Authors: Michael Sutherland
Revolution (12 page)
There
were five of us on this boys" outing aged seventeen to twenty with me
mister average eighteen and very much squashed in the middle and suddenly I
just didn't want to be part of them anymore.
But
too late as Pete ruined gears and burned rubber, hammered pedal on metal,
ground metal to axle and screeched us along on a cloud of dust and exhaust
ignoring every speed limit on the way.
Grant's
head was bobbing and rolling from side to side with drool hanging out his
mouth.
"Is
he okay?" I asked Pete.
"Who?"
Boyd said turning to me.
"Grant,"
I said.
Pete
shot out an arm, smacked Grant in the face and slammed him back into the seat.
"He's
had too many barbies," he said in this really calm voice.
"Eppy
boy," Titch said.
"Shut
up you little creep," Boyd said around the front of me.
I'm
only the guy in the middle, I thought. Don't get me involved.
But
after a while there was a truce, a no cave in to the other mutual truce.
And
so the yelling stopped, and both Titch and Boyd crossed their arms so tight in
front of them that it was like sitting in the middle of electrified
high-tension coat hanger wire.
And
all the while Grant's eyes stayed closed. I swear that if that guy sat for more
than three seconds they were closed.
He
was strapped in tight in case he keeled forward and smashed his kisser into the
dashboard.
Grant
the big lanky guy, epileptic from birth, and strung out on barbies and God
knows what else since, just to keep him breathing.
I
felt sorry for him, because even when he stood up his eyes were hoods that
dropped like shutters at the earliest opportunity. After years in twilight his
body had taken on its own conscience after his brain had given up on him and
the rest of him realized it was on its last legs.
I
looked straight ahead into the setting sun but I could still see the speed cams
flashing, one after the other, flickers of white against a jelly orange sky.
"Pete?"
I said.
"What!"
"The
speed cameras," I reminded him.
"What
about them?"
"Yeah,
what about 'em?" Titch lisped in my ear.
I
gritted my teeth.
"It's
going to cost someone a fortune," I said wanting to bash Titch in the
face.
I
didn't even turn to look at him.
"It's
not me that's paying, Jack," Pete said very calmly.
He
had one hand on the wheel with his arm leaning on the open window.
A
can flew back between the seats and smacked in my crotch.
"Shit!"
"No,
Jack," Pete laughed. "It's only coke."
"What
did you have to come along for anyway?" Titch said to me.
But
I wasn't listening to him, just looking at Pete looking at me in the rear view
mirror again.
But
after a while it began to settle down. And the atmosphere went out the windows
to infect some other innocent suckers passing by as we headed for the pass.
We
started to laugh and joke around. Including Pete who should have had his eyes
glued to the road.
Instead
he kept looking over his shoulder, yelling, laughing, coked out.
Pete
the rich kid.
The
kid without worries, except for the aimless youth he should have hatched out of
years ago.
Nothing
was funny. But we laughed we did and hysterically too.
Either
politely or maniacally, because none of us wanted to be seen to be the one not
getting it, the one not getting the joke.
No
one wanted to be seen as the one that was so dumb he would be kicked out in the
cold in the heat of suburbia.
The
speed cameras tracked our way and joined up the dots of our roller ball ride
into nowhere taking picture after picture, same car, and same number.
With
Pete driving high on speed, even higher on frustration, because nothing was
ever fast enough for us.
The
setting sun blinded out the cameras flashy flicker impact anyway, so why worry?
Besides
the fines would arrive at Pete's dad's door as always, and as always Pete's dad
would pay for Petey boy's mistakes.
Only
Pete didn't see it like that.
This
was punishment.
What
was the point of his old man making all that money if it wasn't for spoiling
Pete with anyway?
So
this was revenge for his dad not giving him a decent set of wheels in the first
place.
Only
this time it was worse.
It
was the one and only time Pete's dad had actually challenged Pete to do
something, to earn something for himself for a change.
Only
it wasn't working.
It
only made Pete mad, reactor mad. Because, it is very hard on a guy like Pete to
survive on less than what he has taken for free not a long while before, for
what the whole of his life up to the pinpoint of ego impact, he has had for
free.
