Walking Through Rich People's Backyards
Sun-Woo’s hat is tripping me out.
We’re at a party with the “cool kids” -- not just from our class, but seemingly the entire nineteen-nineties -- and he’s wearing a cow-patterned beanie. I’m pretty sure it was a giveaway from a “Got Milk?” promotion. It's the type of thing an alternateen would wear ironically, but that's not Sun-Woo's style. He’s genuinely rocking the dumb thing -- and pulling it off. He can pull off anything. The dude is social scrap iron. He got pounded so much when he first came to the States -- for his weird sneakers, his parents’ accents, the way his house smelled -- that he can now withstand any blow from anybody. It doesn’t bother him. He was forced into the gauntlet too early, but now he's already come out the other side. All I can do is admire him from the middle: Too self-conscious to be myself, too self-respecting to be somebody else.
He's kinda ignoring me, and I don’t blame him. Trixie Vazquez is here and the two of them have been eye fucking each other since we walked through the door. I'm trying not to let it get me, even though I know that’s not really something I can try. If it gets to me, it gets to me. How can I
try to stop it? What does try even mean in that context? I can't stop him from moving past me. I fucked up my college chances worse than I thought, and sports aren’t around anymore for me to even things out. If he’s getting girls now, game fucking over.
He makes his move toward Trixie. Miggy Martinez is his wingman. Imagine telling that to somebody three years ago. I get an impulse to go over to him and remind him who was there for him first, when nobody else was, remind him of Mario Kart and Monopoly, of Stars games and Wendy’s runs, of INXS, of Nine Inch Nails, of
Mysterious Science Theater 3000, of climbing the water tower; remind him that he still means more to me than anybody else in the world. But, of course, I don’t do this. It would be a bitch move. Also, he remembers. He remembers all of it. It’s the only reason we are still friends.
The drugs certainly haven’t helped things. Yeah, he does them too, but he does them like a successful person living out his youthful indiscretions. I do them like the old fucker at this party ten years from now -- the guy my former classmates see around town when they come back to visit their parents and wonder what the hell happened to the kid who used to be the best at everything. I was mostly spared tonight only because our hook up never came through -- a couple of musty caps each was all there was to be had. And still I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
------------------
Brian Beck is filling up the entire staircase. He appears to have gained 50 pounds of amorphous mass since the last time I saw him, and he was gigantic then -- only motherfucker I’ve ever heard of who had to cut weight to wrestle heavyweight.
“’Shup, Shpike,” Brian acknowledges me using a nickname nobody but him has called me since pee-wee football. He speaks with the lisp of a man who has just tucked a massive dip into his mouth. The smell of it makes me nauseous.
“Brian, bra, what’s happening?! I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Chillin’. You?” He takes a swig from a can in one hand and spits into a different can in the other. A fleck of tobacco moves from his lip to the corner of his mouth. He laps it up with his Jabba The Hutt tongue.
.
“Just another day in paradise,” I tell him. “I heard you’re playing football at Western, how’s that going for you?”
“Good, bra. Real good. I started the last three games of the season.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Yeah. Where you at now? You’re probably going to Berkeley or some shit now, huh?”
“No. I'm not anywhere. I’m here. There was an ‘incident,’” I make air quotes, “and it kinda fucked up the whole college thing this past year.”
“Huh… the smartest motherfucker our team isn’t going to college, and my dumb ass is. How does that work?”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, my brother.” I mean it sarcastically but say it earnestly.
“Truth. Well, if you ain’t going nowhere. What about Western? I could put in a good word for you with coach. We could use some linebacker depth next season.”
That no more than a year-and-a-half ago I could go toe-to-toe on the gridiron with this hippopotamus before me is one of the more unbelievable facts of my life at the moment.
“No, sir,” I tell him, “my days of getting berated by a troglodyte in warm-up pants are over.”
He gives me a disapproving look, so I change the subject.
“Groovy shindig, though, eh? I don’t even know who the fuck’s house this is. Do you?”
“Naw… I’m about to get up out of here though.”
“You’re leaving? Why? It’s early.”
“Bruh, you know how police are around here. They got nothing better to do then bust up bullshit parties like this. I give it an hour, tops, before this thing gets rolled.”
I think about my arrest and the terms of my probation. It’s hard to believe, but things could actually get a lot worse for me if I caught again.
“Word. I best skedaddle too then… It was good seeing you though, man. Good luck on next season.”
