The Half-Life of Hate

By Kacy Curtis

A high school boy decides to experiment with drugs, but in doing so transforms his life into a macabre nightmare of bloodshed and madness. While confronted by his familys dark past, he strives to unearth an unknown evil, but risks losing his sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 8, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462819843

Kacy Curtis

Kacy Curtis was born in Ashland, Oregon in 1976. He graduated from Ashland High School without having read one book. His overall G.P.A. was a 2.0, but he excelled in all of the violent sports. In 1996, after taking a year off to drink margaritas on Maui and Kaua’i, he attended Southern Oregon University. He dropped out after one semester because it conflicted with his principles and his vices. Since then, he has gotten lost in Yellow Stone National Park, and liquidated his mind on Bourbon Street. He has driven an R.V. across The United States, and cried while visiting Graceland. He is currently living in Portland, Oregon with his girlfriend, and is hard at work on the feel good novel of the year. His hobbies include building rope-swings, eating at Home Town Buffet, barnyard wrestling, and watching Three’s Company. The Half-Life Of Hate is his second novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The small cot upon which you are resting offers very little comfort. Your fingers are interwoven behind your head, forming a soft, fleshy pillow, and as you stare disconcertedly up at the ceiling you can feel the mattress’ ancient springs dig into your back like the insensitive fingers of an android chiropractor. You shift your weight tediously from side to side, attempting to find comfort, and, when your efforts prove to be futile, you let out an exasperated sigh and resign yourself to the inescapability of both the cots’ inadequacies and your situation at large.

Above you, running sparaticly in all directions, are thin, threadlike cracks in the cement ceiling. The ceiling, as well as the surrounding walls, are painted a dull skin tone. You gaze overhead at the cold, unfriendly ceiling and imagine that the flesh-colored texture is actually skin and that the cracks are varicose veins. Amused by the image you have just conjured up, you take it even further and imagine you are in a toilet bowl and the pink, vein-ridden ceiling is the ass of an obese woman as she unloads herself down upon you. You grin awkwardly and shake your head, disgusted by your own twisted imagination.

You take a deep breath, struggling to relax, and as you do, the tart, repulsive odor of public restroom floods your nostrils. Your nose wrinkles, your countenance displays a sour distaste and you let out a short cough. To the left of the cot is your toilet and, although you do your best at keeping it clean, it’s still a toilet. You shit in it, you piss in it and, consequently, your sleeping quarters are permanently sheathed in a faint, acrid stench. Although it beats the option, which is shitting your pants, it still bothers you to have to use that toilet. To drop your pants and sit there in that strange, vulnerable position as the guards walk by with their condescending grins and their phallic, tough-guy billy-clubs dangling from their belts like wanna-be gunslingers; pathetic, pretentious, nine-to-five cowboys. You sit there, pants around your ankles, and then they come walking by, staring in, ogling at you as if they were rich kids at a zoo with mommy and daddy and you were one of the animals on display. That’s what really irks you, the way they make you feel like a wild animal, something to be caged up, something to be gawked at, a subspecies, a freak, a psychopath. You don’t mind the stiff rigid cot, you can tolerate the perpetual small of urine, you can even live with the lack of privacy and tiny, confining living conditions, but what you can not accept is the constant, unspoken belittling.

You unlock your hands from behind your head and retrieve the small pillow upon which they rested. You give it a thorough fluffing, trying to restore some life into the tattered, lumpy cloth bag. Once you even-out the filling, you place the pillow back onto the bed, folding it this time to double the amount of cushion. When the pillow has been positioned comfortably you reach back and intertwine your fingers just as you had them before, resting between the pillow and your head.

With the pillow folded and your neck bent slightly forward your eyes are no longer aimed at the ceiling. You find yourself gazing down towards the foot of the bed and the mean metal bars lying just beyond. From this angle your body appears unusually long and gangly, and the bright orange jump-suit you’re wearing helps not in the least to dissipate this illusion. Your feet seem distant, separated from you by what looks to be acres and acres of bright orange cloth. You allow your mind to be tricked by the illusion and for a few brief moments the distance between your eyes and your boot clad feet does actually lengthen into miles. Your orange jump-suit becomes a vast terrain with rolling hills and subtle valleys, all of which is laden with beautiful orange wild-flowers, covering the entire countryside like a bright, intricate shawl. Every fold of cloth is a mysterious ravine, every seam a nameless creek. Your knees protrude and they, too, add to the facade, giving the impression of two lonely mountains confiding in one another. Beyond the mountains, past the prairies and rivers, you can see the tips of your boots perched just above the orange horizon like two black moons peering down luminously onto this strange, deserted landscape. And for just a fleeting second you are no longer a caged, punished animal, but rather a vagabond, free and unbridled, hiking across a splendid, foreign land. You focus on the twin opaque moons which are your boots, and that’s when your reverie is shattered, for there, on the well-varnished, highly shined surface of your boots you can see the reflection of your own pathetic face staring blankly forward.

