The B-36 Magazine: 2008

By Tyler McAndrew

Sunday

Chad stood at the curb, tiny freckles of blood on his face and shirt. Everything was quiet except for the sound of a television from the open window of the house behind him. He stood still for a moment before noticing the shoe in the grass next to him. The air was cool and the sun shined bright. Down the road, Chad could see the steeple of the church stabbing up through the clear sky.

Crouching, Chad picked up the shoe and stepped into the road. Dan lay still and quiet, one leg curled behind his body, crumbs of teeth and pearls of windshield decorating the pavement alongside him.

Chad sat down on the asphalt next to his friend. He looked around. The car that had struck Dan lay on its side a little further down the road. One wheel still spun silently and a bumper-sticker that read Jesus Saves shined against the rusted blue paint. Wisps of smoke crept from beneath the mangled hood.

Chad lifted his friend's leg and tried to squeeze the shoe back over foot. He tried untying the laces but his hands were shaking and he could not. Carefully lowering the leg, he placed the shoe so that it hung loosely over Dan's socked toes.

People had come out of houses and gathered in the lawns all around. A mother pulled her curious child away from the wrecked car. Sirens swelled in the distance. Someone asked Chad if he was all right but Chad just stayed sitting in the road, watching dark wetness creep across the pavement from beneath Dan's body.

Monday

Chad did not have a suit of his own and so the next morning, before his father drove him to school, he rolled up his father's business suit and stuffed it into his backpack. In the school parking lot, he waited until his father's car was out of sight, then ran as fast as he could to the church where Dan's funeral was being held. He put the suit on in on the bathroom. It was dark blue and too big.

Chad sat in the second row with Mark and Mark's parents. Dan's casket was closed.

Before the service began, Mark whispered that there was an announcement made at school and that everyone was given the option to leave their first class and attend the funeral.

“But everyone,” Mark whispered, “just left class and is getting drunk in the woods.”

While the priest spoke, Chad thought about what had happened. He and Dan had been walking to Mark's house. Mark was grounded because he had been caught doing drugs and was expelled from Hillbrook, the private school where all of the rich kids went. If Dan and Chad wanted to see him, they had to walk across town to his house. The car had come fast and swerved before he or Dan even saw it. The ambulance arrived and took Chad home. They asked him some questions but thinking about it at the funeral, Chad couldn't remember what they were.

After the priest stopped talking, everyone lined up before the casket and took turns saying good bye. Chad watched Mark walk up to the coffin, the wetness on Mark's face shining in the dim candle light.

When it was Chad's turn, he did not cry. He straightened his father's tie and put his hands in the pockets of his father's jacket. He tried to think of something to say but could not. Nothing is right, he thought. Nothing about this is right.

Tuesday

Chad walked downstairs just in time to see a flask disappear into his father's coat pocket, a glass of orange juice swirling in his father's hand. Chad sat down at the table next to his younger brother, Travis, and poured himself a bowl of cereal.

“I noticed you borrowed my suit yesterday,” Chad's father said. He took a long drink of orange juice, his eyes panning back and forth over a folded newspaper.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“It's all right.”

Chad stirred his cereal. He was not hungry.

“You know, I asked you to watch your brother after school.”

“Yeah.” Chad felt his breath grow heavy.

“So?” His father waited a moment for Chad to say something more before putting the newspaper down and staring across the table at Chad. “You can't just leave him on his own, Chad. How many times do we have to talk about this?”

Chad stared into his cereal, watched the bits of fiber grow swollen and soggy. Travis was stirring his own bowl, the loud sound of the spoon scraping the sides, a whirlpool of milk.

“When I'm at work,” Chad's father started, “you've got to be here to keep an eye on him. I'm barely able to afford feeding you kids, let alone paying for all the god damn medical bills your brother racks up. You're old enough to start taking some responsibilities and the means keeping an eye on your brother when I'm not around.” Chad's father took a long drink of orange juice and set the empty glass on the table. Travis was stirring his cereal faster, milk slipping over the sides of the bowl and onto the table. He made sound effects with his mouth to accompany the action. “What would have happened yesterday if Travis had a seizure while you were out running around with your god damn friends?”

Chad closed his eyes, opened them. “I know,” he said, the words barely escaping his breath. His eyes moved to the corner of the newspaper that lay folded on the table before his father.

“It's not every day, Chad. But I need the help. You know that.”

