Rumble

  “Longer than six hours, call your doctor.

  But personally, I don’t want to know.”

  Freak Lives In

  A big dilapidated mobile home,

  way out of town on ten acres of trees.

  They form two crooked lines on each

  side of the gravel driveway. At the end,

  where road meets trailer, vehicles

  litter the unpaved parking area. Mud,

  that’s what it is. Squishy red slop.

  It slurps at my shoes as I follow Marshall

  to the door, noticing for the millionth

  time in my life the incredible scent of wet

  cedar. How do people live in the city,

  where all you inhale is exhaust and piss

  and subterranean steam? Of course, it

  doesn’t smell a whole lot better inside,

  where it’s booze over BO over a vague

  fart stench, all fogged with a blend of

  smokes—tobacco, weed, something else.

  Eau d’party! Now to figure out just how

  much “eau” I’m up for. I’ll start with a beer.

  I toss a five-spot into the “Keg Donation

  Can,” on top of maybe six single dollars.

  Considering probably twenty people

  are slurping suds out of red plastic cups,

  I’m thinking Freak’s going to come up

  a little short. Since he earns his keg cash

  selling dope, no one’s too worried

  about kicking in, but I like to pay my way.

  Don’t want to be beholden to anyone,

  except maybe Hayden, who would be

  horrified at the red mud getting tracked

  everywhere. She and my parents would

  see eye to eye on that, at least. Personally,

  I’m kind of enjoying all the “shoe painting”

  going on. It’s so not-neat it gives me shivers.

  My eyes are welded to the floor, so when

  someone taps my shoulder, my arm

  jumps, tossing something-I’m-guessing-

  is-Pabst into the air and over my shoulder.

  Hey! Not much into wearing beer! Try to

  keep it in the cup, okay? But then she laughs,

  and before I can turn to face her, I know

  it’s Alexa. We’ve laughed together before.

  She Follows Me

  Over to the keg, where I rectify the spill,

  refilling her cup, too. Someone has turned

  on music, if you can call Slayer music.

  More like a growl with a beat and some bass.

  Whatever. All I know is it’s really loud.

  “I’m going in the other room where my ears

  can take a vacation.” It comes out invitation-

  like and Alexa takes me up on it.

  We manuever carefully through a tangle

  of partying people and it’s a challenge

  to make it to the back room—once a bedroom,

  but now set up like a den, with crippled chairs

  and a seedy sofa where, unbelievably,

  Marshall is tongue-to-tongue with Lainie

  Brogan. Guess she was swayed by the promise

  of an everlasting boner. I’ll never look at her

  the same way again. There’s one open seat,

  and Alexa sinks into it. I opt for the arm,

  pray it holds. It’s either converse with her

  or keep staring at Marshall, who has coaxed

  Lainie onto his lap. Oh, hell, no. They’re

  not going to get it on right there, are they?

  “Holy crow. What got into her?” I ask,

  and Alexa knows exactly what

  I’m referring to. Vince broke up

  with her yesterday. She’s just trying to

  make him jealous. Sure enough, on the far

  side of the doorway stands my ex-good

  buddy Vince Rosario, looking unnervingly

  like the Incredible Hulk. He’s even a pale

  shade of green. “Damn. Hope Vince

  hasn’t changed his mind. He could snap

  Marshall in two without even trying.”

  Instead, he watches the sordid scene

  for a couple of seconds, turns, and walks

  away. Pretty sure Marshall never knew

  he was there. I’m also pretty sure Alexa

  was right. Lainie knew. She’s smirking

  around her semi-exposed tongue. “Man,

  some girls are downright disgusting.”

  Alexa laughs. Ain’t it the truth?

  And most guys like them that way.

  True Enough

  Except, “Not me. Personally, I prefer

  class ladies to crass women.” There seem

  to be mostly the latter here tonight.

  And we class ladies appreciate that.

  Alexa’s smile seems more predatory

  than classy, but I keep that to myself

  and change the subject. “So why were

  you in Carpenter’s office today?

  Curricula-tory problems?” She cocks

  her head, perplexed. “Sorry, lame joke.”

  Oh. Now she looks consternated, but

  tells her story anyway. Believe it or not,

  Carpenter called me in because of a post

  on my Facebook page. I called Karla Decker

  a whack and said I wished someone would

  cut off her head so she’d finally shut up.

  I guess someone saw it and sent it to Karla,

  who told her mom, who reported me for

  making threats against her daughter.

  Jeez, man, I didn’t say I was bringing

  my chain saw over, you know? I guess

  zero tolerance isn’t enough with all

  the gun violence in the news. Now they

  feel the need to investigate any little burp

  that might be a sign of stomach cancer.

  How about you? Did you burp or what?

