The Autumn Tree

By Julian Gallo

Brandon and Olivia, two goth/emo kids alienated from their idyllic Long Island neighborhood, only have one another to depend on. Brandon's parents are careerists, often too busy to pay any attention to him. Olivia is dealing with her abusive mother, who often body shames her and chastises her over her appearance. While Brandon retreats into the world of death metal and Facebook, Olivia resorts to Stephen King novels and cutting. The two have been life long friends yet neither one of them can see the obvious. Brandon pines away for an Azeri girl from school and Olivia is taken by the new kid, a self-described environmentalist who has a checkered past of his own. Meanwhile, Brandon's father Carlton is harboring a dark secret, unknown to his wife and son, which will challenge his morality. Issues of aging and body image abound as the dark side of American life reveals itself in this tragicomic tale of so-called suburban respectability, where the masks we sometimes choose to wear often hide the darkest parts of our nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julian Gallo
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386181187

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

Odd Angled Doorway

2018

Providence, Rhode Island

The Autumn Tree

Julian Gallo

©2018 Julian Gallo

Other Books by Julian Gallo

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Fiction

November Rust 

Nadería 

Be Still and Know That I Am

Mediterráneo

Europa

Rapid Eye Movements: Stories

Rhombus Denied

Breathe

Shadows

Sleepwalking Through The Garden of Earthly Delights

Bedtime Stories

Hopscotch In A Parallel Universe

Joshua Springs

The Penguin and The Bird

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Cover Photo: Creative Commons

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This is a work of fiction.  All names and places are strictly from the imagination of the author or are used fictitiously.

www.juliangallo66.blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/Julian.Gallo.Author

A wind has blown the rain away and blown

the sky away and all the leaves away,

and the trees stand. I think,  I too,

have known autumn too long

e.e. cummings

Glenwood, 

Long Island, New York

Late October

There are only two houses at the end of Maspeth Road in the town of Glenwood. Beyond them is a park with a pond, winding paths, pristine wooden benches and a gazebo — which more often than not serves as a sanctuary for the town’s teenagers who use it as a place to drink or get high or maybe even mess around with their girlfriends or boyfriends. Living on this end of the street gives one the feeling of being isolated from the rest of the town, although the Long Island Railroad station is only a few blocks away, connecting Glenwood with the rest of the outside world.

In the house on the north side of the street, Brandon Levinson stares out his bedroom window watching a solitary leaf fall in a gentle spiral towards the ground. This is only the beginning. Soon the tree will be bare and winter will sink its icy pincers into one and all. The massive oak tree had been on this spot for ages, long before the Levinson house was built, according to some. It had always been a fascination for the shy sixteen year old. The Autumn Tree, he calls it, and in a strange way it had always been like another member of the family. For an only child like Brandon, it’s about as close as he’ll ever get to having a sibling.

As a child he spent many hours under this tree either flipping through his music magazines, his comic books, or just whiling away the hours when no one else was around and he just wanted to get out of the house and get some fresh air. He always wanted his father to build a treehouse in it but he wouldn’t hear of it so Brandon would often climb it and sit on the thick branch that grew out towards his bedroom window. It wasn’t as good as a treehouse, of course, but he saw it as a suitable substitute. From there he’d look out over the rest of the town with its large colonial styled homes and lush lawns. Sometimes he could even make out the commuters going in and out of the train station.

With its red and brown leaves beginning to shed, a feeling of sadness overwhelms him. The change of the seasons always does this to him. Winter in Glenwood is often a very lonely place.

He removes his iPod from the dock, grabs his schoolbooks, slips into his jacket. He gives himself one last look in the mirror then heads out.

Leaving now, Mom, he says, brushing past her.

Are you coming straight home after school?

Maybe, he says, pausing at the door. I might meet up with Olivia.

His mother smiles, sips her latte. You spend a lot of time with her. Is anything going on?

She’s just a friend, Mom.

He inserts the headphones into his ears. Slipknot. Just the boost he needs.

Glenwood High School is a short walk from his house. Across its generous grounds the kids huddle in their respective tribes and wait for the bell to ring. He lowers the volume of the iPod, looks around for Olivia. He doesn’t see her. He turns the volume back up, makes his way towards the school’s entrance.

Inside is already a bevy of activity. He loses himself in the music as he weaves through the mass of well dressed teenagers, not acknowledging any of them. When he reaches his classroom, he shuts off the music and sits at his desk, gives his teacher the eye as she writes on the blackboard. The last of the kids come straggling in, take their seats as Ms. Grimaldi begins the lesson. Brandon immediately zones out, picks up his pen and begins to write the names of his favorite bands on the cover of his notebook.

It’s going to be a very long day.

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. . . . . .

It takes some time for Olivia to secure the bandana. Already running late, she no longer cares what time she gets to school.

