Clay's Way

by Mastbaum, Blair

  She looks at me.

  “These marine guys jumped me.”

  Susan nods, like she knows everything, and she understands. “Those stupid grunts.”

  I walk into the house, down the hall, passing blocks of light on the woven mats. Clay’s door is mostly closed, like his personality. Why is everything so symbolic lately?

  The room is dim. Sun shines through the bamboo shade and illuminate torn-out pages from surfing magazines taped on the wall in a collage. Cobweb-like streaks of smoke hang low in the air, bringing volume to the light rays.

  Clay’s smoking a roach. He looks relaxed and exquisite, leaning back on his bed with his joint delicately pressed between two fingers, smoking pot in his own accomplished-looking way.

  I know he doesn’t want me to be here. To him, I’m the source of his problems.

  He needs time alone to revamp his idea of himself, to fool himself into thinking that he’s the person he wants so desperately to be--that far away surferboy with the forever pleasing personality. He looks around his room, while his cheeks are puffed out from his hit of pot, reassessing himself. “We’ll go to Kalalau beach. Hike in,” he says, like he’s an army logistics commander and he just figured out the warpath. He starts shoving things in a bag. He stuffs clean clothes, dirty clothes, a pair of socks that don’t match, a big bag of fluorescent green pot, a few lighters, and matches into his black Trasher backpack. He looks insane, jumping around the room like a frog. He’s too busy scavenging things off the floor to notice my questioning, doubting eyes, analyzing him.

  “What about clothes? I’m not going home.”

  “You can wear my shit. Here.” He throws shorts and T-shirts with surfing logos on them at me. Screen-printed big blue idealistic waves with surfing company’s names in black type and illustrations of brown muscular guys with leis around their necks come flying at me.

  I let the shirts hit me in the face. One drapes over my head. I can see him through an old, worn, thin, yellow T-shirt with a shark on the back.

  He looks at me, but he can’t see my eyes through the T-shirt and he doesn’t know I can see him.

  I think he’s trying to pull something over on me, letting his expression be honest only when he thinks I can’t see him, so I can’t see his fear. I shove them into my pack.

  “Go get my pup tent. It’s in the carport.”

  I get up quickly and open the door to the hall, causing a vacuum effect that sucks the blinds to the screen. What an unstable atmosphere in Clay’s room. I wonder if it’s caused by him or me.

  Outside, Susan pulls out weeds from the flowerbed and stacks up fallen dead branches from the hurricane. She already cut up and moved the huge mango tree branch that nearly smashed her car in.

  I admire the order she creates. It’s so different from my screwed up life.

  She looks up at me, while I try to sneak by through the screen door in the enclosed patio. “Sam, where are you off to?”

  “Clay told me to get the tent from the carport. We’re going to hike Kalalau.”

  “Oh, my God. That’ll be amazing.” Her eyes fill with some hippie love fascination, is the only way I can describe it. She doesn’t know it’s Clay’s militia hideout plan to escape from the peering eyes of the world. She stands up and pulls down her mu’u mu’u, wiping loose dirt and leaves off. “I’ll show you where it is.”

  I follow her to the carport.

  She looks up to an upper shelf and grabs the tent. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, you know, he’s weird.” I can’t believe I’m talking about Clay like he’s my boyfriend to his mom. This is great and scary.

  “He cares for you, Sam. I can tell. You keep him honest.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You two have a real connection. I can feel it.”

  Clay walks outside with a pouty expression still planted on his face.

  “I’m still angry at you, young man. You better call Tammy before you leave. I’m not going to smooth things over for you.”

  We all look at each other. She’s outrageous to say this in front of me.

  “OK, mom.” He responds in a droning tone. He puts his arm around her and looks at me arrogantly because he’s the center of attention. “We’re going camping.”

  “I heard.” She winks at me. “I’m jealous.”

  The sun comes out from behind a cloud and shines on their faces. It makes them a beautiful soft yellow and illuminates their matching intense dark brown eyes.

  I look in her eyes, then to his.

  “I love you, Mom.” He’s such a conniving little boy. He knows how to play people for his advantage. It scares me at the same time I think it’s super cool.

