A Million Miles Up.
Jennifer Davenport

While We Were Hunting Rabbits.

“Tell me a story.”

“Not tonight, Elly. It’s getting late. I have a calc test in the morning.”

“You never study anyway!

“Only since you’ve been around.”

“So I have been a good influence.”

I look at her. And then crack a smile. “You’re a crazy mofo.”

“So tell me a story!”

“Ok, ok. Then you have to get out and go into your house so I can go home and look at my calc notes and asses exactly how screwed I am.”

“Aw, you’re the best.”

“I know, I know. Ok, a story. So, once upon a time, there was an enchantingly beautiful, witty princess named Eleanor who wanted with all her heart to be a…sculptor. She took secret lessons from the best sculptor in her kingdom – but in secret because her father didn’t think women should be doing anything besides sitting and looking pretty. And while Eleanor was ravishingly beautiful, she would rather create beautiful things than just sitting and relying on her own prettiness…which she knew might someday fade.”

“Hey, you’re good at this.”

“Are you going to listen or not? No interruptions.”

“Geeze, sorry Aesop.”

“One day, Eleanor went out disguised as a courtier with her father’s hunting party. While all the men were chasing foxes and whatever all over God’s creation, Eleanor got distracted by a peculiar little rabbit that was hopping around in the forest. She decided she wanted it for a pet – or at least a companion, so she went off to fetch it.”

“If she follows it into a hole and meets a smiling cat and a smoking caterpillar, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“Shhh. Artist at work, here.”

“Sorry.”

“So she goes after it – she loved rabbits. And she follows it and gets completely fucking lost. Like, there is no finding her way home and it’s already dark and she’s thinking she’s pretty screwed, right? When, suddenly, she stumbles on a large clearing and she sees, under the moonlight, hundreds – thousands – millions – of fluffy, white rabbits feeding under the sky – the stars were shining like diamonds and she saw a man walking through the field towards her. She was so afraid it was a thief or something, she didn’t move an inch and just let him approach her. He came all the way up to her and removed his hood and it was the sculptor. He said Until I met you, I was like a boat lost on the ocean, you’re the reason I am and the reason for me to continue to be. And some other sickeningly sweet stuff that made the princess melt into a little gob of prettiness.”

“Awwwwww!”

I can’t help but smile. She’s curled up on the front seat watching me. A little gob of prettiness in the moonlight.

“And he carried her off and they took one of the king’s boats and sailed it to the ends of the earth where they found Easter Island and spent the rest of their days Carving huge rectangular faces on the rocks on the island and being in love and stuff. The end.”

“That was a nice story, Scott.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s too bad you don’t have any rabbits following you around.”

I look at her. “Sometimes, if my shoes are untied, my laces follow me around.”

“You know, in a weird way, I wish that were good enough.”

Pause. “Me too.”

In a minute, I will watch her walk across her lawn.

And fight the urge to rob a pet store.

Love.

Ain’t love the sweetest thing.

Gayest thing. It’s gay. My mom was not pleased with me using that term the other night. I told her that the meat-loaf she made with ground turkey was gay. She made a face. I made a face. It went something like this:

“Scott, I made this meatloaf with ground turkey since dad’s on a diet.”

“Mom, that’s gay.”

What are they teaching you at that school?

Money rule the world. Bitches make the world go round.

I realized only after the fact that it was silly to be rebellious about meat-loaf. Like love, I was being gay.

What does U2 know about love anyway?

Elly took a long draw off a twice-lit Parliament and had this to say:

“Bono knows about love because belly dancers are about love. He loves belly dancers. I read that in Rolling Stone once.”

I asked her: “How are belly dancers about love?”

“Because love is bullshit. It’s all about getting it up and jerking it off. Having an exposed navel helps with that sort of stuff.”

I reached for her hand with an open palm. “Gimme.”

She handed me the cigarette and I held it close to my cheek for a minute before speaking.

“I think love is gay.” This was my first attempt at this thesis.

“Don’t just hold it. Smoke it!”

I put it to my mouth and did a quick in and out.

“Ok. You mean, like, love is metaphorical sodomy?”

“Wha…no! It’s just dumb. You give girls pink stuff on Valentines Day and I can never remember anyone’s birthday and I wouldn’t be caught dead buying a teddy-bear.” I paused to take a drag. “And it makes you do dumb things like chase people. Just cos you want to be near them. Dumb.”

“Ah.” She exhaled. “Ok. I think I get it.” She reached for the cigarette and I handed it back to her. “I liked metaphorical sodomy better.”

We both fell silent and looked forward at the jungle gym a few wood-chipped feet away from the swings we were sitting on. She turned to hand me the cigarette after a minute of silence. I turned at the same time and kissed her.

She punched me in the mouth.

Then, she threw her head back and laughed.

As much as my face hurt, I stayed where I was and watched her close her eyes and stretch her mouth back into a broken grin.

She said, her shoulders bouncing lightly up and down, “Ah, like father, like daughter.”

The next day, she killed her dad.

Elly.

So, I went to a party when I was seventeen. I did that a lot. We had something we liked to call Wiper Fluid. It was all parts whatever each of us could sneak into my friend, Jerry’s, basement. Add a little blue dye to make it festive (although it often just made it ugly). Mix together in oversize Tupperware containers. Drink large quantities until standing is a surreal experience.

I spent most of that night going between the snack table and trying to feel up Jerry’s girlfriend, who could get wasted on just about anything. Even mouth wash. I swear to God.

“Scott, you know, I think I’m drunk.” She told me this after sweeping her arms around my neck and trying to hang off it in a quasi-slow-dance sort of fashion. I raised my arms, trying to hold her up while slipping my hand up her sweater, searching for something to grab.

“You’re fine. Look! You’re still standing!”

Searching, searching…

One side of her mouth went up in a sideways grin and she threw herself backwards onto the couch, taking me with her.

“Not anymore!” She found herself hysterical and pushed me away so she could curl up and giggle. Not having felt anything but a soft cotton-poly blend, I wandered back across the room to eat more cheese-puffs and dip. Halfway there, I decided to make a detour to the bathroom. It was then that Elly met me. Or, perhaps, I met Elly. Either way, she made a point of coming between me and the open bathroom door.

“What?” I said this only half seriously. Instead of walking around her, I allowed her to stay in my way.

“What’s your problem?” She asked. I thought for a minute. Was she a friend of whats-her-face?

“Uh. Don’t have a problem.” Except that I had to pee.

“I think you do.”

I made an attempt to get around her because I really did have to pee. She kept moving to block me.

“Ok, actually, you’re my problem.”

She kissed me on the mouth and then nodded.

“You got it, kiddo.”

That would be the last time I would touch her until the night we would sit on the swings at the grammar school.

On my way out of the bathroom, I saw her in the corner, one hand holding a red cup and the other down some guy’s pants. She paused her activities for a moment to yell across the room to me. She told me to wait outside for her, which I, in the hopes that I would get a repeat performance from her, did.

I had the great pleasure of driving Elly home that night and not laying a finger on her.

“I’m Elly.” She said, on her way out of the car.

“Scott.” I said, trying to establish locking eye contact to let her know that I was good to go.

“Pick me up tomorrow, Scott. I want to take a field trip. To the lake.”

“Uh.”

“At three.”

She left my car smelling like Jack Daniels and some other guy’s aftershave.

It was that night that Elly began and I ended.

Hello. Nice to meet you.

The Lake.

“Do you have to smoke those things?” She rolls open the window violently, waving at the air.

“These? I just smoke a few a day.” I hold up the pack of Parliaments to demonstrate.

“Gah. Stop. I hate ‘em.”

“Uh…ok.” I chuckle lightly and make no move to put out my cigarette. She leans over me and opens my window as well. A cold rush of winter air hits my face. She settles back into her seat.

“So this is the lake, eh?” She says this, now fidgeting with her jacket zipper.

“Yup.”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Mmm.”

My sarcasm goes unappreciated. So I offer something less biting: “It’s prettier in the summer.”

“I can imagine.”

“How did you end up there last night?”

“I live down the street. You?”

“I dunno. I just know him.”

As I am saying that, she reaches over and takes the cigarette out of my mouth and stamps it out on the helf-lowered passenger window. Then, she hands it back to me.

“Don’t smoke. It’s bad for me.”

“Sorry.” I take the butt from her, more surprised than anything else, and flick it out the window. “You go to Centennial?”

“Yes. I’m your year.”

“Fuckin A. I’ve never seen you.”

“I’m not there much.”

“Ah. That’ll do it.”

Pause.

She picks up my copy of Catch-22 from the floor of the passenger’s side. “You like Heller?”

“Yeah. I just finished it for the third time.”

“I’ve never read it. I watched the movie.”

“Didn’t make any sense as a film.”

She cracks a smile. “You’re one of those people who thinks books should stay books and movies should stay movies.”

“No. I just think that in this case—“

“Did Orr make it to Sweden?”

“Of course.”

“See, I think he drowned somewhere around the Netherlands.”

“Was that even in the movie?”

“Maybe not. But I read the Cliffs Notes, too. For class.”

“So you do go sometimes.” I smile and raise my eyebrows teasingly. Hey, hey, hey. Good looking guy, right here. Come and get him.

She looks down and then out. “Sometimes, yes.” She hands the book to me. I look at it and throw it in the back seat, then ease back into my seat and put my arm behind her headrest. Still thinking of this as a drawn-out version of the strategy game called “getting head”, I play my next move.

