3:35. January 17, 2001.The buses have all left and the few straggling students are hiding inside the entryway to the middle school; except me. I'm standing outside in the cold January wind, whipping across the fields as if invisible dancers swaying back and forth, and I've been waiting the past half-hour for my brother to pick me up. He's always late, that is whenever he has to pick me up, when mother is tied up in her newest pyramid scheme. Today is yet another day he's going to let me down, let the family down. Selfish prick. He's probably off getting loaded. Falling off the path again. The familiar fall off-rest stop that never seems to stick.
It looks as if this Wednesday is going to be a cold afternoon. I could wait around to see if he will arrive, but I might as well begin the mile and a half walk down the rolling hill towards home. Who knows if he'll even becoming. Nothings worse then the principal coming out of her office, looking you in the eyes with what looks like crinkled rocks holding the seawater back ever so weakly, and saying, "Are you alright dear? Do you know where your parents are?" Of course I don't. I'm in seventh grade. I have no cell phone, no car, hell I don't even have mittens or a cap but I'd sure rather walk home in the cold than sit through another pity session. I'd rather be a martyr, than a pet.
So it's off down the hill, down through the hill of socialist housing. The beautiful ridge that once graced the west side of my walkway is now completely covered in duplicate duplexes spanning from the edge of the school ground all the way to West Ridge Drive. The wind picks up as I enter the lower hills, and at each duplicate I pass the fury for my brother doubles and doubles until I'm swinging frozen fists in the air, fuming at the mouth and fighting back tears, the tips of my ears find know shelter beneath my short shaggy hair and I find myself shouting "I fucking hate you Josh. I fucking hate you Josh" time and time again as if entranced by the passing duplications. My anger boils to the point of where the exposed skin can only tingle and the tears nipple back into their ducts. My hands clench and unclench constantly while I envision telling Joshua off for what he's done. My imagination jumps to situations not fit for paper or reflection, and I begin to cool-down as I vent to the wind what no one else should wish to here.The Fire department looms into sight as I shiver the last few feet across the neighbor's front lawn shortcutting to the second house on the street; my house, hidden from the golf-course, and the canyon's lake by a row of dying bushes, now just brambles hanging in the way of a staggered cliff, a surprise to anyone that should walk uncertainly into it.With that I open the door, then the second and step in while simultaneously dropping the boulder of a pack from my shoulder's to the ground with a "thud".
"Where is Josh!" Mother asks from the kitchen parallel to the living room which the front door opens up into. A round wooden table with five chairs, two on the side closest the window next to the door, and a cheap chandelier hangs atop it. Mother looks at me through what once was a glass window overlooking a table atop, a smaller bookcase connected to a larger bookcase; both completely covered in the works that God-fearing people would have. She steps around the window and walks the open space that sits between the study and me and asks again, "JAMES. Where is Josh?"
"I Don't know." I say, tired and cold, not wanting any of this interrogation, only wanting my room or a bath.
"What do you mean you don't know! How can you not know! James Answer Me!"
"Mom he didn't pick me up! I walked home. I'm cold, just let me go to my room." By this time my mothers shaking my arm and staring down into my eyes, her, half bent over with a sinister look upon her face as if I've been the one getting high."Where could he be?" She asks intent upon me knowing something. "Where is my car James?"
"I don't know mom!" I say shrugging her arm off, giving her the two-step to the side and walking towards my room down the small hallway on the far side of the dinning room table.
"Dammit. Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Who does he think he is! Taking my car and running around as if he owns it. He was supposed to pick you up and that's it. Bullshit twenty-eight days! Who does he think he is!-"The sound cuts out as my door swings shut and I settle myself atop my queen size heated water bed. With the lights off, I kick my shoes off and snuggle into the warmth.
I wake up thirsty, and wave off of my bed, and stumble across the clothes-strewn room towards the door and into the bathroom a few feet down the hall to my left. I turn on the cold water, letting it run a few seconds before taking a drink. another drink. yet another. I shut off the water and walk into the living room, taking a quick right past the glass cabinet, through the kitchen and into the study. the study is filled with a wall of books that my parents created so as to fit another son into the house we rent. It's a giant wall in the middle of the room witha door surrounded by rows and rows of books. To my left is yet more books in their cases. furniture lies helter-skelter around, shifted towards the television. I go to sit down on the brown leather chair, but become abruptly stopped by the front door opening and closing and the stamp of heavy feet. I sprint into the room to see mother frantic, jabbing the phone with her fingers, with the look only a parent could feel stretched upon her face.
"John's Home!" John yells.
"Mom?" I ask.
And again "Mom?"
"What James!" She snaps phone to her ear as if pressure could make a connection dial up quicker.
"Mom! Whats Wrong!" I yell. Upset by her spooked-self.
"They won't tell me!"
"What? Who Won't tell you? What are you talking about!" I scream.
"JAMES! Settle down!" John yells and stares down at me with his brown eyes; his black eyebrows creased into a show of power.
"Mom," John asks gently, "who are you calling?"
"Thomas. I need to talk to Thomas! He's nearest he'll know what to do. Oh this is just horrible."
mom is near whimpers towards the end, which is only the more confusing due to her pacing back and forth within the same two feet.
"Who was on the phone before hand? What did they tell you?" John asks my mother.
"A Nurse."
"And?"
"She said Josh is at the hospital, and that he was in a car wreck. She wouldn't tell me if he is dead or alive! What bullshit! How can they do this! OH MY GOD HOW CAN THEY DO THIS?"
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment