Losers: Part I

I woke up feeling like the world was caving in around me.

My heart was pounding, adrenaline pumping through my veins. My fingertips were cold and tingling, but all these symptoms were familiar. Maybe a floorboard creaked, and it prodded an old memory, or perhaps one of the boys had raised their voice and my brain latched on to the potential danger. Whatever it was, the anxiety had wrenched me out of my sleep.

I’d been dreaming, and although I rarely remembered my dreams, this one was fresh in my mind. It was a memory really, dug up from the recesses of my brain and replayed like a shitty childhood VHS tape.

I’d dreamed I was sitting against the back wall of Wickeston High between the dumpsters. I could smell the stink of rotten food, and there was something sticky under my hand, squashed against the concrete. My abdomen ached, my diaphragm was spasming, my arm curled around my stomach as I held down the urge to vomit. Getting punched in the gut sucked no matter what, but Kyle could hit particularly hard, even in dreams.

But he and his friends faded into the background; their presence inconsequential to me. I didn’t care about them or the pain they caused me. I only cared about her.

Jessica stood over me, arms folded, her legs looking a million miles long in heels and a tight plaid skirt. Her blonde hair was so long it brushed her waist, and I imagined wrapping it around my hand to pull her head back and hear her moan.

Did she think Kyle was impressive because he could push me around? Did it turn her on? Did it thrill her? I wished I knew what was happening behind those bright green eyes.

In my dream, she stood over me with her hand leaning against the wall over my head. She whispered, “Don’t let the loser forget his place.”

Yeah. My place was here, on the ground, staring at the woman I couldn’t have. She was so fucking beautiful. Heartlessly perfect. The cruelest joke life had ever played on me.

I would have rather not woken up. I wanted to linger in that fantasy. All I had left of that woman was gut-wrenching memories and wild dreams.

With a heavy sigh, I sat up in bed, rubbing my face. The sun was a hazy glow through the metal blinds covering my window, and I picked up my phone, groaning when I saw the time. It was even later than I’d thought.

I brushed the used tissues from last night off my bedside table and grabbed the bottle of lotion to take back to the bathroom. But my real shame was the crumpled fabric next to the tissues — a lacey thong stiffened with cum because I’d jacked off with it, again.

It was Jessica’s. I’d wash it in the sink later, there was no way in hell I was putting it in the regular laundry and risking one of the boys finding it. I’d never get it back.

It was too hot already, the air sticky with humidity as I stumbled into the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and shoved back my hair as best I could. It was getting too long; I needed it cut. The world was a little clearer once I had my contacts in, clear enough to grab my bottle of pills off the shelf and swallow two.

After about forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, the tight feeling in my chest would mellow out like melting butter. I’d be able to breathe again. I’d be in control.

I filled my diffuser and switched it on before I headed out. Chamomile, lavender, and lemon wafted into the air in a gentle mist, covering the stale old smell of cigarettes that clung to the walls. Kathryn Peters, my former social worker, suggested I try aromatherapy when I was living with her family, and the habit had stuck. Without Kathy, I would have ended up on the streets. Another kid on probation who should have fallen through the cracks. Instead, she gave me a safe place to stay until I had a house of my own.

I still called her often to talk, and I’d gotten close with their son Daniel too. But Daniel lived overseas now, so when I moved out, Kathy and her husband James sold their house in Wickeston and started traveling. She was on a cruise headed for the Alaskan coast when she called me last.

I made a mental note to text her today. There weren’t many people outside my household that I considered myself close to, but Kathy had saved my life. I’d never forget that.

The room closest to mine was Lucas’s, but the door was open and his messy bed was empty. He was probably in the shop working, already pissed that I’d slept in. Vincent’s room was in the attic and Jason’s was further down the hall, although he spent most nights in Vince’s room anyway. The house was big enough for all of us with a bedroom to spare, but that extra room stayed shut and locked. It was used for storage now, nothing more. No memories, no ghosts in the walls. Only a room.

If I told myself that enough, I’d eventually make it true.

