BIG DREAMS little man

By Stephen Romone Lewis

Fist fights, a car wreck and being shot at have frayed 17 year old Daniel Crosscups’ nerves. He doesn’t want to kill anyone, but murder seems like the only way he’ll get any sleep. After a coke fueled drug dealer threatens to kill Daniel’s friends, Daniel promises to put him out of business. With each failed attempt, Daniel’s insomnia worsens. On top of that, Daniel’s best friend has convinced him to assist with his suicide.
BIG DREAMS little man is a humorous work of character-driven, literary fiction. Seen through the eyes of its drug addled and sleep deprived characters, BIG DREAMS little man unfolds across a dreamlike landscape populated with psychics and a family of 17 dancing brothers with giant, light-bulb-shaped heads.
This book was written for adults. If it were a movie it would be rated R for profanity, drug use, violence and mild sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Romone Lewis
• Release date: Oct 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466079960

Stephen Romone Lewis

Within a year, Stephen Romone Lewis left a job as a detox counselor in the city of Quincy and became a high school music teacher in a rural town. He wondered what would happen if the inwardly terrified and outwardly apathetic drug dealers he’d met ever clashed with the inwardly terrified and outwardly apathetic teenagers he taught. The answer to that question turned into his first novel, BIG DREAMS little man. With it he strove to bring to life the constant tension and surreal atmosphere of high school and drug addiction. Stephen’s stage monologues, The Day I Was Lactose Intolerant and Kicked in the Head, have been performed at the Eclectic Company Theatre in North Hollywood (www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org). His songs “Condiment Covered Corpse”, “Ned Beatty” and “She Wouldn’t Say” appear on the album Songs About Death by SoLow Records recording artists MSG. Stephen is a founding member of The Society for the Advancement of Hearing Loss. The Society for the Advancement of Hearing Loss (SAHL) is a collection of musicians, writers, composers and filmmakers that believe that all people are meant to do more than live as spectators. SAHL encourages its members to lead actively creative lives. When the mood strikes, Stephen records with his band, Audio Spanking. Currently, he is working on his second novel. It chronicles the attempts of a gang of quirky super humans to enslave America. Contact Stephen at [e-mail].

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BIG DREAMS little man SECTION 1 THE MIDDLE (PEOPLE)

CHAPTER 1. Daniel Vinchenzio Crosscups

Friday, October 14, 1988 6:34 PM

I am you, and you are me. We are connected. Daniel Crosscups pressed his crooked nose against the window of the diner, below him the taillights along the highway elongated into long, neon streamers.

Noooo man, you are stoned, and I am drunk. We are wasted. J. Lundgren had trouble locating the ashtray; he squinted at the mess of plates and cups on their table for a moment before pushing his smoldering filter into an untouched saucer of coleslaw.

My head imploded. Daniel’s reflection in the window flattened his features. He panicked, I’m a talking fish!

No you’re not, man, J. assured him.

What about you?

I ain’t either, J. knew it was his job to keep Daniel calm. I have my certificate of non-talkin’-fish authenticity stamped on the waistband of my skivvies.

Daniel’s reflection distorted further. He panted for breath. His normally deep voice became a siren. No…I’m…a…trout. He was headed for a freak out.

J. forced a subdued tone. Hey, am I the type of guy to associate with talkin’ fish?

Daniel looked unsure.

Hell, no! J. continued in a sweet lullaby whisper, A talkin’ pomegranate maybe, a talkin’ side order of guacamole, sure, but not a fish.

Ahh! Ah! Ah! Am I a…

No, man, you are not a pomegranate or a guacamole side order. Cross, you’re fine. All of Daniel Crosscups’s friends called him Cross.

Promise? Daniel sounded desperate.

Promise. If you don’t believe me check out the mirror.

Daniel stuttered to his feet. His long body tapered from his broad chest down to his size twelve paratrooper boots.

He peered over the heads of four field hands sitting at the counter. The floors and walls shimmered, but his reflection looked right enough. He looked like a caricature of an American Indian: black hair dusting his shoulders, brown skin, a wispy beard along his jawbone. He looked like a warrior. That’s exactly what he was. A warrior. A warrior in the war on drugs. A drug warrior.

Sure, he was stoned at the moment, but it was all part of the plan.

I have a plan! Cross announced to the senior citizens behind him as they finished their early bird specials. A plan to…

Hey, hey, HEY! J. interrupted. They don’ need to know about the plan.

You know about the plan?

Yeah, J. slurred, you bring it up every time we come here. He tugged at the sleeve of Cross’s army surplus trench coat until Cross dropped back into his seat.

Tell me. Cross’s pupils danced.

Ok. Ok, but let’s keep our voice down. Elbows on table, J. rested his head in his hands. Novocain face on pins and needles fingers. He barely felt a thing. Step one: get some drugs.

HEE! Cross exploded with a single, shrill giggle.

J. placed a slender finger to his thin lips. Step two: test drugs.

Safety…safety…safety first, so you don’t need a nurse.

I like that, man. J. fished in his pocket for a cigarette. Every drug dealer needs a catch phrase.

HEE! Cross squinted with his whole face. The plan. Tell me.

J. ran his fingers through his short brown hair trying to remember. Step three: Ahh…wait, is it sell drugs cheap to put Carl outta business? No, that’s step five. Right?

CARL OUT OF BUSINESS!

J. motioned for quiet. He didn’t need to bother. The crowd and the music drowned out their conversation.

Earlier that evening Cross had dropped half a tab of orange sunshine and set off for the bike path: the main thoroughfare for anyone in Davenport Massachusetts under the age of consent. The acid was timed to kick in just as he entered the woods. The light of the dieing sun stabbed through the trees. Shadows played games, jumping out at him. Dead leaves rustled incessantly. The sound clung to him. His boot snapped a twig. Every cell in his body reacted. The twenty-minute walk to the bike path was more sensational than a week at the fair.