It
made Pete's growing up harder when he had had only nature and time to
force-grow him before.
So
now it was less dough, can only have this, can only have that, not both.
Not
like it was.
Pete
now had to make choices, downsize choices, which meant Pete had less to impress
with.
So
Pete's solution was to act like a kid again, an angry kid.
A
kid with the savvy to know where to push all the wrong buttons on the old man
who had taken away the goodies free once for the asking.
And
there's more than one way to be an annoying dangerous Brat.
He
lit up a cigarette then tossed the pack over his shoulder into the back.
They
landed on me but this time I didn't move.
Titch
twisted his head to me and I could see the desperation in his eyes, a real
smoke for a change.
But
the smokes where in my crotch, and there was no way he would dare go for them
there.
I
could smell him sweat.
And
before he could whine at Pete if he could have one, and thus, I guess, force me
to pick them up and hand them over to him, I did it before he had a chance.
"Here,"
I said.
Man
you would think it was a pipe bomb I was offering him the way he turned his
nose up.
"Suit
yourself," I said.
And
just as I was about to drop them back to where they had landed Titch snatched
them out of my hand.
"Any
news about the new car, Pete?" Titch asked lighting up.
I
didn't have time to cringe before Pete tapped the brakes.
We
jerked forward.
That
was Pete's non verbal way of saying, "Shut it."
The
car was a sore point, a sore that, to Pete, had become infected with pain.
It
was a car all right.
It
had wheels but not quite the hot wheels he'd asked his dad for.
And
it was all too much for Pete to take.
So
he'd gone off the rails and sought solace in anything that would take away the
pain.
He
got lost in booze and sex for a while. And when that didn't rip his old man's
arms out of their sockets, he turned to speed and cocaine too. And I heard he'd
been on Ice and Crystal too.
It
meant his dad had had to haul him out of the cop shop more than once because of
those dragon chasers.
But
Pete would just laugh.
"So
what," he'd say. "It isn't my fault the old man's slammed the brakes
on me, cramped my life. He's got to pay until he starts seeing things the right
way."
Which
meant Pete's way.
And
he would tell us all this with a big beaming smile on his face.
Like
Pete owned the world.
That
the world should crash down on its knees for this coming new god. For the
handsome one whose body and mind seemed able to live through God knows what
kind of destruction without it showing, at least for a while.
But
it was August, it was evening. The weather was fine with a cool breeze coming
in through the windows and then Pete dropped his cigarette.
He
yelled, "Shit!"
Then
leaned over looking for it, and someone else yelled, "Watch out!"
Could've
been me.
Don't
know.
But
Pete sprung back up like a jack-in-a-box and yanked down on the wheel, first
one way to avoid a truck, then the other, to avoid a traffic-light crashing
into our grills.
Red
light spells danger, of course, but we missed everything on the way through.
God
knows why we all laughed when that was a split second in the past.
Then
it went quiet and I was left wondering if death is devoid of pain. Blood rushed
from my head to my feet then back up again, pounding my veins wide on recoil
and prickling my skin.
It
was like my soul had been sucked out and rammed back in again.
It
wasn't long after that I remembered I had to pretend to think it was funny.
Funny
that we'd nearly copped it for the great junkyard in the sky.
Heaven
is supposed to be endless blue skies and big fluffy white clouds, and none too
few angels floating around and plucking at harps.
But
all I saw inside of me then, looming all around in my imagination in aftermath,
was a yard full of dust and rust and junk, twisted metal and congealing blood.
That
vision didn't make me feel so good.
In
fact it made me feel sick, scared sick.
And
even although I went along with the guys and laughed myself stupid, something
had died inside of me and had punched through all the laid back could care less
stupidity at the same time. And it was telling me this.
This
isn't right, Jack.
But
I ignored it, didn't want to hear it, laughed it out.
It
wasn't a real laugh, just a pretend laugh.
The
kind of laugh you keep in reserve for moments like that.
were five of us on this boys" outing aged seventeen to twenty with me
mister average eighteen and very much squashed in the middle and suddenly I
just didn't want to be part of them anymore.
But
too late as Pete ruined gears and burned rubber, hammered pedal on metal,
ground metal to axle and screeched us along on a cloud of dust and exhaust
ignoring every speed limit on the way.
