Chapter 18 (Draft)

Chapter 18

I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned this before but I’ve always had this recurring-daydream-type-thing that is different every time but always ends the same. I could be swimming in jellyfish infested waters, or climbing a mountain fighting off flaming monkeys, or even Indiana jones style running from a massive rolling boulder jumping through flames and snakes. Either way, by the time I reach that deserted island, or that summit in the clouds, or that temple of wherever the hell I’m trying to get to, I always find a dictionary.

Yep, a dictionary.

It always feels like I knew all along in these daydreams that this six pound hardcover book, made up of nothing more than plain text, definitions, solutions to arguments, and better grades, is the most end all important thing to my existence. I always reach this book gasping for air and the hopes to find an answer to some unknown implore, inside every member of the human race, open it to find nothing but blank page after blank page. Stubborn, I refuse to think I went through all of this for absolutely nothing, I check every single page. I get to the very last page to find one word, as if it is the only definition we as people need to know.

“Love: By luck; not design.”

So by the time I get back into town and drag the pigs through the woods and reach Eden, the sun seems to be getting pretty low in the sky. Of course I am the only guy on the planet that doesn’t know what time it is because I refuse to own a watch or cell phone. Either way, it seems to be getting pretty late, which isn’t all that great of a herald on prom night. I see a note nailed to the small dead tree. I rip it from the nail and it reads:

Project Will Getting Laid (Phase 2)

1. Although I am very proud of all you have done to make it this far, there is plenty of work to do. Every step from now on is far more crucial and must be executed to the utmost precision. It’s a matter of life and death. Well more a matter of life being awesome or sucking badly for a while. Which is really, the only situation, we as people, should always hope to be in, right? For the first step, however, requires just getting the pigs into this cage you see to the right of you.

2. Spra

Oh well this is just awesome. Did she forget the rest or something? What the hell London? This girl is unbelievable. I turn back towards the wagon of pigs to complete the one and only step I am assigned and begin to contemplate what I should do next, although I am seriously considering just going home for the night. As soon I think about actually doing that, a feeling of leftoutedness comes over me. I know that isn’t a word, but bare with me, its that overwhelming feeling that I would be missing out on an amazing night and I feel jealous of everyone else that would be having it.

As I get the first pig into the cage I hear a splashing behind me and turn to envision a mad women, soaked in her underwear, charging out of the water with a vigor to take my head off. Before I can react she jumps at me and latches on to me with her arms around my neck and her strong legs around my waste, taking both of us to the ground rolling over about three times until we stop, and I see this girl on top of me with dripping dark hair and mud along her forearms. Smiling.

All can do is smile back and say, “Thank god its you.”

I don’t think I say it because I’m glad I’m not Eden’s next victim in the serial murder saga, but because I am strictly so glad to see her. As the beads of water drip in illumined patterns from her face to mine, breathing heavy, she laughs, “You made it.”

“Oh shit!” London snaps as we see the pigs running wild as one barrels into the river. We both spring up and jolt towards the river, slam into each other simultaneously, and spill into the water. I stay under water for a while spinning upside down not knowing which way gravity is pulling my brain. By the time I gather myself and break the surface of the water I see London dragging the pig out of the water by its hind leg whipping it screeching into the cage. I stumble out of the water trying to run before I find my footing and scrape my knee. We spend the next three to five minutes chasing these unholy creatures back and forth in small circles. Our bodies awkwardly hunched, ankles meandering, our laughter synonymous to each other as we lung desperately to snatch up the hell-broken animals.

The last pig.

It stares at us with the fervor of a menacing beast that has been in this very situation a thousand times over.

Determined.

Determined to not get caught this time.

London and I are hunched in some sort of primordial athletic stance as if we have done this a thousand years ago and our next thousand years depends on it. We don’t look at each other. We don’t say anything. Eyes on the pig.

