“So you’re saying: you are going to prom, but you can’t stay long?” Murphy asks as we walk down the steps out of school.
“Yeah, basically.”
“Will. What are you talking about? This is the first year we can go to prom and you are just planning on, showing an appearance, and then leaving?”
“Well London--”
“London?”
“London and I have something planned. Sort of. Well she is planning something. I honestly don t even know what, but she said we can t stay long.”
“She hasn’t told you what your plans are?”
“She doesn’t want me to know until that night. I don t know. She’s like that. Why don’t you ask Nancy Brevens to go with you? I thought you guys had a thing going on?”
“No she’s not going.”
“How come?”
“And Coop isn’t going because he has a gig in the city.”
“Well I mean, maybe we can do something after, but to be honest I don’t know at all what we are doing.”
“You’re not going to the kegger at the Lot after?”
“Probably not Murph.”
“Forget it. It I’ll just do my own thing.” He says not sounding upset but clearly is.
It’s sort of hard to perfectly describe moments like this. It’s almost like trying to describe how the color orange makes you feel when you see it. It’s a definitive feeling for sure, but at the same time you don’t know if it is good or bad, exciting or terrifying. Well, I guess the color orange can’t really be seen as exactly exciting or terrifying but basically the point is that I have no idea what I am talking about, nor do I know how I am feeling about what is possibly going to be taking place the next few days. I haven’t seen London much since the day at the lake. It has only been about a week so I’m not exactly freaking out about it.
I do miss her.
It’s no big deal.
I hate time.
She is just planning something. It’s fine.
Why hasn’t she called?
She, nor I, have a cellphone and nobody calls people at their home these days.
Telemarketers do.
Prom is coming up soon and I don’t even know if we are still going.
Well I mean I know we are going but, I don’t know what I am doing.
I am nervous.
I wish I knew what the plan was.
I don't even know how much money I am going to need.
I am terrified.
I am a virgin.
I am going to lose my virginity.
I’m not sure why I am here. I’m at “The Lot” sitting under the maple tree, thinking about everything, but nothing specific. Just thinking. Watching. Watching Madam LeFlore do her peaceful dance in the sunset-lit water rippling like rotating knife tips under the moon. Her eyes closed, waltzing in circles, her hands in the air fleeting as tiny dancers of their own. Her sadness is so profound and evident and rich and heart-wrenching and beautiful. Humbling. I could never understand that kind of sadness, like she can. Nobody can like she can. We all have problems of our own that seem equally as important to us as any problems anyone can have. Honestly, it’s sad because it just isn’t true. Her son is just a ghost. Not a problem, but a ghost. A shadow of nothing that is there or ever will be there. Not a shadow that is short at noon and will grow in the evening, something you see everyday. Her son is dead. He does not grow. He does not live. She never sees him. She never sees anything. She is haunted by the shadow of his ghost which fills her head, replacing the things she will now never have. I think if I couldn’t see I would have the urge to just dance around as well. I think what she does is beautiful, not crazy. She may be the most beautifully sad thing I will ever see. I wish I could say that I have hope for her. But I don’t. I want to talk to her.
But I won’t.
I have to go home now. The sun is almost set and I have prom tomorrow night. Prom in which I am nowhere near ready for. I have so much to do. I don’t even care about prom. I just have a feeling about it. I know something is going to happen. I feel an overwhelming excitement towards it but I can’t help to have this wretched terror deep in my gut. It’s probably just nerves. Yeah I am just nervous. This is going to be a good weekend. Tomorrow night is prom.
I walk into my room and find a note on my bed.
“London called and said it was an emergency and to call her back right away.”
I sprint down the stairs almost killing myself hauling towards the phone. Shit I don’t know her number. Oh yeah its written on the note upstairs. I sprint back up the stairs and burst into my room. I can’t find the note. Where did I put it? An emergency. What could the emergency be? Where the fuck is this note? Found it!
“Psst.” I hear from the dark corner of my room. “Will its me.” Said in a whisper.
“London?”
She walks out of the shadow and into the light of my window. “Who did you think it was? You got another girlfriend I don’t know about?”
“What happened? Are you okay? What’s the emergency?”
“Easy dude, we are going on a mission tonight. Tomorrow is a big day and we have lots to do. Lets go.”
“Isn’t it a little late?”
“Oh god, take off your depends and lets go. It’s only eleven.”
“What could we be doing at eleven at night, on a school night, the night before prom mind you, that could be possibly labeled as a mission?”
She doesn’t answer, nor does she even look at me or pretend to care about my distress. She jumps out of my window as a thief in the night. A thief of my heart in the night of my lunacy, without discretion of whether I should follow. Of course I am going to follow.