You lift your gaze from this pitiable image, and look instead at the steel bars which seem to mock you with their primitive simplicity. This is all too surreal, you think to yourself. This cell, these bars, these David Hasselhoff jack-offs who walk by twirling their keys, it all seems like something I’ve seen a thousand times on the big screen, from Midnight Express to The Green Mile, it just doesn’t feel right. You look beyond the bars, out into the empty hall. The fluorescent lights which hang down from the celling in the middle of the hall look more like bug-zappers than overhead lamps, and the light they put off is sour Mountain Dew. It falls to the tile floor and lies there in sterile, electric puddles.

Just then you hear a voice, distraught and enraged, bellowing nonsense from somewhere down the hall. The voice is shrill and primal, and it seems to grow in its maniacal intensity as it bounces and reverberates off the steel bars and tile floor. You immediately recognize the voice as belonging to one of your fellow inmates. You don’t know his name, but you know he’s two cells down the hall to your right. Shortly after his screaming and wailing breaks the silence, another voice commences to moan and lament, and then a third joins in, then a fourth and a fifth, until it seems as if the entire world is crying in unison just outside your cell, the sound of which is like rusty steak knives being jabbed deep into your ear drums. You sit up in bed and place your hands over your ears, escaping temporarily from the frenzied shrieking. My god, you think to yourself. They got me locked up with a bunch of fucking monkeys. In one quick and fluid movement you pounce from the cot and grab hold of the bars, which separate you from the hallway, the outdoors, the world itself. Shut the hell up, you command, your face pressed tight between the bars, spittle flying from your mouth like a dysfunctional sprinkler. Shut up, shut up, shut up! You tighten your grip on the cold, steel bars and your gaze shifts rhythmically from left to right as you scan the empty hall for someone to talk to, someone of reason, but not reason alone, compassion as well, even sympathy, perhaps. I don’t belong here, you yell, the bars digging painfully into the sides of your face. I don’t fucking belong here, I’m not like them, I’m not fucking insane. Suddenly you stop yelling, your hands loosen their grip, they fall from the bars, dangling at your sides like two dead rats. Your face contorts into a wretched mask of shock and disbelief. The shock is caused by the realization that your voice has become indiscernible from the others. You are sane, you know you are, yet at that moment, with your twisted, sweaty face jammed between the bars, your voice hysterical in it’s urgency, you were able to see yourself from an outsiders perspective, and you realized with painful certainty that you do indeed appear just like everyone else.

With your hands dangling at your sides and your face displaying the expression of a week-old corpse you begin to pace backwards. Your steps are unsure, as if you’re walking through a dark basement and with every step you risk being tripped by some unseen object. You bump into the cot with the back of your calves. You fall backwards onto the musty mattress and frantically crab-crawl to the head of the bed, where you curl up into a ball, knees held tight against your chest. You cover your ears once again and, in the glorious silence which ensues, two very sad and foreboding thoughts enter your mind. The first is that you are the only living person who knows that you are actually sane. The second thought is that the longer you stay caged up the more you will become like them.

After a short while you reluctantly uncover your ears and to your easement find that the screaming has stopped and all is silent. With your vision slightly blurred by the tears collecting in the corner of your eyes, you lie back down on the cot, place your hands behind your head and stare once more up at the vein-covered celling. The warm, salty liquid rolls down your cheeks and collects in your ears. As you lie there attempting to stifle the flow of tears, trying to gain your composure, you hear a noise out in the hall. It sounds like a large, powerful glass hand snapping it’s fingers with mechanical precision. Click-Click-Click-Click. You quickly recognize the sound as approaching boot heels, more than likely belonging to one of the guards, but as you lie on your cot gazing towards heaven through watery eyes and wondering nervously if the guard is coming for you, you pretend the clicking sound is caused by a bomb, a bomb that you built and that at any given moment will detonate. The walls will crumble, the sun will shine in and you will flee out into the world and all this time spent imprisoned will seem like a nightmare, a nightmare that grows harder to remember with each passing day. Click-Click-Click-Click. Closer and closer, louder and louder, blow you mother fucker, blow this whole fucking place up.

Hey, I got those items you requested.

The voice was dry and raspy and the sound of it, projected into your cell, causes your heart to stop momentarily, and the insects inside your stomach to beat their jittery wings. You look down towards the hallway and there standing beyond the bars is one of the guards. His eyes are fixed sharply upon you and there below his penetrating stare is the grin you’ve grown to hate; the I’m out here and you’re in there grin.

I said I’ve got those items you requested. Do you want them or not?

Yes, yes I still do, you say, rising slowly from your cot.

