by Nathan Wrann
*
FENCE
Nathan Wrann
Copyright 2000 Nathan Wrann
Published by Dalton Gang Press,
West Haven, CT
**
My name is Walt. I’m sitting in the backseat of my best friend’s Firebird, looking out the rear window at the line of cars with their headlights on. My friend Jake is driving. We’ve known each other since we were five and my family moved to this shithole town. Last week I dropped out of college. Jake never finished high school. Jake’s cousin Gary is in the front passenger seat. Gary’s a few years younger than us, but he’s cool.
I turn from the rear window and stare between their heads. I’m zoning. The taillights of the car in front of us look like a pair of fuzzy, fractured, glowing balls of red yarn. The wipers pass back and forth, squeaking across the glass. They don’t break my focus on the lights. The car slows, the lights flash brighter and I snap out of it. Four cars ahead of us the hearse turns left into the cemetery.
--
“Man, can you believe these fuckin’ assholes?” Jake whispers to me. The three of us are standing in the drizzling rain now. The rain already soaked through my cheap suit and the jean jacket I wear over it. I shiver as a cold stream runs down my back. My mom bought me the suit a few years back and it’s too small now, but it’s all I’ve got. None of us has an umbrella.
Jake’s long hair is matted against his head and actually looks kinda cool. Kinda tough. My hair isn’t as long as his but it’s getting there. Gary has to keep his short ‘cause he still lives with his mom. Ever since he graduated last year he always says he’s moving out. Jake and me also live with our moms. Since I was in college my mom lets me do what I want. Jake does whatever he wants anyway.
We’re kinda standing off from everybody else. They’re all around the hole with their umbrellas and raincoats, watching Monty’s coffin go down.
Her name was Alicia Montgomery, but like me and Jake and Gary, she went by her last name. The priest is standing at the end of the hole talking but I don’t hear him. I’m not listening.
Her parents don’t stand next to each other. They got divorced a few years ago. About six or seven. My parents split up a few years before that. I don’t think Jake’s were ever really together. I see her bitch of a mom staring at her dad and blaming him for everything, even though he was nowhere near the accident.
Monty’s boyfriend Kevin stands at the edge of the hole. He’s got crutches under his arms and a big black garbage bag wrapped around the cast on his left leg. He looks like a chump. She didn’t meet him until after we started college.
She started hangin’ out with other people and everything. In high school it was always the three of us: me, Jake and Monty. We used to play in this cemetery when we were kids. It’s fucking massive. The field of graves goes on forever and it separates the Southside from the Northside. Which is good ‘cause we don’t want those Northside pricks in our neighborhood.
Gary started hangin’ with us when he got to high school. Nobody else really liked us and we didn’t really like anybody else. We were the only friends we had and that was fine.
--
“What a bunch of fuckin’ assholes.” Jake yells when we get back in the car. The rain beats against the roof. “Can you believe these fuckin’ people coming to her funeral like they fuckin’ knew her? And what about that douchebag Kevin.”
“Didja see the Hefty bag on his leg?” Gary says.
“Shoulda stuffed his whole body in it and thrown him out with the rest of the trash!” Jake says turning the key. The tape starts up right where it had stopped: Metallica’s Master of Puppets. Hetfield and Hammet’s guitars rip through the air like chainsaws. The loose headliner pulsates with every hit of Ulrich’s pounding drums.
I pull a baggy with a coupla joints from my jacket pocket. The cars ahead of us begin to move.
“Are we going to the reception?” I ask, pulling a J out of the baggie.
“Fuckin’ A!” Jake says. “That dipshit Kevin is having it at his big fuckin’ house and the way I figure, he owes us.” Jake wipes the condensation from the inside of the windshield. “Shit!” He gets out and goes to the front of the car and starts picking at the large Firebird sticker on the hood.
I light the joint and take a deep hit. Jake gets more and more pissed out in the rain but I can’t hear him over the music. I pass my joint up to Gary and I turn to the rear window. The smoke billows out of my mouth and fills the rear window alcove. I haven’t sat in the front seat since her accident.
