Canal Boys

Saspurilla used to go in his backyard and play with his ugly dogs. The two of them, born retarded from a breeder in Wyoming, liked to bark at the same huge tree that scarred his otherwise perfect grass patching. He grew out of playing with them around the time he realized he would have to touch their poo with his hands. It all became too real, especially the first summer.
The smaller one was named “Yogi”, after Saspurilla’s eight-year-old speech impediment couldn’t pronounce “the younger puppy”. “How do you know he’s younger?” his mother asked over her glass of gin. “Gorilla is bigger. That’s how I know.” So it was: Gorilla and his brother The Younger; “Yogi” for short. For being shorter.

Even decent names, dreams of playing fetch, or watching Old Yeller over and over wouldn’t make the two retarded runts be the dogs he wanted. He wondered if this was what it was like to have a child like Gnarly, his friend from next door with Downs Syndrome. But only briefly, as Yogi hopped away from a small pile he’d created, and Saspurilla snapped a glove on his hand.
An overcast comforter of humid clouds slugged above his head as he winced, gripping the warm pile in his palm. It squished between his fingers. He slid it in a small plastic bag and flung it to the trashcan, missing the opening with a heavy thump, opening up on his sidewalk.
“God damn it!” He put his hands on his hips and turned to walk away. He would leave it there for another, more tolerable day, when he hated the dogs less or felt more inclined to have responsibility.
“Come see what I found.”
Saspurilla pivoted on his heel and stared at Gorilla, hoping that a dog didn’t just say that, or if he had, he would do it again so the two of them could have a redeeming feature.
“What did you say to me, retard?”
“Don’t call me that.” Gnarly wiggled his shoe out of a landscape bush and wiped his face off. His shirt was dotted with crumbs from animal cookies.
“I wasn’t calling you that. I was…”
“Then who are you talking to?”
“Nothing. Nevermind. What did you find?”
Yogi bounced over to Gnarly who gave him a cookie, and knelt to scratch behind his ear. “I have to show you. I can’t tell you. The dogs will hear.” He sighed at them all.
They left the dogs to bark at his tree and made their way across an overgrown field. A few years back, it was a cement canal that drained the water from floods, but after awhile they decided too many kids were drowning and filled it in. If you didn’t watch your step, sometimes you could sink like quicksand. It had become a small right of passage to the kids in the neighborhood, but ultimately less fun to fish in.
“Gnarly, I’m not really in the mood. Can you just tell me what you’re looking for? I bet I’ve seen it already.” As lucid as Gnarly seemed for the most part, he had episodes where he would take Saspurilla on long journeys to the same boulder that separated his house and the fire station. At first it was kind of tolerable, but as he got to know him better he realized Gnarly genuinely believed it was a new, jarring pock on the landscape to investigate each time. Over the years it just appealed as stupid to walk around the block several times before “discovering” it time and time again.
Gnarly was nonplussed, “It’s not a rock; this is definitely something you’ve never seen before.”
“How did you know I thought it was a rock?”
“You always think it’s a rock.”
“…Because it is always a rock.” Saspurilla mumbled, plucking at a fray in his jeans.
They walked at a slow pace abreast the old canal, over a patchy knoll and eventually across a vibrantly green field. Gnarly picked up speed to a full jog, darting towards an off-colored patch of grass, “Here, look!”
Saspurilla shook his head, “At the grass? Are you kidding?” Storm clouds gathered over their heads, threatening like Nature can. If he got it over with and went home, he wouldn’t get wet and being under an actual roof would decrease his chances of being struck by lightning. He sighed to himself, unbelieving, as he drug his feet to where Gnarly was still actively excited.
“Look, look!”
At first glance, he supposed it was kind of odd. Where all the other grass kept a healthy green, this particular patch did not. Moisture from the morning clung to each blade in a perfect square, and you didn’t have to be too close to feel the cold stale air coming off it. The Down’s was right; Saspurilla had never seen this before.
“Is it frozen?”
“Yeah, entirely.”
Gnarly got down on his knees and picked a few clumps, tossing them aside, “It’s been real hot this week. There’s no way it could be frozen. Maybe something’s down there?”
He stopped and stood up, “We need a shovel.”
“Oh, no way. If there’s a dead guy or something, I don’t want to know.”
“Doesn’t Carlo’s family mow this?”
Saspurilla didn’t move his eyes, just shrugged. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was something ridiculous about a patch of grass being frozen during the summer. High School dictated that for the air to be colder underneath the ground while the air above was hot, it had to either be a natural cavern or an air-conditioned man-made one. Either option was creepy enough to warrant going home and never leaving his house again.
“We should ask him, I bet he’d know.”
“If he does, can we just leave it alone?”
“No.”
Both boys stood for a moment. Saspurilla's shirt pressed on his chest, compressing his lungs. He was starting to have a panic attack. He stepped away from the whole shitty situation, flipping out his phone.
“Who're you callin'?”
“Carlo? Gnarly wants you to see something.”
There was a murmur.
“It's not a rock. I'm standing in front of it.”
Another more soft murmur. Saspurilla looked at Gnarly, who had resumed digging around the patch.
“No, really. It's not. I need to bring beer. I mean, a shovel.”
He clapped it shut. He wasn't sure why he would continue with this. He wasn't sure why he would call Carlo instead of the police, or why he was half-interested.


