Bubblegum Bat-paste

Hanging upside down for twenty-four minutes really had to suck. The thought made Brady’s head swim—probably because all the blood in his body had rushed there two days ago when he swung the backs of his knees around the monkey bars and dangled for at least two whole minutes, at least by his friend Vinnie’s count. 

But Vinnie was a stupid bullshitter who lied a lot; he underestimated things that made other people look good. And what was absolutely not good was that the metal had only taken those “two minutes” to burn red stripes into Brady’s skin—even if, in truth, his legs were sort of already red because he had not put on sunblock. Everything stung now. And worse still, he wasn’t really sure if all his fluids had flowed back to where they were supposed to be. He was still woozy. His ears hurt. Maybe his stomach was completely un-blooded. 

Or maybe it was just hot. He had been wrapped in these faded sheets, soaked in sweat, staring at the motionless black spot on his bedroom ceiling, for twenty-four whole minutes now. It was a spider. Or an ant, he decided. It must have been eating the few bags of barbecue chips he’d hidden in his sock drawer for nights without dinner.

And while he couldn’t really see it, Brady knew how tortuously long it had been hanging there because the half-muffled radio alarm across the hall had been shouting out the time and temperature every eight minutes on the dot.

“It’s 9:24 AM, folks, and we have a real old-fashioned heatwave rolling in today. Expect highs in the hundreds across the tristate area,” the deejay droned, speaking in a jovial, well-practiced voice that belonged nowhere. It was the kind of voice announcers do in case they end up working someplace actually important and don’t want anybody to know where they came from, full of life but with none of the life that had preceded it. “Stay out of the sun. Stay cool. Make sure your refrigerator is running.” There was a duck sound effect to punctuate this zinger. Quack. Quack. “That’s right. It’s the perfect day to crank that air conditioner and chill out here with me to your favorite classic rock hits!”

Brady sat up, peeling the sheets from his reddened legs and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. The other one fumbled around the end table for his glasses, and slipping them up onto his face, he looked immediately upward, trying to find, once again, the black spot. As though it knew now that he could see it, the insect took flight and vanished into the shadows in the room’s corners. But Brady still caught it in the scattered rays of sun slipping through the blinds. It was a mosquito, he decided, and he had really lucked out, maybe, because all his blood was in his head where it couldn’t get it.

Swinging his stinging legs over the mattress with a muttered curse word nobody knew he knew, Brady hopped onto the fraying maroon carpet and stretched his arms upward, something that would make him have a growth spurt, someone had told him. He tugged on the string to open the shades, wrestling with them a bit as they came up crookedly. Hazy, sickly-yellow morning filled the room, and Brady pressed his face to the glass, hot to the touch, watching the girls two houses down already splashing in the grass-filled water of their inflatable swimming pool. He did not have a swimming pool.

But his father had actually bought him an air conditioning unit for this window for his birthday the week prior—which was a stupid present for a twelve-year-old with no sense for practical things. It was less fun than the one from the year before, some kind of strange novelty lotion that turned you blue and also stained white sofas that had been kept in the divorce. Brady had not been able to find another tube of it once his mother confiscated it.

His mother had also kept the air conditioner because she and John didn’t have one in their bedroom. And John couldn’t sleep in the heat; John needed, really needed, to be able to sleep, godammit. Brady’s mother liked it when John slept too; John was less cranky when he slept. But they would get him another air conditioner for Christmas or Easter, she promised, whichever one they remembered first, or at least a nice box fan. Here’s a gift card for the 7-11; don’t tell your father. John took it a few days later for coffee, Brady knew. Brady had not lost it, despite popular belief. 

Another song was starting on the radio now, pounding on with the steady thump-thump-thump of a drum solo. And with a weak sigh, realizing he was not actually getting back to bed anytime soon, not with this noise, Brady moved to shove open the door to the hallway. It groaned against his weight, releasing a cloud of stale, humid air as he balanced himself on the threshold and crossed his arms, staring at the large, white door sitting shut across the corridor.

It had been his parents’ room once, he remembered. He used to go looking for them in it at night sometimes, back when he wet the bed, which he obviously didn’t do anymore. But now it was more John’s room, really. At least that was how everyone acted about it, ever since his mother had let him move in with them a few years earlier.

But if he himself ever got a girlfriend, which he probably would this school year, Brady thought, he wouldn’t want to move into her bedroom; he would want to keep his own, even with the mosquitos and old bedsheets that smelled like closet. But he entertained these private hopes for only a moment. Thump-thump-thump-screech-screech. The drums had given way to electric guitar, and Brady winced at it, entire body bristling. He stood there an eternity, tethered in place, listening to this song, a few commercials, and then another before speaking up.

