Short answer: My imagination has balls, but I don’t.
After we are dismissed, Cecilia and I go back to the others and assume the posture. My rebelliousness is gone, replaced by an apathy so profound I’m not sure I care about anything anymore. If the real God, the one who unfortunately has been as inscrutable as Henry in my own life, deems this to be my fate, then so be it.
The floor smells like sweat and piss and mildew, and I wonder if it has been cleaned since Ralph used to slide those half-smashed roaches across it. I try to think if I’ve ever seen Dominic with a mop before, and before I know it, I am asleep.
The dream is a simple one. Me, above ground, on a windswept piece of brown earth. There is nothing. Nothing at all around me except the same dull brown earth, hard packed and unforgiving.
The world is gone or appears to be. I’m left alone to wander this bleak landscape. But then I see it out of the corner of my left eye, a fleck of contrast, almost blinding in the drabness. I whirl and see a human body. It lays in the unnatural posture of death. I go over to it and am not surprised to see Cecilia, her face serene except for the deep cavities where her eyeballs used to belong.
I touch her skin, noting the smoothness, the soft texture, like velvet. I touch a strand of hair, moving it over one of the brooding caverns.
I sit beside her body for a very long time.
“We need to go now.”
The wind keeps blowing. It’s something. Better than nothing. And the body. Something about her body doesn’t make sense. It’s on the tip of my tongue.
“Now, Adam. We have to go, now.”
Her skin is so new. The eyeballs are gone. Who took them? Her skin is so new, even in death.
The wind is clawing at me, pulling my shirt tight against my neck.
“Wake up, damn it.”
And then I am awake. Eyes open, I see I am still on the floor, but the others have gone. I look up into Cecilia’s face.
“Your eyes,” I say. “They’re still th—” But I trail off, assimilating the dream with what passes for reality these days. “Never mind,” I add.
She stares at me, her eyes wide and earnest. She looks lovely. Not just sexy, but pretty, the kind of girl you fall in love with and leave underground shelters to face an apocalypse that may or may not have ever happened with.
“I know where the masks are. Do you want to go up? We could go look at what you saw. We could maybe learn something about the truth.” She smiles. “You know, reality show or the end of the world. One or the other. Can’t be both.”
I smile. “Sure it can. If it’s a paradox.”
She takes my hand and helps me to my feet.
“What about Henry? And Dominic?”
“Taken care of. Even the Gods and their henchman must sleep, especially after a bottle of wine and a killer blowjob.”
She says this last part without the least trace of shame, and I know now her addiction is separate from what we have, like an alcoholic who must get drunk, but still loves his wife. I decide I can deal with her addiction if it means I get to have her love. Besides, if things work out, it could be just the two of us in a new world, far above this godforsaken place. And for the first time, I realize my acceptance—no, my resignation—to the idea that the world is gone, and we are the last. I allow my mind to imagine, in detail, Cecilia and I rediscovering the world, mile by mile. The mountains, the oceans, the sky. I shudder with pleasure as a new possibility strikes me: we would not only rediscover the planet, we would repopulate it. Post-apocalyptic Adam and, er, Cecilia.
“Coming?” she says. She’s standing at the steps that lead up to the outside world.
“I’d follow you anywhere,” I say. I am there when I realize it’s true. I really would follow Cecilia anywhere.
As we prepare to leave the shelter, I say a prayer. Not to Henry’s lame ass. Instead I set my sights higher, to someone or something more ancient than the earth, a master Creator who saw fit to let all us humans loose upon his sublime creation so we could fuck it up and fuck each other and fuck each other up. Perhaps I should be angry at Him for making us like we are. Putting us in a situation where our needs outpace our interests, where sex addicted angels like Cecilia are the nearest some of us will ever get to a prophet or a minister or even a person capable of true love. But I’m not angry. I’m only tense. Wound up with excitement of what could be, of what my life, so fucked up before, might offer around the next bend, outside the shelter, underneath a sky that just might have been made by a real, genuine God who loves us enough to suffer us, whether we be sex addicts or child-murdering pseudogods.