“I’ve got some gin.”

“No.” A little bit happy, a little bit naughty.

“Yeah.” A little more naughty, a lot bit cocky.

“Do you have anywhere to go tonight?”

“Oh hell no.”

“To your house, it is.”

To my house it was.

One Thing You Need To Know.

My father, being a great lover of gin, kept a reasonable stash in the basement liquor closet.

“It’s one of those things.” I explained to Elly when I revealed a liquor cabinet full of what might be, on any occasion, Seagram’s, Beefeater or Gordon’s, but always gin. “He likes it.” And so did we.

“Do you do this a lot?” is what Elly asked when I offered her the bottle.

“Mmm.” I nodded, wiping my mouth. She nodded as well and took a drink. “My dad doesn’t notice I don’t think.”

“You like gin?”

“Like father, like son.”

She took another, longer drink.

“Like father, like daughter.” Is what she finally said. She passed it back to me.

I moved closer to her to retrieve it. She, correspondingly, got up off the couch and wandered into the room.

“You read a lot?” is what she finally said when she made it to the book case at the other end of the room.

“Um. Yeah. Kinda.”

“That’s cool. Did you read all these?”

“Not all. A lot of. They’re my dad’s.” I got up and walked over to the bookcase and stood behind her as her finger scanned the titles.

“The Recent Religious History of Kazakhstan? The Handbook of Knots and Splices? The Bell Jar?”

“Yeah. It’s kinda scattered.”

She took the bottle from my hand and sat down on the floor by the coffee table books and atlases.

“I used to trace things out of there.” I said this when she picked up the world atlas. I surprised myself.

“Trace?”

“You know, like, the different maps. I preferred political to topographic. But if I was feeling artistic…” I faded off and walked away. Weird topic. “Do you like movies?”

“Why’d you trace ‘em?”

“I dunno. Something to do. We didn’t have cable or a VCR or anything till a year or two ago.”

“Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

“Sister.”

“Does she go to school?”

“Naw. She’s married. She’s got a cat. Do you like cats?”

“No. I’d kill it if I had one.”

“Oh. That’s pleasant.” I forced a small chuckle.

“Not intentionally. Just, you know, I’d forget to feed it or let it out of the basement or something.”

“Oh. My mom takes care of ours.”

“You’ve got one? I wouldn’t think you a cat-person.”

“I’m a skinny white boy who reads too much. I’m definitely not a dog person.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I feel like saying I’m a dog person is like saying I just got back from wearing flannel, cleaning my gun and skinning a deer. Or logging the Yukon or something.”

“Uh…”

“Yeah, I know, the Yukon isn’t big for logging. It’s gold. Like I just got back from panning for gold in the Yukon or something.”

“Uh, right.” She continued to page through the atlas, not paying full attention to me. “I just think they’re cute and friendly. I had no idea it implied so much about your man-hood.” She took an argument-ending swig from the bottle. And then looked back at the atlas.

For lack of anything better to do, I grabbed my crotch and did my best version of a cowboy. “My manhood is just fine, ma’am.” Maybe more of a private-eye voice. I took my hand off my crotch. “Sorry, uh...”

She put her hand up to her mouth and swallowed. Then, she laughed loudly. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you just did that!” I shrugged. “You don’t have to stay way over there. Here.” She held up the bottle and waved me closer. I walked back and sat down next to her and the atlases.

I watched her page through Eastern Europe. Then, I noticed her hand.

“Hey…” I reached for it and held it in mine for a second.

“What?”

I pushed the sleeve of her sweatshirt up her forearm. Big blotches of black and blue.

“Shit, Elly, what’d you do?” I laughed lightly. “Good job on your arm.”

She withdrew it and pushed the sleeve back down.

“Sports.”

“What sport do you play?”

“Uh, I don’t play on a team or anything.”

“Yeah, but, like, what is that? Softball? Basketball? I never though of you much as someone who plays team sports. I bet it’s boxing.” I made some playful jabs at the air.

“Soccer. I play soccer.” She said this coldly.

I stopped jabbing. “With your arms?” This spilled out of my mouth before my brain could catch it. Duh. And I looked at her. With my mouth open, I’m sure. “I…oh…crap, Elly," I said her name and she didn’t look at me.

Instead, she looked at the clock on the bookshelf. “I need to go. Pick me up tomorrow.” With that, she got up and walked towards the stairs.

I sat with the open atlas on the floor and tried to see up her skirt as she climbed the basement steps.

And then I hated myself.

And then I had some gin.

And sure enough, self-loathing doesn’t go away that easily.

So I thought that maybe I should have some more.

Chris.

“Dude, you got anything to eat?”

I’m feeling wonderfully woozy. “You can check the fridge.” Having a best friend means never having to accompany them when they offer to get food.

“OK. Your mom home?”

“No. She wouldn’t mind. You can check the cabinet, too.”

Chris runs upstairs. “Hey! Get some Pringles or something for me, OK?” I’m not sure if he hears me or not, but it doesn’t matter that much. He comes back down with a box of Fiddle Faddle and a carton of milk.

“Scott, dude, it sucks. Angela was waiting for me at Denny’s and my mom made me paint my sister’s room.”

“When was this?”

“Last night. I was one mushroom cloud-laying motherfucker.”

“Sucks.” Sounded like thucks. Mmm…Fiddle Faddle.

“I was like the fucking Guns of Navarone.”

“The what?”

“Guns of Navarone. It’s a movie.” Chris is patronizing when it comes to movies.

“Oh. Couldn’t the painting wait?”

“No. I’d put it off, for, like two months. And my dad was all, If you don’t do it, I’m taking your car away and impounding it.”

“Oh.”

“I got pink paint all over my Dave Matthews shirt.” Chris whine and drinks from the carton..

“Dude, you have, like, fifteen of those.”

“Two.”

“Fifteen, two, whatever. Too many.” Dave Matthews, my ass.

“Hey, I don’t make fun of that Bones Brigade piece of shit you never take off.”

“Hey! This jacket is a quality piece of counter-culture. A fine specimen of my clearly un-mainstream beliefs.” I’m not completely serious. It’s something I found in the attic. I just forget to take it off. Sometimes, for days.

“Whatever, dude. It’s an over-glorified skating jacket and you don’t even skate.”

“I don’t have to skate to appreciate the beauty of the Bones Brigade.”

“Uh.” Chris is unimpresseid.

Welcome to an impasse.

“Ok. Point taken. Can I have that?” I reach for the Fiddle Faddle. Chris passes the box into my outstretched palm and picks up a rubix cube on the TV tray next to the couch.

“There’s a show in the city on Sunday. All ages and I hear the guitarist is quite ridiculous.” Chris is always finding ridiculous guitarists.

“How much are the tickets?” Ridiculous guitarists usually mean a pretty good time. I like good times.

“I dunno. Twelve bucks? Ten?”.

Reasonable “Ok. Can you drive?”

Pause.

“You can actually come? Now there’s a surprise.” I’d like you all to meet a very bitter Chris.

“What? I don’t get paid till Thursday. I’ve got the money for the ticket, but I need an oil change and I don’t -”

Chris interrupts. “You can actually go?” He really is bitter. I’ve passed up a month of shows and several weeks of our ongoing Super Mario Tournament.

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t want to bring Elly?” He is mocking me.

“I dunno. I guess not. I don’t think she’d want to.”

“Oh. Good. Cos I only have two tickets.”

“You already bought them?”

“My mom did. I just have to pay her back.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“And you’re asking me now?”

“Yeah, Angela didn’t want to.”

“Oh.” In my absence, the girlfriend has taken over. My turn to mock him.“Do you even like her?”

“I dunno.”

“Dude, she makes you buy shit, like flowers – She actually demands that you buy her flowers. What is that?”

“You don’t get Elly anything?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“You just tapping that for free?”

Tapping? Where is he from? “No tapping.”

“Bullshit, man. Bullshit.” He puts the rubix cube down and turns on the TV and the Nintendo and tosses me a controller. “She’s all over the place. You spend way too much time with her to not have.”

“I’m telling you.” I shake my head.

“That’s just sad, then.”

“No kidding.”

Becoming Spectacular.

“I think the big problem today is that people don’t spend enough time on self reflection.” I can see my breath, so I make sure to enunciate reflection. RE-FLEC-T-I-OOOOOOOOOOO-N. I fail at making a smoke ring.

“I can see that.” Elly’s breath puffs back towards her, but her head is down, so she doesn’t notice it. I’m strange, because I count the days we do this. Everyday after school. Like clockwork. And at eleven AM on weekends. Like clockwork. This is our fifth week.

What are we doing? We’re sitting on a wall in the community park with our feet dangling over a stream.

“I mean, we have a society full of people who take anti-depressants because they don’t know why they’re sad – but they never bother to find out what’s making them so sad. There’s so much there that’s so scary sometimes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“But you know, right? You see it.”

“I do. But they don’t know how to fix it. That’s the way everything is. Quick fix. That’s why everything is so disposable.”

I nod and look down at my shoes. Then, I look at her out of the corner of my eye. I wagered to myself that my arms would feel nice around her hunched shoulders.

“I wonder when this world got so fucking fun.” I spit to make my point.

“It’s always been that way.”

Another nod and my gaze drifts back towards down.

