Ch. 3- Blistering Oaks
The neighborhood, lil Graham Fallin’s neighborhood, was named Blistering Oaks, it was the type of subdivision that caused ‘division’ to be apropos. On the lofty shores of the Pearl River she sat; stately, sad, and alone overlooking the city…picking her teeth. The children were well cared for and developed into the usual menagerie of attainment. Into this well of knighted upwardly mobile rabbits came Grahams Brigade. They were not a formal gang even in the most nontraditional fashion. Nor as in some was there any one incident that united them or drew from them any common denominator. Not all were Grahams initial students, nor were even aware of the necrophilia’s influence. Simply said it was just a bad bunch…all bad, no redeeming qualities, save maybe well dressed and the invisibility thing. The rapes that were to later distinguish them into a grouping of sorts…a mob of aware and approving individual parts were only dreams at this junction, just magnanimous and effortless dangles of space and time.
The boys had been drinking beer all day. It was a school day, but somehow this just didn’t matter. Graham entered the house via the garage popping with energy, himself working with a healthy buzz. The plan was to go rollerblading on the campus, try to bounce some college broads. Jesse and Brandon’s sister could be heard in the laundry room, muffled groans coupling with periodic high pitched arguments.
Stuart sat under a blanket, a Guinness peeking out by his chin, he wished he had a straw Brandon was heatedly describing his mothers fascination with Indian men, not from India he kept reiterating…American Indians. Its something to do with the rugged individualism and the loin cloths.
“I don’t think they wear loincloths anymore, jeans and stuff.” Remarked Stuart looking off into space. The TV was too loud though and no one heard him, looking over to where the two enrapt girls sat on the edge of the sofa listening to Brandon, he said it again.
Marlene crowed back at him, “That is totally inappropriate, can we be adults here.” She never understood why her real friends from good families let him hang around. So fucking what if this monstrosity with a GQ shitty mustache was an athlete. She knew for a fact he was scholarship.
“Listen you cunt-wad I will say whatever the fuck I want”
Brandon kept up his barrage on his estranged mother disregarding all else.
“Fuck you Stuart you poor fool.” He loved pointing out his friends poverty because he was poor. He didnt understand poor. He associated it with lazy and...Something moved out of the corner of his eye and his train of thought moved on.
Stuarts father was poor. His vocational pursuits included a Christian bookstore manager and the coach of the debate team for the local public high-school. There was a mother, they all knew, but never spoke of. She was living with Brandon’s uncle Dancy at the Beldin Manor, and Stuart lived with them some of the time. Stuarts mother was fine, but never left the house. She hadn’t in over a year or better. All we knew came from Maily, Brandons maid, who heard from Belsie her sisters best friend that the woman was “nottin but a drunken pincushion for Mr. Dancy.” No one with a right mind mentioned any of this, Stu was a goddamned ass kicker.
As the foolish girl got jerked from the couch, Stu still wrapped in the blanket, Graham hopped down the last stair to the den. He was still wearing his black over-sized wraparound glasses, with an unlit cigarette in hand. Stuart was dragging the tanned black haired girl, beer clamped firmly in his teeth, humming a sprightly little jam as she kicked at him. Graham walked by them patting the pockets of his blazer, looking for a light, nodding briefly at Stuart.
“The house in Fort Lauderdale is full of that crap, headdresses, arrows, totems, paintings…” Brandon kept on, “and these fucking Redmen…” looking over at Graham who nodded at his appropriate vernacular, “these Chiefs keep coming to the house, trying to…” he paused, mouth pouting like a child “I think she may be ballin one of em or all of em.”
Graham looked hard in his glasses, like some sort of vigilante. At his hairline a ridge of stiches could be seen angrily sparring with his part.
“So what if she is, God knows your Dad fucks everything that moves. Dudes too.” Graham sucked on his teeth as he said this, as if thinking about homosexuality in a painful light. A well placed blow by Stuart shut up the cussing besieged onyx haired Marlene, flipping her over into a loose choke-hold. They disappeared from view.
No one really knew how to discuss gay issues, in a way everyone tried to be polite to Brandon and his sister, act as if it was ok. This was the new South and protocol had to be maintained. That genteel vetted classed mentality had to be dashed, dashed but still respected. Gay was hip as long as it wasn’t real. But it wasn’t, it was horrific. The girls thought perhaps it was hereditary and spoke to their mothers about it in hushed tones, the guys watched Brandon with skepticism. Graham didn’t. Graham loved him, all the more for his father.
“Listen we really rollerblading? Or does anyone want to go see if the doves are flying today.”
“If yall go huntin Im goin with yall.” Dionne from North Carolina sipping her beer, resolute. Brandon looked up waking himself at the extreme nature of her accent.
“Sure lets go kill tweetys. Go get us some beers Dionne.” She walked out wagging her ass with that two beer adult sway.
“That’s a godamned colored name, aint it? No self-respectin Louisiana mother would name their daughter Dionne…would they?”
“For the love of all thats holy, African American or black, Brandon and no, but be good, she aint from here so lets try to be sweet.” Brandon's sister, Katherine, walked in face deep crimson, holding a Michelob Ultra Light and her sandals while blowing on her nails.
“Where is Stuart and Marlene?” she demanded. Graham and Brandon looked confused at the question, ignoring her for Donnie Darko on the flat screen. She sat down close to Graham on the couch, throwing her feet up and grabbing his now lit Dunhill. Nearly every popular girl that she knew fucked Stuart, nothing new here.
One breast stuck out, smooshed upwards by a violet see-through bra, sad and exposed. This wasn’t the first time that her face had been pushed into a bed and wasn’t the first time Stuart talked softly to her about her little sister as he jack rabbited her with precision. Why did these people let this fucking loser hang out she thought as her head tapped the headboard. They came downstairs, three minutes later, Marlene in his letter-man jacket. When the movie ended they loaded into the trucks, heading out to the Breakers Field where alfalfa had just been cut.