Текст книги "Palo Alto Stories"

Автор книги: James Franco

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

I Could Kill Someone

There are many ways to kill someone, but a gun seems as good as any. The big thing that gets you caught is motive. It’s pretty obvious that Brent Baucher hates me, but who would expect me to get a gun and kill him?

He’s on the football team. He is not handsome. He’s fit, but he’s a beast, very hairy arms and legs: strong, pale, discolored things.

I’m told that I am good-looking, but I hate my body, and my face, and my curly hair. And I’m shy.

Brent has a large bulging forehead that makes his eyes sit deep in his skull. The bottom of his face is too long, like it was squeezed in a vise. There are white-capped acne bulges, pink and irritated. And single hairs coming out of strange areas.

In World History I once saw him doodling on a returned exam. Next to the red Fat the top he wrote “uck ’em all.” Then under that he wrote “Niggas Unite.” Then he scribbled out his last name and wrote “Too $hort,” like the rapper.

I’d like to take Brent out of reality, just as simple as leading him through a door.

I don’t like violence. I don’t play video games, and I don’t go to horror movies. I like Steel Magnolias; I like Sally Field.

One time, in my sophomore year, I had to stay after school and run around the track because I had been late to Mr. Peterson’s PE class twenty times in a row. That gray afternoon, going around, I thought about the oval of the track, and the rectangle of the football field within it, and the smaller rectangles of the field defining the yard lines. The memory of all those circles and rectangles is tied up with what happened later in the locker room.

When I got in from the track, the last of the football team was in there changing after practice. I walked to the far bank of lockers, along the wall, where my locker was. I could hear them cavorting and laughing, and as I walked I could see out of my peripheral vision that one of the five or six of them was Brent Baucher.

I sat on the wooden bench and swirled the black dial back and forth, and behind me, in the center aisle, the five and Brent erupted in laughter. The sound bounced around the cement room. That laughter had been in that place forever; it was something that those boys had found when they got to high school.

“You looked, motherfucker! Faggot looked!”

“Cecil looked! Faggot looked!”

“No I din’n,” said Cecil’s voice, but it was drowned in laughter and the sounds of bodies moving around.

I changed as fast as I could, my shirt first and then quickly off with my shorts and on with my jeans.

Then I realized that the locker room was very quiet, and when I looked over my shoulder the six of them were standing in their underwear and they were all still muddy and dirty and covered in grass, and I saw Baucher’s chest in a tight white tank, hair sprouting everywhere, and then I noticed something that made my mind jump; they each had one testicle sticking out of the pee hole in the front of their underpants; endless balls, pulled tight against scrotum skin; pink, brown, and paste. For a flash of a second, I saw Brent’s: large, kidney shaped, blue veined, and hairy.

I looked up and saw their faces and I knew I was not supposed to be looking at those balls, that that was what they wanted.

“Faggot looked!” said someone. And then they all said it, while they tucked in their balls and moved toward me. They screamed that I was a faggot as two held me down. One sat on my face—Cecil, I think; his crotch smelled sour and rich, and his balls in their cloth sack were on my chin. Down below, the others pulled my jeans off and my underwear. Someone grabbed my balls and twisted. At first it felt like a bubble in my stomach that went up to my throat and filled it, like my balls were up there and choking me, and then they twisted further, and the skin of my scrotum burned as it twisted and chafed against itself.

“Again!” someone yelled.

“Again!” another person yelled. They were all yelling “Faggot” again, and my balls were twisting again, and before I started screaming into the white wall of Cecil’s underwear, and biting at the chalky brown of his inner thigh, I realized that I could not hear Brent’s voice in all the yelling. Before things went black I realized that Brent’s silence meant that he was doing the twisting.

Brent is very stupid. He gets all Ds and Fs in his classes. I have World History with him; he said that the Black Plague was started by a combination of gays and rats. We studied the French Revolution in that class. One time, I masturbated to David’s painting of Marat. It was a picture in my textbook, and I let the come go right in there, and then I closed it. Now the pages are cemented together, and dead Marat is plastered against the guillotine forever.

This is Brent’s joke: “What’s the difference between a faggot and shit?” I didn’t know the answer. “Nothing, you fucking faggot.” He told that joke one time, and then kicked my foot to trip me into dog shit on the quad lawn. I didn’t fall, but everyone thought it was funny.

Brent says I’m a faggot because I quit the football team freshman year. I asked him about it and that’s when we had our first little scene.

“You think I’m a fag because I quit the team?” I said.

He stopped. He had his usual black San Diego Chargers hat on backward. His long face looked surprised, and the one stoned-looking eye opened a little bit more.

“You area fucking fag,” he said. He looked like he was getting a little emotional about it. I could see it in his retarded eyes.

