Crack Really Puts Things in Perspective
IT TAKES forever to get to the DMV, and then there’s a line. A loooong line, and the people who work here are slow as hell and don’t seem to mind stretching out the process. I guess they get paid either way. First there’s paperwork. Then the written test. More paperwork. Then it’s another hour of waiting for the driving test, and I’m jacked up on soda and candy from the vending machine, my only source of nutrition, when the woman behind the counter finally calls my name.
“You can pull your car around back,” she says.
“My what?”
“Your car. You need to have a car in order to take your driving test.”
“I thought you guys provided the car.”
She sighs like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. “No, sweetheart, we don’t provide the car. You have to bring your own.” She glances down at her clipboard and then, perhaps noticing I’m on the verge of tears, shows a sliver of humanity. “I’ll file your paperwork. Come back next week with your own car and we’ll finish it then.”
“Are you open tomorrow?” I whine. It’s nearing closing time, so even if I managed to get my mom’s car, by the time I got back, it’ll be too late.
“Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Make an appointment next time and it will go faster.”
I moan, still trying to keep it together, then exit the DMV in a huff. I’m sticky from the ride and grimy from sitting on my ass in the DMV all day. My emotions are running amok when I imagine all the people who must have by now seen my mug performing fellatio on Asshole Dave and the last thing I want to do is go home and face my raging sister making this all about her again. And Chris. I don’t want to have to explain that picture to him.
Knowing Chris, he’s probably got our apartment cased, waiting to ambush me. Or maybe it’s the opposite and he never wants to talk to me again after today. Even though he won’t admit it, some part of Chris likes being a cool kid, and this was definitely not cool. The thought of him abandoning me is too depressing to even contemplate.
I hop on my board and head for the beach, thinking it’s the last place I can run and hide.
When I get there an hour or so later, the sun is at my back and there’s a damp chill in the air. There are a few guys out surfing, but I’m not in the mood to beg for a board.
My stomach growls because all I’ve eaten today is cake, a candy bar, and chips. I recognize one of the beach bums, Lieutenant Sean Knox, picking through the trashcans that line the beach access. Sean’s one of the guys who will reliably buy us beer if we give him a cut, and I decide to spend the last of my birthday money from my mom on getting totally shit-faced. Seems like the only way to end this awful day.
I offer up my plan to Sean with the option that he keep the difference in cash. He suggests we split the case of beer instead, and I tell him I’m game. He asks me what kind I want, and I tell him to pick since it’s all the same to me. He comes back from the convenience store with a case of Miller Light under his arm. I figured we’d just split it there on the sidewalk, but he tells me to follow him down to the beach.
Once there, he ducks under the pier and climbs up to where the sand meets the pilings and creates a secluded kind of cave. Not a bad place to camp out for the night, which makes me wonder if Sean does that on the regular. He plops down and motions for me to join him, cracks open a beer, and tosses me one. I thought I’d be drinking alone, but I suppose it’s just as well to drink with a friend. I pop the top and it foams up a bit. I slurp it up, thinking it tastes only a little bit better than it smells.
By this time the sun is starting to set and the surfers are all going out for their last few rides. I get to thinking about my surf trips with Chris, how I’ve usually punked out by this time and I’m just sitting on the beach wrapped in a towel watching him surf. If I make my eyes go wide and fuzzy, I can almost see him out there on the waves right now, and it fills me with a sense of calm and contentment that also feels dangerous, and I know I’ve really screwed things up this time.
While we drink, Sean tells me about his time in the army and where he spent his tours. I’ve heard it before, but I listen again to be polite. Then he starts telling me about this city in Afghanistan, this one particular battle, which apparently has been made into a movie and stars an ex-marine who was there.
“He was the only one of his platoon to survive. I mean, what are the chances?” Sean says with a bitter edge to his voice, and I’m not sure I understand the significance except to think that he is one lucky bastard.
“Know what I think?” Sean leans in like we’re two gangsters planning our next bank robbery.
“What?” I’m light-headed and at ease. I could listen to Sean all night long. Just two buds, kicking back a few beers, telling war stories.
“I think that fucker was hiding. I think he abandoned his boys. Because the shit he was able to remember.” Sean shakes his head. His upper lip curls into a snarl. “I mean, I was in some shit, man, and I can’t remember anything.”
“It happens so fast,” I say. In the blink of an eye, everything turns upside down and you’re dumped on your ass.
“Hell yeah. It was over like that.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “And this fucker is coming up with all these details about what guns were fired—the mortars and shells, who was hit and where. Bullshit, man. He wasn’t there. Maybe he was part of the cleanup crew, but he sure as shit wasn’t there.”
I nod in agreement, wondering how it was that Sean ended up picking through the trash on the beach, and who we are as a society if we can’t even take care of our veterans.
“So, what’s your story, man?” Sean turns toward me, catching me by surprise. I’m flattered he wants to know me better. A lot of the bums just want to talk about themselves, mostly to tell you a sob story so you feel bad enough to give them money to go buy beer or drugs. Not that I’m judging. We all get by however we can.
“I don’t know if I have a story.” I’m not necessarily looking for sympathy, but not avoiding it early. “It’s my birthday today.”
