I was close to Jordan, my old middle school, where I first met April. I went over there. The lights in the roof of the outdoor halls were on. Some of the old feelings came back, some faces flashed, all things I didn’t like. I drew some large monsterlike baby faces on the walls and wrote FUCK ALL BITCHES LIKE APRIL SPARK in bad graffiti script. I had practiced graffiti writing a lot but I was never going to be as good as A.J., and I was really drunk. Next to one of the large baby monsters I wrote LOVE, A.J. SIMS NIGGA.
Then I walked out of the school yard toward Ofra Isaac’s house.
Ofra’s was pretty far away.
After a while, I saw an old man walking a little white dog. He had a full head of nicely combed white hair. I caught up to him even though I was stumbling a little.
“Hey. Hey, man… ,” I said, in a friendly tone. But the guy didn’t stop. He didn’t look at me, even though I was just a little behind him.
“I’m a really nice guy,” I said, but he walked faster. “I just want some company and you seem like a nice guy too.” I talked to him like that for a few blocks without him answering or looking back. I kept following him even though it was out of my way to get to Ofra’s. I wanted to convince this guy that I was a good person. Then he turned into a house.
“You better get the fuck out of here,” he said. “I’m calling the police, you fucking asshole.” Then he went inside. I left.
I was walking, back on track for Ofra’s. I walked with my head bowed so I could watch my feet.
I started thinking about Jack Kerouac and what a hero he was. “You’re a hero,” I said out loud. “Like Jack Kerouac.” I liked thinking about Kerouac stumbling around drunk.
Then I happened upon another guy. He was old too, with a slightly bigger, brown dog. He was taller than the first guy. He wore an Irish cap and was a little more disheveled. When I tried to pass him, he said, “Hey,” and smiled.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Nothing, just walking my dog.”
“I’m not here to mug you or anything,” I said, because of the other guy being so scared.
“I know,” he said.
“Can I walk with you?”
“Sure,” he said, and we walked.
“I’ve been fighting with my girlfriend,” the old guy said. “She won’t give me any head.”
“That sucks,” I said.
“You have a girl?”
“No. Fuck girls,” I said.
“Yeah. Fuck ’em,” he said.
“Fuck guys too.”
We walked without talking for a bit.
Then he said, “When I was young, I was really angry and shy. I’d do stupid stuff like steal and set fires. I never got caught. Now I’m old and I feel the same way. You know what I mean? I don’t like anything.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Is that how you feel?”
“Yeah, I hate everything,” I said.
We walked past a church. I had read Ibsen’s Ghosts in the parking lot one day while waiting for an AA meeting because the court made me go.
“I’m really not here to mug you,” I said.
He didn’t say anything.
I said, “You want to frisk me?”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was a regular thing. So we stepped off the sidewalk and through the edge of the church parking lot to the brick side of the chapel. We were behind a large juniper bush, hidden from the road. I put my hands on the bricks like I was being arrested and he frisked me. He touched me under my arms and on my sides and on my butt a little. Then he was done.
“Okay?” I said.
“Can I feel your balls for a second?”
“What? What the fuck?”
“Come on, man, be cool and just let me feel your balls for a second.”
“Aw, man,” I said. “I was trying to be nice to make you feel safe and you pull that shit?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
We walked out of the church and along the sidewalk, and we didn’t talk anymore.
A car full of teenagers drove by and yelled to us. I didn’t know them but I wanted to be with them. They were stopped at a light at Embarcadero. I ran up to the car and asked to be let in, but they wouldn’t open the door. When the light turned green the car started moving, but I held on to the open window and ran alongside. The girls inside were shrieking. It was like they were scared but excited too. The car went faster and then I was falling and I slid on the street on my back. The car drove off and when I stood up the old man with the dog was gone.
I walked past a bunch of houses. I was coming up on another elementary school called Duvenek and I knew that meant I was close to Ofra’s. I climbed the chain-link fence and crossed the wet grass field. I passed through the outdoor halls and drew a few purple and yellow flowers for the kids. Then I wrote FUCK SCHOOL.
Outside the school there was one more street to go and then I was at Ofra’s. When I got to the mouth of her driveway I could hear the buzzing voices of the party. People were probably around the pool in the back, and April and her sister and Emily were probably there too. I was sure A.J. wasn’t.
I didn’t go in. I walked down the wide street with all the mansions. The mansions ended and the street started to narrow. Soon there was thick foliage on both sides and the sidewalk ended. I walked over a small arched bridge and there I was, in East Palo Alto.
It was darker over here. Fewer streetlights. The houses were slanted and there were metal bars in front of the windows.
I was mad at everyone but there was nothing I could do.
I started yelling. First it was just screaming, no words.
When cars passed, I yelled at them, “Hey! Take me! Take me! Take me out of here! Take me with you.”
I yelled at every car that passed. Nobody stopped.
Ten minutes later a cop car drove up and took me away.
You can’t fight the Tar Baby, that’s what he wants. You punch that Tar Baby and he sucks you in. Once you get wrapped up with the Tar Baby, he loses his shape, he becomes a sticky, black goo-monster and he gets all over you. The more you fight, and stretch him, and struggle, the more he gets all over you, and then you can’t move and you’re just a pile of tar. After a certain point, you are the Tar Baby. Instead of button eyes, you still have your real eyes, looking out from under the tar.
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 F at 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.