“A'ight, Spike. God bless.”
The mention of the cops spooks me, and it turns into a full-fledged panic when I'm hit by a wave of humans crashing out of the living room. When did
this many people show up? I look around for Sun-Woo, but he’s not within eyeshot. I’ll go outside and wait for him there. I need to get outside -- now -- but I don't see a route. The front door is a breached levee and the water is rising quickly. The sea is filled with hostile faces I don’t recognize and, worse, friendly faces I do. I can barely hear over the din of Snoop Dogg and drunkenness, and I doubt I can talk at all. It's hard to talk when you're struggling to breathe.
It ain’t no f-u-u-u-u-n, if the homies can’t ha-v-v-v-v-e none...
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I’m in a laundry room that smells like bleach, or is that paint thinner? I can’t tell. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies. I was better off at the party, but I can’t go back now. Somebody might have seen me go in here, and surely somebody will see me come out. Questions will be asked, questions I’m not equipped to answer right now.
There’s a door on the back wall that must lead outside, but it seems to be permanently sealed. It’s not locked -- I can turn the handle -- but it won’t open. It won’t even budge. There’s a window on the door, and it looks big enough for me to squeeze through, so I pick up a half-full can of paint and swing it at the window. Believe it or not, this is the sanest of my options at the moment. Glass shatters, but the can snaps back on my wrist. The window leads to nowhere; night’s darkness is a literal wall.
My chest feels like a vise clamped on my lungs, and I’m just trying to keep the handle from spinning. I’m counting doubles in my head ...
one hundred twenty-eight, two hundred fifty-six, five hundred twelve... when Sun-Woo projects himself into the room from a higher dimension.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing in here?” he asks.
“Huh?” is all I muster.
“What are you do-… Oh shit, dude, are you having another freak-out?”
“Nah,” I lie.
“Then why are you in this putrid laundry room?”
“I was looking for you,” I respond.
“Huh? What would I be doing here?”
“Looking for me?”
“That actually makes sense,” he concedes. “Listen, we gotta get outta here, stat!”
“The cops?” I squeak.
“Worse, FSU: Fuck Shit Up!”
“Eek!”
“Yeah, c’mon, Miguel’s giving us a ride.”
We exit into the backyard through an open door next to a sealed door with a broken window.
------------------
I’m feeling much better in the back of Miggy’s Dodge Charger, but he’s running hot.
“Yo! Fuck FSU! Fuck them dudes! We should go back there right now and face ‘em head on! Right now! No matter what happens, it’d be better than running away like a buncha fuckin’ pussies!”
“You know how much I usually appreciate your can-do attitude Miguel,” says Sun-Woo from the shotgun seat, “but FSU rolls ten deep, at least. We got three dudes, and one of them -- i.e., me -- is pretty much useless in all non-virtual combat.”
“Fuck that! You gotta stand up for yourself!”
“By fighting a gang of racist dipshits at some lame-ass house party? No thanks, man. If you let losers pull you down to their level, all that happens is you become a loser too.” I feel a tinge in my gut when Sun-Woo says this.
“And when you run away from bullies, you become a little bitch,” counters Miggy.
“C’mon, Miguel. You know I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“And I’m not much of either,” I add.
“So, there you go, Miguel: ten against one. How does that sound to you?”
“Man, I’d fuck those dudes up. You know I can fight, Sun. You know I can fuckin’ fight.”
“It’s not your pugilistic prowess I question, Miguel. It’s your counting skills. Ten against one is not a fight; it’s a gang initiation.”
“Yeah,” I say, “the worst part is that you would have to join FSU after they beat your ass.”
“Fuck off,” he snickers at me. I cracked his veneer, and changed the mood. He'll calm down shortly.
Miggy can fight. It’s not talk -- or rather it’s not
just talk, because the dude definitely does talk. He’s got more boxing stories than Hemingway. Apparently, he was some sort of Junior Golden Gloves champion before his family moved to the suburbs. I didn't totally buy it at first -- it sounded like typical teenage-boy bluster to me -- but I do now. I was there, after all, watching with my own two eyes, when he damn near killed that little punk Billy Tuffel with one punch.
We bailed before the cops arrived and nothing ever came of it. Apparently, Billy told everybody he got jumped and couldn’t identify his attacker, and nobody dug any deeper. I don’t know for sure know who actually knows the truth, and I’m not asking around to find out. The whole thing is bad juju, and I’d just as soon it fade away completely. If that means I have to avoid FSU the rest of my life, well, that’s not much of downside.
