The Tragic Age (5 page)

 

11

It's twenty minutes later and I'm moving down the hallway past the school office when I glance through the open door and see that Willard Twomey is sitting on a bench.

It's postbell but I'm in no real rush. After lunch it's fourth period calculus and I always take some time getting there because I know the teacher, Mr. Thurmond, is still in the faculty lounge sucking down his umpteenth cancer stick of the day.

Mr. Thurmond, who is heavy and sad faced, is an aspiring stand-up comedian who puts flyers of his open-mike nights on the classroom bulletin board, never realizing none of us are old enough to get in. He also uses the class to try out his material, which means he tries to make calculus funny. Calculus, which studies the limits, functions, derivatives, and integrals of numbers, is about as funny as an abscessed tooth and so is Mr. Thurmond.

“What did the zero say to the eight?” he'll say. “Nice belt!”

“What is the first derivative of a cow?” he'll says. “Prime rib.”

No one laughs.

Which confuses and disappoints Mr. Thurmond. And makes him anxious. Which makes him want a cigarette. Which makes him excuse himself and run down the hall to the teacher's lounge. The class is pretty much Mr. Thurmond's only good joke.

I stop and look around to see if anyone is coming, and when I see that no one is, I turn back and go into the school office. Except for Willard Twomey and some secretary, there's nobody else there. I clear my throat. The secretary looks up from whatever it is she's doing. Unprepared for the port-wine hemangioma on my face, she flinches.

“Shouldn't you be in class?” she says. No hello, no may I help you.

“I need to see the nurse,” I say.

“For what?” she says. She seems alarmed. Like maybe a birthmark is possibly contagious.

“For a brain tumor,” I say.

Actually, I don't say that.

“My stomach hurts,” I say. “I think I ate something at lunch.” Which is true. It was something.

The secretary sighs as if she's besieged on a daily basis by disfigured people who have gotten sick from eating something at lunch and it's exhausted her.

“Have a seat,” the secretary says. “I'll see if she's in.”

She gets up and she leaves, probably down the hall to join Mr. Thurmond and the school nurse in the faculty lounge for a quick smoke.

Willard Twomey is still sitting on the long wooden bench, acting as if I'm not even there. I go over and sit down next to him, leaving room between us. Now both of us are acting as if the other isn't there. I realize I can hear Mr. Esposito, the principal, talking on the phone in the inner office. He has a surprisingly strong, authoritative voice.

“Yes, I understand … No, but I do want to know who's responsible for him…”

Obviously he's talking about Willard Twomey.

“Very impressive,” I say, not looking at Willard Twomey.

Willard Twomey doesn't say anything.

“What you did in the cafeteria today.”

Willard Twomey doesn't so much as blink.

“Montebello's an idiot.”

“What are you?” says Willard Twomey. He stares straight ahead. I notice that on the back of his right hand Willard Twomey has another tattoo.

Chaos.

And on the back of his left hand yet another.

Change.

“… yes, well, I think we should have been informed that the young man has a juvenile record and a history of physical assault,” says Principal Esposito in his surprisingly strong voice.

“Who's he talking to?” I say.

I don't think Willard Twomey is going to answer. But then he does.

“My grandmother. Like she's going to do anything but make herself another drink.” Willard Twomey sounds disgusted.

“I understand. Yes, I'm sure it is difficult for you,” says Principal Esposito's voice, full of authority.

I don't remember the last time I've done this. Maybe I never have. But I do now. I stick out my right hand.

Fact.

A handshake is a ritual in which two people grasp one another's hands. It is thought by some to have originated as a way of saying, There is no weapon in my hand. I'm not going to cut your head off. This, of course, is unless it's the left hand, which in many parts of the world is a way of saying, I'm going to use your head to wipe my ass.

“Billy Kinsey,” I say.

