When I first became interested in writing, I read interviews with writers who said they often pulled ideas from experiences in life. I remember thinking nothing in my life was ever noteworthy. I must've been crazy to think that none of this is noteworthy, that none of you ever deserved mention in any of my stories. My new story Russo is riddled with these people and events. The other night I was feeling quite prolific and decided to write down a few.
In my Junior year, Me and my friends Kyle and Kevin drove around our high school racetrack in a van listening to Number of the Beast by Iron Maiden. They put us in in-school detention. This, among other reasons, leads me to wonder why it is I was ever intimidated by the high school administration.
When I was around 11, a boy named Brandon Campbell lived up the street from me. His family was poor. Brandon, along with this siblings were delinquent to put it short. I've grown up since then, and I've seen delinquent behavior. This family was ahead of the curb. I had an odd relationship with Brandon. He would tease me one day, calling me names, he would try to get in fights with me, but the next day would try being my friend. Fuckin' Crazy, I'm thinkin'. At the bottom of where his road and my road connected in the neighborhood there was a field where we'd play football. I remember my friend Adam, who lived next door to me, invited me down the street to play. I asked if Brandon was there and he said yes. We got on our bikes and rode down the street to play. Brandon was in the middle of the street, sitting, talking to some of the other kids and laughing with this grisly, cigarette-smoking, 12-year old laugh. It's funny what sticks with you in life. I can hear that laugh perfectly in my ears now as I'd heard it ten years before. Anyway, back to the story. I'm riding with Adam and telling him about Brandon. I'm fed up with the guy, I tell him. I look up and see Brandon sitting about ten yards away from me. I get the idea to race at him with my bike as fast as I can and hit him. I didn't know what would happen. I knew that I would probably hurt him and that's all I wanted. So, I'm barreling at the guy, hard pressed to start this here and now, and he notices me coming at him. Right as I'm about to hit him I chicken out. He jumps out of the way and I fly clean past him. I ride back around and he's cursing and huffing and puffing and I think he's ready to fight. I laugh and tell him I was just joking. His friends calm him down and I never tell him or Adam or anyone what I was thinking. I'm not even sure exactly what I was thinking. They left our neighborhood when I entered highschool. That summer a boy fell asleep and choked on his own vomit in Brandon's bedroom upstairs. I heard they moved to a townhouse close to the mall and I never saw him again.
I left work today and went over to the McDonald's across the street to grab a buck double. Before I ordered I headed to the restroom because I hadn't gone when I left work and knew I had an hour drive ahead of me.
"And while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the gleaming panel - stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, 'The horror! The horror!'".
Ok, so it wasn't Vietnam. Just a little piss on the seat and somebody's forgetful nature to flush. But with that I thought of whoever's job it was to clean it. The mental hurdles this person had to make. To clean up another person's filth, day after day. To face that task without fear. Without hesitation. It's amazing. I wouldn't ever be caught dead doing it, mind you. Though, if you caught me dead scrubbing a toilet seat I think you should call the Enquirer.
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