The smell of fried food and weed greeted me as I went down the stairs toward the kitchen. Jason was at the stove, frying sausage patties as my pit bull, Jojo, shoved her wet gray nose demandingly against his leg. The shower down the hall was running and Vincent was loudly singing from within.

“Damn, took a while for you to haul your ass down here.” Jason glanced back at me as I walked in, his shaggy blue hair damp and a towel slung over his shoulders. “Are you hungry? Don’t let that beggar fool you. I fed her already.”

“I could eat.” I flopped down on one of the mismatched chairs next to the table as Jason scooped the sausage out of the pan. Jojo decided I was a better target to beg and came over with her tail wagging so hard it whipped her sides with every swing. I grasped her big head in my hands, shaking her back and forth in a little dance that made her whine excitedly as she tried to lick my face. I wasn’t hungry, not at all, but if I didn’t eat, I’d have the damn shakes in a few hours.

“Toast and eggs, too?” Jason said, hand poised near the refrigerator door.

“Please.”

The shower turned off and Vincent came out singing, obnoxiously loud and completely naked. His long hair dripped water on the floor as he snatched a sausage from the plate and took a bite before heading up the stairs, shouting, “God, Manson, put a shirt on! You can’t be walking around half naked!”

“Has Lucas texted you yet?” Jason said. He slid a plate of food to me as he took a seat on the opposite side of the table. I shook my head, drenching my eggs with hot sauce before I dug in. “He’s on a good one this morning. Pissy as fuck.”

“I’ll talk to him,” I said. Jojo shoved her nose against my hip with an eager whine, and I slipped her a piece of sausage beneath the table. “We were up late in the shop. That Ford was way worse than we thought it would be. Engine sludge thick as fucking molasses.”

Jason made a face of disgust. He worked as a programmer, but he spent enough of his free time in the auto shop to know his way around, pitching in when Lucas and I got too swamped with repair jobs.

“Just a few more months and things will change,” he said. “No more shitbox cars once you get the next shop set up.”

I nodded in agreement. We were only a few months away from being able to list this old house for sale and get the hell out of Wickeston. Once we moved, Lucas and I planned to set up our next place as a true tuner shop. I took a hell of a lot of pride in my work and I couldn’t settle for being merely another community mechanic. No more fucking around with Granny’s slipping transmission or Uncle Pete’s blown engine. We wanted to be known for what we loved — building fast cars that could smoke the competition without fail.

As difficult as it was to eat, the food did settle my stomach. I cleared my plate by the time Vincent came back downstairs, finally fully clothed. He sat down beside Jason, smirking.

“Missing something this morning, J?” he said.

Jason gave him a long look. “Probably.”

“Something like your lighter, maybe?”

Jason shook his head with a sigh. “Let me guess — it’s behind my ear?”

Vincent opened his mouth in an exaggerated shock as he completed his favorite magic trick and pulled Jason’s lighter from his ear. “Damn, J, why are you keeping your lighter in your ear?” Jason groaned, and I hid my smile behind the last bite of toast.

As I was putting my plate in the sink, the front door creaked open, and Lucas poked his head inside. “Manson. Need to talk to you.”

“Hey, at least get some breakfast!” Jason said, but Lucas stalked off again as quickly as he had appeared. I glanced over at Vincent, who shook his head.

“He’s in a great mood today,” he said.

“He’ll calm down,” I said. “I’ll go see what’s up.”

I walked outside, squinting in the glaring sunlight. The property was large, most of it covered with trees and weeds. We had cleaned up the front yard when we moved in, hauled away the junk, and repaired the big metal garage built on the side of the property. That garage was now our shop; its exterior walls emblazoned with Vincent’s paintings. My parents had allowed this place to waste away when they owned it, but I’d inherited it a little over a year ago and already we’d done more work to the place than my dad had in all the years he lived there.

I couldn’t guess where my dad was now. When Mom passed away last year, he only showed up to make a fuss about the will before he disappeared again. For all I knew, my old man was dead too, and good riddance to him.

Lucas was pacing the yard, a deep frown fixed on his face as he smoked. His hands were dirty from working at the shop, streaked with oil and grime. The garage was manned by the two of us, and we worked it seven days a week, sometimes twenty-four hours a day when we got busy enough.

