The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  Warrick still looked dejected. “Fuck you both. I brought your food over, helped you guys out. I have a mind to go to your mom and tell her...”

  “No,” Toby cried. “Don’t tell my mom. Come on, Warrick. Sure you can be annoying sometimes, but that doesn’t mean we hate you. Does it Frankie?” Toby glared at Frankie, hoping he’d get the message.

  Frankie held an expression that said Of course I hate him. Why do we care if he knows that? But when he saw the look on Toby’s face, he nodded and said, “Yeah, I was only kidding around. I don’t hate you.”

  Warrick shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, here is your junk.” He zipped open the bag and started pulling out the various items of junk food, including the second bottles of Coke and Dr. Pepper.

  Toby scanned the items—everything was accounted for. Warrick had been telling the truth when he said he hadn’t eaten any of their snacks.

  “Hey, thanks,” Toby said. “We really appreciate it. Now, what do you want in return? Aside from staying over? Money? Your homework done? Hell, some of the candy?” Toby felt rotten. In the back of his mind he wondered if this was all a ruse put on by Warrick to get them to accept his proposition. But he had never seen Warrick this upset, so maybe he was for real.

  “You guys know what I want,” Warrick said.

  “Anything but that,” Frankie said.

  The sides of Warrick’s mouth curled. “Let me show you guys something that may change your mind.”

  “Nothing will change our mind,” Frankie said.

  Warrick dug into his open backpack. “I think this will.”

  Toby watched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and apprehension. Knowing Warrick, Toby expected just about anything to be inside that bag. Possible items that ran through Toby’s mind were: Playboy magazines; a gun; a severed hand; evidence that old Mr. Joseph was in fact the devil. But what came out of Warrick Coleman’s backpack was none of those things.

  When the pale, skeleton-thin kid with the pimply face pulled out a six pack of Coors and placed it on the tree house rug, Toby exclaimed, “Wow!”

  “Bitchin’,” Frankie said, eyes suddenly the size of dinner plates. “Where did ya get that from?”

  Warrick was grinning stupidly. Somewhere in Toby’s mind was the thought: He had this planned all along. He knew we weren’t going to let him camp out with us—that whole deeply hurt thing was just an act. But that thought was fuzzy. Other, more important thoughts crammed his mind, like We have beer. Actual beer. Right here in my tree house.

  “That’s not all,” Warrick said, that familiar devilish twinkle back in his eyes.

  “More beer?”

  Warrick looked at Frankie and shook his head. “Beer is just for starters. To get us relaxed.” He reached into his backpack. This time when he brought out his arm, he was clutching a packet of cigarettes. “Marlboro,” he said, nodding, eyes darting between Toby and Frankie. “The coolest smokes in the world.”

  Toby wasn’t so enthused about this offering. His parents, neither of whom smoked, had drummed into him how bad smoking was. Also, Toby found the smell of tobacco smoke repugnant. But, having never actually smoked a cigarette before, he was curious to see what all the fuss was about. Most of the older kids in town smoked, and they were considered cool, the rebels.

  “For after tea,” Warrick told them. “To have with your second beer.”

  “Very cool,” Frankie said, although Toby thought he too sounded unsure. “So where did ya get all this stuff?”

  “In a minute, Frankie, in a minute. I have one more thing to show you guys. You’ll love it.”

  “You mean there’s more?” Frankie said.

  Warrick dipped his arm into the backpack once again. The smug grin on his face was a far cry from the melancholy of just a few minutes ago. It was as if he knew he had Toby and Frankie by the balls. And when he pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, he effectively tore their balls off and crushed them in his hand.

  “Holy shit,” Frankie squeaked. “Is that real?”

  Warrick nodded. “You bet. Grade A Tennessee whiskey.”

  Toby was flabbergasted. Beer was one thing—every high school kid drank beer. Whiskey was a man’s drink. He had tried beer a few times—his dad occasionally let him have a few mouthfuls, but he had never tried whiskey before. Toby associated whiskey with hard-boiled detectives sipping the spirit in smoky clubs, where gorgeous women were slumped over fat musicians with guitars in their hands.

