Authors: Tomas Mournian
“You realize what it was about.”
“No, I don’t realize. Tell me, what was it about?”
“I think you know.”
“No,” I say, resisting every question. “I don’t.”
“Really? You don’t?” I shake my head. I refuse to help satisfy her curiosity. She sighs. “
Power
.”
“Power?” I say, neutral. Inside, I flinch. I know exactly what it’s “about.” And I hate myself for not saying it. They did it to me
there
, and she’s trying to do it to me
here
. I close up. I don’t trust her. She’s another Kidd. A bully with attitude in one hand, and a self-help book in the other.
“What was his name?”
I shake my head, refuse to fill in the silence.
“He had a name.”
“No,” I say, my voice small, “I—”
Even if I wanted to, I can’t say it. She sees me, my pain, whatever. Why does she need to hear it? What he did to me. I haven’t thought about him since I left Serenity Ridge. I refuse to give him free rent in my head. He’s as good as dead.
She’s worse, in some ways. Maybe because some part of her knows. As in,
really
knows. I sense that. She wants me to feel the same way as her—Obsessed, Vigilant—and I don’t want to. Let her play with someone else’s feelings. I’ve had enough humiliation at fifteen to last a lifetime. Unlike them, with her, I can refuse. Say, “No.” Or, “
You can’t make me.”
“Well?” she says, impatience underscores her voice. Like she’s ready to stand up and leave. She has “somewhere” (nowhere,
really) to go. I resist, I don’t speak. I look at her. Silent. Meanwhile, the voice in my head screams, “It’s none of your fucking business!”
“You know,
Ben,”
she says, giving me that stare-glare, “you’re going to keep having nightmares until you talk about it.”
“Oh, like talking about anything ever did anyone any good. Talking doesn’t make it go away. That’s a lie. I—”
I can’t bear to say what comes after the “I.” I refocus my attention on a paper clip. I unbend one end and twirl the metal twig between index finger and thumb.
Twirl—
Twirl—
Twirl—
I cast my spell,
Choke—
Choke—
Choke on your silence, you nosy girl with a hard face and cruel voice. Beat it, bitch ’cause I can twirl way longer than you’ll ever be able to hold your stare-glare
.
But no matter how hard I vibe her, I still feel her eyes. I feel her dismay. She studies me, the way you would a butterfly pinned to cork. I hate this. My whole life, a “topic,” me, stripped of privacy.
I might as well be back in the hospital. I dare myself, “Look up.” But I can’t. I keep my eyes down and focus on the whirly-twirly paper clip. I roll the tiny metal tube between my fingertips and make it go, go, go. Sunlight glints on the silver, and hits her eye
Pow! Pow! Pow!
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?” In Serenity Ridge, they’d call my answer “defiant.” Or, “oppositional.” But here, I know I can use this tone with her because there’s nothing she can do. Solitary? Puleeze. Meds? Sold out!
Time
out? Clock out.
“Mean girl,” I think, staring at the paper clip, pleased to have annoyed her. “Take your nosy questions and
Fuck Off
.”
“
Please
, I—” She stops, gives up midsentence. I guess she realizes that she’s lost. I can tell. It’s her voice. The way the “I” got
caught on her throat. I respect surrender. I stop. That’s the moment I realize, This is not a game. She’s serious. She sounds like a bitch, but some part of her’s really trying to help.
I look up. I’m not prepared for what I see. She’s not a shrink. She’s a young girl who wears a funny face. A face twisted up and filled with Pain.
K
nock, knock. My heart jumps. Someone’s at the front door.
Creak.
The door opens. I press my body against the wall. A shadow moves inside. The door shuts, locks,
click.
“Hey, Ham,” Marci says. I exhale. It’s not a Bounty Hunter. “Where’s Ben?”
“‘sleep.”
“You awake?” she asks, tugging my big toe.
“Nap.”
“Takes time for all the drugs to come out.”
“But,” I think, “that’s
so
not the problem.” The grocery bags crinkle. She picks them up and leaves the room. The closet door shuts. I reach under the mattress, grab my journal and write. I don’t feel it. I shut the notebook, careful to place it under my feet, away from my head. I like knowing my dreams unravel far away from the daytime events. The ones I drain out my head and spill onto the paper. I feel free to lapse into a sleeping frenzy. Lonely has its pluses—I dream without guilt. Dreams keep me off the street.