“Why do you think that?” I said, and my voice trembled.

“I don’t thinkit, you are!” Then he walked off. It’s weird, but I think it’s because he was going to cry. After that he always called me a faggot.

After the locker room I decided that Brent needed to die. He was never going to get smarter, and he was a bigot. And I couldn’t stop thinking about his acne-corroded flesh being opened, and his thin racist blood matting the hair of his beastly body.

I was standing over near the underpass next to the school where people smoked. Some people called it the Bat Cave.

“You really want one?” said Barry. Barry was my friend. He was chubby and lovable, and Mormon, and smoked pot and loved John Bonham.

“Yes,” I said. “I want one.”

I wanted a gun.

Barry couldn’t get me one, but he knew a guy who could.

“Sheeze, well, okay, but… sheeze, all right, I have to talk to Teague.”

Teague went to Menlo, a private school in the next town. Teague was infamous. Barry knew him because Barry went to Menlo in eighth grade.

Teague was dating a girl named Kate Keller who went to the all-girls school, Castilleja. My mom used to teach there. Kate and Teague fucked all the time, so people said. One time, Barry told me that in eighth grade Teague took Kate to Wayne’s Worldand fingered her during the whole movie. Just watching and working.

Everyone knew that Teague could get guns.

Two days later, on Thursday, Barry came up to me in the cafeteria at brunch. I was in the food line. Barry put his face close to mine, but he wasn’t looking at me. He whispered, “Here it is.”

I looked right at him, but he was looking at the back wall, like he was pretending he wasn’t talking to me.

“What?” I whispered at his big Mormon ear.

“T’s number.”

While he said that he was putting a piece of paper in my hand.

“ Don’tlook now,” he whispered. He still wasn’t looking at me.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.” And I put the note in my jacket pocket.

Then it was my turn to order at the food window. I stepped up and said to the woman in the hairnet, “Hi, Ann, can I have some Tater Tots and a Diet Coke?”

While Ann was getting my Tots, Barry stepped over to me again. This time he was looking me in the eyes.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said.

“I won’t,” I said. I made sure I was looking right back at his eyes.

He looked at me like he was trying to determine something, but I doubt that he could.

Then he said, “You coming to Battle of the Bands?”

“Yeah,” I said.

At lunch that day I sat with some people, but I didn’t listen to them talk. I kept feeling the crumpled paper in my pocket.

In math class I sat in the back. It was AP Calculus, and I was the youngest in the class. Mr. Case was large and dark and bald. He was the assistant football coach under Coach Peterson, the cock. He looked so thick, like hardened tree sap; his eyes were a little crossed and he had a lazier left eyelid than Brent Baucher. He lived three hours away in a place called Angels Camp, on the way to Lake Tahoe.

Mr. Case drove three hours each morning to be at school, and then drove back after football practice to be with the angels.

I was good at math, but not as good as others. My dad forced me into it, so I had no love for it. I tried to think of the equations on the blackboard like little winking eyes and explosions the way Stephen Dedalus did, but it all just looked like a bunch of work that I didn’t want to do.

I fingered the paper in my pocket, and then I pulled it out. I unfolded it and it was the ripped corner of Barry’s English handout. The typed homework part of it said, “. . . what does George do after Lenny dies? Write a different ending that… ,” but the rest was ripped off, and underneath that, Barry had written “T” for Teague, but the Twas slanted and it looked like an X. Underneath the Twas the phone number, written in a scraggly and uneven hand.

There were three nines in Teague’s number and two twos.

After school I sat at a picnic bench and read some Faulkner until about five. Benjy was so retarded, and I loved Quentin. I wanted to stick a knife in my throat, or fuck my sister if I had one, and then jump off a bridge at Harvard. I thought about it for a while, then I called Teague’s number from the pay phone at school.

The number went to a pager, so I paged it to the pay phone. I stood there and waited. Cars drove by on El Camino. No one in those cars knew what was going on over here, on the school campus. A little ways away, in the locker room on the other side of campus, Brent was probably changing, or playing Faggot Looked. Funny that he had no idea what I was doing so close to him.

The pay phone rang after five minutes.

“Hello?” the voice said. The voice was nasal, and it sounded angry, but like a teenager’s.

“Hey, it’s Teddy,” I said. “Barry C. gave me this number.”

The voice changed a little. “Hey. Yeah, he told me. So you need that thing?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Yeah, I can help you.” The voice was really relaxed now. It sounded like he was doing something on the other end, like rolling marbles on a table, one by one. Then he said, “Can you meet me Saturday night?”

I told him that was okay. Ordering a gun was like ordering anything, it turned out.

He said we should meet at Cubberley, this closed high school, at midnight on Saturday. I said okay, and then we hung up.

I took my sweatshirt sleeve and rubbed the fingerprints off the phone receiver. And then I ran.

