Zoetrope: All-Story Extra

I dread the day my mother dies. All those old school things she must have held on to all these years--I hate to imagine. I don't need a bunch of old crap crammed in drawers or stacked away in boxes, crumbling. I don't remember my first beer or my first cigarette. My first kiss, I think so. My first joint, not really, but I remember who I was with. Their faces anyhow. I remember riding my bike down the hill behind Stuart's house; I veered off the trail, hit the broken piece of curb at the bottom, flipped over my handle bars, which in turn flipped over me and gouged a hole in my head. I remember falling one night in the street, Howie's death, and the day Julie smiled at me, and I couldn't even look at her. Just knowing it all is bad enough. Who needs souvenirs? Why would I want an attic full of, I don't know, Thanksgiving crap (you know, where you outline your hand for a turkey, all that) or bad drawings. And God forbid that note! But mom, I bet she has every bit of it. Up in the attic in old boxes, crumbling. What's the half-life of Thanksgiving crap anyway?

Memories are bad enough.

Example: Howie's death.

I'll say it was spring. It was bright and green and warm, if I remember. Definitely bright and green. Wayne Turner and I arrived at David Green's house on our way to school. Each morning we would stop at the club, which stood unsteadily beside David's house, where we would complain and smoke a cigarette. The club was a small trailer, the kind you hitch onto pickup beds, which we had somehow managed to elevate, probably on top of sawhorses. Whatever you do, don't get an image of merry boys with slingshots seated in a round inside this "club." Substitute sitting with hunching over cramped and slingshots with cigarettes David stole from his mother and you'll be closer. I remember it falling once when four or five of us piled in, and I remember Howie's drawings taped on the walls.

That morning David was anxious. He rushed out his front door the moment we reached his driveway and hurried down to meet us. But when he reached us, he straightened up, slid his hands into his pockets, and tried to act offhand.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

Wayne and I answered, equally offhand.

"What's up?" asked Wayne.

"Nothing," said David. Then he smiled and said, "Come ‘ere."

From his voice, a little coy, I thought he might have stolen something.

"What's up?" asked Wayne again.

Wayne was two years older than David and me. He always asked needless questions and was generally suspicious of everything. No matter what you told him, he would squint and tilt his head back slightly in a skeptical way.

"You'll see," said David.

I knew he had stolen something. He'd been on a mail kick lately. Did he finally strike cash? No. This was something else. If he'd struck cash there would be no mystery. He'd have it up in our faces. He'd struck something though. I was sure of that.

I was wrong. David opened the door carefully, bracing the club with his body, and motioned with his eyes for us to have a look. I went first.

The light from the sun was scattered in dots and patches throughout the club. The air was musty as usual, and, yes, it must have been warm out because it was warm in the club, but there was something different. Everything was tidy: the coffee can ashtray was empty, the blanket was folded, the plywood floor had been wiped clean. I noticed all this, and then I noticed something taped on the opposite wall. This was what I was meant to see. A new drawing, clearly not by Howie, beneath which was a note with the words: Peter Criss - Drummer - KISS.

Peter Criss, makeup and all.

Peter Criss.

I studied it, and my neck started to hurt from leaning in waiting for words to come.

What threw me was this: this Peter Criss had the roundest head you have ever seen. I mean every part of it was round. Not a cheekbone in sight, no hint of a chin. The only angle occurred in the area of the mouth, but it was all wrong. There was no inverted triangle in the mid-upper lip, no crescent moon for the lower, no, the whole mouth was a single line, like an unfinished check mark. The eyes were spheres, the nose looked like a black dime. Even the whiskers were rounded (Peter Criss was the cat). I backed away and nodded.

"That's...great man...great," I managed to say. Then I bent down and un-and re-tied my shoe.

"What is it?" asked Wayne, even as he leaned through the door.

While I worked on my shoe, I closed my eyes, waiting. Wayne. I knew him too well. And sure enough, he chortled, backed away from the club, and threw his face up. He laughed and shook silently for a full minute before he started rasping.

"Tss...ss ss hu...hhhh..."

I was still crouching with a lace in each hand when Wayne 's fit infected me. And I mean infected. I would have been fine if it weren't for him. But there I was; my chest hurt, my eyes got teary. I gave up, flopped back, and lay there convulsing in the moist grass. Wayne bent over and propped himself up, hands on knees, and let out a long, grinding laugh. I rocked from side to side, giggled, coughed, giggled more, kicked my knees up, and stomped like a wriggling baby.

