Iorek's Writing

The Walk

By John Jarvis

2003-03-31

The street was wet and there was an earthy smell in the air. The rain had just let up, so Sam decided to get some air. His residential street was adequately lit, but the trees made interesting shadows on the sidewalk and the other side of the street.

The neighbourhood was new to him, but he was new to the neighbourhood, and that was exciting. So were the shadows. As he started walking, Sam realized that the windows of his neighbour's houses were some of the brightest things around. His eyes were drawn to them as he passed, catching glimpses of figures moving behind sheer drapes.

The rich, peaty smell was invigorating and Sam resolved to map a good chunk of this new territory this evening. The chill in the air kept his hands in his coat pockets, even as the exercise had him unzipping it. So many windows gave off the telltale flicker of light; he needed no other information to picture the televisions belching within.

Sam felt the rumbling in his feet before he turned a corner and saw the souped up Civic sitting in a driveway. The screen door of the house slammed shut as a girl ran out and opened the passenger door, offering Sam a glimpse of the smoky, hip-hop sounding interior. The car idled for a few moments until Sam was almost upon it. Then the brake lights flashed, pulling him up short as the car peeled out of the driveway and sped down the street. Sensing something in his peripheral, Sam looked back to the living room window; the distant eyes of a little girl stared back at him, her head surrounded by bulky drapes. She turned her head slightly, as if listening to something and then ducked away.

Sam started walking again, thinking about the girl and her driver: Where they were going? What they were doing? What the hell was there to do in this town? Sam felt a weight in his stomach as he looked around, reaching out for answers with everything but his hands. He spent too many nights like this.

A house at the end of the street attracted his attention. As he got closer, he realized that they probably just moved in. Boxes were visible in many of the lit rooms; only one window was covered with what looked like a sheet. A girl flashed by an upstairs window, her hands up in her hair and something in her mouth. Sam's pace unconsciously slowed, his eyes glued to the window. He could hear Enrique Iglesias singing about how he loved to make his women cry; the girl's window was open a crack.

Sam took one last look at the window before following the sharp turn in the street. His breath stuck in his throat as he locked eyes with a figure across the street. The figure didn't move, but it was clear what it was looking at from the stark whites of its eyes. A cigarette flashed hotly, momentarily revealing the heavyset man sitting on the porch. Sam's heartbeat quickened as he picked up his pace, eager to get away from the eyes in shadow.

"You a perv, boy?" he said, his voice carrying easily.

"No, sir," Sam muttered, doubling his pace again.

Dark laughter followed him as he took the next right, harsh metal in his mouth that couldn't be swallowed away. He felt better with each block he put behind him, and eventually shame crept into his thoughts. He was spending too many nights like this. How long before that man was right?

"Yah!"

The yell snapped Sam out of his reverie. He jumped back as the car flew down the street, laughter spilling out of the passenger-side window.

"Freak!"

All the adrenaline had Sam shaking. Shame started welling up again as his fear subsided. "Fuck!" he said. He started walking again, clenching and unclenching his fists. "They have no idea," he thought, "the rage that's inside me." It felt so much better than the shame. He relished it, pictured the face he had glimpsed frozen in terror. "I could do that," he thought. "I could make them wish they'd never met me."

He noticed the car's brake lights come on further up the street. Thoughts of turning around flashed through his head, but his pace barely faltered. "No way," he thought. He heard the cracks on the pavement before he saw what had stopped the car. Some guys were playing road hockey, their sticks skipping and cracking as they ran. The jokers were getting out of the car, shouting a greeting to the players.

Sam focused on the shorthaired yeller as he stood beside the car watching the game. He was close enough to see that the guy's hair was styled. "Gonna see the freak up close, pretty boy," he thought. His two friends sat on the hood of the car, and Sam could see other spectators chatting on the lawn near the game. Sam concentrated on keeping his shoulders back and his pace strong as he walked under a streetlight.

The sidewalk had ended a while back, but he still had a good chance of not disturbing the game; the boys had set the nets up closer to the opposite side so that traffic could pass. Pretty boy turned as Sam scuffed his sneaker. A smile spread across his face. "Laugh it up, fucker. See me smilin'?" Sam thought; he didn't take his eyes off him.

"What are you looking at?" Pretty boy said. His stance was casual.