“Why are we at the school?” I say already showing my disapproval of what we are doing.
“It’s called covert foreshadowing Will.”
“What?”
“Hold out your hands.”
London pulls out two hefty plastic bags of what looks to be birdseed out of her book bag and pours some into my hands.
“What am I supposed to do with this? Isn’t this the teachers parking lot?”
“Aye aye it is!” She yells out in a burst of London laughter, “Throw it all around as much as you can!” She cries out with elation and spins around throwing this bird seed all over the place. I watch her spinning and laughing. It can be so inebriating to be around somebody so alive and in it. I don’t know exactly what I mean by in it. Just in the moment I guess. Most people look back on their memories and exaggerate the fun they had by natural selection. They feel like they had more fun than they actually did when they were in that moment. London really is in the moment and soaking every fraction of it with laughter and birdseed. I love how she closes her eyes when she laughs. I fantasize that she gets that from her mother. I really want to meet her mother. I want to be alive like London is. I want to be in it. I rip one of the bags from her hands and start spinning and screaming whipping rations of birdseed all over the parking lot strictly just to live--no need to actually know why we are doing it.
We run out of the birdseed and look at each other with full smiles, slightly out of breath. This is a good moment. We don’t kiss. We don’t hug. We just stare at each other smiling, breathing heavy, on the brink of laughing, not because its funny, but because its just a great moment.
“Shall we get out of here now?” She asks in a delicate tone.
“Absolutely.” Slightly laughing.
“I’m sleeping at your house by the way. Don’t even bother saying no.”
“Okay,” After an instant, “So what did we do this for? It’s not the prank is it?”
“Why is it not a good enough prank?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t know how throwing birdseed all over the teachers parking lot would be good enough for you. What would be the point?”
“I soaked them in laxatives.”
“Oh.”
“Birds will eat them early in the morning and by the time the teachers show up for school the birds will be shitting all over their cars. Good enough for you?”
“That’s pretty twisted, yeah.”
“That’s just the beginning.”
“What?”
London laughs and skips ahead.
“London what do you mean, ‘just the beginning’?”
She turns around towards me and prances backwards, “Like I said. Covert foreshadowing.”
“You have completely lost it.”
“I know!”
She waltzes into the darkness.
Her hair like knife tips under the moon.
“So you can just sleep on my bed and I will sleep on the floor.”
“What are you from the fifties? We are sleeping in the same bed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says adamantly, “I am sure.”
She slides into my bed and wraps herself in my sheets and comforters and snugs her face deep into my pillows. She immediately makes me tired seeing how comfortable she looks. I fantasize that we share this bed and have been lovers for years and that I am just getting home from working late. I gently get on the bed and kiss the slight of her neck and also nestle myself into the deepness of my bed and blankets.
This could feel weird sleeping in this same bed that I have had for years with somebody for the first time, but honestly it seems natural, like we actually have been lovers for years. Maybe we have, in a weird way, I feel like we have.
Do you ever feel like you haven’t had a dream in awhile? I wake up today feeling like I have been asleep for hours but can’t even remember a hint of a dream I may have had. It has been this way for awhile. I don’t really get it. I don’t know why I only mention this now. Maybe because it’s morning and London is gone and I hate the non presence of her. I feel like I just want to be with her every moment. I hate when she is gone with out saying bye or anything. I am such a chick. I hate being alone. I hate being alone? Since when?
“Will!” My mom screams from the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m up.” I mumble, despite knowing she can’t hear. I still hate mornings.
Completely forgetting about last night I get to the outside of my school surprised to see the everyone in such a frenzy. There is almost a buzzing noise amongst the collective excitement and snickering of the years first “senior prank.” It kind looks like a fire drill the way everyone is aligned staring at the teachers parking lot. I work my way through the front of the crowd and never thought I would be so proud of something so juvenile. Something so juvenile that I actually was responsible of. All the teachers are in panic mode as they scurry through the real life reenactment of pearl harbor and the movie The Birds. They don’t know whether to run for cover or get back into their cars and try to avoid them from getting bombed by bird shit as well.
Best prank in ten years they say. Epic they clamor. Must have been this person. Must have been that person. No definitely a this person idea. Whoever the person is going to be a legend.
I don’t say anything. I just stand here and think about London, and how proud she must feel.
“Hey come on,” London says short pulling me away from the crowd, “We have to talk.”
“Wait, did you see? I can’t believe we pulled that off. They are all saying that it’s the best-”
“Okay, now that we are in the clear, I pretended to be your mother on the phone and said you weren’t going to be in school today.”
