Ace and I mostly busied ourselves by keeping our eyes to the ground and not saying a word to each other.
While we let her fix the truck.
But I was looking her, when she jumped down from the bumper. I watched her as she wiped her hands, leaving greased-stained fingerprints against her buttocks, and I watched her as she reached high, stretched on her toes, to slam down the hood of the truck.
Behind us, the moon hung high and large and I could feel its frosty radiance on every part of me; the hair on my arms prickled up from the moon-time air. And she was cold, too. She was wrapping her arms around herself, when she turned around.
I put my eyes back to the ground and I tried shuffling my feet in the dirt, and then, so did Ace. And when I looked up at him, he was looking at me and that bastard was already grinning.
He knew how stupid the both of us looked.
"Well, which one of you is gonna get back in there and see if this fucking thing runs now?" she demanded.
And because Ace is always the asshole, his grin turned into outright laughter, as he hopped back into the driver’s seat and this time, she slid into the truck next to him.
And I honestly wanted to punch him in the face worse than I ever have before. I felt like an asshole for thinking it.
Ace and I had never liked the same girl.
Ace is my best friend. We usually hang around at school all week long, and then downtown most Saturday afternoons and nights; slipping in and out of the library or the mall from the cold or from the rain, or sometimes, on the nice days, hanging down behind the old glass factory, smoking weed and throwing rocks. Sometimes, I used to go to his church or he would come to mine. Of course, now that we are both on probation, we are not supposed see each other. Ace and I have loved coming down to the factory since we were like eight years old. Running across the railroad tracks full-speed ahead, just throwing rock after rock at the sheets of glass that make up the factory walls. Which were built in 1932, apparently; so it says above the main doors of the place. But they face the road, so Ace and I figure it is probably not a good idea to break the glass out of them.
Most rocks just bounced right off the rest of the stinking glass, anyway. In fact, Ace and I have figure out that it takes on average about 150 different rocks, hitting just-right to weaken the glass enough to break the glass at all and the usual result ends up being only a break in one corner of the pane. With every rock we have ever thrown, we have always been hoping that one of them would completely shatter one of the large, green panes. It has never happened
But Ace and I; we also figure glass companies should be able to make good glass.
When we were eight years old, we started cutting by the train tracks every day, on our way home after school, just so we could go by the old glass factory. We miss that now that we are in high school and have to ride the school buses and feeling like we are niggers on our way to some sort of awful prison or something.
We got to saving rocks all week long waiting on Saturdays, so we could show-off our pieces, as we will make our way to that abandoned building.
Somehow, all the way down those tracks, even though Ace and I feel nothing but long weeds scraping our legs because the tracks haven't known a train in like ten years now, it still feels a little dangerous to be walking down them somehow.
Probably because of my Daddy.
Because I remember back when the trains did come through town. I was sitting on my Daddy's knee, behind the red steering wheel of the old Ford truck; when it was new, so I was like four years old. He was bouncing me on his knee, and my thighs were lightly bumping the steering wheel and we were parked and he was letting me watch the trains speed on by. I liked watching them. Until Daddy started talking.
"Those things; they can kill you, Donald. Oh yeah, they’ll run you right over, split your body in half...whooo, yeah, Jesus Christ, for sure right in half, slices, Jesus Christ..."
My legs were hitting the steering wheel harder and I do not know what the hell Daddy was seeing in his head, but what I was seeing in mine scared the shit right out of me. I puked all over that red steering wheel.
And Daddy looked at Momma and told her this was the proof I was going to be a fag, when I grew-up.
“It’s the fucking milkshake you forced on him at Burger King, you idiot," I remember Momma saying.
The glass factory closed just about the same time the trains stopped coming through this town.
Anyway, we have broken 113 pieces of glass at the old building. Ace and I have this book, so we record those sort of things And we know what kind of rocks make final breaks and a whole bunch of other stuff, too.
So we know stuff like whoever else who throws rocks has only broken 44 sheets of glass.
Yep. Ace and I always have rocks in our pockets.
You might say it is a little bit of addiction Ace and I have. Not really much else to do around here. You know what I mean. Going down to the factory every Saturday; it's like tradition.
So that Saturday, we were sitting right down on those train tracks like we often do. We were in front of the glass factory and we had an hour until game time. So we were smoking our joint because we like to smoke our joint before we throw rocks. And Ace and I, we could see every pane we had ever broken and I was showing Ace the flat, red rock and we both thinking about the same pane of glass; high up on the top level, and we were strategizing like we always do, before we throw rocks.
And Ace was fucking mad, but since the smooth red rock is famous and all, Ace was trying his best to be happy for me; he does not make me ask for the joint. The smooth red rock has a nickname. I let him say it first.