“Can I ask you a question, Scott?”

“Yeah.”

“When’d you start?”

“Start what?”

She nudges the Poland spring bottle that sits between us. “Drinking.” The word sounds dirty.

“I dunno.” Two years, eight months. Three weeks, ten days. Four hours. Eight minutes. Forty-six seconds. The universe has been expanding at an infinitesimal rate ever since.

“Ok…”

“Ninth grade?”

“See? Not so hard.”

“Meh. It’s not something I think about.” Two years, eight months. Three weeks, ten days. Four hours. Nine minutes. Seventeen seconds. Another Milky Way is born. I pick up the bottle and toast to my big bang. “You see, Elly, as every good liquor aficionado,” I pause and laugh at myself, “knows, it’s not how long. It’s how much.”

“Uh, right.”

“You shoulda met me in middle school.” Heh, heh. Snort, snort.

“I bet you looked exactly the same.” My ego winces.

“Oh man, I wouldn’t talk to anyone, let alone girls.” Girls? Ew! Cooties!

“You seemed just fine when I met you.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice, now, did you?”

“Hey, here’s a weird question. Did I kiss you?”

“Uh, Yep.” One month, one week, four days, seventeen hours, sixteen minutes, nine seconds. Memory like a trap.

“Wow…I don’t even remember that.” Oh. Nevermind.

“Yeah, it happened.”

“How do you even remember that? How much did you drink?”

“I have a liver of steel. I am infallible.”

“Oh, right, I forgot.” She takes a drink now, too.

“No, but seriously. I was so afraid of people in middle school. People used to think I was this little snob cos I wouldn’t talk. It was just cos I was afraid of people.”

“So what happened?”

“The greatest thing. I met Chris.”

“Eh.” Elly doesn’t like Chris. She thinks he’s…pretentious. Or something.

“His older brother went to college and became, like, an absolute drunk. And we thought he was so cool. Oh man. Cos he had a bong and shit. Like, when does a twelve year old get to see a bong? We didn’t even know what it was, but he had to be all hush-hush about it, so of course we were awesome for having seen it. When does even a high school kid get to see a bong? I mean, seriously. That’s what fables are made of. It was cool!”

“You have a weird definition of cool, sometimes, you know that?”

“Eh. Anyway, Chris had this great idea that we try drinking. And where better than at my house?”

“Cos your mom and dad are gone during the day.”

“Yeah. Oh man, by six, I was, like, three sheets to the wind.” Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. In the beginning, we thought it tasted like poison. So we only had a little.

“Seriously? Geeze, what’d your mom say?”

“Capful of scope and fifteen minutes convincing myself that I was in control and I was cool.” Yeah, a little bit of exaggeration. But still. Never hurt anybody.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Seriously!” For the most part. Except for the whole being absolutely smashed part. Alcohol grows on you slowly. “I don’t think my parents noticed…we added a little water to the gin we took. My dad drinks and has people over often enough that if we were careful, it was OK. I guess my mom just thought we were being…fourteen.” Or maybe she just didn’t want to know.

Elly is still holding the bottle with the cap off. “It just made me happier.”

“Happier?”

“Or happy at all.”

“Oh.” What do you say to that? Nothing.

Except Oh.

“Sorry.” She puts the bottle down. Pass it around, pass it around. I put the cap back on.

“Don’t be. I’m sorry.

“Not your fault.”

“I know, but still.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok.” We both look down, swinging our feet a little. I offer her the bottle and she takes it and looks at it for a second. Then, she looks at me. “Can we get Chinese food to go with this?”

“Yeah.”

Anything for you, dear.

A Few Words For My Adoring Public.

I kick so much ass, it’s almost unbelievable.

Look at me.

Seventeen years old. Writing this killer…poetry. God, I’m a girl. Maybe I’ll start on stories. Maybe something about how man gets stuck as a cog in a vast international corporate machine.

Oh, wait. That’s me, working at McDonalds.

About a superior race of aliens who show us the light of a…utopia…where girls are slaves and…no, back up there. That’s what I was thinking about in the bathroom five minutes ago. Where scrawny retards like me rule the planet because of our vast and superior knowledge of…Columbian literature in translation. Hey, it could happen?

Now I know why Poe liked opium so much. Everyone needs a muse.

Hello, there, Mr. Beefeater.

Hello, Scott. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

You have no idea.

Scott, you are in the prime of your life. You’ll be on the cover of Rolling Stone in no time. So tell the audience, what inspires you to write these incredibly breathtakingly human novels at such a young age?

To tell you truth I’ve always felt I’ve had some sort of insight into the human condition that very few other humans have. I’m not afraid to say what most people are afraid to even recognize in themselves. They read my stuff and they identify but they don’t know why. That’s the key to my brilliance. Self-awareness and honesty. I feel like people this day in age are just not self-reflective enough to know themselves. I do it for them.

You don’t say.

I do.

That’s fascinating. How are you dealing with this international literary stardom?

I’m keeping it real.

No, not keeping it real. That’s what everyone says. Scratch that.

I’m staying me.

No, too humble.

Trying my hardest not to forget where I come from.

Excellent. I’m still Scotty from the block. Good answer. Now, I read somewhere once that at the beginning of his career, Robin Williams told something different about his family history to everyone. Maybe I’ll do the same.

So tell us, Scott. What was it like growing up? What drew you to writing?

Well, my father had a master’s degree in…Botanical Sciences from…Oxford. And my mother is an internationally revered…chef. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. She goes by the name Wolfgang Puck. Yup, that guy is just a stand in. She is the brilliance behind him.

That’s fascinating.

Growing up in such a diverse household. What, with my father constantly having big money over for dinner – he…ran a school for…estate gardening…and people like the Kennedy’s were constantly in his debt for having such…awesome lawns. And my mother always opening restaurants and having people like…Liberace and Michael Jackson over. No, he seemed like a nice guy. Didn’t touch me at all. Anyway, growing up in an environment like that, I had a lot to draw from and felt as if I had a lot to say to the rest of the world.

I can imagine. What was school like for you?

Well, we moved around a lot, you know, because of my mom’s amazing cooking. So I put a lot of time into my writing. I was a bit of a recluse. You know how it goes. Never popular – afraid to talk to girls.

You? Afraid to talk to girls?

Yeah! Can you believe it! I would get so nervous. I would absolutely choke.

Hardly. You’re a witty and charming individual.

I know. Now I am. Have you met my girlfriend, Elly?

No, but we’ve seen tabloid pictures of the two of you.

A knockout, right?

She really is.

She really, truly understands me. She makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world when I’m around her. She’s great.

So tell us, what’s your next work going to be about?

I working on a sort of pseudo-fiction. It sounds trite, but really, it’s quite good. About a frustrated seventeen year old boy.

It’s quite daring to go into such an over-saturated genre.

Yes, but I think I can pull it off.

What an enviable status you’ve achieved in life.

I really owe it all to God for my talent. I can’t really say that what I create is mine. It comes from a higher power.

It’s been really great talking to you, Scott, and it looks like we’re almost out of gin. But just one thing: This is kind of funny, because we have reports here that your mother has her GED and works part-time at the Library and your father has an associate’s degree in…Business…and works at…a high school. As a janitor. And they’re not so much as married as two old people who co-exist with you. Elly doesn’t even begin to think of you as a male and when you showed your poetry to your mother, she laughed at you for a week straight for using the words you are like a budding flower/who hasn’t budded yet.

Oh, that’s just what I tell some interviewers. You know, to mix it up. But I told you guys the truth. What, cos you’re Rolling Stone and all. Trust me. I am a creative individual, you know, and sometimes, I really like to have my privacy. That’s my way of having privacy.

We have your mother here to confirm it.

Oh, shit.

I live in your liquor cabinet, Scott, I know all.

I guess there’s no use denying that I drink, then?

Have a swig, Scotty-boy. You’re not going anywhere for a while.

So.

She looked like someone had her on an invisible choke chain. Everything that came out of her mouth sounded like a secret.

“So, you’re a friend of Elly’s?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s in the bathroom fixing herself up. She’ll be out in a minute. Have a seat. Do you want some iced tea?” She said this almost inaudibly.

“I’m OK. Thank you, though.”

She continued to stand where she had stopped when she asked me to come in.

“I can wait here.” I offered so that maybe she could go back to what she was doing. That, and she made me feel like the world was watching me.

She nodded and smiled and then said something about me being nice.

“Wha...?” I took a step closer

“That’s nice. You said your name was Matt?”

“Oh. No. Scott.”

“That’s nice. Well, I had better get back to that kitchen.”

“It was nice meeting you.”

She turned around and shuffled a few steps towards the doorway she’d come in from. Then, she turned back to me.

“Scott. What class are you in?”

“Class? Oh, junior.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah. Not a bad class.”

“That’s nice. Do you want to go to college?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“That’s nice.”

I laughed uncomfortably. “We’ll see.”

“Do you do well in school.” She nodded as she said well as if to signify that well was a word I might not understand.

“I do…” I thought for a moment, “…well.”

“That’s nice. Your parents must be proud.”

“Not that well.” I smiled again. Uncomfortably. So did she. A fake smile.

“I’ll go check on Elly.”

Mother, exeunt.

I stood in the foyer for a bit, waiting. Then, Elly emerged from a room off the hall, walking quickly.