  “I’m impressed,” Toby said, trying hard to conceal his joy—he didn’t want to appear too eager for the hard liquor.

  “Come on, where did ya get all this shit from?” Frankie said.

  Warrick displayed his jagged yellow teeth. “Never you mind that. Let’s just say I have my sources. I have the stuff, so that’s all that matters, right?”

  “Wrong,” Toby said. “It matters if you stole it. Did ya steal all this stuff, Warrick?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, no, I didn’t steal it.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. Now, do I get to stay?”

  Toby looked at Frankie. Frankie nodded. Toby turned back to Warrick. “Okay, you can stay.”

  Warrick’s face lit up so suddenly and intensely, Toby was reminded of Christmas tree lights. “Fucking A!” he cried. “Thanks guys!”

  “But no screwing around,” Frankie said. “If you begin to annoy us, you’re gone. Outta here.”

  “Yeah,” Toby agreed. “This is my treehouse. Whatever I say, goes. And after me, Frankie is in charge. So if we both tell you to do something...”

  “Or not to do something,” Frankie added.

  “You do it. Or else.”

  “Jesus,” Warrick sighed. “Are we allowed to have any fun? Or is that against the rules?”

  “Sure, we’re gonna have fun,” Toby said. “But our fun, not yours.”

  And Toby knew there was a world of difference between the two. He had a feeling he was going to regret his decision to let Warrick stay. But with the temptation of beer and whiskey, it was hard to say no.

  “Whatever,” Warrick said. “But we are going to have fun tonight. Hell, we’ve got enough junk food to last us a week, plus beer, smokes and a whole bottle of whiskey. How can we not have fun?”

  Toby had to admit, Warrick’s enthusiasm and sense of adventure had the potential to be contagious—a dangerous notion, considering.

  “So, you think your parents will be cool with me staying?” Warrick asked.

  “Sure. They’ll laugh at the fact there’s gonna be three people sleeping in a two-man tent, but they won’t mind.”

  With that signature twinkle in his eyes that usually meant trouble, Warrick said, “Who said anything about sleeping?”

  And Toby thought for a second time he was going to regret his decision to let Warrick stay the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was closing in on nine o’clock, and as the day bled into night, the sun sinking into the horizon spread glittering orange and pink over the land. The day’s fierce bite had dropped away, there was a warm gentle breeze drifting in through the tree house windows, making it the perfect summer’s evening.

  “What’d I tell ya?” Warrick said as he slurped from his second can of beer. “Beer and fried chicken go together like dick and pussy.”

  On Warrick’s suggestion, Toby had asked his parents if they could eat their dinner up in the tree house. They had been reluctant at first, but Toby told them that doing so would add to the overall experience of camping out, so they agreed. Of course, the real reason was so they could consume their first beer for the night during dinner. Because Warrick had assured them that beer and fried chicken went together like dick and pussy.

  “I have to admit, they do complement each other,” Frankie said, licking his greasy fingers and following it up with a sip of beer.

  “Wow, that’s a big word, Wilmont. Maybe it works the opposite with you.”

  “What works the opposite wi
th me?”

  “Well, alcohol is supposed to kill brain cells. But in your case, it seems to have made you smarter.”

  “Get fucked.”

  “I thought you’d be flattered.”

  “Well I’m not.”

  Toby, having almost polished off his first can of beer, was starting to feel the effects. His head was a little dizzy, but he felt good; relaxed and happy.

  If this is what it’s like to be drunk, Toby thought, why does everybody always say it’s bad to drink?

  He thought about his parents and how they’d flip out if they knew he was drinking. But he wasn’t fearful of them finding out. They trusted him. They were fine with Warrick staying (though, as Toby predicted, they did laugh at the idea of three people sleeping in such a small tent, and his mom in particular was surprised at the inclusion of Warrick), and they promised not to continually check up on them, on the condition the boys were in the tent, asleep, by midnight. Plus, they had everything they needed—food, drink, flashlights, sleeping bags (Toby’s mom dug out one of their spares for Warrick), roll mats, and pillows—so the three boys were free to do as they pleased, without worry of interruption.

  “Hey Frankie, grab me a Twinkie, would ya,” Toby said.

