Cherry Soda Boy

Devon drops me off at the corner with the excuse he has “somewhere to be”; which usually means a girl’s bed- and I inwardly congratulate him for his success in bagging a desperate, self-conscious, socialite on the first day of school. Only inwardly though- he is making me walk three minutes to my house.

The sun is at its height and not even the occasional beginning of fall breeze can bring comfort to me. My body is heavy- weighed down by my uniform and the fifty pounds of books I will never open. The summer sun illuminates the changing leaves on the many trees that littered my neighborhood. Though New York City isn’t known for its many trees, outside designated parks (and let’s be honest, not many there either) Todt Hill took inspiration from south Jersey. Thus areas of it were shrouded in large old trees whose afros of leaves were known to hide the houses behind their lush foliage. Circle Road, which wraps around the neighborhood of Todt Hill, is blessed with this scenery. As I walk towards the red brick monstrosity, which overlooks the bright lights of Brooklyn and Manhattan, that I call my house, I am met with a chorus of whispering leaves. The warm wind blows through the trees so tall and luscious they seem to block out the sun. It is a haze of gray as I walk past giant homes with BMWs parked in long driveways. Houses with extravagant wind chimes that add verse to the trees’ songs. Ornate status and perfectly manicured gardens. It smells of oak and pumpkin- fall- and I light up a Malboro Menthol to rid myself of the pleasant stench.

As I inhale the mint flavored smoke and exhale it from my system, I drown in my thoughts. This year was going to be rough. I was trapped in school from 7 in the AM to 3pm, and packed with ridiculous classes. Two advance Placement classes, two languages, honors physics, honors math, state required gym and art, and religion is sandwiched in there somewhere. And let’s not mention the five regents exams, two A.P tests, and the SATs that are looming over my head like a guillotine. All this pressure situated perfection on my back, gnawing helplessly at my brain. I am over it already- and all we did today was pick up our schedules.

I puff frantically at the white stick of tobacco- begging the nicotine to sooth my ravaged thoughts. Instead, I smoke it down to the filter before I could even savor the taste. Pout. I flick the rest onto the sidewalk- even though that pissed off my neighbors- and pull out another beautiful death.

“You know, smoking kills.”

The familiar voice drowns out worried thoughts. I stop dead in my tracks, the cigarette dangling from my lips. I consider turning around to look at the sweet being lurking behind me, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. I want to keep walking, but my legs have other plans and glue themselves to the concrete. Fuckin’ traitors. And the longer I stand there, motionless, the heavier the tension becomes and the more embarrassing the situation.

I turn my head slightly, offering her only half of my face.

“Okay?” I scornfully say, which clearly hurts her from the wince and shy smile.

I declare- to myself- that this position is actually really hurting my neck, so I turn the rest of my body half way. One foot ready to flee. One foot stuck. She is still dressed in her uniform. Same navy blue and white combo, except she sports a plaid skirt too short for school regulation. She moves a strand of her perfectly wavy brown hair behind her ear and attempts a more genuine smile.

“How are you?” She perks up. Hazel eyes light up against the sun.

“Fine.”

“That’s good.”

Cautiously, she walks closer to me. Her hands folded and resting on her thighs. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

“I’m aware.”

A sigh escapes her thin pink lips that lack unnaturally coloring. And I pretend I don’t like it when she doesn’t wear makeup.

“I don’t know what-”

“I have to go.” I cut her off and she closes her mouth tightly.

“Okay,” she whispers, and defeated she slinks back to her house- the large brick and panel mansion with the white Audi and white Lexus parked in the wrapped driveway. Her door is red with a gold “217” glaring at me. The trees and flowers seem to wilt as she walks past them- as if feeding off her sadness. I wait until her door closes behind her; confident she didn’t see the lingering sad stare I acknowledge is on my face.

It is better this way. If I am angry or lash out, she could at least say I still loved her enough to care. But I don’t. At least I’m about 60% sure I don’t love her.

~*~

My door is dark wood with an oblong stained glass window that holds no image. Just melted glass meant to distort the inside or outside world, depending on where you’re standing. Two large trees block the clear windows that look into the living and dining rooms, and a long brick fence surrounds the entire house like barbed wire. The whole places just begs you to leave.

I stand on my stoop, staring into the blue and red glass trying to make out the image on the other side- plants, paintings, a staircase, all melted into a blob. I rarely use this door. Usually, I go through the hidden side door that leads to my “man cave”- my own little home in a house. But when I look through my living room window, I see my mother and decide to take the road less traveled.

She is sprawled on the leather couch shrouded in darkness; the only light coming from the flat screen T.V currently playing “The Price is Right”. A bottle of half-empty vodka that was full when I left five hours ago, is standing proudly next to a mug that read “World’s Greatest Mom”. The blue light glittering off the clear liquid quite beautifully.

She’s passed out.
Or sleeping.
Maybe dead if she took the pain killers her doctor prescribed for no real reason- or any real reason I could see. But from the gentle rise and fall of her chest, I decided she is alive- or barely.

The again, when is someone truly dead?

Is it when their heart stops beating- stops pumping blood to the other organs, so they shrivel up, turn black, and cease to work. Or is it when your brain shuts down. Stops thought. Stops processing information from the other systems in our overly complex body. Or…maybe it’s when your soul evaporates…when you lack emotion or conviction or a fuckin personality. A zombie huddled in a mass of other zombies. Moaning. Arms stretched out searching for thought- brains.

When are we dead?

My mother moans loudly and rolls over the small couch. The thigh length nightie bunches up and she isn’t wearing any underwear. Her long boney legs are curled up to her stomach, and dark brown hair stringy and knotty from lack of care falls over her once flawless face. Another moan escapes into the airwaves, drowned out slightly from the cheers coming from the television.

I don’t think she means to be a drunk. I mean, it isn’t personal. Nothing to do with me. It is all her own doing- maybe even her choice- but it wasn’t personal, so I couldn’t be completely angry. I was merely annoyed with the minor inconvenience of having to frequently drag her drunk body up the stairs to the large, deep red and dark wood bedroom she apparently shares with my father. I am only slightly frazzled by the fact she is almost always wearing an ivory or lavender nightie that falls right at her thighs and cuts low enough to see the top of her chest; and god forbid, she actually wears underwear so when I pick up all 100 pounds of her, I can feel every inch of her flesh as if she is naked. And just a tad pissed off that she doesn’t even realize I am carrying her limp body up the stairs- past the family portraits- and practically throw her frail frame onto the purple comforter where she practically disappears into the plush lump of fabric.

She never stirs. Hardly makes a noise, except for the occasional moan of approval when her body comes in contact with her bed. She, my mother, probably doesn’t even deduce that her only son is rescuing her from the uncomfortable leather couch and the rest of the vodka- the latter she’ll crawl back to eventually like a starving baby yearning for a mother’s tit.

I stare at her for a while- her body laid out like a murder victim- and wonder how many more years she has left. She is young; thirty-eight. Thin. Beautiful once she slaps on some makeup to cover up the black circles around her eyes and brushes her greasy locks of hair. But I am sure her liver is slowly rotting away, as are her lungs from the smoking. And one day soon, her outside will fully resemble her inside. Nothing more than dying organs.