“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.”
&
nbsp; 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.”
“Thanks.” I take it from him and lean it against the coat closet door. The house is dim and cool and quiet and peaceful compared to the hot, sunny day.
He walks in and looks around. His presence, confidence, and rawness make the house seem petty, overly decorated, fake.
“Changed shirts?” He takes his slippers off by the front door and flops down on the couch.
I’m stoked he noticed that--even though I feel stupid about it. My ears are ringing. I pace back and forth in front of him, straightening up the house, trying to hold my chest out, and clenching up my stomach to make it look muscular. I’m making casual look painful. I don’t know how to seem normal. I need a prop. I should offer him some beer or get an ashtray, even though my parents would flip if someone smoked in the house. It’s worth it. “You want some vodka or something?”
He looks at me like I just said something ridiculous. “That’s cool, brah.” He sits way back on the couch with his legs spread far apart and his hands over his crotch. He breathes and sighs, like it feels good to sit in this peaceful room that no one in my family ever uses.
I get two cans of Coke from the kitchen and walk back in. “Here. They were out of liquor.” I hand one to him, roughly, so he doesn’t think I’m willing to kiss his ass, and sit down next to him, barely on the edge of the couch. I stare at his neck, and the veins running through it down into the collar of his red T-shirt. I get a whiff of the laundry soap his mom uses. I can’t stop my legs from fidgeting on the floor. It’s making the whole house shake, and rattling a cabinet across the room.
“So, what do you wanna do?” I say, way too fast, so it sounds like some corporate slogan or something. I go to take a swig of my Coke, but I miss my mouth and it spills down my chin onto the front of my T-shirt. I want to take it off, and just be shirtless with him, but I’m too skinny and white.
We either have to fight or jerk off, because I can’t take this tension much longer.
“Let’s get that saw, brah.”
“OK.” He saved me. Something to do. I let out the air I’ve been holding in my lungs this whole time and feel my chest deflate.
Clay stands up and looks around. He walks down the hall. “That your den?”
Fuck. He’s seen my freak cave—the place where I beat off, stare at myself in the mirror for hours, and examine every part of my body like I’m a monkey.
He’s gonna sense the weirdness and run out screaming.
I practically run after him down the hall. “Uh, yeah, I’m just getting around to throwing some old shit away.”
He hands me the joint and I re-light it and take a hit. “I’ll take your hit. Blow it in my face.”
I blow the smoke in his mouth. Our lips touch and surges of electricity bounce between us. It’s the closest we’ve ever been. I hand the joint to him. He takes a hit and blows his smoke down my throat. A bubble of heat surrounds us in the hallway. He looks back at me like we’re sneaking through somewhere we shouldn’t be. “Iruka binbinkuru karupisu.”
“Japanese, right? What’s that mean?”
“Let’s chop this shit off my arm.” He holds up his cast.
“OK,” I say. I guess he’s not going to tell me what he said. We walk past the never-used living room. The couch is messed up and wrinkled from where we were sitting. It looks like we had sex on it. “Come on.”
He follows me out the back door, toward the neighbor’s tool shed.
I leave a trail of pheromones behind me. I hope they’re influencing him, secretly influencing him to kiss me in the shed. I check the neighbor’s driveway to see if they’re home. One car with its trunk open. I can’t tell him we can’t go back there just because I’m afraid they’ll catch us. He’ll think I’m a wimp with no sense of adventure. He surfs 15-foot waves.
We sneak up to the door. The dog behind my house sees us and starts barking, shoving its nose under the fence. I open the plywood door and jump in.
Clay crouches down, sneaks in behind me, and closes the door.
The shed still feels like desperate sexuality. I move the tools around on the workbench to lighten the vibe a little. I hide a wrench that I came on the other day below some sandpaper.
He hands me a saw. “This is perfect,” he whispers. I think he’s impressed that I can get my hands on all these tools. It’s totally masculine.
Clay rests his arm on the wooden workbench. “OK, cut away, little brah.”
I grab his upper arm, over his tattoo,
to steady it for cutting, and hold the blade over his cast. My boner pokes at the workbench. It’s beginning to hurt. If it touches him, even by accident, through two layers of fabric--my shorts and his--I think I’ll come. Sweat drips down my armpit and down the side of my torso. The blade looks dangerous against his cast.
He grasps the back of my neck with his free hand. His palm feels like it’s burning through my skin, revealing the innermost parts of me. “It’s OK, dude. You won’t hurt me. I’m invincible.” He winks and makes a sort of super-hero smile and cocks his head.
I saw back and forth, quickly. The blade gets close to his skin, where the plaster stops and cotton bandages start.
“Ah! Stop!” He yanks his arm up and it breaks the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The shed goes dim and slivers of glass rain down on us. The vibe is romantic and moody, with just a little spurt of yellow filtering through the canvas covering the small window.
“Sorry. Did I cut you?” My words sound too intimate in the darkness, like couples in movies lying in bed together late at night after sex, next to a crackling fire in the fireplace, so I add, “dude.”
“No, but you looked insane, little man. I didn’t think you were gonna stop.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you.” Oh, God. That was so obvious. I open the shed door and light pours in. Clay pulls and rips through the rest of the layers of his cast and throws it into the trashcan, which I have to remember to get out later. He rubs his white, newly exposed skin over his mouth and nose. “Fuck, it smells like a moldy dog.”
It smells strong and rank, but kind of turns me on. It’s a strong variation of what he smells like, like what would happen if he didn’t take a bath for months. I inhale as much as I can. The molecules that carry the scent are part of him. I’ll never be the same. This base-level information will take my brain weeks to analyze. “Don’t you wanna keep it?”
“Nah.”
I look down at the cast and examine the pen-and-ink drawings of sharks and Hawaiian tikis. “Those drawings are cool.”
“My friend drew those. I’ve got lots of his work.”
Clay's Way Page 3
