th birthday because when I turned 14, I told them I hated them.  I never thought they’d really go through with it, but they did, and actually it was sort of a relief--but this year I can tell my mom’s
 
gonna
 
try and turn over a new leaf or whatever and make me feel like an idiot birthday boy again.  You know, with candles and all that.  

             
 
Last year, Jared came over with a huge chocolate cake with a plastic skateboard ramp and skater on top.  It was impressive. My mom looked guilty in a gnarly way when he came through the front door and I loved it.  Her plan to make my birthday suck failed miserably and the cake was so good, like bakery good, much better than some dried up carcass she could have made.  So this year, she’s doing the typical shit: sneaking in my room, getting my sizes for all the preppy clothes she’ll buy that I’ll never wear.  She’s
 
gonna
 
sing to me soon. 
 
She’ll be making up for last year’s birthday.  I’m dreading it. 
 I hate opening presents in front of people and being the center of attention.

I think it’s disgusting that I’m related to them.  They envy dudes that own yachts but don’t have any books on the shelves.  They talk about money all the time and they think welfare should be ripped from the poor.  They like white clothes and play tennis and think skaters are rats who don’t deserve to be treated with respect.  It they weren’t my parents, I’d flip them off on the street, key their cars as I walked by, and shit like that. 

I look in the mirror first thing to see if I look any different.  My hair looks cool purple.  I look around my room.  It looks too young for a 16-year-old.  An award hangs on the wall from a middle school spelling bee.  Framed photos from when I played fucking tee-ball are sitting on my desk.  I can’t believe I lived with all this claustrophobic
 
shit
 
around and didn’t go crazy and end up hanging myself.  I throw my stuffed animals to the top shelf of my closet to get them out of the way.  They look really dumb.  Most of them fall back down on me, which feels good.  They’re light and soft and fluffy and they smell like my bed.  I lie down in a big pile of them.

             
 
Footsteps come down the hall and stop outside my door.

             
 
I don’t know if it’s my mom or my dad, but I think they’re spying.  “Aloha!  I can hear you.  Who’s out there?”

             
 
“Good morning, sweetie. 
 
Happy birthday.”  My mom opens my door and sees me lying shirtless in my underwear in a pile of stuffed animals.  She stares
 
at me like I’m a freak of nature.  Her eyes wander up and down my body.  “You haven’t grown up so much after all.”

             
 
I cover myself up with a big stuffed giraffe.  “Shut up, Mom.”  I put on a T-shirt that says
 
PARENTS SUCK
 
and make my hair really messy and spiky with Elmer’s glue.  I have a need to freak them out, but it’s getting harder and harder, because I’ve already done almost everything they ever dreaded--like smoking pot, getting drunk, staying out too late, dying my hair green and blue and white and black and being honest enough to tell them to fuck off when they should.  I
 
walk
 
down the hall, dreading the formalities ahead. 

             
 
Mom and Dad sit at the kitchen table reading the Sunday paper.  Mom sort of smiles when she sees me, but I can tell she’s dreading this as much as I am.  She’s afraid I’m
 
gonna
 
tell them I hate them again or something.  She gets up, reaches into the oven, and gets out a big pancake with 16 candles stuck in it.

             
 
I can’t
 
fucking
 
believe this. 
 
A
 
pancake
 
that my mom probably fried up like five hours ago.  It looks pathetic.  It’s greasy and flat and huge.  I could never eat it, but I guess I’m going to have to take a couple bites or something, so they don’t think I’m completely unappreciative.

             
 
Dad folds the business section down dramatically and looks at me over his glasses.  “Jesus Christ, you look like drug addict.”

             
 
“Aloha to you too, Dad.”  I sit at the table.

             
 
“Robert, it’s his birthday.  Come on.”  She tries to light the candles but it looks like she’s never used a lighter before. 

             
 
I take it and light the candles.

             
 
She sets the flaming pancake in front of me.  “Make a wish.”

             
 
OK.  Make Clay fall in love with me and ask me to move in with him in a cool house on the North Shore with tons of pot plants.  And a personal chef and a big lock on the gate so no one can get in, ever, and make him naked all the time, just walking around the house and being happy and smiling with lots of boners and lots of money and drugs and no school….             

             
 
“OK, honey, blow out the candles.”

             
 
“OK, Mom.” I guess I was taking too long.  I blow out the candles. 

             
 
Wax drips all over the pancake.

             
 
“Sweet 16.”  She reaches underneath the table and pulls out a wrapped, long, weird-shaped thing with a card on the top.  She hands it to me.

             
 
It’s heavy.  It’s a skateboard.  At least they tried.

             
 
“Read the card first,” Mom orders.

             
 
I look at the yellow envelope and set it back down on the table, unopened--then I grab the board. It’s wrapped in paper that has little baseballs and mitts on it.  I think it’s some sort of comment on what I’m not.  I get sort of stoned looking at it.