  Frankie’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, dessert. Good idea, Toby.” He set his beer on the rug and being closest to the pile of junk food, reached back and grabbed one of the packets of Twinkies. So far they had barely made a dent in the mountain of chocolate, cookies and cakes. And as Toby had hoped, the shaded tree house had kept the food relatively cool; the chocolates were only slightly soft, not completely melted.

  “Enjoying the beer?” Warrick asked Toby.

  “You bet. A bit warm, but good.”

  “You tipsy yet?”

  Toby shrugged. “I dunno. What does that mean?”

  Warrick laughed. “You don’t know what tipsy means? Shit. You’re such a babe in the woods, Fairchild.”

  “So sue me,” Toby said and burped.

  “I think you are. How about you, Wilmont?”

  Frankie was busy tearing at the Twinkies’ plastic wrapping. Finally, he got the packet of Twinkies open, took one of the cakes for himself, then handed the packet to Toby. Toby grabbed the other and shoved it in his mouth.

  Toby finished the Twinkie in three ravenous bites, licking the cream off his fingers afterwards.

  “So, are ya Wilmont?” Warrick said.

  “Tispy? I guess,” Frankie answered, mouth full of Twinkie.

  Warrick chortled. “It’s tipsy, you moron. God, you two are unbelievable. Don’t you guys know anything?”

  “I know that you’re an idiot,” Frankie said.

  “And I know how thirsty I still am,” Toby said. He downed the last of the beer, then threw the empty can to the floor. It clanged beside Warrick’s. “Hey, pass me another beer.”

  Warrick broke off a can and handed it to Toby. He popped the can open and tipped the tepid liquid down his throat. It was becoming easier to drink, which was good, since the beer had been bitter and not very nice to begin with.

  “Hey, you’d better hurry, Wilmont,” Warrick said. “Me and Fairchild are gonna leave you behind.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Frankie said. He placed the can to his lips and drank. And kept on drinking until he had drained the can. Frankie tossed the can down and let out a thunderous burp.

  “Nice chug, Wilmont,” Warrick said. “I bet you barf later on.” He chuckled.

  “Don’t say that,” Toby said. His parents were bound to hear one of them throwing up in the middle of the night. “Maybe you’d better slow down, Frankie. Take it easy, huh?”

  “I’m fine,” Frankie huffed.

  Warrick picked up the pack of Marlboros. Toby got mildly excited. Earlier he had been apprehensive about trying the cigarettes. Now, that apprehension had all but vanished. Perhaps the alcohol had dulled his moral sensibility. Maybe it was knowing they wouldn’t be interrupted by his parents.

  Or perhaps he had finally caught Warrick’s sense of adventure and daring.

  “Time to light up,” Warrick announced.

  Toby’s stomach tingled. It really did feel like butterflies were flapping around in his gut, desperately searching for an opening to the outside world. He looked at Frankie. His round eyes were staring at the packet as if it was a beautiful naked woman.

  Warrick plucked a cigarette from the packet and slipped it between his lips, leaving it dangling there, like a fishing rod in a boat. He pulled a silver lighter from a pocket and lit the end of the cigarette. He puffed a few times, and when the tip of the cigarette was glowing and billowing smoke, he took the lighter away. After two long drags, he took the cigarette from his lips and blew a cloud of smoke. “That’s how it’s done, boys.” He handed the pack of cigarettes and lighter to Frankie. “There ya go, Wilmont. Enjoy.”

  Frankie took the packet and lighter, yanked out a cigarette, then handed the pack of Marlboros to Toby.

  Placing his can of beer down, Toby took the cigarettes. He drew the open packet to his nose and breathed in deep. There was a strong woody smell that was a lot nicer than the stink coming from Warrick’s cigarette.

  “You’re supposed to smoke it, Fairchild, not sniff it. That’s another drug altogether.” Warrick chuckled.

  “I know that,” Toby said.

  There was a sharp click to the right of Toby. He turned and in the fading light watched Frankie trying to light his cigarette. He fumbled, dropped the lighter. It took him three tries to finally light his cigarette.

  “Amateurs,” Warrick said with a shake of his head.