“We’re out.” She said as she walked past me and out the door.

I looked behind me at the empty foyer and hallway.

“Have a nice afternoon!” I called into the empty space and waited for a reply.

When the screen door hit the door frame a moment later, I looked out and saw Elly, already halfway to my car. I turned and left as well.

Riki-Oh!

“I can’t believe I came over here to watch this.” Elly has placed herself in the Laz-E-Boy next to the couch. I have placed myself on the couch. Near the Laz-E-Boy. So close. So far.

“So cool, Elly.”

She studies the screen for a minute.

“This is so bad. Look at that! That guy just punched that guy’s stomach and it looked like he punched a paper-mache balloon! And all that tomato juice came out! He doesn’t even have internal organs! That’s horrible special effects!”

“That exactly what’s so wonderful about it.”

“I don’t think I get it.”

“Sorry.”

“Meh. I like hanging out. Even if it’s for a bad movie.”

“Bad in a good way, I swear.”

“I’ll take your word on that.”

“You really want to see bad? I should get out Evil Dead.”

“Uh.”

“Well, I won’t go overkill. Next time. But you have to see it.”

She laughs and looks at me with an enormous. Heart melting. Smile.

“You’re a nutjob. Adorable. But a nutjob.”

Adorable. I’m adorable. I have the ability to be adored.

“I do what I can.”

“And you do OK.”

She musses my hair.

Then there is silence. We both stare straight ahead. I peak to the side. The minute she moves her head, I stare back at the TV. Nope, no one here ‘cept us chickens looking at the TV and not looking at you like a sick little puppy. Cos I’m not. At all.

One more peek won’t hurt.

“Maybe we’ll watch Evil Dead on Thursday.” She relents aloud, apparently to some argument she was having in her head.

Hmm...Thursday? Oh, crap.

“Can’t.”

She looks up. “What?”

“I promised Chris I’d go with him to the city.”

“Oh.” Disappointment.

“Sorry. We planned it a while ago.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“See a band.”

“Which one?”

“Some band Chris likes. Psychedelic Breakfast? ”

“Oh.”

“He only had two tickets. Otherwise…”

“No, it’s cool. I was just curious.”

“You can come over anyway. I’m sure my mom would let you watch it.”

“That’s OK. I’ll wait. How about Saturday?”

“Um, ok.”

Her face lights up. “Great. I got this guy to buy me some White Zin.”

“Great.”

She pauses for a minute. “Do you know what Saturday is?”

“The weekend?”

She eyes me.

And this, Ladies and Gentlemen, is why we should just be going out.

Mortal Kombat.

Today is Elly’s seventeenth birthday. It’s a rainy Saturday. I pick her up at 11 and take her to a diner in town for breakfast. We laugh about the couple sitting behind Elly. I’m convinced they’re breaking up because the girl is crying and the guy keeps making like he’s gonna put on his jacket and run.

I buy her chocolate chip pancakes and cheese fries. I prefer black coffee and a cherry blintz. She asks the waitress for a job application. I make her smile when I tell her about my fantasy of watching the end of the world from a lawn chair on a plateau and a CamelBak of Coors.

We make it to the bottle of White Zinfandel in my car at around 4pm after walking around downtown. She lets me smoke and I let her wear my sweatshirt because it’s chilly. She has no other plans for the day. Just me. Just her. So we sit in my car, parked in my driveway and drink.

At 5:30, I get a phone call and my mother comes outside to tell me that I should come inside and answer it. It’s Chris. He says there is a party tonight. Dress like a video game character and drinks are free. Elly is game. I am game. Party starts at 10.

Elly borrows a green t-shirt from me and is Frogger. I put on a white shirt and say I am Pong. Some people are more creative. We just want free booze.

When we arrive, I lose Elly and Chris almost immediately. I end up, several hours later, half asleep in a corner, listening to a thin, freckled boy talk about the superiority of Ol’ Dirty Bastard over most other musicians. Ever. I feel like Kevin Spacey looks after he’s been shot in the head at the end of American Beauty. I probably wouldn’t mind my brains decorating the walls, either. It is when Freckle-Face begins explaining how a forty of Old English arrived in his white, white hands that a shorter, darker-haired, but equally pale boy arrives in front of me.

“You’re Scott?”

“Yeah.”

“Your girlfriend wants five minutes and then she wants to go home.”

Not my girlfriend. I stand up. “Where is she?”

“Bathroom, dude.”

“Over there?” I point where I was lead to believe it was.

“Yeah. She’s not done yet, though.”

“Jesus.”

I say this because I know. Because I know what is about to happen. Because it’s her birthday. Because of Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Because I’m in one of those moods. I open the bathroom door without knocking. The tub is empty. Except for Elly. And Chris. Elly toasts me from the bathtub with a shampoo bottle. From under Chris. “Hey there, sailor.”

“Scott – Christ, knock.” Chris sits back in the tub and Elly sits up, grabbing for her shirt – my shirt – from the toilet seat and pulling the bottom of her skirt away from her navel. I’m standing, looking down at both of them. I am about to burst.

“I – fuckin’ --” I stop myself from apologizing and look at Chris. He stands up and pulls up his pants. He exhales and gives me a guilty grin. Got her.

I envision myself throwing a punch which lands squarely on his nose. I envision an all-out brawl. I envision myself standing atop of Chris and Elly cowering in the bathtub, still half-naked. I taste blood in my mouth and victory in my pants.

I stay where I am.

Chris steps out of the tub. “I think we’re done here. It’s late, we should go.”

Snap.

“Shut up.” I half-push, half-punch him in the shoulder. He stumbles back and almost trips over the toilet. He blinks. I watch him take a step forward and punch me in the jaw. My head cracks against the bathroom wall and I let myself slide to the floor. Elly whimpers loudly.

“I’ll find my own ride, thanks.” He walks out and leaves the door open.

I rub the left side of my face and look at Elly. She doesn’t look up.

“Whore.” I get up and walk out.

Elly ends up in the car next to me. I suppose she doesn’t have another choice, but I don’t remember her getting in. I realize she’s there when we’re already halfway home.

“I’m sorry” she says this so that I can only barely hear her over the wipers. I don’t say anything. “Scott?”

“What?” My voice sounds colder than I intend it to be. But that’s what happens when you say things through your teeth.

“It’s silly –“

I cut her off. “What’s silly, Elly? What’s silly?”

“You shouldn’t –“

“I shouldn’t what? I shouldn’t hit people? No, you’re right, I shouldn’t fucking hit people. No one should fucking hit anyone, Elly. And if they do, other people shouldn’t stay around for it.” I am unusually cruel.

“Are you blaming –“

“Fuck you, Elly. Fuck you. Happy fucking birthday. I hope you fucking enjoyed it. I sure did. But you must tell me, Elly. Will you sleep with my friends on my birthday, too? Because I’m beginning to think you’re doing this as a favor to me. I really am.”

“Scott, I don’t –“

“How many bathtubs, bedrooms, cars and sofas do I get to pull you off of, Elly? I’m just the friend who puts up with it, right? None of them would put up with it. Cos I’m a fucking doormat. Do you even use a condom? Do I have to drive you to Planned Parenthood later, too, or some shit? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She is silent. I hit the wheel with my palm and bite my lip. Then, there are only the wipers again. And my anger.

She speaks again after I turn onto her street. “I was gonna ask.” She pauses to see if I will yell. I say nothing and wait for her to continue. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

I say nothing. I continue to drive up the block.

“Scott, listen.”

My best friend just punched me, Elly.

I stop in front of her house and put the car in park. She does not get out. She turns to face me. She swims in my jacket and t-shirt.

“I thought maybe so I won’t –“

You just slept with my best friend, Elly.

“Get out.” I say this quietly. She looks at me and I hear her exhale. Her face distorts in disgust.

“Get your head out of your ass.” She gets out and slams the door. I watch her walk across the lawn to her darkened house. I only pull away when I see her parent’s bedroom light go on. If she doesn’t hate me, I do.

Asshole.

Another Rainy Night.

Only in America would we call over-eating a sport. They had shrimp-eating on ESPN. Large guys lined up in a hall in Alaska, eating shrimp. The guy who came in second did so by dipping each shrimp into a special sauce. He said it helped his digestion. The guy who won ate four and a half pounds of shrimp. No special sauce.

The entire affair inspired me to put down my root beer Popsicle in an empty glass and watch it melt. I turned off the TV and watched the clock. 9pm on a Sunday night. Ah, where have the days of my carefree youth gone? I was drunk at three o’clock and sober by six. Perhaps I needed a night cap. A big fucking night cap. I decided a trip to the basement was in order as soon as my Popsicle was melted. Perhaps it would mix well with something.

Elly hadn’t come by. She hadn’t called. I’d spent the day jerking off to internet porn and reading Truman. Earlier in the day, I’d had a few shots of Citron and had accompanied my father to Sears. Because Citron is in order when it comes to my father. He likes to play Disneyland Dad. Never home during the week. Your best friend on weekends. And of course he decided to have a talk on the way to Sears.

“Scooter,” Yes, he called me Scooter. “Scooter,” he said, “I don’t want to pry because I leave well enough alone and for the most part, you seem well enough.”

Okay…“Thanks, Dad.”

“But your mother says she thinks you’ve been getting into trouble with that girl, Elly.”

“Dad...” Please, don’t go there.