“It’s a paradox,” I say, talking in a low calm voice that, strangely, is completely representative of the way I feel, despite the possibility the world outside this door is gone and all that exists is the bleak landscape of my dream.
“What is?” Cecilia asks.
“I met the false god Henry and an angelslut named Cecilia. And now, I believe in God. You made me realize that. He’s a paradox. Fully man, fully God. Once you’ve got that, everything else seems simple. Kind of like this whole experience being fully terrible and fully wonderful. Kind of like Henry being fully genius and fully insane. A paradox.” I laugh with the joy of it all, thinking how there’s one more paradox I haven’t considered. What if the world is gone? Yeah. That would suck. But what if it’s not? What if the thing I saw is a corpse, but a corpse that has eyes and died some other way than the disease? What if the world is still ticking along just the way it always has, unaware of Henry and his God games? Cecilia won’t stay with me. There’s no way. Out there in the real world, a girl like Cecilia, a sex freak, won’t give me the time of day. I take her hand in mine. I want to leave, but I want to stay; I want the world, but I want it gone, levelled by the eyeball-popping disease and wiped clean. I want to wander the bare, unpopulated earth with Cecilia, but I also want to stay right here in this moment, one hand in hers, the other on the door, a world of possibility on the other side.
“Are you sure about this?” she asks, as rain begins to fall outside the door. It sounds wonderful, and I wonder if it is cleansing the earth, washing away the disease, the hurt, the addictions. And I wonder if it will cleanse us as well, so no matter what is on the other side, we will be better than we were before.
“I’m not sure about anything,” I say, “but that’s why we’ve got to do this.”
She nods. “If the world still exists, I’m going to do you like you’ve never been done before.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
She tightens her hand on mine. “If it doesn’t, I’ll do you in the middle of Times Square.”
“Slut.”
“Angelslut. Get it right.”
“I love you,” I say and open the door.
Chicken
I learned about defiance, real defiance, on a school bus. I was seventeen. That was the year I started drinking, the year my mother took my car keys away from me after I came home drunk. She waited until I was sleeping one off and hid them, knowing I wasn’t about to give them to her, nor was I going to stop drinking. Not then. Becoming sober was still decades of misery away.
So I rode the cheese wagon, morning and afternoons, sitting in the back with a couple of delinquent ninth graders that looked up to me because I told them the sordid details of my life, embellishing most of them to the point of absurdity. And the more I embellished, the more the two boys, Davy and Ty-Ty, wanted to hear.
I told them that I was on the bus because some drug dealer associated with the Mafia took my car when I told him to fuck off. I told them that I had a sweet deal lined up with a guy who was going to sell me a brand new Dodge Viper. I’d be getting it in a couple of weeks. I told them about my brother, Steve, who worked in the pits at Talladega and how he always got me pussy when I went to visit him. I told them that nobody could tell me what to do, and I meant nobody.
“What about Champ?” Davy said. I looked up at our bus driver. We called him Champ, and I always a
ssumed it was because he used to box, but perhaps I was wrong. Either way, his big forearms, thick black moustache, and scarred face always gave the impression that he was not one to be crossed. I’d only seen one kid try it since I’d been riding, and he was dealt with swiftly and soundly. Champ threw the bus in park, slung off his seatbelt and stormed back to the boy’s seat. The boy cringed into his seat, terrified.
“Sure, he can tell me all he wants, but I’m not going to do it.” And then for effect, I added, “I’m not scared of that old man,” while in truth I was mortified at the prospect of crossing him.
Champ had one rule on the bus—stay in your seat. So it didn’t surprise me when Davy called me on my big mouth.
“Stand up then,” he said. “Stand up and we’ll see how tough you are.”
I smirked at the idea. “Why should I? I don’t want to stand up. You and Ty-Ty can pull that pussy stuff, but I’m not bothering with it.”
Davy snorted like he had blown my cover, but Ty-Ty just kept staring at me, his eyes full of something. Wonder? Disdain? It was hard to tell. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that something wasn’t right with him.
