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From: sporkified@hotmail.com
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 18 Aug 2001 03:48:06 PDT
Subject: {ASSM} "He Never Said He Was Sorry"
Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2001 03:10:01 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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I was sitting beneath the underpass, watching the derelicts drift
around the shopping carts and trash heaps that make up their 
world. I'm going to be a writer, and writers need experiences. Like
underpasses. 

There was this old bum sitting next to me. He was all bundled up in a
big overcoat with a cap pulled down over his face. I wondered what 
his story was. 

"Hi," I said. "I'm Sarah." 

He seemed to look at me for a minute, but I couldn't see his eyes. I
doubt he was impressed. An overweight teenager in baggy clothes 
with glasses and limp hair probably didn't look too much out of place
there. 

He said his name was "Max." His voice was gravelly and sounded 
like he didn't use it much.

He asked me where I was from, and I told him. It turned out that he
used to live in my neighborhood a long time ago. At least, that's what
he said. He also went on to tell me about how he would sometimes
travel to this other world that was like the Australian outback, where
he was a superhero fighting a villain called Mr. Gone. There were
little monsters like land piranha in that place too, and flying
whales.

I didn't have to make any of this up, even though I *am* gonna be 
a writer. You might be thinking that this guy was a little nuts. Well,
*duh*.

And then, out of the blue, he told me that he knew my father. 

Dad. I can almost see his barbershop quartet face in my mind. He 
died when I was young. I don't remember much about him, other 
than he was away a lot. He used to always bring me presents from 
weird places. I still have a few left in my room to remind me of him.
Anyway, the important part is that six years ago he walked into his
office and shot everyone with a rifle, and then he shot himself. I
don't see why he had to do that, to erase himself, I mean. I don't see
why he felt he had to leave. Why he had to leave *me*.

Max said that he used to work with my dad, before it happened. He 
told me some of the things they did and the places they went to. The
strange part was that I believed him, even though I don't remember
much of what he said. All I could think about was my dad shooting
people. I couldn't stay there and listen anymore. I said goodbye to
the old crazy guy and then gave him all the money I had. It wasn't 
a lot, but I didn't have much of anything those days. 

Dad haunted me every step of the way home. 

---

"Hey sunshine!" Great. It was mom. She was standing in the 
doorway of my room, wearing a blue and pink tie-dye shirt and the 
same old purple scarf on her head. Didn't the sixties happen a long
time ago? She didn't used to be like this. Not before dad went and
offed himself.

"So how was school today?" She asked, wearing her everything's 
OK smile. I wasn't about to tell her how it really was. I didn't want
to deal with her at all. I hugged my knees closer to my chest and 
kept staring at the wall, wishing she would leave me alone. But she
didn't.

"Come on, sweetie. Is something getting you down? Catch some 
bad vibes today?" There was a tiny waver in her voice. I could 
almost hear her happy face cracking. Why couldn't she just go 
away?

"I hate it when you pull away from me like this," she said suddenly,
"just like he used to. I won't have you ending up like your father! I
won't!" Then she collapsed to her knees in the middle of my room 
and started crying. "Oh God," she sobbed. "I didn't mean that. I
didn't mean it." 

I wanted to bury my head under a pillow and block it all out. Don't
get me wrong. I don't like seeing her all broken-down like this. Part
of me wanted to go over and hug her, and I would have if this 
same exact thing hadn't happened a thousand times before. I 
knew the script. She needed to cry. We all do, sometimes.

After a few seconds she pulled herself together enough to come 
over and sit on my bed. "Tell me I'm a not a bad mother," she 
pleaded, wiping her eyes. "Tell me I didn't ruin your life."

"You didn't ruin my life, mom." I tried to say it like I meant it. 

"Groovy," she said, and hugged me. I could tell that the smile was
already back on her face. "Now we can be like sisters, right?"

"Right," I said, and hugged the neurotic hysterical mess that was 
my mother.  

If dad had to shoot someone, why couldn't it have been *her*? 

