Andrew James Weatherhead

The plane had been cramped and inconvenient – the armrests thin, the storage space inadequate, the bathroom singular. Some people who hadn’t wanted to check their bags had to check their bags and this made them antsy and upset. Outside, the sky was blue and calm. The stewardesses apologized the best they could. When the plane reached its cruising altitude, the pilot got on the intercom to say that beer and wine would be complimentary for the rest of the flight. He didn’t say why. A few people cheered and then a few more people cheered. The plane landed sometime in the afternoon.
     Blake hadn’t checked any bags and wasn’t forced to. He read for some of the flight and slept for some of the flight. He looked at SkyMall. He looked at every page. He called his dad while the plane was taxiing and his dad told him that he would be twenty or so minutes late, though when Blake became curbside, his dad was there waiting. He hadn’t been late at all.
     An hour later, Blake’s dad turned the car, a 1998 minivan, onto their street – the street where Blake had spent his first 18 years, had occasionally visited over the next four, and had not returned to, to live, over the ensuing months, despite his lack of a job or concrete plans for the future. Many of his friends faced similar post-graduation crises, he knew, though the majority, it seemed, were back living either with their parents or five minutes from their parents in cheap suburban apartments. To Blake, both seemed equally depressing though in different ways. It was not something he would say aloud, but he couldn’t help but feel that his life in New York City was somehow less depressing than life at home – somehow more promising, more indicative of growth or change or something – however, another thing he’d never mention to anyone was the persistent and sometimes overwhelming alienation he felt in New York City. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was he wanted in life, but he knew it was something else and, probably, somewhere else.
     On the street, his street, the first thing Blake noticed was an increase in the number of cars parked in front of the houses, and he said something to his dad about this. Neither of them had spoken in a while, not since turning off the highway. His dad shrugged and said something that Blake didn’t listen to. He got out of the car. The sun was low in the sky and the shadows it cast were long.
     Blake opened a gate and walked into his backyard where his dog was moving slowly in circles – sniffing sometimes and walking sometimes, but always in circles. He said the dog’s name but the dog continued to circle. He said the dog’s name again, this time louder and in a higher pitch. The dog continued to circle. The dog was old – 15 years maybe – and almost completely deaf. Blake knew this. His mom had told him on the phone a week earlier. Blake went over and touched the dog’s butt and the dog jumped a little, surprised, then turned to face Blake. It wagged its tail three or four times and sniffed Blake’s hand before walking away.
     After dinner, Blake went to his friend’s new apartment in a neighboring college town and they drank beer and watched old skateboarding videos. The apartment was well-decorated, Blake thought, though he found out later that it was pre-furnished and a sublet. There was a flatscreen on the wall and a plant in the corner.
     “Remember when we used to skateboard?” Blake’s friend said, staring at the television, drinking his beer.
     “Sure do,” Blake said. “That was fun.”
     “Sure was,” Blake’s friend said.
Blake remembered a time when they were skateboarding in front of his house and a squirrel fell out of a tree. It had been walking on a branch and the branch broke. The squirrel fell from a very high distance and hit the concrete and made a noise. Then it just lay there with its eyes closed. Blake touched the squirrel with a stick and the squirrel opened its eyes and started running around in very small, tight circles. It did this for several seconds, moving very quickly, before it ran under a bush where it stopped moving and died. It remained in the bush for four days, then it was gone.
     “Do you remember the time we saw that squirrel fall out of a tree?” Blake said to his friend. Blake’s friend laughed and said he did. They talked about the noise it made. They were both crippled by laughter in the otherwise quiet apartment.
     “And it was in that bush for like two weeks!” Blake’s friend managed to say between spasms.
     They continued laughing and when they eventually settled down, Blake went to the kitchen and grabbed two beers from the refrigerator.
     A few more friends came over and they played a drinking game in the living room. A little bit later, someone opened up a bag of cocaine and they all did some of it off the coffee table.
     The next day, Blake felt tired. He had gotten home that morning as the sun was rising because he had walked the seven miles home from his friend’s apartment. It took two and a half hours.
     Lying in bed, Blake could hear the sound of kids playing through his open window. The morning was hot, much hotter than the day before. Blake got out of bed and vomited and turned on the air conditioning then got back in bed. He played an episode of Arrested Development on his laptop, which he had set up on his bedside table the night before. He had trouble sleeping in his bed, his old bed, because it was much firmer than his regular bed in New York. Also, the blankets were different and the pillows much more forgiving. Both of his parents had left for work without waking him. The dog walker came and left then came back and left again. Blake got out of bed sometime in the afternoon. He made a few phone calls, but no one answered.