  “More like a major silent-but-deadly fart.”

  I tell her about my supposed infraction.

  It takes a while, including a cup refill,

  but I get to the end, omitting the “amen”

  at home. Alexa listens without comment,

  other than a nod or vocalized Yeah. I want

  her to say, “That’s so fucked up.” I want

  her to say, “Why in the hell would they be

  worried about a freaking essay dismissing

  God?” Instead, she goes to straight to Luke.

  Well, Luke, Plus

  The first thing she says is:

  I kind of hope there is a heaven.

  Wouldn’t it make you feel better

  to know Luke isn’t really dead,

  and that he’s watching over you?

  To which I reply:

  “Considering I was the one who

  always had to supervise Luke,

  I think he’d do a piss-poor job of

  watching over me. Next question.”

  Slightly stung, she continues:

  I’m not big on church or religion,

  but I want there to be something

  more. Wouldn’t it be cool if we

  could come back, get another chance?

  I’ve considered that, actually.

  “I don’t think it’s possible, so I’ve

  decided to up the ante on the cards

  I’ve been dealt. I don’t need another

  chance if I kick ass in the present tense.”

  Speaking of Kicking Ass

  There seems to be a little row in the other

  room. Everyone here crowds that way,

  anxious to see what’s up. That action

  pries Lainie and Marshall apart, and when

  someone yells, Get him, Vince, I start

  thinking maybe it’s time for Marshall

  to lea
ve, just in case this is a matter

  of misplaced rage. “Hey, Lainie. You

  didn’t know Vince would be here, right?

  I mean, you wouldn’t set up my buddy,

  would you?” If there’s one thing I hate,

  it’s games, especially the kind that get

  my naive friends into trouble. Lainie’s eyes

  narrow, and she gives me a vile smirk.

  Why don’t you shut the fuck up, ass licker?

  What I do is none of your business.

  “Nice mouth. Careful you don’t catch

  something ugly hiding in there, Marshall.”

  With a chorus of groans, the group in the hall

  swells backward into the room, and there’s

  a loud thump just beyond them. “Time to

  go, I believe. Marshall?” Against all that

  is logical, the dimwad shakes his head.

  Nah. I’ve got plans for little Lainie girl.

  You go ahead without me. You’ll get me

  home, won’t you, Lainie? Totally unfazed

  by the commotion in the hall, he kisses her

  again, and she kisses him back, in the most

  ludicrous display of igorance I’ve ever

  witnessed. “Well, I’m going,” I tell

  Alexa. “At least, if I can find a way

  out. Think I could fit through that window?

  Okay, probably not. Thanks for the company.”

  I stand, but before I can take a step, she puts

  her hand on my forearm. Take me home?

  I actually rode with Lainie. Looks like

  she’s got more on her mind than me,

  and it’s a very long walk in the rain.

  Or even not in the rain. But you know—

  I’m babbling, aren’t I? Her grimace

  makes me smile. “I happen to admire

  those who babble, and if you can help me

  safely escape the morass, I’m more than

  willing to drive you home, milady.” Now

  I’m babbling, but I think she likes it.

  She Takes My Hand

  You go first, and fast.

  I’m going to be sick. Got it?

  I do. If there’s one thing more

  imperative than watching a fight,

  or even winning one, it’s getting

  the hell out of the way of a likely

  vomit blast. I’d duck myself.

  “Too much beer! Move, man!

  You like the smell of Pabst puke?

  Out of our way!” Like magic, the mob

  parts, and we hustle by the human heap

  on the floor—Vince pounding on . . . ?

  No clue who. And I really don’t

  care. Best of luck, Marsh. Sweet

  little actress Alexa keeps her

  fist to her mouth, approximating

  the sounds of imminent upchuck.

  We escape into the mist-mellowed

  night, laughing and surfing mud

  all the way to my truck. I open

  the passenger door, sort of boost

  her up inside. “Quite the performance.”

  I thought so myself. She looks at me

  with eyes the approximate color of ripe

  blueberries, and in those eyes I find

  recollection of a time when Alexa

  and I might have merged into coupledom

  had I not fallen instead for her best friend.

  Well, her then-best friend. The tiniest tip

  of her tongue comes to rest against her

  upper lip and I know what she wants and

  for some insane reason, I sway toward her,

  wanting to kiss her, and I am a millimeter

  away from doing exactly that. “I can’t.”

  It comes out a hoarse croak. “Sorry.”

  She pulls her feet inside, and I close

  the door, walk around to the driver’s side,

  climb up beneath the steering wheel.

  Wordlessly start the engine. We withdraw

  to separate cubes of space, only feet apart,

  but a universe away from each other,

  both of us wondering what that meant.

  We Are Quiet

  For a mile or so.