In the midst of our momentous stare down, the pig makes his move as he jukes to the left of London just out of her diving grasp. In a heap of debonair reflex, I leap, in perfect form right over London’s back. Right as I hit the ground my arms extend just far enough to clip its hind leg, sending it into a tumbling wallop. London recovers at whirlwind speed to capitalize on the pig’s rare state of vulnerability. She clasps both of its back legs together with one friggen hand and drags it on its back towards the cage. The pig seems to smile the entire way, like we were playing tag with the damned thing. She gets it into the cage and drops to the ground, sitting with her legs flat to the grass and her back to the cage, exhaling relief.

I walk over to her and as I sit next to her, “Now you know how my day has gone so far.” She doesn’t laugh. Or really show any kind of reaction. I don’t mind because I can already tell she is elsewhere. Still catching her breath, her head is against the cage, tilted upward, staring at the sky, “My mom is dead, Will.”

“What?” I say it like didn’t hear her clearly even though I did.

“She died three years ago. I went to prom at my old school and was miserable the whole time because that is something she should have been there for. She was a photographer and would have loved taking pictures and doing that whole thing. That’s why I didn’t want to do a normal prom again this year. I’m sorry for robbing you of that. I just couldn’t”

I have no idea why she decided to tell me this at this moment, nor did it matter. She was telling me now, and I am looking at her, not seeing the crazy girl who makes me do crazy things, or the con artist, or the thief, or even my dream girl. She had always seemed like a figment or an intangible entity that I couldn’t keep up with. No--she wasn’t my dream girl anymore--she wasn’t an entity. She was a girl. For the first time London McGuire became a person. To me. The same way Scarlet became a person when I told her I was leaving her. A good feeling comes over me as I think about how London trusts me with this. She doesn’t seem to be a person who trusts people with this kind of stuff. I feel bad that I feel good because its horrible that she lost her mother. But I feel great because I realize that I am not just a fling to her, I am not just a crush. I am not some figment of a subliminal list of guys she has dated. I am important to her. I am a person, to her. I feel great because I haven’t felt this way about anything since I was nine, and this time, London wasn’t peddling away.

“Thank you.” She says.

“For what?”

“Not saying anything.”

“Sorry, I just didn’t know—“

“No, I am serious thank you. I’m not the type of girl that wants to be comforted or said any corny things to like, I’m sorry, or it will be okay, or any of that shit. I am glad you just listened to what I had to say and that was it.”

“Yeah, but I still should have said something.”

“Trust me. You said plenty.”

London lifts up her arm and looks at her elbow. “That’s going to look good in my prom dress.” She has a big scrape on her elbow. Even her wounds look pretty.

“Hey we match kind of,” I say showing her the scrape on my knee. “Except my pants will be covering it.”

“Nope you are wearing shorts.” She says with haste.

“What?”

“Just what I said. You’re wearing shorts to prom.” She says confidently trying to hide her smile.

“No I am not wearing shorts.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not actually wearing a dress. I’m wearing overalls.”

I don’t even feel like asking her motive for this, “I’m pretty sure they won’t let us just stroll in there like looking like the Beverly Hillbillies.”

“Not true, the dress code states that men have to wear a collared shirt with a tie and coat, and the girl dress codes all have to do promiscuity. Nothing that says I can’t wear anything like overalls. I dare them to tell me I can’t wear overalls.”

I’m already excited about the idea of this. I am actually excited to stick out for once. I think mostly because its something London and I will be doing together and everyone will see that. They may laugh, but in some weird way, I know they’ll be envious.

I don’t want her to know that I am excited so I change the subject, “So she was a photographer huh?”

“Yeah the camera I always have was hers. I refuse to get those new digital ones. There’s something much more artistic about film and the process of it. No chance to cheat the integrity of the picture by doing all that editing rubbish. Goes to show that most people choose to remember things better than they actually were. Who wants to remember a moment differently than how it was? If you alter your remembrance to shape the integrity of your past, you ultimately ruin the integrity of your character. Something I simply refuse to do. Film,” she pauses, “film is the only way to do it.” We sit there in silence for minutes. “That’s how I got my name, you know?”

“What? From film?”