“Why did you do that? I have a test today.”
“Yes you do have a test today. Many tests actually.”
“I am pretty sure I just have one test. A certain test that is only worth about forty-seven percent of my grade, thank you.”
“I am pretty sure it is a string of tests that will determine whether you will be getting laid or going to jail.”
“London, I honestly have no clue what you are talking about half the time!”
“Aww, are you already getting comfortable enough to be able to yell at me.” She says in the most condescending way I have ever heard.
“You’re kidding me right?” I say tough. Very tough.
She hands me an envelope, “Here’s a list. Do it as follows. Or don’t.” She says even tougher and walks away.
“Wait a second,” She doesn’t look back, “Why couldn’t you take the day off and do it?”
Still not looking back, “I have a test.” She says cunningly
I don’t know if I am terrified or excited as hell to open this envelope. I sort of feel like I am in mission impossible or something. I wonder if this envelope will self-destruct after I read whats in it.
I open the envelope and find London’s car keys, about four-hundred-fifty dollars and a list of tasks.
Project Will Getting laid ;-)
- Go to Lou’s Drug Store (yes I know that’s where you work). Grab two extra large cans of mineral ice. It’s like Icey Hot but 3 times stronger.
- Get four containers of the strongest laxatives you guys have. Ask Lou. He’s old he will know the good stuff. Make sure you get the large bag of pull and peel twizzlers (the most essential step for the mission)
- Drive into the city to the deli on fourth and fifth street. Ask for “The Lieutenant.” When he arrives, ask him for the special order of prime rib cut in thin slices that you called for earlier. He’ll ask you your name. You answer Ace. Before you leave don’t forget to ask for two pills of the real deal.
- Go to 54 Westchester road and ask for Gilly. He will know what you are there for. Don’t forget to ask for the neon paint.
- Next you will have to move quickly before things get rowdy. You’ll know what I mean. Go to your spot and put them in the cage that I set up there. From there you will find further instructions. If you make it this far with no problems I will be beyond impressed. But I doubt that very much. Good luck Willy!
Your beloved temptress,
London
I’m driving into the city pondering how ridiculous this current stage of my life is. I’m glad that my boss thinks that I either need to be checked into a mental health facility, or that I have a constipation condition so intense it gives me chronic back pain. I think it was most awkward when after I asked him for the strongest laxatives we had, I grabbed four containers of it. I can only pray that he thinks the extra large tube of saran wrap is for my undying passion for food conservation.
As I drive up to a parking spot in front of the deli I see a homeless man with a sign that says, “Wake up.” Not your typical “The end is near,” or “I just need some money for a pint of crystal palace vodka.” Okay, well I guess I have never seen that before either but that is basically the premise of their intention. Wake up. Strange.
I walk into the deli and despite the putrid smell of meat carcasses, this place is packed. I feel like I walked into a sauna that reeks of bad breath and the basement from the texas chainsaw massacre. It’s certainly a tiny little shop, no bigger than twenty by fifteen feet, yet there is about forty people in here. I walk up to the counter hoping I don’t actually have to wait in line since I am not buying anything.
“Is the-”
“Take a numba.” The fat man with the fake brooklyn accent snips my words with distain pointing to the ticker. I don’t even know if it was a fake accent but I’m not giving him the benefit of the doubt because I don’t like him. I pull a number from the dispenser. Sixty-seven.
“Fifty-seven!”
Well I guess I’m going to have wait here for a little while. I back step and lean against the window in between the hanging chickens. Do they seriously hang them there for advertising purposes? Either way, I glance out of the window, subconsciously I think, wishing I could breathe air that isn’t soaked in pork gingivitis. I look towards the homeless man to see that he is holding a different sign. This one is a little more typical than the last. “Spare change please.” The word change is actually underlined three or four times. It’s strange, I don’t see another sign anywhere around him. I really don’t get why he would bother making a sign telling everyone to wake up. What would be the point of that?
Metaphor?
No.
Drugs?
Probably.
As I stare at this man, holding the sign, sky high with determination, but his face with such hopelessness.
Hopelessness of himself?
Doesn’t seem like it.
Hopelessness of everyone around him?
Definitely.
He turns towards the store and he sees me looking at him. He lowers the sign in one hand to his side, and stares back. Our faces deft, our eyes deep. Deep into something we both don’t know. His face changes. Changes from something to be desired, to something to be noticed. Finally noticed he slights. He half smiles and nods at me with a suggestive tone.
“Sixty-Seven!”
