By Josha Petronis-Akins

Copyright 2017

1: All the World Drops Dead

Grace Kelly, that golden-haired goddess, strips ever-so-slowly atop a motel bed. I watch through vaseline-smeared eyes.

My office chair nap is rudely interrupted by the ringing of my cellphone. The dream slips through my fingers. Misirlou, by Dick Dale, combines with the buzzing of vibrating plastic against the wood of my desk. I pick up the phone. It’s my best friend, Aiden, who is black.

— You ready? he asks.

— Yeah. I think so. Just … let me gather my things. I’ll be maybe half an hour.

— Right.

I reluctantly get to my feet. Deodorant, dry shampoo, and a face washing make me somewhat presentable. I wipe myself dry and look in the mirror. The face looking back at me is that of eighteen-year-old (as of today) Kevin Suk: shortish, Asian, completely lacking in facial hair. At least I’m not fat like Aiden.

It still feels strange climbing into my new Toyota Prius, gifted to me by the spectacularly Jewish adoptive grandfather I call Uncle Morty. The drive through the Los Angeles suburbs to Aiden’s house anxious and slow. It was less than a year ago that I started driving.

Aiden—a head taller than me and about eighty pounds heavier—squeezes into the passenger seat. — Happy birthday, mufuckah! he shouts, and punches my shoulder.

— Ow. Hello, Aiden.

I drive with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my arm, trying to massage out the pain. — Can we pick up Jesse on the way? Aiden asks me. — He’s cool. It’ll be more fun if he’s with us.

I hardly know Jesse, but agree on a lark. Aiden provides me with directions to his house.

— Aiden?

— Yeah?

— I’ve got a few CD’s stashed in the glove compartment. Would you find the one labeled ‘Lana’, and put it on?

He rummages for a frustratingly long time, then slides the home-burned CD through the slot in a satisfyingly erotic sweep. A moment of silence, then: — MY OLD MAN IS A BAD MAN, BUT … I CAN’T DENY THE WAY HE HOLDS MY HAND … AND HE GRAAAAAABS ME … HE HAS ME BY THE HAR-AR-ART!

We stop at Jesse’s house—not quite as nice as Aiden’s or mine, with only two floors and a lawn peppered with dandelions. Aiden honks twice. After maybe ninety seconds, Jesse emerges into the afternoon sun—a tall, sandy-blonde kid clad head-to-toe in Adidas, like a Slav. Aiden must have already told him that he could come.

— Arriiiiiiiight … Let’s go shaw-ping! Jesse purrs, adopting a vocal affectation that I think is either supposed to evoke either a teenage girl, or a homosexual.

— Fuck yeah, I say though my teeth, trying to get into the spirit of things.

After two more Lana Del Rey songs, we arrive at Santa Monica Place. It’s a sprawling, gaudy complex of glass and gently curving marble and palm trees. I park the Prius, slowly, carefully, inside a multi-floor concrete lot, and emerge into the amber light.

Jesse and Aiden follow. I squint and size them up: Aiden is his usual cheerful self, wrapped in a faintly dadish turtleneck and wearing circular John Lennon glasses with thick lenses; Jesse is tall, but his poor posture makes him appear less so, and he looks sort of underweight. He’s grinning, though.

Both their grins disappear as we travel down multiple floors of the airless concrete car-vault.

— Fuuuuuuck. It’s stifling in here, Aiden says.

We step blinking into the late afternoon. — Nordstrom? I ask, rhetorically.

— Starbucks first, Aiden replies. — I’ll get you a coffee.

Jesse, who is clearly the third wheel, says, — I’d be down for Starbucks, but we’re already on our way.

I sip my oversweet Pumpkin Spice Latte as we stroll into Nordstrom. It’s one of my favourite places to shop: well-stocked, well-curated, utterly cool. In theory, I’m allowed to pick out a nice shirt or something, and Aiden will buy it for me. In practice, Aiden wants to pick the article of clothing himself. Of course, he keeps suggesting sweaters.

Aiden smiles and Jesse actually claps as I step out of the fitting room, wearing a puffy red monstrosity with a white stripe through the centre. — Oooh! Getitgetitgetit! Jesse says, holding his fists up to his chest like an excited child.

— Nah, is all I have the heart to say.