J. waited for him on a bench overlooking the landfill. He’d already finished off most of his beer and stashed the rest for the walk home.

Together they followed the bike path to the highway, and walked along the runoff ditch until the diner was across from them. The hard part was getting across a two-lane highway stoned and bloated on beer. J. directed traffic and Cross helped his small friend over the concrete divider between the lanes.

HEE! Two hours later Cross’s face had hardened into an exaggerated smile that was equal parts goofy and sinister. HEE!

The diner wasn’t the most private place to field test blotter acid, but it had its advantages. It was warm and dry with plenty of food and marginally clean restrooms—all the comforts of home with out the parental supervision—and it was the only restaurant for twenty miles where people could smoke. A dense fog protected the boys from the eyes of the surrounding grownups.

Out the window, the taillights called to Cross again. He pressed his sculpted face against the cold October glass. The cold was so vibrantly cold. The lights were so intense. It was too much to take in all at once: the cold and the lights. It drew him in. The lights became his eyes. He collapsed into the window. The glass was his skin. He lost himself. He became taillight-eyes-window-face. He wondered if there was a native language with a name for him now.

J. had no idea that a transformation had taken place. Cross, you know I’d tell you anythin’, man, but I can’t come up with the rest ah your plan. There’s like fifteen steps. And like none ah them make any sense.

Cross vibrated in shame. You…you’d tell me anything, and I…can’t…even… tell…you…my name. Cross had many secret names for himself. Names that were never to be spoken out loud. Native American names he’d invented from scraps of information his mother had left behind. Names no one else knew.

At that moment he couldn’t even remember them himself.

J. motioned for the waitress to refill his soda. She ignored him. It’s cool Cross, I know who you are.

Cross’s head was caught in a vortex. It trembled back and forth. I can’t tell you your name either. In Cross’s heart, his secret Indian name for J. was Nitis or best friend. He wanted to say it, but in his present state he feared he’d be cursed if the word left his lips.

Well, I’m James Lundgren. You can call me J., everybody does. J. extended a hand across the table. Nice to meet yah, buddy.

J. swallowed a laugh as Cross shook his hand.

Headlights swept through the diner and froze outside Cross’s window. The condensation sparkled.

A car’s engine sputtered and knocked.

J. watched a large pear shaped man hoist himself out of an old Chevy. The man’s shape reminded him of his science teacher, Doctor Herkinov. It’s funny we never see anybody we know out here.

Bastards! Frankie Davenport, the town bum, sat at the end of the counter beside the rotating pies. He took advantage of the bottomless cup of coffee, mumbled incessantly and occasionally bellowed something inappropriate. All goin’ to hell!

Frankie flapped his arms like a chicken and pulled the filthy hood of his parka tight around his face.

Well, except for Frankie, we never see anyone we know. J. let his jaw drop and his tongue hang out in imitation of the nearly toothless old man by the pies.

Cross failed to see the humor in this. His palms demanded his full attention.

The passenger side door of the Chevy slammed shut. There wasn’t enough light to see the details, but J. was fairly certain he saw a girl walking toward the diner. His eyes shifted uneasily in their sockets straining for a better look. He was almost drunk enough to openly gape, but not quite. He was drunk enough to consider it though. I’m just sayin’ cuz there’s this guy here that looks sort ah like Herkinov.

Through the alcohol haze and the rising funnel clouds of smoke swirling about each table J. stole a peek at the pear man and his girlfriend as they waited to be seated. He’s with this pseudo-punk chick: ripped fishnet, three miles ah eyeliner. Old guy’s robbin’ the cradle. She’s, like, our age: sixteen, seventeen.

HEE! Cross may or may not have been laughing at what J. said. His hands still held his interest.

J. couldn’t see the appeal of the LSD experience. As far as he could tell, it consisted of staring at stuff, giggling like a girl and sweating, but in his capacity as proctor of these infrequent acid field trips, it was his responsibility to keep Cross from making an ass out of himself and not to pass judgment on the proceedings. Up until that moment the work had been easy enough—any job he could do tanked was a job worth hanging on to—but it looked as if it was about to get complicated.

J.’s head lolled forward. The room began to swim. He closed his eyes and sang along with the piped in Muzak. Blisters, misty water colored blisters, blisters on my brain. He made up the words when he needed to. Don’t worry, man, I’ll be alright.

Cross wasn’t concerned.

J. rested his forehead on the sticky Formica table. A flood of saliva made him hard to understand. Just need a minute.

As I say, hmmm hmmm, Mr. Lundgren and Mr. Crosscups, A familiar Eastern European baritone interrupted J.’s nausea. KAAHCK. KAAhck. Haaaahhhk, Doctor Herkinov cleared his throat uncomfortably. The young girl behind him strained to appear bored. Khmmm, good evening gentlemen.

J. attempted to sit up. His eyes swiveled. The Doctor’s relaxed grin hardened into a pained pucker.

Cross was startled out of his trance. He leapt his feet. HEE! His face twitched. He vibrated into a dance: a wide eyed, hairdryer slid into the bathtub dance. I…I…I HAVE A PLAN! He squealed and stuck out a trembling hand to shake.

Cross was about to confess to the only authority figure J. didn’t hate. J. had to find a way to stop him.

J. raised a finger as if he had a thought, as if the most interesting thing had just occurred to him, and opened his mouth: to cut Cross short, to change the subject, to drown out all other sounds with screams. Instead he burst forth with a small fountain of beer, stomach acid and chicken potpie.

Doctor Herkinov stumbled backwards.

EVIL IS WORKING IN OUR TOWN. Cross was oblivious to the vomit. I’M PUTTING EVIL OUT OF BUSINESS.

Another blast hit the table. J. staggered into the isle. He wiped his chin on his sleeve. He’d forgotten he’d had pizza for lunch.