“Hey, John?” he called. “John! Your alarm’s been goin’ for half an hour! Are you awake?” His mother would have left for work by now, he knew, which meant John was in there by himself, not to be disturbed. Fidgeting a bit, playing with the hem of his tee, Brady furrowed up his features and shifted his weight from one bare sunburned ankle to the other. He swallowed hard, the saliva sticking to his dry throat on the way down. He coughed. “John? Are you awake?”

And although he wasn’t supposed to, although he really wasn’t supposed to wake him, although waking him last week had lost him cell phone privileges, Brady inched his way along the hardwood floor and brought up a hand to give three feeble knocks. Thump-thump-thump. He waited, counting the seconds by the beats of his heart, by the beats of the drum, and by the screech-screech-screech of the guitar. But no one answered.

Brady huffed, muttering another curse word under his breath and pacing in a defeated half-circle. He knew how the radio worked, he thought. He knew how the radio worked. It was simple. And even if he didn’t, it would be easy to figure it out. It would be so easy to turn it off. He could find the button. He would be in and out before anyone even noticed. And so, bringing up a hand, steeling himself for this mission, he grabbed the crystal knob with a soggy palm and tugged, a blast of chilly air rolling over him as it gave way.

The room was a purple shade of dark, the windows blocked with thick, brocade curtains, a frozen cavern lit only by the blinking green dots on the air conditioner, the flashing time on the clock radio, which was wrong, and the rectangle of light now filtering in from the corridor. It stank of mold, the pungently sour-sweet odor of ill-kept filters. It stank of mold, and it stank of what even Brady knew was liquor, the foul aroma of unventilated barrooms, the kind of smell that seeped into every fabric and every crevice.

John stank of liquor. Clad in a black tank, he was sprawled over the top of the bed with his mouth open, drool pooling where the edges of his beard met the corners of his cracked lips. Brady regarded him with an uneasy stare, not daring to take a step forward just yet. He waited. He watched. But his glasses began to fog. Crap!

He tugged them from his face with one quick motion to begin wiping at them with the hem of his shirt. But perhaps these few precious lost seconds, unexpected as they were, proved enough time for abject failure to root. John groaned, a yellowed, bloodshot eye shooting open as he shifted all his body weight to roll toward the door. He snarled.

“What the hell are you doing?” he roared over the radio. “Shut the door, you little bastard! You’re letting all the cold out. You don’t pay any bills in this goddamn house!”

Brady slammed it, and standing in the frenzied aftermath of his stupid, useless surge of bravery, left now with only adrenaline, clenching and unclenching his fists, he barreled down the hall, into the bathroom, the only door with a lock.

The blue tiles were mercifully and surprisingly cold beneath the soles of his feet as he twisted the knob, and pressing his ear to the door, he listened for the approach of footsteps. None came.

“It’s 9:32 AM, and oooh, it’s a real scorcher out there today, folks!” the deejay cried after a bit, and with a petulant whine, Brady imitated his voice, repeating the words aloud and delivering a mighty kick into the wall. He practically shattered his toes. Crap!

The impact sent him reeling toward the sink, where he balanced himself for purchase. And digging his nails into the palm of his hand, Brady reached up the other to fumble for the light over the medicine cabinet, deciding, screw this house, screw John, screw Vinnie who was a liar, screw the girls and their swimming pool, screw all of them. He was going to go back to the park and dangle on the monkey bars until his head exploded. And then everyone would be sorry.

As the dim bulb flickered to life, catching him in its yellowish, electric glow, Brady regarded himself in the mirror, leaning in to look, really look, for the first, promising signs of mustache hair above his lip. None yet, but probably this school year. Screw that too, he decided, sinking onto the cold floor, where he sat for a few minutes of mourning, listening for the first sign of footsteps. None came.

And he needed to go to the park. He really needed to get ready and go to the park, and so, finding his footing, he surged upward and tugged open the medicine cabinet. 

There was a new tube there, a tube he did not recognize, neon pink with bubbly silver lettering, sitting on the lowermost shelf. Someone had affixed a yellow Post-it note to it, and tugging the slip free, Brady cocked his head to one side as he regarded it.

From Dad. Knock ‘em dead, kiddo!

Crumpling up the paper and tossing it into the toilet, Brady pulled the tube from the cupboard’s cluttered depths, tipping over scattered pill bottles and a can of body spray as he flipped the thing around in his hands. New Bubblegum Bat-paste!™ Brush to keep your pearly whites looking sharp! A cartoon illustration of a smiling bat with a container of mouthwash was giving a thumbs-up.

Brady rolled his eyes at it. What was he, five? He was practically a teenager. He huffed, then, letting out another private curse word and slumping against the wall. He stared at the tube. It did not stare back. 

