17
Changing of The Guards
===========DANNY==========
The day broke with a light that I wished were that of the moon's so our night could be truly endless. Awakening to the sight of her hair rolling silkily down over the back of her shoulders, tousled in rings and waves from the rain and the humidity and the night—may have been the most perfect thing I had ever seen. And I was confident that, in that first inhale of the morning—as I held my breath to preserve all its perfection—and before the exhale of what would become the rest of our lives, that I had everything I always wanted.
I hadn't snuck out of The Old Abandoned Beach House since I was there last—four years ago. In the middle of screwing the bolts of the door back on, I realized that I had committed breaking and entering, and if I were to be caught, I could be charged with a pretty serious criminal offense. And the sunlight, blinding and bouncing off the morning tide, made it all too easy for someone to see us right now and call the cops.
Breaking in last night / Just Mary and I,
Like Bonnie and Clyde,
Committing some innocent crime.
Now that's one for the Lyric Book, I thought.
The only witnesses to our criminal affair were the black silhouettes of the seagulls, gawking and cawing overhead in the crisp blue sky streaked with faint wisps of clouds. All of which made me think that it was the perfect beach day. I nearly suggested it to Mary. When we made it to the boardwalk, already sun-beaten and hot, the smell of roasting corndogs still hung in the muggy air from the night before.
The Stang (God, did I really just refer to it as that?) woke up to her summer-self when I put the top down, exposing her leather seats to the same beating sun that I could feel on the back of my neck.
As I pulled out of the parking space, I saw the strangest thing. These two fat cats wearing suits—and not stylish ones, but the kind fat cats who have their bored wives dress them wear—get out of an Escalade with NEWCASTLE REALITY silkscreened on the door. Which was weird because didn't those guys realize that it was hot enough to break a Fahrenheit record? Shrugging it off, I pulled into traffic and completely forgot about it.
"Danny," Mary interrupted '90s Greenday on the radio to say at the red light of Lockport and Atlantic Way.
"Yeah?"
And without answering, she grabbed my face and made out with me.
We jumped at the honk of a horn; the light had turned green. So much had changed in less than twenty-four hours.
Although, other things hadn't changed all that much—such as I was still instructed to drop her off at the infamous intersection. And, unfortunately for me while we were kissing, right before she popped out of the car, I wondered if Tanner had made it any further. Was he allowed to drop Mary off at her front door? Since Mary and I were—dating, why would a girl's parents care if she were with a sweet boy such as myself? Not only did I begin wondering if I would ever meet her parents, I wondered if last night meant Mary and I were boyfriend and girlfriend.
For my entire life, I'd been under this impression that, once I lost my virginity, I would transform into this hulking male figure of testosterone. But honestly, I felt exactly the same, which wasn't a bad thing. I didn't get what all the hype over the First Time was about. Or why there was even a division between virgins and the de-virginitized. If anything, the distress stemmed from the emotional confusion of, Were we effing dating?
Obviously, I was aware of every integer on the meter of my heart, but I certainly wasn't aware if, to Mary, any of the time we'd spent together was anything more than "hangouts." And then last night happened. I had to remind myself of, Will you just fucking kiss me already?
But, still, even that didn't provide a clear answer.
The boyfriend/girlfriend dilemma tug-of-warred inside of me until I saw Max's scrappy BMX bike tossed next to the curb by my house. Suddenly filled with impending dread, I pulled into my driveway, got out of the car, and saw Max. Sitting on the front cement steps of my house, hunched over his knees.
"Max!" I reached back into my car, where I had left my phone all night locked in the center console. "I'm so sorry, man. I never got your—" I stopped myself in the trail of my stupid words when I clicked my phone on and saw (4) missed calls from Max. I'd forgotten about his drive home.
He glared up at me. His eyes looked painfully bloodshot. "Save it, Danny. I'm sick of your shit."
"Max, it was only a ride?"
"No, no, no, my friend. It's much more than that. I was depending on you. You think walking home for three fucking hours was fun?" He stood up. "If you weren't so busy dicking around with that Mary broad—"
"Max!" I gunned back. "It was my fault."
