Chapter Four Suffocation

I heard the distinct clank of the silverware against the ceramic dishes. I heard my mother sigh and my father clear his throat, fist pressed to his face sternly. I heard the food being sucked in their mouths, chewed softly between properly closed lips and then swallowed, consumed by the actions of consumption. I heard everything, and that was all I could do; hear. I kept my eyes staring down at my uneaten plate of green beans, sliced glazed ham and rice. It looked awful and it tasted just as bad as it looked. There was an unopened can of pop next to the dish that I hadn’t even bothered to crack open. Usually, the moment I’m in the door and it’s dinner time, I grab a can of pop and sometimes even finishing it before my mom sets our food down in front of us. Not this time. I wasn’t even that hungry. And I didn’t want to wash away the strong remnants of the wine that I had consumed at Gerard’s place earlier that day. I could still feel the weird tingling taste of the bitter juice on my tongue as I rolled it around in my mouth trying to see if I could taste any different sensations. I had once hated the tang of the drink he had served me, but now I found it growing on me. Sort of like Gerard was doing.

It was clearly obvious to both of us as we stood in the doorway, my feet poised in the dark light of the hall that I was going to be coming back again tomorrow. When Gerard had first suggested it, briefly in conversation, I had been so nervous. I didn’t know if I really wanted to go to an artist’s house to help him clean while I drank his fancy wine. It just didn’t sit right with me. But when he had taken the option away, saying that it was all up to me, I found myself faltering even more. Before he had somewhat demanded that I come by again. It was a declarative statement that gave me no choice; that was what had made me nervous. I needed to be in charge, at least somewhat. I needed to know what was going to go on and I didn’t get that when Gerard had just insisted upon the act. When he told me I didn’t have to go however, I found my heart leaping out of my chest. It wanted to stay. My heart felt like it belonged in that dingy paint filled apartment. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it, until it was taken away. And I was in charge now. I could make the decision to go if I wanted to. And I did want to. But even if I was in control now, I still had no idea what was going to happen.

Going to Gerard’s house tomorrow scared the shit out of me. I had no idea why exactly but anytime I thought about it, I felt my hands getting sweaty, my blood pound in my veins and my head spin. I was worried over something, but I couldn’t quite grasp it and pull it away from all of the other spiraling images in my mind. I knew I was afraid of anyone finding out; that was a major concern right there. If anyone – especially my friends knew that I was going to be going to this fag artist’s house then I knew that I would immediately be labeled as gay. It was not the first time something like that had happened, but I didn’t want to rehash old memories again. I thought elementary school and the awkwardness of puberty was over at this point. I was seventeen and didn’t need to get made fun of for popping a random boner in an all-boy gym class anymore. I was beyond that, but not everyone else was. Just the fact that I was talking to a gay person, an older one too, was bad enough. I suddenly started to wonder if anyone had seen us sitting together and talking at the park. But unless someone skipped school like I had and followed me directly, it was impossible. I was safe; for now.

There was a whole other aspect to the gay issue that I hadn’t quite touched upon in my own mind yet, however. I knew subconsciously that if I was hanging out with Gerard, people would automatically assume that we were doing stuff together. Or that he was taking advantage of me. It was the classic case of pedophilia. He was in his forties and scoping out a high school student to ‘tend to his supplies’ after school? When I repeated that line in my head over and over again, it didn’t sound right at all. And it even made me squirm in my seat a little, especially when I thought about Gerard drawing and staring at the little children from the day care. This could get mighty bad mighty fast. But even if the situation looked bad in words, I knew that deep down Gerard wasn’t like that. I had only known the man for two days and in the first five minutes of meeting him he had coated me and my friends with paint, but despite conflicting words, his emotions and mannerisms did not match a pedophile.