I won't tell you about that dark, pained expression on David's face, or how he gazed down at the ground. I won't tell you because by the time I recovered enough to focus, David didn't seem angry or hurt. His eyes didn't puff up, and his face didn't turn red or white or any other color. There was no confusion or shame. He just glared down at me with cold eyes.

"Fuck both of you," he said, to me only.

I tried to gather myself.

"I...man...it's not you...just..."

"Fuck both of you," he said again.

It seems like I should remember so much more about this. I get up and maybe brush the damp grass off my back. Words fall out of me in clumsy, useless clusters (man...it's not that bad...it...we...). Wayne calms down eventually and either apologizes or walks away bored and waits for me. Something. But no. None of it. Just the sun, it must have been a clear day, and stepping into the alley, me, and I assume Wayne, stepping into the alley on our way to school, and looking back. And dimly, almost as dim as a dream, David stands for a moment, then turns and walks away.

Which brings me to Howie.

Howie was deaf, and both his parents were, too. Well, I know his mother was anyhow. I never knew his father. I don't know if his father was dead or just gone, but I never saw him or heard much about him all the time I knew Howie. Yet, something in my memory tells me his father was deaf. That must have been the common presumption.

Howie's house had a strange odor, like a hospital. And it was as clean as a hospital, too. I don't ever remember seeing crumbs on the counter or dishes in the sink, and I remember once I noticed that there was not a speck of dust on the television screen. This has always seemed doubly odd to me. I guess they watched TV just like the rest of us, they weren't blind after all, but still.

Howie could read lips and so could his mom, but we usually wound up communicating in writing. I've always wanted to learn sign language, ever since I met Howie, God, twenty years ago. But do you know I've never made the slightest effort to do so? I've seen probably a dozen books on sign language, but I've never so much as held one. Strange. Anyway, I remember their writing was awkward--big and crooked, like something traced. There was something else, too. I want to say they never used adjectives, but I could be wrong about that.

Howie's house had a doorbell, but when you pushed it, instead of letting off a ring, it cut all the lights in the house off and on. I can't remember if they cut on and off, though. I mean, if there were no lights on when you rang the doorbell, the light--I'm not sure how it all worked exactly. But whenever you rang the bell, or pushed it I suppose, Howie's mom would always be right there, quick as any other mom. She was a tall, thick-set woman. Not fat by any means, just substantial. Of course, I was just a kid then, so she might not have been all that big. She had short brown hair and small, dark eyes.

What I remember most about Howie's mom was her voice. I don't know how to describe a deaf person's voice, but I'll give it a whirl. It reminded me, I don't know why, it's not like I have experience to base it on, but it reminded me of the voice of someone with no tongue. All the words just stopped in the throat somewhere. Howie had the same kind of voice. I have to admit it gave me the creeps a little, even after I got to know Howie. Even now, remembering it. It always sounded a bit like moaning, you know, like it was painful. Howie and his mom were always getting flustered because we wouldn't understand something, and when they did, I'd get all hot and clammy hearing them moan. They would jerk their arms about and look for things to point to. Like they were stuttering, you know? Then they'd rush for a pad and pencil and scribble away.

"Do you want a sandwich?"

I remember once when it came to something as simple as that. I can't believe I never learned one lousy word of sign language.

One time a group of us took Howie swimming at one of those public swimming pools. We practically had to beg his mom to let him go. Not practically, we did beg. We filled a page or two with scribbled dialogue, and while one of us wrote, the others would be nodding and swimming their arms in the air.

"O come on, Mrs. Mendle! Howie will be OK. We'll watch him."

Howie's mom held her hands up, palms out, and shook them.

"Uaaa! Aaaa," she said, and shook her head.

She finally gave in, though, and we took him swimming. We promised to keep an eye on him, but ten minutes after we got there I was yelling, "David. David! Where's Howie?"

David had a mask on and it was half filled with water. He pulled the mask on top of his head.

"Howie?" he said.

"Where is he?" I said.

And sure enough, Howie was way over in the deep end. He was paddling around under the diving boards and people were yelling at him. A lifeguard blew his whistle, and I got out and ran over there.