The driver in the car behind us hits the horn. I swipe my hand across the condensation fogging the rear window. I don’t recognize the people in the car. Without looking, I’m positive that Jake’s response was to flip them the bird.
Jake’s door opens and gets back in while mumbling something about motherfuckers. Then he goes silent, jams it into first and lays on the gas, throwing mud into the windshield of the white Mercedes behind us.
I don’t expect to hear anything out of Jake for the rest of the drive. He loves his car. More than anything, I think. It’s a gold 1978 Pontiac Firebird. It used to be his dad’s. Whenever Jake’s got some extra cash he drops it into his ride. But it’s never enough. There’s always something wrong. Whether it’s the sticker peeling on the hood or the headliner drooping, it just reminds him of how fucked up his life is. I guess he figures that no matter what he does, he’ll never get ahead. I guess.
Jake takes the joint from Gary, hits it and passes it back to me. I slump down in the seat, take a drag and close my eyes.
In the inside pocket of my jacket I have a photograph. I don’t have to take it out to know what it looks like. I know it by heart. I’ve been carrying it for the past few days. It’s Monty and me sittin’ on a sofa. She’s all bubbly and happy and I’m stoned out of my mind. I’m wearing the same Wal Mart suit I have on now, and she’s wearing a flower dress and some crazy sunglasses. The picture was taken sometime last year when she started making new friends. It was the first time I saw her in a dress. The whole time I knew her she only ever wore jeans, a T-shirt and her jean jacket. I hardly remember that party. Mostly all I remember is ‘cause of the photo.
I think that was when we talked about California. She asked me where I would go if I left The Southside. I said California. It was the first place I could think of. I was so high.
I remember Kevin was at the party. They had been going out for a little while. He called her Alicia.
She thought his friends were her friends. Sittin’ there, stoned, when she wasn’t around I heard a lot of shit. They said she wasn’t on their level. They said she didn’t have money. They laughed at her clothes. The only way she ever met Kevin was ‘cause he had to get his grades up for another college. He was just stringing her along for the ass. She invited me to that party ‘cause she thought I’d fit in. She was wrong. She didn’t fit in either. No matter how she looked, but she tricked herself into thinking she did. Everybody was talking behind her back. I left the party and haven’t talked to her since. I saw a lot of those people at the funeral and I’m sure they’ll be at the reception.
I pass the roach up to Gary and look through the rear window again. Mud still runs down the hood of the car behind us.
“Man, this shit is nice.” Gary exhales a puff of smoke.
“Didja see that motherfucker jokin’ with his friends?” Jake mutters.
I’m getting a bad feeling about the reception.
“Yeah, what a cock,” Gary says and passes the weed back to me.
--
I’m on my third beer about an hour later and I just realized why the couch I’m sitting on seems familiar. It’s the same couch in the picture. Me and Monty were sitting on this couch the night of that party. When the picture was taken. I
didn’t know we were at Kevin’s house for that party. That pisses me off. After all his friends left he probably took her upstairs to his bedroom and fucked her. He didn’t deserve her. That’s why he doesn’t have her now. Fuckin’ fate.
Or karma.
Or some shit.
But he took her away from me. From all of us.
My face gets hot and my vision blurs. I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes to clear them. This room is full of a bunch of fuckin’ people. My nose gets stuffy and my throat hurts.
They’re all moving weird. In slow motion. And I don’t hear them either. Like they aren’t making any noise. It’s like I’m not even here. They don’t notice me and I just watch them. The driver of the Mercedes is over by the punch bowl. He’s about my age. He’s wearing a nice jacket with gold buttons and some kinda emblem. He’s got a nice car. I bet he goes to a nice college too. I slug a drink and it goes down hard. He’s got blonde hair with a perfect little part. He’s one of Kevin’s friends. I can tell ‘cause they all look alike. And they don’t look like me. Or Monty. He didn’t know her. None of them knew her. None of them loved her.
