All the Idle Weeds That Grow

By Brian Koukol

Disabled best friends Zed and Gretchen are barely staying afloat through an adolescent riptide of relationships, ableism, and pickles when their new neighbor and instant crush is mysteriously replaced by an inexact duplicate.

Along with a t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Koukol
• Release date: Sep 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218032975

Book preview

All the Idle Weeds That Grow

Brian Koukol

All the Idle Weeds That Grow

by Brian Koukol

Copyright © 2022 Brian Koukol

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Cover design by Jessica Bell

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chapter 1

My house stank of pickles and so did I, feckless as a freak in formaldehyde.

I should've enjoyed feeling seen by the ghosts of once-crisp vegetables soured by the brine of time and circumstance as I leaned over the kitchen table in my power wheelchair, eating a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats with a fork. But I hated being stared at.

My mom, Audra, shifted in the kitchen behind me and I wondered if she had known she'd be marrying a future pickle packer when she'd said her vows all those years ago—for richer, for poorer, in pickles and in health—or if she simply chalked it up to the price she paid for love. Everyone deserved love, it seemed—even artisanal pickle packers like my dad. Everyone but me: Zed Norkus. Societal eunuch, rolling cliché.

A glance down at the dark face of my sleeping cell phone revealed the dotted constellation of dried spit reinforced each night by my bedside ventilator, the little white pricks only serving to define the darkness between them.

I stared deeper into the black, between stars I now knew for liars—burnt-out husks going through the motions like a ventilated diaphragm too weak to sustain itself. Inside the emptiness, I found my face reflected, eyes faded into shadow beneath a forehead that shone like an angry sea of scar, rough and raised and ruddy, as if its scab had dropped too soon. Above the mottled pink and shiny sprang a tuft of hair bleached prematurely gray by sunshine and pimecrolimus cream.

I raised my eyebrows, creasing my forehead and transforming the pink shine to a pale matte that the rest of the world might recognize as healthy, but I quickly grew tired of holding the façade and sagged back into my normal sixteen-year-old self.

With a halfhearted swipe, I banished my reflection in favor of a handful of colorful icons atop the default background of my phone. I scrolled through the news headlines and took another bite, never as sure of anything in life as I was that rotting cabbage and breakfast cereal didn't mix.

I stopped chewing as a headline caught my eye. They'd found a body at the construction site for the Domus Aurea—an alleged exact replica of Nero's sprawling Roman palace set to break ground as a regional shopping destination in a week's time.

Thoughts of the place soured my stomach like a Jack Ruby gut shot. In the name of historic authenticity, the mayor had granted the developer—Sarafian Construction—a waiver that allowed them to plant all the steps they wanted and none of the legally-required ramps, as if the Romans could build aqueducts and the Coliseum, but drew the line at gentle slopes. In truth, the deal had been nothing more than run-of-the-mill corruption. My best friend Gretchen and I broke the story for our high school paper, but it broke crooked, and never set right. All our hard work was dismissed as circumstantial hearsay. We'd found the gun, but the smoke had slipped through our fingers.

Do you want a spoon? Audra asked, placing the hated utensil next to my phone. You're the only person I know who eats cereal with a fork.

I knocked it out of the way. Or tried to, at least. I don't want a spoon, Audra. If I wanted one, I'd ask for one.

Don't call me Audra. And you could say thank you, you know.

Thanks for nothing, I mumbled under my breath, trying to get back to the news story.

Want me to nuke your cereal? she asked, interrupting again. I can add some brown sugar and butter. You used to like it that way when you were a kid.

I used to like a lot of things when I was a kid. Now I just want to be left alone.

I read the first paragraph for the third time, then gave up and sucked down the rest of my milk with the metal straw from last night's water glass.

We've got the May gray out there this morning, Audra said as I backed away from the table and headed for the front door. It'll be cold. Do you want a blanket?

I'd rather freeze to death.