             
 
“Open it,” my dad orders, pointing to the skateboard, like he’s ready to get this over with and go golfing like he does every Sunday.

             
 
I pull the stupid paper back.  It’s cool.  It’s a Blind board.  The picture on the bottom is a little kid with a huge head and an all-knowing smirk.  It probably reminds them of me, an evil little shit.  I set it on the table and spin the wheels.  “Cool, guys.  I like it.  Thank you.”

             
 
My mom leans over and kisses me.  “So it’s the right one?”

             
 
“Yeah, it’s excellent.”

             
 
“OK…”  She reaches under the table for another gift with a big red bow on it.  It’s a dorky white helmet with
 
PRO-EXTREME
 
written on the side.

             
 
“I don’t need a helmet, Mom.”

             
 
“Yes, you do, and I want to see you wearing it.”

             
 
I examine the helmet, acting like I’m checking it out and that I like it and all that.  The gift
 
tag’s
 
on the inside.  It reads 808 Skate.  This has to be a sign. 

             
 
She’s fulfilling my destiny without even knowing it. 

             
 
I picture her buying the helmet from Clay.  Terror rushes through my chest.  Did she talk to him?  I don’t want him to know I have such an idiot mom.

             
 
Dad gets up and goes into the garage, probably to polish up his golf clubs.

             
 
Mom clears the table.  “I’ll put this in the refrigerator.  It’ll be great cold, for later.  Don’t forget the card.”  She hands me the yellow envelope.

             
 
“Thanks Mom.  I love you.” 

For giving me an excuse to see Clay.  You did something a hell of a lot cooler than you think you did.

             
 
A crackle of lightning shoots through the sky followed by booming thunder with a slight electric roughness at the end.  I can see rain coming out over the jagged
 
Koolaus
.  A heavy shower sweeps in and pounds the house with huge raindrops.  Maybe the streets will flood and turn into rivers.  Clay could paddle in and save me.

I go into my room and set the new skateboard on the floor and step up onto my top bunk.  I stand on the edge of the mattress and aim for the center of the board.  I jump.  I land right in the middle, but it flies out from under me and slams into my closet door.  It breaks a couple louvers near the bottom.  I fall on my ass, making a loud thud on the floor.  The rain’s pretty loud, so maybe they didn’t hear.  I roll the board to the center of the room and jump up and down on it.  I sneak out to the garage with the board under my arm.

As soon as the door closes behind me, my mom opens it again, pops her head out, and sees me opening the garage door.  It’s pouring outside.

“Where are you going?  You’ll fall and break something.”

             
 
“I’m just
 
gonna
 
try it out.  Is Dad gone?”

             
 
“Yeah, he went to the golf course to wait out the rain.”  Her head pops back into the door and it closes.

             
 
I look through my dad’s toolboxes. 
 
There’s
 
lots of wrenches and hammers and a whole bunch of other weird shit. 

             
 
I set the board down, wheels facing up, in a big iron vice grip thing and turn the knob till it’s held in tight.  I grab a huge rusty plumber’s wrench and hit the back truck and wheels as hard as I can.  They snap off.  A wheel goes bouncing around the cement floor.  The wood splinters, revealing the white inner layers of the deck’s construction.  It looks sort of realistic, I think, though I’ve never skated hard enough or weighed enough to really break a board.

Chapter 4

Reflections off

Waves he rides

The one I love

I ride my bike through the pouring rain, holding the fucked-up board under my arm.  Giant drops pelt my face so it’s hard to see. My backpack is getting soaked, probably ruining my cigarettes.  Halfway down my street, the rain stops—the sky turns clear and blue and the pavement is dry and hot.  I look back to where it’s raining.  Fifty feet behind me, it’s cloudy and gray.  The road steams as water evaporates off the pavement. 

             
 
A perfect rainbow crosses the sky, which makes me feel lame, like I’m on the front of a greeting card. 
 
I love you, son.  You’re my world. 
 
Fuck.  I forgot to open my mom’s card.             

I’m soaking wet, but I ride all the way to 808 Skate before I stop.  I park my bike at the far end of the parking lot, because it’s a lame kid’s bike that I’m still riding since the one I got last year for Christmas got stolen, and I can’t tell my dad I need a new one
 
cause
 
he’ll be really pissed off.  I wring out my shirt.  Bluish-red dye runs down my face and my hands are stained red from yesterday.  I duck down and look in the window between a flier for the “Big
 
Mele
,” a punk rock show in this pasture valley, and an ad for a skate demo that’s going to be here in the parking lot next week.  My breath fogs up the glass. 

             
 
I see Clay standing at the back counter, concentrating on screwing a truck on a board.  I walk in, hiding the broken end of my board under my arm in case I chicken out.  I sneak a look at Clay.