  “I can’t believe you can still do this to me.” Her tone changes, like she’s talking to a friend. “What do you want me to tell her if she calls?”

  “Tell her she’s ugly.”

  A barefoot short Hawaiian-Portuguese guy with no shirt on and long flowered surf shorts walks up the driveway. He’s amazing-looking--pure and strong.

  “Eh, brah,” he says to Clay, “Is Eddy ready to go?”

  Clay nods, apprehensively, like he dreads what he has to do.

  Susan hugs the guy. “Hi Manny. Howzit?”

  “Is Clay boy ignorin’ his responsibilities again?” He says responsibilities like he’s never said it before, like it’s a really complicated word.

  “Clay, listen to your friend.”

  Clay gets a mean look. “I’ll call her when we get back!”

  “OK, OK…” Susan puts her arm around him to make up.

  He shoves her hand off of his shoulder and steps away from her like he’s embarrassed by her affection.

  “Where you going?” Manny asks.

  “Me and Sam gonna hike Na Pali.”

  Manny looks at me. “I’m Manny.” He holds out his hand to shake.

  “Manny, Sam-boy, my little brah.”

  I feel important being introduced to Manny as brah. I reach for Manny’s hand, but he starts doing all this secret handshake, surferboy shit.

  Our hands just bump a couple times and I feel really stupid. “Who’s Eddy?”

  Clay practically explodes. “My Jackson Chameleon, stupid.”

  “Why’s it named Eddy?” I ask, knowing it’s probably some sort of inside surfer thing.

  Clay and Manny look at each other like they can’t believe what they’re hearing.

  “Where you get this guy?” Manny jokingly asks.

  Clay practically attacks me with enthusiasm. “Eddy Akua. Only the best big wave surfer of all times.”

  I feel stupid. How could I forget? Every surfer on Oahu has an “Eddy Would Go” sticker on the back of his pickup truck.

  They all admire him for some reason. It seems a little obvious to me. They all like him cause he’s got the biggest balls and does things they’re too scared to do, but he died doing it, so now he’s got immortal status in all their dumb ass surfer brains.

  I follow them into Clay’s room. I feel like a little brother or some dumb kid following around the older cool guys. I should have just stayed there with Kendra taking shots till I passed out so I could forget about all this psycho surferboy bullshit.

  Clay picks up Eddy and gives him a kiss on the mouth. “I’ll come visit you.” He looks towards Manny. “You better take good care of him.”

  It’s so like Clay to only express true emotions to a reptile.

  Manny takes the lizard.

  “You’re holding him wrong.” Clay pulls Eddy’s tail over Manny’s thumb. “I’m serious. Take care of him.” He looks at Eddy admirably.

  “I will, brah. Quit saying that.” Manny hands him a couple twenties. “Blame Tammy, not me. She’s da one who tinks Eddy stinks.”

  Clay just stands there.

  “OK, I’m out. Teach this one some tings.” Manny looks at me and smiles. He walks out the door and screams, “Bye, Mrs. A. You’re lookin’ good.”

  She laughs and Manny squeals of
f in his souped-up truck.

  Clay sits on his bed.

  I sit next to him, and he stands up quickly, like he just thought of something he has to do. It’s just an act. He looks around at the floor and then throws our packs out in the hall. “Let’s go man.”

  Chapter 15

  In search of pure wilds

  Primitive urges force me

  To get a boner.

  We take off in a little propeller plane over Pearl Harbor. Clay orders us little bottles of vodka.

  The flight attendant gives them to us for free.

  I think it’s her attempt to flirt with him. What a bitch.

  “Welcome aboard and aloha. We’re expecting a smooth thirty-five minute flight to Kauai. Please relax and enjoy the view. Mahalo.”

  The island looks green, lush, and tiny from the plane. I can’t believe my whole world’s contained in such a small place. I’m glad we’re leaving, even though it’s just to another tiny island.

  We land in Lihue on an old airstrip. We get the backpacks and the tent and jump in a shuttle bus. It winds down a curvy road surrounded by jungle.

  I watch Clay.