Whatever. He was going to get to use at least one of his stupid, boring, no-good birthday gifts. And so, he flipped on the water, tugged his toothbrush from the holder, squirted out a glossy dab of pink, and got to work.

Yuck.

Despite its promises, the “Bat-paste!” did not quite taste like bubblegum, he thought. It was sweet, too sweet, a queasy, metallic kind of sweet, almost like candy melted in the sun onto the roof of a car, a sweetness that could make a person vomit. But Brady brushed, scraping his teeth in rough, jagged circles.

His head was pounding, he realized. It was so hot. But of course it was hot, he thought. Every eight minutes, the announcer on the clock radio told everyone about how hot it was. His shirt was clinging to his back now, his sunburned legs blazing. And down the hall, another song was starting, a shrieking man reaching for notes never before reached over a thudding, booming bassline.

Brady groaned, clenching his jaw tight as he continued to brush, ducking his whole head forward and focusing only on the momentum of the brushing, allowing his eyes to trace the rings of the shallow blue sink, round and round, trying, trying, to block out the world, to block out the heat, to block out the noise. He counted backward in his head, brushing, brushing, counting down the two minutes you were supposed to brush for but losing his place a few times, his mind swimming, and having to start over. And reaching zero just as the song surged to a crescendo, he spit.

It was red. It was so red. Glasses tipping down the bridge of his nose, Brady watched the bloody backwash slosh around the basin with the water from the tap. It began to spiral down the drain like tendrils, pooling around the metal stopper like a bloody oil slick, a shimmering red glob.

Wiping curiously at his mouth, leaving a streak on the back of his hand, Brady craned his neck weakly upward. He looked. But there were no mustache hairs in the mirror. No, no, in the mirror, there was nothing.

He stared, but his reflection did not stare back. He could see the blue tile behind his head, see John’s bathrobe, see the photograph of the beach he had made crooked with his kicking. But oh God, he could not see himself. His eyes widened (he could not see them).

He could not see anything. And in a moment of shock, Brady stumbled, tripping and landing hard against the wall. He bit down as he tried to catch himself.

Yum. Sharp canines, too sharp, sharper than he remembered them ever being, nicked his tongue. He bled. He yelped. The pain, however, if one could even call it that, stung for only an instant, a fleeting moment as he ran his tongue along the front of his teeth, gauging them as if for the very first time—the way he had when his adult ones grew in a few years prior. Losing the babies had been a great shock. 

But then, there was that queasy, metallic sweetness again, pooling in his mouth from where he had pierced himself and staining his chin and lips as it bubbled out. It was a pleasant taste, a quenching taste, not quite bubblegum, no, not bubblegum, but maybe, just maybe, not so bad, after all.

Yum.

No, no, no, he needed help. He needed help right now. Hopping into the shower, fumbling in the tub, Brady tugged open the blue vinyl curtain blocking the window, thinking he could flag down the pool girls, send them signals from above to call his dad, or his mom, or, or, or…an ambulance or a dentist or even a priest.

But as the harsh morning sun filled the bathroom, enveloping it in its putrid honeyed glaze and turning the blue tub a dismal half-green, Brady recoiled, letting out a savage cry as the stinging sensation from his legs seemed to ripple like a firestorm across his body, every pore prickling with the touch of hot iron.

Brady cried out again, his voice screeching, melting with the muffled shrieks of the rock singer on the radio in the other room, and with a surge of self-preservation, he tugged the curtain closed once more, fumbling his way backward onto the floor.

It was so hot, he thought. It was so hot. And he was thirsty. He was suddenly so thirsty.

Brady knew, in this moment, what he wanted. He wanted it to be dark. He wanted it to be dark and cool. And he wanted, no, he needed something to drink.

As he inched across the narrow room, a hand came up to twist the bathroom lock, and Brady took a few steps into the corridor, dragging his feet. His glasses fell completely as he moved, sliding down his sweat-soaked nose, toppling to the floor. But he did not need them anymore, Brady realized. He could see just fine. He could see everything just fine.

He came to the big white door with the crystal knob, pausing before it and listening as another rock number screeched to its conclusion. He tugged it open just as John was finally climbing out of bed.

“What did I goddamn tell you, you little shit? Close the goddamn door! What the hell is all over your face? You better not have gotten into your mother’s Pop-Tarts.”

Brady grinned. The radio crackled.

“It’s 9:40 AM, folks, and oh boy, we’ve got a real heatwave rolling in! Emergency services are now issuing warnings about dangerous highs all day long. So stay cool. Stay chill. We’re playing all your favorite hits. Do you know what I love on a day like today? An ice cream sandwich. Yeah, yeah, that’s something you can really sink your teeth into to hit the spot. So how ‘bout it? Here’s your next request!”