Is this the way to Amarillo? (413 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesRating: 2 on 12 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by helbling (View user info) at 2006-10-02 10:42:10 EDT
[I'm back - looong hiatus. Probably will go on a looong hiatus again after this - goddamn RL. Whimsical one-off, written outside my normal style as an experiment, with a ridiculous starting line, because I was stupid enough to accept a challenge. Opinions and crits asked for and valued.]
"Is this the way to Amarillo?" she says, grinning up at me impishly and settling herself on the bed.
I swallow hard, my tongue dry and suddenly too large for my mouth.
"What?" I manage to say, watching her hand run across the sheet trying to smooth out the creases in it; her long, false nails are the perfect ovals of white at her fingertips, making the slight greyness of the cotton all the more apparent.
"The way to Amarillo - it's supposed to be, like, legendary, isn't it? Well so's your bed. Girls have been wanting in it for ages, and you didn't let them. 'Cept me..." She trails off and looks down coquettishly, fluttering her caked eyelashes, and I wonder if this is my cue to pay her some overblown compliment.
I make do with sitting next to her on the bed.
"It's a city in Texas, actually. The helium capital of the world, I think." Without thinking about it, my hands have joined hers in an effort to make the bed sheet lie flat, but no matter which way you stretch it, creases always pop up. Bent and wrinkled, not straight, with no way of correcting it, save for removing it and ironing it.
I never in my life thought I'd feel empathy with a bed sheet.
She is looking at me again, and I realise she's said something and I've missed it. "What?" I say for the second time in less than a minute, staring down her exceedingly low-cut top and trying to feel the frisson of excitement I know is supposed to be there. Instead, I feel mildly queasy, especially when I realise the faux-tan she's wearing has begun, patchily, to wear off.
She smiles, her teeth slightly yellow, the bottom ones crooked, and the nauseating smell of beer and cigarettes washes over me when she speaks, making it an effort not to turn my head away in disgust. "You don't do this often, do you?"
Her tone is patronising and sickly sweet. I want to stand up and scream at her, or curl up on my bed and cry like a child. No, I don't do this often - I've never done it before in my life. I'd never planned to, but for a reason that I don't want to contemplate, the bleached, brainless, limpid-eyed female perched on my bed feels pathetically like my last hope.
I was in a bar when she approached me. I'd had half a pint, and was contemplating ordering something that would get me drunk faster when a simpering feminine voice from beside me enquired as to whether I a member of the first team for our rugby squad.
Half a foot shorted than I was while in heels, with cleavage that I could see other men peering over their friend's shoulders to get a look at, while wearing a miniskirt and halter-neck, slightly worse for wear and quite obviously interested in me. I smiled back at her in a half-hearted manner. "Yeah, I am."
And somehow we were here. I shook my head in answer to her question, and she grins again, sliding closer to me. I brace myself not to move back from her embrace, her jangling plastic bangles pressing uncomfortably into my collarbones as she loops both arms around my neck.
"I can show you," she breaths huskily in my ear, her voice sounding so full of joy one might think she was passing along the secret of the grail. Once again I breathe in the pungent aroma of alcohol and smoke. Underneath it all I can detect some false flowery fragrance that must have been put on before she went out tonight, but even that is too sweet for my tastes.
She presses herself against me, and I find myself trying to imagine her soft curves into hard, flat planes. Horrified, I stop myself and concentrate on the sensation of her body against mine, but I can't do it; I can't go through with it. Everything about it feels wrong, and her scent is now overwhelming and making me feel nauseous.
I remove her not-too gently from her position on my lap where she is lavishing attention on my ear with her tongue.
"I think you'd better go," I say, staring steadfastly at her chin, upon which is a small smear of lip-gloss, I presume, due to my clumsy attempts.
"What?" She looks dumbfounded, and more than a little hurt. Oh God, the last thing I need is for both of us to come away from this feeling pain.
"Oh no, no, it's not you," I rush to reassure her, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "It's just the booze," I pat my hand on my stomach and try to look disappointed, "I'm not feeling too good and you don't need to be around for that."
She pouts, but begins to pull her bag back towards her nonetheless. "Oh poor baby," she says, stroking the side of my face - one of those plastic nails trails dangerously close to my eye. "Do you need me to stay and look after you?"
"No," I shake my head and try to look pained and brave at the same time. "No, I'll be fine, but you'd better go."
She smiles and leaves, throwing promises to see me soon over her shoulder as she does.
The door closes and I lie back on my bed, breathing a sigh of relief and taking in the remnant of her smell at the same time. "Exit, stage left, for the wicked witch," I say to Johnny Depp, who is plastered to my ceiling. "Now if only the hero would stop showing up, all would be well." I groan and throw my arm over my face, contemplating having a forbidden cigarette, but instead just kick my shoes off and pray for sleep.