“Dude, Sun, what’s up with you and Trixie Vazquez? Is that happening or what?”
Miggy is thankfully changing the subject. I mean, I don’t really want to talk about girls -- or lack thereof, in my case -- but it’s better than the reliving Billy Tuffel's head bouncing off the concrete like a Superball.
“She's a fascinating person, Miguel -- erotic, as well, very erotic,” Sun-Woo replies with smirk.
“Yeah,” Miggy continues, “kinda a butter face, though. Y'know what I mean? She’s got that banging body, for sure, but the face -- eh..." He's makes the "so-so" gesture with his hand. "I ain’t even frontin’, though, I’d tap that in a heartbeat if I had the chance -- no disrespect.”
“None taken. How could anybody infer disrespect from such vulgar and sexist comments?”
“You gonna be like that, huh?”
“Actually, go ahead. Get it out of your system now, because she’s coming over tonight, and I would appreciate you not expounding on the attractiveness of her body vis-Ã -vis her face in her presence.”
“She's coming over? For real? Is she bringing any friends?”
“Well, she staying with Heather Hawkins right now, so, yeah, probably Heather will come over too.”
“Just the two of them?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Huh… it’s just… we got three dudes here, two girls coming over, seems like we’re one short.”
“What would you have me do, Miguel? Tell Trixie she can’t come over unless she brings dates for
both my friends, who can't procure female companions on their own?”
“Yeah, but don’t say it like that.”
“Sorry, dude, she’s not running a bordello.”
“Well, worse comes to worse, I guess me and homeboy can always tag-team Heather.” He nods at me: “You down for that?”
“It ain't no fun, if my homies can't have none,” I reply.
Sun-Woo stifles a laugh: “Can you at least wait until Trixie and I are alone before you propose any group activities? I don’t want you fuckin’ up my shit.”
Miggy shrugs.
“Hey, Miggy,” I offer, “what’s the probability we actually have a three-way with Heather Hawkins tonight?”
“Can probabilities be negative?” he asks.
“Theoretically, no,” answers Sun-Woo.
“Well, this one is.”
------------------
Sun-Woo’s house is his parents’ house, but they’re in Korea for the summer. I slept on the couch the night Sun-Woo returned from college, and I haven’t left since. I’m certain I’ve worn out my welcome, but I’ve got nowhere else to go. Plus, we are still technically best friends, and letting your best friend crash on your sofa for the summer is something you should do. And it's not like we don't get along; we still hang out all the time. But -- I dunno -- I feel like he’s tolerating this arrangement only because he knows he’s leaving in a few months. That’s the only reason he hasn’t kicked me out, and we haven’t had a come-to-Jesus throw-down, which is probably what our relationship needs. Whatever. I can’t afford rent at Darrin’s anymore, and there’s no way in Hell I’m going to my parents with my hat in my hand. I’ll follow Sun-Woo back to college and guilt him into letting me sleep on his dorm room floor before I do that.
The girls come over, and Miggy rolls a fat blunt, which I smoke 95 percent of on my own. We’re vegged out, watching MTV. I’m in the easy chair by myself; Sun-Woo and Trixie are on the love seat (naturally), counting down the seconds until it’s socially permissible to abscond into his room; and Miggy and Heather are sitting on the couch together, closely, but not
closely. Beavis cuts off his hand in shop class, and everybody starts laughing hysterically, so I do too, even though I’m not that into the show.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Oh!” says Trixie, “That must be Holly. I told her she should stop by, but I didn’t think she actually would.”
“Holly? Holly Pine?” asks Sun-Woo.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t… Does she even… Isn’t she, like, Super Mormon Girl?”
“No, not anymore. She got, like, excommunicated or something.”
I bolt up and into the bathroom at the mention of Holly Pine. I look at myself in the mirror, but my outward appearance is fine. It's always fine; that’s part of my problem -- the smiling dolphin with a harpoon in its gills. I splash some cold water on my face, just to do something.
Holly Pine is my first kiss and the girl of my dreams, literally. In junior high drama class we stole a kiss behind the curtain when nobody was looking. Then, later in class, we did it again. It’s that second kiss that still gets me today. One could be a fluke -- a mistake, youthful whimsy -- but two means it was real. It means she liked it and wanted to do it again. Nothing -- no kinky fantasy, no dirty picture, certainly none of my real-life sexual experiences -- has ever done it for me like the memory of Holly Pine wanting to kiss me again.