After maybe four such incidents, the Pumpkin Spice Latte hits my bladder. I already know where the bathroom is, and in under a minute, I’m unzipping my pants. A pale yellow stream hits a blue urinal cake.

The door swings open behind me with a creak.

I finish, shake the last few drops free, and zip up before turning round. It’s Jesse.

— Hey man, I say, reflexively.

He doesn’t say anything, just grins, and walks up to me. For some reason, I freeze.

Jesse’s eyes dart side to side, then he leans toward me, whispers, — Birthday sex.

— Wh-what?

— You've been eyeing me since I got in the car, Jesse breathes. — You want some white boy cock, or should I blow you first?

I'm trembling. Is it anger? Fear? Shock? He gets down on one knee, reaching towards my belt. I can hear my own heartbeat—Blood pulsing in iambic pentameter. thumpTHUMP. thumpTHUMP. thumpTHUMP. thumpTHUMP.

I knee Jesse in the face, hard. He struggles to keep balance. — *Jesus!* Oh, oh Christ ...

As he gets awkwardly to his feet, I punch him. It hurts my wrist. He collapses back to one knee.

Trembling, hyperventilating, I grab the back of his head. His hair sticks through the gaps between my fingers. thumpTHUMP. thumpTHUMP. Putting my whole upper body into the movement, I slam Jesse’s face into the curved porcelain mouth of the urinal.

Once,

twice,

three times.

Red stains white.

Jesse falls backwards onto the floor. He's sobbing, and breathing in slow, pathetic heaves. His face is a mess of tears, blood, and snot.

He says nothing, just lies there, his chest jerking up and down with each laboured breath. I thank god or whoever might be listening that there's no one else in the bathroom.

— What the fuck! I shout. — I-I-I never want to see you again. I never … want to see you with Aiden again!

As the adrenaline burns away, my chest becomes heavy with guilt. — Fuck, man. Oh. I'm so sorry. Fuck.

— Oh god, Jesse gasps, between massive breaths.

I extend a sweaty hand, and after a while Jesse takes it. I help him to his feet and wrap my arm around him in an awkward gesture of consolation. He avoids looking me the eye.

— Here, I say, trying to remain calm. — Let's … let's get you cleaned up.

I grab paper towel after paper towel from the dispenser, stuffing them into my fist—my hands are too numb to hold them properly—then thrust them into Jesse’s arms. He looks down at them as if he's not sure what they are. A drop of blood-phlegm lands on the pile.

I grab some more paper towels, and wipe down the side of the urinal. — Look. Jesse. This … didn't happen. This never happened. I want you to invent a good excuse for why you look like this … and then I want you to go home. And I want to never see you again.

— Oh … okay, he stammers.

I get up and turn round. He's wiped most of the bloody mess off his face, but he's still crying. — I'm sorry, Kevin. I'm so sorry.

— It's alright, man, I say. He grabs my shoulders, leans on me. Then he starts coughing. He lurches into a bathroom stall and throws up in the toilet, without shutting the door.

— Howbout this one? Aiden asks me. He's brandishing a Supreme shirt bearing the unsmiling visage of Neil Young. (Out of the blue, and into the black …) Jesse must be getting home by now. I hope the ten dollars I gave him covered the cab. — Sure, I say. Yeah. Sure. Thanks.

Aiden buys me the shirt. He knows something is wrong, but also knows me well enough not to ask. — Happy birthday, Kevin, he says.

Seeing that I'm in no state to drive, Aiden takes the wheel of my Prius and drops me home, then takes a taxi back to his place.

I dream not of Grace Kelly, but of dark, winding streets flanked by blazing red neon.

2: Faith is a Fine Invention

I lie sprawled on my bed, listening to John Peel: a radio DJ who was sort of the arch-curator of music in the British Isles some decades ago. Victor turned me on to The John Peel Show. He's very patriotic.

There are Beats by Dre pill speakers on my desk. Their very decent volume capacity is wasted, because I'm listening to John Peel at such a low volume, to disguise the poor sound quality.