Max began snorting, laughing through his nose as he hacked out, "No shit, man! Damn right it was your fault! Maybe if you'd pay attention to something else other than her for two fucking seconds, you'd notice what you're doing to yourself."
"Okay, Max. What is it that I'm doing to myself exactly? Please explain."
"Are you fucking kidding me, Danny? You're joking, right?"
"Well, you seem to be the expert in how I'm fucking up my life," I answered. "And since you're obviously doing so great, go on, Max. Please tell me."
"You're letting that dumb fucking broad waste all your time when there are bigger things going on, Danny."
"Dude—what the fuck—you just called my girlfriend a dumb fucking broad?"
"Your girlfriend?" Max laughed, rolling his eyes. "Danny, your fucking girlfriend? She's stringing ya along her fingers, buddy! You think a broad like that—the same broad who wouldn't even give you the fucking time of day until you started driving her ass around and paying for shit—actually cares? She's playing you like the dumbass you are."
"You're fucking high again. You know, maybe if you didn't smoke so much fucking weed, you'd realize that you're just jealous," I said, catching my shirt in my fists as I jammed them into my pockets; the cheap fabric irritating the scratch marks on my back.
"Maybe if you weren't such a fucking virgin, you wouldn't care about some trash broad who finally touched your tiny dick? How about that?"
"Fuck you."
Max got off the last step and marched right past me. After progressing a few paces, he turned in his tracks.
"Oh yeah, you might want this." He tossed an envelope that spun in the air towards me.
I bent over and slid the papers out. "A termination notice?"
"The meeting this morning, remember? They called us all to tell us that we're closing down. Why do you think we've gotten shit zero shifts lately? We're losing our jobs, Danny."
"The carwash has been around for forever, man. There's no way they're closing down."
"I know that that's just a job for you, Danny, but for me it's everything. That's all I had, man." Max began shaking. "What am I supposed to do for money now?"
"Dude, chill. We'll figure something out."
"Figure something out? I have no one to support me. I'm not like you, Danny. Not everyone has your life—Oh. Right! That doesn't fucking matter to you, 'cause you and mommy get to fly to California! When I turn eighteen, I'm kicked out of foster care. What the hell am I supposed to do then?"
From a deep, quiet place, I heard Max's shoe fall into the water.
I was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. Felt it crawl up inside of me as the vision of Mary's hair, cascading over her naked shoulders, flashed in my mind. "Why wouldn't you just come talk to me about this?"
"I TRIED FUCKING TALKING TO YOU!
YOU WOULDN'T LISTEN!"
"Oh—fuck off. I ran to get you that night but you decided to have a temper-tantrum over some girl who didn't want a stupid street sign."
"Fuck you, man," Max said then stomped towards his bike.
"Max! What the hell? You said all that shit about me? What even happened with Roxanne anyways? Max? Max!"
But Max just ignored me. Got on his bike, and rode away.
==========MARY==========
It was a normal afternoon in the white seaside shack with the broken railing that wrapped around the porch AKA my house. Which was a bad thing. No, not the broken railing—I'd gotten used to the fact that unless I took a brush and white paint, or a hammer and nails, that stupid porch would continue to look like shit. The bad thing was that I said it was a "normal afternoon." If I said that it was an abnormal afternoon or an unordinary afternoon, then there was hope. But when your normal is most other people's abnormal or unordinary, that's a bad thing.
So, it was a normal day, and this is how it began:
Woke up. Decided to stay in bed even though I was awake. Watched Real Housewives of Albuquerque. Showered. Poured myself a bowl of cereal. Argued with the phone company again about my phone. Watched more TV. Contemplated about changing service providers. But then decided that I was still too poor.
And then while skimming through some celebrity tabloid magazine that I had grabbed from work, Jim came home from God Knows Where. I then decided that my room needed reorganizing for the thousandth time that week, and began doing that.
I know my neat-freakness was just a side effect of my OCD, but the garbage dump of my house was enough to drive me half mental. So, the least I could do to keep myself sane was keeping my room looking somewhat nice.