3am. (One, two, three...)
3 sodding am. (Four, five...)
It's chucking with rain outside, (six, seven) the wind is howling (eight, nine, ten) and due to some miraculous turn of events, no one in my (eleven, twel-thirteen) block is throwing a wild party - which makes it one of the types of nights which is most (fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen) perfect for getting some decent rest.
(Eighteen, nineteen, twenty!)
So why can't I sleep?
Why can I not stop thinking, and am reduced to counting the drips of water falling onto my windowsill in order to keep my mind off facts I'd prefer not to contemplate?
How I ended up in this state pushes at my mind again, and I force my attention into counting again - safety in numbers, right?
Or maybe I'm playing hide and seek with my thoughts, but instead of counting down, I'm counting up. Not getting closer to finding them, but instead running away as the numbers climb higher, furthering the distance between us until they are nothing more than an insignificant speck on the horizon of my mind, barely within sight, and certainly not something to worry about.
But I can't, and I suppose trying to is stupid - after months of attempts, I can attest that running away from one's self is well nigh impossible. The best you can do is denial, but even that gets confusing, because you are never sure which part of yourself you are pretending isn't there, and which one you are acknowledging.
I remember myself at the age of six, seeing a man and woman embrace passionately on the television, and proclaiming loudly to my mother "yuck!"
She chuckled at me. "Ah, you say that now, but give it a decade or so - you'll change your mind."
'No I won't,' I remember thinking (forty-two, forty-three) in response, mildly puzzled.
I remember being 11, and peering around the one of the corners of my school building to spy on the girls. They were huddled in a group, exchanging small coloured discs with cartoon characters printed on them, talking in loud, enthusiastic voices as they did so.
I remember examining each one in turn, trying to see what was so appealing about them that had my male friends talk about nothing else, when only last week football had been the only thing on our minds, and I'd liked it that way. Men kicking a ball around I could handle - girls shrieking over collectables - well, I didn't get (sixty, sixty-one) the appeal.
I expressed as such to my mother, and she had smiled kindly at me. "Wait until you find one that's right for you, then you'll change your tune." She had then given me a biscuit and ushered me off to watch telly.
I remember seeing the dark shadows of worry begin to form behind her eyes when after my first year at secondary school I still hadn't arrived home with bright eyes and complimentary phrases about someone of the opposite gender.
I didn't the year afterwards either. Or the year after that.
I remember a family meal we had when I was fifteen, and there had been a section on the news just beforehand about how the government was considering allowing homosexual couples some sort of union that would give them legal rights equal to that of a traditional marriage.
Dad had banged his hand on the table, and growled that it was wrong, disgusting and twisted and it was shameful we lived in a country that was even considering it, and thank heaven we didn't have none of those sort around here. My younger brother Josh, then nine himself, had banged right along with our father, echoing everything he said.
Mum and I had also nodded our agreement, but I felt myself shrink a little in my chair at every proclamation (ninety-seven, ninety-eight), and I swear she did as well.
When I was seventeen, I baffled my father when, without any warning whatsoever, I dropped out of the cricket team that I had been captaining. When questioned about it, I told him I wanted to concentrate on rugby and my studies - two sports teams were out of the question now I was doing A-levels. He had patted me on the shoulder and told me I was a sensible lad.
I didn't tell him it was because there was a new boy at school with blue, blue eyes and blonde hair that had a tendency to droop over his forehead, and a quiet smile that made my stomach flip-flop. And that once I heard he'd joined the cricket team, I'd been out of there so fast I hadn't even heard his name (hundred and eight, hundred and nine).
My life during those two years shrunk to my work and my one remaining team - I didn't go out, didn't drink after games, didn't socialise - I couldn't run the risk of running into him. So I kept my head down, and got top marks, and reminded myself that family was more important than anything else, (hundred and twenty, hundred and twenty-one) and I was obviously a one woman man; I just hadn't met her yet.
University is a tightrope - every freedom I ever wanted, but all those I know I'd be better off without. Walking in between the two is hard and exhausting - I am close to dependant on my daily calls home to remind me of who I am, and what is expected of me, and what is definitely not (hundred and twenty-five). I used to party with an almost single minded fury when females were plentiful, fluttering from one to another, each time desperately trying to find one that felt right, that I clicked with.
I made plenty of friends, but never found a girl like that (hundred and thirty-one).
I'm now 22. I'm still a virgin - something which, if tonight's attempt was to be believed, has achieved me something close to legendary status with the women of this university. I have a job lined up for next year, and so won't be going home (hundred and thirty-nine).