“Foxy.”
While we let her fix the truck.
But I was looking her, when she jumped down from the bumper. I watched her as she wiped her hands, leaving greased-stained fingerprints against her buttocks, and I watched her as she reached high, stretched on her toes, to slam down the hood of the truck.
Behind us, the moon hung high and large and I could feel its frosty radiance on every part of me; the hair on my arms prickled up from the moon-time air. And she was cold, too. She was wrapping her arms around herself, when she turned around.
I put my eyes back to the ground and I tried shuffling my feet in the dirt, and then, so did Ace. And when I looked up at him, he was looking at me and that bastard was already grinning.
He knew how stupid the both of us looked.
"Well, which one of you is gonna get back in there and see if this fucking thing runs now?" she demanded.
And because Ace is always the asshole, his grin turned into outright laughter, as he hopped back into the driver’s seat and this time, she slid into the truck next to him.
And I honestly wanted to punch him in the face worse than I ever have before. I felt like an asshole for thinking it.
Ace and I had never liked the same girl.
Ace is my best friend. We usually hang around at school all week long, and then downtown most Saturday afternoons and nights; slipping in and out of the library or the mall from the cold or from the rain, or sometimes, on the nice days, hanging down behind the old glass factory, smoking weed and throwing rocks. Sometimes, I used to go to his church or he would come to mine. Of course, now that we are both on probation, we are not supposed see each other. Ace and I have loved coming down to the factory since we were like eight years old. Running across the railroad tracks full-speed ahead, just throwing rock after rock at the sheets of glass that make up the factory walls. Which were built in 1932, apparently; so it says above the main doors of the place. But they face the road, so Ace and I figure it is probably not a good idea to break the glass out of them.
Most rocks just bounced right off the rest of the stinking glass, anyway. In fact, Ace and I have figure out that it takes on average about 150 different rocks, hitting just-right to weaken the glass enough to break the glass at all and the usual result ends up being only a break in one corner of the pane. With every rock we have ever thrown, we have always been hoping that one of them would completely shatter one of the large, green panes. It has never happened
But Ace and I; we also figure glass companies should be able to make good glass.
When we were eight years old, we started cutting by the train tracks every day, on our way home after school, just so we could go by the old glass factory. We miss that now that we are in high school and have to ride the school buses and feeling like we are niggers on our way to some sort of awful prison or something.
We got to saving rocks all week long waiting on Saturdays, so we could show-off our pieces, as we will make our way to that abandoned building.
Somehow, all the way down those tracks, even though Ace and I feel nothing but long weeds scraping our legs because the tracks haven't known a train in like ten years now, it still feels a little dangerous to be walking down them somehow.
Probably because of my Daddy.
Because I remember back when the trains did come through town. I was sitting on my Daddy's knee, behind the red steering wheel of the old Ford truck; when it was new, so I was like four years old. He was bouncing me on his knee, and my thighs were lightly bumping the steering wheel and we were parked and he was letting me watch the trains speed on by. I liked watching them. Until Daddy started talking.
"Those things; they can kill you, Donald. Oh yeah, they’ll run you right over, split your body in half...whooo, yeah, Jesus Christ, for sure right in half, slices, Jesus Christ..."
My legs were hitting the steering wheel harder and I do not know what the hell Daddy was seeing in his head, but what I was seeing in mine scared the shit right out of me. I puked all over that red steering wheel.
And Daddy looked at Momma and told her this was the proof I was going to be a fag, when I grew-up.
“It’s the fucking milkshake you forced on him at Burger King, you idiot," I remember Momma saying.
The glass factory closed just about the same time the trains stopped coming through this town.
Anyway, we have broken 113 pieces of glass at the old building. Ace and I have this book, so we record those sort of things And we know what kind of rocks make final breaks and a whole bunch of other stuff, too.
So we know stuff like whoever else who throws rocks has only broken 44 sheets of glass.
Yep. Ace and I always have rocks in our pockets.
You might say it is a little bit of addiction Ace and I have. Not really much else to do around here. You know what I mean. Going down to the factory every Saturday; it's like tradition.
So that Saturday, we were sitting right down on those train tracks like we often do. We were in front of the glass factory and we had an hour until game time. So we were smoking our joint because we like to smoke our joint before we throw rocks. And Ace and I, we could see every pane we had ever broken and I was showing Ace the flat, red rock and we both thinking about the same pane of glass; high up on the top level, and we were strategizing like we always do, before we throw rocks.
And Ace was fucking mad, but since the smooth red rock is famous and all, Ace was trying his best to be happy for me; he does not make me ask for the joint. The smooth red rock has a nickname. I let him say it first.
“Foxy.”
Comments
Earl