“No. My mom and dad were a pretty typical couple. You know, met freshman year in college, broke up and got back together three or four times throughout college, by the time they graduate they were a pretty serious relationship. But like life usually does, it got in the way. My mom got offered a fairly major job as a fulltime photographer in London. A true dream job ya know? Only thing was my dad got offered job in the city and wasn’t about to follow my mother there. That summer they decided they would take a summer long road trip together and see the country and be in that crazy kind of love, until they had to go separate ways. Next thing they know it was the beginning of August and my mother was three weeks pregnant and they were more in love than they ever imagined they would become. So they named me London. She told me that I was her London. Going to London just represented an amazing, beautiful dream opportunity. But that had nothing to do with the city or the job. It had everything to do with her being a twenty-four year old dreamer who instinctually needed to put all that young invincible passion into something. I ended being that something. I became what would have been her London. She told me I was her “Lucky twist” of fate that everyone gets in each lifetime.

“How—“

“Cancer.”

I don’t say anything. We sit there still not saying much nor worrying about time or anything at all. We seem to know by now that we have this night by the pubes. Well she definitely does more so, but I am way more confident now than I was twenty minutes ago. I still have no clue what’s going to take place tonight, but I don’t care. I know tonight is going to happen. So I don’t care. We’re kind of just sitting here muddy and bloody with London’s leg in between mine checking out our battle wounds. The pigs are starting to get impatient and making all kinds of noises. London looks back at them and snares, “Fucking swine flu.”

As soon as she says that we both look at each other and pause. Our emotions break out of our faces and we begin to laugh uproariously. We both laugh not because it was witty or clever or anything, it was just one of those things that is funny for no reason at all. Those are the funniest things. Here we are rolling around like little mud children. Our guts clenching the air out of our lungs, laughing so hard but quietly for lack of oxygen. After our initially gut bursting reaction, air collects back into our lungs, and our laugh starts to get much louder. Now, the sound of our laughter makes us laugh even more. I can’t even hear London laughing anymore; I just know we can’t stop. I look over to her laughing--and she looks at me laughing--and we look each other in the eyes. With no time between the laughing and the latter, London starts crying. Not crying from laughing so hard, but real, sad, deep soul crying. I don’t do anything. I just look at her, finally understanding what a broken person she really is.

Again, I don’t say anything. I just let her cry her eyes out. I hold her hand and just listen to her. Letting all of her emotions say what they have to say. I can tell she hasn’t cried in years. I look around this place that I have been to a million times over and it looks the same as it always has, but know that it isn’t the same. Nothing is.

As London’s crying calms she starts to sit up. She looks at me as she still continues to whimper. She gives me that look somebody gives you when they realize that you have never seen them cry before. Except, I can’t help to feel like she has never cried in front of anyone before. At least, anyone like me, basically anyone that wasn’t her dad. I don’t really know what do in this situation because before London I never let myself be in a situation like this. I have been with Rose but she’s six. Out of instinct and definitely not design, I take London’s arm and kiss the wound on her wrist. I know this seems super corny but it isn’t. London smiles, and sniffs, brushes the strands of hair from her face. She snaps out of this state of vulnerability and walks toward her car. She comes out with the can of spray paint and struts back towards me steadfast.

“Pink?” She says with a menacing smile.

I don’t even bother explaining. I shrug, “Yeah.” I rub my chest once again feeling the welt from getting hit by the Olympian spray paint can thrower.

She shakes her head and smiles as she marches by me and opens the cage. She takes one of the pigs out of the cage and shakes the can intensely determined. She sprays a giant number one on its side and put it back in the cage. In giant glorious pink spray paint, she paints the numbers, one, two, three, and five on the pigs.

I don’t ask.

“So it’s getting pretty late,” I say, “Should we go and shower or something?”

London throws on a pair of shorts and as she buttons up her white shirt, “No. We have to do something else first.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say with enthusiasm clapping my hands together, “What’s next?”

London looks at me, and with that ever-wretched nonchalance she says, “We have to go steal our limo.”

Love: for the naïve, not the sane.