“P, G, 13.”
The boys paused in their respective positions and ignored Carlo, who had arrived with both a shovel and a couple six-packs. Saspurilla hated that nickname letter crap. Carlo thought he was pretty witty when he said it; sometimes he would come to one of the house parties the neighborhood slut threw and walk in saying the same thing. Some drunk, sexless guy would always ask, “What's thirteen?” and Carlo would gloat, setting down two six packs to reach in his pocket for a newly rolled joint. It was never funny. Why say "p"? Why denote "s" to the middle letter?  No one ever laughed.
He set them down next to his feet and lit the joint from the breast pocket of a second hand denim jacket. “Are we drinking here?”
Gnarly dusted his palms and ripped open one of the boxes, “Yeah. Take a look at that.” He pointed to the grass.
If you've ever felt guilty mocking someone with retardation, you should know that there's redemption in letting them mock themselves. In this case, Saspurilla loved when Gnarly started drinking. After a few beers his face looks normal to everyone and not just his mom.
“It's frozen.”
“Saspurilla wants to open it.”
He stopped guzzling a can, “No I don't. I definitely don't.”
There wasn't much of a choice really, Carlo was already pelting the grass with his shovel, working it around the patch. Something clanged.
“Oh fuck.”
“That's it. I'm going home.”
“Hijo de puta... It's just an old maintenance hatch from the canal.” He stepped on the shovel lip and worked it back and forth, with his joint still hanging from his mouth. Slowly, it started to flap up and down as he worked it, occasionally releasing freezing air in their faces.
Gnarly gripped the lip and flung it up. It was a metal hatch stamped, “Maintenance Only”. They all gave a relieving laugh.
“I told you pendejos.”


ppsdonsmokedat: R we lvd 4 dis?
argo-nuclearsoso: don't be a bitch.
MickeyWASclean: ya i'm not sure
ppsdonsmokedat: I dun wan 2 die like dis man
MickeyWASclean: you won't we're 2 good
argo-nuclearsoso: how much did this cost??
ppsdonsmokedat: like 14
argo-nuclearsoso: that's the most retarded number.
MickeyWASclean: for indie? Ya
argo-nuclearsoso: level design is solid as fuck.
Ppsdonsmokedat: load timmmmmmeee

Carlo was the first to jump down. He had found ground, or something like it, and yelled at Gnarly to toss down a flashlight. Saspurilla waited; he didn't like dark places he didn't know: a paramount to his self-induced virginity. The front of his skull felt numb and his palms were mixing seat with beads off his beer. Gnarly hopped down, a flashlight in his hand.
“Come on, Sassy.” the tips of his fingers came just above the hatch like the risen dead. This was all nightmare. Saspurilla thought he was feeling what the kids had felt before jumping in the canal. A nervous, excited, worrisome energy creeping behind his neck started to scream jump, jump, just do it, jump. But that might have been pretentious.
He sat on his but, his feet dangling in the dark pit, and slowly wiggled his way in. Carlo was swinging the flashlight everywhere like a beacon, but it shook as he laughed watching Saspurilla land on his tailbone.
“Fuck! Arrrgggghhh...”
“You aren't any kind of Indiana Jones, that's for sure.” Gnarly said, helping him up.
“Shut your retarded mouth.”
Carlo bellowed over, “Haaa see how he gets? Racist prick.”
Freezing air slapped their faces. They had gone from a humid winter to a freezing fall in a five foot drop. He's not sure how, but the beer had made it and was being passed around again. It had cooled down in the second-long decent.
“Ai dios, it's COLD, QUE FRIO!” Carlos shuddered a bit as he scanned a nearby wall. His light stopped near a small box hung by huge bolts, “I think this is a light. Hold on.” His footsteps were timid but heavy, a little spooked, but Saspurilla seemed to be only one to notice it. A sound similar to a thousand buzzing hornets signaled a blinking florescent light, and the entire room lit up and screamed like an old engine.
Gnarly noticed an exposed bulb, and couldn't stop himself. He drenched his hands in beer, reaching up.
“What the fuck are you doing!” the tow of them lunged at him, but it was too late. His body shook furiously; the smell of crisping skin lacing their air.


