Suckerpunch (5 page)

W
HEN MY DAD LEFT
, he drove away in his inky black Corvette, a sleek thing with tan leather seats and gills above the front tires. We were left with a Chevrolet Caprice station wagon. The top half was light blue, the bottom half a blond wood grain. It was sky and desert on wheels. The steering wheel felt like a hula hoop in my hands. I had no chance of getting laid in a car like that. Absolutely none. Not that my introverted self was helping things.

I pulled up to the curb under the shade of an oak tree. I looked around and checked my mirrors, making sure no one was watching me in this hideous thing I drove. The neighborhood was empty except for an
old man watering his lawn three houses down.

I hurried up the walkway and rang Oliver's doorbell. Their one-story house had a backboard nailed above the garage, the rim bent so far down it was almost perpendicular to the driveway. From the street it looked like a red zero.

Britt answered the door. He was already stoned, his hair full of cowlicks. The barrel of his starter pistol was shoved down the front of his jeans with the black handle resting against his white T-shirt. What up, Nine? he said.

I pointed at the gun. Do you know how fuckin' stupid that looks?

Britt shrugged.

Is that Nub? Oliver yelled out, his voice deep inside the house.

He's
all
messed up, Britt said, thumbing over his shoulder.

I'm sure he is, I said, and stepped inside.

Oliver's house smelled like old leather and Pine-Sol. Two brown couches faced each other in the living room. There was a wooden coffee table between them littered with empty soda cans, crumpled napkins,
and an open pizza box with one lone slice inside. Candles stood on opposite ends of the mantel above the fireplace, a row of framed photographs in between: Oliver at three, at six, at ten. Oliver dressed for Halloween and Oliver in a Little League baseball uniform. Oliver fishing with his father. Mrs. Thompson holding a piece of wedding cake for Mr. Thompson, his mouth wide open and ready to bite.

Oliver was crouched by the stereo. Check this out, he said, and pushed the
PLAY
button. The room exploded with drums and bass, a guitar riff drenched in feedback.

That sounds good, I said. Who's that?

Trigger Cut, Oliver said. They're local.

I like it.

I knew you would. I'll burn you a copy.

You guys heard about Darren, right? Britt asked.

What about him? Oliver said.

He moved to Alaska.

Shut up.

I'm serious.

What the hell for?

To live with his mom, Britt said. Pops wasn't too happy about him getting that room at the
Travelodge. It was the last straw, I guess.

I pictured Darren in the coldest region of Alaska, wearing a heavy jacket and ski cap, bits of ice crusted in his brows and eyelashes. I pictured him lifting a frozen beer bottle to his lips, then turning it upside down and smacking the bottom as if it were a bottle of ketchup.

When's your mom coming back? I asked.

In a couple hours. If you want to smoke a bowl, do it now, he said. And do it outside. Mom's got a nose like a bloodhound.

Twenty minutes later and the three of us were sitting at the dinner table, bent over a half-finished puzzle. At the top of the box it said
The Kiss by Gustav Klimt
. Some guy in a checkered gold robe was kissing some girl on her cheek, a redhead kneeling on a cliff, her bare feet hanging over the edge. The whole thing shimmered like the scales of a fish. I looked at the puzzle and picked up a piece and turned it inches from my face. Wow, I whispered.

I know, Britt said.

I can't believe you guys did half of this already.

My mom did, Oliver said. We haven't done shit.

My face was numb. Britt said he'd gotten some potent weed from Hawaii,
gourmet marijuana,
he'd called it, but now I wondered if it was laced. It felt like someone shot me point-blank with novocaine. When I rubbed my hand over my face, my nose and cheeks felt rubbery. Hey, guys, I said. Do this.

Do what? Britt asked.

This, I said, and rubbed my hand over my face again. It feels strange.

Oliver slid his hand over his face. You're right, he said.

Britt was next, sliding from his forehead all the way down to his chin. Oh man, he said. My head is made of Nerf.

We all started laughing uncontrollably.

Excuse me, gentlemen, I said, but it's time for me to drain the main vein.

