Oskar Blows a Gasket

by Claire Davis

  “I dunno. Just wondered.” Because it was hot.

  “I thought I’d lost it. Well, yeah, I used to live there. I think I told you?” He drew breath, no doubt ready to launch into the story of a happy family. Oskar remembered his vow to keep Bear at arm’s length.

  “Cool. So anyway, was there anything else in the car?”

  “One thing, actually.” Bear laughed. Oskar tried not to join in because he didn’t even like him. Instead, he watched the dimple that appeared on his reddening cheek and the way his chest moved. Of course, the desire to join in was merely animalistic behaviour—the human urge to follow and copy.

  “Yes? What?”

  “There was a—funny mag on the back seat. You know…” Bear nodded vigorously. Oskar shook his head. “You know.” Bear put his hands up to his chest and drew an imaginary shape, like big balls. Then he moved his hands around to form an invisible figure of eight.

  “What the fuck you talking about?” Oskar was bewildered, but this only made Bear laugh harder.

  “Jerk-off mag,” he giggled. “Naked ladies.”

  “Oh!” Oskar laughed back, just a little bit, because by now Bear was hooting. “Dirty bastard.” He seized Bear’s arm again and directed him, still laughing, in the direction of the bus stop. “It’s not that funny.”

  “I guess it was nerves. I was expecting to see—like a bomb or something. And there it was, right open—boobies. And hairy bushes. Oh my god!”

  “Disgusting.” But Oskar couldn’t keep up the po-face. “Maybe that’s why he’s following us? To invite us into his wank empire as porn stars.” It wasn’t funny at all, but Oskar suddenly couldn’t stop either. He bent double to clutch his stomach, and as he did so, he saw the red car crawling round the corner.

  ****

  “Good evening, all! Nice to see so many request slips.” He shouldn’t be broadcasting. “A common theme seems to be dance music, which I suppose is to be expected when you’re ill and can’t get out of bed on your own.” It was pathetic and weak, but with so much crap exploding in Oskar’s brain somehow only the disabled loo made him feel calm.

  Morris always used to have a laugh about sickness and broken bones, saying the patients had enough of being serious all day.

  “Yeah. So here’s a number I think you’re gonna like. And something you won’t know is that Morris never could take anything serious. Didn’t matter what it was—nutters trying to kill us, Mum getting mugged—Morris would just make a joke of it and it never seemed so bad then. He used to say the world’s got enough problems, no need for me to make any. Not a bad attitude, is that. Anyway, see you all next time! Thanks for listening. Hospital radio! Bye, Morris.”

  He lingered over the headphones. “I miss you.

  Chapter 7: Gag Me with a Spoon

  Gareth

  Dear Dad,

  Did you get my letters? Any of them? Yeah, those things that come through the letterbox with scrappy writing. I bet there’s a big pile on your desk you never even opened. See the cat picture in the corner?

  I know you’re busy movie-making and that’s why I had to come here, but couldn’t you find a minute to write me? All the boys get letters every week and packages, and what do I get? To sit here in this dusty old room time forgot and stare at the walls because I’m too fucking retarded to join in anything even if they’d let me, which they won’t. You know you made me like this? All the years of my childhood being dragged from country to country with different tutors—when you remembered me at all. How was I meant to learn how to interact? Huh? How could I possibly know when they’re joking and when they’re not? I never was around any other kids until I got here. You know what the boys call me? Forest Gump.

  From Your son. Gareth. The boy with the ponytail, except I cut it off to spite you, so now it’s short.

  P.S. Sorry, Dad. I wrote that earlier when I was kind of blue. I’ve crossed it out but you can still read it. If you want. You can even come and pick me up. If you want.

  Not much new here to report. Same old lessons. I asked if I could join the swimming club but I didn’t make the time. Everyone here is so good at the sports and lessons. What’s the point trying? I’ll never catch up, not in a million years.