In the park that day, he had not been studying the kids to get his jollies and jack off to them later; he was studying them to study them. He wanted to know the kids and when he did, he may have even saved one. I thought of Billy and the way he threw his arms around, like he was trying to fight off an invisible force. Gerard drew him again, in the real light and gave it to the supervisor. Maybe Billy was being rescued at this moment and they had the supposed pedophile to thank. This man had also let me into his home. He barely knew me, but he offered me a place inside. For all he knew I could have been some juvenile delinquent ready to steal his money. He had only seen me prior hanging out in front of a liquor store. That’s not the best first impression, but he didn’t care. He let me in and I saw where he lived. He lived in a multi-coloured world of feelings, interpretations and beauty. I was only just beginning to see this man in the real light that other people would probably never give him a chance in. And really, he actually seemed like a decent guy. A little full of himself in some areas, really fruity as far as the whole art thing was concerned but over all, just a really friendly guy. And he was offering me a chance of a lifetime; an escape.

Granted, my escape was cleaning and bad tasting wine, but it was something. And I was secretly hoping that deep down inside, he would teach me how to paint.

After walking home from his apartment, I had gone straight to my room. My mom had feigned a distant ‘hello’ and told me when dinner was going to be ready, but I had barely heard her. I wanted and needed to get to my room and find that fucking guitar that I had hated for so long. I dug through my closet, tossing old school clothing, my unwashed (and probably fungal) gym bag out of the way until I saw it, resting on its side, the golden orange hue of the now dull wood staring up at me. I grabbed it too roughly, hearing the guitar strings twang all out of tune as I did and dragged it to my bed. But that’s where the action all stopped. I sat on my unmade bed for what seemed like ages, just holding the neck of the guitar in my hands and occasionally running my fingertips over the strings. They vibrated, emitting an odd sound that sort of hurt my ears. My guitar hadn’t been played in years and it clearly showed it. Everything was out of tune and some of the strings were off and bunched up to the side. The once shiny wood now had a worn appearance and looked fragile to the touch. I had to keep reminding myself that this thing was old; my dad’s from when he was in high school. But somehow, my memories of being thirteen and strumming the chords aimlessly when Sam wasn’t around to hang out with, were so much brighter in my mind.

The guitar didn’t look the same; it looked fucking sick. And besides, I realized right then that I didn’t know how to play anything anymore. I put my fingers on the chords (the ones that were still attached) and strummed once. The sound that came out made my insides jump around. It didn’t sound that bad, but it wasn’t something I recognized. The fear of the unknown took over me, and I had to put the instrument down. I wasn’t done with it; there was still something that intrigued me about the whole thing, but I just couldn’t do it right then.

I lay down on my bed instead, the guitar to my side, neck of the instrument just touching my own, the spokes that stuck out hitting my shoulders. My mind wandered as I laid there, over to the paints and pastels that I had seen at Gerard’s place. I relived the vivid images in my mind over and over again and was still blown away every time. The amount of creativity, imagination and feeling that were on those walls astounded me. I couldn’t believe that Gerard could just let himself bleed through a paint brush and have it spattered all over the wall for everyone to see. I could never do that; the painting or sharing my emotions in such a complex way. I was too scared to just crack myself open and let everyone go inside. I couldn’t do it for myself. I didn’t want to pick apart my feelings, taking what I loved or destroying what I hated and put them on paper. The fact that people would see it scared the shit out of me. And if I had done the work, carefully picking those feelings, it would be as if I wanted them to see that side of me. When really, I didn’t. Those poems or ranting or drivel as Gerard was saying that I wrote – that was only for me. I didn’t write or do anything, to please other people. I didn’t even do it to please myself. The thought of anyone reading that shit scared the crap out of me. I had never been one to be afraid of much in my life, coming from Jersey you learn to suppress fear, but God. That was like my worse nightmare right there. I didn’t want people to know how I was thinking. How come they would be allowed, if I didn’t even know half the time?

The fact that Gerard could do that though, and do it with a fucking smile on his face amazed me. And the fact that he could make something so beautiful out of a pencil and paper also flabbergasted me. But it was that part of him that I wanted to be like. I wanted to draw things and paint things – real life objects, none of this abstract feeling shit. People and solid objects were okay. I wanted to be able to do something that beautiful. And maybe Gerard could help me. We were having good conversations, maybe I could branch it off into that one day. And most likely, if I showed an interest in anything he was doing, he’d probably teach me in a second. He wanted to share his love of art. He wanted to share his feelings. He wanted to share and be happy. He wanted so many things and really, so did I. But I was only ready for the art aspect. And that’s all I was going to take.