PROMISES HAVE BEEN MADE. Cross shouted. CARL STIEN WON’T PUSH PEOPLE AROUND ANY LONGER.

Some of the patrons actually stopped their conversation.

J.’s legs gave out. He hit the floor.

Frankie Davenport peered from under his parka and poked J. with his gnarled walking stick. Whatziss? Playin’ dead’s not funny.

The grill sizzled. The Muzak twittered on. Frankie mumbled.

Cross, J. groaned, time to go. He didn’t remember standing but somehow he was on his feet pushing Cross toward the door. Faces blurred past. Confused faces. Scornful faces. Amused faces. Disgusted faces. J. stumbled. His legs splayed. He thrust forward grasping Cross’s coat. Two fistfuls of olive drab. They sped up. He was either thrusting them forward or being dragged behind. J. couldn’t tell.

The grass was damp and cold against J.’s cheek. He shivered in the fetal position. They’d made it past the dumpster to a strip of lawn behind the diner before he collapsed.

Cross did a shuffle dance along the rusted chain link fence waiting for J. to recover. He muttered incoherently and worshiped each link in the fence by tracing its diamond shape forward and back.

J.’s head had cleared, but he felt too sick to walk. He timed his illness with the sounds of the pick-ups and sedans coming and going from the parking lot out front. The silences in between were filled with an electrical hum emitting from somewhere beyond a massive propane tank.

He folded his wool scarf into a pillow and tried not to think

At some point Cross knelt beside his head. Clandestine watermelon plaything of the rich and famous. Cross’s acid drenched alto squeaked in his ear.

Yeah! Now you’re just tryin’ to screw with me. J. knew Cross better than anyone else. See I can act stoned too. Polyester flim flam armadillo.

Tell me…tell me…tell me a story. Cross stammered.

J. moaned. You’re the one who tells stories. I’m the one who rags on you while you tell stories.

Tell me something tragic but beautiful. Something wonderful yet…unnerving. Cross’s voice had the singsong quality of a child just learning to speak.

J. wanted to ignore him, but it might bring on a tantrum. He searched his brain for stories he’d heard Cross tell when they were hanging out in the woods or sitting around the fire. What came to him was the first story Cross told him after he started selling acid. "OK. Here’s your story.

Once upon a time there was an Indian boy who…

What type of Indian?

Ah…American.

No…no…what type?

"Ah…from the Willywog tribe or maybe the Wiffinpoophers. I don’t know, man.

Anyway, the kid’s an orphan. J.’s voice came from a place where annoyed rubbed up against unenthusiastic. All he has is his granny and they were starvin’. Life just sucked all around.

J. lifted himself into a crouch. A depressing sense of sobriety hit him. "Everyday granny went lookin’ for food, but there was nothin’. There was no Stop and Save in their neck ah the woods. Once in a while she’d come through with a squirrel or a stale cruller, but most days they went without.

Worse than that, Granny wouldn’t let him help look for food either. She said he was too little. So, every day he stayed home all alone and dreamed about a life worth livin’.

Cross raised his arms in shock. I know this story!

Yeah, bonehead, it’s your story.

The weird kid’s going to stab himself.

Not the way I tell it. J. unfolded his tiny frame off the ground and unzipped his fly. He’s gunna take a wiz up against a big-ass propane tank and then drag his stoned buddy home.

No…no that’s wrong. Cross’s face twitched; his frozen smile was starting to thaw. Over time the orphan’s eyes hollowed, and his cheeks hollowed and his stomach hollowed. He became hollow. Cross spoke from a trance. "He was wondering what would kill him first, starvation or boredom when he met another boy. The new kid looked full. There was nothing hollow about him. He was round and plump.

The boys played all day, but when granny came home the new boy disappeared.

J. zipped up and helped Cross to his feet.

After that, the new kid returned whenever granny left and the boys played. Cross’s words picked up speed as if they were running down hill. Tripping and knocking into each other as they went. The orphan had never had a friend before—orphans weren’t very well liked—so, these were the happiest days of his life and his friend was a good friend. When the orphan became too weak to run and climb trees, they sat and skipped stones, and when the orphan was too weak to skip stones, they lay down and sang songs.

And when the orphan was too weak for that, J. interrupted, the fat kid finally took the hint and made some sandwiches. J. dragged Cross by the sleeve past the diner to the soft shoulder of the highway.

The orphan faded away. Cross welded the words into one long slurred exhalation. All he could do was sleep, so, he wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not when his friend came in with a…

Don’t tell me. He brought a pizza. A lull in the traffic gave the boys the chance to cross.

…a dagger.

A dagger to cut the pizza.

"The mysterious boy slit himself from side to side. His arms and legs and guts and brains emptied onto the ground as millions of golden kernels. His body deflated, covering the orphan and filling the teepee with mankind’s first corn.

The orphan ate the corn and planted the corn, and he never went hungry again.

Cross and J. climbed the steep embankment at the far side of the highway and set off through the woods. Before you get any smart ideas, J. called over his shoulder, You ain’t stuffed with anythin’ useful. So, don’t think about splittin’ yourself in two.

What if I’m stuffed with corn?

Who the hell needs corn? J. battled a premature hangover: his head throbbed, his stomach was torn apart. Come up here! He called from the crest of the hill. What you see?

Stars. Cross answered.

Look down.

Ground.

J. reached up, squeezed Cross’s cheeks and directed his view. What do you see there and over there and over that way? Now look past the landfill and tell me what’s over there.

Corn.

Yeah. They scooted down the hill onto the bike path. Frozen, dried leaves crunched beneath their feet. No one ‘round here needs any fuckin’ corn.

HEE. You shouldn’t say that word.

J. tortured his lighter until it relinquished enough flame to light his cigarette. I reserve the right to speak anyway I damn well please anytime after midnight.