  Something interesting, though. Remember that guy John? On Tuesday, he turned up to form time late, which is kind of unusual for him. He sauntered in and waved at Mr. Beard (yes, he really is called that), and there was something different about him. Mr. Beard beckoned him over and asked quietly—but you could hear—if he was wearing eye make-up! OMG, Dad! John laughed and said yes, and Mr. Beard said he didn’t think it was in the school rules. Anyway, I’ve set it out like a play for you:

  Mr. Beard: Are you wearing make-up? (Quiet and shocked.)

  John: Yes. Do you like it, Sir? (Sweet and cute.)

  Mr. Beard: That’s against school rules, John. (Trying not to be a jerk.)

  John: No, it isn’t. I checked them all, Sir, and there’s no rule about make-up at all. (Ultra polite.)

  Mr. Beard: Oh! (Falling over.)

  John: And you haven’t said if you like it. (I’m not joking here, Dad, John batted his eyelashes.)

  Mr. Beard: There’s the bell! Off to lessons, boys. (Ultra flustered.)

  Dad, I almost peed myself it was that funny, and brave. Don’t you think that’s brave? I mean. this is not the kind of school where the boys talk about stuff like that, like ever. I think John is so cool. He never gets mad like so many of them, he’s not even mean. And yet they leave him alone. I wish I was more like John. His other names are John St. Clare, which is a really nice name.

  Are you OK, Dad? Who does the cooking and stuff now I’m not there? And who looks after Bubble? I miss Bubble so much, I’m not even kidding. Cats need to be stroked and played with every day, and night too, if they can get it, because they get lonely and sad. I asked Miss Bell if I could bring him here, but she said no, animals aren’t allowed, of course. This place would be a million times better if they did allow animals. I must admit I asked because I thought if you brought Bubble here, maybe you’d tell me what’s going on at home. Maybe I’d get to see you before I forget what you look like.

  I bet you have another new girlfriend, and that’s why you’re too busy to write me. Does she like cats? How come they never like kids or cats?

  A lot of the boys keep talking about what they’re going to do next year after they finish school. Most are going to college, even the ones with famous parents. John is going to Oxford to study law and philosophy, whatever that is. All the parents came in to listen to a talk by the head about our options and opportunities, and then they had serious-looking chats with their kids. I just sat at the back. On my own. When the teacher asked me about my plans, I said I’d have to talk with you first. So here I am, talking with you first:

  You: Son. What do you wanna do after school? (Maybe stroke my hair, even though I cut it.)

  Me: Something I can be good at. I’m sick of busting a gut for nothing. (I really am.)

  You: Now, now, my son. You are good at many things such as looking after me and Bubble, putting up with years of movie-making crap and having my idiot friends round. (A hug.) (Sorry, but they are idiots, Dad.) You are even good at hiding my drugs and liquor, and remember that time you saved my life after I overdosed?

  Me: Something to do with animals.

  You: How about an animal course?

  Me: Brilliant idea, Dad! I’m going to look into that.

  Thanks for that, Pops. Maybe if I have some idea about next year, I won’t feel so shit about everything. I don’t mind working twenty hours a day if it makes you proud of me.

  Well, I better go. If you should ever read this letter, please can you put some money in my account because I have nothing left for kitty treats.

  I miss you, not that you care.

  Please stroke Bubble and play with his mousey toy.

  Gareth

  ****

  Oskar

  “It’s from Mum and Dad,�
� Pink-and-White proudly announced. “What could it be?”

  A cardboard box, surrounded by other parcels and letters, had been placed in the middle of the lounge floor. The residents—except Bear—congregated.

  “Is there one for me? Josh said he’ll send a letter every few days so I don’t miss anything.”

  “Yeah, there’s a few for you, Stella. The porter said there’s backlog as the hospital couldn’t work out who we were. From now on, we should get regular post.”

  “Thank god! My mum kept asking if I’d got the presents.”

  Oskar looked out the window. The pile of shite had nothing to do with him; he’d merely come to watch the TV for a few minutes before returning to the safety of his room. To Simon, who had no need to send superfluous declarations of parental love via cardboard boxes.

  “Open it, Paula! Is it your birthday?” Carol Headscarf plonked herself down right next to Oskar and pulled—actually tugged—at his arm. “Oskar! What do you think it is?”