“Now, I know boys will be boys, and all that crapola, but we just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

“I’m OK, dad.”

“Because if I were your age, I’d be more than just friends with that girl, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled deeply. “She’s a good looking girl, Scooter. But be careful. If there’s any way your mother and I can help, please let us know.”

He means condoms. Oh my God, he’s talking about condoms. “Ok, dad.”

“And, listen, one more thing.”

Aw, Christ. “Yeah, dad?”

“I’m not telling your mother about your little habit. But for Chrissake, you smell like last call. So think about it, OK? I don’t want to have this talk with you again.”

“Uh…” Under the guise of looking out the window, I discretely exhaled onto my arm and tried and catch a whiff of my own breath. Was it that strong? The Scope wasn’t working?

“Smoking, Scooter. Quit it. Who even gets those cancer sticks for you? You want to end up like Grandpa with a respirator and tubes all over you before you die? Don’t be stubborn. I don’t want to outlive my kid, OK?”

Phew. “OK, dad.”

“Someday, you’re going to have kids and they’re going to be just like you. And only then will you realize how little you know. Until then, just give your old man the benefit of the doubt. I’m just doing my job. For once, try not to be stubborn.”

“You got it, dad.”

“I knew you’d listen. Thanks.”

And there I was, a bucket-of-screws-and-a-Marlboro later, waiting for the thing that surpassed the prospect of sex with Elly and nicotine. It was almost time to even-up.

I decided the liquor would melt the rest of the Popsicle, so I went downstairs to replace Truman and obtain a little more sanity.

Tonight’s adventure was Tequila. Rootbeer Popsicle and Tequila. Breakfast of champions. I sat down by the bookcase with, appropriately, a Vonnegut and enjoyed six ounces of two liquids that I would never mix again. By my estimates, I was drooling on the floor by page fifteen.

Hi Ho.

My mother found me there around one-thirty in the morning.

“Scott, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Sorry mom, I think I fell...”

“There’s a phone call for you. Can you please tell your friends to call no later than eleven? I have work in the morning.”

I got up. “Who is it?”

“It sounds like Elly.”

I picked her up outside of the library. She was wet and her hair was matted to her head. She was sobbing.

“Scott,” She said between sobs when she got into the car, “Thank you, and tell your mom I’m sorry for waking her up.” That’s the least of my worries.

“It’s ok. Don’t worry. What happened to you?”

“She sounded,” Sob. “Upset.” Deep Inhale. “She said it was late.”

“It’s ok, she’ll live. What happened?”

“So tell her I didn’t mean for it.” She broke into tears.

“Elly, don’t worry! What happened to you?”

“And I won’t call this late again, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Elly! Stop being sorry! What happened?”

“I just needed to leave.”

“Leave? Leave what? What happened?” She’s dancing around something. I’m so lost.

“I needed to go for a walk.”

“It’s raining outside, Elly! What happened?” What happened? What happened? How many times do I have to say it?

“I couldn’t stay, I needed to leave for a while.”

“Ok. Do you want me to take you somewhere?” Please. Tell me what I can do. I don’t know.

“I just needed to dry off for a while.”

“Elly! What happened? Why did you leave? Tell me something!” Anything.

“I don’t need help, I just need to be dry and quiet for a while.” She put her forehead against my shoulder. I raised my hand and patted her head lightly, not knowing what else to do. Sticky.

Sticky?

“Elly, what’s…” I turned on the light. Jesus. “Elly, you’re bleeding.” So that’s what happened.

“I’m sorry.”

I almost laughed. “Don’t be sorry. You’re bleeding! Do you need a doctor?”

“No. It’ll be ok.” Concussion? God, head wound. Totally not prepared for this.

“It’s your head! Are you sure? Who did this?”

She broke into heavy sobs and buried her face into my sweatshirt and mumbled something.

“I…can’t….hear you.” I tried to lift her face up carefully. She was so ugly when she was crying. She sniffed violently and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“I forgot to clean…” she broke into heavy sobs again.

“You forgot to clean what?” Like pulling teeth. I want to do something. Help her. Like kill whoever did this to her.

Sob. “The living room.”

“The living room?” What?

“I was supposed to yesterday and –“ She rendered herself inaudible again.

“Elly, I can’t hear you. You’re mumbling.”

“I’m sorry!” she wiped her nose on the wrist of her rugby shirt. I opened the glove compartment and handed her some napkins.

“Use these.”

Sniffle. “Thank you.”

“Now, you forgot to clean the living room?”

“I was supposed to and I didn’t. All last week.”

She was calming down a little, now hiccoughing.

“And what happened?”

“He got so upset. And he kept telling me, too.”

“Who? Your dad?”

She nodded and blew her nose.

“Your Dad did this?” Oh God. I could kill him. Beautiful Elly. I could kill him.

“Scott, you can’t tell anybody. I didn’t mean to–“ She broke into sobs again. I didn’t know what to do. We should tell someone. I should call the cops. This girl is bleeding. Someone tell me what to do! This isn’t right! He should be arrested! Imprisoned! Shot! Hung! Lynched!

But instead, I drove to my house. On the way, I put this together: Living room – dirty – father – whiskey – trip – rawhide –daughter– brass reading lamp.

She made a request for the basement.

As she fell asleep on the couch, the remainder of the Tequila dangling in her pink fingers, she limply toasted me. “Like father, like daughter.”

I could only say one thing: “You could never be like him."

How thoughtful.

Synchronicity.

I fucking hate my life.

I hate myself. And my life.

I can’t stand lying on this couch because it means I have to be in my goddamned body. I hate my body. I need to get out. Get out. Get the fuck out. How can I get out? Maybe I can go run. Or lift weights. Or eat? I could stand to gain a few pounds. Except my stomach is flabby. I’m a skinny kid with a flabby stomach. How long does it take to get a six pack? Too long, probably.

God, my life sucks. No one cares about me or anything I do. I could blow something up. Then maybe someone would care. It’s too late for me to do something good with my life. My grades suck. I have no friends. Except Chris. But he’s off fucking Angela. Why does he get ass? I need some ass. Oh, and Elly. But she’s probably off fucking…anyone but me. I’m such a fucking loser. In this fucking jacket watching this fucking TV. I can’t stand to listen to it anymore. Mute. Mute. Mute. Fuck you, TV. Care about me!

Someone? Anyone?

Please?

Maybe I can kill myself.

But how do I kill myself?

I could hang myself out the window. But that means suffocating. I hear it’s quite a high when your brain has no oxygen. Like auto-asphyxiation without the reviving part. Too gross, though.

No guns, so I can’t shoot myself in the mouth. Plus, what if I pull what that guy in Fight Club pulled? No holes in my neck for me, thank you. I want my mother to be able to have an open casket.

Maybe I’ll take pills. Lots of pills. Tylenol? No…if you survive from Tylenol, your liver is still shot. I need my liver if I survive so I can drink myself to death later in life. Maybe Motrin then. I wonder what Motrin does to your insides. Should I run with plain old aspirin? Maybe I’ve still got some of that stuff they gave me when I had mono…what was it? Codeine. God, that was good shit. Mix that with a whole bunch of Jack and I’ll be dead within the hour.

Or maybe I’ll just lie here. Watch Behind the Music. Maybe if I do that with my eyes closed and an empty aspirin bottle in my hand…then maybe someone will think I’ve tried to commit suicide. Then, the police will come and Elly will stop fucking whoever she’s fucking and Chris will leave Angela and my mom will come home from work and stroke my arm and tell me it’s ok. God, I’m a pussy. Will they pump my stomach? Elly says they give you charcoal. I wonder what that tastes like. Is it gritty? Is it worth it?

God, I fucking hate my life. And myself. No one could even begin to like me. Of course they don’t. I’m pale and have these fucking glasses and I say the weirdest shit. It always seems OK in my head, but then I end up being so goddamned weird and I know I’m being weird, but I can’t stop it from happening Jesus Christ, Scott! Why don’t you just block your exhaust pipe and be over with it!

That’s it…I’ll find a gym sock and block the exhaust pipe. How ironic! I fucking hate gym. Of course it would be the thing that would kill me. Stupid high school gym. Fuckers.

Oh, wait, I love this video. Man, I love Nirvana. He was such a fuckhead for killing himself. He actually had talent. Unlike me. I’m just a talentless loser. Who can’t get a girl.

Oh Christ. If I kill myself, it would severely inhibit my ability to watch this video. And this is a good freaking video. Look at that. He’s a God. I can’t die and not be able to watch this video.

That just won’t do.

Bones Brigade.

I’m seventeen. I’m in love. I have a Bones Brigade jacket. Damn, I’m cool.

What I didn’t tell you about Elly is this:

I think she’s beautiful. She’s short and she’s beautiful. She has crooked bottom teeth and she’s beautiful. And I want, with all my heart, to be close enough to smell her.

When I’m combing my hair, I’m awesome. I’m James Dean. I’m a rebel without a cause. I’m Dirty Harry. I’m gonna rock. I’m gonna roll. I give myself a sideways smile.

Tonight, my car is a Jaguar. My earring is a diamond. My brother is Sid Vicious. And I’m going out with Jessica Rabbit. Depeche Mode writes my incidental music.

