J, quite simply, is a bad guy. Not just from the typical female’s point of view, his male friends would have to eventually admit his shady-ass bastardly ways, too. This is the main paradox to Justin’s brotherhood; girls must understand and sympathize in order to hold on for very long. Personally, I pity the ones who want to be too close – he offers no such part of himself to anyone, for any price. No matter who you are. At least, not these days.
Last weekend I was feeling bummed by repetition in the pattern – no high. Usually an indication that I ought to move on, transporting myself to another scene is not only easier said than done, but the boys have managed to leave small tattoos on my skin; removing them would leave a rather swollen, gory effect that is out of the question. Thankfully, something eventually happened for this closet drama queen.
“Do you think I’ve taken it over yet?” Jake took one of Nicole’s Tim Horton visors to her uniform and offered it to me to smell. It smelled like cologne, but not like Jake. “I’d say so,” I offered as reply, but his scent isn’t something from a bottle – it’s more so an accumulation of the house, laundry detergent, skin/deodorant and a trace of cigarette smoke, which has yet to embed itself into the fibers of his visor. It’s my job to know everything; he doesn’t need to know this. I’ll let him think that it’s all in the cologne.
Once we picked up Nicole (Justin’s girlfriend) and brought the entire gang over to J’s, they all wanted to drink and play cards. Nicole is 17 years old. Mandi is a new 18 year old, Jake is like 15 years old for 3 more months, and Nicole’s younger bro is a day younger than Jake, I think. All of the minors craved alcohol so Justin took money from Nicole and got a few things from the quick stop’s drive-through. Once everyone was situated I slipped the information to J, “I think Mandi likes Nick.”
“No way! Okay! Nicole! Come downstairs and talk to me for a moment…” This lead to a lot of private talks, obviously excluding Mandi. While the rumor was spreading (my bad – my own big mouth, unable to keep a secret if I do not deem it worthy of keeping) everyone was running around whispering in each other’s ear, as youth will do. Not enough drama for Justin, he says to me, “Hey. Wanna go for a ride?”
It was wrong to ask, as it was wrong to go. But Justin and I lacked dedication to the scene and soon we had slipped out to JJ Shakers Nightclub, leaving his own party to thrive or fail at will. We played some pool and I listened to Justin tell me about how he had to get rid of Nicole. He doesn’t like the rarity of the ass piece, the uninvited stops by or the general unimpressive providence. I listened, always on his side, offering up all of the, “Hey, she has yet to give me a reason to like her. I don’t see the big deal. You could do so much better” blah blah blah.
My position? It’s my job to get behind his eyes and see the unclean humanity behind them; the truth keeps me closest to the center. The more I supported, the more he laid on me, trusting me.
“I could have any one of these girls” he insisted, as he briefly flirted with a blonde while I stepped back. If Nicole could have seen us, matching 21-and-over bracelets, side by side in our devilish nature, she would have tried to dump him again.
“You gotta dig the cash” I instructed. This chick Nicole hands it out like it’s produced in her ass. It’s a score.
“I don’t like Mandi’s hidden agenda,” J suggested. Suddenly I was paying closer attention. True – Mandi likes younger bro, Mandi always strives to be close to J – what better way to achieve connection and therefore energy, by becoming part of the battery circuit? But J hates it. If she fucks up, it’s her head, and it’s her life. If I do step in, I miss out on possible soap opera episodes. Mandi and I are the ultimate team and all, but let’s not forget her tendencies to let me down. Consider my secrecy as an investment in yet-demanded revenge, a kind of future in action.
This kind of petty shit is what keeps me cool through the absence of highs.
Gas Gets Expensive
Cameron walked into his house after another evening of no climax in sight. I was in the kitchen, slicing an orange. The order we actually came in has since left me; whether I had been with him or if I was already there isn’t the important thing, anyway, so long as you can see the view from the counter as he plopped down on the carpet floor in the hallway. With shoulders slumped, half-playing with the dog and red visor loosely crooked, a frustrated sigh escaped his lungs and played a song of boredom that I’ve come to recognize as his theme. He looked like such a goofy case, defeated so simply. I returned to the watery pieces on my paper plate and understood how, sometimes, the hardest thing about life is the space in between it.
It’s easy to forget how far you’ve actually come, and to be proud – to be aware – of success at hand. And if you look back later on, you realize that what you thought was nothing was actually some mystic balance of patience and getting antsy, fueling your next moment or your next day- your steps to follow. Even if you do get this, though, it’ll never prepare you for that next space; holding on when matters appear unchanging is always going to be frustrating. But it’s something to kind of think about when you might need a reminder…that you are right with time. It fights beside you, always.