"He's deaf. I'm sorry. Howie!" I waved my arms.

I finally got Howie's attention, and he swam over and climbed out. His eyes were all red and he was breathing heavy.

"Watch him or you're out of here," the lifeguard said.

"Yes, sir," I said. The lifeguard was a bald, stocky guy. After he issued his warning, he pushed himself up in his seat and yanked at his crotch. He was an asshole.

I led Howie back over to the shallow end. He went over to the coke machine and got him a coke. And you know, sometime in all this I'm sure I remember Howie glancing over at me with a funny look. Some kind of quick little smile. I didn't think it at the time but, now, I bet he did it all on purpose. Howie could hold his own.

Of course, Howie got teased all the time. Jimmy Robbins was the worst. Jimmy was always teasing Howie and his mom. Especially his mom. Jimmy would moan at her like a seal. He would throw his arms about and contort his hands and fingers in all kinds of ways, then he'd flip her off. If it had been anyone but Jimmy, he might have got his ass kicked good, but everyone liked Jimmy. Still, I remember I would lay in bed sometimes and imagine what I would do to someone who did the things Jimmy did. Someone not Jimmy.

But don't get the idea that we felt sorry for Howie or something like that. No, like I said before, Howie could hold his own. And as for his mom, she could handle it, the teasing I mean. I never saw her lose her cool.

When I speak of "we" and "everyone" and so on, I'm talking about a handful of kids who were bound by proximity: me, Howie, Jimmy Robbins, Wayne Turner, David Green, a few others. We all, except Howie, went to the same school. Howie went to school, too, a different one, but not, it seemed, on regular days or at regular times. Wayne Turner, David Green, and I used to walk to school together sometimes, and this brings me back to that bright, warm morning with the picture.

David said, "Fuck both of you." Wayne and I left.

David never made it to school that morning. I figured he skipped, but sometime after lunch, in he walks. His desk was on the row beside mine, but further back, so he passed me on his way. He looked strange, like he might have been sick. He didn't look at me when he passed but when he sat down, he lifted his eyes to mine. There was something in his eyes that made my hands damp. He mouthed the words:

"I'm in deep shit."

As I said before, Howie went to school just like the rest of us, only at different times and on different days. It turned out that this particular day, Howie was home. He met up with David. This is what David told me after school that day.

David said after we left him, after the whole picture fiasco, he was really pissed. I apologized again, but he stuck his hand up and shook his head so I left it at that. He said he went back inside his house and debated: school or not. It was a debate he often had. David would skip now and then. His mother was on the couch again. She'd sleep till noon at least. He said she had red creases on her face, white gunk on the corners of her mouth, and damp hair. He said she twitched and that her blue-jean skirt forced a bulge across her thigh and it grossed him out. He said he sat for a while about a foot from her on the carpet, staring at her. Then he made her a cup of ice water and sat it on the floor near her dangling hand. I don't know why he told me all this, but he did, and he told it all in a strange, quiet voice. Sometimes he would look at me, but mostly he had his head cocked to the side and his eyes pointed upward. It was strange, but I listened.

He said he checked her purse for stray bills. There were three and lots of change. He took the bills, left the change. He thought he might go to Swift-T and play video games. Or maybe buy cigarettes and go to the creek. He said he wandered around the house for a while, looked in all the rooms. Then he looked out his window and saw Howie outside across the street.

When I said that Howie could hold his own, part of what I meant was he could ride a bike like a demon. He could also draw and do a lot of other things that I won't go into. He was always on that bike, always working on it, too. When he saw him, David said, Howie had his bike out, flipped over on its seat. He said Howie had tools out and was crouched down, tightening this and that, spinning the front wheel. I could see it. David got his own bike out and rode over to Howie's.

After they got in the club and smoked a cigarette, after David lit his crumpled up drawing and dropped it in the coffee can, David and Howie left for Swift-T. David said they rode through alleys and cut across lawns. He said the neighborhood seemed abandoned. They rode up to Swift-T, bought some cigarettes, played some video games. Howie was a demon on video games, too.

After Swift-T, they headed for the creek, the cement trench where all the gutters in the neighborhood converged. David said they messed around--rode their bikes down one side, skidded around in the narrow stream of algae and oil sheen, and rode up the other. Then back down, across, and back up. The same crap we always did. Every day. Every single day.