Grant's
head was bobbing and rolling from side to side with drool hanging out his
mouth.
"Is
he okay?" I asked Pete.
"Who?"
Boyd said turning to me.
"Grant,"
I said.
Pete
shot out an arm, smacked Grant in the face and slammed him back into the seat.
"He's
had too many barbies," he said in this really calm voice.
"Eppy
boy," Titch said.
"Shut
up you little creep," Boyd said around the front of me.
I'm
only the guy in the middle, I thought. Don't get me involved.
But
after a while there was a truce, a no cave in to the other mutual truce.
And
so the yelling stopped, and both Titch and Boyd crossed their arms so tight in
front of them that it was like sitting in the middle of electrified
high-tension coat hanger wire.
And
all the while Grant's eyes stayed closed. I swear that if that guy sat for more
than three seconds they were closed.
He
was strapped in tight in case he keeled forward and smashed his kisser into the
dashboard.
Grant
the big lanky guy, epileptic from birth, and strung out on barbies and God
knows what else since, just to keep him breathing.
I
felt sorry for him, because even when he stood up his eyes were hoods that
dropped like shutters at the earliest opportunity. After years in twilight his
body had taken on its own conscience after his brain had given up on him and
the rest of him realized it was on its last legs.
I
looked straight ahead into the setting sun but I could still see the speed cams
flashing, one after the other, flickers of white against a jelly orange sky.
"Pete?"
I said.
"What!"
"The
speed cameras," I reminded him.
"What
about them?"
"Yeah,
what about 'em?" Titch lisped in my ear.
I
gritted my teeth.
"It's
going to cost someone a fortune," I said wanting to bash Titch in the
face.
I
didn't even turn to look at him.
"It's
not me that's paying, Jack," Pete said very calmly.
He
had one hand on the wheel with his arm leaning on the open window.
A
can flew back between the seats and smacked in my crotch.
"Shit!"
"No,
Jack," Pete laughed. "It's only coke."
"What
did you have to come along for anyway?" Titch said to me.
But
I wasn't listening to him, just looking at Pete looking at me in the rear view
mirror again.
But
after a while it began to settle down. And the atmosphere went out the windows
to infect some other innocent suckers passing by as we headed for the pass.
We
started to laugh and joke around. Including Pete who should have had his eyes
glued to the road.
Instead
he kept looking over his shoulder, yelling, laughing, coked out.
Pete
the rich kid.
The
kid without worries, except for the aimless youth he should have hatched out of
years ago.
Nothing
was funny. But we laughed we did and hysterically too.
Either
politely or maniacally, because none of us wanted to be seen to be the one not
getting it, the one not getting the joke.
No
one wanted to be seen as the one that was so dumb he would be kicked out in the
cold in the heat of suburbia.
The
speed cameras tracked our way and joined up the dots of our roller ball ride
into nowhere taking picture after picture, same car, and same number.
With
Pete driving high on speed, even higher on frustration, because nothing was
ever fast enough for us.
The
setting sun blinded out the cameras flashy flicker impact anyway, so why worry?
Besides
the fines would arrive at Pete's dad's door as always, and as always Pete's dad
would pay for Petey boy's mistakes.
Only
Pete didn't see it like that.
This
was punishment.
What
was the point of his old man making all that money if it wasn't for spoiling
Pete with anyway?
So
this was revenge for his dad not giving him a decent set of wheels in the first
place.
Only
this time it was worse.
It
was the one and only time Pete's dad had actually challenged Pete to do
something, to earn something for himself for a change.
Only
it wasn't working.
It
only made Pete mad, reactor mad. Because, it is very hard on a guy like Pete to
survive on less than what he has taken for free not a long while before, for
what the whole of his life up to the pinpoint of ego impact, he has had for
free.
It
made Pete's growing up harder when he had had only nature and time to
force-grow him before.
So
now it was less dough, can only have this, can only have that, not both.
Not
like it was.
Pete
now had to make choices, downsize choices, which meant Pete had less to impress
with.
So
Pete's solution was to act like a kid again, an angry kid.
A
kid with the savvy to know where to push all the wrong buttons on the old man
who had taken away the goodies free once for the asking.