A blaring, pseudo-punk track with a prissy-sounding singer—which Peel has informed me is Teenage Kicks, by the Undertones—wraps up with a lingering chord and and a crackle of reverb. Then John says, in his lilting Northern brogue, — I’ll tell you what. You know, I've not done this for ages, but I think we ought to hear that again. ‘Old on a second, just talk among y’selves. When you listen to it this time, those of you who are familiar with Loudon Wainwright … last time I played it, the Pig said ‘That lead singer sounded like Loudon Wainwright.’ It might sound a bit fanciful, but listen to it again and see what you think. An excuse for playing it twice.

Sure enough, John Peel plays the song again, verbatim. I can’t believe it.

I wonder what got into Kevin. Last night, after Jesse got sick and had to take a cab home, Kevin became this dead-eyed zombie. He's never been the most outgoing guy, but this was different. No tasteless racial humour or anything. Crazy.

Dad interrupts The Undertones by calling me downstairs. — Aiden! Come!

My father is sitting at the dining room table, drinking his usual black coffee. He doesn't look angry, but he does look serious. — Aiden.

— Yeah?

— Your mother and I have rented a villa outside Portland for the long weekend. We'll be gone from Friday until Monday.

— Uh … okay. Enjoy.

— There's food in the fridge. I want to return to a house that is cleaner than the one I left behind. Understand?

— Yes.

— Cleaner!

— Yes. Of course. I'll impress you.

— Good. I'm sure you will. I just wanted to drive that home.

— Right.

— I love you, Aiden.

I smile, grab myself a diet Pepsi from the fridge, and walk back upstairs.

In my room, I find that I am no longer in the mood for John Peel. Instead, I retrieve Nina—my beautiful, monstrous red Gibson acoustic guitar—from her stand and play a couple of tentative chords. She’s still basically in tune.

I play through the rhythm section of Mustang Sally. My performance is immaculate. But what's Soul without singing?

I play the song again, complete with vocal performance. This time round, I'm completely off the beat. It becomes painful. I stop after only a dozen or so barres.

Nina goes back on her stand. I'll master the song another time.

I fall back onto my bed, lie down, and roll over. There's a pain my in crotch, since my frustrated teenage erection is sandwiched between my overweight body and the bedframe. My god. I'm so sick of jerking off.

What would Victor do?

3: This Was Bitch

The doctor, this old Jewish geezer, strokes his beard and I shiver.

Breathing heavily, I arch my back, undo my belt, pull my pants down around my knees, then finally do the same with my briefs. The motion aggravates my problem, making it throb and itch. My pale white cock looks strange and sort of pathetic, poking out from beneath my Polo Ralph Lauren. Sweat accumulates between my back and the cushioned table.

Please don't circumcise me … Please don't circumcise me … Please don't circumcise me …

Not a lot of people realise this, but I, Victor Briggs, am in my heart of hearts a somewhat squeamish and cowardly young man. In order to preserve my own morale, I look upwards and concentrate on the slowly rotating fan.

Weeks ago, I lay in much the same position atop my very own bed, as someone much younger and more female and less Jewish all but unhinged her pretty jaw to gob me off. She couldn't stop playing with my pubes, though. Every so often she would curl them into little knots with her finger. I told her to knock it off, and she burst into laughter, ending the blowjob.

After sadly, silently finishing over her tits, I sent her on her way and deleted her phone number. She would never respect me again, the slag.

It was a strangely demoralising experience. The next day, I put on Quadrophenia and took my dad's beard trimmers to my pubes.

A painful nip, and I almost stop looking at the fan. Keep concentrating, Victor. pins and needles wash over my lower stomach, then most of my crotch, before the tingling dissolves into complete numbness.

Right. I was having lunch with Kevin and Aiden. Kevin’s a right insufferable cunt, but whatever. S’only lunch. Anyway, we were gabbing about Motown Soul or something when the space where my pubes used to be started to itch. I excused myself to the men's room and took a peak. The space had swelled and turned yellow.

The doctor is doing his work now, with sharp, glittering tools and wads of virginal white gauze, sullying it all. My breathing is now shallow and strained. Something smells terrible and corrupt, and something else smells harsh and medical. Rubbing alcohol?

The fan spins round and round …

At home, I took a hot shower, trying not to even look at the spot, then got sort of drunk on fridge wine and fell asleep early. I had convinced myself that the reason I wasn't going out or having someone over was that I was tired.