I flung my hand onto the front doorknob, struggling to twist it with my weakened muscles. I felt Audra's eyes on me through the kitchen pass-through.

That daytime ventilator mount for your chair is only gathering dust, she said. You should start using it. It'll make you feel better.

So far, I'd managed to confine my ventilator use to the overnight hours, and I didn't plan on expanding that anytime soon. Riding around in a wheelchair everywhere shared enough vulnerability with the world. I'd be damned if I added the inability to sustain myself with my own breath to the list. Headaches and fatigue were an easy trade-off for a few more years of acceptance and relatability. Normal people sat in chairs. Mine just happened to have wheels.

The knob finally, mercifully turned. As I backed up and pulled the door open with the power of my chair, my dad bounded onto the porch with a fresh box of empty Ball glass jars.

Hey, Zed, he said.

Hey, Lukas.

Lukas frowned, blocking the doorway. Did mom put on your sunscreen? The doctor said you have to use it even when it's overcast, remember?

I grunted an assent.

He didn't budge. She used the mineral stuff, right? If it's not zinc oxide or titanium dioxide your face will flare up again.

I grunted again.

I don't speak caveman, he said.

I sighed. I'm wearing the right stuff.

Like a sphinx with the world's most humiliating riddle, he accepted my answer and let me pass.

As I drifted down the ramp into the front yard, I heard his voice behind me. We need to have a talk about that daytime ventilator soon. You might as well use it if you have it. I bet it'll make you feel better.

***

The chill of an overcast sky nipped at my knuckles as I jostled into the dewy grass of my front yard, crunching through the fallen seedpods of the jacaranda tree and parking beneath its sporadic cascade of lavender flowers.

Free from the confining walls of my house, I could finally relax. I knew the able-bodied world dismissed wheelchair users as pathetic shut-ins, and I wasn't about to prove them right, even if it meant freezing to death whenever the scorching California sun felt shy.

After a few revitalizing breaths, I glanced down at my spit-dappled phone, determined to get the whole story on the body found at the Domus Aurea. I read the first paragraph again, then cringed at a voice from the sidewalk.

Hey, Dorkus.

I swallowed hard and looked up at the dark and sneering face of Alonzo Bowman, neighbor and one-time best friend. Zo dumped his bike into the star jasmine hedge that separated us and I tried not to think of that sunny spring day in the sixth grade when we'd touched each other's penises. Or rather the day after, when I'd awakened to an alternate reality where Zo and Zed had somehow become Zo and Dorkus, and I'd exchanged a bestie for a bully.

What's up? I said, knowing full well what was about to happen. Again.

Zo grinned in anticipation as he approached. I thought about making a run for the house or shrieking for my mommy and daddy, but I was no coward. At least I didn't want to be. Maybe I'd get lucky and Zo would only wipe his ass with my phone instead of socking me where it didn't show like usual.

Just outside striking range, his phone chimed a notification. After a glance at the screen, he frowned.

My mom needs me, he said. We'll finish this later.

As Zo disappeared up the street, a U-Haul truck rumbled down from the mouth of our cul-de-sac, followed by a nondescript black compact. Both vehicles pulled into the driveway of the vacant house directly across the street from mine.

Two men with nametags embroidered on their jumpsuits hopped out of the U-Haul and raised the rear cargo door. As they disappeared inside the truck, a man with salt-and-pepper hair got out of the compact, followed by a girl in sunglasses. No. Not a girl. A teenaged woman, with long legs and short shorts and enough curves to make me carsick. Above it all jutted a defiant mane of raven-black hair brought into stark relief by the palest of porcelain skin.

Immediately overwhelmed by a craving, I reached into the pouch beneath my seat and snagged one of the two loose cigarettes I'd stolen from Lukas's not-so-secret stash that morning.