Chad reached across the table and grabbed the newspaper. His elbow bumped Travis's bowl and milk went sliding across the table top. The silverware shuddered as Chad's father leaped from his seat.

“Jesus Christ,” Chad's father shouted, his shirt and pants dark with milk.

“I'm sorry,” Chad said. He held the paper tight beneath the table.

Travis sat with his spoon in his mouth and Chad could tell his brother was going to cry.

Chad's father stood for a moment, breathing loudly. Then, through clenched teeth: “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I'm sorry, Dad.”

“Christ. Just go get ready for school.”

The newspaper crinkled in Chad's hands. He watched his father take a roll of paper towels from the cupboard and wipe uselessly for a few moments before giving up.

“I need to change. We're already going to be late. Go get ready for school.” Chad's father threw the sopping wad of paper towels onto the table. He began unbuttoning his shirt. “Don't go anywhere after school. I need you to watch him.”

Chad watched his father leave the room and then took the folded the newspaper and put it in his backpack.

At school, Chad was late for his first class. As soon as he entered the building, he ran to the bathroom and locked himself in one of the stalls. He took out the newspaper and searched for the obituaries. He found Dan's, ripped it out. The rest of the paper he left crumpled in a puddle on the bathroom floor.

He didn't pay attention to anything for the rest of the day, just read the words on the small square of paper over and over again. In art class, Chad took a pair of scissors and cut carefully around the torn edges of the scrap so that he had a perfect rectangular clipping. At his desk, he sat, pressing the small piece of paper against the skin of his forearm.

Wednesday

“Where were you after school yesterday?” Mark and Chad walked slow down the road out of the school parking lot. “I thought we were going over to Steve's.”

“I know,” Chad said. “My dad made me stay home and watch my brother.”

“What?” Mark spit at the curb. “That kid is such a fucking queer.”

“I know.” Chad was about to continue but Mark interrupted.

“Remember when we caught him playing with fucking dolls and shit? I can't believe that.”

“I know.”

“What a queer.” Mark hacked and spit. “Anyways, You want to just head over to Steve's now?”

“Okay,” Chad said. He started to speak again but Mark interrupted.

“Fuck. Hang on.” Mark sat down on the curb and slipped off one of his shoes. He held the shoe upside down and shook out tiny bits of gravel. Chad bit his lip, ran his tongue over the chapped skin.

“I need the money that I gave you to give Steve,” Chad said.

“What?”

“I need the money that I gave you to give Steve.”

“Why?”

“Can you cover it this week? I'll pay you back, I promise.”

Mark didn't say anything. He pushed his foot into his shoe and pulled at the lace.

“Come on,” Chad pleaded. “It's my money anyways.”

“How are we going to pay Steve then?”

“Mark, come on. Your parents are fucking loaded. Just ask your mom for some money. I'll pay you back, I promise.”

“What do you need it for?”

Chad put his hands in his pockets, touched the smooth newsprint clipping.

“I'm getting a tattoo.”

Mark pulled the knot of his shoe lace tight and stood, kicked at the gravel on the side of the road.

“I already gave it to Steve,” Mark said. “Sorry.”

Chad sighed and spat, a wet flower blooming on the pavement.

“Don't worry though,” Mark said.

“You already gave him the money?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I saw him yesterday after school. I gave him the money and he said we could stop by any time later this week. I didn't want to go without you. Don't worry though. He can do it for you.”

“Do what?”

“The tattoo.”

The two boys were walking again, slow along the side of the road.

“I don't know,” Chad said. “I think I want to just go to that parlor over by the hardware store or something.”

“Don't worry, man. Steve's done a couple tattoos before, I think. He can do it for you. It'll be way cheaper than going to some parlor too. Come on, let's go to his house right now.”

“I don't know,” Chad said.

They walked for nearly an hour. Chad's shirt clung to his back with sweat. He kicked at rocks in the gutter. They began to near Mark's neighborhood and Chad could see the steeple pointing up into the sky like a knife. He turned off the main road and Mark followed.

“Where are you going?” Mark asked.

“We can go this way, right?”

“To Steve's? Yeah, I guess. It's not as quick though.”

“That's okay.”

Chad wanted to avoid the place where Dan had been hit by the car.

The boys walked uphill, sweating. The houses began to grow. Garages and second stories bloomed like tumors among the small, cramped homes that Chad was used to and the spaces between houses became much larger. The surface of the planet is stretching, Chad thought. The lawns had short grass and long driveways. Many of the houses were made of brick.