You discreetly wipe the wetness away from your face. You don’t want the guard to know you’ve been crying. Tentatively you cross the cell and find yourself face to face with the guard, nothing between you save a few metal bars. As you stand there in whispering distance of this individual the thought passes through your mind to open up to him, to tell him that your not like the others, that you don’t belong here, that the cops were wrong, and the judge was wrong, and the whole thing is just wrong, wrong, wrong! You want to grab him by the collar, pull him in close and beg for his sympathy, but you know how that would make you look, so instead you just stand there meeting his hollow gaze, mimicking his stony indifference.

Here you go, he says, inserting his right hand through the bars and into your cage. You take the articles from his hand and look them over, slightly bewildered.

What the fuck are these? I didn’t ask for these.

Sorry pal, utters the guard unconvincingly, and you can smell the coffee and cigarettes he undoubtedly had on his break. Policy is policy, he states frankly. Pencils pose a safety hazard. You might decide to start stabbing yourself the minute I get back in my office. We can’t risk that. Besides, those will work just fine, you can still write whatever it is you want to write.

I know, but come on, you mutter imploringly, looking forlornly down at the objects in your hands. What the hell am I gonna do with crayons? These are for little kids to draw with.

Listen, snaps the guard, his breath even more pungent than before, and for a second you think you can smell the lunch itself, a meatloaf maybe, fried chicken, perhaps. That’s the best we can do, okay? We got you the notebook and something to write with. He turns to walk away, but stops after a few short steps. One more thing, he says, a coy smirk decorating his face. You start scribbling all over these walls and I’ll make you clean ‘em up and don’t think I won’t either. He leans his face in close to the bars and speaks to you in a voice just louder than a whisper. Don’t think that you’re any different than the rest of these freaks just because you don’t drool or stutter. Your still crazier than a shit-house rat. He turns, his boot heels commence to click and you’re left standing there, heart beating louder than pouring rain on a old sheet-metal roof, holding a notebook and a box of crayons.

You walk over to the cot and lie down with your paper and crayons, on your stomach this time however, so that it’s easier to write. You hastily withdraw a crayon and, with a sweaty, slightly shaking hand begin to write.

When people die their souls live on, and not necessarily in heaven or hell. Sometimes they can linger here on earth, and take care of unfinished business. Some souls are wrathful and the business they take care of is evil.

You look at what you’ve written and decide that it’s all wrong, that it’s the wrong way to begin. If you’re going to legitimately attempt to put things in order, to explain how everything actually happened you’re going to have to start from the very beginning. But where, where did it all begin? How far back do you actually go? You close your eyes and begin to drift away, begin to fall backwards through time, searching for the root of it all, the absolute origin. The images that begin to flood your mind are gruesome ones.

You see blood flowing like a wild crimson river, smearing the walls, covering the floors and carrying away all the broken, mangled bodies. You can see all the shocked, horror-stricken faces of the victims contorting in pain. You try to stop the onslaught of images flooding into your brain, but you’re incapable of stopping the flow. Vision after graphic vision is being projected onto the screens inside your eyelids. You can see the blade sparkle in the light. You can see the skin as it swallows the steel. You can also see when the knife reemerges and the warm droplets douse your face.

You open your eyes and your mouth quivers in a silent scream. You attempt to yell, but the fear, the sadness, it’s all too overwhelming and your frightened lungs labor strenuously for oxygen. The tears come once again, sliding off your cheeks and landing on your notebook paper. You can feel your lips stretched wide, moving in a vain effort to cry for help. The tears come for numerous reasons; for the sadness, for the pain, for the fear, for the helplessness and for the confusion. The tears soon blur your vision, and the last thing you see before your eyes close and you surrender to the agony is your own feeble hand lamely clasping a Crayola crayon and the nonsensical garble scribbled along top of the paper.

CHAPTER 1

I have not the slightest clue as to how long I have been here, for what is time without the means by which to measure it? What is a day if there is no sun traversing the heavens, horizon to horizon? What is a night without the moon peering down from above, illuminating the land with its subtle, dream-like hue? What is a twilight if there are no stars to watch blossom upon the lavender canopy of evening? What is a dawn, when there is no brilliant red orb rearing its splendor up from behind the mountains? Seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, these words have ceased to hold any meaning.

I am suspended in an atmosphere of sheer darkness, an encompassing, engulfing darkness, pressing in from all sides, suffocating me, strangling me. I used to believe I knew what it felt like to be cloaked in utter blackness, to gaze wide-eyed before me and see not a single particle of light, but I was mistaken, I knew very little about true darkness. For as dark as it may have been, I still possessed eyes, I was still able to behold the surrounding blackness, I was able to comprehend it. Where as now, without my eyes, I find myself veiled in a new kind of darkness, incomprehensible and entirely terrifying. It feels as if I am trapped underwater, imprisoned in the depths of some horrifying abyss. Color, light, vision, sight, these words, too, are completely useless, devoid of all meaning.