They stopped at their meeting spot: the bench with the view of the landfill. J. fished a brown paper bag from under some briers and pulled out two tall boys. An ice-cold beer was exactly what he needed to wash the bile down his throat.

They would wait here until Cross felt calm enough to go home. His father and stepmother were usually up late talking or watching TV. The least he’d have to say was goodnight before he could slip up to his room. Doing that with out appearing stoned required practice. "How’s this sound? Hi, are you guys still up? Well, goodnight."

Too girly, man. You’re squeakin’. J. sat on the bench with his beer and traced the graffiti with a fingernail. Try to sound like a guy.

Cross’s cheeks burned. There was nothing to smile about but he couldn’t stop grinning. He was just straight enough to realize his face was going to be sore for days. "Hi, are you guys still HEE…HEE…Hee."

It needs work. J. opened wide to let the icy river flow freely down his throat. You know, man, sometimes I wish I was you.

Cross paced to work off his nervous energy and pulled at his face to relax the muscles. What?

Well, people think you’re cool. Girls, girls think you’re cool.

What girls?

How about Candy Lydon?

Ahhhh! Thoughts of Candy Lydon would not help Cross relax.

And you’re interestin’. J. up-ended his beer hoping to revive his buzz. You’re an Indian and a drug dealer. You’re a drug dealing Indian, and you already have your license. That’s interestin’. And you’re a gunslinger.

No. No. Gunslingers are cowboys. This is not high noon. This is not the Wild West. I’m a marksman. Targets and competitions. Not outlaws and saloons.

You shoot stuff, right! That’s interestin’. What have I got? Nothin’. I want to be interestin’ too. Nothin’ fancy. Nothin’ bizarre. I want to be interestin’ like a carnival is interestin’, not useful or necessary but out of the ordinary.

Cross felt a surge of compassion for his friend followed by a surge of fear that his face had turned to rubber. My face is made of hard rubber.

It’s not rubber, man. You just have that stupid smile you get.

J. laughed. It was a stupid smile: more happy than human. You need to relax. J. cracked open another can. I’d give you my beer, man, but it’s my last one.

Oh, no, I don’t drink. No. No. Cross shivered. His teeth banged together.

Try your speech again.

HI DAD ARE YOU…

Way too loud, man. Give it a few minutes. In between gulps J. practiced smoke rings. You see, nothin’ about me is extreme enough to stand out. Like, I’m short, but I ain’t circus material.

Cross clutched at has face. Not hard rubber?

I’m tellin’ you, you’re fine. J. found the easiest time to open up to Cross was when Cross was certain not to pay any attention. Here’s my problem: what I’d really like to do is find some way I can be interestin’ without all the effort of actually doin’ anythin’ at all. Can you help me do that?

It’s cold. I’ll build a fire. Cross’s teeth clacked together. Hey…hey…when a fire dies does its soul go to hell?

No, no fire. Let me hear the speech.

Cross cleared his throat and took a deep breath. Hi, dad, you still up?

Not bad. A little fast but it’ll do. J. downed the rest of his beer and helped Cross button his coat. Here, take my scarf and wrap it around your face to hide that plastic smile, and don’t look anyone in the eye. Your pupils are playin’ pong.

Six months ago, when Cross started selling acid, J. was psyched. It was dangerous and exciting and for once, if anything went wrong, it wouldn’t be his fault, but over time he grew to worry about Cross’s health. Cross insisted on sampling every shipment, supposedly for safety’s sake. How long would it take for him to end up like one of the zombies that he sold it to?

It usually took Daniel Crosscups twenty minutes to walk home from the bike path, but that night it only took twelve. The scarf was the softest thing he had ever felt. He became so engrossed in rubbing it against his mouth that in no time he was home.

His stepmother was asleep but his father, Peter Crosscups, was up watching a movie. Something from the early seventies with giant early seventies hair and early seventies fashions all in early seventies Day-Glo colors. Oh, the long pink high heel boots. Cross had to pull his eyes away from the set to keep from getting sucked in.

Well, hi, are you still up? As far as he could tell his voice didn’t sound odd or squeaky or fast.

Click-boom. His boot hit the first stair leading up to his bedroom. The sound caressed him lapping at his spine.

Where have you been all night?

Oh, just hanging out with J. He fought the urge to sit down and talk. That overpowering urge to talk. Well…HEE, Cross coughed to cover his laugher. Welllll, I’llllll seeeee…you…tomorrow.

Click-boom. The second stair was just as sensual as the first.

Click-boom. He’d passed inspection; at least he thought he did. The room was dark; the only light was from the set. There was no way his father had seen his eyes.

Click-boom. The joy of success and the near orgasmic rush that came with each thud of his boots brought tears to his eyes and broadened his smile until he thought his face would crack.

Click-boom. Just a few more steps and he’d be home free.

Click-boom. A premonition froze him to the spot. The hairs rose violently on the back of his neck. He knew, with the sense of complete certainty reserved for the profoundly stoned that, before he reached the top of the stairs, his father was going to ask him a question and that he would have to answer.

Sweat blanketed his forehead. He wanted to run, but the best he could do was slow motion.

Hey, Daniel, Amy is going out with some friends tomorrow. What you say we take our rifles out to the range for some practice?

He hadn’t planned on questions. This had never happened before.

Time slowed down. The question was simple enough but what was the answer? It came to him from far in the distance. Yes, there it was. The answer was no. He couldn’t go. He had plans, but was it too late to reply. Had he let too much time pass? Would it seem odd, or had just the right amount of time passed and now, by thinking about it, had he let too much time go by.

Well, Daniel?

Cross couldn’t speak so he sang. No, no I can’t. I’m driving J. to the doctors. I’d like to go. I’d like to go, but no, no, no. The words spilled out of him then like the corn from the mysterious Indian boy’s belly. What is that movie you’re watching, Dad, it looks old. Old and tired. I should be tired myself. And tired means bed. A small sane section of his mind listened fretfully as he rambled and fought to stop it. Tired and bed go together like blue jeans and protests, like barbed wire and oppression... Loosing the battle to control his mouth, the sane part of him seized power of his legs and sent him clomping up the stairs. Click-boom. Click-boom. An endless array of meaningless thoughts bounced off the walls as he went.