Despite my advancing muscular dystrophy, I could still get a cigarette to my mouth if I leaned forward and propped my elbow on my armrest just right. Unfortunately, I couldn't raise a functioning lighter against it to get that all-important first drag thanks to my weak arms, but I had a solve for that. After stuffing the cigarette between my chapped lips, I retrieved the long barbecue lighter I kept tucked between my thigh and armrest. If I used both hands and propped it in my lap, I could outsmart its child-proofing and bend over just enough to light up.

The cool heat of fortifying smoke filled my lungs as I took my first puff. Smoking probably wasn't the best habit for someone with my ever-weakening diaphragm and reliance on overnight mechanical ventilation, but I didn't care. Like any self-respecting victim of progressive neuromuscular disease, I did what I could when I could, knowing that regret was the only thing that lasted forever.

I glanced across the street, checking to see whether my new neighbor had seen me, but she leaned against the stucco surrounding her new garage door, flirting with one of the movers.

When his apparent boss yelled at him, the mover got back to work, joined by the compact-driver with the salt-and-pepper hair. The girl, however, did not join in with the schlepping. A frame like hers wasn't meant for menial jobs. She stood in place, stretching her arms above her head until her stomach showed. I took another drag, the coolness of the smoke spreading throughout my body until it became one with my personality.

Hey!

I jumped despite my inherent coolness as Gretchen, current best friend and immediate neighbor, appeared at my side. How she could sneak up on me while aided by a cane and with limited use of half her limbs, I'd never know. But she did it all the time.

You've got to quit that crap, she said, frowning at my cigarette with the cooperative side of her face, her speech distorted as always by a mild spasmodic dysphonia. Do I need to text you that picture of those lungs again?

I took another puff. Abraham Lincoln said that people who have no vices have very few virtues.

And look what happened to him. She grabbed the cig from my lips, took a drag of her own, then coughed and flicked it into the hedge by the sidewalk. You should take up something a little less unseemly. Like heroin.

Smoke drifted from between the star jasmine flowers. What about pyromania? I asked.

Shut up. I was aiming for the gutter. Blame cerebral palsy.

But that was your good arm.

Ignoring the quip, she snapped a photo of me with her phone.

Aren't you tired of that yet? I asked.

Two more months will make it a full year. Then I can post a time-lapse.

Why? So the whole world can watch me get weaker?

No, she said with a grin. So the whole world can see how handsome you're getting.

Maybe on opposites day, I said, pretending the flush on my face was a side effect of my pimecrolimus cream.

She tousled my hair. All that gray on top makes you look distinguished, you know.

It's just the medicine for my face. It bleaches everything it touches.

No. Not that. You're getting gray all over.

I sighed. At least I'm staying on brand.

She leaned against my shoulder, the electric blue highlights of her otherwise black hair brushing my blushing cheek.

Say cheese, she said, flashing her endearingly crooked teeth.

You know you only have eight followers, right?

Nine, she said, snapping the photo. I signed Babaa up last week.

Grandma Hashiguchi doesn't count. She still uses dial-up.

Gretchen scuffed at the ground with her static left foot. She still counts. Besides, my mom likes my posts. And so do you.

Obligation.

She cuffed my shoulder, then pulled out her Dolly Parton action figure from the back pocket of her pegged jeans. Stuffing it between the thumb and rigid fingers of her left hand, she snapped another photo of the three of us, turning the cheek whose apple hadn't drooped to sauce to the camera. I knew better than to say anything disparaging about Dolly. Gretchen's dad had bought it for her before he'd moved out when she was a kid. Besides, he'd mistakenly brought an anatomically correct version, so it came with a certain amount of street cred. And double besides, who was I to criticize what Gretchen considered to be her first sexual partner?

She stuffed Dolly back into her jeans. New neighbor? she asked, spotting the vamp across the street at last.

Yep.

She's beautiful.

Yep.

Unapproachable, though.

A short-lived patch of sunlight broke through the thinning cloud cover, reflecting off the endless legs of our new neighbor in a shine so bright I had to squint from across the street.