I couldn’t sleep that night. It was like Christmas Eve, but not. It was something dark. I wasn’t going to get or give anything; I was just going to take something away.

The next day was Friday. I was very tired, and I felt like everyone could see the gun shining in my mind, and there were bright flashing words above it that read BRENT BAUCHER.

I sat in Biology and thought about Brent. Protozoa had cilia like the hairs on Brent’s legs. Brent’s cells had all his information coiled into DNA, in every one of those dirty nuclei. I wanted to destroy those cells. Break ’em up like billiard balls and have all that info obliterated. His mitochondrial forehead and his Golgi vesicle pimples, and his dead, void mind, shut down and gone.

Then, after Biology and before English, I passed Brent in the outdoor breezeway.

It was a shock because I had been thinking about him so intensely right before, but it was also a shock because I usually didn’t pass him in the halls. I was usually sure to take routes that kept me away from him.

“What’s up, little bitch?” he said.

I wasn’t smaller than him, I was just weaker. “Fuck you, little bitch,” I said back. But I said it quietly into my shoulder, and after he passed.

But then, behind me, he said, “Did you say something?”

I stopped and turned, and he was walking right at me. I started backing away.

“Did you say something, faggot?” he said.

Then I put my hands in front of my face, but he got through them with his fist, and hit me. I felt his knuckle connect with my cheekbone, sharp. And then I fell, because I was surprised, and because I tripped over a bush.

I was on the ground, and there were a few people watching from far away, but no one came over.

“You are going to be dead before you know it,” I said.

I was surprised I had said that, but I didn’t show that I was surprised.

Brent looked surprised too; his droopy eye opened a little more, and then it went down again and he got evil.

“Are you fucking highright now, faggot?” he said, leaning over me. I was holding my cheek, and maybe even crying a little. I had fallen in an area for plants; there was sharp tanbark under my hand and some shitty juniper bushes.

The people in the distance were just standing and watching.

Then I got loud through my tears. “I’m high on how fucking stupid you are!” I said. “I mean, you are soooo dumb, Too $hort! Brent too short, too dumb, too many pimples, shitface! What a fucking idiot!” I started laughing up at his face. The gun was giving me power, even though I didn’t have it yet. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” I laughed. “It’s, like, why aren’t you dead yet?”

Brent’s dumb face just looked so stupid at that point, and it looked like he was trying to straighten his left eyeball, under the lazy lid, but that he just couldn’t, and I laughed even more because it was twitching. “Hey, twitchy eye, why don’t you just die of being a fucking shitbag?”

I thought this was a pretty good line.

Brent reached down for the front of my shirt, but I curled up into a ball, so he couldn’t grab me. He roared like a boar, long and angry, and then he started stomping on my ribs. Quick, hard stomps. My ribs bent, and my lungs were jolted, and there was a sucking-in sound. I stayed rolled up and he stomped me. Then there were some shouts from afar, and Brent was gone.

On Saturday night I went to get the gun.

Cubberley was a high school that had been shut down two decades before. It was famous because some of the Grateful Dead had gone there forty years ago, but now it was a big empty campus where adult classes met and where children’s sports teams played on the weekends. There were weeds in all the cracks of the arcade floors, and dead vines on the walls. I had been forced to play a lot of sports there when I was younger, so I knew the place well.

I rode my bike there because I was too young to drive. It was about four miles from my house. Teague and I were supposed to meet at the outdoor auditorium. I rode fast and the cold air on my face felt like I was riding through ghosts.

When I got to the school, I walked my bike down the hallway. On the walls, there were light fixtures every so often, which shone faint orange behind thick rippled plastic. They still kept the lights on every night, lighting nothing, for no one.

I walked past the gym, where I had played basketball when I was ten. The double doors had a chain through the handles, and there was a padlock hanging in the center. I had a memory flash of being small, in an oversized jersey, playing badly and hating myself. Then I was at the outdoor theater.

It had a stone stage and a grassy area for the audience. I was at the lip of the grassy part, at the far end from the stage. The moon lit up the place.

I left my bike at the edge of the grass and walked down the small declination toward the stage. The grass came up in uneven patches, and the dew soaked through the top of my black Converses, and through my socks to my feet.

*   *   *

I couldn’t see anyone.

I thought about Brent coming out from the dark and shooting me.

If he knew I wanted to kill him, he would kill me first.

In the old days, you could duel.

Emotions have been around forever.

I wish I had a girlfriend. Or someone.

There was no one. I was in the middle of the grassy area. The stage was there, with its jagged lip of broken stone, looking spiritual in the moonlight.

