It took Patrick all of forty-five minutes to
pedal through the Nuclear Woods, his breath clearly visible in the deep frost
of late November, early in the morning. Tree’s billowing under a blanket of
frosty air. Patrick pretends that he is
on the tundra as he crosses the Bridge that once led to the nuclear reactor but
now leads to two giant cement goggles—an acropolis of yesterday, the skipper
swerving close. The ominous tunnel only two lefts, just inside Bradley Park.
But tonight
Patrick has to push his bicycle up Sterling astutely dodging coned headlights
as traffic whirls around him for fear of authority and curfew. He’s been gone
for a half hour and it’s direly imperative that he sees Hyacinth Lionowski (ie,
Hollis) if only just to tell her this one important thing. If just to inquire if she will meet with him
later on in the week up in the cloudy
rafters of what is known inside the Kingdom of CLS as the Welkin, or perhaps in
the 50’s gymnasium where Patrick will show her the diorama of the known
universe Graham Sheldon engendered before telling her that she occupies more
space than this in the pulsating planetarium of his chest— just so he could
tell her how he truly feels about her. Just so he can explain to her how he
truly feels period about all the shit that’s been going on these days at CLS.
His hand still hurts from transcribing lengthy puritan riddled passages from
SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD in front of the classroom for a whole two
weeks while Hale was allowed to spoon feed the Coaches Widow multiple coffee
refills while meeting his sexual quota with Cabbages McGranahan all at the same
time.
“Shit,”
Patrick thinks to himself. His hot-pink day colored French trench coat
specialty granting him the appearance of if Barbie made a cameo on the Jetsons.
The good thing is that he can coast down Sterling Hill on the way home and even
if he is espied by authority kick his pedal in gear hard enough to skid into
the Nuclear Woods and hide before taking the back route back home to VonBehren
and Tim. Nebraska is two streets ahead with houses all similar in texture and
shingled hue, lying dormant as an autopsy victim under the soporific flicker
and buzz of the Street lamps. Hyacinth’s abode is fifth from the corner, her
window being the one that Patrick instructed her to remain ‘a tad ajar.’ Patrick jumps off of Von Behren’s bike,
allowing it to roll into the front bushes like a gutter ball, He creeps up to
the window just slightly open, like a morning mid-yawn in Reverend
Morningwood’s Confirmation class.
Patrick
snoops up to the window and slowly, pushes the window open all the way. He
crouches in the window as he has seen nocturnal avatars of justice do on the
cover of Comic Books at the Kiosk in Bogards or Acme all his life. In bed
lathered in a heap of flannel comforters lies his beloved, the person whom he
desires so to be with more than anything else in the world, curled up gingerly
like a cotton island underneath piles of blankets.
Patrick
looks at her again. It is almost as if everything he has ever wanted, ever yearned
for in this lifetime and the next lies before him, cuddled in comforters,
groping pillows, letting out a little sigh.
This is a
true moment of romantic ardor. Slowly Patrick removes his older sister’s pink
coat. He removes his gloves and scarf before he finally decides to slough his entire
garments. “Wouldn’t Hyacinth be surprised,” He thinks “If the moment she opens
her eyes I am already inside her?”
Patrick is
naked as he slowly slinks into the vacant corner of the bed, his hardon keeping
him company six inches in front of him. Under the covers Hollis feels warm. She
groans to herself and lets out a little squeal insinuating to Patrick in a
somnolent monotone that she’d knew he’d come around.
“Listen, we
can do it real quick, but I’m sort of on a time limit here. The reason I need
to talk to you is because I wanted to confer a very important message to you. A
message I’ve been endeavoring to convey for quite sometime, the only problem
being….”
Patrick
stops. The knob on the door begins to offer a healthy rattle. Patrick squeezes
Hyacinth even harder, as if protecting her from the intruder. Hyacinth seems to
enjoy it when Patrick cusps his arm around her. He feels her breast bulge, as
he pinches her, one of her nipples is even hard, elastic tough in the cool
autumnal wind emanating through the window in silver streaks.
The door
opens completely. He can hear grunts and coughs. A husk smell enters the room.
“What the fuck is Mr. Lionowski doing in
his daughters’ bedroom at this time of the night?” Patrick straps his limbs around Hyacinth even
tighter. If Mr. Lionowski is going to molest his own daughter, he’s going to
have to kick Patrick’s own ass first.
Slowly Mr. Lionowski locks the
door, jounces over to the window and with a sigh, slams it down tight. He then loosens
the knot on his robe and slips into bed groping his arm around Patrick (whose
arms are still guarding Hollis) whispering things into Patrick’s ear, thinking
Patrick is someone else.
“So, you gonna let me try what we
saw in those videos tonight?”
Patrick freezes. He is appalled. No
wonder Hollis has been avoiding him ever since their initial, albeit extremely
fast food drive-thru friendly terse sexual tryst where he only got to second
base two weeks ago in the tunnel Her own father, Donald Lionowski, has been
showing her pornographic videos and sexually molesting her every night.
Patrick’s face turns bloodshot red. He doesn’t care if Donald Lionowski is an
adult. He doesn’t care if Don’s seed help craft and sew the delicate creature
that his daughter, Hollis is today. He doesn’t care about any of that right
now. Child molesting is wrong.