In the bathroom I held on to the towel rack above the toilet and aimed, still chuckling. I sprayed the floor a little and when I finished I grabbed some toilet paper and kneeled to wipe the tile. Something small rattled across the floor. It was a piece of plastic from a disposable razor, the transparent strip that covered the
blade. Oliver's face was as smooth as mine, so I knew it must've been his father's. I wondered if he'd shaved on the day he walked down to the basement and looped the extension cord over the I-beam, or if he'd looked at his face in the mirror that morning, dragged his fingers across the bristles, and left the razor where it was, knowing what he planned to do later. I picked up the strip of plastic, wrapped it in toilet paper, and tossed it into the wastebasket.

When I stepped out of the bathroom I could hear Britt and Oliver still laughing. I looked down the hallway, the half-open door of the master bedroom, and suddenly I was floating there. Whatever hang-ups I had about snooping in my best friend's mother's bedroom a five-leafed plant from Hawaii put them to rest.

The bed was king-size, the flower-printed bedcover sunk slightly over two faint dimples on the mattress where Mr. and Mrs. Thompson slept together for two decades. On top of the dresser was a hairbrush, a jewelry box, more framed photographs. There were quite a few of Mr. and Mrs. Thompson together, in different vacation spots. One looked like Europe, one looked like Hong Kong. In another they stood on a
beach with sunlight on their faces, the photographer's purple shadow stretched on the sand. I wondered who snapped the picture, if it was a stranger or someone they knew. There was a white sailboat in the background and the sails were full of wind, its bow pointed right at Mr. Thompson's neck. Mrs. Thompson wore a red two-piece bathing suit, her hair all messed up from the breeze. She had sexy legs, a flat stomach and narrow waist. I wanted something that belonged to her, something close to her skin. I thought about her panties and as soon as I did I started opening drawers, beginning with the top left. Magazines, a date book, pens and pencils, loose change. Three rows of empty drawers and two rows of stacked sweaters. A drawer with nothing but balled-up socks. Finally, I found her underwear drawer.

Yo, Digit,
Oliver shouted.
Did you fall in?

Stop polishing your sword,
Britt yelled.

I grabbed a neglected pair bunched up in the back of the drawer, lacy and black, and shoved them down the front of my jeans. I closed the drawer and checked myself in the mirror above the dresser and hurried out, remembering to keep the bedroom
door like it was, half closed.

In the hallway I stood a moment watching Oliver. He curled his fingers around imaginary drumsticks and smacked the air around him and I thought:
I'm a boy without a father, watching a boy without a father banging on invisible drums.

What took you so long? Oliver asked when I sat back down at the table.

Britt moved his fist up and down, making that mosquito sound with his mouth.

I pissed on the floor and had to clean it up, I said.

You mean you
jizzed
on the floor, Britt said.

At least I have meat to beat, I said. How do you stroke your cashew, like this? I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together in the air.

Oliver laughed. Britt laughed harder, doubling over. I was confused until I realized he was pointing at my stub.
Oh shit, oh shit,
he said, teary-eyed. Look at his
nub
, he said.

Fuck you, I said.

Oliver's laughter trailed off. He looked down at the puzzle. Okay, shut up, Bongoloid, he said. Let's try to find at least one that fits.

We studied the puzzle again, all those freckled gold pieces, our heads bowed over the table. We didn't move. From the outside it might've looked like we were saying grace.

An hour later we had destroyed a bag of potato chips and pretzels and washed it down with glass after glass of orange juice. We watched music videos and
Celebrity Deathmatch
and eventually my head stopped feeling synthetic.

Mom's here, Oliver said when we heard the garage door growl open. Hide your toy gun, Stonehenge.

It's not a toy.

Whatever, just hide it.

Britt lifted the front of his shirt and stretched it over the handle of the starter pistol.

Mrs. Thompson walked in holding her purse. She'd been at the salon and her hair now looked inflated and shiny. Well, guys, what do you think? she asked. She turned around slowly to show us every angle.

Why is it so fluffy? Oliver asked.

It is kind of big, Britt added, looking mildly comatose on the couch.

Mrs. Thompson had walked in the house glowing,
but now her face slouched.

I think it looks good, I said, immediately embarrassed. I could feel Oliver's eyes on me.