We had a stash of supplies at the creek so David and Howie built a ramp in an alley. David explained this to me as if he needed to. As if we hadn't built a hundred such ramps together. He looked at me and said, "We got a piece of plywood. And some cinder blocks. We made a ramp."

I wanted to tell him, "Right, right, get on with it," but I didn't.

Ramps. Howie, he was a demon on those. I mean, he could get some serious air. He put us all to shame. It doesn't fit. It just doesn't fit.

David said he went first--up and over. He landed. He rode back around behind Howie. Then Howie made for the ramp.

David said Howie hit the ramp, got some serious air, and landed on his back wheel. But then something happened. He said when Howie's front wheel hit, something happened. Something went wrong. He just--lost it, David said. He said this a few more times.

"He lost it. He just lost it."

He said Howie sorta twisted and fell over. Fell smack on his head. His head fell smack on the cement. Just like that. David slapped his hands together. "Just like that," he said. "Half a second." He said Howie popped right up and was laughing and rubbing the side of his head. David said he started to laugh, too, but something wouldn't let him. "That sound," he said. "When his head hit the ground, the sound it made, it was awful."

"I knew he was hurt," David said. "I started to laugh too but I knew he was hurt."

He said Howie laughed and rubbed the side of his head for a few seconds. Then he sat down. Howie sat in the alley and rubbed the side of his head but he quit laughing. David said Howie's face turned white, and he started making this weird little sound, like that little squeaking noise you get in your ear sometimes.

"You know what I mean?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "You mean that little eeeeee sound?"

"Yeah," David said. "That's it. It was something like that." David looked down for a moment. "Something," he said. Then he looked back up.

He said Howie kept making this sound and every once in a while he would go, "sss...sss." He said he kept rubbing the side of his head. Then he lay down right there in the alley. He lay on his back and stomped his foot a few times. He kept his hand pressed to the side of his head. David said Howie's face looked like he was straining really hard, like he was holding something down.

"I knew he was hurt," David said. "Bad."

I don't need to tell you it got ugly from there. David said he looked all around for a house with a car in the driveway, but he couldn't find one, so he got on his bike and hauled ass back home. He said he got home and his mom was still asleep on the couch. It was still pretty early. He shook her and said, "Mom, mom, its Howie. Mom!"

OK, he didn't say he said that but I imagine he did.

He said she was pissed at first, but she got over it pretty quick. He told her what happened, and she called for an ambulance.

"Where is he, David?" She was on the phone. "What street's he near?"

David said he felt like he was gonna break apart. He didn't know what fucking street he was near.

"Oh, OK. Yeah, that must be him. OK. Yes, ma'am." David said his mom hung up. They were on their way, she said. Someone had already called.

David and his mom got in her car and hauled ass back over to Howie. When they got there, the ambulance had already come. They had Howie on a stretcher. One guy had his hand on Howie's head. There were a few old people standing around. It was all hurried and confused. David couldn't remember much of what was said except that one of the old men that was standing around looked down and said, "That his bike?"

David said it was. Then he picked up the bike and said he guessed he would ride it home to Howie's. He said he almost threw up when he thought about having to see Howie's mom. Then he said his mom must have just realized what had happened because she said, "No, you get to school. Right now. Go!" So he went to school.

David took a deep breath and shook a little as he let it out.

"He's hurt, man," he said. "Howie's hurt bad."

I knew he was hurt. The question was how hurt. How bad could he possibly be hurt? Every day. Every freaking day someone I knew fell off his bike, bumped his head, skinned up his knees, jammed his fingers. Hell, it was usually me. I told you about the hill behind Stuart's house. Shit, that was nothing. Sure, I got a hole gouged in my head, but I got back on my bike and rode home. If I ever go bald, I'm screwed. My head must be one big scar. That shit happened every day.

So when I heard Howie was in the hospital, it was hard to believe. How? What was so different? And when I heard he was in a coma, I just about lost it. My mom said that Howie could have visitors. She said I could go see him if I wanted to. I wanted to but I couldn't see the point really. I mean, I had heard that people can hear you when they're in a coma, like they're awake but paralyzed all over or something. But this was Howie. Howie's deaf. I really got a chill thinking about that. God. Howie. It must be like he's buried alive or something. I almost lost it again.