With the bandana tight around her wrist, she gives it one last look to be sure that her scars don’t show. She puts on her coat, picks up her backpack, and grabs her keys. She doesn’t say a word to her mother as she leaves nor does her mother say a word to her, nor does she react when Olivia slams the door on the way out.

Half way to school Olivia does her best not to cry and making a mess of her freshly applied eye liner. She dabs her eye with her fingertip, picks up the pace, her boots clomping along the sidewalk.

Brandon is probably in class by now. She’ll have to catch up with him at lunch.

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In the library, Brandon looks up from his algebra textbook to peer at the young girl sitting across the room. She never sits with anyone. She seems nice enough and on occasion he thought about going over to talk to her but that isn’t something he’s likely to do. She isn’t in any of his classes. He has no idea who she is nor do any of those he could honestly call friends. He stares at her beautiful dark eyes, full lips, her dark olive complexion; at the way her raven black hair tumbles around her shoulders, the way she rests her cheek on her fist as she reads her textbook.

He turns his attention back to his algebra book, takes a moment to see himself sitting there, his skinny frame lost behind the flowing cotton of his Cradle of Filth t-shirt, his loose fitting black jeans, how his Doc Martens made his feet look enormous. He blows a puff of air to move his bangs away from his eyes before swiping it back over his head with his hand.

He looks at her again. Who is she? Why is she always alone?

Ms. Rand, the librarian, walks toward him, her platinum blonde hair pulled tight in a ponytail, her big blue eyes watching him. She smiles at him and his face goes flush. He looks down at his textbook, sneaks a glance as she passes him. As she returns the books to the shelves, another glimpse of her perfect ass within her thigh length peach colored skirt.

He looks over at the girl across the room again. She’s watching him. Horrified, he averts his eyes, feels the creeping sweat beginning to form on the back of his neck.

Great. Just great.

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Hunched over his laptop, Brandon peruses his Facebook page.

24 friends.

He sets his school books aside to see whatever few friends he does have are doing.

Not much activity tonight.

Listening to Lamb of God, getting the frustrations out. Olivia is there, nose in a book as usual.

Click — status posted.

Back to the newsfeed.

The churning of guitars, the pounding of drums, the day’s frustrations slowly melting away.

Olivia lies across Brandon’s bed, lost in a well thumbed copy of Stephen King’s It. Her chubby legs, hidden inside extremely oversized black cotton pants, dangle off the edge of the bed, each leg alternating small kicks into the air. She hasn’t taken her eyes off the book since she arrived, hasn’t said much of anything.

This is fine with Brandon, of course, just the normal course of events whenever he and Olivia hang out. They were supposed to be studying, going over Brandon’s algebra homework, but after only a cursory glance at the pages of numbers and symbols, each retreated into their own separate worlds.

Brandon turns to look at his best friend engrossed in her book, the chain linking her earlobe to her nose dangling loosely on her chubby white cheek, her legs still kicking back and forth. Seeing that she’s lost in her book, he turns back to his Facebook page to see if anyone had either ‘liked’ or commented on his post.

Nothing.

23 friends.

He lets out a sigh and logs off.

Just lost another friend, he says.

Fuck them, Olivia says, not taking her eyes off the novel.

Every time I post something, someone unfriends me.

It happens. I wouldn’t take it personally. Facebook is lame.

Brandon logs off the internet altogether and turns his attention back to his algebra homework. If he doesn’t pass it this year he’d have to double up next year and one math class is bad enough. It also doesn’t help matters that his father is way too hard on him when it comes to his education. How did he expect to get into a good college if his grades weren’t up to par? His father has ivy league on the brain. Brandon isn’t even thinking about college.

Want to get back to this shit? he says, not looking up from the textbook.

In a minute. Let me finish this chapter.

He takes a moment to rest his eyes, watches Olivia read, his gaze tracing the shape of her body lying across his bed. She seems too big for it.

Is it good? he asks.

It’s damn good, she says, nose still in the book.

What’s it about?

Three childhood friends who witness some sort of ‘thing’ who killed children in their hometown and now it’s back when they’re adults.

Sounds gruesome.

It’s right up your alley. You should read it.

Back to the equations.

Lamb of God fills the room.

He looks at Olivia’s reflection in his bedroom window.

Olivia, please?

She holds up a finger, reads the last paragraph, then puts the book face down on the bed. She sits up with a sigh, her nose chain drooping down her cheek.

I really don’t want to do this, she says.

Neither do I.

She sits down next to him, using his amplifier as a chair, leans closer to him as he reads the next problem.

The smell of her perfume — Gossamer, which she bought in Hot Topic at the mall — has become the fragrance he’ll always associate with her. All the Goth chicks wear it. He turns to face her, inhales the scent of her perfume. Something stirs in him as he stares at her pretty but chubby face as her big dark eyes roam across the page of the textbook.

Thick black mascara, long eyelashes, very pretty eyes, as if he’s just noticing them for the first time.

. . . . . .