Did my saying that shock you? Good. Writers are supposed to 
shock people. We say witty and uncontrolled things that rip the 
shroud off the world around us and expose it for what it is. Well,
that's the idea, anyway.

"It was like, a happening groove to have this chat with you, 
sweetie," she said, and hugged me again. Mom always says she's 
not angry with me, not really. Sometimes her screaming and crying 
fits can last all night, so I share and tell her its OK. Mother her.
It's weird. Dad left her, and in a way, she left me.  

This was about the time that I started carrying a gun. 

That's what writers call *foreshadowing*.

---

But first, I have to tell you about Jimmy. Jimmy was like me, only
skinny and shorter. Like me, he wasn't good looking, and, like me, 
he had no friends. Jimmy was tough. He would beat up the smaller 
kids for their lunch money. I thought it was kinda cool. No matter 
how low you are on the food chain, there's always somebody 
lower. I think we're all each other could get. Besides, we hated
everyone else. They were all either jocks or necro-nerds. The 
goth freaks were the worst. They think death is romantic. But 
Jerry and I know the truth. Death is hard, cold, and ugly, not 
some cute chick.

I liked him, I think. At least at first. He smoked and liked to work
on cars. That's pretty much all he did. He had an old Mustang at 
his house that he was fixing up. He said he was gonna make it 
cherry so he could get in this car club with a bunch of guys from 
our school. I would go over and watch him work on it for hours. It
wasn't much, but it was better than being at home.

Sometimes we would go in the garage and make out. The first time 
we kissed, it was a good kiss. I thought it was at the time, anyway.
The good part only lasted a minute before Jerry put his dirty hand 
up my shirt and squeezed. He squeezed hard. I tried to push his 
hand away, but it wasn't easy with him leaning on me. I wouldn't 
have minded him touching me that way if he had been nicer 
about it. He finally seemed to get the message and backed off, 
but by that time I didn't feel like kissing any more. 

The next time was better. Jerry wasn't as rough, and he even 
managed to get my bra off by himself.  Having someone want to 
touch me like that was really cool. His penis felt nice when I first
touched it. It was warm. Smooth. Stiff and soft at the same time. 
Most girls get all giggly and stupid talking about a boy's cock, 
like they're embarrassed to admit that they like it. I'm not
embarrassed. I liked touching it. And later when I put it in my 
mouth, I liked that too. At first I didn't like the taste when he
came, but when I thought about what my mom would think if she
knew what I was doing, I made myself swallow it. It didn't gross 
me out as much as I thought it would. After a while it didn't 
bother me at all.

Jimmy let me do most of the work. I didn't really care. He would
usually rub me with his hand, and even though he wasn't very 
good at it sometimes I managed to get off. We went on like this 
for almost a year. He never tried to do anything more, which was 
good because I wasn't sure if I wanted to. Like I said, Jimmy and 
I were a lot alike. We understood each other. 

Or so I thought. 

He wanted to take me to the school dance. I didn't want to go. I'm 
not stupid. I knew what we looked like. But Jimmy insisted. He told 
me that he had to meet Ron there anyway, something about 
getting into the auto club. Ron was the club president. All Ron 
and his buddies did was work on cars, talk about cars, brag 
about cars, and make fun of other kids. I thought they were jerks, 
but Jimmy thought they were the shit. 

So we went. Jimmy was acting weird from the minute we showed 
up. He took me away from the dance and into the boy's locker 
room. It was almost pitch dark, and I had no idea why we were in 
there until he started kissing me. I know that I should've stopped
him, but I didn't. It felt kinda kinky doing that at school. Exciting.
I didn't suspect anything. Even when he stripped my bra and 
shirt and pants off, which he usually wouldn't do. Not even when 
he pushed my head down toward his waist, which he never does 
either. I went along with it. I took him in my mouth and got him 
hard. I even thought about letting him go all the way, letting him
have my virginity right there in the school locker room. That 
turned out to be pretty ironic. 

Then, finally, I felt something was wrong. I don't know how or why,
but somehow I sensed with cold clarity exactly what was about to
happen. 