Dad hasn't changed, but Josh isn't agreeing with him quite so enthusiastically anymore; hardly agrees with him at all, now I think about it. Mum is as loving as ever, but lately has been expressing it in the form of little notes and cards that fall through my door bearing the words 'I'll still love you, no matter what.'
I love my Mum (hundred and fifty-three, hundred and fifty-four).
I also (hundred and fifty-six) can't help but wonder (hundred and fifty seven) if I'm (hundred and fifty-eight) denying (hundred and fifty-NINE) the right part of myself.
Furious with my own line of thought, I roll onto my stomach and punch the pillow, willing myself into unconsciousness.
The phone rings once, and then again, loud in my ear. For a reason I still avoid thinking about, my heart is beating unnaturally fast and some large part of me is hoping no one picks up.
Another, even larger, part of me is trying to persuade me to turn this into a normal, casual chat, and not dig for the information I'm about to.
Just after the third ring, someone picks up.
"'Ello?"
"Hi Dad, it's me." I try to relax my throat, as currently it feels so tight that it must be making my voice sound strange.
He sounds so normal on the other end, like he's just a man. Like he's someone whose opinion I could leave or take, like it has no effect on me, or who I am, or whether I'm someone with a place to call home.
We chat for a little while. I try to relax into the conversation as I normally do, but instead of adopting my usual reclined position on my bed, I can't stop pacing back and forth across my floor. Eventually, I broach the subject I want to.
"So, I was looking for flatmates for next year."
"Oh yeah? How's that going?"
I swallow hard as the words I need to say next develop a sudden urge to crawl back down my throat. "Only had a couple of applicants so far; one smoked, which the landlord won't allow, and the other bloke..."
Oh God, my mouth feels drier than the Sahara. I can't speak for a second, and I can hear Dad breathing on the other end, waiting for me to finish.
I start counting the drawing pins lined up along the edge of my corkboard.
"He seems nice enough, but he's got a boyfriend."
There is a silence on the other end of the line, but this time, I get the feeling that it is more outraged than inquisitive. Eventually, I can hear him huffing to himself as if trying to prevent his own outburst.
"Well, that proves nowhere's safe anymore if they've got the cheek to just say it. Dropped him like a hot stone, did you?"
"Erm, yeah. Of course."
"Good lad, good lad. You know you can never live with that sort, no matter how nice they seem - they're into all sorts of funny stuff. Most of them are on diseased, or on drugs, and of course they'll nick anything they can get their hands on to pay for it. He'd have walked off with half your kit, and you'd never have seen a penny of rent money."
"Oh, yeah, but, er, Dad, surely they can't all-"
"Now look lad, I know everyone nowadays is all so politically correct and so afraid of being jumped on that no one up there is being honest with you, but someone's got to let you in on what everyone knows but no one says. If they're into something that's that low, that dirty, that..."
He pauses for a second, obviously trying to think of a word heinous enough to describe what is obviously (in his eyes) the scourge of the human race.
"Depraved, then there's no limit to the depths to which they can sink. You can't be a thief without being dishonest - d'you understand?"
"But Dad, surely it's a bit different?"
"How? It's forbidden in the Bible, in the Torah, Koran, just about every holy book you care to name. In fact, it's the one thing that religions can agree on these days - that it's wrong, and they're bad people. Now if you've discovered some secret while studying that changes all that, I'm sure I would have seen you on the front page of some newspaper by now."
"Yeah Dad. Of course."
He grunts, sounding satisfied. "You're a good boy, just make sure you use that brain of yours to think in the right direction, okay?"
"Sure Dad - look I've got to run, I have a seminar-"
"Say no more, you go back to the grind. I'll speak to you soon."
"Bye Dad." I hang up, and slump onto my bed.
Outside it has started raining again, and rain is once again dripping onto the windowsill. I start the count at a little over a thousand this time.
"Hi, Mum?"
"Hello dear, it's so nice to hear from you, how are you?"
She sounds chirpy - probably having a sneaky read of her women's magazines.
"I'm good, how're you?"
I'm not good. I'm in turmoil, torment with what I feel and think and have been taught, and none of the equations balance. And something basic in me insists that my mother can make me feel better, like she did with over-sugared medicine and hot-water bottles when I was younger.
"Oh just putting my feet up for a second before back to everything that needs doing. I'm thinking of treating myself to a new pair of shoes tomorrow - there are a lovely pair of tan boots in Dorothy Perkins that have just gone on sale."
"You should go for it, you totally deserve it."
"Oh you, you always say that!"
"Well it's true."
"Oh get off!"
She is laughing now, in a hiccupping manner that means she finds this genuinely funny.
There is a pause as I try and think of what to say, but eventually the thing that comes flying out of my mouth is not what I had wanted to say at all.
"Mum...you know I love you, right?"
There is a pause on the other line, and in that second I know that she realises there is something seriously wrong.