As I listened to the clanking and clearing of dishes and mouths at the table, I realized why my stomach had nearly folded in on itself when I had strummed the guitar. I had made noise. I rarely ever made noise when I was in my room. If I wanted music, I put on my headphones, shutting out the world. But when I played the guitar, even if only for that split second when the chords hit my ears, I had reversed the situation. Before I had the music beating into my ears, locking myself away and shutting out the others. When I played the guitar, I was beating the music into other people’s ears, making them listen and shutting them in my world. And though it was only for a split second that occurred, I became aware of its side effects. My mother had called to me then, asking what I was doing. She became aware of the noise, the sound, the change I was making. And suddenly at the table, instead of being afraid of the noise I was making, I liked it. I liked the power it had. It made people pay attention, even if it was to me and the noise was nothing that could be considered music. I suddenly liked the power surge I got when I did that. It still scared the shit out of me because I felt like I was still exposed, but at least they weren’t reading my rants. I was not going to put lyrics to anything. It would just be me and my guitar. It would just be fucking noise. But they would pay attention, and fuck they would listen. Finally.

“I want to take a music course,” I said suddenly in the middle of the non-existent dinner conversation. Despite being the happy family and sitting at the table together for every dinner we shared, our conversation was lack-luster. There would be the forced ‘how was your day’s and the occasional mentioning of something that had some importance, but other than that all that was present were those fucking clanking noises of the silver wear against empty plates. I didn’t want to listen to those noises anymore; I wanted to make my own.

My mother nearly choked on her water, her eyes shooting open during the process of drinking. I didn’t know if it was the sudden start of actual statements that caught her off guard (she was always a fan of quiet times) or the actual words I had uttered themselves that had rendered her in such a way. But my inquiries were answered when my father piped up, coughing slightly.

“Where on earth did that come from?” he belted out, his deep booming voice taking over the room. My father’s Italian and his voice could occupy a room in itself. He’s a tall man but not too heavy, mostly weighed down but his pure muscles and thick strong stubbornness. In his later years he had acquired something of a beer belly, but he kept it well concealed under layers of shirts and buttons. From the way his voice always sounds, the way it echoes and seems to swallow you whole, everything he says sounds like an insult. And really, it wasn’t far off from the truth.

“I want to take a music course,” I stated again, trying to keep my casual strong demander. Most people feel intimidated by my father, including my mother on most days. I usually fit into that category as well, but I needed to stand up for this. And I had a feeling I knew a weak spot I could poke at. “I want to learn guitar again.”

I saw my father’s hardened expression flinch, but it was in a blink of an eye. He was back to normal Anthony Iero Hardass Stance in no time.

“You have enough classes in school,” he stated promptly, detaching his gaze from my own and starting to cut up his ham. He ground the knife extra hard into the meat, causing a high pitched scratching sound to fill the room along with his voice once he finally hit the ceramic of the plate.

“I have a spare still,” I informed my father, suppressing the cringe I felt inside me from the ear shattering noise. I had to be serious with this if I wanted anything.

“Isn’t it too late in the semester, dear?” my mother cut in, folding her hands together on the table and leaning in. Her voice was soft and concerning, but she wasn’t concerned for me. Just my father who was still cutting his meat up into little pieces.

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered, darting my eyes between the two of them. I’m an only child and I’ve always hated this part of the game. Two parents on one kid; the odds weren’t in my favor. I didn’t have enough people on my team. Even if I had a sibling and we hated each other, I had a feeling we’d still back each other up, just to spite our parents. But I was alone now. And I needed to keep on talking. “Even if it is too late, I’m sure I could catch up. I could take a beginner’s guitar course in school. I’d be stuck with a bunch of grade nines but I guess that would be worth it.”

I shifted my gaze again but nothing had changed except my father had run out of meat to cut and my mom who merely pursed her lips and looked to be thinking hard. About my father, no less.

“I don’t know, honey…” she trialed off, her eyes meeting my dad’s across the table. He shoved a piece of meat in his mouth, giving me a chance to cut in.

“I don’t have to take a course at the school,” I jumped in searching my mind for anything. “There are probably some courses at the community centre. It shouldn’t be too much money…”

My father cut me off, still talking with the half mangled piece of meat in his mouth. “If it costs money, then I’m not paying for it. Especially when you can get it for free.”