The elevator groans. I wake, exhausted yet alert. The sound means someone’s in the building. “They” could easily be headed to the safe house. Armed with, well, whatever. Me and Everyone, we’re sitting (or, sleeping) ducks. Just “waiting …” Capture,
imprisonment, torture. Coz that’s the American way. We lock up anyone who’s different, poor, or young.
Game on, I lie there, obsessing, plotting, planning. My escape. I imagine complex scenarios. Where I’ll go, what I’ll do. Freedom doesn’t figure into this—I live in low-grade panic. The feeling chews through my peace of mind, till there’s nothing left.
“H
uh! Huh! Huh!”
Grunts wake me.
Hammer’s kicks are propped on the window ledge, palms flat on the floor. He busts out push-ups, a shirtless, blond skinhead. Sweat coats his golden skin with a delicious gaze. Loose, b-ball shorts drape over his rock-hard ass. Arms pumping, pistonlike, he moves, efficient as a stopwatch.
Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.
Heaven! He ignores me (on purpose), or, he wants me to stare. I imagine myself under his perfect body. He pulsates, pink lips come close to mine and … kiss. They part, he returns. Repeat. Over and over.
Looking at Hammer is too much. I feel overwhelmed by desire, what I want and cannot have. I look away. I close my eyes and touch my mouth—I’m not drooling, my tongue doesn’t hang out. I press my hands against my body. Otherwise, I’d be tempted to jam them into my pants and jerk off.
A
bear-sized hand rests on my shoulder. I lie still and play dead. I worry it’s the wolf (or, in my version, the Blue-eyed Bob). Maybe I’ve been mistaken for Goldilocks? I
am
blond and there
is
porridge in the kitchen.
“You type?”
I open my eyes. Hammer’s face is close, so close we could kiss.
“Do I what?” I heard him, but I didn’t. Maybe I heard something else. Do I type? What is my blood type? Or,
who
is my type?
“Do. You. Type,” he says, slowly, like he’s speaking to a child. “I need help.”
He needs a typist. Eager to please, I launch myself up, off the bunk, and follow him to the closet. Inside, he shuts the door and gestures to the laptop.
“People write stuff and you read it to me and I
tell
you
what
to say.” He looks at me, flashing beautiful, blue eyes under hooded lids. The extreme color and shape makes him look alien.
I’m confused. “Tell them how?”
“
Type
,” he says, impatient. He believes typists should keep numbskull questions to themselves. He stands in front of the laptop, faces me, and turns the Webcam around. I still don’t grasp the camera–typing connection. There’s something Home
Shopping Network about the setup. “We’re going live in thirty seconds.”
“Aren’t we—”
“
Live
,” he says, an Aryan Youth look with a cold voice. “On the
net
.”
“Why?”
“I’m doing a show.”
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one … zero …
The screen morphs and comes to life. On it, a digital Hammer unbuttons the flannel shirt, ready to peel it off. Something about this makes me sick. I want to leave. I don’t want to see this. Or, the show.
His hands and hips move. There’s a delay between what’s in front of me and what’s on-screen. The picture’s herky jerky versus the “live,” fluid, flesh-and-blood Hammer.
He tosses the shirt. Stops. Stands still. His torso bulges under the tight, white ribbed, cotton wifebeater. The push-ups have pumped his chest and arms. He reaches up, yanks down the baseball cap, and hides his face.
In seconds, he’s gone from real, live sexy to fake and robo-pornish. His hips move, slowly gyrating. Live! Naked (not yet)! Boy! I stare, mesmerized by his moves.
Bling! Bling! Bling!
I ignore the sound. It’s probably Oskar, trying to reach J.D.
“Dude!” Hammer grunts.
“What?”
“
Read
.”
I look down. Crazy. IMs pop up all over the screen, an epidemic of electronic weeds.
“What’re they saying?” he asks, head down, mouth semihid-den. Well, hidden unless you’re me, sitting in the room, and see him speak.
Scanning, I reading the IMs out loud, “‘Welcum back,’ ‘Missed YOU!!!!!’ ‘where u been?’ ‘don go way’”
He lowers his head and shoots me—or, really, I realize, the Webcam—a seductive look. Muscles bulging, face semihidden,
Hammer’s all the hot bro’ types I’ve ever seen riding a bike, walking down the street or shooting hoops. He’s the gorgeous guy you want to talk to but can’t. The boys whose beauty invites you to look but never,
ever
, touch. Your mind’s eye sees him, burned with an image of beauty and youth you’ll never be able to erase.