“It's this one,” Mark said, walking across the lawn of a tall blue house. There was a small shingled roof over the door and a long window with lace curtains across the front, a cobblestone path leading up to the door. Mark pressed the door bell and Chad sat down on the cobblestones and felt the small square of newsprint in his pocket. Mark pressed the door bell again. The door opened and Steve stood there for a moment before saying: “Oh. Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Mark said.

Steve looked at Chad for a moment. Chad had met Steve before but he knew that Steve wouldn't recognize him.

“Come on in.”

The two boys followed Steve inside. The house was clean and woven rugs decorated the floor of each room. Steve led the boys into the kitchen where they sat down on stools around a wooden counter.

“Hang on a second. I'll be right back.” Steve stood and stared at Chad for another moment before walking away, his bare feet leaving smudges on the spotless marble tiles. There was the muffled sound of his feet running up a staircase. The two boys sat in silence until Steve came back down, struggling with the child-proof cap on a small orange prescription bottle. Chad could see that the name on the bottle's label was not Steve's. Opening the bottle, Steve shook out three pills, handed them to Mark.

“Thanks,” Mark said.

“No problem.”

Mark coughed, looked at Chad. There was a thick silence before Chad spoke.

“Mark said that you can do tattoos.”

Steve laughed.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I can.”

“How much will it cost?” Chad asked.

“Depends on what it is, I guess.” Steve opened a drawer in the counter and took out a paper and pen. “Here,” he said. “Draw what you want.”

Chad took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and set it on the paper. Steve looked down at the small type, squinting his eyes to read.

“That's a lot of words, man. I can't do it that small. It would have to be pretty big.”

Chad bit his lip and thought for a moment before taking the pen and underlining a portion of the text.

“Easy,” Steve said, looking at the paper. “That will be quick. Ten bucks?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that's okay.” Chad paused. “I don't have any money on me right now.”

“Don't worry about it. Just bring it the next time you guys come to buy stuff.”

“Okay,” Chad nodded.

Steve looked at Mark and instructed: “Upstairs in my mom's room. It's the first door on the left. In the desk with the sewing machine there should be a shit load of safety pins. And some thread. Get those.”

Mark ran and Chad listened to the muffled foot steps ascending the staircase, the sound of running water as Steve filled a glass at the sink. Steve placed the glass on the counter and left the room. Chad heard him shuffling about somewhere in the house. Mark's footsteps came down the stairs and he and Steve both returned to the kitchen. Next to the glass and the prescription bottle, they placed a safety pin, a spool of thread, a bottle of ink, and a small jar of petroleum jelly.

Chad's stomach felt heavy. Steve unscrewed the orange prescription bottle, shook out two pills, placed them on his tongue. He took swig from the glass of water.

“All right,” Steve said. “Where is it going?”

Chad pointed to his forearm.

“Okay.” Steve was winding the thread tight around the safety pin, unscrewing the bottle of ink. Chad breathed and looked at Mark who looked at Steve. Steve took his wrist and he closed his eyes, took a breath.

The pin dug sharply into Chad's skin. He jerked his arm and Steve dropped the pin.

“Fuck. I'm sorry,” Chad said. He looked down and saw a single black dot on his arm. He thought of the smudge on the road where Dan had stood.

“Calm down, man,” Steve said. He bent over and picked the safety pin from the floor, blew some dust from it, pulled the thread tight.

Chad bit his lip hard. The pin stung and all of his muscles went tight. Steve pulled the pin out and Chad's flesh puckered where it had been. The pin stabbed again, slow and deep. He bit harder and tasted blood. The pin came out, dug in, came out and dug in. The sting began to grow less painful and Chad relaxed his arm a bit, looked down, watched Steve work. He wiped his face with his free arm. Steve leaned back and stretched, pushed the sleeves of his shirt up around his elbows. A small dark blotch on the inside of one arm peeked from beneath his sleeve.

“What's that?” Chad asked. Steve looked down at the blotch and pulled his sleeves back down.

“A tattoo I gave myself a while back.”

“What is it supposed to be?”

“I don't know.” Steve paused and then laughed a bit. “I was pretty high when I did it.”

The skin on Chad's arm was tight and swollen. The three boys sat in silence. When it was almost finished, Steve said without looking up: “I think I heard about this kid. Real bummer.”

Chad nodded.