I feel nothing, for how could I without a body, without limbs, without hands to grab and touch? Oh, what I would give to have hands, that I might gently caress the simple contours of the human face. That I might hold an axe. That I might wield it laboriously, the weight of its head rising and falling like an inverted pendulum, while the wooden shaft burns exquisitely in my palms. What I would give to have feet, and to once again walk shoeless through a field of wet grass, the blades and leaves tickling my soles and dousing my ankles with their cool wetness. Or to meander along the shore of a beautiful beach, the sand crunching slightly beneath my outstretched heels. Or to stand beneath a gray, cloud-covered sky, and to feel the electrifying sensation of a thousand rain drops pelting my skin as they plummet blindly to the earth. Or to feel a piece of meat surrender its consistency between my hungry jaws as the flavor and the juices flood my mouth. However none of this is currently possible, for as I stated before, I am without the capability. Hot, cold, feeling, sensation, these words, like all the others, have no meaning anymore.

I hear nothing, not the sound of my own breath nor the beating of my own heart, just the agonizing silence of my own unanswered thoughts. The joy I would have if I were to hear a bird sing or the wind rustling the leaves of a tree. Yet even sweeter would be to hear the sound of a voice, any voice, to comfort me, to give me strength. Unfortunately, however, my ears, like everything else I once possessed, have been taken away. This wretched inaudibility is like a vile quilt, it lies over me, smothering me in silence. Sounds, noises, voices, these words mean nothing to me now.

I have had so much taken away from me that I often find myself in disbelief that I still exist. If indeed I still do exist, it is no longer in the form of which I was accustomed. That is to say, I am no longer a human being. I believe my current state to be more akin to an entity, an essence, a spirit, perhaps. When compared to the life which I once led this condition seems entirely unbearable, and so I choose not to think about what I was, or the life I posessed. Instead, I focus on what what I have, on what I still can call my own, and although it is next to nothing, what I do have gives me strength, it enables me to carry on. I do not have a home. I do not have a family. I do not even have a body. Then what, I am sure you are wondering, is it that I possess? What I possess is loathing, a powerful, pitiless, all-consuming hate. Why is it that this abhorrence gives me the strength to carry on, to continue existing in this sad, tormented fashion you may ask? It is because this hatred is what ensures me of my own existence, as if without this rage I would simply cease to be, merely dissolve into nothing and fade away, and that is absolutely not an option, for if I cease to exist, than there could never be revenge, there could be no retribution for the sins which were cast upon me.

And so here I linger, without shape or form, suspended in this black and lonely void. I do nothing but nurture my hate and await my chance at revenge.

CHAPTER 2

The setting sun is of a dark lavender hue, and as it lowers itself behind the distant, pine tree-blanketed mountains to the west, it makes the sky above Portland, Oregon resemble the face of an alcoholic whore. It’s summer time in the Pacific northwest, which means the days are splendid, yet at the same time stubborn. Like a child who protests his bedtime every night at nine thirty, dragging his slippered feet reluctantly to his room, so the daytime procrastinates its inevitable repose. Consequently, the evenings can appear to stretch on eternally, the firmament an ever changing shroud of color and illumination. Uncountable tones, suspended in the air at the exact same instant, then the sun yawns, wipes its weary eyes and the process of twilight carries on. New colors appear, old colors fade away, until finally, without anyone noticing, it has become night and mother nature once again breathes a sigh of relief and sheaths her magical wand.

It’s only eight thirty, however, so the remnants of daylight still linger above. The sky is still a fantastic orange and mother nature is still hard at work somewhere, sweating and panting as she waves her voodoo stick at the watercolor sky. There’s a slight wind coming in from the north, and on its gentle current rides a battalion of lazy clouds, which, like the sky they patrol, are manipulated by the sun and resemble pink cotton balls. The clouds are not abundant enough to be threatening, they merely tip-toe through the winds and urge everyone below to tilt their heads skyward and ogle at their delicate beauty.

Underneath this sky lurks the city of Portland, and it too undergoes a change every evening at this time. All the buildings in the downtown district are cement syringes with their monstrous needles aimed up at the impending night. These huge stone contraptions are lined with lights, and as the earth darkens they take over, grinning at the street people with electric glow. The entire city begins to twinkle, as if it were really just a glass lake, reflecting the stars as they bloom overhead. From the southwest, with its brick towers, its spotlight gargoyles and its plug-in statues, to the northeast, the land of the financially challenged, where Lego huts dribble porch light blues onto unkept yards and disassembled Pontiacs, from urban sprawl, to the heart of it all, the city turns itself on at this time every evening.

If one was perched up in the west hills, watching the city come to life through a bedroom window, they would see nothing but minuscule, multi-colored lights, flickering in and out of existence, but down in the streets, in the alleys and lots, the lights have personalities, moods, smells, even eyes. Neon signs, blinking red and screaming, ‘LIVE NUDE GIRLS.’ Fluorescent Budweiser bottles cling to the sides of buildings, and proclaim their presence within. Street lamps line the road like night-light oak trees cutting a path through the forest. The coffee shops and diners with their promise of twenty-four hours gleaming out through the front windows, offers a refuge for the night-crawlers and zombies.