ppsdonsmokedat: lol
ppsdonsmokedat: omg
argo-nuclearsoso: are you serious?
MickeyWASclean: wow
ppsdonsmokedat: had 2 no tho
argo-nuclearsoso: don't do this right now.
argo-nuclearsoso: seriously. I swear to fuck I will block you.
ppsdonsmokedat: y u got 2 b a dick, bro
MickeyWASclean: there goes our trophy
ppsdonsmokedat: ??
MickeyWASclean: “full clear” every 1 alive
argo-nuclearsoso: fuck!
ppsdonsmokedat: we do it 1 more time
argo-nuclearsoso: no.
MickeyWASclean: nope.
ppsdonsmokedat: aight fuk u both
ppsdonsmokedat: I dnt no y u 2 mad he xtra crispy now
MickeyWASclean: lol
argo-nuclearsoso: …. god damn it.


Saspurilla broke down in a sob; Gnarly's body falling to the floor. Carlo stood at the corner stoically, unbelieving.
“Oh god, oh fuck. Why...why would he do that?” He crawled over to his best friend, lifting his head and holding it close. “Jesus fuck, why did you do that, stupid? Why.”
He gripped him close, crying in heaves he couldn't control. His stomach poured into his throat, creeping out of his mouth. It dripped down his chin and throat, leaving a warm slide of putrid lunch. He held tighter, hoping the lack of space would bring Gnarly back.
“What...the hell...” Carlo said in a wavering voice. Gnarly's body began to disappear.
Saspurilla didn't want to open his eyes, but he felt it; felt his arms coming closer to his chest until he was pressing himself. Gnarly had been erased. Disappeared. Invisible, entirely. His head wanted to explode. This wasn't normal. Nothing was alright.
“Why...did that happen?” Carlo said again, unsure of himself. The crotch of his pants turned to a puddle of urine, dripping down his thigh an in his boots. The flashlight he was using shook in small intermediate earthquakes.
They were silent in their grief for a small moment, misplaced.
A hand reached out of a previously unseen vent.
“What the fuck! Carlo, what the fuck! What's happening!!”
“I don't know! I don't know, okay?!” They both screamed an intervene. The hand snapped it's fingers. Carlo began to pray.
“I'm done! I'm done with this!” Saspurilla shot up and ran towards the vent, drop-kicking the vent, and landing on his tailbone again. Pain shot up his neck, increasing his headache. His rage went free. In several kicks he smashed the hand to a bone-broken pulp. Blood gushed from a silent arm.
“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck, fuck fuck--” his canvas show dealt blow after blow; so thin that he could feel the bones moving under the rubber sole.
“Stop it, man. Just stop....let's just get out okay? Let's get out of here.” Carlos ran to the hatch and gripped the opening.
Gnarly met him, a silhouette against a setting sun.
“What're you guys doing?”
“AHHHH!” He fell back, terrified.
Choking on tears, Saspurilla looked at the hatch, “What the fuck! Oh Jesus. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I believe. I believe in you. Just let me wake up. Please.”
Gnarly hopped down, his mouth a smile, “What's a matter with you two?”