Despite my anger of him cutting me off and rejecting my idea, I used what he said to my advantage. “I can get it for free at school, if you let me take the course.”

My dad’s movements stopped and I could feel his body stiffen, releasing tension across the table to my mother and spreading it to the side where I sat.

“Honey, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” my mother informed me quietly, slipping one of her hands down on the white tablecloth. “You should be using your spare time for studying. We want you to get good grades and get a job –“

“And guitar playing doesn’t bring you a good job. Just a bad reputation and a lot of wasted years.” My dad’s voice cut in and out so quick, it left an icy chill in its place. I couldn’t help but laugh at my mother’s comment – there was no way I had ever used my spare time to study; it got me into more trouble. But I felt myself become outraged at my father’s words more. So much that my own almost got stuck in my throat as I choked them out.

“But – but –“ I breathed quick, my hand gripping my neck. I felt like I was being suffocated, but found nothing there. “You used to play guitar, dad.”

“So take it from someone who knows what they’re talking about,” was all he said to my remark. And that apparently, was all the answer I ever needed. My mom cut in then, calming her ‘boys’ down. And though she placed her hands down folded, a smile on her face satisfied with the negotiating she had done, it was clear neither me nor my father were quite the happy campers she envisioned us as. My dad wolfed down his food in a haze of grunts and labored breaths while I just stared at the food I did not want to eat. I still tasted the wine in my mouth then, and it made me even madder. How could I have a creative outlook, if I didn’t have parents who supported me?

“I don’t understand why –“ I began to talk again, unsure of where I was going but not allowed to find out. My dad cut me off, snapping his head up from his food and shooting me a death glare.

“The conversation is over, Frank.”

My mouth hung open, words muted but thoughts coming full force. For once, my dad was right though. The conversation was over. It was over because I wasn’t going to be taking anymore of this shit. I placed my palms down on the table sternly, looked at both my mother and father before murmuring a harsh and snide, “Excuse me.”

I didn’t wait for their response to my semi-polite exit and merely turned my back to them and walked right out of the room, food still on my plate as cold as my father’s heart ever would be.

*

When I got to my room, I saw my guitar lying on my bed idly, as sick as it was before. I felt my stomach surge and I suddenly wanted to throw the fucking thing out the window, just to put it out of its misery. It was violently ill, from too many years of not playing and not caring. And at that moment, though I knew I could be the one to save it, I felt like I was only killing it further by getting its hopes up. It seemed like a better idea to just throw it out my bedroom window and watch it smash into a million little pieces than to watch the already dull wood fade day by day. But instead, I stuffed my anger deep down inside of me and kicked the first thing I saw. It was my pale yellow garbage can and its contents went spiraling all over my room. It was nothing but paper, dead pens and the occasional pop can but it scattered the room like the first snowfall. The mess only made me sigh even more, feeling my anger swell within me.

The only thing that kept running through my mind over and over again was how I had let down Gerard. I kept seeing the older man’s excited face when I told him about how I used to play guitar. His eyes had lit up. He had been happy. He was always happy, but this was different. He was happy with me, happy for me. We were a lot a like then. He had his art and I had my music. But now, my guitar fantasy was taken away. And I didn’t even want to see the fucking instrument, let alone Gerard’s sad face tomorrow when I saw him. If I saw him. I was even starting to doubt that as well.

“Fuck,” was all I could say or think. I hadn’t eaten or drank anything much since the wine at Gerard’s place, and usually when I didn’t get enough food into me, my thinking patterns jumped all over the place. No other words came to me and all of the sounds around me were muffled. It would have taken me years to calm down if it were not for the some logical sense of information I kept inside my head. Whenever I got into moods like these, where I would be so angry smoke would come out of my ears, I needed to talk to someone. I needed to get out of the house and go for a walk. Or I needed to eat something. But since the last two involved actually getting out of the secluded area of my room, I opted for the first one.

I grabbed the white phone receiver next to my bed and dialed Sam’s number. I chewed on my finger nail as I heard the rings reverberate into my ear over and over again. I was about to give up and throw the phone out the window (followed by the guitar) when finally I heard Sam’s voice. Only it wasn’t exactly Sam; the octave level was lower and much more lethargic. I heard other voices in the background and incessant giggling followed by chatter.