I’ll write a poem. About how she wears sweatshirts and skirts and sneakers. And about those soda-can tabs she wears around her neck that she told me spell out the name of her dog. Or maybe later. Because we’ve got a date with cheap Italian food and an evening with the Evil Dead trilogy. I’m rolling out. To pick up my girl, who’s not really, but kind of cos she spends everyday at my house and you know she wants me woo!

“Scott?”

“Mom! I’m on my way to pick up Elly.”

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“I’m really in a rush, mom. I’m late picking her up.”

“Scott, you smell like the Old Spice factory blew up in your room.”

“You think it’s too much?”

“Yes. And considering the fact that you’re grounded, it’s much too much.”

Four.

There are certain times in your life when you realize that there is some serious mis-wiring in your brain. Like when you drink and drive, for instance.

Not only does drinking severely impair your judgment and reaction time when driving. In my case, it also gives me every right to be an asshole. In my head.

On Tuesday night, my mom received a report card populated mostly by C’s and maybe one or two or five D’s. We fought. She took my keys. I had spares. I took my car on a speed rampage through town. In freezing rain. Just me, Metallica and the Beefeater. And of course I was going to get away with it. Seventeen is equivalent to immortal. Death and police play no part in my little world of self-righteousness.

So when a dark blue Ford Taurus skidded into the back of my car at a relatively low speed at a stop light at around midnight-ish, I did the most logical thing a half-cut immortal could think of.

I took a rusted nine-iron I happened to have out of my trunk and beat the shit out of the culprit car’s bumper.

Phone Tag.

1:31 AM

“Hi. You’ve reached Rich, Samantha and Eleanor. Please leave a message after the beep and we’ll get back to you.”

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Elly? You there? It’s me, Scott. Please, please, please, please pick up. Listen, Something really weird happened and I’m at the police station in town. I’m really sorry it’s so late, but if you could maybe borrow your dad’s car or something and come bail me out, I’d really owe you. This is just a little thing. You see, this guy hit my car and I got a little overexcited – but the guy didn’t press charges or anything. He didn’t have a liscence. Phew, right? But you see, I was kind of drun… “

“Hello?” A sleepy voice picked up on the line, shutting off the answering machine.

“Hi. I’m really sorry. Is Elly there?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“This is Scott. Elly –“

“Who the hell is Scott? What do you want?”

“I’m Elly’s friend.”

The receiver is covered. Muffled voices. What is it? Do you know a Scott? Yes, Elly has a friend. Well, he’s on the phone. It’s 2 AM. I know, what a punk. He seems like a nice boy. He’s calling at two o’clock in the morning – what the hell do you know?

“Scott?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Elly is in bed.”

“Sir, I’m really sorry, but can you get her? She won’t--”

“Scott, you realize it’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“Yessir.”

“Scott, you realize that right now I’d beat the living shit out of you if you were in front of me.”

“Sir—“

“Don’t sir me.”

“I understand it’s late, but I’m at the police station downtown and this is my one phone call—“ Please…

Click.

2:13 AM

“Scott’s Line. Leave one.”

Beeeeeep.

“Scott, it’s Elly. Listen, uh, First of all, I’m sorry about not being home. I know we had plans…I’m really sorry for not calling or anything before this. I’ll make it up to you. But listen, I’m in Reddington. I don’t know if you know where that is, but I need to be picked up. I’m at the Seven-Eleven in Reddington. You remember Dan from that…ah, fuck it. I can’t get home. He left me here. My parents don't know I left. Please, please, please, pick up. Oh god.”

Click.

Type Two.

I've come to the conclusion that there are several types of phone calls.

There are the kinds that you wait by the phone for. There are the ones that make your pulse race because they're unexpectedly good. There are the kinds where your voice stays low because you're talking about something that is of a certain intrigue. Then, there are the kinds that you don't pick up because you know it's someone you don't want to talk to. There are the kinds where you pick up like an idiot because you thought it was someone else calling you back. There are the kinds that ring and you pick up because you're afraid of what else could go wrong that day. And there are the kinds that you pick up, but you don't say anything.

"Scott. Is there something you need to tell me?"

My mom got one of those last ones from Elly’s mom.

"No, mom. Why?"

"Where were you last night?"

Air gets caught in my throat.

"I can explain."

"First, I'd like your car keys."

And she hadn’t even gotten my father involved yet.

Guidance.

“Scott, I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

“I think so.” Everyone knows. Chris is calling me Tiger Woods. So is my history teacher.

“I think there is something going on at home with Elly and she will not talk to us. Now, I feel as if it’s the school’s responsibility to protect children, to a certain extent, from any situations that cause them serious harm. As her counselor, I personally feel as if what she is not telling us could lead her to be in harm’s way, or even harm herself. She has mentioned you in several of our sessions and it seems to me that you mean a lot to her. I want to know if you would be willing to help us out.”

Surprise! Surprise…

“Sure, I suppose. Elly said that?” Also a surprise.

“She mentions you frequently. She thinks a lot of you.”

“Oh. That’s funny.” I am intrigued. Tell me more.

“It’s funny?”

“No, I mean, I was just thinking. No, it’s fine. What do you want?”

“Several of her teachers think there is something going on at home. I am inclined to agree. She is absent frequently and I don’t need to mention how she looks.”

“No ma’am” I’ve been friends with Elly for two marking periods. I’m the last person you need to mention this to.

“So, if Elly agrees and you don’t feel as if you’d be betraying anything, I’d like you to come in once and a while. I think weather you know it or not, you mean a lot to her and you can help her.”

To tell the truth, I honestly couldn’t see how I could help Elly. When presented with the self-inflicted responsibility to do something, I did the only thing that seemed to have any affect – albeit temporary – on the situation. I got her drunk. It’s, sometimes, what she asked for, and others, what I saw as remedy. Nothing else was within my power as far as I could see.

"I'd like to help if I can, I guess."

"That's nice of you, Scott. I just have one question for you before we begin."

"Yes?"

"It says here...this last weekend..." She shuffled through some papers.

Oh, Crap.

"It says here...that you were arrested for a DUI...and assault? Your parents informed the school. They wanted to know if we had any treatment programs available to students."

Gulp. "Yes, ma'am."

"The school would also like it, aside from your helping us with Elly, for you to attend a sort of alcohol abuse program we've set up here. I can be your counselor, too, if you like. I've told your parents about this program and..." More shuffling of papers, "An off-site anger management program recommended by the school."

"Is it required?"

"It's not required, but your parents requested it and the school strongly recommends it. Perhaps you can take it up with them."

"I'll talk to them."

“Good. Are things at home OK for you, Scott? As I said before, this behavior is a bit surprising.”

Dad sleeps on the couch. Girl with brass reading-lamp gashes in head. Nothing that ignoring can’t fix. “It’s fine.”

"One last question before I let you go, Scott."

I nodded, the ball in my stomach expanding to my esophagus.

"Is Elly involved in any of this? For the most part, your records would lead us to believe that you are a good kid and this was something of a surprise to me. However, your grades have gone down significantly this marking period. I am hoping that these few months are going to be an isolated and unrecurring incident - you know, all this does affect your chances of getting into a good school."

I nod again, the scope of everything grasping me at my neck, making it very difficult, it seemed, for me to take in oxygen. "I know, ma'am."

"I also wanted to know if, perhaps, Elly might need this kind of treatment as well. Would she benefit from it?"

And the dilemma presents itself. I choose.

"I don't believe so, ma'am."

Ever have a rock in your stomach that stretches it down to the floor?

I saw Elly in the hall a few minutes after my session.

“What happened yesterday? I couldn’t find you.” Not that her scattered attendance merited surprise.

“I went for a walk. I didn’t feel like coming to school.”

“You missed the French exam.”

“Maybe I won’t come tomorrow, then, either.” Good thinking.

“I’ll tell Madame you’re sick.”

“What do I have this time?”

“TB. They had to ship you to an iron lung.”

“If only.”

“I’ve got some vodka with me.”

“You have no idea how much I missed you.”

Super-sized Life.

Alarm clock blaring.

Unsatisfactory life

Six-fucking-a.m.

Working mornings, nights and afternoons

I’ve measured out my life with…

Picture:

Red-eyed Mother in bathrobe holding car keys, coffee cup. Pastel on canvas. Blue period.

Enter SON.

SON: Gee, Mom. Why are you coming in the front door so early?

MOTHER: (closing front door softly behind her, turns around, startled at son’s presence) Scott! What are you doing up?

SON: Golly, mom, it’s the time I usually get up to start another rewarding Satruday as an employee of the McDonald’s corporation.

MOTHER: I just had to go out and pick up something.

Awkward silence between MOTHER and SON.

There are several ways you can take your mother coming in your front door at 6 AM wearing her bathrobe and carrying car keys and a cup of 7-11 coffee. Lucky for me, I don’t get to choose.

“Have you seen your father?”

“No.”

“He’s not here.”

“I dunno, mom.”

“He didn’t come home last night.”

“I dunno, mom. I just got up.” I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

“When did you go to bed last night?”

“I dunno, mom.”

“Was it after me?”

“Mom, I dunno. Probably like eleven? Twelve? I was reading…”

“You didn’t sneak out, did you?”

“Mom! No!”

“Right. Sorry, honey. Can you get a ride to work?” She rushes past me into the kitchen.

“I suppose I could call Dan or something…”

“Please.” She yells from the sink, banging the dishes around, mumbling to herself.

