part one
Chris’ family was as poor as mine, so we had to make our own games. They were almost always violent. Dueling was when we’d go down to his grandfather’s basement and grab weapons, hockey sticks and planks of wood. We had to be evenly matched so as not to break our weapons. A baseball bat would crack a broom but not a 2x4. If we’d broken anything, Chris’ parents would’ve beaten the shit out of us. It’s funny that would scare us when we were slapping each other with hockey sticks and they were only gonna use their bare hands. They wouldn’t even leave a mark.
My parents were friends with two couples who were better off financially than they were and they tried to pair me off with their kids whenever possible. One of those kids was Dan Mitchum, who was older than me. He was more of a babysitter than a friend, but he was pretty unpopular so he had time to hang out with me.
One day he told me that we were going to play a game called slavedriver. We crawled through the bushes to get to the space under the porch. It was a bright summer day but only thin beams of light were streaming through. It really did look like the hull of a ship.
“I’m the master and you’re the slave.”
He told me to take my shirt off, and he took off his.
“Well Slave, you’ve been bad.”
“What did I do, Master?”
“You stole something from me.”
“I swear I didn’t!”
“You did and you must be punished.”
He ripped a long bramble off the bush and lashed me across the chest, three times in a row. Then he raised his arm up over his head, I winced and covered my face but the branch still came down across my eyes. I was worried that my eye was cut, and I was worried that my cut eye would bleed out with my tears. I held them as tight as I could. I was worried that if I opened them, the whole eye would bleed out and I’d have to watch it happen. I collapsed on the ground, whimpering and he started whipping my back, and my whimpers became huge, heaving sobs. This did something to him and he stopped beating me.
He walked away. I could hear his steps in the dirt, the crackling of dead leaves under his feet. I heard cars again and people walking by. Once he dragged an old chair under the porch to make it more of a fort. I could hear its rusty legs creaking under him as he sat down, and then something else. He was beating off.
I’d cried myself out but I pretended I hadn’t, so he wouldn’t stop. I wanted to keep him in the chair so he wouldn’t do anything else. After ten minutes I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer. The noise stopped and I peeked. His cock looked like him, long and skinny, red hand swollen where he gripped it, the same color as his face, wrenched and contorted as it was. His eyes were shut tight and his mouth hung open. He could tell I was watching and his eyes jerked open.
“Get out, Slave. Go!"
I came home crying. Dan had a basketball court in his backyard and I knew that if I told, Chris and I wouldn’t be able to go back there and play. The parks were too dangerous, and they’d taken down the basketball hoops years ago. We weren’t even allowed out after dark, but we could go to Dan’s so I kept my mouth shut.
The other family was the Hollindales. They had moved from our neighborhood to the suburbs when I was a baby but our parents still talked. Their house was like a toy store. They had robots and cablecar racetracks; they had cable TV and the first computer I’d ever seen and they had one thing that was more awesome than anything else I would see in my childhood, a Powerwheel. Powerwheels were little motorized cars that kids could ride around the block. It looked like a cross between a jeep and a monster truck and would run a whole year on a couple liters of diesel. I dreamt about driving that car almost every night and sometimes, I still do. I would leave things at their house just so I could go back there. Retainers, schoolbooks, even shoes, anything so I could drive that car one more time. Sometimes it worked. Our Moms would start talking and we’d be able to play a little longer. Seth was kind of a dork so he was happy to help me hide things.
At eight, we were too big for it, but we crammed our legs in anyway and drove through homemade obstacle courses. One day we decided we’d go down the stairs. I went first. I demanded that I go first. Instead of starting at the top step I built of speed down the hallway and turned into it. It was a sharp turn and the car rolled. I went face first into the top step and my legs, still in the car, flipped over. I sprained my wrist trying to break my fall and rolled limp down the stairs. At the bottom step the motor kicked back in and dragged me across the carpet into a wall. Mom and Dad tell me that’s how I got the scar, a white oval specked brown like a robin’s egg at the small of my back. When the seasons change and its colder out, it swells into a hard bubble. Sometimes, when I get excited, a shiver runs through it.
I got out of the shower and ran my hand through my hair. Dozens of hairs wrap around my fingers and come with them. I couldn’t remember if my hair always does this when it gets longer or if I’m just losing it. I’ve always had ridiculous haircuts. High-top fades, mullets, pompadours, dreadlocks and trihawks. When I was a little kid my Mom cut it into a bowl and blow-dried it every morning so it would seem thicker.