     He went to a restaurant and ate breakfast by himself. He put salt on his eggs, but the more salt he put on his eggs, the more his eggs tasted like no salt had been put on them. He could hear the cicadas outside. There was no one else in the restaurant. A fan twirled uselessly overhead. He stared at the eggs. Sometimes, in his apartment in New York, he would hear the cicada noise in the noise made by his air conditioner. He suddenly felt very alone. He paid with his debit card.
     Later, Blake helped his mom with some yard work. He put on a pair of old pants and took off his shirt. He felt tired. He stood in the backyard and sprayed water on things. He could feel the sun on his back and shoulders. He took off his shoes. He could feel the ground under his feet and it felt harder than normal somehow, still ground-like, but definitely harder. He couldn’t explain it and didn’t try to.
     At one point, his mom walked over to him and motioned discreetly down the block towards one of the neighbors who was also doing yard work. “I swear no one spends more time in their yard than Mrs. Morrisey,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “But you know what? It never looks good. She’s out there from sun up to sun down, just pushing things around.” Blake looked down the block at Mrs. Morrisey and back at his mom.
     After dinner, Blake played tennis with some friends. The sun set slowly and when it was dark, lights came on overhead. Blake couldn’t remember the last time he had played tennis – maybe once or twice as a kid, he thought. “Why are we playing tennis?” he said aloud, not intending for it to sound the way it sounded.
     “We play tennis a lot now,” one of Blake’s friends said, emphasizing every word, it seemed.
     Blake was surprised to find the game kind of easy – not necessarily to excel in, but to be functional at – and the five of them played games of doubles, rotating one person in and out, until one of the friends left without saying anything. The remaining four played for a while, then got tired. They smoked weed and went home.

     The next day was July 4th. Blake helped his mom in the yard again. He took off his shirt again. He moved a table and cleaned some chairs and moved the barbeque and moved the barbeque again. They were having friends and family over for dinner before the fireworks, something they did every year, something Blake was always home for.
     “The trees look taller,” Blake said to his mom, who was doing something on the other side of the yard with her back to him.
     “What, honey?” she said, turning around.
     “Nothing.” Blake said.
     Blake’s mom stood there with her hands on her hips looking at him. She walked over and gave him a hug. She asked when his friends were coming over and if they were bringing anything. Blake said he didn’t know. They would probably bring beer, he said. The dog walked up to them and they looked at it and it wagged its tail and then it went away.
     ”Mom,” Blake said to his mom.
     ”What, honey?” she said.
     ”Could you do me a favor and not ask my friends what their plans are?”
     She paused for a second and said “sure.” She nodded like she understood why.
     ”Thanks.” Blake said.
     He walked to the front yard and looked at some kids playing soccer across the street. He set up a croquet set that his mom had asked him to set up earlier. Some of his friends came over and they started drinking beer.
     “I have fireworks,” one of his friends said.
     “Nice,” Blake said, “let’s set them off when it gets darker.”
     When it got darker, they set some off.
     “These fireworks suck,” one of the friends said, eating a hamburger.
     “Yeah, where did you get these?” another one said.
     “I’m saving the good ones for later,” the friend with the fireworks said.
     Blake got another beer and sat with his parents and his parents’ friends in the backyard. They were talking about renovations and landscaping. His dad pointed to the house next door and said, “Everything after the chimney is new.” Blake’s uncle nodded and made a joke about the neighbor’s lawn, which was torn up from the construction. Blake drummed his hands on his chair. He got up and left without saying anything. He finished his beer and got another one. He talked to his aunt who told him a story about sarcastically going to a Brett Michaels concert.
     He walked to the front yard and watched some of his friends play croquet. Someone lit a firework and threw it into the middle of the croquet game. One of Blake’s friends invited him to play badminton and he finished his beer and said he would. Someone gave Blake a racket and a glass of wine. “I’m going to drink wine now,” Blake said aloud to no one. They played badminton and everyone talked a lot of shit and no one actually knew the rules. They talked shit about the rules. Blake got bored and went over to set off more fireworks. They lit a firework that went up in the air then changed directions and almost hit a car. They put fireworks in the sewer and it made a cool noise. They set off fireworks in a trashcan. One of his friends lit a firework and handed it to a girl and she screamed and threw it and it went off. Blake’s mom came to the front yard and said it was time to go to the beach.
     At the beach, Blake sat on a towel near some of his friends, who were also sitting on towels. Someone asked where another one of their friends was. The fireworks started. A man selling glow sticks walked by. Two of Blake’s friends started making out on a towel that was a little separate from the other towels. One of Blake’s friends made racist jokes about the fireworks. Blake spilled wine on himself.