  The veins in his neck stick out and a layer of sweat makes his skin shiny. He watches the passing forest closely, like a wolf searching for pray. His muscles look puffed up and strong and his eyes are clear and intense.

  I think he’s turning wild.

  The old local van driver drops us off at the head of the Kalalau trail. “Good luck, brahs. Careful. Watch for da spirits.” He smiles and drives away, leaving us alone with our fucked-up selves.

  The wet dirt path looks inviting and ominous at the same time. Green-leafed plants would eagerly take the path over if given a week or two without shoes stomping around killing saplings and moss. The path weaves into a forest that tourists call “rain forest.” Rain forest sounds too distant and foreign to be here. We’re only hours from our mowed lawns, food-filled kitchens, and cum-stained sheets.

  I follow Clay into the forest, watching imperfect shapes of sun and shade caress his shoulders and neck. I look back. A glare from a reflector on the road blinds me for a second. I want to disappear with him into the coolness of the wilderness. We’ll become wild animals, free from our civilization that binds us.

  Clay’s skin will let in the humid forest and the wild energy of the untamed side of him will prevail. He’ll be even sexier than he is now.

  We’ll be unrestrained with each other. Our relationship will find its natural essence. We walk for a couple miles into the forest.

  I follow him because he acts like he knows where he’s going. We walk for miles, occasionally talking about a brightly colored bird or a cool-looking tree.

  When it’s almost getting dark, he throws his backpack and the tent down on the ground in an opening in the forest. Trees grow in a circle around him. A cool stream with moss-covered rocks runs by. He surveys the site and picks a spot for the tent.

  I take my shoes off and shake out rocks that slipped in while we were hiking.

  Clay gathers round, shiny, dark stones for a fire pit, and makes a perfect circle that looks ancient. He assembles the tent, an old Army pup tent with an anarchy sign drawn on the side in black permanent marker, and lays out two brown sleeping bags on the floor to pad our backs from roots and rocks.

  I’m impressed with the set-up. It’s neatly organized and very normal looking for a couple of psychopaths to spend the night in. I can tell he’s proud of the campsite. I want to embarrass him.

  “Clay, this is really romantic.”

  He ignores me and starts fidgeting. He rearranges the fire pit stones, then opens his bag and re-folds his clothes.

  I feel a sense of power, being able to admit what’s really going on here--lovers camping trip, like a honeymoon. He deserves it.

  “Why’d you sell Eddy?

  “Too much work.”

  “It’s because Tammy doesn’t like him, isn’t it?”

  “Shut up man!”

  He jumps up, steps out of his shorts, and runs naked to a deep swimming hole part of the stream. He jumps in, holding his balls. The splashing water makes rainbows in the sunlight.

  I find flat stones and throw them so they skip along the water, dangerously close to him. I want him to know I’m capable of anything.

  He flashes me a mean look and sits down in the streambed. His arm sticks out of the water at an obtuse angle, piercing the surface like a dead branch. He leans back on the edge casually and arrogantly, to show me that he knows I won’t hit him. He reaches for his smokes, which he sat on the shore, and lights a cigarette.

  It makes slightly blue smoke weave in the sunlight like a cobra. It scoots along the surface of the rippling water, coating it with its hazy film.

  I throw another rock. The splash sizzles on his cigarette. “Sorry.” I didn’t want to say that, but I couldn’t help it. It just came out. Saying sorry ruins my effect.

  He ignores me, trying to seem like he’s oblivious to my whole act. He throws his wet cigarette at me and slides underwater. He comes up with his head back and streams of water following the gently curving lines of his shoulders, chest, and arms. Beads of water form, clinging to his dragon-tattooed arm, making it look slippery, like a reptile.

  I sit down on the ground. Chemicals rush through my body as I watch him. I want to attack him. “Let’s make a fire.” I walk over to him and slide my hand down his back.

  He jerks away and leans down to his backpack. “No fire, brah, kine explosion.” He grabs a lighter and flicks it over and over in his left hand. He piles some wood into a pyramid, reaches for his backpack, and grabs a bottle of lighter fluid. He sprays it on the woodpile like he’s peeing and lights a match and throws it on. It explodes.