The next morning, the problem had swollen into two distinct lumps, and turned purple. I drove to the hospital instead of school, wishing I had been gifted with the foresight to have another drink on the way out the door, but pleased that I was well insured. Pppp

Doctor Shmeilbaum or whoever informed me, very professionally, that I had two infected abscesses—about the size of ping pong balls—resulting from infected hair follicles. I signed some papers, and they agreed to operate that day.

Gauze is pressed into the injury, creating a gross parody of pubic hair, then held in place with bandages. I'm given more to take home, to change every day, as well as daily antibiotics.

The numbness in my crotch makes me move slowly, haltingly through the hospital and parking lot on the way back to my car. I feel faintly sick to my stomach, but the feeling passes once I'm on the road and the radio is playing The Marvelettes.

This was an unfortunate episode, but no one has to know. I can't enjoy the company of the fairer sex for at least a week, but Victor’s trusty wank bank should carry me through.

— DESTINATION AN-NY-WAY-AH! EAST O’ WEST, AH DON’ CAAARE!

When I arrive home, I'll make myself a couple of tiger bread sandwiches with tomatoes and bacon and lettuce and maybe three kinds of cheese. Then I'll open up a bottle of wine and sit down with my well-thumbed copy of Lolita. Come dinnertime, I'll call in a pizza, and open another bottle. Adelaide will come home, and I'll just tell her that Victor needs some alone time. She's a good sister. Tomorrow, I don't even need to get out of bed.

My crotch is just starting to thaw, so when my phone vibrates, pins and needles jut into my hip. I answer. It's Aiden Sheppard.

4: The Lines Are Dead, and the Cars Explode

Mr. Sheppard picks me up from school. We make small talk in his minivan, exchange jokes about Aiden’s guitar playing and terrible diet. (Mr. Sheppard is a doctor, but he believes in letting his son make his own decisions.) I find myself really liking my best friend’s dad. He reminds me of how I used to feel about Bill Cosby, before everything changed. He even likes dad sweaters.

I wish I had a dad.

‘You won’t be drinking, will you?’ Mallory asked me this morning. She’s the cooler of my two Mums, by a small margin, having been raised by Uncle Morty. I assured her that no, I would not be drinking, that Aiden and I would probably eat Lucky Charms as we played Dota 2 with the new Rick & Morty announcer pack, then watch North by Northwest and fall asleep on the floor. The fictional scenario was completely in character, almost to the point of self-parody, so she believed it.

He drops me off at his (and Aiden’s) house. I stand in the corner of the living room at watch the customary, sort of formal parent-son goodbye, then Mr and Mrs Sheppard head off to oregon or wherever the fuck.

Once the car is gone, Aiden speaks. — Bring money?

— Yeah, I say. — Thirty dollars. As we agreed.

— Maybe you should cough up more. I told everyone to bring their own booze, but I don’t trust them.

— Y’know, Aiden, I’m not made of money.

— Well, someone has to pay. I’m both hosting, and contributing to expenses. It’d be the least you could do to cough up a couple of extra tens.

— Fine!

— Thanks, Kevin. Perfect.

— We’ll need to stop at the ATM, then.

— Should be doable.

Aiden drives us to the nearest commercial complex in his parents’ spare car: an orange Dodge minivan. — I’ve already called Kyle, so he’ll be waiting for us. You’ll need to be quick at the ATM, Aiden tells me.

Sho’nuff, when I return, Aiden is talking to Kyle outside the liquor store, which is located next to a (surprisingly decent) Taco Bell ripoff called Taco Bill’s, and a travel agency.

Kyle is a complete fucking trainwreck of a pot dealer and professional boot—twenty-nine years old, in need of a shave and a haircut, dressed in flannel, with one earring and a neck tattoo of a fish skeleton. One day, I’ll be paying for the stoner retard’s prison cell.

I fork over forty dollars, Aiden does likewise, tells Kyle to keep the change. Shifty fucker will probably spend my fucking change on cannabis-scented personal lubricant.

Enhance my calm.

We wait outside while Kyle goes into the liquor store. — Who’s coming? I ask Aiden.

— I’ve got about six guys lined up. Maybe more. I don’t know how many girls, he says.

— Fuuuck, I say. — We should have girls. If Victor would just come, there would be girls.

— He says he needs some Victor time. Unbelievable.

— Heh. I hate it when he refers to himself in the third person.