I’ve always needed ridiculous haircuts because I was born with horns. Keratin rishiism. That’s the name for it. It happens very rarely, like a couple times a generation. It’s a retardation of normal bone growth. An anomaly. It can happen anywhere, a bump or a lump on your arms, your back, but sometimes it’s the head. I have two, evenly-spaced nubs on the side of my head. If I’m losing my hair, it means that I am going to be bald, a bald guy with horns. I toweled off my head and more hair came out. Shit.
My parents were friends with two couples who were better off financially than they were and they tried to pair me off with their kids whenever possible. One of those kids was Dan Mitchum, who was older than me. He was more of a babysitter than a friend, but he was pretty unpopular so he had time to hang out with me.
One day he told me that we were going to play a game called slavedriver. We crawled through the bushes to get to the space under the porch. It was a bright summer day but only thin beams of light were streaming through. It really did look like the hull of a ship.
“I’m the master and you’re the slave.”
He told me to take my shirt off, and he took off his.
“Well Slave, you’ve been bad.”
“What did I do, Master?”
“You stole something from me.”
“I swear I didn’t!”
“You did and you must be punished.”
He ripped a long bramble off the bush and lashed me across the chest, three times in a row. Then he raised his arm up over his head, I winced and covered my face but the branch still came down across my eyes. I was worried that my eye was cut, and I was worried that my cut eye would bleed out with my tears. I held them as tight as I could. I was worried that if I opened them, the whole eye would bleed out and I’d have to watch it happen. I collapsed on the ground, whimpering and he started whipping my back, and my whimpers became huge, heaving sobs. This did something to him and he stopped beating me.
He walked away. I could hear his steps in the dirt, the crackling of dead leaves under his feet. I heard cars again and people walking by. Once he dragged an old chair under the porch to make it more of a fort. I could hear its rusty legs creaking under him as he sat down, and then something else. He was beating off.
I’d cried myself out but I pretended I hadn’t, so he wouldn’t stop. I wanted to keep him in the chair so he wouldn’t do anything else. After ten minutes I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer. The noise stopped and I peeked. His cock looked like him, long and skinny, red hand swollen where he gripped it, the same color as his face, wrenched and contorted as it was. His eyes were shut tight and his mouth hung open. He could tell I was watching and his eyes jerked open.
“Get out, Slave. Go!"
I came home crying. Dan had a basketball court in his backyard and I knew that if I told, Chris and I wouldn’t be able to go back there and play. The parks were too dangerous, and they’d taken down the basketball hoops years ago. We weren’t even allowed out after dark, but we could go to Dan’s so I kept my mouth shut.
The other family was the Hollindales. They had moved from our neighborhood to the suburbs when I was a baby but our parents still talked. Their house was like a toy store. They had robots and cablecar racetracks; they had cable TV and the first computer I’d ever seen and they had one thing that was more awesome than anything else I would see in my childhood, a Powerwheel. Powerwheels were little motorized cars that kids could ride around the block. It looked like a cross between a jeep and a monster truck and would run a whole year on a couple liters of diesel. I dreamt about driving that car almost every night and sometimes, I still do. I would leave things at their house just so I could go back there. Retainers, schoolbooks, even shoes, anything so I could drive that car one more time. Sometimes it worked. Our Moms would start talking and we’d be able to play a little longer. Seth was kind of a dork so he was happy to help me hide things.
At eight, we were too big for it, but we crammed our legs in anyway and drove through homemade obstacle courses. One day we decided we’d go down the stairs. I went first. I demanded that I go first. Instead of starting at the top step I built of speed down the hallway and turned into it. It was a sharp turn and the car rolled. I went face first into the top step and my legs, still in the car, flipped over. I sprained my wrist trying to break my fall and rolled limp down the stairs. At the bottom step the motor kicked back in and dragged me across the carpet into a wall. Mom and Dad tell me that’s how I got the scar, a white oval specked brown like a robin’s egg at the small of my back. When the seasons change and its colder out, it swells into a hard bubble. Sometimes, when I get excited, a shiver runs through it.
I got out of the shower and ran my hand through my hair. Dozens of hairs wrap around my fingers and come with them. I couldn’t remember if my hair always does this when it gets longer or if I’m just losing it. I’ve always had ridiculous haircuts. High-top fades, mullets, pompadours, dreadlocks and trihawks. When I was a little kid my Mom cut it into a bowl and blow-dried it every morning so it would seem thicker.
I’ve always needed ridiculous haircuts because I was born with horns. Keratin rishiism. That’s the name for it. It happens very rarely, like a couple times a generation. It’s a retardation of normal bone growth. An anomaly. It can happen anywhere, a bump or a lump on your arms, your back, but sometimes it’s the head. I have two, evenly-spaced nubs on the side of my head. If I’m losing my hair, it means that I am going to be bald, a bald guy with horns. I toweled off my head and more hair came out. Shit.
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