Our other dog, a little snub-nosed mutt that Vincent had named Haribo, lay nearby with his head resting between his paws. As I left the porch, the dog gave me a look that clearly said, this guy is stressing me out.

It was clear to me anyway. Lucas probably would have disagreed with the interpretation.

“Did you know Alex McAllister is going to that party next week?” Lucas’s voice was low.. Every muscle in his throat was tense with the effort to control his volume.

It took my brain a second to catch up with what he’d said. “You mean the bonfire? On the 4th?”

“Yes, at the fucking bonfire.” He took a long drag on the cigarette, his body one rigid mass of nervous energy.

I’d known him for years and he’d always been like this. Quick to anger, slow to forgive, moody as hell. He was either horny enough to fuck night and day, or so withdrawn he didn’t even want to be touched.

But we understood each other in a way no one else could. We’d bonded through trauma, clinging to each other when the hopelessness of our teen years had felt like it would never end. It was a bond that wouldn’t break.

The four of us had chosen to build our lives together, and that meant dealing with each other even at our worst.

“I didn’t ask about Alex,” I said, remembering the dick who’d punched me in the face right before I threatened to slit his throat from ear to ear. There was nothing quite like being bullied until you’re ready to kill someone. But I’d never forget how fast that fucker’s expression had changed from smug to terrified when he realized I’d fight back. “I figured he’d be there though. Considering it’s a holiday, I doubt he’ll be staying home. Hell, Kyle could show up for all I know.”

“And that wouldn’t bother you?” Lucas stubbed the cigarette out under his boot. “That wouldn’t fucking bother you to see that asshole’s face, after he did this —” He tapped my jaw with his knuckles, right where a scar remained. “— and this?” Another tap, another scar, and his attitude was starting to raise my blood pressure.

If he’d touched my face like that a few years ago, I would have swung without thinking. It had happened before, because Lucas had no impulse control when he was like this, and I had no control over those fight-or-flight spikes that inevitably leaned toward fight.

I’d gotten better, I’d made myself better. Pills, meditation, therapy, whatever it took. I wasn’t going to continue the cycle my dad had roped me into.

“Lucas, you gotta chill.” I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep them under control. “You’re a level ten right now, man. You have to bring it down. Otherwise I can’t talk to you.”

He exhaled furiously as he paced, then rubbed his hand over his buzzed hair. After a moment, he stood still and took another deep breath.

“Right, right, sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, Manson, you know, I — You know I’m sorry.”

He fell silent, giving himself a few moments to get his thoughts back in order. Haribo came to sit by my foot, and I reached down, giving him a scratch behind the ears.

“There’s plenty of people in this town I don’t like seeing either,” I said. “But we’ll all be there. Who’s going to fuck with all of us together?”

“Some asshole who doesn’t know what’s good for them, probably.” He shook his head, but the tension had drained out of his face.

“Then, you’ll still come?” He gave me an uncertain look, grimacing. “Come on, I know you don’t want to sit at home and sulk.”

He shoved my shoulder with a laugh. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But no guarantees that I’ll be well-behaved. Are you going to get your ass to work soon or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Let me go grab yesterday’s mail first. Some assholes have been stealing it again.” He just waved his arm at me over his shoulder as he stalked back into the garage.

A narrow dirt road led past our house, shaded by walnut trees. I followed it to the main road, Route 15, wiping the sweat from my forehead. I couldn’t wait for summer to be over with; I wasn’t built for this heat. I was looking forward to the cooler, drier autumn days.

“Goddamn it,” I groaned when I found the mailbox knocked over on its side, its wooden post splintered in half, the metal box mangled. It looked like someone had slammed into it with their truck — likely on purpose.

“Motherfuckers.” I picked the mailbox out of the weeds and leaned it against what remained of its post. Yet another thing we’d have to find time to fix. I wrenched open the door, breaking it off in the process and tossing it away. The mail was gone too. Fantastic.

Another fine day in beautiful, welcoming Wickeston.