Clay's Way

by Mastbaum, Blair

  My pot consumption level has risen dramatically, from getting high whenever to getting high at least four times a day. I hang out at home a lot more, taking photos--of myself mostly, because my art teacher, Ms. Yamamoto, said it will help me discover my inner soul or whatever. The four joints a day are provided by Clay on short stopovers he makes on his way to other pot deliveries.

  He doesn’t talk much. He never mentions that I stormed out of the skate shop crying. He’s nice and friendly, but he fakes being busier than he is. All I get is, “Cool, brah. Laters. I’ll call you.” He never does. It’s been like this between us for at least two long weeks. His pot delivery service is very successful. He got to quit working so much for the skate shop, and he’s got more time to surf, and he’s going to be able to buy that 16mm camera he needs to make that stupid movie he’s talked about since he was eleven.

  Smoking pot all the time has its drawbacks. It gets me really paranoid. I imagine I hear my parents come in when I’m jacking off. It’s terrifying to picture them walking in, eyes and mouths gaping wide, and seeing my boner, which looks a lot more grown up than the rest of me. Letting them see that side of me would let them in on a lot more than I ever want them to know. I smoke yet another bowl out of some hippie pipe I found out skating and I’m way too stoned to stay inside. My room starts to feel like a teenage prison.

  I walk up the hill to Clay’s house and my backpack feels too heavy--too many haikus I guess. I’m sure he won’t be there, but I just wanna see his house and think about how fun it was to hang out with him there. I might stop in to say hi to his mom, but I figure she probably doesn’t like me anyway.

  The shadows on Clay’s street are long in the afternoon sun. I see a kid I had art class with last year leaning out his window, shirtless, waiting for someone—probably for Clay to come by with his weed. I walk around the corner and see Clay’s house up ahead. His truck’s not there. Susan’s blue Toyota is parked in front and a car I’ve never seen before is parked beside hers--in Clay’s spot. The car is annoying-looking. It’s too sensible. It looks like a car that a nurse or social worker would drive.

  It’s Tammy’s.

  I tiptoe up to the driveway to look into the car. Kleenexes, coins, a pink swimsuit on the passenger seat. I pace around the street and light up a cigarette. I want to storm into the house and demand an explanation. My mouth turns dry and my armpits sweaty. I sneak up the side of Clay’s house and crouch by a tree stump.

  I have a perfect view into the family room. The TV’s off and the stereo’s on, which means socializing, talking, trying to spend quality time, whatever that is. I can hear some sort of jazz, the kind of music someone puts on when a guest is over and they wanna drink wine and talk about boring shit. The doorway to the kitchen is lit. An occasional silhouette walks by the opening, cooking or carrying things from the refrigerator.

  The family room light flips on. I almost jump up and run away, but all my fear just stays in my chest, and I wonder if this is how a heart attack would feel.

  Susan walks in and fluffs the pillows on the couch and chairs. She sits down on the sofa and looks out the window, right into my eyes.

  I wave, without thinking.

  She doesn’t respond. She looks into the glass and pushes her dark brown hair back. She’s only seeing her reflection.

  My body unclenches. Thank fucking God. She would have thought I was some freak, stalking her and Clay.

  Tammy walks in.

  Her hair’s straight and blonde—like in the photos--and she’s incredibly suntanned and pretty, in that local haole-girl sort of way. She’s wearing an open white blouse with a couple gold chains underneath, probably holding heart lockets or some other little nursey charms. She sits down on the couch with Susan. They smile at each other and talk with so many expressions of interest and humor that this can’t be real unless they are the two most oblivious people in the world. I can tell a fake expression anywhere.

  I hear a car drive up.

  The headlights spotlight the house next door as it turns into the driveway. It’s Clay’s truck. I can tell by the sound of the engine.

  Clay’s dog barks.

  “It’s only Clay, Sharky!” his mom screams.

  Clay rips through the front door and slams it behind him. He walks straight to the family room, where Susan and Tammy impersonate having a nice time. He walks over to Tammy, leans down, and gives her a kiss somewhere between the mouth and her cheek.

  My angle’s wrong to see exactly.