“Really? Shit, happy birthday.” He claps me on the back and taps the rim of his can against mine. His is already empty, so he cracks open another one. “Drink up, man. These won’t stay cold for long, and they taste like ass when they’re warm.”
I chug the rest of my beer and accept the open one he offers to me. The first beer was ice cold and went down like water with only a mildly bitter aftertaste. My stomach is full and sloshy, but I start on the second one with just as much enthusiasm.
“So, how old are you now?” Sean asks.
“Sixteen.”
“Sweet sixteen, never been kissed,” Sean muses.
I chirp a bitter laugh because it’s true. I’ve still never been kissed. Saving myself, I guess.
“Where’s all your boys?” Sean scans the shoreline, where the surfers are all packing up for the night, maybe wondering if I know them. I probably do, but not well enough to call them my boys.
There’s something about this second beer, which is quickly going down the gullet and working its way through my bloodstream, making me giddy and light-headed with a general sense of not giving a fuck. “There’s a picture of me going around school,” I tell Sean. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Dick pic?” he asks.
If only it were that. “No. It’s of me sucking off another guy.”
Sean flinches like he’s just woken up from a bad dream. “Shit, man, that’s a lot to unpack.”
I laugh at the way he says it. “You’re telling me.”
“That’s pretty shitty, sending around that picture. You know who did it?”
I sigh because more than being pissed at Dave, I’m disappointed. I trusted him, and he screwed me over. It hurts on a superficial level—my reputation and my privacy and the fact that I don’t want to show my face at Sabal Palm High ever again—but it also hurts on a much deeper level.
“Yeah, I know who did it,” I tell him.
“You going to beat his ass?”
I consider it. I can’t really see myself beating Dave’s ass, if I even could. I’ll probably never talk to him again and avoid him at all costs, but hitting people isn’t really my style. “Probably not,” I tell Sean. “I’m kind of a pussy.”
Sean’s head wobbles back and forth like he can’t make the call either way. “You do that, though? Give head?” Sean glances over with what I can only describe as a hopeful look on his face.
“No.” I shake my head. “I mean, not as like, a job. The guy who took the picture, I was interested in him, even though he’s kind of an asshole. I guess he showed his true colors.”
“That he did.” Sean crushes his empty can between two fists. Like a real man, I think. A real man would beat Dave’s ass, wouldn’t he, which makes me wonder, what is a real man, anyway? All I have as a reference is my dad and all the mixed emotions tied up in who he is and what he’s done or failed to do for our family.
“Anyway.” I stare out at the waves, finish my beer, and toss the can in the sand. Just when I think the silence is going to be awkward, Sean starts talking about how when he came home from his last tour in Afghanistan, he was in all kinds of bad shape, how he felt like no one understood him and he couldn’t adapt to everyday life. How things that shouldn’t scare him did, and the things that should scare him didn’t.
“Then I started smoking crack, man,” Sean says. “I was working nights at Publix, stocking shelves, and there was a guy there who offered to get me high, and I was, like, yeah, sure, why not? I mean, I’ve survived a war, twice, what could crack do to me?”
I’m silent at that, sensing it’s a rhetorical question.
“You ever tried crack?” Sean asks.
I shake my head. Until this moment, I’ve never gotten drunk either. Crack seems like the Mount Everest of drugs, even though I could probably score some there at the beach before the night was over if I really wanted to.
“Man, it’s good. So goddamned good. Made me feel like I was all right. Actually, made me not give a shit about anything else but getting high, which was a relief in a weird way.” Sean glances around at who might be listening, but there are only a few shifty characters gathered over in the parking lot and a couple making out on a blanket farther down the beach. The dusk settles in around us like a fat, fluffy cat.
“Wish I had some right now,” Sean says longingly, like he’s pining for a lost lover.
“Probably best to stay away from it,” I tell him, thinking what a hypocrite I am because here I am getting drunk when my father’s an alcoholic.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Sean admits.
I finish my third beer and then my fourth. I don’t notice much of anything outside the steady rhythm of Sean’s voice and the wave of indifference I’m currently riding. The perfect wave. Makes me a little nauseous, but I can’t seem to get off. Somewhere in between Sean talking about stealing his mother’s silver only to discover it wasn’t real silver and nearly setting his sister’s place on fire, I tell him about my infatuation with my best friend, who is straight and how he’s the person I want to be with all the time. I really stress that phrase, all the time. Because when we’re not together, I miss him, and lately it’s the same way even when we’re in the same room. I miss the effortless friendship we used to have when I didn’t have to think so hard on what to say or what not to say, or wonder at any given second what he’s thinking, worried he might see my feelings on my face. I blubber all this to Sean, not sure if I’m making any sense, but Sean keeps nodding sympathetically and goes so far as to wrap his arm around me and say, “There are worse things in the world, buddy, and it’s not what happens to you, but what you let it do to you. If this friend of yours is as good as you say he is, you should tell him what’s up. Clear the air, you know?”
“Clear the air,” I repeat sluggishly, making sure I got it right.
And somewhere along the way, I have the sense to warn Sean I’m about to pass out, and ask him politely not to gank my shit when I do. Sean swears to me that he won’t, lifting three fingers in Scout’s honor. That’s the last thing I remember, Sean’s three fingers and the earnest look on his face, as I ride that wave into a sweet and cozy oblivion.