They

They said I had to do it. They drank Schaeffer beers and ashed on the carpet. Cleared their throats and spat at the ceiling to make “stalactites” dangle. They were a few years older, more men than boys it seemed, and they told me there was no other choice but to take him outside. (He was in the bathroom down the hall when they decided this.) No other choice after what he’d done, they said. After all, he’d been a guest in my mother’s home, in my room.

In the dark, on pallet and bed, he and I would whisper about everything, like brothers. He’d run away because of his father. Hitchhiked all the way down from the Midwest and was terrified about a couple of things that had happened to him en route. He confessed them to me one night, and I’d never imagined people doing such, and never again imagined men the same way.

He was sick about missing his first year of high school. They said they’d get GED’s if they ever needed them. The music in their apartment was always the same: screaming. They threw their empty cans at the kitchen. Their living room was exactly like ours, only there was not a beige couch and small, upright piano. There was a large styrofoam cooler, several aluminum-frame outdoor chairs, and a wooden, industrial cable spool used as coffee table. A Confederate battle flag tacked on one wall. The snot they spat at the ceiling desiccated into thin, yellow strings that were as gnarled and brittle as worms on a sidewalk. The boombox on the floor had been taken as a payment. (They bought 8-balls of cocaine. They’d snort half, then “stomp” the other half full of baking soda, then stomp anyone who complained about being sold weak drugs.) (They’d ask me, Free cocaine, kid?, and I’d say No thanks and be nervous, and think about that cop that came to class in junior high.) They sported a gallery of tattoos, some incomplete. A forearm of panther outline; a flesh-colored Iron Cross amidst a banner of crimson. They bragged about getting sex for blow from high-school girls. They said I had to do it.

He’d been living at my apartment for a couple months. My mother adopted him, sort of, because he was scrawny and put the plates away. Did chores while I was at school, and promised to Re-enroll, ASAP, ma’am. He told her he wanted to go home but that his father, Sergeant First Class, Retired, would not condone him. He tried to dress tough, and would sometimes borrow my boots. I once decided to walk in on him while he was taking a bath.

He went down the hall to take a piss. They said he was a faggot and started trash-talking him as a group. They looked at me to see how I’d respond, and I didn’t respond, and they said he was my girlfriend, and then I fumbled around, ashamed, before finally blurting out that he’d made long-distance calls on my mom’s phone without permission. A whole bunch of them, I then said. (I wasn’t angry about this, nor was my mother.) Their response was that he was stealing from a single mom, and that I had better step up and be a man. Said I couldn’t keep letting people run over me.

He came back from the bathroom and they laughed and said, What’s up, faggot, and when his eyes dropped they said, Just kidding—lighten up, ha ha. He tried to smirk. My mouth got watery, like before vomiting. He went to grab a Schaeffer beer from the cooler and they said, Hey, give us some money for that, and he said he didn’t have any money, and they said, Well then you don’t have any beer. They then looked straight at me and said, Want a beer, kid?, and I said Yes, and did not look at him. They winked and handed me one and they laughed and asked, How are we ever gonna drink all these fokkin’ beers? He was skinny, and I thought I could do it. They did not hurt inside. They finally handed him a beer, then pulled it back when he went to take it, then gave it to him for real. Laughed when his fingers fumbled with the pop-top, then looked at me and motioned that it was time.

My father’s parents considered me a member of the family. I saw pictures of his other boys when I visited during the summer. I thought of this when I said, Let’s you and me go outside for a second, brother. They snickered. He looked around the room, dropped his shoulders, said Okay.

He and I would lie in the dark in my room and talk about feeling up, or about motocross. Agreed that we’d give anything for a green Kawasaki KX 80. On Saturdays we’d wash mom’s car for money to buy a slice of Sbarro pizza at the mall. I slid the glass door open and walked out into the overgrown lot behind the apartment complex. He plodded behind me, said he was going to go home on the Greyhound. Said he and his dad had talked a bunch, had talked of the Navy after school. I didn’t respond, only kept walking through the tall spear grass, worried sick about how to throw a punch. My father always sent the checks on time. His lawyers argued that I was in fact only one night and one bad judgment. The lawyers wore poplin suits. I wanted to try cocaine.

It was hot and dark out in the field, and the tall grass swished against our jeans as we walked. The framed yellow lights of the apartment fell well behind, and convinced they could not see us I turned to face him. He stared at me and started to say something, but a tear streaked instead. He cocked his head like a dog and turned up his palms. I said, You stole from me, man, what the fuck?, which didn’t sound real. He said I’m, I’m sorry…I was calling my parents. I’ve been trying so hard to—. I don’t care, I said. My mother took you in and you stole. (I was still not angry, and wondered if anybody ever really was.) He began to come to me, arms out. Just let it go, he said. It’s me, man. I’ll pay—. I said, Get off me faggot, and shoved him back, and this sounded more real, and he stared at me like I were a murder. He said, You don’t have to—, and I swung and connected with his forehead. His body followed through the impact. He righted himself, again said, You don’t—, and I stepped forward and hit him again. The blows were awkward, which made me try harder. Neck and head and cheek, again. He held up open hands. I kept yelling at him to swing back.

He finally went down. I hesitated, then kicked at his mouth. He curled up like a pillbug, screaming into his belly. I circled him. Spat.

A few seconds later, as our panting subsided he bolted up and ran off, through the dark field. It was the last time I’d see him. I crouched down and began to strike myself in the thighs and neck; clamped my mouth shut and struck myself until I could no longer draw breath through my snotting-up nose. I took my shirt off and wiped my eyes and face with it, then slung it over my shoulder and walked back toward the light of the apartment.

Done? they asked when I came in. Faggot spilled my beer, I answered. They howled in laughter and reached into the cooler and handed me another one. Feel good?, they asked. I said, Sure, and slid my hands across my sweaty chest as if I was sore or muscular. You know why he’s not here, right?, they asked, and I answered What?, because I didn’t understand. You know why he’s not here?, they repeated. I said No. He’s not here because he’s a bitch, they said. A man would have taken his blows, walked back to the party, shaken your hand and got you the beer himself. Cunt, they said.

I drank my Schaeffer, and then many more. The music blared and we smoked harsh Doral cigarettes, and a couple of them went back to the bedroom to stomp on more cocaine. Throughout the night they’d put their arms around my neck and tap their cans into mine, and we’d clear our throats and spit snot at the ceiling. I expected that soon I would not hurt.