I went to bed that night, in ecstasy, wondering if I now had a girlfriend. But when I went to class the next day, I was put in a different play, and didn’t even see Holly anymore. I found out later from her little brother Brett -- who I think always kinda looked up to me, because I was an older kid who was good at sports -- that she confessed our kiss to a church elder who told her parents about it. The result was a family meeting, a special prayer session, and a call to the drama teacher to request Holly be moved as far away from me as possible.
We never talked again after that. I mean, we said hi in the hallway and stuff like that, but we never had a meaningful conversation, and we certainly never discussed our kiss. But since then I’ve had this weird thing going on where all my erotic dreams end with some version of it. Things will start somewhere else completely -- different place, different person, different time -- but before I wake up I’m
always behind the curtain with Holly in junior high drama class.
And now she’s here.
“Hey!” she says.
“’Sup,” I reply.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you since eighth grade.”
------------------
It's awkward with Holly here, and a lot of it is the seating arrangement. She’s in a kitchen chair, pushed back, directly behind me. It’s hard for me to talk to her, and nobody else seems eager to speak. That’s the other problem: Our night cycles are not aligned. Holly wants to chat and joke and flirt, and nobody here is in a condition to meet her social needs. Sun-Woo and Trixie have ascended to a cloud above the room; I can see the X’s forming on Miggy’s and Heather’s eyes; and my master plan was to decompose in this easy chair before the girl of my demented dreams showed up.
“I’m gonna go outside for a cigarette,” Holly announces. “Would anybody like to join me?”
I detest all tobacco products, especially cigarettes, but I notice Trixie looking down at me with “Go! Dummy!” in her eyes, so I say sure, and follow Holly to the front porch.
She lights a cigarette for herself and hands one to me. I slide it behind my ear.
“You saving that for later?” she asks.
“This how I like my cigarettes -- all the cool, none of the tar.”
“It's pretty hot, honestly,” she says, before realizing it’s not just a gag. “Are you being serious? You don’t smoke?”
“No… well, not cigarettes.” I’ve always hated that line, but for some reason I say it anyway.
“Oh geez,” Holly sighs, “you’re not one of those snobby stoners, who smokes a bunch of pot, and then looks down on people who smoke cigarettes, are you?”
“I guess I kinda am.”
“Ugh… you people are the worst.”
I shrug. “Pot is just a superior drug – what can I say?”
“No! It’s not! That’s where you’re wrong. Cigarettes are
so much better in pretty much every way possible --
so much better.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, what are we doing right now?”
“You’re smoking, and I’m watching you smoke.”
“We’re
talking. We’re having a human interaction because of cigarettes. If it were up to you, we’d probably be zonked out, staring at the TV like zombies.”
“Yeah, but cigarettes will kill you,” another line that regretfully jumps out of me.
“Maybe when I’m older, but for now they’re helping me survive. Do you know how many times cigarettes have been there for me when I needed them? How many fights with my parents, how many late-night anxiety attacks, how many all-night cram-sessions I’ve been able to get through with the comfort of my cigarettes as my only saving grace? See, that’s the problem with you anti-smoking fanatics...”
“We prefer the term zealots, but go on.”
“You always focus on the downside of smoking – as if nothing else in the world is bad for you, as if smoking is the only vice known to mankind – but you never give any credence to the upside. I mean, do you know how boring parties would be without the smoking deck? It’s the only place you meet any cool people! That alone is reason enough for me to smoke.”
“Persuasive, I admit, but if it's alright with you, I'll just stick to watching.”
She takes an exaggeratedly long drag and blows a couple of smoke rings, before giving me a wink.
“I heard you got kicked out of your church,” I say.
“Maybe. I dunno. I don’t know the official rules, and I don’t care. I don’t plan on ever going back again. Whatever that means, that’s what it means.”
“What are you going to do then?"
"Burn in Hell, presumably."
"I mean, like, now. Won’t this ruin your relationship with your parents?”
“Ha! You’re assuming we still have a relationship to be ruined. You’re three years behind, kid. I mean, I dunno… We’re kinda cool with each other, in our own dysfunctional way. I’m actually staying with them right now – well, for one more night, anyway.”
“One more night? What's going on tomorrow?”
“Remember Hannah Kim?"
"Cello Girl?"
