Their eyes locked at the shopping mall in late June. They spotted each other between Guitar Center and Cold Stone Creamery.
Around an hour later, at the classic lunch counter in town, they began knowing each other. The conversation was rich, lively. Out of this world. Almost supernaturally easy. Before this counter lunch, all the girls in the world had gone out of their way to avoid him––treated him like the worst disease available.
He was fifteen years old. He’d unfortunately long ago resorted to pornography, softcore and hardcore. What! For he had no choice!
See, he’d always struggled with his weight, and that was such the crux of the issue. She’d always struggled with kids her own age. They were useless imbeciles. They were beyond insufferable.
She didn’t mind his overweightedness––yeah, she was mature; she had character; she saw his character. She liked all of him all at once. It was really so very one hundred percent.
He could not believe his good fortune—oh, the supernatural out-of-this-worldness!
Her childhood was a pretty good time. She grew up in a fun-loving classic rock environment. Things were soft and simple in a groovy and understanding way. It was easy peaceful niceness.
His childhood was a disappointing disaster. He grew up in a satanic heavy metal environment. Things were sinister, then diabolical. Ultimately though, it was quite boring.
But the day after the lunch counter, he went to fat camp. His parents woke him in the night. You’re fucking going, his father whispered as he pecked his son’s forehead. It was all paid for.
They forced him into the trunk for the ride up to the fat camp. This was only for fun. His parents loved forcing things into the trunk. On the way into the trunk he begged and pleaded and begged some more.
Oh, and he screamed, as hard as he could. He screamed.
With him in the trunk––not there to bother them––his parents actually laughed like parents laugh.
That summer, she went to rock camp. Her parents hadn’t forced her. Her parents hadn’t laughed at her. And no trunk, of course. Her older brother came along for fun. In the backseat, she saw the hills and valleys. Ducklings were paddling in ponds. The circumstances were perfectly lovely.
Their relationship had been cut short. And he was devastated.
And she was devastated, too, but in a somewhat curious, slightly funny way she couldn’t even begin to articulate, like she’d hit her funny bone, or something like that.
That summer, she pounded the skins, and he put the weight behind him.
And then! Home and together again. The relationship survived the intermission.
Her rock camp had allowed her all the contact with the outside world she wanted. Contact with the outside world was verboden at fat camp. They knew to pick up right where they left off––the classic lunch counter. It was magic, pure instinct.
And of course, he didn’t tell his sick fuck parents about her. He swore not to. They’d surely interfere. They’d refuse to not interfere. They’d find a way to ruin things. It’d be too easy and fun for them.
Right right right—that bad bad weight: gone.
Still. The girl did not care. Really. Like at all. Because she was a saint.
Back at the lunch counter, they got around to getting to know each other all over again.
And so after some painless and delightful small talk and some painless and delightful large talk, they got around to taking each other’s virginities.
Goodness. Gracious. He was a natural in bed. She could not help but take notice. Or, rather, wonder at it. Had the weight loss paid off in this way? Physics and such? The law of gravity? Skinny people must be better at sex? She was thinking. She loved thinking dearly.
He enjoyed her nudity very much. He wanted her nudity to be his future. How could he not? She was a good looking girl. Great body. Terrific personality. Full blown go-getter. And she loved him. Made him feel acceptable, gave him the feeling of family. It was fair to say they were absolutely besotted with each other.
They were happy. They were happy. They were happy. They were happy.
Well, until she wasn’t. Four years later, when she resolved to break up with him, she was practically furious. It was spring, and she remembered that women are future directed. More than men––much more than them. She had wasted the last four years. She’d only just realized. It had occurred to her like that. He was the source. Her boredom, her frustration. The waste of space.
He had nothing going on. He wasn’t even a college dropout. He hadn’t even made it to trade school. Had the thinness gone to his head? His bong collection certainly had. Nothing new had happened. He’d just suddenly driven her to the edge in less than sixty seconds: degeneration, accelerated.
Sure, the sex had gotten better and better through the years.
Sexually speaking, they were still putting each other in the hospital, night after night after night. She couldn’t care less about her sex life at this moment, though. That was how she’d felt about his weight problem, remember? The sex wasn’t worth it. What a hardcore bore. What a lazy… motherfucker!