And then there’s the cars, cutting through the semi-darkness with their sharp, glowing eyes. Portland is a Hefty sack full of rotting meat, and the cars are white-eyed, carnivorous insects marching orderly through the steaming ooze. Headlights, when seen from a distance, are no different than any of the others, lifeless and identical, yet down in the gutters, in the asphalt and stink, they also become individual. Old school Mustangs and muscle cars stroll confidentially down the road, flexing, while classic rock drifts out of the opened windows. Cavaliers with missing windows and dirty exhausts limp lamely through the maze of darkness and stone. Mammoth Dodge 4x4’s line dance their way from one white trash dungeon to the next. Rich folks in space shuttle Lexus’, sip lattes, wipe coke-numbed noses with Victoria Secret scarves and let their cars drive them safely home.

Lacerating its way through the center of the city is Burnside, the dividing line between north and south Portland. It’s a long and heavily trafficked street, stretching from the mansions in the western hills, crossing the Willamette River in the center of town, and out into the eastside suburbia.

The traffic on Burnside is cumbersome this evening, crawling along at a crippled pace. One of the cars entrapped in the slow moving procession is a rusty, half-dead Toyota Tercel. In it rides four high school kids, none of whom are sober. Walter Ohava is driver and owner of this particular four-wheeled heap of shit. Walter, his mouth and throat burning with cheap tequilla, grips the wheel with sweaty palms and gazes through his bug-freckeled windshield at the oncoming road, his eyes squinting slightly into the melting horizon. Tiny particles of sweat decorate his forehead, more likely caused by the generic tequilla gurgling in his innards than the lingering heat of the summer day. With his left hand he rolls down the window, and the pleasant evening air rips in through the gap and quickly counteracts the flushed sensation caused by the alcohol.

Walter’s eyes shift rapidly from the fiery tail-lights of the car ahead to the rearview mirror, then back again, constantly fluttering from one to the next. As his gaze spastically flickers to and fro he can feel his penis pulsating, throbbing, swelling with blood, well on its way to the size of a monkey wrench. sitting in the back are two girls crouched low in the seat, passing the tequila bottle back and forth, and the mirror, at which Walter’s gaze keeps discreetly meandering to, offers him a magnificent view of their tan, muscular, mini skirt-clad legs. Becky, the girl directly behind Walter, wraps her young, supple lips around the bottle, tilts her head back, chugging the booze as if it were chocolate milk, and when she does, her knees accidental spread apart, allowing Walter to see not just her legs and upper thighs, but also her pink satin panties. Walter rolls his eyes and lets out a breath through pursed lips, happily shocked by the flash of paradise he had witnessed. Thank you God, he whispers to himself, a voyeuristic grin covering his horny, adolescent face. With this unexpected glimpse of Becky’s undergarments his erection stiffens, no longer resembling a monkey wrench, or any hand tool for that matter, but rather a tomahawk missile. Walter, in an effort to minimize his discomfort, reaches down and casually readjusts himself, although the fear of ripping a hole in his new jeans is also motivation for this action. He looks once again into the rear-view mirror, and sees with excitement and disbelief that her legs have not yet come together and that her shadowy, silk-covered crotch is still on full display. Out of the corner of his eye, he peers to his right, at his friend Eric, who, to Walters astonishment, appears totally oblivious to the stimulating miracle unfolding behind him.

Aghh-hem. Walter clears his throat suggestively, his hand tapping Eric’s leg. When this attempt at getting Eric’s attention fails Walter coughs once more. This time it is a success, and when Eric glances over to see what is ailing his friend, Walter tries to explain the situation.

so ahh, Eric, he begins, his face laboring unsuccessfully to conceal his glee and giddiness. You gonna watch that college hoops game tonight?

Eric, knowing damn well it’s the middle of summer and college basketball is a long way off, looks over at his friend with a ‘What in Gods name are you talking about’ expression.

Yeah, Walter continues. "U.C.L.A. is playing the Beavers."

Big deal, Eric responds, not yet noticing the mischievous smirk on his friends face.

"I said U.C.L.A. is playing the Beavers! Walter repeats himself, emphasizing his chosen code word. I think the game starts at eleven o’clock," his eyebrows wavering up and down, signaling towards the mirror.

Eric suddenly becomes aware, understanding the delicacy and greatness of the situation. He begins to play along.

"You say the Beavers are playing tonight at eleven, he asks mockingly, his eyes landing on the mirror. Eric’s jaw drops open like a worn-out puppies, his eyes as big as Cadillac hub caps. Sweet, he finally mutters. I love basketball."

They both abandon their subtlety, no longer able to keep a straight face, and the laughter shoots out of their mouths like air from two puberty-stricken whoopee cushions.