The lights went on. Then people started whistling and clapping. 

The bright light hurt my eyes, but I could see Ron and a bunch 
of his friends gathered around the door. They were all looking at 
me. I heard them laughing and calling me names while I knelt 
there on the cold floor, naked except for my glasses and white
panties. 

"Look at that. What a fucking slut."

I looked for my clothes, but they were gone. I felt sick. 

"Fat whore."

Jimmy had his pants up and was standing back with the others. 
He was trying to smile, but he wasn't doing a very good job. He 
wouldn't look me in the eye. 

"Nice tits, bitch."

I covered my chest with my arms and sat there on the hard floor, 
first asking and then begging to have my clothes back. 

"Ugly slut, but at least she gives good head." 

I tried not to cry. I didn't want them to see that, on top of
everything else they might've seen. But I did. Like I said before,
everyone has to cry sometimes. 

I didn't talk to Jimmy for two weeks after that, not until a few days
after I met the bum at the underpass. People laughed at me in 
school. Ron and his gang had told everybody about what 
happened. It was hard, but I didn't let myself cry. I promised 
myself that I would never get hurt again. 

Jimmy called me. He didn't say anything except that he wanted 
to talk. I agreed to meet him out behind his house by the road. I
didn't want to go in his garage again. Not ever. When I got 
there, I sat down on a pile of dirty bricks left over from building
the new house next door. Jimmy walked up with his shoulders 
slumped and his hands in his pockets. He didn't say anything 
and he didn't look at me. He probably wanted me to say 
something first, so he could see how mad I was before deciding 
how sorry he needed to be. But I wasn't going to let him off that
easy. No way.

"It was Ron's idea," he finally said in a small voice. "I didn't 
wanna do it, but that was the only way I could get in the club. 
I hope you're not mad." He still wasn't looking at me.

I could feel the gun in my pocket. It felt warm. Heavy. But more
importantly, I could feel the sweet, hot hatred that my dad must 
have felt. 

"Its OK, Jimmy," I lied. 

His eyes lifted up at me for a second, then back to the ground. "I
didn't want to do it," he repeated in a pouty voice, sounding like 
he resented being blamed for anything. "You sure you're not 
mad?"

I tightened my fingers around the gun. 

"Its *okay*, Jimmy. I'm not mad."

He looked at me. We made eye contact for all of two seconds, and 
then he came over and sat next to me like everything was back to
normal. He seemed relieved. We sat there in silence for a while,
staring at the road. I tried to think of a reason not to shoot him. I
couldn't find one. That didn't make me feel any better.

"We can still hang out and stuff if you want," he said, just as a big
truck rattled by. "I mean, I still like you and everything. If you
wanna come over sometimes that's cool, just not when Ron and 
the guys are around."

I started counting backwards from ten, imagining that on one I 
would pull out the gun and shoot him. I wondered what he would 
do. Would he move? Jump up? Run? Would he scream? Or 
would he just sit there with a dumb look on his face? I knew him 
well enough to bet on the last.

Three...two...one. 

There was a split second of time, a blink of an eye where I had 
to decide. To find out once and for all just how like my dad I 
really was. 

"I don't think that's a good idea," I said, taking my hand out of 
my pocket. It was empty. I stood up and swiped the dirt off my 
butt. "I kinda want to be alone for a while." 

He didn't say anything else, just watched me as I walked down 
to the street and toward the corner. I looked back and saw him 
sitting there on the dirty bricks, small, pathetic, and alone. The
funny thing is that I really wasn't mad. I just felt sorry. Sorry for
both of us. I never talked to him again.

I put the whole locker room thing and losing Jimmy down as one 
of those experiences that a writer needs to have. I guess I was 
glad that I didn't off him, even though it had been cool to feel 
some of the things that my dad must've felt. Sometimes I wonder 
if my dad is watching me, from hell, heaven, limbo, or wherever 
he ended up. 

I wonder if he's disappointed. 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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