  Tammy grabs his hand and doesn’t let go. She rubs it while he talks to his mom.

  I can see their mouths moving, but I can’t hear the words through the glass.

  Clay told me not to be around when Tammy is. If he loves her, I’ll kill her, knock her off, drop some poison in her drink. I need to go inside. I’m not going to let him get away with this so easily. I’ll act like I’m just stopping over to drop in--some casual “I was just in the neighborhood” bullshit. I look down at myself to see what they’ll think of me when they open the front door. T-shirt, dirty shorts, muddy sneakers, insecure posture, shaky hands, stoned for days. I’m so pissed off and nervous my teeth are chattering. I walk to the front door and check the knob. It’s unlocked. I slink in and run down the hall, quickly and precisely, into Clay’s room. I can hear my heart beating.

  His room’s cleaned up a little. I flip off the photo of Tammy. I know it doesn’t do any good or anything, it’s not a voodoo photo, but it’s still fun. I hear Susan walking into the kitchen.

  “I think I smell something burning.”

  I tiptoe down the hall toward the kitchen and slink past the doorway before his mom gets there. Sharky looks at me and cocks his head, then barks, but just once. I slide across the tile and almost hit the washing machine. I can see down the hall, all the way into the den.

  The back of Clay’s head sticks up above the back of the sofa.

  I want to shoot him with a tranquilizer gun, distract Tammy, shoot her with a real bullet, lock Susan in a closet, and take Clay’s body into my room and add him to my pile of stuffed animals. I crawl down the hall on my hands and knees and up behind the sofa where Clay and Tammy are sitting. I take a deep breath and sneak underneath the end table. I have a filtered view of their faces though a gauzy, Hawaiian tapa-print tablecloth.

  “What’s your mom doing in there?” Tammy sounds like such a bitch.

  “I don’t know, making dinner or whatever.”

  He said whatever. He had to have picked that up from me. I’m influencing him, affecting him. This is good.

  Tammy’s voice is like a little girl’s, begging the daddy that spoiled her for attention. “I thought we were going to go out for dinner.”

  “What?” He’s totally confused.

  “I wanted to be alone with you, honey.”

  He looks away as if missing the punch line of a joke. “I love my mom’s food.”

  “Oh, Clay…” she says, like he needs to grow up or something.

  I hate listening to her talk down to him like this. All’s wrong in the universe when he’s being treated badly. I lean forward on my elbows so I can see Clay’s face. Sharky stares at me from his place on the carpet. This is so fucking weird. What am I doing in here? Loving Clay has made me insane.

  “You’re such a mama’s boy,” Tammy says.

  Clay just stares at the TV. He doesn’t understand what a shallow bitch she is. He doesn’t understand how disconnected they are, because he doesn’t understand girls, except his mom and she treats him like a surferboy king.

  I feel sorry for him, but I can’t do anything, and I hate it. I feel like I haven’t taken a breath in five minutes.

  “Clay, let’s go to Baci. I haven’t had their ravioli in ages. Go in there and tell her we’re going.” She looks at her upper legs and strokes them.

  “OK… God.” He starts to get mad, but then he makes a really innocent, little boy face, and smiles at her. He gets up and walks within an inch of stepping on my
fingers – there’s sand on his feet from the beach. “Mom, I think we’re gonna go out for dinner.”

  “Why? Hammerhead, I made your favorite--penne arrabiata.”

  He whispers, “Tammy wants to go out--be alone.”

  “Clay, I’ve been cooking for three hours. Talk to her.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and walks back into the family room.

  Tammy waits with a mean look on her face, probably because Clay didn’t ask her to marry him or something stupid like that. That’s the kind of girl Tammy is. I can tell. She wants to trap him in legal papers and screaming brats.

  It’s horrible to see Clay be made into a puppet by a girl who’s projecting her own insecurities on him by blaming him for everything that’s wrong with her. I know Jared would agree and his dad’s a psychiatrist. I wish I could jump out from under the table, hug him, tell him how cool he is, and take him away from her, but he wouldn’t go.

  He’s into this for some reason. He thinks that his life will be perfectly fine if he works at some stupid place, marries Tammy, and continues to dream about making movies and fooling around with boys.