— If anyone can pull it off, it’s him.

— Yeah.

We stand in silence until kyle emerges from the liquor store. He got us two large bottles of Fireball and a few cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He could’ve gotten us more. Fucking ripoff.

— Thanks, Aiden tells him, like a cuck.

— N’problem, says kyle. — Take care, m’bros.

I stand in silence, fists clenched.

We drive over to Aiden’s house.

Aiden’s already put on some music—shit that sounds like it came off The Commitments soundtrack. Every so often, he feels for his phone and panics, before realising it’s plugged into the Sheppard family’s (really nice) speaker setup. We’re standing in the kitchen. He cracks open a Pabst Blue Ribbon for himself, then passes one to me.

— No thanks, man, I say. — I’m not just here to drink.

It’s pretty foul, but I’m able to tuck it away in a single go. Being an extreme lightweight, I feel a bit drowsy.

The doorbell rings. I volunteer to get it, anxious to get away from the awkward silence of the kitchen.

My heart sinks when I realise it isn’t a girl. His name is Xander, which is a really faggoty name, and he’s one of the only other black kids at our school. I think him and Aiden bonded over that. He’s sixteen years old, towering, skinny dressed in a strikingly tasteless Defend Paris hoodie. I want to say ‘fuck off’, but nod instead, signaling that he can come in.

— Hey man, want a drink? Aiden asks with what seems like genuine enthusiasm, emerging from the kitchen.

— Brought my own! He brandishes some foul grape-flavoured %12 shit bearing the visage of Lil’ Wayne. At least he paid his way.

— Hi Kev, he says to me, disappearing into the kitchen with Aiden.

Kev!? Seriously?

In the kitchen, Xander and Aiden discuss Marvel movies. In my opinion, the only redeeming quality of those kiddie-pandering abortions is Robert Downey Jr. I down on of the oversweet Lil’ Wayne vodkas while they gab, trying to get drunk enough to not be bored.

— I loved that shot where the Hulk spits out his tooth. You know that shit’s about to get serious.

— Nah, man. Best Hulk moment's in the original Avengers. Loki says something like ‘I'm a god! I will not be bullied by—’ And then the Hulk fuckin' wrecks his shit!

God help me.

The doorbell rings again, and I slink out of the kitchen to see who it is, hoping that it might finally be a girl. The walk takes longer than it normally would, and whenever I turn my head, my eyes seem to take a while to catch up.

By the time I arrive, the new visitors (one kid I vaguely recognise, and two I don’t, all white) look a bit annoyed. They’re probably Juniors, or even Sophomores, and have one six-pack of Sleeman’s between them, the cheap dipshits. Their obvious leader (Callum? Caeleb?) leads the other two in and calls after Aiden. I just stand by the front door. Still no girls, and the drinks are disappearing more quickly than they’re arriving. At least none of these idiots will be any competition if any girls do arrive.

Back in the kitchen, with another Lil’ Wayne grape vodka thing in hand, I tell Caelen (that’s his name) that his sister is not, indeed, out of my league. Unsolicited, he showed me a Facebook photo of her on his cracked iPhone, and asked me if I thought she was hot. I told him that I didn't, that she had sort of big teeth and slightly squinty eyes. He then told me that she was out of my league.

Time is passing too slowly. I shall teleport into the future! I open the fridge, looking for Coca Cola. There is none, but there are several cans of Diet Pepsi, probably purchased by Aiden in a twelve-pack. Close enough. I make myself a concoction of Fireball and Diet Pepsi in a shot glass, pound it back, then pour myself another. By the time everyone else is asking for some, I’ve got three down me.

I’m still not in the party mood—I feel stupid, and my situational awareness is fucked. The world around me is a blur of light and colour that only snaps into focus if I concentrate really hard. When my attention lapses, all that exists is the sound and fury.

More people arrive: mostly boys, but a few girls as well. I don’t recognise any of them. At least … I don’t think so. Somebody turns off James Brown (thank fuck) and puts on Turn Down For What (out of the frying pan …). I keep waiting for Victor to arrive, but he never does. I have to pee really often. It occurs to me for the first time that Fireball is gross.