“I could always take my car…just for today…” Dishes drop and resonate in aluminum sink. Footsteps to the doorway of the kitchen. She looks at me, seeing if I’m serious.

“I can’t even begin to answer you. Do you want you…us…me…to get arrested again.” Salt on open wound makes me back down. “Just get a ride, ok? I can’t deal with your father and you right now.” She walks back in the kitchen and slams some things around in the fridge. Drops something. I haven’t moved.

“Right.” I stay put. “Do you need anything? Like, while I’m at the shopping center anyway…at work?”

“No!” I hear her scooping something out of a bowl into the garbage. I decide to move. Towards the kitchen. Brave son takes steps out of comfortable ignorance.

“Mom…have you seen dad?”

“No.” She continues to scrape the empty bowl into the garbage and then slams it into the sink. Ties a knot in the garbage bag and walks out the back door into the garage. Slamming of can lids. Slamming of back door. She turns on the radio. I turn on the blender.

She stops. And looks at me. I look back at her.

I lie. “I’m late.” I feel absurd in my golden arches next to an empty running blender. She looks wild in her hair and robe.

“Aren’t you going to get a ride with Dan?”

“I haven’t called him.”

“You know how to use the phone.”

“Yeah.”

She nods at the blender. I look at it.

“Mom. Where were you?”

She walks over and shuts it off.

“I told you. I had to go out.” She unplugs it, wraps the chord around. Puts it in the cabinet. Takes it out.

“Mom…”

“What is it, Scott?”

“We keep that out on the counter.”

“I know.”

“Mom.” I put my arm over her hands. She shrinks. Her bed-head wilts.

“Just go to work.” She puts her arms around me and squeezes me briefly. I stay still. She fixes my collar. She smiles. And cries. And I stand and stare like Frankenstein. And she tells me I look just like him. Not Frankenstein. My dad.

“Honey, have a good day, ok? You look just like your dad. That little cow-lick. Oh…” She licks her hand and smooths the side of my head. And cries. And bites her lip. He skin matches the whites of her eyes. The pinks.

Do I, next to a trash can of cheese and smelly wild rices, have the strength to force the moment to it’s crisis?

“Mom. He’s not home?”

She gives an ugly, unhappy smile. “No. You should call for your ride.”

“Can you drive me?”

“I’m a mess.”

“I’ve got some time.”

“You’re late. I’d need a shower.”

“You’re just driving me to the shopping center.”

“He’s out with some woman.” The footman hangs my coat back up. I blink. She shakes her head and runs past me into the hall. She yells back at me. “No, shh. I didn’t say that. Everything is going to be ok. I’m probably just overreacting. You shouldn’t see me like this. I have to go back to sleep. Or take a shower.”

“A woman? What woman mom?” What did you do? My mother is crazy. I walk into the hall.

She’s arranging things in the coat closet. Stops to look at me. A sneer. “I drove around this morning looking for his car.”

“Maybe he had too much. Stayed at Gary’s. It happened once before. Stays out late…Friday night.”

She approaches me quickly. She straigtens my collar again. “It wasn’t at Gary’s.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a woman, mom. Dad has other friends. You’re just so freaking paranoid.” A slap stings my cheek on the sound of para.

“You shut the fuck up. Walk to work. Get out.”

“Mom! You’re insane!”

“Oh, I’m insane. I’m not taking out any golf-clubs, am I? Shut up.”

“Mom!”

“Listen, you have no appreciation of what I have done for you. I go through hell so you can live in this house. In this neighborhood. With that man in my bed every night.”

“On the couch, mom…and I don’t even want to know about that. And it isn’t what you think it is. He’s probably just staying. Got drunk.”

“You don’t know him, Scott. He’s just dear old dad to you, isn’t he? I’ve had enough. Get out. Go to work.”

This isn’t fair. It’s just not fair.

“This isn’t fair! You don’t do this to me. I have to deal with people. I have to work all day.”

“What isn’t fair?”

“This. This whole thing. You’re not supposed to tell me this stuff.”

“No, that’s right. I’m sorry. I have to deal with this silently. Well, excuse me. I’ve put up with your shit. I can’t deal with any of this anymore! It’s not fair to me. Me, Scott.”

She has spit collecting at the corners of her mouth and her face is twisted in some sort of rage. I want to sneak away.

“Fine. Ok. Leaving.” I turn.

“Go stay with your father if you’re going to be so ungrateful. Wherever the hell he is. Don’t come back.” I run through the hall so I can end what I say next with a slamming front door.

“Don’t worry, mom. I won’t.”

Would you like fries with that?

Things Fall Apart.

Roald Dahl is weird. He’s a weird, weird guy. And that’s who I was reading when Elly knocked at my window. I had to put down his book to open the window just a crack with my index finger to my mouth.

“Shh…what?”

“Can I come in?”

“It’s 2 o’clock in the morning, Elly. Is home ok?”

“Just let me in, please.” She had been crying. I directed her around to the side door.

When I let her in, she wandered past me towards my room. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Uh…” I left my jaw open for a second and then, perhaps out of good training, turned down the hall towards my parent’s bedroom. She grabbed my shoulder.

“No. Don’t tell them. It’s ok. I’ll just stay on your floor or something.”

“Uh.” What? Who? When?

“Don’t be thirteen. Please? Just tonight. No one will know. I don’t want pity or anything. I just want to sleep.”

“Elly, it really isn’t very good here right now…”

“Scott…” Puppy face. Red, glassy eyes and puppy face.

“Yeah, yeah. You can take the bed, though. I’ll go on the couch in the basement or something.” Such a gentleman for being seventeen.

“No, it’s ok. I just need a blanket on the floor.”

“Oh. Ok. Would you rather take the couch in the basement or something?”

“No, no. I want you in the room. I’ll just stay on the floor.”

“Uh. You sure? The couch is kind of nice and broken in and the floor is…well, hard.”

“No, it’s ok.”

“Um…Do you want to talk or anything?”

“No. Just sleep. Please. Scott.”

“Ok. I’m gonna go back to bed.” Albeit concerned, I was vaguely annoyed, confused and tired. Long day. Crazy mother. Lack of father. “You can sleep where you like. Just let me know. I think there’s blankets and stuff in the closet across from the bathroom.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Ok. I just need to clean up. I’ll be right in.” She went into the bathroom and shut the door.

And so, I went back into my room. She returned several minutes later with an armful of bedding.

“Anywhere on the floor?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.” She started spreading out sheets on the floor near my desk. Borrowed a blanket and a pillow from the end of my bed. It was kind of cute. Like making a nest.

When she was done, she sat on the bed next to me.

“You know, this is silly. Would you mind if I just shared?”

I put my book down. Uh.

“Uh.”

“It’s Ok, it’s just that now that I think about it, the floor isn’t very comfortable.”

There is only one thing that is at the forefront of my mind and I try my hardest to be a neuter. “Elly, that’s really not a good idea. My dad says my mom thinks we’re, like, you know.”

“But we’re not, so it’s OK.”

“I think it would be better…”

“I’ll explain to your mom in the morning if she’s upset.”

“I’m not sure the assurance of Mother Teresa would even make her feel better if she found out. She’ll eat you alive and then kick me out. I'm already on her bad side...” I'm vaguely annoyed that she wants me in more trouble and feel like blaming someone. She isn’t even asking me what’s wrong.

“No, no, stay.” She hopped next to me and pushed herself under the covers. Annoyance disappears and I suddenly became very aware of the fact that all this time I’d been without a shirt. I reached down on the floor to grab one.

“What?”

“I just…wanted to put this on.” Over the head it went. Inside out. Tag on the front. But it was nice and not naked.

“Oh. Ok.”

I turned out the light and slid to the other side of the bed. And then it was quiet. And I was wide awake.

God knows how long I sat there, staring into the dark. But at some point, Elly moved closer and curled herself around my right arm. And then my chest. And I moved over. And she moved over. And I was against the wall. And her arm was resting just under my chin. Had I shaved recently? Reminder to self not to move face.

It was at this point that air became a problem as well. If she was still awake, she could feel me breathing and I suddenly became very aware of my intake and outtake of oxygen. The space that my body took up suddenly became much too small for my own comfort and personal mental safety. I felt like screaming. Or not since that would require a greater amount of breathing. And then maybe she’d think that I was out of shape. Because my respiration would be quicker than her own, so obviously I’d be out of shape. Or nervous. And of course I wasn’t nervous. And even if I really was, she couldn’t think so. Pretty girls slept in my bed all the freaking time Jesus Christ I can’t breathe.

Until she kissed me. Breath control was not o much of a priority when that happened.

I’d like to think it was more graceful than I could make it sound. So I don’t think it’s worth my trying . You get the idea, I guess.

Actually, maybe you don’t.

“Elly, I love you.”

Of course I can’t just get away with losing my virginity. I have to trip on something or spill something or something has to come out of my nose. Or I have to tell someone I love them.

“Uh.”

Something in my head told me that she simply didn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. I had to keep going. I was on a roll. In my head.

“Really, I mean it. I think I love you. You’re perfect. You’re everything –“

“Uh.”

No, no, Scott, you’re doing great man, keep going, she’s eating this up, obviously. Just look at how she’s backing out of your bed and searching for her bag.

“Elly, don’t go. I just thought since…”

“I’m gonna head out.”

She said this as she shut the door.

Fuck, dude.