And
there's more than one way to be an annoying dangerous Brat.
He
lit up a cigarette then tossed the pack over his shoulder into the back.
They
landed on me but this time I didn't move.
Titch
twisted his head to me and I could see the desperation in his eyes, a real
smoke for a change.
But
the smokes where in my crotch, and there was no way he would dare go for them
there.
I
could smell him sweat.
And
before he could whine at Pete if he could have one, and thus, I guess, force me
to pick them up and hand them over to him, I did it before he had a chance.
"Here,"
I said.
Man
you would think it was a pipe bomb I was offering him the way he turned his
nose up.
"Suit
yourself," I said.
And
just as I was about to drop them back to where they had landed Titch snatched
them out of my hand.
"Any
news about the new car, Pete?" Titch asked lighting up.
I
didn't have time to cringe before Pete tapped the brakes.
We
jerked forward.
That
was Pete's non verbal way of saying, "Shut it."
The
car was a sore point, a sore that, to Pete, had become infected with pain.
It
was a car all right.
It
had wheels but not quite the hot wheels he'd asked his dad for.
And
it was all too much for Pete to take.
So
he'd gone off the rails and sought solace in anything that would take away the
pain.
He
got lost in booze and sex for a while. And when that didn't rip his old man's
arms out of their sockets, he turned to speed and cocaine too. And I heard he'd
been on Ice and Crystal too.
It
meant his dad had had to haul him out of the cop shop more than once because of
those dragon chasers.
But
Pete would just laugh.
"So
what," he'd say. "It isn't my fault the old man's slammed the brakes
on me, cramped my life. He's got to pay until he starts seeing things the right
way."
Which
meant Pete's way.
And
he would tell us all this with a big beaming smile on his face.
Like
Pete owned the world.
That
the world should crash down on its knees for this coming new god. For the
handsome one whose body and mind seemed able to live through God knows what
kind of destruction without it showing, at least for a while.
But
it was August, it was evening. The weather was fine with a cool breeze coming
in through the windows and then Pete dropped his cigarette.
He
yelled, "Shit!"
Then
leaned over looking for it, and someone else yelled, "Watch out!"
Could've
been me.
Don't
know.
But
Pete sprung back up like a jack-in-a-box and yanked down on the wheel, first
one way to avoid a truck, then the other, to avoid a traffic-light crashing
into our grills.
Red
light spells danger, of course, but we missed everything on the way through.
God
knows why we all laughed when that was a split second in the past.
Then
it went quiet and I was left wondering if death is devoid of pain. Blood rushed
from my head to my feet then back up again, pounding my veins wide on recoil
and prickling my skin.
It
was like my soul had been sucked out and rammed back in again.
It
wasn't long after that I remembered I had to pretend to think it was funny.
Funny
that we'd nearly copped it for the great junkyard in the sky.
Heaven
is supposed to be endless blue skies and big fluffy white clouds, and none too
few angels floating around and plucking at harps.
But
all I saw inside of me then, looming all around in my imagination in aftermath,
was a yard full of dust and rust and junk, twisted metal and congealing blood.
That
vision didn't make me feel so good.
In
fact it made me feel sick, scared sick.
And
even although I went along with the guys and laughed myself stupid, something
had died inside of me and had punched through all the laid back could care less
stupidity at the same time. And it was telling me this.
This
isn't right, Jack.
But
I ignored it, didn't want to hear it, laughed it out.
It
wasn't a real laugh, just a pretend laugh.
The
kind of laugh you keep in reserve for moments like that.
A
kind of let's brazen it out laugh, because I didn't want to be seen as the one
not being part of the crowd and not getting a joke that was too dumb, too
dangerous.
But
by then the blood-rush had begun to settle and I had time to think, and wonder
at all the other times I'd pushed down on the self-doubts, the pretence stances
I'd taken just keep in with the crowd.
Was
it worth it?
Of
course it was worth it.
Those
guys were my friends.
Shit
it was like we had known each other all our lives.
It
felt like we were brothers even if we always didn't get along.
I
kept telling myself over and over that we'd do anything for each other, we
trusted each other.