The next day Cross swore if he didn’t get caught, if he didn’t break his father’s heart, if his drug use (worse yet his drug dealing) wasn’t found out, he would never drop acid again.

And when Daniel Vinchenzio Crosscups swore, even if he was stoned at the time, he kept his promise.

CHAPTER 2. James Foster Lundgren AKA J.

Saturday, October 15, 1988 12:47 AM

While Cross walked into the heart of town, J. took the high road to the outskirts. The distance between houses stretched and the sidewalks gave out. When the streetlights were replaced with silos and barns, J. spoke to himself to keep the shadows from taking his imagination hostage.

Gettin’ shattered ain’t the thrill it used to be, is it? Several jackknives sprang open in his gut. He stumbled forward doubled over. Fuck! Whatever happened to black outs? He asked the stars and the ice crystallizing on the ground. No matter what I do, there’s always this pain-in-the-ass part of me that stays just sober enough to record every embarrassin’ moment to use as evidence against me. Billowing puffs of condensation spilled out of his mouth. Anything you say or do may be held against you in a court of law or just to keep you awake at night.

Ahead of him the shadow of a tree fell across the road. BOO! J. had a strict first-strike policy. Raccoons, skunks and, just possibly, boogiemen could be anywhere.

I used-tah get shattered on four be-ahs and wake up with a smile on my face. What happened? J. looked back nostalgically at thirteen. What a be-a-u-tif-ul feelin’! A big fuzzy hug you could feel all the way through and from the inside out. Your brain totally occupied with trivial shit: no room for disappointment or anger. BOO! Another shadow crossed his path. Like bein’ a toddler again: you had-ta think to walk, to pee, to make your mouth work. Where’d that go?

His heels scuffed the pavement. His feet were numb, and not in a good way. He tried to run but there was no life left in him. Come on legs take me home.

Home was a farmhouse just beyond the next farmhouse and the cornfield that lie in between.

Around a twist in the road the corn turned into open pasture. Strips of long, low barns pointed the way to Draykut’s Dairy. J. trudged past a sorrowful old ranch only slightly more sorrowful and old than the ranch he was headed for. Even by the light of the stars he could see the discolored patches besides the windows where old Ernie Draykut’s shutters used to hang before they fell off.

Hey, Mister Draykut, you creepy old goat. J. waved cordially to the figure holding back the curtains. What you doin’ peekin’ out yer window at this time of night? Don’t any of the people in this damn town have anything better to do than peek out their windows at one in the mornin’?

This damn town was Davenport, Massachusetts, the halfway point between Boston and New York City: the void where television signals from either direction died out. Far from any metropolis, settled well beyond the suburbs, way past the bedroom communities, and tucked in behind the bedroom communities of other better-established bedroom communities, Davenport filled the vacuum surrounding more desirable locations and kept all the high priced real estate from colliding into one another on the map.

Davenport: the type of rural American town that would never be memorialized in a Hummel or on a commemorative plate, a little piece of the Midwest relocated to the Northeast, only without any of the charm.

Decent God-fearin’ people are sleepin’ at this time ah night not peekin’. J. stuffed a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and shuffled past Draykut’s milk trucks and silos. Go to bed you old peeker you.

He spun his lighter between his fingers and shook it the requisite twenty seconds. A single blue spark signaled its surrender. He searched each pocket for matches and repeatedly cursed his bad luck.

In the distance he could see his old man’s barn. Behind the tractor and several barrels full of ancient rakes, hoes and snow shovels was a welding torch, and where there was a welding torch there was going to be matches.

J. quickened his pace. The side door to the barn was propped open with a hub off a ‘68 Mustang, so, he didn’t need a key, but he did need to squeeze past boxes of tools and piles of car parts to get to his prize. No matches but a lighter. Half full.

As the nicotine melted his spine and unknotted his gut, he pocketed the lighter and a handful of pebbles from the barn’s gravel floor.

The field outside was rowed with corn stalk nubs: the remains of the last harvest. If it wasn’t for the mound of dirt his father had dumped beside the house, J. could have seen his bedroom window from there. He gave up the road and cut across the churned soil to save time.

Hovering ahead of him was a scarecrow. Back in junior high he and Cross had built it out of a piece of cracked plywood. Not that the farm had a crow problem, but it had been a Sunday and it was raining and there wasn’t anything better to do. Using the dregs of every can of paint they could scrounge (barn red, clapboard gray, shutter green, trim white), they designed a classic vagabond: patched, baggy pants, straw hat. They jig-sawed the body, nailed it to a post and finished it off with ten coats of protective high gloss polyurethane. When Cross set his mind to do something, he went all out.

Howdy-doo, Mister Scarecrow, it’s a fine night to be out and about if you ain’t got a central nervous system.

Plunk. A pebble smacked the scarecrow’s cheek.

Take that. Plink. You ain’t scared a single crow in your entire life. With its arms thrown wide and its jack-o-lantern grin, it looked more joyful then threatening.

Man, Mister Scarecrow, there ain't nothin’ I can do to wipe that old smile off your face.

Plip. You are just soooo smug. Plip.

Tonk. Man, am I a great shot tonight? Right in the eye. Bet you’d like to jump down here and poke me right in the nose? Wouldn’t ya, you old nose poker you?

Plunk. A frozen dirt clod repelled off of Mister Scarecrow’s chest. I’ll tell you what, old man, if you grant me three wishes I’ll poke myself in the nose, and, I’ll even see what I can do about gettin’ a Scarecrow-ette out here for conjugal visits in-between growin’ seasons. Whuddaya say?