  Very quiet. Finally,

  she tosses a pebble into the silence.

  You’re really in love with her.

  Splash. Glug, glug, glug.

  “Hayden is easy to love.”

  Really?

  “Really.”

  I don’t see it.

  “Why not?”

  Because you two are not

  the same kind of people.

  “That’s true. I’m a guy

  and she’s definitely not.”

  You know what I mean.

  She’s starting to get pissed.

  “Actually, I’m not sure I do.”

  Come on. She’s a raging Jesus

  lover. You’re anything but.

  “Well, there is that. . . .”

  The small injection of humor

  goes unnoticed, or ignored.

  Doesn’t that bother you?

  “Once in a while.” More like

  often, but I keep that to myself.

  She reflects for a second or two.

  Don’t you want to, you know . . . ?

  Okay, this word duel grows old,

  not to mention hard to keep up

  with. “Don’t I want to what?”

  She tsks irritation. Stop being dense.

  Don’t you want to have sex with her?

  Because I’m pretty sure she’s not

  going to do that. Not without a ring

  around her finger and a Bible verse

  before—God-inspired foreplay.

  Enough!

  “Why in the hell is everyone suddenly

  so interested in my sex life? Mom’s

  positive I’m getting some, you’re sure

  I’m not. And Marshall thinks I need

  pharmaceuticals to masturbate.”

  The last, of course, is total bullshit,

  meant to elicit a reaction, and it does.

  Alexa snorts laughter. Wh-what?

  “Nothing. I made up the part about

  Marshall. Just wanted to see if you

  were paying attention. But I did have

  to defend my actions—or lack of them—

  to my mom. Just because she got knocked

  up her senior year, guess she figures—”

  Wait. Your mom got pregnant . . .

  with you? Now she’s way too serious.

  “That’s what they tell me. I was born

  approximately five months after

  a fancy shotgun wedding. Pretty sure

  my grandfather wishes he’d pulled

  the trigger. Then again, pretty sure

  sometimes my dad wishes so, too.”

  There’s a Lot More

  To this tale of regret, details gleaned from Dad’s

  inebriated ramblings. Confessions not confided,

  but rather overheard. Like how he was a junior

  at UOregon, a star forward on the Ducks

  varsity basketball team, and head-over-heels

  in love with another girl the night he met Mom,

  who was much too young to be hanging out

  at a frat party. How, despite a team prohibition

  against alcohol, and a personal vow to remain

  faithful, he went ahead and indulged in a drink

  or four, which loosened his inhibitions enough

  to make him forget about the love of his life

  and engage in a fifteen-minute ride-of-his-life

  with a wicked eighteen-year-old wild child

  from out in the sticks. How, despite the guilt,

  and swearing to himself he’d never again

  cheat on his girlfriend, when Mom showed

  up at his door he
invited her in for an encore.

  Three times they had sex, that was all, but

  apparently that was more than enough to get

  Mom in a family way, and even though

  his heart belonged to someone else,

  he agreed to do the right thing and marry

  Mom, losing both the love of his life

  and his shot at a career in the NBA. Not

  to mention, gaining a wife who rocked it

  in bed but was pretty damn boring otherwise,

  followed by a couple of problematic sons,

  an upside-down mortgage, and a tidy job

  only made interesting by the coaching gig.

  Now all they do is play the blame game,

  especially after what happened with Luke:

  If only; you should have; why did you?

  But that’s a lot to say before I drop

  Alexa off, so I hold it all inside

  and make do with this: “The last thing

  I want for myself is a shotgun wedding.”

  I expect her to reply with a comment

  about the availability of birth control.

  Instead, she says, So, you’re afraid

  of your life becoming complicated,

  and Hayden makes that easy for you.

  I Want to Deny It

  But I can’t, not completely. So I stutter,

  “B-b-but, that’s not why I love her.

  She’s beautiful and smart and sweet . . .”

  And uncomplicated, yes, and I really

  don’t need complications in my life.

  You’re right. She’s all those things, but

  there’s something else there, a nasty

  little undercurrent. I mean, I thought

  I knew her, but . . . Just, be careful.

  Second time tonight someone’s told me

  to be careful while referencing Hayden.

  I should probably jump to my girl’s defense,

  but Alexa’s right. Hayden can be snippy.

  “No worries. I can fight her off if I have to.”

  Alexa’s laugh is warm, rich gingerbread,

  and I’m glad I didn’t have more to drink.

  I most definitely share my father’s genes.

  Don’t want to have his history in common,

  too. But I don’t have to worry about that

  with Hayden, do I? Suddenly, it strikes me:

  Alexa hit that nail square on the head.

  If There’s Anything Worse

  Than the professional psychotherapy I endure,

  it’s amateur pysche dissection, intentional or not.