Too Chickens

He insisted. He really did.         

But somehow, along the way to the airport, his car broke down.

It wasn’t that bad.

Only a car breaking down.

Not an engine heating up and then blowing up.

Or a car crash.

Just a break down.

But he told me his utmost desire is to be like all the other cool kids in the school. If only his stupid car didn’t break down, we’d be halfway there by now. The stupid car belonged to his father. He seemed fearful. I was scared. His father would be upset. My mother would be upset, too. She’d have many neighbors’ doors through which to go to talk about this incident! Because I was in it.

Melting my self-esteem. Eroding my self-confidence. Didn’t know words from a woman like her could do that. But I often shrugged the words off.

The classmate next to me bobbed his head. Anyway, he said, that’s just what I’m a do.

I know, I know, it’s lame. Every protagonist wants to be cool, right?

I mean, I’ve known these kids since elementary school—preschool, in fact.

He had stark-black hair that flew in the wind, and a pale-white face and mud-brown eyes.

He was a little boring.

But I, he said, need to relate. They need to understand me.

I’m not just a kid in high school.

But, I countered, I noticed your hair gets all blacker and eyes green and face whiter.

Yes, he said, smiling knowingly. Yes, it does. But I don’t mind.

But why? I suggested.

Just how I am.

Oh, I might add, we were sitting in the car, and he pulled out his cellphone.

I’m calling the tow truck company.

Okay, I nodded, and turned back to the passenger seat’s dashboard, staring at the stupidly ugly blackness.

The blackness that he must be in.

All unusual.

But I would like to know about him.

He seems like he doesn’t need any of this stupid popular-to-survive crap.

He just needs an arm around his shoulders.

He said they’d be here in two hours.

Two hours! He raged, slamming his fists on the steering wheel.

Cool, I said, placing a calm hand on a fist. He looked at me.

How are you so calm? He wondered.

Because.

Because why?

How about you go back to why you need to be popular?

Oh! He threw up a hand, smiling. Like nothing ever happened.

I sat back, enjoying the little show.

Anyway, he flicked eyebrows up and down. I was going to say I had an enormous time trying to convince my parents to put me in sports.

No sports?

No. Too much money. You’re already going to an expensive high school, they countered.

Well, I said, your son then won’t graduate and, better yet, get a full-ride scholarship to a school.

And get into a great school.

But think of the money. Grades are just as important. You don’t pay—get a job, and you can go to a great school all on your own.

Okay…

But popularity would shoot me right up there.

No wonder this kid’s house is a dump! He doesn’t want the work. He just wants the…

He was looking at me with half-closed eyes, a straight line for lips and a stern face.  “Maybe I’m an actor because I need to be someone I’m not. I just don’t have that personality, but when I’m on stage, that’s when I’m free. I can do what I should to be someone who’s not pink, red and black and blue. The colors of my costumes fly in the air. Being used by me. I’m not used. They are!”

“Oh…” I slowly slid my widened eyes away, lowering my eyebrows. Sliding my hands under my thighs. “Sorry.”

That’s okay, he patted my shoulder. But it was stiff—as stiff as a board of wood when it is dry. Not flexible. Not durable. Stiff. My shoulders slumped. But he wasn’t his characters on stage. He was someone going to possibly attend a great Ivy League school. Get out of his parent’s hair. For once in his life, he could be popular. He hides. Maybe if he were the center of attention at the proms, he’d be a star. Feel better. But it was just fake. My mother’s words stabbed in and out of me, stabbing me. Like a carpenter sawing me off the table. I lose an arm, a leg and eventually my whole head sometimes, screaming and throwing things.

Her venom poisons my mind, making me run away at times. Escape to parks or the forest behind our house. I talk to the wild animals. They help—but they’re animals. I told him. He still was that piece of wood.

At least you’re a piece of wood, I thought irritably. I’m a half-hacked-at piece of…I don’t know. Just a waste. I lost myself in the animal world, talking to a jaguar. I envisioned a jaguar at my window, and there it was! I jumped a little, but the jaguar was not seen by him. He was a brilliant actor. His hair and eyes made him attractive—at least for a time. I had no one. I had animals. And they had me.  

“It is?”