J. sparked the lighter threateningly under Mister Scarecrow’s feet. A guy in your position doesn’t have many options. J. lit another smoke, paced a step or two. "Here, I’ll rub your belly to make it official. Oh, great genie of the cornfield, grant me these wishes.

First, I’d like a motorcycle: somethin’ loud and flashy. No. No. No, make it a car: somethin’ sporty. Corvettes are nice, but…wait, since I’m wishin’, make it a bubble car, a futuristic bubble car, you know, with the door’s that flap up like wings. Yeah, and make it hover and shoot fire. J. could see it landing beside him. "That’s cool. But no racin’ stripes or detailin’. Just a simple paint job. Understated. You understand? Purple is nice.

Second, what I really want is to GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS TOWN! There’s barely enough people here to hide behind. Could ya find me someplace warm, maybe?

Plink. "Just makin’ sure you’re still alert up there.

Let’s see…lastly, what I need more than anythin’, is an angle: an ass-widenin’ angle. My ass could use a tad more room around the edges. So far, my only angle is investin’ in the lottery. So, I’m puttin’ you in charge of diversifyin’ my portfolio. I’m also makin’ you vice president in charge of crackpot ideas and get-rich-quick schemes.

J. sniffled back a runaway stream before it escaped his nose.

What I’m lookin’ for is a life where I can eat and watch TV with the sound off and the radio on. Sitcoms and cartoons and the tunes cranked up loud enough to wake the dead, and my ever expandin’ ass rippin’ the seams out ah my jeans and flattenin’ the couch cushions ‘til they’re unfluffable. Can you work that out for me? Unfluffable?

Thonk. A large stone slammed into Mister Scarecrow’s forehead.

No. Plink. Then how about this? J. hesitated his arm drawn back to catapult a handful of stones. The voices, he sucked the world through the cigarette until he tasted the burning filter, can you make them go away? You know any scarecrow voodoo that’ll fix that? Huh? Plink. Plink. Tonk. Pluck. I didn’t think so. Well, old man, you hang in there. I’ll see you ‘round.

Weather had beaten down the dirt mound beside J.’s house for years. It wasn’t steep or tall but the beer meandering through his bloodstream weighed him down. He climbed it a bit unsteadily and ran down the other side.

At the bottom of the mound, the shadow of the house swallowed him.

He worked blind groping for his window.

Numb fingertips dug under the lattice and shimmied the frame until it crept upward. A familiar blast of dry heat shot under the sash and lapped his face. His hands reached into the heat and muscled the frame higher. A well-practiced hop/twist dropped his skinny ass onto the sill. His shoulder pressed into the sash to prevent decapitation. Legs tucked, he swiveled them through the opening and stretched his toes until they were reacquainted with the floor.

When all my other options fail there’s always burglary. J. thought as he ducked his head under and lowered the sash silently back into place.

His eyes adjusted to the dark. He could just make out the shape of the accordion radiator in the corner and the big black barrel lying on its side beneath it.

J. swatted the air until he snagged the dangling cord for the light. The blinding flash startled the barrel to life. Snarls. Growls. Yips. Yellow fangs snapped the air.

Clickity, click, click. Clickity, click, click, click. Paws slid. Claws skid across the hardwood.

The barrel was fat and old: nearly deaf, its legs stiff, arthritic. Still it was willing to fight. This was its home; it lived to protect it.

J. scooped the barrel’s head in his hands. Buka boy, it’s me, you mutt. J. whispered not wanting to wake the rest of the house.

Jaw clenched, teeth bared, a low guttural growl rumbled.

J. pressed his hand to the dog’s nose. The snarl dissolved into a frisky whimper. J. pushed his face into the thick black mane of Buka’s neck and ruffled the white patch on Buka’s wide underbelly.

Clickity, click, click. Buka danced his homecoming dance. Clickity, click, click, click.

J. reached for the high shelf. Hidden behind a photo of J.’s mother, one of the last pictures taken of her before she died, was a box of doggie treats. Buka yelped before the box came into view. He couldn’t remember J., or anyone else for that matter, but he never forgot where they hid the treats.

Quiet! J. scolded as he poured a fistful of cheese flavored biscuits into Buka’s mouth. Quiet.

J. listened closely to the house. There was the hiss of the radiator, the tick of clocks, the crunch of cheese biscuits, his brother’s murmured breathing echoed in the hall and, in the distance, a continuous half-strangled chest rattling snore/snort from his dad.

J. eased the closet door open slowly to diminish the squeak, and yanked a half pint of vodka out of a boot near the back. A couple pulls wasn’t going to erase the spike in his head or the shards of glass churning in his gut, but it wasn’t going to make him feel any worse either. He hoisted the bottle.

Booze vapors burned his sinuses. His eyes watered.

If I get it right the whole world spins around just for me. Wishful thinking.

As warmth spread out from his gut, he realized he needed to pee. Why couldn’t I have thought of this ten minutes ago? There had been so many available bushes on the walk home.

Staying out late and getting drunk didn’t seem all that bad, but waking his father in the middle of the night to take a leak weighed on his conscience. Why’s my old man have to be such a light sleeper?

Buka answered him with a whine toward the snack box.

When he was younger, to avoid being eaten by the hall monster, J. used to pull a chair over to the window and dangle his little fireman out into the night. He’d put out the encroaching brushfire before it enveloped his house, or he’d save a strangely ungrateful kingdom from a raging inferno set by an easily offended warlock and his humpbacked drone. But it was too cold out tonight for little firemen to go outside to play. Plus, the fireman trick was difficult to execute proficiently when several cans of beer were rambunctiously demanding freedom at the exit of his bladder. Stains on his curtains had multiplied rapidly in the last few years as more and more cans of beer had rushed off to the fire without waiting for the fire chief to ring the bell.