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Marlene Levinson knocks on her son’s bedroom door.

May I come in? Am I interrupting anything?

She opens the door, peers in to see her son hunched over his notebook, Olivia sitting close to him.

Olivia always liked Mrs. Levinson, a hip young mom who still has it going on. She briefly scans Marlene’s tight, shapely figure, then smiles again when their eyes meet.

Nice to see you, Olivia, Marlene says. Am I interrupting anything?

No, Mom, Brandon says with some annoyance. Just trying to study.

I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be heading out to my drawing class. I didn’t cook dinner so I left you a couple of dollars on the kitchen table in case you’re hungry. Olivia is welcome to stay for dinner if she wants. Order what you want — or you can go out for something.

Where’s Dad?

In the den, where else?

Brandon doesn’t say anything, turns his attention back to his textbook.

You two look so cute together, Marlene says.

Mom!

Brandon was telling me about your drawing class, Olivia says. I’d love to see your work.

Oh, please, Marlene says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. I’m merely an amateur but I enjoy it. I don’t have anything finished just yet. Are you interested in art?

Very much so, Olivia says. Been trying to get Brandon to come with me to the museums but he’s not interested.

Why not, Brandon? It would be good for you.

Mom...

All right, I’ll leave you two alone. Remember the money’s on the table. Nice to see you again, Olivia.

Marlene leaves the room taking one last look at the pair as they return their attention to studying. They would make a good couple, she muses, that is if Brandon only opens his eyes. What’s it going to take for him to notice how Olivia feels about him?

She makes her way over to the den, knocks. Carlton, I’m heading out now.

Carlton looks up, immediately closes the lid of his laptop. All right, have fun. Are you coming straight home afterward?

Should be. Why?

Carlton shrugs. Just wondering. Where’s Brandon?

In his room studying. Olivia is with him.

They spend an awful lot of time together, those two. Is anything going on with them?

No — so he says anyway.

You know how it is.

I won’t be home too late.

Have fun.

Marlene climbs into her Lexus and quickly applies some lipstick, fixes her hair with her fingers, checks her reflection in the rearview mirror. She isn’t worried about aging like most of her friends are and she can easily pass for someone much younger than her forty-four years. It’s all a matter of knowing how to take care of oneself and not let oneself go, like so many of her friends have over the years — gaining weight, allowing their hair to go limp and grey, dressing more like house fraus than elegant mature women.

She turns the Lexus into the parking lot of the Glenwood Community Center and checks herself in the mirror again before grabbing her portfolio from the back seat. This is only her third class and she’s already making considerable progress. She had always been artistically inclined but she gave up her dreams of being an artist long ago, mostly out of laziness but mainly because of Brandon. Having a kid around the house made it difficult to find the time to draw. It was only after Brandon was more or less able to fend for himself that she decided it was time to pick up the pencils again — and a chance sighting of a flyer on a lamppost in the center of town rekindled those long lost dreams of becoming a fine artist.

Sometimes we give up our dreams due to our circumstances.

It’s never too late to do anything.

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I’ve had just about enough of this.

Brandon throws down his pen, leans back in his chair.

Olivia smiles, stretches into a yawn, her breasts pushing against her Dark Throne t-shirt.

Brandon clandestinely eyes them, then looks away.

It’s getting late, Olivia says. Walk me home?

The temperature had dropped considerably and Olivia curls her arm around Brandon’s pulling him closer to her. Brandon finds it odd that Olivia had become more physical over the past few weeks. She never used to get so close to him. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable but it raises questions that he doesn’t want to think about.

Olivia lives a few blocks away in a two story colonial much like the other houses in the neighborhood. They stop in front of the house and Olivia kisses his cheek, trots off toward her front door. Brandon waits until she’s inside, like he always does, before heading off home.

A very quiet evening, the wind blowing leaves across his feet, against his shins. The sky crystal clear. The half-moon bright. As he turns onto Maspeth Road, he watches one solitary leaf from the Autumn Tree slowly drift towards the lawn.

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Carlton’s cell phone vibrates on his desk.

Hi Edison, he says.

Catch you at a bad time?

Just writing up those reports you wanted. What can I do for you?

Listen, I really need you to do me a big favor. Tomorrow night there are potential new clients I’d like you to take out, show them around, kiss their ass a little — the usual shit. It’s very important. I’d do it myself but I have another engagement.

Bullshit. Who are they?

These guys from Azerbaijan I’ve been trying to seduce for a while now. They have a lot of money. Been kissing their ass for weeks. Take them out, show them a good time. I know you know all the good places around town. This could be a big deal for us.

Azerbaijan? You’re kidding.

Who knows, Carlton. I thought they were Russians. They’re looking to invest in alternative energy. They have a lot of money, Carlton.

Tomorrow night?

Is that a problem?

Carlton tells him to hold on as he pretends to look through his calendar. Sure, no problem.

Thanks, you’re really