What’s so funny, the girls demand in unison from the back seat. Becky screws the lid onto the bottle and they both sit up straight. Yeah, what are you boys laughing at, Rochelle asks as she wipes the tequila from her upper lip.

Well, Walter says, fighting to control the giggles. "I was just telling Eric here about what happened to me today. I was out in my front yard and I noticed this PUSSY cat. Yeah and this poor pussy cat was stuck in this bush. That’s right, and so I had to save the day. I had to reach in and snatch the pussy cat out of the bush."

Walter and Eric both begin to snicker uncontrollably, and the girls, not as ignorant as the two boys think, begin to laugh along with them.

"That’s quite a tittilating story Walter," Becky says, with a playful grin, her red press-on nails tickling the back of his neck. Walter, now with his prick the size of a submarine, glances at the rearview mirror and when he does his gaze meets Becky’s. She winks her right eye, and slowly, deliberately uncrosses her legs, momentarily revealing herself. Holy shit, Walter thinks to himself. She knew I was looking all along. A feeling of embarrassment creeps over him, but as quickly as it comes, it is replaced by a feverish excitement, an all-consuming thrill at being alive and young and male. He can feel the alcohol buzz beginning to take over his body, behind him he could hear Rochelle and Becky giggling and gossiping, he smiles over at Eric, pats him on the leg in a frolicsome manner, then puts it into fifth, presses down on the gas pedal and zig-zags his way through the backed-up evening traffic, eager to see where the night will lead.

Walter Ohava and Eric Hutchinson have been friends for as long as they can remember, their relationship stretching all the way back to the year 1989 when they both began their educational careers as first graders at Forest Ridge Elementary School. Their personalities, their styles, their likes and dislikes, not only differ from one anothers, but seem to contrast, to oppose the others individuality. Walter possesses the gracefulness of a hippopotamus whacked-out on valume. The instances are too plentiful to count in which Eric has rescued him from the swirling waters of embarrassment, or, more importantly, from actual physical harm.

There was the time the two boys had gone hiking with Walters family by the Columbia River gorge. They were off exploring by themselves and came across a short, although dangerously steep cliff with a large precipice at the top, which the boys assumed offered a breathtaking view of the river, gorge and surrounding mountains. Walter, after scrambling absentmindedly like a wild, brain dead boar up the steep embankment, found himself stuck about halfway up with no more rocks and crannies with which to pull himself up, and yet too scared to crawl down backwards. So there he stayed, wedged in a crevice, clinging to rocks and weeds, legs trembling from exhaustion and fear until Eric cautiously crawled up next to him and slowly, tediously talked him down from his feeble perch.

Then of course, there was the time Walter passed out at Michelle Peterson’s millennium bash, collapsing face down in the middle of her living room, then unintentionally saturating the carpet with his Old Milwaukee urine. Everyone was out back on the porch smoking weed or cigarettes or just enjoying the brisk night air when Walters equilibrium went on strike. Fortunately Eric has always had a low tolerance for marijuana, so after one or two tokes from the joint he excused himself from the session and headed back inside to grab a cold one, only to find his best friend sprawled out in the shape of a chalk outline at a crime scene, urine stains extending out on each side like piss-sodden angel wings. Eric, like so many times before, sprung into action, and with quick, wise decisions saved the reputation of his somewhat obtuse childhood chum. In a matter of seconds Eric was back from the kitchen with a fresh can of beer. After rolling Walters limp, inebriated body out of the way, he poured his beer onto the carpet at the spot where Walter had lain, transforming what could have been the end of young Walter’s social life into a mere party foul, a simple spilling of one’s beer; unfortunate for Michelle Peterson, yet not too uncommon for any high school party. Once Walter had been deposited into his Toyota Tercel, Eric rejoined the party just as the others were coming in from the back.

What the hell is that, Michelle asks, one hand braced against the door, her eyes fixed on the dark spot on the carpet.

Sorry Michelle, Eric says, heading into the kitchen. I spilled some beer, I was just about to grab a rag and clean it up.

The occurrences in which Walter’s enthusiasm far outweigh his sensibility are as numerous as the grains of sand along the Oregon coast. While Eric, on the other hand, representing Walters polar opposite for the most part, possesses an awareness seldom seen in an individual so young. In a lot of ways he reminds Walter of an older brother or even an uncle, the way he can recline back into a chair at a party, rest his can of beer on his stomach and be content just to sit there, smiling at everyone and absorbing the ambiance. Eric can be subtle when speaking, his voice soft and easy on the ears. He can be in a room with others and his presence can go unnoticed, as if he were just a chair or an end table, then out of nowhere he’ll chime in with a witty remark, startling everyone and joining in the conversation which the others assumed he had not even been following. Eric is a diligent student, never bringing home a report card with a G.P.A. below 3.5, while Walter views school as a place to girl-watch and to horse-play, two subjects which, if they were to be added to the schools curriculum, would certainly help boost his lagging grades. Eric is tactful when he speaks, selecting his words efficiently, his vocabulary larger than most seventeen-year-old boys. Then there’s Walter, who speaks with the poetic candor of Andrew Dice Clay while drunk on malt liquor.