But it was during the pulling out of all my old clothes from my closet, that my normal afternoon began.
"MARY!" Jim yelled from the kitchen.
"YEAH?" through my closed, thin-as-paper door, I shouted back. My house was tiny. It wasn't very hard to hear each other, so shouting was totally unnecessary on both our ends, but we did it anyway.
"Didj'you touch my work jacket?"
Like, why the hell would I have touched your work jacket?
"No, Dad."
"Alright."
Jim hadn't worked in two months since he jammed his foot on a pipeline—or something—that he'd been working on, and so was off on worker's comp. What he did with his newfound (paid for) free time, was a bigger mystery than the whole chicken or the egg debacle. At least when Jim worked the odd construction job here or there, or joined-in on some ridiculous business venture one of his drinking buddies schemed up, I could schedule my coming in's and out's a lot easier.
For all that summer, whenever I wanted to go out, I had to verify if I was "allowed." Such as that night me and Danny were supposed to go to the mall. Apparently, that night of the mall-date I looked like a whore. So I was "grounded" in order to be taught a lesson in not looking like a whore. I had no clue skinny jeans and a tank top made me look like a whore. Silly me.
Room cleaning continued with the whipping off of my bed sheets, and then the laying out of all my old clothes in a mountain of tangled pant legs and shirtsleeves, once-worn bras, and panties with dumb things like strawberries on them.
Lo and behold, Mt. Pile of Neglect!
Which actually started a downward spiral of self-judgment, regarding what had ever made me believe strawberries hugging my vag was cute. Not that the pair of panties I had on the day before were any sexier. Navy blue boyshorts that conserved too much ass for a lingerie ad, accompanied by my only good bra—yeah, looked pretty damn unflattering. But as if Danny really noticed, or cared, or better yet—would have not hooked up with me even if I had strawberries hugging my vag.
The fact that I had sex with Danny still didn't even really connect with me. As hard as I squeezed my brain, blocking the thought out, I couldn't stop thinking about It. Him. Danny. Squeegee Boy.
Danny was, well, Danny was Danny. My life up until I met him was somewhat predictable with everything under my control. I knew myself; I knew boys. I could tell myself how to react to whatever it was somebody did or said. From the minute Danny and I first really talked, I knew I liked him. As a friend.
And I was damn set on keeping it that way.
Of course I knew that he was falling in love. God—that was obvious. What I didn't know was that he was going to become such a damn interruption.
Since bitches share secrets (and I'm a bitch) I'll say it: I really wanted to have sex again. Did we have tremendously lengthy sex? No. Was it still amazing? Yes. Did I rock his world? Absolutely.
"MARY!" Jim shouted. Again, shouting is not needed in our shack. "Door," he added, and every terrible thought raced through my mind.
I left Mt. Pile Of Neglect and my hormonal urges on the bed and jolted out of my room, running to the front door.
Shaded by the black mesh of the screen, Squeegee Boy stood on the doormat.
"Danny, what are you doing here?" I demanded, pushing open the screen and mantling my arms on the frame to keep him out of Jim's sight. Which, well, was pointless. Clearly Jim knew someone was there. You know what else was pointless? That damn rusted barbecue he refused to get rid of.
Danny began saying, "I just thought—"
"Can we talk later?" I said and had to watch Danny get all tortured artist on me as the disappointment dawned on him. Squeegee Boy had mastered puppy dog eyes, but I was immune.
"Yeah, sure," he uttered.
Interruption: I'm psychic. Wanna know why? Because I had told every idiot to never come to my door.
"Mary! Get the hell back in here!" Jim blasted from the kitchen.
"Dad!" I yelled back. "Give me a second!"
I looked at Danny as he withdrew down the steps, horribly confused.
Jim's stomping shook our whole house as he stormed up and squeezed my arm.
"I want t'smell your breath!"
I tried to rip myself away, but his grip was too tight around my skinny arm as he dragged me inside. The sound of Danny's voice screaming "Hey!" clashed with the slamming screen door.