  “A baby elephant, obviously,” he said bitterly, taking her claws off his top and returning them to her own leg. They were always pawing, clamouring for attention like pathetic baby penguins. At least baby penguins were cute. He turned up the volume on the TV, trying not to watch the embarrassing spectacle of opulence. Didn’t they know people were actually starving to death in the world? Obviously there would be nothing for him, not that he wanted anything.

  Pink-and-White squealed like a kid as she tore off the tape. “It’s all my favourite treats! Creamed mushrooms—” Who the fuck ate creamed mushrooms? “—chocolates, cakes, and enough Pot Noodles to last me ten years. Oh, and a fluffy teddy bear.” She pulled out item after item, making sure to scream at ten-second intervals. “Perfume! Bath bombs! A new skirt!”

  “I’m trying to watch TV,” Oskar said politely. He thought it was politely. Actually, he didn’t care if it was polite.

  “And some smellies!”

  “Good, you need them.” He was done.

  “Hah-hah-hah, Oskar. What’s in your letters, Stella?” Pink-and-White threw some tape. It landed on his knee. He silently and invisibly eviscerated it with laser beams, right before freezing all the girls solid so he could settle down and watch the news.

  “Dear Stella, I am missing you so much. Every night my heart hurts without you. Today I woke up and felt the sun had not come out because you weren’t here…” Stella began.

  “Ooh.”

  “Ahh.”

  “It does not say that!” Oskar laughed. “You didn’t tell us he’s artificial intelligence. No human guy would say that!”

  “You are so beautiful that without you my life has no meaning…” Stella continued.

  “But my knob is ever ready.” Oskar laughed so hard the tape fell on the floor. “Each night I get by with a porn vid and box of tissues.” Carol HS nudged him, far too hard. “Oh, and an old dirty pair of your panties I stole.” He collapsed into fits of laughter.

  “Oskar, man. Stella and Josh have taken a vow of celibacy until they marry. Theirs is a pure love.”

  “You’re kidding me?” He wiped his eyes but Stella-Artois glared back.

  “I cannot eat without you…” She paused as more ferocious giggles erupted, turning into hiccups. Pink-and-White began laughing too, and even Carol HS was trying not to join in. Stella-Artois stuffed the letter back into its envelope. “I don’t suppose everyone can understand,” she said frostily.

  “It’s beautiful, though,” Pink-and-White said hastily. “I wish I had a boyfriend like that.”

  “Me too. Or any boyfriend,” Carol said mournfully.

  “Love is a commodity, that’s all. Same as Valentine’s cards and shit like that, all invented by the Victorians,” Oskar said, curling his lip, which was covered by purple-ice lipstick. “Who needs it? Not me. Notice how love spelt backwards is very nearly evil?”

  “Oh, Oskar love.” Pink-and-White moved nearer and began stroking his knee. “Do I hear a broken heart story?” Carol tutted and shook her head sadly.

  “A what?” He pushed her away and turned off the TV. “Got work to do.” His back burned from their unwanted sympathy as he walked proudly from the room. “Fuck you doing there?” he snarled at Bear, who lurked just outside. They collided but Oskar sharply pushed the bastard away. “Get off me.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just—coming in.”

  “Mff.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Shall I make you a coffee?” Bear beamed, which made Oskar dangerous. He still hadn’t got revenge for the top-cutting incident, or the sleepless nights after, feeling things he didn’t want to acknowledge. Trouser things.

  “Sure. White today.”

  Bear buggered off to the kitchen. Stupid shrieks and cooing erupted every so often from the lounge, but Oskar didn’t care about frivolous parcels or meaningless love letters.

  He opened the door and launched himself at the bed. “Simon,” he sighed. “I am forced to live in a world of falseness and lies.” He checked his hair quickly. It was tied up in a ponytail. His small face peered back but it wasn’t the impenetrable mask he wanted. Instead, he looked upset and stupid, like a boy not meant to get anywhere in the world, born to live a useless existence like all the other losers from the Brinsted estate. Like a guy no-one would send letters to.