I felt that weight on me, the weight of stone, and it was familiar. I was weak, and stupid, and wimpy, and I had no opinions, and I was a bad talker, and I didn’t know how to make friends, and I had big ears, and an ugly nose, and my hair was ’fro-y, and my dick, and my stomach, and my mind were all bad.

But then a weird thing happened. While I stood there and waited for my gun, Brent changed a little in my mind. For a second, it seemed like he was just another guy. Brent was ugly, and he had human needs, and he probably had a bunch of disappointments in life. I suppose being so close to the gun, almost having it, made me think about things in a new way. Brent had problems, and he had skin, and he had a mom, and one day he would die too.

If I shot him, it wouldn’t really matter. There would be more people like him. Deer get shot all the time. Deer blood and deer guts all over the forest floor. Blood in the leaves, breathing slowing down. And then gone.

Brent would be forgotten too.

“Hey.”

I turned. There was someone standing in a little alcove in the sidewall of the theater.

He had been watching me. It was Teague. There was cement behind him and above him and he was in shadow so it was hard to see his eyes.

There was another guy on the cement above us, but I couldn’t really see him. I could only tell that he was big and white.

Teague was my height, and handsome. He wore a black parka but I could tell that he was skinny from his face and neck. He had curly brown hair cut pretty short.

He looked like he was about to laugh, but he didn’t laugh, and because I couldn’t really see his eyes, I was confused about what he was feeling. Maybe nothing.

“Here’s the shit,” said Teague, and he handed me a wrinkled paper bag. He didn’t stop looking at me while I took the bag.

The bag was heavy. I looked inside, and there was a black handgun at the bottom.

“Take it out,” he said.

“Nah, I’m cool,” I said. “Looks good.”

“You don’t want to check it out?” he said.

“Nah, we’re good,” I said. “Three fifty-seven, right?”

“It’s a Glock,” he said. There was a sound from above, like scraping.

“I thought you said a three fifty-seven?”

“Glock’s better,” he said.

“Right, cool,” I said.

“Three-hun,” he told me.

“Oh, right.” I took out a folded envelope from my back pocket and handed it to him. I had been saving for a car.

He counted the money and then put it in his back pocket.

“Nice doing business with you,” he said, and walked out. He met his friend at the end of the grass, and they turned the corner down the hall with the orange lights and were gone.

The bag just looked like a lunch bag, so I carried it casually. I rode my bike home, and the bag swung under my handlebars. I was humming a little bit. Some tune. I saw my hand on my handlebars, gripping the handgrip and the top of the bag. I stopped humming and heard the air all around me, and my bike whirring below.

And you know how you can’t see your face? The closest you can see is the tip of your nose, if you cross your eyes. But I wanted to look at myself right then, to see this guy coasting down the sidewalk with a gun, going somewhere.

Then the bag split and the gun clattered onto the cement. I skidded to a stop and turned around to get it. It was lying on the sidewalk in front of someone’s lawn. A black gun on the sidewalk. It wasn’t metal. It was plastic. It was a squirt gun, full of water. For a second I was sure of it, but no, it was a real gun. I picked it up. I didn’t know how to check if it was okay. There was a button on the side of the grip that I pressed and the clip popped out in my hand. It was heavy and full of bullets.

I popped the clip back in.

Then I pointed the gun at the house I was in front of. It was an Eichler house, low and boxy, with a garage door out front—like my house, but orange and white. I pulled the trigger, and the gun fired. There was a loud burst and then the house was there, but even more there because it had just been shot.

A neighbor’s dog barked, and I took off on my bike with the gun clutched to my chest.

Two weeks later was the Battle of the Bands. There were seven local bands from the various high schools, and I thought it was funny and fitting that it was in the gym at Cubberley.

I went to hear my friend Barry play. Barry was in a band called Headless Tom, I guess after Washington Irving and Mark Twain. Barry’s brother was in the band, with two other pothead Mormons.

Most of the kids there were the alternative crowd from my school and other schools, but there were some jocks there too.

I stood to the side and watched. The gun was heavy in my jacket pocket.

Barry’s band went on third.

Their first song was called “The Quick and the Dead,” because those are the last words in the Mormon Bible. It is a song about friends who have died.

Across the pit I saw Teague swaying like a stalk of wheat. He looked like he was laughing, but I knew that he wasn’t.

Then I saw Brent Baucher. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. It was not his kind of music. He needed his Too $hort, “So You Want to Be a Gangster.”

I saw Mr. Case in the corner, one of the chaperones. It was really late to drive back to Angels Camp.

The next song was a fast song called “Bricklayer.” Everyone got into it, even the jocks, and a small mosh pit formed. I got into it too. In the pit, bodies hit each other and there was sweat. It was tight and hot. I was behind Brent but he didn’t know. I jumped and our bodies collided. And again, in the hot, sweaty circle.

From the side, Mr. Case watched with his crossed eyes.