Willard Twomey looks at my outstretched right hand. And now he looks at me.
At me
. Willard Twomey doesn't flinch, he doesn't waver. He
studies
my face. It is rude and disconcerting to the point of panic inducing and I have to force myself not to look away. His eyes trace the periphery of my right cheek and all of a sudden that side of my face begins to burn.

Point of reference.

Dorie used to say that my birthmark lightened or darkened, ebbed and flowed in shade and intensity, according to my emotions, and that a person could tell what I was feeling just by looking at it. Which is just another reason why I always try to feel nothing at all.

Sidebar.

Dorie thought my port-wine hemangioma was beautiful.

Willard Twomey reaches out and lightly taps my open hand with a closed fist. “Twom,” he whispers. He repeats himself, says it louder. “Twom Twomey.”

“Not Willard?” I say. I make sure I sort of smile as I say it.

“Not unless you want a tray in your head.” He's sort of smiling too. The tap with the fist, I decide, is an original way of saying, I'm not going to kill you
yet.

“I look forward to meeting you as well,” we hear Esposito's voice say. It sounds like he's wrapping things up which means it's time to get out of there. I stand.

“See you around,” I say.

“I thought you were sick,” says Twom Twomey.

“Miraculously cured,” I say.

I beat it out of the office into the hall. When I look back I can see Esposito standing over Twom Twomey, lecturing. Twom Twomey, looking bored to stone, is staring at Mr. Esposito's navel. Esposito might as well be talking to the wall.

Twom. Twom as in “tomb.” A mausoleum. A place for the dead. Dad thinks I should have a new friend. I wonder what he'll think about one who's now baptized my open palm with the right hand of
chaos
.

 

12

Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.

So said Albert Camus, the French author and proponent of absurdism, who in 1960 died in a car accident along with his close friend Michel Gallimard, who was behind the wheel. At the last moment Camus had decided not to take the train. And when you figure that if Camus
had
been on the train and
not
beside his friend Michel Gallimard, he would have lived, this is about as absurd as it gets.

Absurd is how I've always pretty much felt about friendship.

I see guys who are supposed to be friends with each other and it's pretty much all jackass insults and look at the tits on her and let's get wasted. If you're Ephraim, it's computer-generated realities and chat rooms and online gaming portals. And let's not even talk about girls who go around in packs but will turn on one another at a moment's notice over not just a guy but a misplaced hairbrush. And let's say you do make a friend, all the research tells you that eventually they're probably going to move away or go to college or get a job someplace else or die even and you'll never see them again. So you'll move on and become friends with someone else and then someone else and as time goes by the bonds of friendship will get weaker and weaker until you're some drunk guy at a cocktail party trying to remember the names of people you're supposed to know. Like
Gordon.

Still.

If absurdism is the desire for meaning in a world that doesn't have any, then perhaps friendship is as well.

I've decided it's worth a try.

I'm sitting, waiting on a bench, when Twom Twomey comes out and down the steps of High School High. Kids stare, then look away as they pass him. Everyone has heard what the new kid did. He ignores them and keeps going. He carries no books, no backpack. Like Mom and Dad, he shares similar physical characteristics with the locals but, as yet unassimilated, is a different animal altogether. And then he sees me looking at him. Twom stops and stares a moment and then walks over.

“What are
you
doing?” he says. As if me sitting there with nothing but a skateboard and a backpack for company is a pretty moron thing to do.

“I wanted to find out if you were suspended,” I say Which is a moron thing to
say
because if he was suspended he wouldn't be standing there.

Twom sort of snorts. “They decided to give me a second chance. Like I'm so grateful.” I don't have to tell you he's being sarcastic.

We're both just standing there trying to think of something else to say when a car horn goes off and we both look out toward the street. A silver Porsche Boxster convertible, its top down, has pulled to the curb. John Montebello is behind the wheel. He leans on the horn again. The sound is more annoying than anything else. Chris Hardy, an offensive tackle, huge and stupid and a twenty-seven on the moron scale, is with him. Montebello rises in the seat. Arm outstretched, he points at Twom.

