Asher ✓

20 | drunkenly

JULY 15, 2012 / ASTORIA PHYSIOTHERAPY CLINIC

"How has your summer been?" Hannah Kruger asked, as she jotted notes from Asher's check up onto the patient form he would go home with.

"Good. I've been going into the city a lot, with my friends."

"Sounds fun," Dr. Kruger said. "So, you feel healthy? Nothing out of the ordinary happening?"

"Completely fine," Asher boasted. "I have fallen many times, and nothing's broken. I'm good."

"Right. That's good to hear." She scribbled her signature on the dotted line, and stamped the date. 

As she walked Asher out, she handed him the slip and said, "You're in textbook condition. Other than your eyes, and your back, your condition has pretty much gone to sleep. Hopefully, for the rest of your life. Good luck for Wednesday."

The doors slid open for him, and Asher stepped out onto the black asphalt of the clinic carpark. 

The heat of the sun came at him from all angles, even from below; the asphalt sent waves of heat up to his face. On Wednesday, Asher had a driving test that could get him his full motorcycle license. 

Originally, he would have to have been accompanied whenever he drove because of his imperfecta. But the slip in his hand, with the signature of the woman he had to thank for it all, said that he was healthy, and strong enough to drive by himself.

Asher was confident in his skills, and couldn't wait for his full motorcycle license. Wednesday rolled around quickly, and was supposed to be the hottest day of the year. Dressed in typical summer gear — shorts, sandals, singlet — Asher drank a pear smoothie for breakfast, and whizzed away on his motorcycle.

When he returned, at three in the afternoon, Asher had a dazzling smile on his face, and a set of papers. Among those, was an envelope with his full license, a set of road rules and an official certificate.

"How did you go?" Vasily asked, when Asher came in. He didn't have to ask, because Asher's tinted eyes said it all.

"I passed, with full marks!"

Vasily offered to take Asher out that night, to celebrate.

But Asher already had plans, which was painfully clear as he left the house, to meet up with his cheering friends who had gotten their licenses as well. He was vague about where he was going, vague about what he was doing, and vague about what time he was coming back.

Vasily might as well have been watching his son leave home for the first home.

Kerrish Soto was not particularly proud of his vehicle, compared to Asher's dented — but still fearsome — motorcycle. Still, he loved it like a forgotten childhood teddy; secretly, and sentimentally. It was in his rusty chariot that their trio would rabble-rouse in the big city. Asher had gone into the main streets of New York many times since his arrival years ago, for school trips, museum visits and summer outings.

But, as Ryanel Gonzales and Asher Delrov tried to fit both their torsos out of Kerrish's sunroof, screaming at any attractive male or female they passed, already drunk on cheap beer, Asher thought that he'd never been to New York quite like this. He'd never been with such craziness in his blood; he'd never had his friends push him into the dance club for which they had crafted fake IDs; he'd never been quite so reckless before — not even with all the careless stunts Tracey made him pull.

Being reckless made him feel good.

The music was beyond deafening; it was as if it wasn't noise any more, it was the earth shaking and the sky pounding in Asher's ears, making them pop with the pressure. It sent bone-breaking shivers through his limbs, and seemed to make every beat of his heart syncopate with the rhythm. It created the urge to grab anyone, and just dance until the movement of their bodies and screaming of their lungs distracted from that ungodly music.

At one point, Asher found himself sandwiched between two girls, then two guys, and then back with his two friends. Drifting from one corner of the club to another seemed a logical way to go — though the whole outing wasn't logical in any way — because in every different group was another girl pretty eyes that lured Asher in, or another boy with a funny story to tell. 

In another corner was a bar with drinks that tasted better and better each time Asher downed a glass. No-one bothered to pull him up for his age, no-one bothered to tell him his dance moves were awkward and outdated, no-one bothered to ruin his night.

Kerrish Soto and Ryanel Gonzales were the image of bad influences that night, but Asher knew that they were just fishing up some dark temptation that was always inside him. He had always known what was good for him, and he'd always hated doing it. River after river of alcohol flowed into his veins, while the hypnotic death-march of some heavy, sleepy song lulled Asher into a disorienting haze.

The room was tilting on its foundation; Asher was sure of it. Kerrish and Ryanel were giggling like school like schoolgirls, while stumbling in circles. They were pathetically out of sync with everything — the music, the people around them, life itself. But in their cloudy bubble, the trio was far enough above reality that it seemed like they were in another world entirely.

Asher's eyes were propped up by the occasional touch of a stranger who insisted on dancing, and other than that, everything he saw glided over his senses. He wasn't really hearing, and Asher imagined his thoughts must be very murky. He couldn't see through the grey haze over his eyes, nor could he hear anything other than the pounding bass line of a song about sex. This felt like a dream, where Asher couldn't see any faces. This felt like a thrilling dance between the lines upon which the laws of reality were written.

Amongst the deafening sounds of aroused youths and stirring music, the chiming song of Asher's ringtone — a recent song with tons of rapping and electronica that Vasily cringed at; which was why Asher set it as his ringtone — didn't even break through the noise.