  That’s so depressing. I thought Clay had it all figured out, but I’d never seen him kiss Tammy’s ass before. I roll out from under the table, all military style, and crawl down the hall. When I’m out of sight, I stand up and run into Clay’s room. It smells like pot and dirty socks. I hear footsteps. Fuck, they’re following me. I run over to the closet and dive inside and take my backpack off slowly and quietly. I tense up and stop breathing. I have a narrow view through the crack.

  Tammy walks in and Clay follows her. “Why did you drag me in here?” She’s as whiny as ever.

  “Tammy, you’re being mean to my mom.” He looks away at his television, which isn’t on.

  “That’s not true. We were talking before you got here. Your mom fucking loves me.”

  I slowly sit down on a pile of Clay’s skateboarding shoes. I can see the bend in Clay’s arm, and Tammy’s mouth. I lean forward to get a better view. Clay doesn’t know how to respond. He just looks at his hand.

  “Just leave her, Clay…tell her to fuck off,” I whisper.

  He looks at the closet.

  I make eye contact with him, but I’m pretty sure he can’t see me. He’d say something right away. I wave to make sure. He just stares into the darkness of the crack. I think he wishes he could just jump in and hide from Tammy and all her demands.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “I thought I heard someone talking.”

  “Quit trying to avoid looking me in the eye, Clay.”

  He sighs. “I’m not. OK? Wanna go? My mom’s gonna invite her friend over to eat, so it’s fine.” He sits down on his bed.

  He’s lying.

  I feel sorry for Susan. All her years of being a great mother wiped out by one rude demand.

  “In a minute, Clay. Hold on.” Tammy sits down on the bed and reaches over to Clay’s chest and feels around inside his shirt, rubbing his chest. She slides her hand down his stomach and onto his crotch.

  His legs open slightly wider and he raises his T-shirt a little at the bottom, so there’s an opening between his shorts and his shirt.

  My stomach burns. I need a cigarette, 10 cigarettes. The veins in my temples are pulsing hard with blood and chemicals. My eyes have no need to blink. My heart races faster than I’ve ever felt it. My impulse is to jump out if the closet, rip that girl’s hand off Clay, throw her across the room, and mutilate her. I want this girl out of here and back into the part of my brain that only dreaded this actually happening. I want her fucking hands off Clay before I go insane.

  Get away from him, you slut!

  She works her hand into Clay’s pants. The waistband of his underwear holds her wrist like a bracelet. Clay just sits there, her hand on his dick. It better not be hard.

  She reaches deeper into his pants and starts jacking him off fast, like total hamster-speed.

  He thrusts slightly into her hand.

  I lean forward to see his face better. My head presses against the door.

  His head’s back and his eyes are closed. His neck looks sexy, sinuous, shiny with sweat. Maybe he’s thinking about me.

  He had his eyes open when we were doing shit.

  Tammy moves her hand up and down and pulls down the front of his shorts. Her hand’s on his boner. Light tan, peach-colored perfect smooth skin and his dark pubic hair.

  I can’t breathe.

  She looks like she’s doing some sort of nursing procedure. It looks like porn. A weird mix of sexuality and disinterested ritual.

  I get a hard-on. It confuses me. I’m full of so much feeling. Turned on, fucked over, jealous enough to murder. A rich lady would take a Valium now. I need heroin.

  Tammy unbuttons her shirt and keeps jerking off Clay with her other hand. Her pale tits plop out. Clay doesn’t look at them. Tammy slides her hand down her body and lifts her skirt above her waist. She slides her hand into her underwear.

  Clay comes. I see it shoot up a little and run down Tammy’s knuckles.

  She keeps jerking him off though. “Fuck me, Clay.”

  He looks like he’s in pain. His lips are snarled up and his eyes are wide.

  She’s abusing him, exploiting him. She should treat him like a fucking prince.

  This bitch doesn’t know that it fucking hurts to jerk off after you’ve already come.

  “Tammy, sweetie, I came.” He says this with an odd mix of affection and disbelief, but not anger, as I hoped.