"I'm missin' the pack a smokes outta my work jacket. I want t'smell your breath," he said, an inch away from my mouth. His own breath smelled terribly dry. Meaning Jim was terribly sober.
"Dad," I jeered through my teeth. "I told you I don't—" my eyes darted to Danny still behind the screen "—smoke anymore!" Then forcing myself back with all my weight, pulled away from his grip.
The pullback shot me off balance, and while stumbling backwards, I rolled my ankle when my foot landed on the clutter of shoes piling on the doormat. In a desperate attempt to break my fall, I threw my arms out and nearly flat-palmed the painting of the sailboat, but cracked the drywall instead.
My eyes shot to Jim. He was going to be pissed. He was going to scream and blast his head off.
Awaiting the rage, I was scared to look at my wrist, as if glancing away would trigger the anger. Eventually I did. The bottom of my hand was chalky and pulsating.
"You're gonna have t'pay for that."
I looked back to where my hand had dented the wall and couldn't help but notice the hole that the door-handle had chipped away at for years.
"So why you pullin' away, Mare? 'Fraid I'm gonna smell—" he beaked towards Danny "—that faggot on your breath, 'stead a the smokes you stole?"
Jim's chest bulged as he fled his fist to his mouth, coughed, and then glared at me. Jim's dopey stare, slouched back in his hollow sockets, didn't so much scare me as it did embarrass me.
Whenever Jim and I got in fights, he had this, talent, of always being one step ahead of me. Somehow knowing how I would react, and how I wanted, or expected, him to react in return—only to do the opposite. Such as with that door-handle thing. He was supposed to lose his shit on me. There should have been an explosion from him as he raved on about how that house belonged to his grandfather and that I'm disrespectful. But he didn't give me that. He didn't, because my disconsolation was always just a fucking game to him. So I snapped.
"Fine!" I yelled, lunging up towards him. "You want to smell my breath?"
Jim swung his hand out over my head and grabbed a fistful of hair. As he twisted and pulled me directly in front of him, I breathed in his face with the noisiest, open-mouthed exhale I could muster. And as Jim dug his nostril-flared nose into my mouth, I heard the door swing open.
"H-Hey!" Danny screamed and dashed down the hallway towards us. Jim looked up, letting go of my hair.
Turning to Danny, he readjusted his jeans higher on his waist and then cupped his hand under his jaw to crack his neck.
"You talkin' to me?" he said, as passive as ever.
Jim was a tall guy, like six foot three, and towered over Danny, who really wasn't that much taller than me.
Danny practically pissed himself responding with jittery ums and I's before Jim started his storm.
"Didj'ya hear that, Mare? We've got a little social justice warrior, a snowflake, comin' onto my land, my property." Jim glanced at me, nodding. "Our property, right, Mare? Trying t' tell me what t' do."
He loomed over Danny.
"Um, I—I'm so sorry—"
"I know all 'bout you millennials—including you, Mary. Crying, whining over everything ya don't like. All this is, you kids, is good parenting. You kids can't cry and complain about everything you don't like. You little leftist faggots need to know your place and stop steppin' outta line. Alright, son?"
Jim's thin and chapped lips gnawed the words that came out with an eerie peppiness, almost like he was playing around.
"Just like you, Mary," he added, dropping his voice and glaring at me. "Ya think cuz you're old nuff to bleed—" Jim's fist fled to his mouth for another cough. "That you can start actin' like your mother?"
"Dad—" I choked. A sense of triumph enlivened his face, attacking me where it hurt the most.
Looking from him to Danny to that dent in the wall—I closed my eyes, hardened my fists, felt my sorrow coagulate into anger, and then with an arduous acquiring of courage said: "Fuck you."
Grabbing Danny's hand, I pushed through the screen door. Overwrought by the gravity of what had just been committed, my feet stopped at the edge of the porch. But the weight of Danny's momentum dragged me down along the steps, creaking with the collapse of our feet.
"Mary! Mary! Get back here!"
Jim yelled after me as we jumped in The Stang and bolted down the street. His large body, erupting with manic gestures, shrank in the rearview mirror as we raced away.