I weave gingerly through the crowd, some in suits, some in shirts with cut off sleeves, dotty blood flushed skin, and overlong armpit hair with blue cheese deodorant chunks dangling about.
“Uh, can I see the lieutenant?”
“Can you see who?”
I look down at my list to reconfirm. “The Lieutenant, yeah.”
“The lieutenant?”
“The lieutenant.”
“Hang on a second.”
(left scene out. Will put in at a later time)
Okay, so now that I got my drugs from the weird bearded man whom was somewhat possibly a somewhat celebrity, I can get on with meeting Gilly. See I had somewhat of an idea that I was going to get drugs at the deli but I have no clue what is awaiting me at this farm. I mean jesus, I have drugs in my car right now and I am driving to a friggen farm house to meet a man or women named Gilly. They will know what I am there for huh? Jesus.
I takes me about thirty-five minutes to get to 54 Westchester road and another twenty to find the house. Not much of a farm or a house. It’s a one story brown house about fifteen feet wide with a flat tin roof that protrudes over the front held up by three puny steel pipes. I walk up onto the old wood porch shin height above the ground. Of course there is just a screen door. No door to really knock on. Why is knocking on a screen door so awkward? Maybe that’s just me but I feel like I’m almost intruding by being on the porch with just a screen door.
“Are you Ace?” I jump as the man from behind me approaches.
“What?” Confused and shaken.
“You must be Ace I reckon.”
“Reckon?” Still confused dusting off my shirt, “Oh yeah. Apparently I am Ace. Ace in the flesh.” I am tempted to do the finger gun pose just to spite myself and my life, but I hold off. One because I think saying in the flesh is just as asshole-ish. But mostly I think I hold off because this skinny, absurdly sunburned man, wearing an oversized fishnet gas station hat, is holding an actual gun. A large one. Oh yeah he is also holding a dead rabbit by its ears in his other hand. He hold its so casually. Routinely. I think I am going to be sick.
“You must be Gilly?”
“Do I look like a Gilly to you!?” He laughs slapping his knee with one hand, the rabbit thudding much too apparently dead against his other leg.
I don’t laugh.
Do you know how a redneck laughs?
Yeah, that’s exactly how he is laughing.
“Is Gilly here, then?”
“Reckon.”
I think that is a yes. He walks onto the porch and I follow him until the screen door snaps back into my face. I have no idea if he wanted me to follow him in or not. God damned screen doors. What the hell does a Gilly look like anyway.
Well I guess I know now. Gilly is evidently not a name for a male. The next part may sound a little weird but--apparently it isn’t for a female either. I mean it is definitely a female, but a female seemingly bred between a roman greco wrestler and a cement truck. She looks at me for a good fifteen seconds just goofily smiling. What is with this staring? Do I have something on my face or something?
“Do I have something on my face or something?”
She doesn’t respond she grabs my hand and playfully drags me around the side of house. Playfully like a baby silver back gorilla that is. It is coming clear to me that she may have a mental disability. She is a grown women wearing too small pink overalls, whom only smiles, and doesn’t say anything, looks like a John Deere tractor, but has the face of a five year old showing me her new toys.
Okay, yup. She must have a mental disability, or at least I do, if she thinks that a wagon consisting of four hogs has anything to do with me.
The words stumble out her mouth clumsy and quick, “Three hundred.”
“For what?”
She points towards the pigs. “Three hundred.” Smiling, eyes downward.
I realize at this point that I am not going to get an explanation out of Gilly, so I just hand over three hundred dollars and she hands over the swine. I grab the wagon handle piteously and haul the snorting live stock towards my London’s car. Shit I forgot the paint.
I turn and yell back, “Do you have the neon green paint?”
She winds viscous and jolly and whips a can directly into my chest.
“Christ!” I yell rubbing the sting out of my sternum.
Viscous and jolly she begins to hysterically laugh at me.
I can feel my forehead scrunching in angry bewilderment.
“Pink? It’s supposed to be neon green.”
“Pink paint. Only paint, pink.”
“But.”
She turns around and waddles, hunched over, through that unholy screen door and into the house. I open the back car door and rifle the pink spray paint against the opposite side door.
“And how the hell am I supposed to get the damn pigs into the car!” I scream rhetorically into the air to nobody, except maybe god.
Okay, so now...now I not only have drugs in the car, I also have four squealing, jumping, shitting, squealing, destructive pigs in the car. I am trafficking drugs and live stock and I am an unlicensed driver. Awesome. I wonder what everyone else is doing on the afternoon of prom. It’s cruel enough that our school is probably the only one in the country that has prom on a school day, let alone me having to do all this shit.
It is kind of fun.
In a hindsight kind of way.
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