  I feel a blast of heat on my chins. “Jesus.”

  He squirts more on. “Watch this, brah.” He lights the stream of fluid coming out of the bottle, then holds the bottle in front of his crotch. It looks like he’s shooting fire from his dick.

  “You’re gonna burn your dick off, stupid.” I get up to brush the ashes off. “God, you look like a fucking demon.”

  He jumps around squirting fire and howling, catching a branch above him and hanging, throwing his feet in all directions, mumbling gibberish, really scratchy-sounding masculine punk rock riffs. “You’ll never escape! Your soul is mine.”

  A chill runs up my spine. The sky has lost its color. I think of stories I’ve heard of night marchers.

  They come up from the sea in long rows, in the form of ancient Hawaiians, all holding torches, marching to the tops of mountains and dormant volcanoes. If they see a haole, they kill him. I guess they figure you’re trying to impede their progress. They want the islands to be sovereign.

  “Quit. Seriously. You’re freaking me out.”

  “Oh, am I?” He says with a taunting, haunted voice.

  “Just act normal. Sit down and talk or something.” I sounded like a parent, starting out scolding him. Sometimes, I’m more full of bullshit than he is.

  “You’re no fun.” He stands up and looks down to his dick and then up to me, all proud.

  I feel like I should be thankful that he’s looking at me, like his attention is a gift. This is fucked up. He’s brainwashed me. I forget what real people act like. And I feel like a lame-o suburbanite who can’t handle being in nature.

  A branch falls from a tree near us.

  I jump, scared by the loud crackling noise.

  “No worries, brah. I know this island and these waves better than anyone.” He holds his head up high and sort of flexes his chest. “I’m Clay. From red colored earth. I was born with crazy eyes, crazy thoughts, cold blood.” He stops on ‘blood’ for dramatic effect, and looks around like he’s a predator looking for a kill. His lighter fluid supply runs out. He jumps down and crouches by the fire.

  “Are you expecting me to take you seriously?”

  “You better.” He drools accidentally and catches it with his hand.

 
“You’re not Hawaiian. You don’t give a shit. You just want me to think you have some sort of power so I’ll need you or whatever.” I see reflections of the fire on his sweaty skin and in his “crazy” eyes. “You’re full of shit.”

  “You tink so?”

  “Yup.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” He leans back and lies on the ground, and spits. It flies up and lands on his neck. “E ho mai ‘ike, mai luna mai e.” He chants in a deep voice and stares at me as intensely as he can. “I na mea huna no’eau a na olele e.”

  I stare back, pretending he’s not scaring me, which he is. “What are you doing?”

  “E ho mai, e ho mai, e ho mai.” He chants the same words over and over and searches the sky like he knows what he’s looking for. “When the fire goes out, you’ll believe me. You’ll need me. Only I know the chants.” He jumps up and runs off.

  I feel the vibrations in the ground from him running. The sound reminds me of rabbits thumping their back feet to signal danger to other rabbits. When he gets far enough away, I can’t hear him anymore.

  The forest has triggered the most instinctual corners of his brain--the parts that make him want to fight for dominance, inflate his ego, and strengthen his arms. Clay’s pretty wild, anyway, even in the suburbs.

  I hear trees rustling. My pulse rate goes up and my reflexes act as fast as lightning, turning my head around to find where the noise is coming from. There’s a little movement down by the stream, but I can’t see it. The firelight is blinding me like there’s flashlight pointed at my face.

  A piece of wood pops loudly. I jump. My hair stands on end. It feels weird, like gravity has stopped functioning.

  The air pressure changes quickly and my ears pop. The fire dies, like water was thrown on it.

  Clay was right.

  I need him. I’m terrified. I throw sticks on the fire, but they won’t light. My eyes adjust to the dark shadows and I hear a stream of water dripping. I think I hear breathing. I look towards the tent. No movement there, except a slightly blowing door flap.

  Something’s coming at me!

  I lunge foreword, down on my knees, and squeeze my head between my legs, like the crash position on an airplane. “Clay! Come here!” Sweat drips down the sides of my torso.