But
that was the problem. Someone somewhere sees that trust, and someone somewhere
is always working at how to abuse it.
It's
a fact of life, one I hate, but a fact all the same.
Someone
somewhere is always looking out for that weak link in your chain and how they
can use it against you and make you do stuff just because they know they can.
And
you know what? You will always do it because you'll always stick with the devil
you know, always stay with the crowd even if it's killing yah.
Because
anything else will only be worse, man.
But
when you're a kid, stuff like that does not compute.
You
don't want it to compute, because if it did, it would mean losing out on too
much by facing facts.
You'd
be out on your own. A nerd as they say.
I
never thought of Pete abusing his father's trust.
It
was his means of survival. Thinking of it like that didn't make it feel right.
And
I'd heard Pete justified what he was doing to his dad because Pete's mother had
died giving birth to him, which meant Pete was all that his dad had left.
And
because of that, Pete's dad felt guilty, if distantly so.
Pete
blamed for killing his own mother, his dad blaming his only son for the loss of
the woman he loved.
It's
a theory, a shit theory, but a valid theory all the same.
And
that's why Pete always got, got, got, until now, until the car.
But,
you know, after our near crash with truck and post, the sound began to come
back to ears.
My
lungs started working again, and the thought that anything might be wrong, just
ever so slightly wrong, sank like submarine iron way down inside of me along
with all the other junk I didn't want to admit to.
So I
laughed.
Shit,
I was in hysterics.
I
mean I was going crazy with laughter in between two other guys doing the same.
And Pete was laughing so much himself that he couldn't keep his eyes on the
road again.
But
then that all came to a stop when we swerved off the road and into the estate.
We
were on our way.
Another
whirly gig gunship flew overhead chasing another supersonic plastic bag.
What
I didn't realize was that I had experienced my first wave function in the
process of collapsing.
kind of let's brazen it out laugh, because I didn't want to be seen as the one
not being part of the crowd and not getting a joke that was too dumb, too
dangerous.
But
by then the blood-rush had begun to settle and I had time to think, and wonder
at all the other times I'd pushed down on the self-doubts, the pretence stances
I'd taken just keep in with the crowd.
Was
it worth it?
Of
course it was worth it.
Those
guys were my friends.
Shit
it was like we had known each other all our lives.
It
felt like we were brothers even if we always didn't get along.
I
kept telling myself over and over that we'd do anything for each other, we
trusted each other.
But
that was the problem. Someone somewhere sees that trust, and someone somewhere
is always working at how to abuse it.
It's
a fact of life, one I hate, but a fact all the same.
Someone
somewhere is always looking out for that weak link in your chain and how they
can use it against you and make you do stuff just because they know they can.
And
you know what? You will always do it because you'll always stick with the devil
you know, always stay with the crowd even if it's killing yah.
Because
anything else will only be worse, man.
But
when you're a kid, stuff like that does not compute.
You
don't want it to compute, because if it did, it would mean losing out on too
much by facing facts.
You'd
be out on your own. A nerd as they say.
I
never thought of Pete abusing his father's trust.
It
was his means of survival. Thinking of it like that didn't make it feel right.
And
I'd heard Pete justified what he was doing to his dad because Pete's mother had
died giving birth to him, which meant Pete was all that his dad had left.
And
because of that, Pete's dad felt guilty, if distantly so.
Pete
blamed for killing his own mother, his dad blaming his only son for the loss of
the woman he loved.
It's
a theory, a shit theory, but a valid theory all the same.
And
that's why Pete always got, got, got, until now, until the car.
But,
you know, after our near crash with truck and post, the sound began to come
back to ears.
My
lungs started working again, and the thought that anything might be wrong, just
ever so slightly wrong, sank like submarine iron way down inside of me along
with all the other junk I didn't want to admit to.
So I
laughed.
Shit,
I was in hysterics.
I
mean I was going crazy with laughter in between two other guys doing the same.
And Pete was laughing so much himself that he couldn't keep his eyes on the
road again.
But
then that all came to a stop when we swerved off the road and into the estate.
We
were on our way.
Another
whirly gig gunship flew overhead chasing another supersonic plastic bag.
What
I didn't realize was that I had experienced my first wave function in the
process of collapsing.
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