"Yeah, she goes to USC now, and she told me I could stay with her for a little while, so I'm going to LA. I haven’t even told my parents yet. I might not – I might just go and call them when I get there. I like having the option of hanging up on them if need be.”
"LA? How are you even getting there?"
"Greyhound."
“Wow, so, you’re running away?”
“When you’re legally an adult, it’s just called moving.”
“What are you going to do there?”
“I’m not sure – movie star, maybe. I’ve heard that pays well.” She gives me another wink.
“Do you still act?” she asks.
“Still? I never really did in the first place. I haven’t been in a play since… since junior high.”
“That’s a shame. You’re such a natural.”
She squeezes the cherry out of her cigarette, extinguishes it gently with her foot, and kicks the ash aside, leaving a nearly imperceptible mark on the concrete. She puts the empty butt back in its box and slips the box back in her pocket. It’s a well-rehearsed routine by an expert of hiding a smoking habit.
She feigns a glance at her watch. “Well,” she says, “I guess I should go then…” She pauses to give me time to protest, but I don’t, even though I want to.
“I kinda stole my parents’ car for the night and given what’s in store for them tomorrow, I should probably go easy on them tonight.” She initiates eye-contact: “Unless, of course, there’s a compelling reason for me to stay.”
I'm silent. I can’t say anything; I can’t do anything. My compulsion is to run inside, slam the door, and hide in the coat closet until she leaves, but I can’t even do that. I know what I want to do; I know what I should do. I should do
something -- take her hand; kiss her lips; tell her I’ve been dreaming of her since junior high; ask her to stay; ask her inside; ask her to have another cigarette, while I try to find the courage to do anything other than just stand here like I’m too cool to be bothered with this trifling encounter, like I’m the exact opposite of what I really am.
“Um… bye?” she says.
“Later.”
She gets in her car, and starts to back out of the drive, before stopping and poking her head out the window.
“Hey,” she projects.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry I ratted us out.”
“Huh?”
“That time we kissed, at rehearsal, in eighth-grade. I ratted us out to my parents. I’m sorry I did that.”
“It’s cool,” I say, “if you didn’t mentioned it right now, I probably never even would’ve remembered it.”
“Well, I remember it, and it’s never sat right with me. I always wanted to tell you I was sorry... so, sorry.”
"Okay."
------------------
Back inside, the rock under which I want to crawl is occupied. Miggy is lying on my sofa, on his back, with one foot on the floor. Heather is nestled between him and the cushions, her head on his chest. It's clearly nothing more than a cuddle, but it's equally clear they aren't going anywhere.
It’s just as well.
I pull my jacket out of my hiking pack and put the rest of my belongings into it. I don’t have much -- some clothes, deodorant, an alarm clock I haven't used since my last court date. I put on my jacket and shoes and head toward the backdoor. I hear Sun-Woo in the bathroom and see the doorknob turn as I walk by. I have a split-second to escape, to slip behind the wall undetected, but I don't. I'm tired of hiding. I want him to catch me. I want him to ask where I’m going. I want to finally have this conversation. Now is as good a time as ever.
The door opens. It's Trixie wearing a t-shirt and underwear. I’m filling up the bathroom frame, two inches from her, suddenly feeling like a lech.
“Oh, hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
“Are you leaving?” she asks pointing to my backpack.
“Yeah.”
“With Holly?”
“No, she already left.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I think she wanted to be alone tonight.”
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah."
“Okay. Well, then... peace.” She flashes me a V-sign and vanishes.
------------------
From Sun-Woo’s backyard I move to the Moss Creek trails, like Brer Rabbit to the briar patch. But I barely recognize my surroundings. Everything has been uprooted and plowed over to make way for new luxury houses. The Byzantine network, we once prided ourselves on knowing like the lyrics of our favorite song, is gone. The clearing where we played home run derby is gone. The tree in which we hid our contraband is gone. The big drainage pipe we once used as a hiding spot from older kids is gone. The whole damn creek is gone. There are no trails. It's all gone. I’m walking through rich people’s backyards.
The wind picks up and small raindrops spatter my face like buckshot. I reach in my backpack and pull out Sun-Woo’s beanie. I nabbed it from his living room floor before I left. It will keep my ears warm, and there’s nobody around to see it. I slide it over my head, and in so doing I notice the cigarette Holly gave me. I take it from behind my ear, put it between my lips, and light it. I suck forcefully and watch the ember creep toward my nose. I fill my lungs with black smoke and exhale it into the misty sky.
She's right: This does feel good.