             
 
He looks up, sort of happy to see me, I think. Maybe it’s more of a confused expression. 
 
“Eh,
 
brah.  What’s up?
 
Why’re
 
you wet?”

             
 
“Hey, man.  Aloha.  It’s raining in my hood.”  I try to sound cool, unaffected,
 
not
 
nervous as fuck.  I start to walk over to him, and notice myself in a mirror mounted on the wall.  I’m soaking wet on a sunny day.  I look like such a weirdo.

             
 
“Hey.”  Clay looks up at me. 

             
 
“Hey.”

             
 
“Like your hair.”

             
 
“Thanks.”

             
 
“Did you just do it?”

             
 
I look at my red-stained hands. 
 
“Yeah. 
 
Part of it.”  Oh, my God.  We’re talking. 
 
A normal conversation.  This is too cool.  I’m going to pass out.  I wish I could, so he’d have to give me mouth to mouth.  I stare at him and my mind goes blank.  My only instinct is reptilian.  I want to pounce on him.  I can’t look away.  I’m amazed at how beautiful he is.

             
 
“So what’s up?”

             
 
I snap out of my daze and look down. 
 
“Nothing.”

             
 
“Want some more weed or something?”

             
 
“Uh... no.”  I lower my voice.  “I need a truck for my board.”  I bring it out from under my arm and put it on the counter, wheels up, like it needs surgery.  This is so transparent.  It totally looks like I just bashed it on the curb or something. 

             
 
He has to know I faked this.  I would’ve had to drop in from a 70-foot ramp onto concrete to break the truck totally off like I did.  He’s
 
gonna
 
see through my whole
 
act,
 
figure out that I broke my board to have an excuse to see him.  This could be a huge catastrophe if I don’t play it cool.  “That’s brand new, dude.  What happened?”  He sounds impressed.  He doesn’t know.  Maybe, he thinks I’m an excellent skater that can do 900’s on the ramp.  “Some lady bought it yesterday.  I put it together myself.”  He looks me straight in the eye.  “Was that your mom?”

             
 
“Oh, yeah, guess so. 
 
Birthday present.”  I feel really stupid for saying birthday, like I’m a little kid.

             
 
“No fuck? 
 
Happy birthday.”  He leans over the counter and punches me in the shoulder.  “How old are you?”

             
 
“16.”  I
 
feel so incredibly stupid.  A lisp came out of nowhere when I said it.

             
 
“Sweet 16.”  He pinches my cheek. “Dude, why aren’t you wearing the new helmet?”

             
 
“’Cause I’m not a huge fucking dork.” 

             
 
He reaches into the glass case and pulls out two cool-looking wheels and a really expensive truck, looks around to make sure no one’s watching, and hands them to me.  “Put these in your pack, quick.” 

I feel his warm breath on my face as he whispers it.  I want to dive over the counter and attack him and strip his clothes off.  I take the wheels and truck from him, feeling as much of his hand as I can, and shove them in my pack.  “Thanks.”  I look him in the eye and we get sort of stuck together through our eyes.  It’s totally inspiring and sexy and embarrassing at the same time. 

             
 
He looks away and his face goes blank, like he just came out of a trance. 
 
“Happy birthday.”  He reaches for his anarchy clock and sets the dial to morning.  He grabs his keys and twirls them around his finger.  His key chain is a small green lizard.  “Marcus, I’m
 
outta
 
here, man.  See you tonight?”

             
 
Marcus looks up from his phone conversation.  “Clay, it’s only five.”

             
 
“Cover for me,
 
brah.”  He flips him off jokingly.  Clay gets what he wants when he wants it.             

I need him.  I can’t walk another step or take another breath without him.  I’m addicted.  I’ll need methadone when we have to separate.

             
 
“Come on.”  He walks to the door and I follow him outside holding my broken board and my pack.

             
 
“Uh…so, thanks again.  That’s cool of you.”  I shift my weight back and forth and play with my balls through my pocket without thinking about it.

             
 
Clay casts his eyes down to where my hand is still bouncing my balls up and down, then he gets in his truck--a gray Toyota pickup that’s all dented up and dirty like he drove through the Sahara and back and never washed it.             
 
I take my hand out immediately and I don’t know what to do with it.  I shove it in my armpit and pull on the hairs. 

             
 
He rolls down the window.  “You
 
wanna
 
smoke a joint?”

             
 
Something’s not right.  Things never go this good for me.  This is a set-up.

             
 
He leans over and unlocks the passenger door.  “Get in,
 
brah.”

             
 
I walk around the back of the truck, so he doesn’t have a chance to really look at me and decide I’m just a stupid little 16-year-old loser.  I throw my broken board in the back and open the door.  It smells like sand, sweat, and dirty clothes.  The floor is covered with old fast food cups, empty cigarette packs, torn-up surf magazines, a couple of video boxes, and the T-shirt I saw him wearing the other day at the shop--a green one with a flaming volcano on the front.  I want to smell it. 

             
 
I throw my pack on the floor and almost reach for the seat belt, but decide that’s not very cool.  I look forward and take deep breaths to calm myself down.  I’m afraid to look over at him.  I might not be able to control myself.  I’ll blurt out,
 
I love you
.  There’s a dried gourd head hanging from the rear-view mirror.

             
 
“Weed and papers are in the glove box.”

             
 
I open it and a load of tape cases and tapes and a chunk of sand-encrusted surf wax fall out onto the floor and into my lap.  I find the pot and papers in a little cloth bag.

             
 
“Roll one,
 
brah.”
             
 
I don’t know how to roll a joint, but I try.  I grab a video box to use for a flat surface and pour a little weed out on it and break it up with my fingers.  I pull a paper out of the case and attempt to roll a joint.  Some pot spills as we turn a corner.

             
 
I manage to roll something that looks vaguely like a joint.  “How’d you break your arm?”

“Playing football.  We were playing on my friend’s roof this one night and it was raining.  I went out for the ball and ran off the edge.”

             
 
This is so fun and easy after hanging out with Jared the genius for so long. 

Clay looks over at me, and stares hard into my eyes at a red light.  “It’s not funny, man.” He punches me in the shoulder.
 
“Just kidding,
 
brah.  The cast’s ready to come off.  My arm’s good as new under here.  Hey, where do you live?”

“Haiku Village.”  Fuck.

             
 
“You got a saw there?”

             
 
“I think so… why?  You
 
gonna
 
hack me up?”

             
 
He holds up his cast as he takes a corner really fast.  “Where’s that joint?”

             
 
I hand him the joint.  It’s pathetic, sort of like a skinny worm.

             
 
Clay looks at it and laughs, then lights it up.  He takes a big hit and exhales.  It fills the cabin with yellowish haze, lit by the sunlight, and streaming out his open window.  He drives like a fucking maniac, passing cars on the wrong side, double the speed limit.  It’s sexy.

             
 
He hands me the joint, half-gone.

“I’m dying to surf.  I’ve been tying plastic bags around this thing with rubber bands, but it gets soggy and sick-ass rank.”

             
 
“Turn left here.” 

Please don’t be home, Mom and Dad.  Do me this one favor, if you ever do me one again.
  I secretly hold my hands together and pray to
 
Kamehameha’s
 
spirit or whatever to make them leave if they’re home or stay gone for hours if they aren’t.  I hope there’s nothing embarrassing lying around my house. 
 
Oh, fuck.
  My bedroom floor’s covered with stuffed animals and the phone book’s lying open to 808 Skate.  He’ll think I’m a stalker out to invade his life with baby food and stuffed giraffes. 

We pull into Haiku Village.  The iron letters are inset into two stone walls that mark the entrance to my neighborhood. “Turn here.”

             
 
He turns hard, almost making a screech, and speeds up to 45, which seems really fast in my boring neighborhood.  There’s not much room for rebellion in the confines of rows of houses, only built in about 10 different models from the late ‘70s.  We approach my house. 

My heart rate speeds up and my hands start to sweat.  “That’s my house right there.”  I point to it.  My voice cracked like when I had to give a speech at school.  Fuck. I’ve done it.  I’ve made myself real.

             
 
He’s going to see it all:
 my boring fucking life, my lame room, my stupid house, the meaninglessness of my existence.  I have to get out of this.  I could say my parents beat me and he’s not allowed inside.  I could say I have severe dyslexia or amnesia and I can’t remember where I live.

             
 
“What’s wrong?”

             
 
“Oh, it’s just... my parents suck.  We should hurry before they get home.”

             
 
He pulls in the driveway, which I know will piss Mom off if she comes home and doesn’t have her parking space, but I don’t want to tell him not to. 

I get out, holding my backpack, and Clay follows me up to the house.  I try the front door knob and check my pocket.  “Oh, fuck.  I don’t have my key.  Hold on.”  I run around to my window.  “Please.  Please be unlocked.”  I reach up and slide it open.  “Yes!”  I climb in and jump from my bed to the floor.  I throw my sheets over the bed and try to hide the dumb stuffed animals.  I look at myself in the mirror and
 
unstrap
 
my pack and throw it on my bed.  I frantically take my shirt off and dry my armpits with it.  I throw it down and grab another one, shake it out, and pull it on, then I stack up my haikus, which are scattered all over the floor, and throw them on my little boy desk.  I run down the hall and fling the front door open.  I feel stupid, like I should say “welcome” or something.  Clay’s standing there all proud-looking, holding my broken board.  “You forgot this.”