Yes. Anyway, I thought maybe I’d—

I puckered my lips.

What’s wrong? He asked. He checked the time.

About an hour and forty-five.

Your house is a mess! I was a ram damaging the wall to pieces. I didn’t hold back.

Well, when you need something—

Look, man, I don’t need to hear the dumb ways you’re on your way to whatever it is.

He stared at me with widened eyes, and his jaw dropped.

Are you calling me a liar? Now his eyes became slits.

No! I half-snarled.

He turned back to the wheel. He looked at it intensely, as if having a staring contest. I grabbed my backpack. I did my homework. He looked over. Yeah, he admitted. Help me with my Electives.

What’s that?

Oh, just some extra classes.

Like what? I wanted to know. He looked at me like he had never had anyone talk to him in an understanding, I-want-to-know way. Hey, I don’t mean to pry, but…did you ever have a person in your life look at you the way I did? Like a friend?

Uh… His face turned a shade of scarlet, and I bit my lip and looked down, turning into myself. But he nodded and said, that’s okay. I mean, we’re the only ones here. On the highway. I mean, I guess I don’t need to go with those guys. On the airplane.

A phone buzzed. He answered it.

Five minutes later, he told me they were on their way.

To where?

Somewhere. He shrugged.

Where? I pressed, annoying him.

He looked at the clock. A hour and thirty, he said.

Could you stop calculating the time?

He almost lunged at me!

Never tell me that again! He challenged. I widened my eyes, blocking myself with my binder and notes.

Dude!

Dude yourself. You’re the one who started it.

He folded into himself, his homework being forgotten, I guess. I told him I was going to do some more homework. He jerked away, and five minutes later, he had tears running down his face.

Hey, man! So sorry.

No one is.

What’s wrong?

My father…his hands. On my face. Pink, red and black and blue marks. They don’t go away. Sometimes, they’re blacker than my hair. My face grows tight, and I ball up. Just a soccer ball.

I looked at him, and waited for him to see the horror written all over it. He half-smiled. It’s okay. I just go to someone’s house.

Who’s?

Someone’s. His voice was tight.

I closed my mouth. I blinked. Stop being such a loud-mouth, you know? You can really annoy!

Got any issues?

Yeah—I’m a loud-mouth.

He didn’t read my mind now. I had already insulted him.

Sorry back there. I folded into myself. Maybe my mother talks trash about me. I know who I am. I just don’t want anyone to talk trash to me.

I turned away. What was this, therapy?

He shrugged his shoulders. We kept talking, our homework done soon hours ago.

I shrugged mine. We laughed and talked about our summer plans.

He said he was running a camp.

I said I was working at a camp.

He stared at me. Boys Go to College?

I bobbed my head.

Wow…

The last time I saw him, he had gotten married. Facebook boasted of his wedding photos.

His father had not shown up.

And neither did my mother.

But I did.

As a guest.

But he was smiling.

I felt good having helped him.

But now, I wanted him to have a father.

And he wanted me to have a mother.

I said my father passed away.

He said his mother passed away.

We were never stepbrothers.

But one day, we hung out at an abandoned parking garage somewhere in America.

He said that wasn’t him. Just his identical twin brother.

Oh! I couldn’t hide my surprise.

He turned the computer off.

Hey, he said. I’m thinking of making that mental image of us together at the parking garage a reality. You coming?

I thought, and then agreed.

The next thing we knew, we were in another car.

Heading for the airport.

Our plane didn’t break down.

We compared wedding photos.

I realized I could breathe fire. And turn things to ice at will.

We were superheroes.  

But we never had too much time not to spend with our wives.

They were mortal.

But our pictures always invited others to smile along with us, too.

My mother never smiled. She died, and I buried her in the fire of my heart. My heart had been on fire, from anger and rage and vicious almost hatred. But watching her corpse turn to ash made my heart soar.

No words could describe my joy at the death of words.

Death of words had never been so sweeter.

Death of venom and asp and waspishness and wasp and sting had never been so freeing. The flames licked the air.

I threw the soot into our fireplace at home.

My wife smiled.

"Thanks. For killing it."

My mother? No.

My father had already died. Died from verbal abuse.