Walter Ohava and Eric Hutchinson, two young men whose dispositions are as different as their families incomes, and yet, despite their differences, or perhaps because of their differences, they have surpassed mere companionship and attained that rare, illustrious state of being one anothers best friend.

Where’s this party we’re going to, asks Rochelle, her forehead resting against the window as she watches the first of the evening stars smile down at her with iridescent teeth. Her warm breath plays against the glass, a small flower of condensation blooming as she speaks. Like Walter a few moments earlier, Rochelle is beginning to heat up as the liquor spreads throughout her body. Her face is warm and flushed, and the coolness of the glass touching her skin is more than a relief, it seems to soothe her in way she can’t quite ascertain, as if the window was somehow aware of her pleasure and relishing in their intimacy.

It’s at the Best Western. The one out there on Hawthorne, by the Duncin’ Doughnuts.

She can hear Eric’s voice coming from the seat in front of her, but she doesn’t bother to sit up, for the comfort and coolness supplied by the window still holds her enthralled. She rolls her head against the glass and smiles vaguely as the smooth surface cools the skin of her face. Through the window she observes the vastness of the city in which she lives. The lights blinking and flashing, reaching all the way to where the earth contradicts the sky. She suddenly feels as if she could walk forever, drive forever, fly forever, and not escape this maze of intersections and boulevards, this riddle of paint and steel, this mind-shattering puzzle called civilization.

"Whose party is this? Who told you guys about it? Are Rochelle and I gonna know anybody?»

Rochelle could tell that Becky was also feeling the effects of the tequila. Whenever Becky gets drunk she has a way of speaking, of rambling on, of tying questions together without any order or sense of continuity. Most the time this infantile manner of speaking irks Rochelle, it makes her feel as if she’s babysitting rather than hanging out with a friend, but tonight she doesn’t care, she has her own vanishing sobriety to contend with, and, as it turns out, she was pondering the same questions.

«Well,» Walter begins. «It’s actually Arlo’s party, but we heard about it through Mark Johaneson. I think it’s Arlo’s birthday or something. He’s renting the Presidential suite out there at the Best Western. I’m sure you girls will know lots of people there.»

Rochelle, glad to have these questions answered, smiles to herself. she continues to cool her flushed skin against the smooth window, but her eyes, instead of watching the city lights shimmering in the distance, are focused on the image reflected onto the glass. As she stares into the window she can see Becky’s warped, translucent profile superimposed against the blur of passing traffic, and it looks like a ghost barreling through the night, hovering just outside of Walter’s Toyota Tercel.

«You asleep over there,» Becky asks, digging one frisky finger into Rochelles ribs, tickling her with drunken zeal. «Huh, Rochelle? Did you fall asleep over there? You getting drunk yet? You feeling alright Rochelle? Are you awake? Do you need some more tequila? Huh … wake up Rochelle."

Rochelle, despite having drank enough tequila to kill a pygmy goat, responds with the quickness and ferocity of a navy seal. She spins around, flinging herself onto Becky and delivers a flourish of pinches and tickles. Walter, not wanting to be left out of the mayhem, joins Becky in her efforts to rile-up Rochelle by intentionally swerving through traffic.

«What’s the matter Rochelle," he asks mockingly, the small Toyota drifting violently from one side of the lane to the other. «You’re not drunk or anything back there are you? Huh, you’re not fucked up are you?»

Rochelle quickly turns her attention to Walter, smothering him with a series of sharp jabs. The car fills with laughter, and Eric, with a serene grin on his face, is content just to watch.

Eric and Walters physical appearances differ from one anothers as drastically as their mentalities do. Both of the boys have a certain look, an appearance that is perfectly matched to their own unique personality. Walter looks as loud and troublesome as he is. He stands just under six feet tall and carries most of his 210 pounds.