After Steve shut the door and the the two boys were left alone on the cobblestone walk, Chad held his arm up and watched the petroleum jelly on his skin glisten in the sunlight. Mark stood close to him. For a moment the two boys gazed in silent wonder at the tattoo:

R.I.P. Dan Wallace

Mark's fingers reached out and touched Chad's arm, lightly smearing the jelly around the swollen skin. Chad looked at the tattoo for a moment before noticing Mark's fingers.

“You faggot,” Chad said, pulling his arm back. He pushed Mark away, laughing. “You are such a god damn faggot.”

“Man, I can't believe you got that.”

Chad's arm burned. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Come on,” he said.

“Man,” Mark said, still staring at the arm.

“Come on.”

“Yeah. Yeah, let's go.”

Chad and Mark left and each swallowed one of the pills Steve had sold them. They had no water and Chad coughed as he forced the pill down his dry throat. Mark wasn't paying attention and Chad put the third pill into his pocket.

The air had cooled. They ran down the hill from Steve's house. There was a breeze that licked at the tender skin on Chad's arm and moved through his hair like fingers. He closed his eyes and spit and opened them.

An expensive car was parked on the street about half way down the hill. Chad ran and jumped onto the rear bumper. The metal frame bounced under his feet as he ran over the roof, jumped from the hood and hit the ground running. The two boys laughed. They kept running, jumping over curbs and doing kicks in the air.

They neared Chad's neighborhood. The houses were getting smaller and closer together. They yelled at things that they passed, laughing, spitting. Chad's arm burned and he thought to himself that the burn felt good and he was strong. He picked up a glass bottle that lay in gutter and threw it into the middle of the road. Thousands of pieces exploded across the pavement and lay in the beautiful rainbow of an oil puddle. Mark punched a stop sign and the loud metallic clang echoed throughout the neighborhood. They picked up rocks from the side of the road and threw them at passing cars. The rocks mostly fell short, hit the asphalt and bounced a few times in the exhaust trails.

A rusty blue car passed. Chad threw a rock and there was the awful sound of it hitting the car's rear window. Thick white cracks ran through the glass in a snowflake design. The brakes screamed. The boys looked at each other and raced across the nearest lawn, between two houses and into a backyard. They heard the car door slam, the engine still rumbling and coughing, a man's voice, screaming: “You fucking kids, I swear to God I will beat the fucking shit out of you. Who the fuck do you think you are.” The boys crouched against the back of a house. “I'm calling the cops,” the voice shouted. “You're going to pay for this shit. Where did you run to. I'll beat the shit out of you, I fucking swear to God.” Mark was breathing hard and his knuckles were grinding against the cement base of the house. Chad closed his eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with you kids,” the man screamed.

“Come on,” Chad whispered. He ran across the narrow space between the yards and crouched against the wall of the next house. Mark followed.

“You're going to fucking pay for this,” the man shouted from the road.

The two boys ran behind the next house and the next. They crept through backyards, climbing over chain link fences and ducking under windows until they could no longer hear the man's voice.

“I think we're good,” Mark finally said. They crouched against the wall of a small blue house.

“Yeah,” Chad breathed. He was damp with sweat. He scratched at his forearm. A dog was barking somewhere in the distance.

The two boys crept around the side of the house, back towards the street. The sound of a television blared through an open window. As they crossed the front lawn, Chad slowed. He stopped scratching his arm. There was a breeze and he felt his sweat grow cold. The grass gave way to pavement and they stopped.

“That's him,” Chad said.

The two boys stared down at a dark stain on the asphalt. Mark was silent. The sky was growing dark and no cars drove by. Chad sat down in the grass at the side of the road, coughed and said: “That's him.”

Mark looked down at his friend, whose face was shining. He sat down and Chad's body began to heave with sobs.

“You okay?” Mark asked.

Chad dug his fingers deep into the soil and pulled out two thick handfuls of grass.

“It's okay,” Mark whispered.

Chad wiped his cheek, grinding the heel of his dirty palm against his face. His breath slowed and he said: “We need to do something.”

“Okay.”

“We need to do something.”

“Anything.”

Thursday

“You okay?” Chad's father asked from across the table.

“Yeah.”

Chad kept his arms under the table so that his father would not see the tattoo. He scratched at the pink skin around it.

“Eat your breakfast.”

Travis had his chin on the table, lips wrapped around the edge of his cereal bowl, blowing bubbles into the milk. Chad's father took a long drink of orange juice and from across the table Chad could smell liquor.