Someone's brought edibles, butter tarts, and I munch one down. I've usually regarded weed with disapproval and even disdain, but it seems like the right thing to do in this moment. Then the owner of the tarts is there. He's telling me that I shouldn't have eaten a whole one, that just a nibble would have been enough for a beginner. I'm just nodding.

No one is talking to me. No one cares. I remember that time Victor coaxed some chubby girl into letting her open a champagne bottle over her tits. How did he do it? Earlier that night, he got up on the coffee table, and … shouted something funny, about … something political. Right. I don’t follow politics like I should, so that’s out of the question.

I’m sitting on the couch, talking to some girl. She’s the exact opposite of my type: tall, sort of skinny and athletic, dressed in denim and crowned by a fringe of neon-green hair. Her purple Chuck Taylors make me want to hurl. I’ve just said something funny, and she’s laughing. Now she’s telling me about how much she hates her father, her whole family, how they don’t understand her. Why does she think I care? I just hate listening to her. How can I shut her up?

I know …

I kiss her on the mouth. Much to my surprise, she goes for it, licks the front of my teeth. I’m sort of on top of her, and we’re just making out for what feels like hours. Her breath is probably really foul, but I can’t tell, because I think mine is too. We’re both too bombed to care. I’m hard as fuck.

Now we’re in the upstairs washroom. She’s unbuttoning my khakis. Earlier, she said that we can’t have sex, because she’ll bleed all over me. Fair enough. That’s legitimate.

She’s trying to give me a handjob, but I just cannot get it up. Nothing. After a while, she sighs, gives up, leaves the bathroom. I stare at the door for a long time, kind of numb to the many different emotions that I should be experiencing. Then, I throw up into the toilet.

And again.

And again.

I sit in the bathtub, just massaging my face. It feels as if I'm inside a tumble dryer. My whole world is spinning. My crotch feels wet, and I realise I've puked over myself. Mickey, by Toni Basil, is blasting from downstairs. I can feel the bass with my whole body.

— HEY MICKEY! (THUMP THUMP) — HEY MICKEY!

Rooms tumble and twist around me and static crackles in the periphery.

Someone's talking to me. His voice sounds like semi-British butter.

only quakers cant stay stiff pull yourself together boy

When I wake up, I’m on a large mattress. Sunlight is jabbing in round the edges of the drapes. The hangover isn't as bad as I thought it would be—could it be that I'm still somewhat drunk? I really need to pee, so staying in bed isn't an option.

I get to my feet and dizzily survey my surroundings. It would seem that I'm in the master bedroom, having fallen asleep on Mr and Mrs Sheppard’s bed. I was on top of the sheets, not under them, but the bed is unmade.

After emptying my bladder, I attend to my evil-tasting mouth as best I can. Having not brought a toothbrush, it's all I can do to fill my mouth with water from the tap, slosh it around, and spit it down the drain. I would drink some, but my stomach …

Looking in the mirror, I see that I am greasy, sweaty, and swollen. Fluid retention.

The walk down the stairs takes several times longer than it normally would. I'm still dizzy—am I still high? I have to grip the railing with both hands.

Do I have a fever?

Scraping sounds and a certain smell. Aiden is frying eggs. I wander into the kitchen, and there he is at the stove, humming tunelessly to himself.

— Rise and shiiiiine! he taunts.

— F-fuck you, Aiden.

— Here. Get this down. Aiden hands me a plate of eggs, with too much ketchup, as per usual with him. I put the eggs down on the kitchen table, and they sit there for a moment, before being joined by a glass of orange juice and two advils.

— You're a good friend, I tell him. — You're a good friend even when I'm not. Thanks.

I taste the orange juice and find I like it more than it makes me sick. I down the rest, with the painkillers, then take a seat on the couch and nibble the eggs. The ketchup has made them sort of cold, but I'm able to finish most of them.

Aiden respectfully tiptoes away, but not before starting a pot of coffee. When I return to the kitchen to get a cup, I find that he's left me a pile of vomit-free spare clothes.

I stay in the shower for a very long time, trying to wash away my sickness and pain. What the fuck was that? What was I doing? I can't just hang around people more interesting than myself and hope someone will decide to fuck me. I need to do something with my life.

Right. No more alcohol, no more parties at Aiden’s. The great men of California saw the gold and pleasant land around them, and built Jerusalem. Sweat of their brows.

I wonder if I can stand the clicking of my keyboard?