Her dad isn’t here but her mom is. She’s obviously trying to move up the social ladder. Maybe meet some young stud to butter her muffin and pay her bills. She’s in full-on cougar, talking to Blondie from the Mercedes. She looks like Monty. God I’m glad she didn’t grow up to be like her mother.
My head is swimming. I know I need to get to the bathroom. I can feel the little pigs-in-a-blanket beatin’ at the sides of my stomach. If I puke on the floor all those fuckin’ assholes, as Jake calls ‘em, will notice me over here. And I don’t want that. Reminds me, I haven’t seen Jake in a while. That isn’t good.
I push myself off the couch and make my way down the back hall to the bathroom. I lock the door and run the water in the sink at full blast. As soon as I bend over the toilet those piggies come rushing out.
I needed this. More than just the food and beer pours out of me. Everything that piled up inside me in the living room spews into the toilet in a flood of sobs, tears and gags.
I sit back on the cool tile floor and lean against the wall. I feel much better now and close my eyes.
--
The giggling wakes me up. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, but there are two boys, probably eight or nine years old, standing in the bathroom doorway laughing at me.
Shit. I thought I locked the door. When I turn toward them they disappear down the hall. Laughing. Little pricks’ll probably grow up to be just like everybody else in this shithole.
The water in the sink is still running, so I cup my hand under it and try unsuccessfully to wash out the weird taste in my mouth. I gotta find Jake.
The last place I saw Jake and Gary was in the garage. The asswipes that threw this party didn’t have anything to drink, and we had already drained Jake’s flask of Jack, so we had to search. Jake found a refrigerator in the garage that had a case of Bud in it. These douchebags have a refrigerator in the garage. It was probably Kevin’s dad’s beer. His mommy probably won’t let him have it in the house.
I walk through the living room as straight as possible and everything moves slow again. It reminds me of the last time I was here. For that other party. I check out the couch to my right and half expect to see her and me sittin’ there just like in the picture. Instead, all that’s on the couch is a big wet spot from my rain-soaked ass and jacket.
Someone’s eyes are on me as I make my way through the room. I take a look around and notice Blondie is there, still hanging out at the punch bowl, but now he’s looking at me. He’s staring right at me. When our eyes meet he shakes his head and looks away.
“Fuck you, Blondie.” Is what I want to say, but I just keep my mouth shut.
I go down the front hall and things feel normal again. I should just head out the front door and walk home in the rain. I should. But I don’t. Instead, I open the door to the garage.
“Hey social bunny! What’s up?” Jake greets me.
“Nothing.” I close the door behind me as I step into the garage.
“I thought we were gonna have the rest of this beer for ourselves.” A bunch of empties litter the floor. Jake and Gary have been hard at work. They’re both sitting on the hood of a pale blue Jaguar. Jake tosses a Bud to me.
“What’re you doin’?” I ask, popping open the can and taking a swig.
“Nothin’ man, just drinkin’ Kev’s beer and sittin’ on his Jag,” Gary says. It’s probably Kevin’s dad’s Jag. Or his mother’s. It doesn’t matter. They’re probably dicks too. Mud from their boots is running down the bumper. I notice a couple of muddy footprints on the roof too.
“Hey,” Gary says. “You gotta check out what Jake did.” He hops off the hood of the car and jogs around to the driver’s side. I follow. He opens the door and the stench smacks me in the face. I choke and gag but manage to not throw up again. On the Jaguar’s white leather driver’s seat is a big, brown shit.
“Oh man! That’s fuckin’ sick!” I hack and turn away from it. Gary closes the door, but the reeking smell still lingers. I can taste it in my mouth. I take a long swig of my beer to in a failed attempt to wash the sight and smell of it away. I feel sick. Not from the shit itself, but from the look of accomplishment on Jake’s face. He grins and puts the beer can to his lips. He’s just sits there on the hood of someone else’s car with a smug smile on his face and it makes me feel ill.
“Gary and me was talking,” Jake says. “We were gonna go to the Maiden show next week. I know a guy that works security at the Coliseum and –what the fuck is on your tie?”
I don’t need to look down to know that not everything that came out of my stomach made it into the toilet.
