Fuckness (11 page)

I waited for a few minutes there on the other side of the street, hidden behind a battered black Buick nearly the size of a schoolbus. The house looked quiet. I was struck with the feeling that, through all the fuckness that had happened in the house, it probably looked quiet from the outside, the blinds shut against the world, the steam from the furnace serenely drifting at an unchanging pace toward the sky. If alive, I wondered what Racecar was doing without his wheelchair. Did he have a spare? Did he just roll around on the floor? That was something I could picture him doing. Rolling around on the floor, grunting and drooling. Who cared? Fuck it. Let them rot.

I made a break for the garage, going as fast as the wheelchair allowed, its hum heightening my sense of paranoia. The garage was in even worse shape than the house. There wasn’t a fleck of paint left on it, just gray rotting wood, gaping with neglect. Racecar always insisted I lock everything inside with a padlock when I put the lawnmower away but I never could understand why. With those huge holes all over it, anyone could probably pull down an entire wall with just their bare hands. Those holes used to bother me when I was a kid because Racecar always acted like all of our really important stuff was in that garage and it bothered me that someone could just walk in and steal it. It took me a while to realize we didn’t have any important stuff, that’s why we lived where we did. Racecar was just pretending to have important stuff, which was what most people did.

At first I thought I’d have to get at the inside barehanded, maybe yank the lock right out of the soft wood, and I kind of panicked because I thought that would take more time and might cause enough of a commotion to bring Racecar or the Wig outside. Then I remembered he always kept those keys on a little ring in a pouch on the side of his wheelchair. I reached down to reassure myself they were still there.

I edged up to the garage and grabbed the cold steel lock in my hand. Even standing out there in the cool fresh air I could smell that gasoline smell from inside. Years of it being splashed upon the cement floor, sinking in, greasing it up. The smell had nauseated me before, but now it filled me with a sense of purpose. Hopefully, the little gas can would be full. Before then, I hadn’t even thought about whether or not it would have any gas in it. I hadn’t had to mow the grass yet that year. It most probably wouldn’t, I assumed. I took the keyring out of the pouch and started trying the keys. There were about fifteen keys on the ring and I tried to go as fast as I could, wondering why in the hell we had all of those fucking keys. Had they saved the keys from every place they’d ever lived, every car they’d ever driven? The seventh key fit and I struggled to twist the barrel around in the lock, my hands shaking. All the while I could hear Racecar’s voice in my head, “It’s not that hard, ass.” The barrel caught, turned, and I pulled the lock apart with ease.

The garage door wasn’t one of the modern types most people would think about when they thought about a garage. Not that I thought anyone did much of that, thinking about garage doors. No, ours was just two standard doors, joining in the middle. One of them swung to the left, the other to the right. None of that sliding up and back into the garage bullshit. I opened the door on the right just enough to reach in and grab the can. I didn’t bother shutting it. After the horrible thing I was about to do, I didn’t figure it would make a whole lot of difference.

Wild, unkempt hedges grew all across the front of the house, thick and bushy. I rolled over to the hedges in front of the kitchen. That way they wouldn’t be able to see my now incriminating silhouette from the living room where they spent most of their time. I didn’t think they’d mistake me for the mailman or the meter reader with those horns on my head. There was a moment when I wanted to open the door. To just peek inside and make sure they were really dead. But it would be like sticking my hand in a bear trap. I poured the gasoline all over the hedges, scattering the gallon-can around as much as I could. It didn’t go very far.

I’d kept the lighter sitting in my lap. I grabbed it up and gave it a few flicks. It occurred to me I had never even held a lighter in my hands before. The mother always used matches to light her cigarettes. I flicked it and flicked it, my thumb slipping off. I’d developed a nervous sweat. After it felt like a blister was forming on my thumb, the damn thing started. I held it out to the hedges as slowly as possible so its small flame wouldn’t go out. Once I got the flame to the bush I had to keep holding it there and it started to get really hot but I didn’t want to let go of it again. Plus I was starting to get even
more
nervous. A few moments had determined the difference between someone merely catching me skulking around outside the house and them catching me skulking around outside the house while holding a lighter to the precariously gasoline-drenched hedges. It was the difference between truancy and arson. I kept imagining I could hear the mother walking toward the door, strumbling to herself. I even imagined I heard Racecar in there, growling and rolling around on a new wheelchair. A fast one, I told myself, picturing a maliciously modern contraption with machinegun turrets on the handles.

No, no,
I told myself.
They’re dead. Dead. Dead!

And just as I imagined having some sort of wheelchair race with Racecar rapidly gaining and firing away, when I didn’t think I’d be able to hold the hot lighter any longer, the shrubs went up—
whoosh!
—and scared the shit out of me.

I crammed the lighter into the wheelchair’s little side pocket and headed back out to the road as fast as the motor allowed, which was about as fast as someone with polio could jog. I would have abandoned the wheelchair and ran, I was so scared, but my body still had that grinding bonefeel. Blood pounded in my ears, a horrible whumming ricocheting around. Now, not only was I just afraid of the parents catching me, I was also afraid of someone else seeing me. I could see the headline in some low rent tabloid: “Boy Demon Tries to Catch Neighborhood on Fire and Make the World His Personal Hell...
After
Murdering Parents!”

When I finally got to the end of Walnut and looked back, the fire was burning pretty nicely. The flames licked up against the window, spreading over toward the other side of the house. I thought maybe I should have set the fire around back where they wouldn’t notice it so quickly. So they’d have less time to put it out. But I knew there wouldn’t be any putting it out. The parents were dead as dead could be and the neighbors surely realized it was more economically feasible to let the shithouse burn.

Looking at the other three blackened shells on the street, I wondered if the same thing had happened to them. Was it bumbling crackheads or disgruntled youth?