I was almost sick with nerves, but I went to see him. He had a lot of family there, which I was happy to see. I saw some of them talking out in the hallway, so they couldn't have all been deaf. I remember one young girl, she must have been about my age. She had on glasses and her hair was cut short. She had giant brown eyes. Maybe her glasses made them look bigger than they were, I don't know. She smiled at me and I smiled back.

I went into the room and there was Howie. Howie was a pretty small kid, but now he looked even smaller. Somehow, though, he seemed heavy. Denser, maybe, like he was crushing down into the bed. Maybe it was all the equipment. He was covered with tubes, beeps, and suction noises. His head was all bandaged. It was a blood clot, you see. They did surgery on him and I guess they got the thing out, but he slipped off anyway. I guess he was just too small to handle it. I didn't see any blood on the bandages, though. I was glad for that.

Howie's mom was sitting in a chair beside his bed. She had a book in her lap. She looked up at me and her small, brown eyes were shining. You might expect that she would look all pale and drawn-in but she didn't. She was radiant. I mean, not in a glittery way, you know. In a sort of dying way. That's the only way I can describe it. She smiled at me and stood up. Then she walked over to me to take both my hands in hers. Thank you, she said. I read her lips. She didn't make a noise except for the little click of her lips parting. They were dry.

I walked over beside Howie. There he was. I remember I was a little surprised by the color in his face. I don't know what I expected, though. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at Howie's mom and I read her lips again.

Talk, she said. Talk to him.

At first I felt weird, you know. I mean, I'd never actually talked to Howie. Not really. Not naturally, you know. And now he looked--dead. There's no other way to put it. There was color in his face but there was no life in him at all. It was all machine. But then I had a funny thought. I thought, maybe he can hear now, you know. Maybe the surgery, maybe the accident--maybe somehow he can hear now. I felt strange doing it, but I talked to him.

I don't remember what I said exactly. I think I told him that we missed him, all the guys, that we wanted him to get better soon. I think I might have given him a little pat on the hand but I'm not sure. What I do know is, one minute I was standing there looking down at Howie, and the next minute I lost it. I completely lost it. I broke down hard. I cried and cried. Howie's mom put her arm around me and held me close to her. I think I blubbered on about it being my fault. If I hadn't laughed, you know. If I hadn't laughed at that Goddamn stupid fucking picture. David didn't give a shit if Wayne laughed. It was me. I laughed. I laughed, David skipped school, Howie died. Period. I think I might have blubbered on like this for a while but maybe the words stayed in my mind. It's all a blur.

I do remember, though, that Howie's mom held me until I could get it together. Then I think I apologized. Then I thought, shit, I hope Howie can't hear after all. Howie's mom had a pad and pencil with her. She wrote me a note.

"Thank you," it said. "You are a good friend to Howie."

There you are--an adjective. God, did I want to bawl reading that! But I didn't. I pulled it together. I think I managed to smile at her. I remember I wanted to write her something back but I didn't. I just smiled. Or tried to, anyway.

A few days later, Howie died, and it was a long time before anything felt normal again. We left his drawings hanging in the club for a few weeks. Then someone had the idea to give them to his mom, but I can't remember if that ever happened. We didn't see Howie's mom for a long time. She'd gone to stay with family, we assumed. When she did come back, it was only for long enough to get all her things packed. She moved away and I never saw her again. One day, after Howie's mom had moved and the house was empty, Jimmy Robbins wanted to break in and trash the place. He flung a rock through one of the windows, and I jumped on him and kicked his ass. I had him pinned down and I nailed him in the face a few times. Then he squirmed around so that I was sitting on his back so I wailed on his kidneys until someone pulled me off. As I was walking away, the chicken-shit popped me one from behind and numbed my ear. But I didn't turn around. I just kept walking.

Sometimes, seldom, but sometimes, I'll have one of those fits of nostalgia, you know what I mean? Usually when I'm driving. I'll look out at nothing in particular and think, I wish I had that note, you know. That note Howie's mom wrote me. I wonder what happened to that. But soon enough I realize, no, I have it. I'll see the note in my mind and I'll think, no, I have it all right. I don't want the fucking thing. That's the truth of the matter. Which brings me back to what set me off on this in the first place.

Mom. I bet she has it. I bet she has all of that crap stashed away somewhere. I dread the day she dies.