No, he wouldn’t attempt the fireman trick tonight; he’d use the bathroom and wake his dad. He might even brush his teeth. He had a doctor’s appointment in the morning; doctors kept track of that sort of thing. Didn’t they?

He crept down the hall like a ninja: crouched, silent, alert. Who knew what lay in the darkness up ahead?

Clickity, click, click, clickity, click. His faithful partner covered his rear. There might be a fistful of biscuits in it for him.

CHAPTER 3. David Lawrence Bronkowski AKA Fatty

Saturday, October 15, 1988 9:15 AM

Another caffeine nicotine morning.

The sun through J.’s window made his eyes burn, but he felt too sick to pull the shade. He’d need a cigarette before he’d let his feet touch the floor. No time or desire to eat. His stomach was twisted into a tight pucker. A couple cans of cola would settle it. He’d agreed to meet Cross in fifteen minutes, and Cross was a punctual guy.

Fourteen minutes and seventeen seconds later J. teetered in the breeze at the end of his driveway. He fantasized about Cross’s Dad’s old Corolla. The radio had FM and AM. Plus, there was a tape deck built right into the dash. Oh, and the little flaps on the air vents let him blast the heat in any direction his heart desired: onto his hands, his face, his feet. He imagined the scorching desert breeze running through his fingers as he commandeered the radio, reclined the passenger’s side seat and lapsed into a prolonged hangover coma.

Wait! What? No! Who’s sittin’ up front? Ohhhhhh, that fat shithead!

That fat shithead was, in fact, David Lawrence Bronkowski.

Cross smiled at J. the best he could on two hours sleep, and Fatty waved a sticky hand.

Guess who flagged me down on my way over? Cross called out the window.

J. moaned. Let me see, could it be, DAVE! J. opened the passenger’s side door. Hey, Dave, don’t you want to sit in the back, there’s much more room. You can spread out.

David took a swig from a two-liter bottle of grape soda and puffed his cheeks in mock reflection. Nah, I don’t t’ink so.

J. ruffled Dave’s tight brown curls with both hands. It kept his hands busy while he contemplated strangling him. Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in back?

I’m all settled in. A Styrofoam container of waffles rested at the apex of David’s belly and three candy bars and a box of cupcakes were lined up along the dashboard.

Fine, Dave. J. slammed the door and slunk into the back seat. Fine!

Man, why don’t cha call me ‘Fatty’ like everybody else? David whined. Anyone lacking a serious glandular problem could only dream of matching David pound for pound. So, it goaded him that J. continually tried to ignore his massive achievement by referring to him as anything other than Fatty, Your Fatness, or the terse but succinct Fat.

Dave, I don't want to get into this again, all right? Not now.

Fatty loaded his mouth with a forkful of waffle. No, tell me, man. It had taken David years of over eating and exercising as little as humanly possible to reach this size, and he was not going to allow his accomplishment to be brushed aside that easily. You know I am The Fat One, the Fat Man, the one and only FAT-TAY. Syrup dripped from his chin. When will you accept my fattitude?

Listen, FAT-TAY. I am seriously hung over. You want me to call you Fatty? Fine, I’ll call you Fatty, but in my teeny, tiny, little opinion the name is redundant!

The louder J. spoke the harder Cross clutched the wheel. He was still wound tight from the night before. This minor argument played on his nerves like a major assault.

You are fat! So fat that callin’ you Fatty seems less an insult and more an observation. You are, beyond a doubt, the fattest guy, not only in this car or in our school but, maybe, in our town. But, FATTY, J. shook his fists in the air, remember this: there are others who are fat, and you will meet one fatter someday. You will be out-fatted. I promise you that, and Dave-o, I mean Fatty-o, speakin’ to you as a friend, or even as just someone that you annoy the livin’ shit out of on a daily basis, I’d like to see you lose some weight. Not because, AS YOU HAVE SAID IN THE PAST, I am jealous of your fatness.

Hey, I’m bigger than guys twice my size. Fatty shot back. He had said it once at a party and it got such a big laugh, he repeated it often, even when it made absolutely no sense.

J. bordered on fury. He leaned his head between the seats. Fatty, I’d like to walk to class and have you keep up with me without HUFFIN’ AND WHEEZIN’ AND PUFFIN’! That’s why I’d like to see you thin. I’d like to see you take a flight of stairs without havin’ a heart attack.

Fatty’s reaction was difficult to gage. It was always difficult to tell if he was frowning or if the corners of his mouth were just being pulled down by the weight of his cheeks.

I promise, man, we’ll come up with another nickname for you! J. shouted. "You lose a few pounds and we’ll call you Chubby. A fine name in my opinion! You could work your way down to Chunky, Portly, Husky, Plumpy and then when you’re really thin, we’ll call you Fatty again. For a joke. Like the way the seniors call that big guy ‘Tiny’. Wouldn’t that be a laugh, man? Wouldn’t it?

But if you want me to call you Fatty, then I’ll call you Fatty. I’ll call you Pippy or your Royal Highness, or anythin’ you damn well please, if you’ll just shut the fuck up.

Are you done? Fatty asked. He sounded wounded.

J. took several raspy breaths before continuing. You know you piss me off. What the fuck are you doin’ here? I don’t need Your Royal Fatness dickin’ me around when I feel this shitty.

J. saw Cross raise his eyebrows in the rear view mirror. The language rubbed him the wrong way.

Hey, I wanted to surprise you, man. Fatty gulped another swig of soda. I thought I’d go with you to the doctor’s: keep you company.

What I need is peace! Just shut up! J. lay down across the back seat. And turn up the tunes!

Fatty did this all the time. He’d ask J. twice a week why he wouldn’t call him ‘Fatty’ and then he’d act surprised when J., once again, got angry.

So, when did you call Cross for a ride? J. asked.

I thought I was shutting up! Fatty huffed and licked some syrup off his fingers. I din’t call ‘im. I heard you guys talkin’ at lunch, and I remembered. So, I got some waffles and watched the road.