“Shit.” The tie has a red stain running down it. “Oh well. Fuck it.” I unclip the tie and throw it toward the garbage cans.
“I’m fuckin’ hungry, man. Let’s get some eats,” Gary says as he crumples his beer can and tosses it across the garage.
Jake finishes his beer and hops off the hood. He pulls a couple cans out of the case and stuffs them in his jacket pocket. He tosses me another can, gives two more to Gary and opens one for himself.
“Let’s eat some fucking food!” Jake gives the battle cry, and we leave the shit-stinking garage.
--
Everything is moving in slow motion again. The caterers have taken away the pigs-in-a-blanket and set out some sandwich meat and other shit like that. We look completely out of place here. We are completely out of place here.
Jake and Gary are wasted. Totally fucked up. I didn’t notice it in the garage, but now it’s obvious. Jake’s eyes are bloodshot pink. His boots are covered with mud that he’s tracked across the carpet, and his hair is still matted to his head. He and Gary both ditched their ties and suit jackets. If they were ever wearing them. I can’t remember. Everybody else here is wearing a nice suit or a black dress. It’s only a matter of time before someone calls the cops. If they’re not on the way already.
Monty’s mom, Blondie and Kevin the douchebag are standing by the couch. The wet marks I left are still there. Her mom never liked us. She’s talking up a storm with Kevin, and the most I ever heard her say was: Get the fuck out of the house! The happiest day of that bitch’s pathetic life was probably the day Monty brought Kevin home instead of me. Or one of the other guys.
I notice a lot of people start looking our direction. They have that look in their face that people get when they drive past a car wreck. Jake is eating chicken wings right off the platter.
Every audible tick of the second hand on the wall clock makes me more and more uncomfortable. Every time I scan the crowd I recognize more faces from that other party. They’re all standing in the same place they were that night. Except Monty. She isn’t here. She was the only one I felt comfortable with that night. Even when she wasn’t next to me on the couch, seeing her face move through the crowd gave me a feeling. Made me feel all right. Then I would see t
he people she had just talked to; they would turn in disgust as she walked away. That pissed me off so bad. I see those people here now and they look the same. I’m getting hot again.
I gotta get outta here.
“Jake, I gotta take a piss.” I tell him. He mumbles something with his mouth full and I head down the back hall toward the bathroom. I keep walking past it though and climb the stairs that I find halfway down the hall. Turning down a hall on the second floor I find another stairwell so I go up that one too.
There’s a door at the top of the stairs. I listen against it for a minute and don’t hear anything so I try the knob and it swings open.
I guess I’m in Kevin’s room now. It’s pretty fuckin’ big. He’s got some football posters on the walls and his own TV in the corner. A big pile of clothes is stacked up by the door. Dirty laundry, I guess. Must be the maid’s day off. I take a seat on his bed.
“What the fuck?” I say out loud. On the nightstand is a picture frame. In the frame is a photo almost identical to the one in my pocket, except it’s Kevin sitting next to Monty on the couch. This picture must have been taken after I left. I shouldn’t have left. I should have talked to her. Jesus Christ. I’m sitting on the bed where that son-of-a-bitch screwed her that night. I grab a pack of cigarettes off the nightstand.
There’s only one smoke left in the pack and I shake it into my hand. On the outside of the pack is Monty’s handwriting in black marker: My last one. I quit. I flip the pack over. I love you is written on the backside.
I light the cigarette and crumple the pack into a little ball. I flop back onto the bed and blow smoke at the ceiling.
“She never loved you.” I say to no one. Or maybe to myself. Or maybe to the crumpled up empty cigarette pack. I don’t know.
If I hadn’t fucked up after that party she might not be dead. We might still be friends. Shit, we might be more than friends. And I wouldn’t be in this house all fucked up. If I had resisted her when she came to see me. Things would be different. We’d be somewhere together. Or maybe she needed to resist me. Maybe I came on to her. Fuck, I can’t remember. I tried for so long to forget it ever happened and it wouldn’t go away. Now the only thing I fuckin’ forgot were the details.