Sam didn't say a word, his eyes on Pretty boy for a few moments longer before settling straight ahead. His pace was steady.

"Can't you see we got a game goin' on here, freak?"

Sam's upper body tensed as Pretty boy took a step closer to him.

"Why don't you go back home?" he said, advancing another step toward Sam.

His teeth clenched, Sam walked by, aware of all the spectators' eyes. "Fuck you," he said, the words almost trapped by his rage.

"What?" said Pretty boy, surprise written all over his face.

Sam heard the scrapping of sticks and feet running toward him. He sensed Pretty boy's advance. He watched the tennis ball bounce off the curb in front of him with exaggerated slowness. Blood was pounding in his ears as sticks and bodies came flying in from his left. One player slammed into him, eyes only for the ball.

Sam stumbled back and felt hands grab him from behind by the shoulders of his coat. His jumpiness was out of control now, adrenaline racing through his system. He was spinning around, his fist balled up, before he realized what he was doing. Pretty boy let go with a grunt as Sam's forearm cracked him in the ear.

They shared a moment of surprise, staring at each other, as the scrapping of sticks subsided. Pretty boy didn't even finish his "Now you did, freak" before a white-hot lance of pain went through Sam's jaw. Then he was falling away. There was a terrible, hollow smack as his head hit the pavement, and for a moment, the bright streetlights faded away.

When Sam was seven years old, he had fallen off the handlebars of his older brother's bike and split his head open. Memories of the weightlessness and nausea came back to him now, mixing with the terrible pain in his head.

"Hit me? You fuckin' freak?" Pretty boy said. The game had stopped, but Sam could hear someone running toward them.

"K, Johnny. C'mon. Let's go," a girl's voice said.

"Just wanna make sure this freak gets the message," Johnny said.

He leaned in close as Sam got to one knee. "Don't come back, freak. Got it?" he said, as Sam felt the back of his head. His hand came back warm and red. The warmth, the iron, was in his mouth too. Sam was shaking so violently that his teeth were chattering. As he rushed to his feet, his words were unintelligible, but in his head Sam clearly heard his screams.

"You can't tell me what to do! You're nothing!"

The inhumanity painted on Sam's face had Johnny stumbling backward in surprise. He knocked Sam's arms wide, but the insane train kept coming, his mouth open impossibly wide. They both went down in a heap, Sam biting at Johnny's face, his hands still not under him.

A high-pitched keening was the soundtrack in his head as Sam tried to get his hands around the pretty boy's neck. His blood hammered, each beat bringing stars. From somewhere he could hear screaming over the keening. "She was just a fucking woman, you coward!" For a moment, his father's face was in front of him, and the keening subsided. Rough hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him off Johnny.

"Hold him!" he said, as he got up and looked at himself.

Sam struggled to get his arms free, back and forth, blind to his surroundings. He hauled madly in every direction, registered a blow to his abdomen, but didn't stop, every muscle in his body taut. He became aware of horrible screams, building, all around him; sounds he'd expect to hear from a fox as the bear trap slammed shut.

He lunged at the boy holding his left arm, mouth wide open. There was a loud clack as he just missed the boy's face. Sam lunged with to his right with all his strength, and as his left arm came free, he realized that the screams from coming from him. His hand went to the right boy's face, his teeth following. Sam rode his scream right over the boy, barely aware of his fingers clawing at the terrified boy's gape, deaf to his screams as Sam tore his mouth.

Then he was free, gasping for air. His ears were ringing, but he could hear crying and distant screaming. Pretty boy had a hockey stick in his hands, his eyes wild.

"Get outta here! Get outta here!"

Sam stumbled backward. He saw a crowd to the left; someone was writhing amongst their legs. He saw more lights than he remembered. Doors were opening. He turned and ran.

He couldn't remember how long he ran before he saw the flashing lights of a police cruiser. Doors slammed and someone was yelling at him. Suddenly his knee exploded in pain and he fell. His face smacked off the pavement, and cold metal replaced the warmth on his wrists.

As he rode in the back of the cruiser, all he could see was Phillip's face. All those cold lunch hours spent walking the snow-covered streets, knowing what awaited him if he showed his face on school property... He wasn't going to forget that face any time soon. But now it wore an alien expression: Fear.

"Get outta here! Get outta here!" it cried.

Sam chuckled quietly, oblivious to the driver's sickened expression.