  Frankie placed the cigarette to his lips and took a drag. His face scrunched up, as if he had just smelled something vile, and when he took the cigarette from his mouth he began coughing. “Ugh!” Frankie choked. “That’s horrible.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Warrick said. “Just keep on smoking.”

  “I don’t know if I want to,” Frankie said, face still looking like he had bitten into a lemon.

  “Trust me. Smoking is like beer. The first sip might taste like piss, but keep on drinking it and by the end of the first can, you’ll think it’s the best thing you’ve ever drunk.”

  “Doesn’t taste as good as Dr. Pepper,” Frankie quipped.

  “Or Coke,” Toby said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Frankie shrugged and tried the cigarette again. He only coughed a few times, lightly. On the third puff he nodded his head. “You’re right. This ain’t so bad.”

  “Told ya,” Warrick said. “Come on, Fairchild. Your turn.”

  Frankie held out the lighter.

  Toby hesitated. His brain may’ve been slightly distorted from the beer, but he was still divided over whether or not to smoke. The sensible part of him knew it was wrong. It was asking him to consider what his parents would think of him if he went through with it. The other part, the slightly intoxicated teenager who wanted to be free from mommy and daddy’s good boy image, was telling him to go for it. It was just experimenting—hell, his parents probably experimented with worse things back when they were growing up.

  “Come on, Fairchild. Don’t be a wuss. There’s nothing to it.”

  “Yeah, once you get used to it, it actually tastes kind of...nice.”

  Kind of nice? I doubt that.

  However, he had to admit, after the fried chicken, and now drinking the beers, he did feel like relaxing back with a cigarette. It seemed like the right thing to do.

  Toby snatched the lighter from Frankie, popped a cigarette into his mouth, then lit the tip. He had less trouble than Frankie. After the second attempt, he had the cigarette alight. He sucked on the cigarette, felt a wave of smoke fill his throat, then his chest. It was all too much. He choked on the cloud of smoke and taking the cigarette from his lips, started coughing. Amid the spluttering, he heard Warrick laughing. “Fuck...you,” Toby panted. He grabbed his beer from off the floor and took a drink. The beer seemed to calm the tickle
in his throat and douse the fire in his chest.

  “You okay, Toby?” Frankie asked.

  Toby took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, just went down the wrong pipe, I guess.”

  “Bullshit,” Warrick laughed. “You just can’t handle it, that’s all.”

  “Screw you,” Frankie snapped. “So what? Everyone knows that smoking is bad for you.”

  “You’re smoking.”

  “I’m just seeing what it’s like, that’s all.”

  “I’m fine,” Toby said, annoyed he was being perceived as weak. Though his eyes were watering and the taste of the cigarette was vile, he took another puff. He still felt like coughing, but this time he suppressed the urge. “See?” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I can do it.”

  By the time Toby finished smoking the cigarette, his mouth tasted like the inside of an ashtray, he felt a tad queasy and Frankie and Warrick were dim shapes in the darkness. Flicking the cigarette butt away, Toby stood and switched on the larger of the two flashlights, positioning it on the floor so the light was directed at them and the pile of food. He sat back down and as he finished off his second beer, washing away the foul cigarette taste, he said, “Pass me the Snicker’s, Frankie.”

  Frankie reached back, grabbed the Snicker’s bar for Toby and picked up a Reese’s Peanut Butter Big Cup for himself. Turning back around he handed the Snicker’s to Toby. “Want anything Warrick?” he asked.

  “Nah, I’m good.” Warrick, having finished his cigarette, stubbed the butt on the boards, picked up the pack of Marlboros, lit another cigarette, then offered the pack to Toby and Frankie. Toby shook his head. “Maybe later,” he said. Frankie accepted the offer, plucking out a second cigarette.

  I hope Frankie doesn’t get hooked on those things, Toby thought.

  Toby had an uncle who died of lung cancer about eight years ago. He had apparently smoked two packets of cigarettes a day, as well as cigars and pipes. He remembered his mom telling him that his uncle started smoking when he was around thirteen. It was his long-dead uncle that Toby thought of when Frankie accepted another cigarette.