“I'm going to need you to watch Travis after school today,” his father said. “This weekend, too. I'm taking some extra hours at work. Night shift on Saturday. I'll just need you to be around that night and in the morning on Sunday. Okay?”

Chad exhaled and stirred his cereal.

“Okay?” his father repeated.

“Yeah,” Chad muttered. He dropped his spoon into the milk and scratched at his forearm. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Have we got any spray paint?”

Travis began humming into his milk and the bubbles grew more rapid as the pitch increased.

“What the hell do you need spray paint for?”

Chad hesitated for a moment. He looked down at his tattoo and scratched fiercely.

“It's just this thing. A project. For school.”

“Travis, will you knock that off? I don't think we have any, Chad.”

Chad's father took a long drink of orange juice. The bubbles in Travis's bowl grew more intense and then stopped. His head rolled on the table and his body twitched in his chair.

“Shit,” Chad's father said. The legs of his chair squeaked across the floor and he was on his feet, sliding the bowl away from Travis's head, pulling Travis's chair away from the table. He took the boy's head in one hand and lifted his body out of the chair with the other. “Chad,” he said. “Go get his pills.”

With his forearm held close against his body, Chad ran across the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and found the small container with Travis's name on it. He shook out three pills, stuffed one into his pocket, ran back to the kitchen.

Chad's father stood cradling Travis's head, the boy's limp body propped up on the kitchen counter.

“Here,” Chad's father said, holding out one hand. “Quick.”

Chad handed his father the two pills.

“Fill a glass of water.”

Chad obeyed and stood holding the glass in one hand, his forearm in the other. Travis's eyelids fluttered and opened and looked around the room before setting on his father.

“Hey,” Chad's father said. His voice was quiet and soothing and he moved his hand to wipe a string of saliva from Travis's chin.

“Hey,” Travis said.

“You okay?”

Travis blinked hard, rubbed his eyes.

“I'm tired.”

Chad's father stood holding the boy's head, running his fingers through the light hair. Travis took the pills and Chad stepped forward with the glass of water. His father held the glass to Travis's lips. The three of them were silent for some time.

“Come on,” Chad's father finally said. “Go get ready for school.”

Friday

Chad had no money and so he and Mark each left the hardware store with a bottle of spray paint tucked under their shirts. They pushed past the glass doors and walked to the back of the building. Two green dumpsters stood against the scummy brick wall.

“Lift me up,” Chad said. He set the spray paint on the ground and Mark held out his hands. He stepped up with one foot and Mark lifted until he scrambled over the rim of the dumpster. He dug out several flattened cardboard boxes and threw them down to Mark. Chad climbed down and Mark picked up the cans of spray paint, shaking them up and down rhythmically, humming a melody to the rattle of the metal pea. Chad took the flattened boxes. The corners were wet and he did his best to grip the middle of the cardboard against his thigh as they walked across town toward Mark's house. Mark hummed as they walked, shaking the cans. Chad did not recognize the song, but he knew that it was sad.

For the rest of the day, the boys worked in Mark's garage, slicing cardboard with pocket knives amidst an invisible cloud of paint fumes.

Sunday

Chad woke up early, sheets twisted around his ankles at the foot of the bed. He threw some clothes on and walked into the kitchen where Travis sat on the floor in his underwear, a naked plastic doll in one hand and a rotting carrot in the other. Travis stroked the doll's blond hair and made wet kissing noises as he pressed it against the vegetable.

“Where's Dad?” Chad asked.

“He said you have to watch me.”

Travis rubbed the doll slowly up and down the length of the slimy carrot.

“I'm borrowing your bike.”

“No you're not.”

“Whatever. I'm leaving.”

Travis looked up. Brown juice oozed out over his fingers and smeared the doll's naked body. “You can't take my bike.”

“Try to stop me.”

Travis dropped the doll and the carrot and stood up. He stood still for a moment, looked Chad in the eyes. He took a step forward and Chad pushed him hard. Chad thought the boy was going to cry when suddenly he screamed and swung his arms, smearing brown carrot slime across Chad's face. One hand came down and slapped Chad's forearm. The pink skin burned. Travis wasn't wearing a shirt and so Chad reached out and closed his fist around Travis' nipple, squeezing as hard as he could, digging his fingers into the flesh. Travis howled and cried, his arms were still waving madly. He tried to kick at Chad but his legs were too short.