PART II: ETA 1 WEEK

Bully Magnet

Last night, as I was reflecting on the cruel neglect the Lord has shown Nicki Manaj, we got a text from Ashley* telling us to be ready by 6pm. Good god, I said to myself, it’s already late into five; if we’re doing this, whatever the fuck it is, I have to put my good boots on. That’s one of the moots of this wondrous woodland glen; you are apt to receive any manner of demands via text message without explanation, a heritage of their ancestors no doubt practiced through history. Though I do have small difficulties picturing the facial expression of Grog when he realizes with some dismay that by the time the carrier pigeon arrived, it didn’t allow him enough time to put his good mammoth furs on before company would call. I work on trying to see his frustration in my head as I thunk the back of my heel into my Toby’s, black and reliable.

If I can say one thing for Ashley, it is that he is very sturdy; an imposing mass of a man that slumps and drags his legs, not bothering with the effort needed to lift them, leaving what I believe to be evidence of Bigfoot with each thud of his shoe meeting snow. Children have used his sweet kicks as sleds since his balls dropped at four. You can imagine the embarrassment he felt, having all your friends climb you instead of the jungle gym or having to push the rollercoaster up the track instead of riding in it with the rest of his class.  Having to be Chewy from Star Wars every single year since you could stand.

It doesn’t bother him much outwardly; what he lacks in physical speed and agility he makes up for with his quick tongue and lack of giving many fucks. Which I guess develops pre-t quick when your name is synonymous with comfortable furniture but your physical appearance denotes to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  

~~This is my friend cuddly wumpkins, fluffy ambassador of plushy sunshine candy happiness. He likes bunnies, hugs, the color pink, and microwaving hamsters. (>^o^)> UffuuuuUfuuuuu~~

He showed up a few seconds after I got my other boot on. I snorted. Maybe it wasn’t the loyalty of carrier pigeons after all. He bowed as low as he could to make it through our bedroom door, and fell back with an alarming amount of trust on the edge of our bed. The room groaned.

“So where do you guys…want to go?”

King fluttered around, presumably cementing the supports back into the foundation.

“You um, did you have something in mind?”

“Not really.”

“Want to go to the bar?”

“Nah.”

“Whelp,” I said standing to my feet. “I’m out of ideas.” And I was. Normally that idea is only shot down if the bar explodes or I’m dead. I had drank fifteen beers before he arrived.

King wrapped a scarf around her neck, “Let’s go eat.”

This is a fantastic revelation according to Ashley, who musters the strength to stand up without a word and punch his pocket for keys.

For some reason I started to reflect on my life during the 45minute drive to town. Anytime I get in a car I reflect on my life. It’s my only indication that I’m not dead.

I tried to count my friends, got to three and told myself to stop lying.

Ashley reminds me of Nardo in some way. That is to say, they are nothing alike and aside from gender there is no reason I should have related them in my head at all. But I did, and it got me reminiscing on the things I’ve done to him since the day we met.

----------------------

#1: I Spartan kicked him down a flight of stairs.

“Hey. Give me the mace.”

“What?”

“Mace.”

“Uh, sure here.”

-kick-

“OH SHIKSDJFSKFKJSDGJFGLKJDGDKLSGD!!!”

(=_=) “Mace.”

We bought these really awesome Nerf weapons for bashing purposes, and I had drank my weight in whiskey. The ending of this story is me punching him in the back of the head repeating the word “mace” like the fucking Rainman.

#2: I told Facebook he was gay; nobody doubted it.

The way he found out was several phone calls from family members; half congratulating him, half asking if it was true. I found out that he found out by listening to the softness of his sob through his bedroom door. It was the second most hilarious shed of tears since I realized tapestry isn't the name of a country.

#3: I punched him thirty-seven times in the gut and told him he was a champion.

Technically, I told him that he could be famous if he could take more punches than the founder of PUNCHY, a faction of fisticuffs brawlers that doesn’t exist. I said this periodically though the night in convincing and frequent bursts until he agreed to let me punch him. I told him it would be filmed, reviewed by a board, and if he took enough punches, he would be considered Champion of PUNCHY. I stuck my fist into his gut thirty-seven times until I “missed” and socked him in the rib. It was a mercy snap. He didn’t know what was good for him.

#4: I told him to pursue a woman he didn’t know was an unshakable lesbian.

Nothing gives me more joy that creating social unrest. Since they pulled all the decent trash TV, I’ve been having to get wildly inebriated and talk to myself in the mirror for effect.  