Bet I could approach her, I said.

Secure in my status as a sexual nonentity in the eyes of the outside world, for me talking to a beautiful woman was no different from talking sports with my uncle Jurgis. With nothing to be gained but conversation, all the pressure was off.

Don't, Gretchen said.

Why? Not your type?

She blew out a long, appreciative breath that smelled of strawberries. She's everybody's type.

Then wish me luck.

What are you going to say?

Relax, G. I got you.

What the hell does that mean?

I didn't answer, instead heading to my driveway and bouncing into the gutter, armed with some vague plan about finding out whether our new neighbor was into girls or not. On the other side of the street, I popped into her driveway and caught her staring in my direction, though I couldn't tell exactly where her eyes were pointed behind her sunglasses.

Hey, stud, she said when I reached her, derailing my plan with two words from her bright red lips. I'm Melora.

Uh...

I like your chair.

Err... thanks?

Is it imported?

I scrambled for whatever wits I could reclaim. Yeah. From Sweden.

She smiled, her impossibly white teeth rivaled only by the paleness of her skin. I thought you looked like a man with international tastes. What's your name, sailor?

My throat tried to swallow my tongue without consent, but I fought it off. Zed.

What're you up to today, Zed? Besides breaking hearts, I mean.

I...

I bet you could break mine if I wasn't careful.

My eyes went blurry. When they cleared, I found myself staring at the oxblood toenails peeking out from her gladiator sandals. Conjuring the ashes of my willpower, I raised my eyes and focused instead on the rhinestones of cognac and canary that dotted her black sunglasses. I wondered what color the eyes behind them might be. And if they were secretly laughing at me.

The front door to her house opened and the driver of the compact poked his head around the corner of the porch. These boxes aren't going to unpack themselves, Emmy, he said. Be a peach and come help me.

In a sec, Dad. I'm introducing myself to the locals.

Her dad studied me tire to handlebar, then disappeared back inside.

Guess that's my cue, she said stretching until I caught a shimmering glimpse of pierced navel. Nice meeting you, Zeddy.

And with that, she was gone, leaving me to stare at the stucco in befuddlement. Only then did I notice the tropical sweetness of her perfume, lingering like a photograph at a funeral.

***

What happened? Gretchen asked when I made it back to the safe familiarity of my front yard.

I have no idea.

What do you mean you have no idea?

I... she... we...

Calm down, loverboy. You'll sprain something. She unwrapped a strawberry candy from her pocket and popped it in her mouth. Want one?

I barely noticed her question, absorbed by the naked stucco across the street. What?

Never mind. She stared across the street as the movers returned to their work. Did you read about the body at the Domus Aurea site?

Just the headline, I said, shaking myself back to some semblance of reality. Several times.

Well, there's not much more to tell, she said. Mid-twenties. Female. Strangled. No witnesses. No ID. Probably a pro.

Too bad she didn't die three months ago. Then maybe someone would've paid attention to our exposé.

Nice, she said, shaking her head. Real nice.

You know what I mean.

Maybe so, but it doesn't mean I have to like it. Anyway, are we still on for the protest next weekend?

I don't know. We'll probably be the only ones there.

Then we're the only ones there. Come on. It'll be fun. Who knows, it might even bring you some closure.

I sighed, trying to release my growing agitation. The only thing I hated more than public events was losing, and lose was exactly what we did when we tried to fight City Hall. I saw no need to relitigate that past.

Bear, Gretchen said.

What?

Bear.

I smiled, recognizing both the game and her attempt at derailing my darkening mood. Gay man. A big, hairy, comforting one.

She nodded. Otter.

I scrunched up my face. Zoo animal?

Nope. Gay man. Like a skinny bear. Dolphin?

Definitely a zoo animal.

Wrong again, she said. It's a slim, athletic, hairless bear. Elephant?

Somebody with a really big... um, trunk?