“Faggot,” Chad said, and pushed Travis back so that he fell to the floor and landed on his carrot. The naked doll went spiraling across the tiles. “I'm taking your bike.”

The screen door slammed behind Chad. The sound of his brother whimpering was quiet in the back yard. He picked Travis's mountain bike up off the lawn, reached into his pocket and dug out the last pill that he and Mark had bought from Steve. He stood for a moment and listened to Travis moaning inside while saliva gathered beneath his tongue. He swallowed the pill and rode toward Mark's house.

The air was heavy. The smell of spray paint still clung to the cardboard signs that dragged on the pavement behind Mark and bounced in the air over Chad's shoulder. They came to the spot on the side of the road. A year from now you will just look like a skid mark, Chad thought.

The two boys sat down on the curb. Further down the road the steeple of the church stood out against the clean blue sky, looming over the small houses around it.

“My mom always gets home around noon,” Mark said.

Chad nodded. He looked at Mark who looked at the asphalt, his fingers tracing figure-eights through the pebbles that gathered where road met curb.

“If she drives past, she will be fucking pissed,” Mark said. Chad tightened his grip around the handle of his sign. “If she drives past, I'm leaving.”

“Shut up,” Chad said. “Calm down.”

The boys sat and waited. Chad was staring at the spot that was Dan. A brown car came fast down the road and Chad looked up and swore as it flew by.

“Stand up, stand up,” he said, picking up his sign. He ran into the street, waving the sign back and forth in the exhaust.

The car was out of sight. Mark still stood at the curb.

“It's okay,” Chad said. “It's okay. That was only the first one. What time is it?”

“It was ten when we left.”

“Okay. The church crowd will be coming through soon. That was only the first one. They'll all be coming past any minute now. Get ready.”

“If my mom sees this, she's going to flip out.”

The steeple towered in the distance. A station wagon came barreling down the road toward them.

“Get ready. Get ready,” Chad said. Mark came forward, held up his two signs: God = Nazi Scum, one read. Underneath the letters, a swastika was drawn in thick red paint, the vertical line in the center made longer than the horizontal so that the two resembled a holy cross. Dan Was Smitten, read the other sign.

Chad ran into the road holding his sign above his head. Unfair, it read in bright neon letters. A crude arrow was painted above the word, pointing upwards toward the sky.

The car drove past without stopping.

Three more cars went by. The boys shouted and waved their signs but the cars flew by without so much as the radiance of brake lights.

Mark sat down on the curb, sign across his lap. Chad stood in front of him, waiting.

An elderly couple was walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road. The woman's hair was a short tuft of gray and she walked in small, slow steps with a cane in one hand and the man's wrinkled arm in the other.

Chad saw the old couple and his mouth tightened. His hands were shaking.

“Come on,” he said. He started across the street. Mark picked up his signs. “Hey,” Chad called. The couple did not seem to notice him. He shook the sign above his head and shouted: “Hey.” The man looked up. Chad marched toward the couple and Mark lingered at the edge of the road, breathing heavily, one sign above his head and the other tight against his chest so that only his eyes showed between them.

The old man touched his wife's arm and she looked up and saw Chad and gasped. The old man turned away, began to lead his wife across the street. Chad shouted to them again and they quickened their pace. They were halfway across the street when Chad ran in front of them, brandishing his sign like a weapon.

“You see that spot on the road?”

“Listen, kid,” the old man started. The wife was thin and small and hid behind him like a child. “I ain't got any money.”

“Shut up,” Chad said. The old man put both of his hands in the air.

“I said I ain't got any money.”

“Shut up. Listen. I don't want your money. Look at that spot on the ground.” Chad lowered his sign and pointed at the spot that was Dan. “You see that spot?”

The old man squinted hard at the ground where Chad pointed.

“Look,” Chad urged. The man looked up at him, perplexed, and Chad said: “What are you, fucking blind?”

The old man shook his head. His wife trembled behind him.

“Look, I don't know what you're talking about,” the old man said. He turned to walk back to the side of the street where Mark stood hiding behind his signs.

“Hey,” Chad yelled. He grabbed the old man by the shoulder. “Listen to me. That spot was my friend.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay.” The man turned and shuffled away, his tiny wife inching across the road next to him.

“You just came from church, right?” Chad shouted after them.

The couple kept walking. His wife was on her toes, trying to say something into his ear. She looked scared and confused.

“That spot was my friend.”

The couple reached the sidewalk and kept walking. Mark pivoted behind his signs to face them as they passed. The old man was shaking his head, muttering.