  “Out,” he ordered. Hair fell across his face and shoulders. It could have been recklessness or something else that caused sudden shivers of rage across his neck. “You are one idiotic dork,” he told the mirror angrily. “Stop looking like that!” What Oskar hated, probably more than love letters and people kissing, was pity. Did Bear feel sorry for him? He went cold all over, and thought of the flat and Mum—how useless it all was. “Simon. Help?”

  “The cutoff top,” Simon said.

  Oskar rummaged in the wardrobe. Bear could look at what he’d never have, thereby restoring the balance in the world or at least in this bedroom. “Where is it?”

  “Here we go! Big mug, lots of milk.”

  Still sore, Oskar took the mug, frowning. “I wanted black.”

  “But you said— Oh, sorry. Shall I make another one?”

  “Nope, doesn’t matter.” Oskar sipped the coffee. The liquid burnt his throat, igniting his rage. He placed the cup on his desk, and then stretched his arms up thoughtfully. “Hot in here, isn’t it?”

  “The thermostat is broken.” Bear watched.

  “Did you see all the parcels for the girls? Their parents have more money than sense,” Oskar all but spat. “Spoilt, the lot of them.”

  “I heard Stella’s letter. You were mean to her. She’s OK, you know—she helped me put your shelves up. Don’t be so hard on her.”

  Oskar wanted to tell him to fuck off, just to see that smiling face break. He wanted to slap him hard. Who was this idiot, spurting crap and filling his space? Slowly and with deliberation, he peeled off his top. Right off. His jeans were tight and low. He knew—because of hours in front of the mirror—that from the back, the top of his arse showed. Walking to the bed, then back to the desk, he made sure to turn around and show all sides. Bear blinked, and blushed. His mouth fell open.

  “You’re right. Maybe I’m jealous.” Oskar grinned and stretched again, arching his back. “You wanna listen to some music?” His body screamed out for something. Casually, he stroked his stomach in circles. Shivers erupted up and down his body like little caresses.

  “Yeah.” Bear’s voice had gone weird, like he had a cough.

  Oskar bent over to find something soulful on his tablet, naked and exposed, on fire from Bear’s hot gaze, stupid with power. For a few seconds, he considered slipping off his jeans too. Bear was trapped, but what he hadn’t expected was feeling like he was the one who needed it. He couldn’t remember why he was doing this.

  “Did—did it upset you? The love letter?”

  “Upset is too strong a word. I guess it just made me aware how far from Dad I am, �
��cause I’m very uptight now. You couldn’t massage my shoulders, could you?” He hadn’t even meant to say that. Oskar hated being touched in any way. “Did you get any letters?”

  “Hah, no. But I wasn’t expecting anything.” Bear drank his coffee, not meeting Oskar’s eye.

  “I told all my family not to bother. Obviously, they argued, but using paper is so bad for the environment. I mean—what’s wrong with sending a text? And Dad can’t in case it gets tracked.” Still, Bear wouldn’t look up. Oskar began to feel cold, standing there half-naked with hair in his eyes. He crossed his arms.

  “Do you have a lot of family?” Bear finally looked up but instead of lust, what shone out was something else.

  “Loads. So many they get on my nerves, all in my business.”

  “You’re lucky. I better get back.” Bear got up. “I know you’ve got work to do.”

  “Don’t go.”

  Bear half-turned his head and paused.

  “Please? I feel a bit lonely tonight. I’m missing my dad.” Oskar quickly slipped his top back on. “You can ask me questions about him if you want?” He indicated the bed, where he never normally invited anyone to sit. “Go on, sit down.” Raucous laughter spilled from the lounge.

  “It’s so hard sometimes, isn’t it?” Bear sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Being different. You just want to be normal, like everyone else. I mean, I guess that’s what it’s like? I guess the letters got to me too. I don’t know why I mind because I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  Tomorrow, Oskar was going to send himself a pile of letters, and maybe even a gift. His loan had come through earlier in the week, not enough to be rich but enough for a treat. “I don’t know. I’ve never been normal.” The more he thought about writing himself letters, the better it seemed. He imagined Stella, listening to his steamy love letters.

  “No. I can see that.” Bear laughed softly. By now, Oskar should be reeling him in instead of sitting there watching that dimple and wondering.

  “You want to hear about my dad?”