Because I’m a crazy person, the only thing I could think to do was get in my mom's car and find her.

I found her at the grammar school playground.

And that brings us to page one.

The Swings.

“You didn’t have to follow me. You're not even supposed to be driving."

“I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Uh.”

“It was really awkward and bad.”

“Thanks.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that, I meant sort of…well…Like, you know.”

“No, actually. Do you have a cigarette?”

“Yeah, in the car...I had half a one on the way over, but I’m not sure about a match—you don’t smoke, Elly.”

“Fuck you.”

“Uh.”

“Not literally. Can you get me a cigarette?” She was angry.

All tools, please report to your cars. I returned with the half a one that I left in the ashtray and a booklet of Bennigan’s matches that were in the glove box.

“Thanks.” She took them from my hands and I stood where I was to watch her light it. “Have a swing, kiddo.” She blew smoke in my face as she said this. And so, I sat and watched her hold the cigarette close to her lips. That were dry. In the moonlight. God, they were kind of gross. Were they like that before?

“I’m sorry, about the love thing.”

“You don’t even know about it.”

“I just thought that maybe since, you know…” I nodded to indicate what I couldn’t say. YOU KISSED ME. Yeah, I couldn’t say that.

“No. I just kind of…forgot who you were...for a minute. That was stupid of me.”

“Forgot? I’m right here. Remember me? I’m Scott! Christ, Elly! How do you forget who I am?”

“Not forgot in that way.”

“I’m not going to pretend I understand that.”

“Maybe you will someday when you do something stupid.”

She brushed her hair behind her ears. The t-shirt she was wearing looked enormous on her. Or maybe she was slowly shrinking into it. It was eating her alive. And her arms indicated a struggle. Oh man. Her arms.

“That wasn’t stupid…I just…I dunno.”

“Yeah, I don’t either.”

I had to ask: “Are you OK?”

“No worse than usual.”

“I mean…like…are you Okay.”

More smoke in the face. “Can we, for once, not talk about it?”

“I just feel like we should talk about…us.”

“You sound like a girl.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Just forget about what happened, ok? Big fucking mistake, Scott. Got to clean up my act. I’ll start with you, ok?”

“It wasn’t! It wasn’t! It wasn’t a mistake, Elly. It was nice.” Do it again! This time, with feeling!

“You don’t love me.”

“Elly…”

“You don’t know anything about love.”

“And you do?”

“More than just about anyone.”

“Gimme a break.” Between what she had just said and her dry lips, I suddenly became annoyed with her.

“I’ll tell you who knows about love.” She said.

“Who?” I said.

“Bono knows about love.” Is how she replied.

A Million Miles Up.

Like with all natural disasters that occur, I can tell you where I was when I got the phone call. Reading Roald Dahl. Still.

It was the day after the swings. Elly hadn’t called. We both transgressed something, I guess. So I read all day. I didn’t even feel like drinking. Not that I could have anyway. My mom had put a lock on the cabinet in the basement. I swear, no trust.

My mom made me an omelette when she got home from mass. She was distracted. Burned the first one. Stayed on the phone with various friends; priests. Cheating bastard. You wouldn’t even believe where his car was parked. No. No, Scott is here. Wanted to slash his tires. Not since Friday. I left a note. Said I didn’t want to see his face here for a very long time.

Bastard.

Bastard.

Bastard.

When she hung up the phone and put down my plate, she asked about my life. No mention was made of the morning before.

How is school. How are your friends. I told her about the show I saw two weeks ago, with Chris.

“You know, I haven’t seen Chris around much lately. It was nice to see him the other week.”

“Yeah.”

“So what did you two go and do?”

“City.”

“For what?”

“Concert.”

“Who was it?”

“A band. Called Psychedelic Breakfast.”

“Now there’s a band name if I’ve ever heard one.” Distracted smile. Thoughts elsewhere.

“Yeah. They were OK. More Chris’s type of music.”

“What kind was it?”

“Like jam-type music. The guitarist was absolutely ridiculous though. Really good. I do have to admit that.”

“That’s nice, hon. What’re you reading?” She motioned to the book I had sitting upside-down and open on the table.

“Switch Bitch.” I kind of covered my mouth at my pronunciation of the word Bitch.

“Who’s that by?”

“Roald Dahl.”

“Do I know him?”

“I dunno. He wrote, like, The BFG and stuff.”

“Oh! Didn’t you used to have that?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he write the Phantom Tollbooth, too?”

“No.”

“That was always one of your favorites.”

“Yeah, it was. Good book.”

“So this is good too?”

“Eh. Bunch of short stories. It’s weird stuff. He was a weird guy.”

“Good though?”

“Yeah. I picked it up on the book sale rack at the library.”

“Can I take look at it when you’re done?”

Take a look. Inspect. Watch. Watch. “I guess. I’ll probably put it down on Dad’s shelf.” Dad. A slip of the tongue. I lower my head. Maybe she didn’t notice.

She looks at me. “Ok. Let me know when you’re through.” Cold.

“I’m almost done. I’ll probably be done by three.”

“Are you going out with Chris again tonight?” In my mother’s eyes, Chris was safe. Chris was responsible. Chris was a nice boy. Chris was still ten.

“No. Busy with Angela.” Chris hadn’t talked to me in two weeks after Chris cheated on Angela with my Elly.

Well, more mine than his.

“Are you two OK?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” Not.

“Ok. I’d hate to see a friendship like that go down the drain.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I’m going to go pick up Mallory’s new kitten in about fifteen minutes. They’re going away for the week, so we’ll have some company.” Another tired and unhappy raise of the corners of her mouth.

“Nice.”

“Do you want to come?”

“No. I’ll just stay here. I want to finish this.”

“Ok.” She got up and ruffled my hair.

“Right, mom.” She hadn’t heard a word we’d exchanged.

Silence. Omlette. Read. I was on the last short story and I was determined to finish it. When the phone rang.

And like I said, I can remember what I was doing. I was reading the following line:

And a moment later, the two of us were a million miles up in outer space. What a way to describe a sex scene. And then, my mother called me.

“Scott…I think…You might want…to…uh…take this.”

My mom wasn’t going to pick up any kittens that day.

And I wasn’t finishing any sex scenes.

And a moment later, the two of us were a million miles up…

Christ on a Hypercube.

For those of you who have wondered what it would feel like to end up in a Dali painting, or a David Lynch film, I’ll tell you.

Sunday, the day after Elly kissed me and I told her I loved her, she killed her dad.

I’m not sure I should have seen it coming. I left the park before her. She told me she wanted to walk home. I felt like I’d done enough damage. So I let her.

Here is what everyone believed she did: After a long night out, Eleanor came home and sat in her new car at the top of their driveway, which was sloped. She listened to New Order until 7:30 AM, when her father, Richard, came out of the house to get the Sunday Paper. It was at that point that she put her car into neutral and it rolled down the hill, pinning him against the wall of the house.

The police said she had managed to practically sever his legs. He died on the way to the hospital. Blood loss? Internal injuries? I forget.

And what did Eleanor do? She sat in her car. Her mother came out. Called the police. Screamed her frail little head off. But Eleanor just sat there, listening to “Blue Monday”. The police finally had to physically remove her from the car. Because as far as she was concerned, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Her mother frantically called everyone she knew that Elly knew. Was Elly on drugs? Was Elly drinking? Did your son influence my daughter to do this?

Elly was sober. Elly was Elly. And God knew what that meant.

Elly left school. She wasn’t there that much to begin with.

Elly was arrested. But then she wasn’t anymore.

Elly moved somewhere. Far away, probably.

There was a trial. But Elly seemed to slip away from that too.

Abuse. Physical? Definitely. Sexual? Both? Yes. Who knew! Maybe I should have.

And all this happened in no particular order.

Or maybe I just wrote it that way.

What did I do?

I called their house. A bunch. And Elly was never home. Of course not. She was on trial for homicide. Patricide. Or at least for a little while. Till they realized there was something wrong with her. She was broken. That’s why she wanted to break him. Then, they’d be even.

And in the end, all this made me wonder – am I broken, too? I feel different. Older. Tired. Much more tired. Or maybe I’m just seventeen

All I knew was that I wanted to do what she wanted. Maybe, before, she wanted me to take her away. I failed at doing that if that was what she wanted. So if she wanted me to stay away now, I’d at least try and keep to that rule.

Did I do anything wrong? Maybe I should have mentioned the drinking…or the parties and the bathtubs and the master bedrooms and the cars. And the reading lamps. Maybe I should have talked her out of things, or protected her. Or maybe it would have happened anyway. Maybe I had nothing to do with it. Insignificant. What would make me think that what I did mattered?

Maybe because she made me feel like it did.

I had to go counseling, too. My parents. A real kind of counselor. Not like the counselor at school.

I told the counselor fantastic stories of my normality. Of my enthusiasm for life. And the nice woman behind the glasses very carefully nodded and noted. And sometimes, she’d ask questions, but never mentioned Elly unless I mentioned Elly. But I knew that Elly was the reason I was there. Somehow, she managed to fashion me in her image. And you can’t come back from that sort of thing.

I don’t think I’m really cut out to do much in the terms of normality, anyway.

I can pretend.

A little.

For now, I’m writing stories about a time-traveling stripper named Elly and her sidekick, Chip Butler. I am a well-adjusted social outcast. Aren’t we all?

Break my heart.