Me: We should hook Nardo up with uh…

Myself: Her.

Me: Thas’ a good idea.

Myself: Thank you.

Me: No thank you.

I sent a text to her explaining that Nardo was new to dating, and it would be super nice if she could help me out by rating his ability to flirt.

“Out of ten.”

Before she came over one day I told Nardo that he had to use all of his charms. To which he nodded solemnly and dried the sweat off his hands. He studied what I told him for hours. Absorbing his life’s worth in droves of secret female knowledge.

For the rest of the night it was an awesome mix of the worst possible pick up lines and random outbursts of the number two.

#5: I slipped him a special cookie; told him he got high off canned peaches.

Hopefully this story will go down in my friendship with Nardo as one of the best things I’ve done for personal hahas. I’m chuckling an evil chuckle as I remember this story next to Ashley and King, who have no idea why I’m laughing.

One of the major things about Nardo is that he’s bottomless. He can eat a ton of food, and sometimes, he can even eat things people shouldn’t eat. To put that in perspective, he once made mashed potatoes in a pot that had grown mold in the bottom. He ate the mashed potatoes without noticing, and puked for a mere hour when the rest of humanity would have been either dead or dying. Nothing phases this guy. And since nothing can touch him, Nardo will often pick at food he sees on cutting boards or stovetops, regardless of whether or not something is questionable. He just doesn’t have that thing that most people do that says, “Negative Ghostrider. Mouth is full.” Or  “Looks dangerous. Let’s not.”  

In this case, I brought a cookie that had tons of marijuana baked into it back from a trip. As soon as I got home, I split the thing in quarters and put an entire half on the cutting board in anticipation for him to come in looking for a snack. After a couple of hours, he raided the cabinets. He must have eaten several things that had expired, but he stopped when he saw the cookie.

“Whose is this?”

“No ones.”

“Oh.”

And he plucked the whole thing up, swallowing it whole. I had been advised when I took the cookie not to eat more than a quarter at a time, so I was beside myself with giddy, waiting for him to notice.

Minutes passed. Nothing.

He clears a bowl of cereal and talks incessantly.

Nothing.

He eats some bread, talking fast and excitedly. 

Nothing.

Just as he’s halfway through a can of peaches, he stops.

“Guys?”

“…What?” try not to look excited.

“I don’t feel right.”

“Well you ate a ton, so…” I’m going to fucking lose it.

“No. I don’t feel right.”

“How?”

“I don’t feel right. Do I look okay? I don’t feel right.”

“You look fine.”

“DO I LOOK OKAY? ARE YOU SURE? IM FUCKING FREAKING OUT.”

“Calm down. What’s the matter?” ohgodohgodohgod.

“IT FEELS LIKE I’M IN MY BED BUT I’M NOT. I’M FREAKING OUT. DUDE. SHOULD WE CALL SOMEONE? WHATS GOING ON?!”

“You’re okay. What’s the matter?”

“I’M…I JUST…I CAN’T FEEL ANYTHING. AM I OKAY?”

“The…did you eat those peaches?”

“WHAT?!”

“DID YOU EAT THOSE FUCKING PEACHES?”

“YEAH WHY?”

“THEY WERE BAD. THE PEACHES WERE BAD. OH GOD.” I’m a monster, oh my god.

“OH GOD.”

“YOU’RE…OH… oh…okay. Calm down. Let me get rid of the peaches. Go lay down.”

“I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS.”

“I’ll help you. IT’LL BE OKAY.”

I helped him to his room, explaining to him how the peaches were bad and how it was making him feel numb. He started talking about time and focus. I had to laughed into a pillow for an hour why he intermittently yelled nonsense to himself for an hour.

The next day, Nardo went through our entire food stock and threw out every single can that had expired.

It was glorious in a we-won’t-survive-a-food-shortage-now-but-that-shit-was-jokes kind of way.

-------------------

Back in the truck, Ashley and King decided on Olive Garden.

We took bets on the tranny sitting next to us, drank a bottle of wine, and tipped the server in precious uncut sapphires. Something cold. Bitter. Betting tables. Blackjack. Cash winnings, $.40 slip. I woke up nested in the depression Ashley had made when he sat on the edge of the bed. They aren’t the same in any way. But according to the hole I woke up in, they aren’t imaginary either.