Plausible, but no. Just a pouty pachyderm trading tricks for peanuts and dreaming of the savanna. Shrimp?

I didn't answer. The sound of a coasting bicycle drew my eyes to the sidewalk instead.

Zo was back.

Hi, Gretchen, the bully said, inching past the star jasmine hedge. Whatcha doing?

Playing 'Gay Man or Zoo Animal,' I said, miffed that he had ignored my presence and quite conflicted over it.

He squinted at me. Figures. He turned to Gretchen, flashing a crooked smile. I like your shoes, he said, nodding at the canvas slip-ons she'd decorated in puff paint and glitter in defiance of the orthopedic clodhoppers her doctor had prescribed. Directed at me, it would've been an insult, but as always with Gretchen, Zo sounded sincere.

Thanks, she said. I like your bike.

Zo popped a wheelie and hopped off the curb into the street.

How do you do that? I asked her after he swung out of earshot.

Do what?

Talk to him without getting your head bitten off.

He likes me, she said.

He used to like me too.

Don't worry. I won't let him touch my penis.

You don't have a penis.

Small favors.

I watched a purple jacaranda blossom drift to the ground in front of me. He put a kid in the hospital, you know. Twice.

Yeah, she said. But he takes good care of his mom, so he can't be all bad.

He's all bad to me.

At the mouth of the cul-de-sac, Zo twisted back toward Gretchen on his bike and waved. She turned away from me, showing her right side to the bully.

Oh, and now you're showing him your good side?

Not him. Her.

Melora strode across the street toward us, the rhinestones on her sunglasses glinting beneath a sky suddenly turned to blue, as if her mere presence had the power to boil away the clouds. I stayed in the shade, trying my best not to get burned.

How's it? she said, gliding up the curb to my front walk.

How's what? Gretchen asked.

Melora smiled and the earth shifted on its axis. How's it going?

Oh. Fine. Gretchen crunched through the last remnants of her strawberry candy, apparently as tongue-tied as me. I'm Gretchen.

Melora. She turned to me. Got a smoke, Zeddy?

Not even attempting to speak, I bent forward and pulled my last cigarette from the pouch beneath my seat, all too conscious of Melora's gaze on me as I struggled to sit back up. Once I made it, she slipped the cigarette from my hand, letting her long, lean index finger brush my gnarled counterpart as she collected her prize.

How about a light? she said, raising a dark eyebrow from behind her sunglasses as I dug out the barbecue lighter from along my thigh.

Using both hands to defeat the safety switch, I flicked the flame on in my lap. She bent toward it, and I closed my eyes so as not to stare down her strappy top. When the intoxicating scent of her sweet tropical perfume lessened its hold on my senses, I opened my eyes again

Reviews for All the Idle Weeds That Grow

[Reader-of-Books · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really loved this book. Zed and his friends were such a joy to read about, and the mystery kept my interest throughout the book. I especially loved Zed's friendship with his best friend Gretchen, and how much they were there for each other, and how their both being disabled added a deeper understanding and love to their relationship, and I really enjoyed their banter and sense of humour. When you're disabled, there are times when we just have to laugh at ourselves, and there is lots of that in this book. This book makes a joke out of the "inspiring" and "brave" disabled characters found so often in books and other media written by abled writers, and I was so glad to see it. At the same time, the book is refreshingly honest about daily life with Zed's muscular dystrophy and Gretchen's cerebral palsy, while never portraying them as someone you should pity. And to make it even better, this book has lots of queer characters! Zed's friends are bi, non-binary, and other forms of queer, and Zed certainly has an interesting answer if you ask him what he is, but judging by a conversation he had with someone, it sounded like he's on the ace spectrum. Queer disabled characters are still fairly uncommon in fiction, so this aspect of the book made me very happy as well. I would definitely recommend this book if you want a story full of friendship and humour and a mystery to put the characters in a lot of danger.