She called him up after her neuropsychology class. She couldn’t even wait until after his birthday. She screamed and screamed and screamed. She felt out of control. She felt exhilarated.
And she broke up with him, and broke up with him, and broke up with him, and broke up with him. She even brought up a lunch date he’d been late to a year ago. She even hung up on him. She wasn’t some dumb dyslexic blonde. She was a talented warrior. She possessed the most special potential.
They were now very badly broken up. It took him a few minutes to register what had happened. It was too late in the spring to be this badly broken up.
Terribly alone in his apartment, he stared out the window. He saw litter, cans and bottles on the street. He saw worse.
He pounded his chest. He loved these useless battle cries.
What an asshole! he cried to himself.
Except that doesn’t make sense because a woman cannot be an asshole.
He even stuck a knife in the TV.
That knife had been seen on TV.
That was another thing that bothered her so much: his anger management strategies were extremely poor.
God. Jesus. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck it all to murderous death.
He wanted to burn money. There was no money to burn.
He wanted to slip through grasps. There were no grasps to slip through.
He wanted to pinch his sex organ. Okay! There certainly was a sex organ to pinch! Ow!
He wanted to shake her. He wanted to shake the pain. The loneliness and lovelessness were already spreading aggressively.
And then! He pocket dialed her! Straight to voicemail! How terribly embarrassing!
And then. She died. Later that day. After she broke up with him. Seriously.
Her brother was the one to call him. Her parents couldn’t come to the phone. Her family wasn’t aware of the breakup. They’d always loved and accepted him because their daughter did.
It was one of those deeply regrettable freak accidents. It happened in student parking. The vintage tan sports car belonged to a reflexologist. She was blonde, dyslexic, and a very recovered alcoholic.
It was too much for the boy to take.
Had she registered his pocket dial?
He had mostly no idea what to make of anything… He couldn’t even believe she wasn’t breathing somewhere.
His eyes landed on a destroyed copy of The Leadership Secrets of Colin Powell by Oren Harari resting on the kitchen floor.
The kitchen was filthy. Disgusting. You know the way boys get. His kitchen was worse than his family, almost.
Then: At Home Dementia Care: Real Life Strategies from One Caregiver to Another To Create a Safe, Meaningful and Loving Home Environment for Everyone by M.E Roberts.
Why was he living with these books? Where had they come from? Her?
Goddamn. He wanted to complain. He couldn’t begin to complain. He wanted to take his last breath. He couldn’t take it. He wanted to press her ghost up against the wall and then fall apart all over it.
She’d fucked his head. She’d sucked his soul. Back to back, by way of tornado. What in the living hell was her problem?
Down on the kitchen floor, his back against the cabinets: his eyes found a framed picture of her with him.
He was dizzy with shame. He’d wasted her time. He’d devoured her final years. He’d ruined her.
He was breathing like a bitch. He started talking suicide to himself.
He wanted to drive to the bridge. He wanted to get out of his car. He wanted to jump. He wanted to hit the water. He wanted to break every bone in his body.
Wait.
Hold on.
Maybe this was one of those turn-your-life-around situations? Maybe it could be?
Like, that’s life, right? He was thinking again. He was ghastly at thinking. You take the information, and you use it, she would tell him.
Okay.
He remembered the sixer in the fridge.
Those ice cold boys.
Okay!
Maybe everything would be okay… Basically, he thought, after a difficult childhood, this is what happens…?
His father was an evil dictator.
The teenage babysitters had flirted with his father, and his father had flirted back. After sufficient flirting, his father had sex with the babysitters. His father always used to say that the father next door, the one who’d gone faggot a while back, was jealous of his babysitters.
His mother was completely useless, idle. All she did was laugh, laughing was all she did.
He was not seeing his parents these days. And that was progress. And! Hey! At least he’d gotten laid! At least he’d ditched the weight!
This guy he’d found online was coming over to remove his eyebrow piercing––soon and for free, too.
He cracked his knuckles and did nine push-ups.
Oh, look! Standing in the doorway! The ghost he knew! She said, “Come on! Feel the family!” She was pounding her chest above the breasts.
He would be attending her funeral, without a doubt, no problem there, and that would be the beginning of a clean, fresh start. And nobody would know what she screamed on the phone––nobody would ever have to know. He was making promises now. Everything would be fine. Just fine.
–Myles Zavelo
Stories