Why, thank you, Marcus, she said. So what have you guys been up to?

We were working on the puzzle, Oliver said.

Mrs. Thompson walked over to the dinner table. It doesn't look like you made any progress.

We found a few, I said.

Yeah, Oliver said. We did.

Uh-huh, Britt mumbled.

Mrs. Thompson gave Oliver an accusatory look before heading to her bedroom.

What? Oliver shouted.

Don't play innocent with me, she shouted back.

It was time for us to leave. Oliver had to get ready for his new job bussing tables and delivering pizza for Antonio's Pizzeria. Britt had to mow the lawn before his father came home from work. As for myself, I had nothing to do and nowhere to be.

While Oliver was in his room putting on his uniform (a red baseball cap and shirt with Antonio's logo—a mustached man riding a bicycle with pizza
pies for tires), Mrs. Thompson walked me to the front door.

I really dig your hair, I said again.

I have to get used to it, she said, patting the side of it with her hand.

I almost forgot I had her panties shoved down the front of my jeans. And now I was talking to her, complimenting her new hairdo with her lacy underwear pressed against my crotch. I felt ashamed and embarrassed even though she had no idea what I was hiding. I said good-bye and headed down the walkway. When I reached the piece-of-shit-mobile I looked back, hoping Mrs. Thompson was checking me out, but the front door was already closed.

I had nowhere else to go but back home, up to my clothes-strewn and postered bedroom. With my door locked, I played one of Oliver's mix CDs on my portable stereo. The Wrens, the Black Keys, Deerhoof, Modest Mouse—it was one fierce song after another. I pulled out Mrs. Thompson's black panties, my head still a little woozy from the weed. Her panties were sheer, the edges ridged with lace. There were flowers embroidered on the meshed fabric and each stem
curled into five petals. It was like her funeral veil, those tiny dark roses that floated over her ruined face. I lifted the panties to my nose and breathed in.

All I could smell was dust.

 

We used to play this game at the Cerritos Shopping Center. It wasn't a game, really—no points were added, no score was kept. We didn't have any money, just enough for a pack of bubble gum, which is all we needed. One of us chewed a piece of gum, usually Britt, and afterward he'd push the wad into the spout of one of the drinking fountains. Then we'd sit at a nearby bench and wait, the mall echoing with the voices of shoppers, a constant droning.

We would wait and wait, anxious for a laugh at someone else's expense, because we were loaded, because the world didn't care about us and vice versa.

Soon enough someone was heading straight toward the fountain, oblivious.

I remembered a middle-aged man in specs leaning in, how the water shot out and how his head snapped back, the white handkerchief he removed from his back pocket to wipe the lenses.

I remembered a young woman full of shopping bags, the water spraying her chin, her blouse, how she cursed at us when she saw us laughing on the bench, holding our stomachs.

And the little Asian girl in pigtails, on tiptoes to reach the arc of water, only to be hit with a stream directly in the eye. The way she bawled, the way her mother consoled her.
Oh, honey,
she said, rubbing the back of her head.
It's only water, sweetie.

I was sitting on the bench, alone now, remembering all of this, when I saw Ashley walk into the Hallmark store across the way. I didn't see her face, actually, but I recognized the green shade of her hair, the plaid pattern of her skirt. I imagined she was smiling and that she was at the Hallmark store to pick out a card for Enrique. It was early August and his birthday was only a week away. You lucky bastard, I thought. You lucky depressive fuck.

I decided to take out the Valium Oliver had given me earlier that day. At the very fountain we once sabotaged I swallowed the white pill and when I turned around a boy with Down syndrome was sitting on the far end of the bench. He had a bowl cut and a Mickey
Mouse T-shirt tucked into his slacks. I looked around, trying to find his parents.

Hello, he said.

I sat beside him. What's up, little man? I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. He looked down at his shoes and swung them lazily, back and forth over the polished floor.

Where're your mom and dad? I asked.

My mom's buying cookies, he said, pointing at the bakery. You want one?

No, thanks.

Okay, he said. He swung his shoes faster now, back and forth, back and forth, like a windup toy. I thought that if Enrique were here, he'd make fun of him. He could be heartless that way.