J. wanted to ask Fatty why he’d waste the time waiting in the street to go to someone else’s doctor’s appointment, but he didn’t.

J.? Fatty asked.

Whhhaaaaat? J. groaned.

I got cha a muffin. I thought you’d need it.

Dave...Fatty, you know that’s why I hate you. You are just the most annoyin’ thing, man.

Fatty laughed and shook his head, Yup.

J. could not imagine feeling any worse. Physical pain mixed with the shame of yelling at a friend. Thanks for the muffin, Fat, but you can have it.

A large green road sign informed them they were leaving Davenport and entering the rest of the world.

J. raised an arm to shield his eyes from the sun. His head throbbed. His mouth flooded with saliva. He concentrated on keeping the colas down. The tires rolled on, leaving the sickening sensation behind him in the dead pastures and fallow cornfields of Davenport. J. knew from experience that the road up ahead was paved with one bout of nausea after another. The next one was right around the bend. Reprieves were short. Enjoy them while they last.

The car vibrated. His head bounced gently on the seat. Shadows played on the ceiling of the car. His eyes half shut, he drifted to sleep.

J. and Cross had been friends for as long as either of them could remember. One day in second grade a kindhearted recess aid saw two boys separately standing around doing nothing, and she suggested that it might be more enjoyable for them to do nothing together.

You want to play cowboy and Indian? Second grade Cross asked second grade J. You get to be the bad guy.

Nah. Said second grade J., and they were inseparable from that point on.

Not playing cowboy and Indian was their favorite pastime, right after not playing anything resembling organized sports.

The moment they became friends with Fatty was harder to pinpoint. Sometime in fourth grade he just started standing too close to them to be ignored. Although he was easy enough to outrun, he was tenaciously persistent. Eventually it just seemed more practical to go stand near him in the first place and eliminate all the whining.

J.? Fatty startled J. awake.

What…what is it, Fat?

You’re all right, aren’t you? I mean, why are you going to the doctor’s? You sick or sumptin?

I’m fine. J. coughed himself into the fetal position. Stupid thing for school. Gotta get a physical.

Why, again? Cross’s honey-covered baritone cut through the backbeat that thumped out of the speakers.

Man, don’t ask me. It’s Farrell’s fault. J. sat up clutching his gut. I’m failin’ English.

Shocking! Cross shouted in mock horror.

She’d been after me to do…well anythin’ really, you know: homework, class work, anythin’ at all, but particularly she wanted someone to write for her stupid paper.

"News flash! News flash!" Cross crowed. Wednesday’s lunch will include Jell-O squares not the apple brown Betty reported on the monthly menu!

Well, you know my objection to doin’ just about anythin’ involvin’…well, effort, J. continued, but she said somethin’ about record reviews, and the new Stainglass Enema tape is pissa: perfectly pissa.

Piss-ah! Fatty agreed forcefully enough to send cupcake crumbs erupting from his mouth.

And to write for the paper you gotta have a physical. J. stated.

You need a physical TO WRITE? Cross asked. How large is the pen you’re using?

It’s da rule for every club. Fatty said. I did it for math team.

I was trying to think of something less physically challenging than working for a high school newspaper and there it is: math team. Cross slapped the dashboard for emphasis. What do the mathletes need a physical for?

Hey, wait. Wait! What’s this talk ah clubs? I didn’t join a club. J. shivered in disgust. You know me; I am not a joiner.

I’m sorry, my friend, Cross said solemnly, but you are now.

No! No, that’s just plain wrong. I’m writin’ one, maybe two, RECORD REVIEWS to spread the gospel accordin’ to Stainglass Enema. That’s it. All done. I just want enough extra credit to pass for the year: squeak out a D.

"Extra! Extra!" Cross trumpeted like a carnival barker. Fresh off the presses, Do-nothing slacker unintentionally makes an effort.

Noooo! J. moaned. This ain’t possible. I am not in a club. Tub-a-goo here can get away with it, sure, but me, I don’t think so.

It’s cuz ah steroids. Fatty said sucking the creamy filling out of the hole in the bottom of a cupcake.

What are you talking about? Cross asked.

Da physical. Fatty continued. They check yer piss fer performance enhancin’ drugs.

What? Cross hooted. Is the math team shooting up with synthetic slide rulers?

HELLO! J. cracked his window. The conversation had not helped settle his stomach. You two are seriously ignorin’ the seriousness of my situation. Seriously!

Clam down. Cross met J.’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Nobody, literally nobody, reads The Davenport Weekly World View. Your secret is safe.

Sure…sure but I can’t join a club; it goes against the forces of nature. There are people who join clubs and vote for student government and care about stuff and there are people that don’t. I don’t. I don’t even associate with people who do.

Hey, Fatty protested. I vote.

What I meant was, I TRY not to associate with people who do. Fatman, tell him how it works: there’s natural selection. I was selected by nature to be a Do-nothin’. I can’t fight nature. It will upset the delicate balance...the, what you call…

Ecology. Cross offered.

Ecology. Right! The whole school ecology would shatter. Famines! Floods. The earth knocked off its axis. A tear in the fabric of time. Other…equally bad stuff.

Cross shook his head. When you talk such incredible crap, you remind me of your brother.

Now don’t get nasty. J. said.

Then, honestly, what’s going to happen? Cross asked.

Honestly, they’re gunna crucify me. Why are you the only one who doesn’t understand the way school works? If I try to be somethin’ I’m not, they will beat the snot out of me.

And are you frightened? Cross taunted. A sly gleam twinkled in his eye. Honestly frightened?

J. thought about it. Honestly, no. Knowing that relaxed him. He wasn’t looking forward to turning his head to cough, but he’d go through worse if it’d piss off those shitheads at school. Why hadn’t he joined a club years ago?

J., Fatty called. What was Miss Farrell wearing when you saw ‘er?