I figured it was probably somewhere in between.

I took a deep breath, smelling the sweet smoke of the rancid house, and headed for Milltown Middle School.

Chapter Ten

Let Revenge Set You Free

By the time I got to the school, the eighth graders were out for their recess, trudging along on that sad playground. I turned toward the playground, going right by the school and hoping none of the teachers saw me. Most of the kids were too busy with their running and their games to notice.

I spotted Bucky Swarth, his gang thuggishly gathered there around him, smoking. I could tell by the way they vampirishly leaned in toward him that they were really interested in something he was saying. I pulled onto the playground. I rolled right up there to their circle just like I wasn’t afraid of anything at all. Only I
was
afraid. I was terrified as all hell. And I sat there in that wheelchair, twitching and squirming, trying not to hoot or call out. I wondered what it was about that school that made me more retarded than anywhere else.

This is what Swarth was saying:

“
Shit, man, I had er all leaned up against a fuckin tree n shit n got er pants down an er shirt up n shit an this fuckin train starts comin n she gets real nervous. I tole the bitch to fuckin shut the fuck up n shit cause that fuckin train weren’t stoppin fer nothin so there weren’t no fuckin way we was gonna get in trouble n shit. So she starts sayin stupid fuckin shit like they’s gonna see her tits n pussy n shit n I just tole her to shut the fuck up. I took her fuckin unnerwear off ‘n pushed er fuckin bra all up n shit. Man, them tits was fuckin huge. You think them look big now, you shoulda fuckin seen em thout a shirt...”

And I wheeled my wheelchair further up in there, just like I was a member of their gang or something and, instead of hooting some tune that was in my head, I blurted out: “I bet you have bigger tits than Mary Lou.”

“
Shit, man, this weren’t fuckin Mary Do-You Lou. It was an
older
fuckin chick.” He said that just like he didn’t know who said what I said.

“
I bet your tits were bigger than
hers
, then. Did the guys on the train see
your
tits?” It was like I wanted the beating. Like one of my main goals in life was hospitalization.

This last thing I said stopped him cold. He turned and fixed those boiling hate eyes on me. I didn’t know why I said it. I’d never said anything like that to any of the bullies. I knew I was going to get the shit beat out of me but I had a bigger plan and that was all I could think about. The fear was there, black and intense, but it didn’t matter.

“
Wally Black,” he said. “You look like a fuckin retard ith them horns. And what’s ith the wheelchair?” He turned to his friends and said, “I beat the walk right out of him.” Then he turned back to me. “Didn’t you learn yer lesson yesterday, you piece uh shit?”

One of his friends tipped the wheelchair over and I fell out onto the grass. As soon as I went down, Swarth was right on top of me, working me over with those brass knuckles. I heard them slapping the skin and felt reverberations of pain all over my body. This pain wasn’t quite as bad as the day before because I knew what kind of pain to expect. What I did to the parents last night told me I could do just about anything if I got mad enough and I wasn’t mad yet. I didn’t really have a reason to be mad. The red crawlies hadn’t come yet. What I had said to Swarth was mean and completely unprovoked. I deserved the beating I got. I almost wanted it to stop so I wouldn’t have to follow through with my plan. I almost wanted one of the teachers to come out and say, “Oh my Lord, you stop beating on that cripple. He’s just a... a
cripple
.”

But it didn’t stop. Swarth kept beating down. And then the anger was back, the red crawlies, entering my veins with a liquid electric rush. The beating wasn’t really what caused the anger. It was what the rest of his gang was doing. They were all kicking at the wheelchair and pulling it apart. One of the larger ones kept picking it up over his head and slamming it back down on the ground. And they laughed ridiculous animal sounds while they did it. All I could think about was Racecar. And that was the only time I think I ever felt sorry for him. That wheelchair was the only thing he ever did. I had stolen it, but at least it was intact, a sort of memorial. But it didn’t matter to them. They just smashed and smashed and smashed like it didn’t have any meaning or use or value at all.

I rolled out from under Swarth’s thundering fists. I didn’t know if I’d be able to stand up or not so I just kept rolling.

Mary Lou noticed what was happening and came over to watch. I heard her yelling, “Kick the shit out of him, Bucky!” And then, taunting, “Mo
les
ter! Mo
les
ter!”

A couple of his gang members grabbed me under the arms and pulled me up. The wheelchair was totally demolished, silver pieces scattered all over the playground. Swarth was bent over, his ass stretched tight in those dark blue jeans, his bowels roiling. A gang member grabbed each horn and shoved my nose right up against that fat ass. Everything was familiar. The new smell of the denim. The sounds of the fart starting. This one sounded strained. It was going to be a long one. I knew I couldn’t take it. That smell would have killed me. I stumbled back and thrashed my head from side to side, shaking the gang members off. Then I crouched down and sprang forward, driving my right horn toward that deadly squeaking sound. The sound stopped. It was like a balloon suddenly running out of air, twisted shut at the opening.

Bucky Swarth screamed. It was a horrible sound, high- pitched and girlish.

I had gone face first into the ground when Bucky went down and I couldn’t see anything. My head hit something small and hard. All I could smell was grass, dirt, and the metallic tang of pollution and blood. I got ahold of everything I could and stood up, twisting my head as I did so, remaining bent over at the waist, still attached to Swarth. I looked down and saw the lighter Drifter Ken had given me. Blood trickled down onto it. I had a feeling Swarth was bleeding a lot more than I was. He kept screaming as the tip of my horn scraped around on his insides. I stepped back, yanking the horn out with a sickening suction sound, grabbed that assblood-stained lighter, and took off running for the road. That anger made me numb to all the pain and soreness. That feeling inside me told me it was time to get out of there.