“You! Motherfucker! I'm going to find out where you fucking live! Because you are fucking dead! Look at me, fucker! It's the last fucking thing you will ever fucking see! Because you are so fucking, fucking dead!”

As if bored, Twom puts his thumb in his mouth. He moves it in and out. Meaning blow me. Montebello looks furious—then confused. Uncertain as to how to respond, he glares at me.

“You better watch your ass too, pie face!”

“Cool!” I call back. “Why don't I use your face as a mirror?”

Actually, I don't say that. But I do think it up later and wish I had.

Montebello revs the car's engine. He points at Twom again as if to say “you're it” and then jams the car in gear and starts to peel away. Only he stalls it completely. Thud—thump. And now when Montebello tries to start the car, the engine turns over but doesn't quite engage. It tries to, it wants to, but it doesn't. Montebello, his expression semideranged, doesn't give it a break. He keeps the key turned in the ignition and he pumps the gas pedal up and down.

“Think you flooded it,” says the ever brilliant Chris Hardy.

“Mother—
fucker
!” Montebello screams and he lashes out with his right arm, whacking Hardy in the head. Hardy cries out in pained surprise. Montebello swipes at him again, missing. Chris Hardy swipes back, also missing. They're like two pissed-off toddlers throwing elbows.

You couldn't rehearse it.

“Need a jump?” says Twom, making it sound as if he's concerned and would really like to be helpful to two idiots.

When Montebello goes to start the car this time, the engine grabs, falters, coughs, farts twice, and then finally engages. With a bleat of dark exhaust and sounding like a box of rocks, the car lurches away down the hill. Suddenly a skateboard doesn't seem half so stupid.

Twom turns back to me. He looks amused, as if he's been watching a good cartoon. He looks me up and down as if trying to decide whether or not I'm worthy.

I am. I know I am. I want to be.

“So what do you do for fun around this fucked-up place?” says Twom Twomey.

 

13

We go to Starbucks.

Fact.

Caffeine is a psychoactive stimulant and in certain plants is a natural pesticide that kills bugs. Taken in moderation, caffeine increases mental efficiency.

Sidebar.

On any given weekday afternoon, customers—mostly High School High students and mostly
girls
—are at Starbucks indulging in overpriced mochas, macchiatos, Frappuccinos, dolce lattes, white hot chocolates, and processed fruit smoothies, all of which have more sugar than coffee, have no nutritional value, cause weight gain, an imbalance in sex hormones, and possibly cancer. Little do they know that both caffeine and sugar can be ingested rectally. A good thing because I think Starbucks would frown on this.

“So where you from?” I say to Twom. We're sitting at a corner table. Twom is having black coffee and I'm having tap water.

“Why do you want to know?” Twom says.

“I don't. I'm just making conversation.”

Twom laughs. “Cool.” He dumps two sugars in his coffee. He stirs and sips. “Seattle. Like Starbucks.”

“I hear it's nice.”

“Someone is lying to you.”

“Really?” I'm surprised. Seattle is the Emerald City. In what was Dorie's favorite book, L. Frank Baum's
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,
the Emerald City is where the wonderful wizard lives. One just assumes he has any number of pleasant options.

“It rains. When it doesn't rain, it molds.”

Oz, of course, is green not because it rains but because everyone wears green-tinted glasses. The movie doesn't tell you that. Movies don't tell you a lot of things.

We're interrupted by the sudden sound of laughter. Across the room, a teen girl squad is sitting around a table, straws in their Fraps, throwing glances in Twom's direction. When they see us looking they all immediately start pretending we're not there. All except Deliza Baraza. She's still sporting her sport geisha look, only now her blouse is unbuttoned halfway down to reveal a glimpse of lacy bra. Yeah, it's us, her eyes and her breasts say. What are you going to do about it?

“So you're staying with your grandmother?”

“Huh?” says Twom, his eyes never leaving Deliza.

“Your grandmother?”

“What about her?”