“Hello?” I called into the receiver, thrown off by the other racket. “Sam?”

“Hey!” the voice on the other end cooed into the phone. It was excited and inebriated with all the wrong things. “Yeah… It’s Sam.” There was a muffled noise at the other end of the phone, more giggling and Sam shouting to someone “You gotta share that shit!” And then I realized it; they were getting high. And high without me.

I felt a twang of jealousy added with the reverent anger I had for my dad. Sam and Travis (I recognized the incessant talking as his constant babble speak) were getting high without me, and it looked as if they had someone there as well. They were replacing me? About half a year ago we had decided to stop the constant intake of the blessed leaf, only because it was making us so fucking dumb and we were forgetting shit all the time. But it appeared that I was the only one who actually stopped, and they were still forgetting things; like inviting me along. It wasn’t that I really wanted pot all that much, I didn’t like the way it made me feel after I used it; stupid and fat because I usually ate three times my body weight when we did it. But I hated how they had just not bothered to ask me. And when I had called, they were talking to me (when they did) like the forgetting was nothing. For the most part, as I tried to shoot questions at Sam all I got was muffled laughter.

“Sam, why didn’t you invite me?” I asked for about the sixth time. My grip on the phone receiver sent my knuckles into a shade of ivory that matched the object I was holding onto for dear life. Or certain social death.

“I thought you didn’t like this shit anymore,” Sam replied, breathing out heavily. God, I could fucking smell it over the phone.

“I do,” I lied, gritting my teeth. “Can I come over too?”

There was silence for awhile in the sense that Sam said nothing to me, but murmured to the people in the background. It sounded like they were having a debate over my simple question. Most of the time, I just had to say the words and Sam came over or I was allowed there. But now they were debating? Fuck no.

“I really need to talk to you, Sam,” I said into the phone sternly and I wasn’t lying. Usually when my dad bitched me out, Sam was there. His dad wasn’t a perfect angel either; he had lived through the war and done his duty in the military. Sam and I understood each other in our father dilemmas. But now he was changing his ways and so was I. Though my voice was stern as I talked, presenting a harsh exterior, you could hear me cracking. And Sam didn’t appear to hear me at all. He came back a few seconds later, the drugs still littering and fucking with his voice.

“No,” was all he said. There was a commotion of noises, sounding as if the phone had been dropped. Then it just went dead.

I didn’t believe what he had said until I heard the dial tone echo in my ear. I threw the phone down onto my messy bed and stood up again, found nothing to kick and instead ran my hands threw my hair, tugging on some strands, feeling the root detach from my skull.

Fuck you, Sam. Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you fucking everyone. The thoughts and curses poured into my mind. I had been having an actual decent day and it had been shot to shit. I felt so trapped right then, walking around my room, my hands flailing unsure of where to go or concentrate on. I was stuck in this room the four walls around me, suffocating me. I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t move. I didn’t have anyplace to go. My eyes darted around the room violently - and then I saw it.

My shirt and pants that I had had to throw out the day before. The ones streaked and stained with the blue paint Gerard had thrown on us from atop the balcony. They had been in my trash can and when I had kicked it, I failed to notice where they fell. But now I saw them. They were more than clothes then, they were works of art. And Gerard’s words came into my head from our conversation on the park bench. You should have kept them.

Gerard knew those pieces of clothing were a work of art. He knew that guitar was a creative outlet. And he knew we were a lot alike. I stared at the clothing, the art, the creative outlet that I was missing. And I knew I had to go to Gerard’s the next day. I knew that if I didn’t go, then my room, my family, my friends and even myself would eventually fold in all around me, suffocating me entirely.

I reached down and grabbed the shirt from the ground it rested on. I gripped it in my hands, feeling the ridges of the dried paint on the polyester fabric. I felt all it represented and I knew it didn’t belong in a garbage can, just like my guitar didn’t belong in the closet. And I didn’t belong in this house. This shirt needed to be shown, to be known and it needed to say a giant ‘fuck you’ to everyone who didn’t understand.

Taking what little courage I had left, I walked forward and nailed the shirt to my door.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14