“How’s that?”
“How’s what?” I’m so lost in the pleasure of looking at him, I forget I can, in fact, talk to him and he’ll answer.
“How’s that
look?
” he says. He pouts and adjusts his pose.
“Great, but don’t you want me to type? Your answers? Or is that—”
“No, not right away. I always make ’em wait. Then, they’ll
beg
for it. How do I look?”
I compare Hammer’s image with Hammer, the person.
He’s handed me a tire pump. And with it, I’m in charge of filling him up with compliments. If I don’t, we run the risk he’ll deflate and then—IDK. I don’t understand the importance of this cyberstrip. But it’s important to Hammer, and I’m along for the ride down ’Ho Road.
“Perfect,” I say.
“I’m not moving too fast?”
In person, Hammer barely moves. On-screen, the itty-bitty movements look just right.
“Excellent. What is this, anyway?”
“Cam whoring,” he says, matter-of-fact. Nauseous, I swallow hard, forcing the vomit to stay down.
“Cam
whoring?
Is that, like, um, prostitution?”
“No,” he says, swiveling, sensually turning his body sideways. “That’s when you meet them in person.”
I shouldn’t ask, because I don’t want to know. But I need to know if my blond angel’s tarnished. It’s the whole serpent / Apple tree-Adam-Eve thing. Weird, too, since I don’t even believe in the Bible.
“Have you ever done that?”
Hammer raises his arms. Back muscles flare. He moves his shoulders, one up, one down. His ass moves, too, separate from
his shoulders, this way and that. Slowly, he turn-turn-turns around until he faces front. Focused, Hammer’s very coordinated.
“What are they saying?”
I look at the screen. A dozen more IMs have sprung up. I scan the clusters. They all say pretty much the same thing. I wonder if I’m here to “type” or as a buffer between Hammer and the sexually charged words.
“You want them one by one, all together or—”
“Together.” He rocks his hips side-to-side, hooking his thumbs into his jeans’ belt loops. “How’s that?”
“More,” I say, summing up the theme of the mushrooming IMs. I get the feeling that, if they could, these cyberpervs would reach out, break the monitor and rip him to pieces. It’s the Devour Hammer Hour. I shiver. “They keep saying they want more.”
“What else?”
“You want me to type that?”
“No, what else are
they saying?
”
“More but—Wait, I—it looks like, every time you move or stand different, they say they want more of that.”
“Right. Good,” he says, pleased. It dawns on me, Hammer knows exactly what he’s doing. He stokes the fire with reason and purpose. Gross. I wanted him for myself. But, turns out, he’s already spoken for—by hundreds, if not the world. This is a horrible feeling. I’ve been betrayed before I ever got a chance to fall in love.
“And the hat. They want you to take off the hat.”
His thumbs remain in place, hips pulsing. His fingers move, creep down and cup his crotch. I ignore the IMs. I can’t believe I’m seeing Hammer do
this
, in person.
Hammer
really
knows how to work it. It’s a good thing that I sit. My dick is hard. This voyeurism is prolly going to scar me for life, another bad habit I’ll have to overcome. Sexually charged images being this year’s theme. If I wasn’t in this closet—and had a credit card—I’d pay to watch Hammer do his thing (and hate myself for it!). Once—if, ever—I find a real therapist,
I’ll cloth, feed and put her / his children through private school and college.
Bling!bling!bling!bling!bling!bling!bling!bling!bling!
The IMs go crazy. I space out.
“
Hey!
” Hammer barks. “I’m counting on you!”
I refocus. The screen’s solid with IMs. “Hammer, Cam Whore for President.” He could win. I mean, he’s
that
popular.
“Who are these people?”
“Dads, regular people, pervs.”
“It’s always like this.”
Silent, he shoots off a series of slinky-sexy moves. If he’s annoyed by my ADD lapse, he doesn’t show it. He’s focused on his performance.
“Yeah,” he says, his answer, like his on-screen image, a couple beats late. “It’s always like this. What else?”
I read the screen, “They want to know—”
“Don’t tell me that,” he says, “I know they’re asking questions. Read them. Type my answer and press Reply.”
“That’ll take forever. There’s—”
“Everyone gets the same answer. I’m the Go-Go God.”
“What’s in the hour?”
“‘I do
everything
… if you know what I mean.’ Put those dot, dot, dots in there. Between ‘everything’ and ‘if.’”