"Oh honey, what's happened?"
I take a deep breath to try and dispel the lump in my throat that has suddenly formed, and the tears which I now find making their way down my cheeks.
"It's nothing, promise; I just wanted you to know."
"I do know. And I love you - no matter what you do, no matter what happens in your life, you will always be my son, and I love the person you are."
I can barely breath, so strong is the urge to sob into the phone, but somehow I beat it back.
"Thanks Mum...I've got to go."
I hang up. Inside my head, the ticking of numbers has started again, for all it's no longer raining and this time it's not so fast as it was.
"Hey Josh."
"Hey big brother! How's uni?"
"Boring as ever. How's school?"
"Death as usual, and there's a bunch of stuff going on down there that's getting everyone really pissed off, and so it's pissing me off."
"Oh yeah? What happened?"
"This pair of girls were caught kissing, and their parents keep insisting that it's the school's fault their daughters did it, never mind that there's nothing wrong with it the first place - hell, me and Keith would've paid them to watch!"
I try not to grin and resist the urge to mouth 'thank you' to the heavens for Josh bringing up the subject.
"What did the school say?"
"Pretty much the same thing - like, they were sorry and stuff that the girls thought romantic behaviour was appropriate when at school and all that, but all the teachers are annoyed because we all know that there wouldn't be this fuss if it had been with boys."
"So there's nothing wrong with two girls kissing, right?"
"No! Have you seen some of those videos? Because they are-"
"Josh, that's ok, you don't have to tell me. I don't need my fifteen year old brother spouting poetry about lesbians. But what if it was two guys?"
There is a pause form my brother's end of the phone, but the 'thud-thud' of my heart fills the space quite nicely.
"Well, if it's what they want, and it makes them happy, and they don't use tongues in public places, what's wrong with it?"
Something in me wants to grin, but I make do with exhaling heavily.
"You're right. Hey Josh, you're a pretty cool guy."
"You don't know the half of it; I've been working out, and you should see my pecs now!"
"Thanks for that image. I've got to go now - don't work too hard."
"Hah, yeah right! You too, take care."
I press the red button on my phone, as something inside me is knocked sideways, and I feel the count at the back of my mind start up again...but this time, it's counting down.
He's taller than I am, but not by much.
I am standing in the same place I always stand at 11am on a Tuesday. Only today, I'm being honest with myself - I'm not here to read the message board, or because I feel the need for something out of a vending machine. My shoe isn't untied, I didn't just come out of the gents, I did not just see someone I thought I knew, but didn't.
I came to see him.
His name is Rich - I think. I've never spoken to him, so I don't know, but that's what I've overheard people call him in conversation. Yes, I've eavesdropped; another thing to admit to.
His voice is smooth and calming. His eyes are green, not blue, and are periodically hidden behind sunglasses. His hair is black, and spiked, and occasionally sprayed red at the tips. His smile is also quiet though, and has the power to transform any butterflies that may be lurking in my stomach into elephants.
At 11:15am on a Tuesday, I normally call home. My mobile is in my hand, the number is on the screen. My thumb smoothes over the green button, almost teasingly, allowing me to feel its contours under my skin. I stare at it, caught in indecision.
Rich and his group of friends pass me, talking in loud voices about going to the student union.
He catches my eye, and throws me one of those quiet smiles.
My heart both sinks and leaps.
I look at the phone in my hand.
There is a moment of decision inside me - one that tells me I can't look back from here, but at the same time assures me there is no where else I am meant to go. I drop the phone back into my pocket and follow, and inside of me, something stops counting.
User Reviews
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-05-19 19:22:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The best you can do is denial, but even that gets confusing, because you are never sure which part of yourself you are pretending isn't there, and which one you are acknowledging.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-02 19:48:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
glad to see you back
Submitted by Maltese (user info) at 2006-10-02 19:25:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Average Rating: 1.98
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Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2006-10-02 19:13:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
yes, stay.
Submitted by rodyarask (user info) at 2006-10-02 18:58:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well done
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2006-10-02 12:32:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Gay.
Submitted by Hirilnara (user info) at 2006-10-02 12:20:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
*grins* Very, very nice!
Hope you do stick around!
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-10-02 12:17:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by c1ndy (user info) at 2006-10-02 11:21:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-10-02 11:15:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow.
Submitted by UnderOathMeal (user info) at 2006-10-02 10:51:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
User id: 24296
Registered on or around: 2005-12-26 16:37:53
# Messages posted: 6
# Reviews written: 9
# Times these posts have been reviewed : 85
# Hits: 2918
Average rating of all messages: 1.98
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Damn!
Dude, don't go anywhere. This site needs folx like you around.
This was good.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2006-10-02 10:51:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was really good, but through my comedown seems incredibly sad.