I knew I was in danger of losing my audience. I had to act. I jumped up out of my seat and across the aisle at Davy. Grabbing him by his shirt collar, I pulled him face to face with me. “You little shit. You ever mock me again, and I’ll kick your ass all over this bus.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
I slid back into my seat and looked up at Champ. He hadn’t seen. He was coming up on a stop and his attention was focused on the road rather than the rearview mirror. That’s when I noticed that Ty-Ty was still staring at me with that stupid look of his . . . except now maybe I knew what it was. It was a snarl. A clear look of defiance. Maybe in my arrogance I had only assumed that he, like Davy, looked up to me. Now, he seemed much more menacing, and I found myself not wanting to meet his eyes. “Screw both of you,” I said and turned to look at the window.
For the rest of the ride home that day, I ignored them, though I continued to feel Ty-Ty’s eyes on me. They were like searchlights, covering my skin, making me feel naked and exposed.
The next day, I had found my bluster again after berating myself for letting some ninth grader get to me. I went straight to the back that afternoon (Ty-Ty and Davy didn’t ride mornings) and settled into my seat. When Davy and Ty-Ty got on, I looked right at Ty-Ty, staring him down hard. Without changing his expression, he stared back, seemingly looking right through my eyes and into the back of my skull where I hid my true self, the one that was afraid. Again, I looked away.
I worked hard over the next few days to regain my role as hero to them. I told stories about flying private jets, screwing teachers, telling the principal he could go fuck himself. Some of the stories were loosely based on reality, but most were total fabrications, sprung from my mind to my mouth in hot seconds of inspiration.
“Either of you ever play chicken?” I asked one afternoon.
“Chicken?” Davy said.
“Yeah, dumbass, chicken.”
“How do you play?” Davy said, sitting up.
“First of all, you need to have a car,” I said. “So you two dipshits won’t be able to play for a few years. But it’s real simple. I used to play it all the time before my car got stolen. All you do is drive right at somebody and fast. No matter what, you keep going. The first car to veer off the road is the chicken.”
“You used to play?” Davy said.
“All the time.”
“You never had a wreck?”
“Hell no. Wrecks are for chickens. I never chickened out. See, the game involves a very simple philosophy: make up your mind before you start that no matter what, you won’t chicken out. The other guy always will even if it’s the last minute. Never fails.” I had never played chicken in my life. I’d only seen it in a movie.
Ty-Ty, who generally said little—how could he, with that scowl plastered to his face—spoke up. “What if the other person makes the same decision?”
“Huh?”
“What if the other person playing decides to keep going no matter what, too?”
“Won’t happen,” I said.
“It might,” he said. “If I was playing with you it would. We’d collide with each other . . . unless you chickened out.”
I shot a scowl back at him. “I wouldn’t chicken out.”
His snarl widened. “Neither would I.”
The next words that came out of my mouth, I learned over time, to truly regret. Along with regret though I have learned over the years that some mistakes are irreversible.
“Ty-Ty,” I said, “You wouldn’t even play chicken on this bus.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I would too. But you got to tell me how to play.”
Before I had a chance to say anything, Davy started in. “Ty-Ty, I bet you won’t stand up.”
Ty-Ty furrowed his brow. “I ain’t scared.”
I laughed. “Sure looks like it to me.”
Ty-Ty shot up from his seat.
He stepped past Davy and into the aisle.
Seconds later, Champ was hollering: “Get back in your seat! Get back in your seat!” Ty-Ty gave no indication that he heard. The bus ground to a stop. Champ slung his seatbelt off and stomped to the back. “You got a hearing problem, son?”
Ty-Ty just stared at him, snarl stretching his face.
“I’m going to give you two options, son. Number one, you sit down. Number two, I sit you down.”
Ty-Ty said nothing. He only stared.
Champ got really mad then. His face turned red and he seemed to grow larger. He towered over Ty-Ty, burning with anger, but Ty-Ty did not even flinch. That’s when Champ began to look a little confused. He glanced at me and said, “What’s wrong with this boy?”
I shrugged. He glared at me hard. I sat up and said, “I don’t know.”
He looked at Davy. “This boy related to you?”