“What the fuck is wrong with you kids?” a tall woman shouted. She was fat and had red hair.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Chad slammed his sign against the pavement, denting the flimsy cardboard. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with a God that sends his patrons flying down the road after worship to kill my best friend?” Chad was screaming, his voice weak and cracking. “Murderers.”

“Go home,” she yelled.

A small man with a mustache and a middle aged woman who lived on Chad's block stood alongside the fat red-haired woman. Mark stood at the curb, one sign held tightly in front of his face, the other stabbed into the grass along the sidewalk. His feet moved anxiously back and forth. A mother holding the hands of her two children quickened her pace on the other side of the street.

Chad held up his arm so that everyone could see his tattoo. “Dan Wallace,” he yelled, pointing with his sign at the spot on the ground. His forearm burned in the air and he felt strong. “That's Dan Wallace.”

“Yeah,” Mark said.

The crowd bowed their heads to look where Chad pointed and raised them again with confused faces. The mustached man muttered, pacing back and forth, waving his hand dismissively and then turning back and muttering more. A car drove by and slowed down with heads poking out of the open windows.

“Unfair,” Chad yelled. He pumped his fist in the air and extended a finger to the sky.

More people walked by. A family saw the signs and stopped and asked the mustached man what was happening. There were whispers. Chad held his finger high.

“Get lost,” someone yelled.

“It's a fucking oil stain,” someone yelled.

“God's judgment is pure and true,” the mustached man was shouting.

“Shut up,” Chad said. “Shut up. You all go to that church. You all helped out.”

The fat woman stepped forward, planted her feet on the spot that was Dan. She started to yell something but Chad reached out and pushed her backwards with both hands.

“Show some fucking respect,” he shouted. The woman tripped over her feet and fell backwards. Mark couldn't help himself and let out a nervous laugh as the crowd parted and the woman's massive form toppled clumsily to the pavement. She let out an awful cry unlike anything Chad had ever heard. For a moment, the entire crowd was silent.

Someone threw a piece of trash and it bounced off of Chad's shoulder and fell to the ground. The fat woman screamed and people came running from inside houses across the street. The fat woman lay on the pavement, her face wet with tears, the spot that was Dan showing on the pavement before her. Faces were plastered against the windows inside of houses. The crowd was yelling, cursing. Cars drove by, slowed down. People knelt around the fat woman, asking her questions. Chad tried not to look at her. He put his sign in the air and tried to shout something but couldn't think of any words.

“Chad,” Mark said from behind his sign. Chad ignored him. “Chad,” Mark said again. He lowered his sign. “We need to leave.” Chad kept his eyes on the crowd, the fat woman howling in his peripheral. “Chad,” Mark yelled. Chad was silent and after a moment, Mark threw down his sign and turned and started walking away. Chad turned and saw Mark leaving.

“Hey,” Chad yelled. Someone in the crowd spit at him and the saliva hit his shoulder and neck.

Mark turned back. “We need to leave.”

Chad was quiet, staring at his friend.

“This is stupid,” Mark said.

“This is not stupid.”

“What is this accomplishing?”

Chad turned back to the crowd. He held his arm in the air. Mark turned and started to walk away.

“You're a faggot,” Chad shouted at him. Mark stopped, pulled the other sign out of the grass and threw it at Chad. The cardboard sheet landed on the fat woman. The small man with the mustache picked up the sign and broke the thin wooden picket over his knee. He threw the two pieces to the ground and stepped over the fat woman and onto the spot that was Dan, pushed Chad hard with both hands. He was looking Chad in the eyes and yelling but it was all just noise and Chad did not listen but tried to stand tall and face the crowd. He held his sign tightly. Everyone was shouting. Mark's sign lay broken on the curb like an accident victim, the bright paint glistening in the sun. The fat woman wailed and the mustached man yelled and pushed Chad so that Chad stumbled backwards across the sidewalk and onto the lawn of the house Dan had pissed on. The mustached man pushed him again and as he fell, Chad swung his sign as hard as he could, hitting the man in the face, the cardboard denting and folding over the man's head. A car drove by and from the ground, Chad saw the red lights and heard the scream of brakes. He stumbled to his feet and did not have time to stand up straight before the mustached man stepped forward and hit him. Chad fell to the grass, his fingers still wrapped tight around the picket of his sign. The mustached man bent over him, shaking the collar of his shirt, yelling. The man brought his hand up and slapped Chad across the mouth and Chad screamed. His face burned. He swung his arm and felt it connect with the man's woolly lip. A car door slammed. The mustached man slapped Chad again and Chad could taste blood between his teeth.

