Teenage Dirtbag

We always went to Pascal’s house. To party. To chill. To anything. Her house was always open. I often wondered why she didn’t care if her house was flooded or empty. I always hated people in my parent’s house. In my own apartment, to this day. I never really liked to be around a lot of people. Except at Pascal’s house. Everyone sort of melted together. There could be forty people there, but there were so many people that hung out in particular groups, or just seemed to be the same person over and over, that it never felt like there were more than fifteen people there.

Her dad used to work for NASA. Full-blown rocket scientist. I always wondered, but never asked, how he can afford anything being jobless, or why he quit NASA. Maybe they pay him some sort of pension, or he’s reaping in his benefits, or… hell, I don’t know. Seymour was usually drunk or buzzed from his daily blazin. How he could afford all the booze and pot, or just his house and food… It’s none of my business, but it’ll always irk me.

I was there four days a week. Not always consecutive. But I was there. I usually hung out on her sofa or sat on her counter. Her kitchen space was huge, but it only had a small, two-person dining table, and the smallest of appliances. I never saw them eat, so I guess they didn’t need a lot of space. Then again, I never kept an eye out for their eating habits. Their fridge was either empty or totally full, never somewhere between. And even though Seymour was never sober or ever talkative, he knew us all. Our names, the sounds of our laughs, if we were truly rude asshats or if we were actually mannered. He knew our favorite shows, the cheap ass foods we liked. I think he knew who we were, despite the fact that we didn’t really know yet.

Pascal knew me as her loyal friend. The one that’d defend her even if she was obviously wrong. The one that’d be a total cock but never actually want a fight, never want a separation or gaps or ruts in friendships. She knew, still does, that I’m distant and apathetic and opinionated and blunt. She always knows that I’m focused and passionate about the things that tug on my heartstrings and that I’ll never lie to you, even if what I have to say is mean or just not what you want to hear. And if I catch you in a lie, I don’t think less of you. I might point it out between just the two of us, but I’ll never purposefully make a fool out of you.

Seymour knew me as the one that’d knock you the fuck out if you were being too obnoxious. He knew me as the one that had two moods: do not give a fuck and way too pumped. He knew that I got my AA in one year, and probably could go a lot further, but at this stage in life, I had no desire. He knew that my job at the local bookstore never failed to keep me at least content. He knew I wanted to do more, that I just couldn’t find the actual will. He knew that I praise chicken strips and mashed potatoes over all other foods. He could tell when I was feeling shitty, and he’d bring me a small plate of strips and potatoes from the balcony; I’d reach down a bit from the roof to grab the plate and thank him. I’d do the dishes before I left and always nod at him on my way out the door.

We never talked, only subtle gestures.

I always talked to Percy, though. Percy was either there all the time or none at all. No one could ever track him down. He only called from payphones and walked everywhere. He lived in an apartment, but we could never find the building that was his even though he brought us there twice. We never had to find Percy ourselves, though. Percy would always show up when we really needed him. He was always around when I needed someone to talk to. He was there for me when Marci became Brute. He ran wildly in the small bit of woods and dove into The Lake with me instead of questioning why I wasn’t crying over the loss of my best friend. He knew what I truly felt: we weren’t friends for along time before our break. I needed a reason to change my life, and I was presented with the evidence of her fallacies and her brutal sabotages. I was forced to see that she was never a friend. And Percy let me feel liberated instead of at a loss.

Percy isn’t my closest friend or the person I spend the most time with. He’s my best friend, but he’s not buddy.

And maybe that’s why I love him so much. Neither platonically nor romantically. I just love Percy. I don’t know if he just loves me, but I know that he loves being there for the moments we all feel alive.

Ziv, his sister, my roommate, wrote him letters all the time. He never wrote back, he’d just come over and talk to her. And I would leave, because that wasn’t my moment. And I’d go to Pascal’s and meet up with Mark, who would stroll around the town with me. We’d point out objects and share our different perspectives, a way around talking about life while still talking about how we felt about it.

Oh go fuck yourself. Because I don’t have a lot of friends makes me a psychopath? Really? Bull fuckin’ shit. No, I won’t clean up my language, you filthy swine. Oh, you don’t like being called swine? We’re only in a pigpen. Oh, sorry, an interrogation room. Why don’t you interrogate her mother? She’s a fuckin’ psychopath. Probably who drove Marci to her madness—OH WAIT. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT OF HER OWN DOING. Did you really get through the academy or did they just pluck you out of the pen as the only pig that could walk on its hind legs?

Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too.