“Yes sir. He’s my cousin.”
“What the hell’s wrong with him?”
Davy studied the seat.
Champ turned his attention back to Ty-Ty. “One more chance, son.”
Ty-Ty remained silent.
Champ picked him up and thrust him down into the seat. Ty-Ty popped right back up. Champ stared at Ty-Ty like a man might stare at a disaster. His face registered disbelief, and I could see beyond that there was fear. It seemed strange to me that a man like Champ could be afraid of a boy like Ty-Ty. Scrawny and short, Ty-Ty looked like a straw compared to Champ, but in that instant I saw that size didn’t matter at all. It was a façade, a fool’s way of judging the world, a mistake of the undetermined.
“You want to do this the hard way? Be stubborn? Son, you don’t know stubborn.” He nearly ran back up the aisle, leaving Ty-Ty, scrawny, little Ty-Ty, still standing beside his seat, still snarling, still staring at the world through defiant eyes.
Champ snatched up the CB and put a call in to the school. He explained the situation and a voice said Ty-Ty’s parents would be contacted.
“You tell them to get over here and pick up their son. He’s not welcome to ride my bus anymore.”
So we waited. Champ stepped off the bus and lit a cigarette, maybe to affect nonchalance, maybe because he was a damned addict like most of the male figures I’d ever known growing up. A few kids told Ty-Ty to sit down, so they could go home, but nobody really seemed to have their heart in it. There was something frightening about Ty-Ty standing there, braver than he had any right to be.
Finally, Davy said, “Your dad is going to be so fucking pissed.”
“Dad can kiss my ass, just like Champ.”
A few kids ooohed and aaahed over this. Most of them just looked out the window, perhaps wishing for Champ to get back on to keep this strange, stubborn boy away from them.
I closed my eyes, still trying to be cool, still trying to appear unbothered.
A few minutes later, I became aware of Ty-Ty’s voice.
“See, I told you I wouldn’t chicken out. Me and you, we would crash in a game of chicken.”
I opened my eyes and saw that he was looking right at me, grinning. It was the first time I had ever seen him grin, and it came off as more of a leer than a true smile. I had to play it cool: “I’d still beat you. You did all right with Champ, but you’d chicken out in a car.”
The grin disappeared. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to study me, inch by inch. I felt my scalp tingle, my skin crawl. I was afraid of him, not because he was strong or imposing, but because he hated me, and, worse, he hated himself. I looked away, to the window. Outside an old Ford pulled up alongside Champ. A man got out. He was wiry and wore big shit-kicking boots and a belt buckle the size of a saucer. He pulled his sunglasses off and squinted at Champ. The two exchanged a few words, Champ obviously struggling to keep himself under control. He gestured at the bus, and Ty-Ty’s father stuck his two lips together and nodded slowly. Champ led him onto the bus.
“Come on, Tyler,” his father said. I was surprised by the calmness in his voice. I noticed his eyes, so set, so dead level, that I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to beat the shit out of Ty-Ty later or now if necessary.
Ty-Ty didn’t move. He still had the scowl of defiance on his face. He didn’t look at his father.
“Boy, you got about four seconds to get your ass off this bus, or I’ll throw you off.”
Ty-Ty didn’t move. His father didn’t even wait half of the four seconds before he was rushing down the aisle, shit-kickers and all. He slapped Ty-Ty once before picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder. Ty-Ty kept his body stiff all the way back down the aisle. His father slipped on the steps, righted himself, and was gone.
Champ returned to his seat to crank the bus. In the rearview mirror, I saw fear on his face.
Ty-Ty was suspended from school for a couple of weeks and from the bus for over a month. During this time, I got my car back, got drunk, and wrecked it into a ditch at three in the morning. Mom didn’t have to take the keys this time. The car was gone. I got lucky, at least that’s what most people kept telling me. I had to get six stitches above my right eye and three more on my left cheek. The wounds healed and I thought the scars made me look tough. I went back to the bus bragging to Davy, who sat across the aisle from me by himself without Ty-Ty.
The Shoebox Trainwreck Page 16