The crowd parted and someone fell to the pavement as Chad's father pushed through. He pulled the mustached man up and punched him hard in the face. Bodies surged forward and the the crowd was like a tidal wave. Chad felt his father's fist clench around his shoulder, dig into his collar bone. He was wrenched to his feet. Spit and noise and garbage flew and his father pulled him, stumbling, through the mass of shoulders and arms. Chad stumbled over the curb and his father's arm pulled him across the asphalt on his knees. His forehead collided with the roof of his father's car as his father threw him inside. He cried and heard to the sound of the doors slam and the engine lurch into gear.

The noise of the crowd was muffled through the windows and soon faded all together as the car sped away. He pressed his head against the window. A bottle rolled against his foot on the floor of the car.

“Dad,” Chad moaned, his eyes closed tight, the mark of his breath pulsating on the window. Snot and tears smeared the glass under his cheek.

His father said nothing. The car shook with acceleration.

“Dad.” Chad opened his eyes and through the distortion of tears and the ghostly reflection of himself on the window he saw the side-view mirror hanging outside of the car. In the small mirror Travis was sitting with his knees against his chest in the back seat. Chad tried to say something but was sobbing too hard and could only form detached vowels and halves of words.

“Are you okay?” Chad's father said. He did not look at Chad.

“Yeah,” Chad managed. He spit into his hand a wad of bubbling red and wiped it across his pant leg.

Chad breathed deep and closed his eyes again. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped some of the thick wetness from his face. He opened his eyes and watched Travis in the mirror. A large band-aid was stretched above one of Travis's eyes. There was a long silence.

“What were you doing?”

As soon as his father spoke, Chad felt tears coming and he closed his eyes and pressed his face against the window.

“What were you doing?” his father repeated.

Chad could not answer and began crying harder. He raised his head and brought it down hard against the window glass.

“I told you to stay home this morning. I told you to stay home and watch your brother because I had to work and I needed you to be there.”

Chad hit his head against the glass, harder.

“Why can't you just do that one simple thing.” His father's knuckles were white around the steering wheel. “What is wrong with you, Chad?”

“Shut up,” Chad screamed, and hit his head harder against the window, his hands clenched around the plastic handle of the door. He cried harder and screamed the words again. He felt like he was going to vomit.

Chad's father punched the top of the steering wheel. He leaned across his seat toward Chad and yelled: “I got home and Travis was having a god damn seizure on the kitchen floor.” Chad's father was focused on Chad and ignoring the road. “What were you doing?”

The car blew through a stop sign and a boy standing on the corner to cross the street leaped back from the road, the brakes screaming, Chad's father's arm moved across Chad's chest to keep the boy from flying forward but Chad's forehead collided with the dashboard and his vision went white, slowly fading back into color as the car came to a violent halt and the the smell of the engine and of burning rubber filled his nostrils. His father swore loudly and leaned over his seat to face Travis. Chad's fingers moved over the door handle and pulled. He stepped onto the road, stumbled and ran, his father calling his name behind him.

Chad ran behind houses, through backyards, until all he could hear was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Veins pulsated on either side of his head. He sat down in the shade against the side of a house to catch his breath and wipe the wetness from his face, the bubbling snot from his upper lip. He closed his eyes for a long moment and felt dizzy. The ground tilted and spun beneath him. Opening his eyes, he breathed deep and tried not to move. There was a growling nothingness in his stomach. For a long time he sat still and watched the slight movement of his shirt where his heart was pounding hard until it slowed and he gained his breath.

Standing up, Chad shuffled between the houses and back into the bright sun of the front yards. A car drove by and someone threw a styro-foam container from the window.

He walked until he was back at Mark's house. Travis's bike lay in the front lawn. Mark was nowhere to be seen.

The wheels of the bike moaned as Chad pedaled, the rusted chain clanking loudy with every rotation. He rode the bike until the air grew cool and shades of red and purple bled into the sky. He stood up on the bike and breathing hard, rode up the long hill towards Steve's house. The lawns got bigger and the wheels turned slower and with less ease up the hill and Chad felt like the ground was expanding beneath him. Nothing is right, he thought to himself, and listened to the moaning of the bike as he rode slow up the hill.

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