  “Oh... fuck... oh… oh Clay, baby… oh God… fuck me...” She’s totally acting like she’s in a porno movie, like she everything she knows she learned from watching one. A thin layer of sweat coats her skin. Clay looks into her eyes as she’s coming, or giving birth, or whatever the fuck she’s doing. He laughs when she’s done--a sort of small, affectionate laugh.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because you looked cute”--he wipes his nose with his arm--“and because you’re so dramatic.”

  “Nice--the first time we even do anything in like… months, and you don’t even fuck me.”

  Hearing this makes me feel gross. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s not right to be spying on this shit. I won’t be able to be pissed off at him later if I hear all this. I already feel too sorry for him.

  “OK, Tammy, let’s just go. I don’t want to argue. Let’s go eat.” I can hear anger buried deep in his voice.

  Tammy gets up off the bed, adjusts her pants, and walks to the door. She opens it and leaves. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  He takes a last look around the room and gets his wallet from the top of his dresser. He picks a T-shirt up from the floor and smells it. He puts it on, then leans down, and picks up a chunk of green surf wax. He rubs it hard and then beams it at the wall. It takes a chunk out of the paint where it hits. His lizard jumps in its cage. Clay walks over to him. “Sorry, bro.” He walks out, closing the door behind him.

  The room has a deafening buzz, like their energy is still here, still battling. At least Tammy’s gone, even if Clay had to leave to get rid of her.

  She’s horrible. My worst fears are confirmed.

  Clay not only still wants to be with Tammy, he’ll do it even when she’s treating him like shit. His feelings about her are convoluted and fucked up. How can he be so stupid? How can he not see what’s going on?

  I get up and stretch my legs. I open my pack and steal some pot from his dealer boy drawer and take a couple of his wifebeaters and a pair of his boxers just in case I never see him again and he gets stolen into Tammy World for all eternity. I smell his mom’s cooking and instantly get really hungry, like totally completely hungry--on the verge of passing out Sahara Desert style.

  She turns the stereo on. Joni Mitchell’s high-pitched voice echoes down the hall.

  I zip my pack and lie back on Clay’s bed, the place where the horrible coupling took place. I don’t smell Tammy, but I do smell Cla
y. I can’t believe the bed’s not tainted by her. Lying here seems to calm me, but it’s deceiving. She was here.

  I hear Susan on the phone. “OK, Linda. Sure. No problem. I’ve been looking forward to a night alone anyway. I can get some painting done. Right. OK, talk to you later. Night.” She turns up the music.

  I’m not sure what to do, how to get out of here. I have nothing to do tonight. I walk over to Clay’s window. It looks easy to escape, but I’m sure he never had to do it. My window’s practically a door, I use it so much. I feel the screen. It looks easy to take out. I unscrew the dusty aluminum screws and the screen falls out onto a shrub. I strap my pack on and jump out and squeeze awkwardly between the sill and the top of the window, which won’t open very high for some reason. I land on the screen, which makes the other side pop up and hit my leg. It stings. I trip over a wooden stake--a support for a young tree--and land sideways in the wet dirt.

  This is pathetic. I lie in the mud outside Clay’s window in the dark while he and Tammy drive to some fancy dinner with candles and wine. I look up into the night sky. The moon shines down on me through high clouds and the breeze makes my dirty shirt sway across my chest. The big puffy clouds are being swept away by a high-pressure center or maybe a distant hurricane. I can hear the music when the breeze blows a certain way.

  A young hippie-sounding girl sings about being in love and not being loved back.

  I cry. All this thinking is doing me no good. I feel a huge emptiness in my chest. I want to destroy something. I can’t stop crying. Why does love have to make me feel so terrible? I wonder if Clay knows what he’s doing to me. If he doesn’t, I’m even worse off. I feel so alone. I want to fly away. I want to die. I want to be romantic with someone. And look at me--pathetic. Everyone else is with the person they love--kissing, hanging out, smoking weed--and I’m crying alone in the grass in front of some guy’s house, trying to be quiet so no one notices me. This fucked up haiku comes into my head: Lonely boy tears, mixing with raindrops, can’t tell the difference.