Don must die.
All of a sudden Patrick feels a
tepid callous hand sliding north and south along Patrick’s own naked body. The
voice beneath the cover appears to ask him to go deeper and Patrick responds,
briefly shifting his right hand south to a warmer climate while Donald Lionowski
is apparently trying to stick his thumb in Patrick’s own ass, kissing his
earlobe, informing him as her, that maybe she should consider mowing her pubic
region next week for their meeting with Coach Mooney and that new Student
Teacher.
Patrick has heard enough.
“Stop! Child molester!!” Patrick
bounces on the top of the bed completely naked. Two squeals are heard.
“Don’t move. You’ve been caught.
The house is surrounded by authorities who will fire on my command. Now get
your hairy ass down and put your hands on your motherfucking head before I
plough your penis into a pencil sharpener.”
“Ash!!!” Don screams. Rising off of the bed. Patrick turns around
and jump kicks Donald in his jaw. Don stumbles over, hitting his head on the
bedside lampshade.
“Hyacinth, come on. We gotta get
you out of here. You’re right. Your dad is fucking psycho!”
All of a sudden Patrick clearly
hears Hyacinth’s voice coming from the other side of the locked door.
“Mom, Dad are you two alright? Is everything okay in there? Mom, your not
trying one of those contorted tantric positions with dad again, are you?”
Patrick looks up in the air as the
busheled heap sticks her arm out and flips on the light switch. It is Hyacinth’s
mother.
“Shit!”
Patrick begins to jump on the
waterbed in terror. Quickly he throws a cover over his head to avoid being
clearly recognized. He can hear Hyacinth’s dad is beginning to grouse his way
into cognizance while her mom is trying to tackle Patrick by wrapping her arms
around the caps of his knees, imploring him not to leave, telling him that he
was doing everything right.
“Ahhh!!!! Ahhhh!!! Shit!!! No!!!!”
Patrick wails, spinning around the room like a broken police siren, trying to
find an exit.
“Mom is everything alright? Mom!!!”
Hollis’ voice is heard form behind the door. Shit. Patrick must have gone
through the wrong window by mistake. He can see Donal Linowski picking up the
halogen lamp by its metallic spine and swinging it hard at the covered Patrick,
like he is trying to hit the ball out of the park.
“You little…ahhhh!!!!!!!” Don
swings and Patrick jumps, part of his cloth now dripping from his shoulders so
that his ass is visible. Juniper Liowski is imploring Don not to hurt him,
telling him that he was doing something right. Yelling at the top of her lungs
to her husband that maybe this could be the one that could save their marriage.
“Mom!!! Mom!!! It doesn’t sound
like things are alright. Jared’s going to break down the door.” Patrick needs
to make his escape without having Hyacainth realize that it was he who
trespassed onto their property and violated his mother while simultaneously
being molested by her father. Patrick leaps over the lamps swing again, the
comforter falling off completely. He switches the light out and looks for his
garments. No time. Using an abandoned basketball pole as a battering ram,
brother Jared collapses the door as Patrick leaps out in front of them
completely naked. The hallway thankfully dark running around the corner to the
living room where he cannonballs through the window, shattering an orifice,
landing in the bushes, searching for VonBehren’s bike. Dressed only in a taupe
colored curtain he was able to peel away from the impact.
As Patrick pedals down the street
he hears shots being fired as he turns on Nebraska. He pedals down hard
Sterling Hill and by the time he reaches the Nuclear Woods, all of West Peoria
seems to be shrilling with sirens. Cold as fuck, Patrick pedals hard on
VonBehren’s bike, exiting the nuclear woods and meeting VonBehren, near the
Omri house, demanding his coat for collateral.
“Patrick, what the fuck just
happened? Why are you streaking on my bike?”
Patrick tells VonBehren not to ask.
VonBehren mounts the bike and Patrick steps on the pegs, grasping firmly to
VonBehren’s shoulders, telling him that he is cold, to please hurry.
After cutting through several yards
and hiding in a trash receptacle to avoid the cops Patrick finely arrives back
home, to the friendly as fuck confines of Casa McReynolds, a smile stitched into his lips when he sees
Tim’s limp body snoring in front of the growling static of a televised screen. He hears farting sounds next
door and wonders if the Garcia Clan splattered down the Mat with a whoopi-cushion
in an effort to goose the new Paper boy. Patrick then inhales, grabs a hidden
Benson and Hedges from the inside of the remote control he hid several weeks
ago, before deciding to grant VonB a very circumambulatory version. Ordering
VonBehren not to ask anymore questions than he feels he absolutely has to,
informing him that under no circumstances is he is ever allowed to talk about
this small incident that just transpired, even if someday he just so happens to
write a book about his crazy friends’ and their crazy adventures and somehow
pawn it off as a fictional masterpiece.
“Patrick, “Von Behren amends. “I
always said, your ass has a predilection for getting itself in hairy
situations.”
“Fucker.” Patrick exhales and
observes the dappled aquatic flashes of early morning television snap across
the pasty forehead of his Tim’s nocturnal countenance. It is autumn, the world
is changing, the atmosphere plummeting. Patrick tries not to think about pain
when he squats as next door the sound of intermittent flatulence echoes in the
morning breeze in an overture of sound.
No comments:
Post a Comment