in his neck and shoulders. His hair merely happens to be there. It’s a filthy blonde color and lies on his head like a dead squirrel, not knowing where to fall or how to hang, and not having the will to stand upright. He has the type of hair one can tell will not last long into his adult life. His complexion is not all that great, either, his chin and forehead are speckled with puberties freckles. He attributes these blemishes to his football helmet, the chin strap always trapping the sweat and oil his body releases, rubbing it back into his face until his pores clog, and a pimple the size of Mount Hood erupts forth, but he also knows the Twinkies and Dr. Pepper he consumes religiously doesn’t help matters. He has a large, jagged face, each feature is like a rock that has somehow been glued or taped on. His mouth is an orthodontists nightmare, and when he grins it looks like a bag of broken candy. still, somehow, even with all these imperfections working against him, Walter maintains a certain raw, unpolished masculinity. A perfect union with his character which is uncouth and appalling, but at the same time alluring, intriguing. Eric is a much smaller boy, only 5’7 and 160 pounds, yet due to his quite, mature disposition, he can sometimes seem more like an adult than a child, and therefore carries with him the aura of a larger boy. His hair is dark brown, healthy and shiny, parted right down the middle, hanging over each ear like the hood of a sweat shirt. His eyes are soft and dark and seem to always be brimming with an interior turmoil, as if there is never a point throughout the day in which he can not stop pondering the mysteries of life and death. This sense of being preoccupied, this distant, far off glimmer in Eric’s eyes elicits a different response in the female gender the in the males. The boys are left with the impression that something is troubling him, a dull, nagging affliction that he refuses to share, and so they look up to him, they respect him, they watch him cautiously, with sympathetic, curious eyes. The girls, generally speaking, are attracted to the subtle mystery and danger which shines in his eyes. They see not a hidden affliction, but rather an unspoken romanticism which he keeps locked inside himself. His face is a soft one, free of lines and blemishes. His nose is small, his chin earnest, his skin a fine blown glass. Eric, too, has been bestowed a fitting case, an exterior which epitomizes his inner self.

«Hey Becky,» Walter says with one hand clamped tight onto the wheel, the other groping behind him imploringly. «Give me the bottle would you, I want a few more swigs before we get there.»

«Sorry,» she moans overly dramatic, her lips just inches from the back of Walter’s neck, her warm breath tickling his nape. «Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.»

Walters hand, relinquishing its quest for the booze, finds instead, the soft flesh of Becky’s thigh, directly above her knee, and with a firm squeeze, Becky begins to writhe spastically, giggle uncontrollably, and yell profanities at her tormentor.

«All right, all right,» she proclaims, gasping for air. «You can have it, just get those greasy meat hooks off me!»

Walter lets go of her leg and into his empty palm is thrust the bottle.

«Let that be a lesson to ya little lady,» Walter says in a rather pitiable imitation of John Wayne.

He unscrews the cap and before he has even raised the bottle to his face the fumes besiege his nostrils, causing him to grimace. His stomach tightens, and for a fleeting instant he thinks he is going to vomit all over the dashboard of his sixteenth birthday present. What the hell do I drink this crap for, he wonders, his stomach uneasy from the pungent odor, and then, as if a cartoon light bulb appears above his head, he remembers the simple fact that it gets him drunk, and that he likes to be drunk.

Coors to ya, kids, he mutters to no one in particular, and takes a gulp. He fights to keep the swallow down, his face revealing the distaste.

IYIYI, Walter says. This shit gets nastier the more of it I drink.

He reaches up and turns the stereo on. Its awkward, orange light shines feebly onto the faces of Eric and Walter, making them look lifeless, waxen, like two corpses swollen with formaldehyde.

The voice of George Thorogood emanates from the Toyota’s weak custom speakers. The song is One Bourbon, One Scotch and One Beer, although the reception is so poor that those inside the car are unable to hear anything except the overwhelming hiss. Everyone that is, except for Walter, who somehow is not only able to identify the song, but is actually singing along to the static-burried lyrics.

George Thorogood kicks some fucking ass, he says while turning the radio up even louder.

"You would like George Thorogood," Rochelle yells from the back seat, straining to make her voice heard over the music.

Can we please listen to something recorded during this decade, asks Eric. He reaches for the stereo, but Walter slaps his hand away.

What the hell is wrong with you people, he asks, his right hand rustling the hair on Eric’s head. You got to be a fucking commie not to like George Thorogood. You see, Walter continues, attempting to explain his love for this heart felt yet slightly outdated style of music. To me, Thorogood represents everything good about white trash; Corvettes, Thunderbirds, sleeveless T-shirts, Budweiser tall cans, Camel wides, and so on. He kinda sums up the overall image of your average, restless American.

A small, satisfied grin spreads across Walters face, believing the words he spoke to be almost poetry. Eric swivels in his seat to face the girls.

You’ll have to forgive my friend here, he says, tapping Walter on the shoulder. He’s been eating retard cereal again.

The girls, entrapped by the beauty of Eric’s eyes, enthralled by the gentleness in his voice, laugh wholeheartedly at his witty wise crack. Walter unscrews the cap from the bottle of tequilla and lifts it from in between his thighs.

At least I don’t listen to the fucking Back Street Boys, he says with a wicked grin before taking another pull from the bottle.

With a flick of the wrist, the turn signal is activated, and the car veers off Burnside, onto a side street which Walter believes should lead them to Arlo’s party, and more importantly, to more alcohol and more girls.

Nightfall is a treacherous crow with a broken beak, and outside the protective walls of Walters Toyota, beyond the shelter of their innocence and laughter, it spreads its monstrous