     After the fireworks, Blake was on a golf course setting off more fireworks with his friends. They didn’t have anything to make the fireworks shoot upright, so they just lay them horizontally on the ground and set them off that way. Things exploded in the grass. Balls of fire rolled across the fairway. The friend who was making racist jokes about the fireworks at the beach was now making racist jokes about the fireworks on the golf course. A cop car pulled up behind them and said something into a megaphone. Everyone ran away.
     Blake ran down the fairway, through some trees, and into the backyard of a friend’s house. He hadn’t expected to find anybody home, but sitting on the back porch was his friend, her dad, and some of her dad’s friends. The dad offered Blake some ribs and Blake accepted the ribs and ate them. They set off more fireworks out of a tube that was in the backyard for that purpose. Blake accepted a whiskey drink and a cigar from the dad. Some of Blake’s friends came over from the golf course.
     A little bit later, one of Blake’s friends took something out of his wallet and handed it to Blake. “Have you seen this?” he said.
     Blake held it. It was a business card for a girl they had both fooled around with in high school. The card was heavy and ostentatious. “What is this?” Blake said.
     “It’s Amy’s business card.”
     Blake said the name of the company aloud.
     “Have you seen American Psycho?” someone asked.
     Blake laughed and said he had. He tried to quote the scene with the business cards.
     “That scene is great,” someone said.
     Blake puffed his cigar. “Did you ever see Less Than Zero?” he asked, but no one responded.
     After a few more whiskey drinks, they finished their cigars and the dad said he was going to bed. They all had to leave. Blake left with two friends that lived in the same direction as he did. One of the friends used to play drums, but quit when he went to college. Now he had a cast on his hand. He said he had broken it trying to do a cartwheel while drunk. The other friend, the friend without the cast, played guitar, never quit playing guitar, and had recently graduated from Berklee College of Music. He was in a band now. They were both living with their parents.
     The three of them started walking but stopped because the friend without the cast wanted to roll a cigarette. He sat on the curb and carefully pulled out a small bag of tobacco. The street was being repaved and sawhorses with blinking lights on them were everywhere. There was a porta-potty also.
     “Let’s knock over the porta-potty,” the friend with the cast said.
     Blake considered this. “No,” he said. “Let’s put the blinking things in the porta-potty.” They put three blinking sawhorses in the porta-potty. Now the porta-potty was blinking.
     “That was good,” Blake said, “that was cool.”
     “We should still knock it over,” the friend said.
     “No,” Blake said, “just let it blink.”
     The friend without the cast stood up and lit his cigarette. “Why did you do that?” he said looking at the blinking porta-potty.
     ”I don’t know,” the friend with the cast said.
     “It doesn’t matter,” Blake said. “It’s meaningless.”
     They walked to the friend with the cast’s house where they sat on his enclosed porch and each had another whiskey drink. The friend with the cast dropped his tumbler and it broke. He went inside and got another one. Blake and the friend with the cast were talking about something. The friend without the cast wasn’t speaking.
     Then the friend without the cast started speaking. He seemed suddenly very drunk. “Uh, excuse me…if you’ll…uh…pardon my interrupting,” he said, “do you guys happen to…uh…subscribe to any particular religious beliefs?”
     The friend with the cast laughed and laughed for a while then said, “Jesus, you’re weird.”
     “I don’t,” Blake said, looking at the friend without the cast, feeling curious as to what he would say next, why he had asked them if they had any particular religious beliefs, but the friend without the cast had nothing more to say.
     They sat for a while. They sipped their drinks. It was late, the sun would be rising soon, the steady pop and scream of fireworks in the distance had died off hours ago. It wasn’t July 4th anymore.
     The friend without the cast started speaking again, “Excuse me, but…uh…after I finish this drink I’m…uh…going to vomit…could you show me a good place for me to…uh…do that?”
     The friend with the cast took the friend without the cast into the house and showed him where the bathroom was. They both came back to the porch and sat. They finished their drinks. The friend without the cast went back inside to vomit.
     “Jesus,” Blake said, feeling confused.
     “Well at least he’s considerate,” the friend with the cast said.
     Blake walked home a little later and got into his bed. The sun was rising. He could see the paling sky through his window shades. He sat up and vomited into a wastebasket next to his bed.

     The next morning, Blake went out to breakfast with a friend. They sat at the counter of a small diner that was playing 80’s music. It was 3 PM. Michael Jackson was on the radio. A small girl was sitting next to Blake, rocking to the music, eating a plate of french fries. When her mom got up to use the restroom, Blake leaned over to the girl and said, “You know he’s dead, right?” and the girl stopped rocking and looked at him.
     Blake ordered fried eggs and toast. He cut a yolk with his fork and watched the yellow spill out.
     After breakfast, Blake and his friend drove around in his friend’s car. They smoked weed out of a small pipe that his friend had. They drove by a house that was wrapped in ‘CAUTION’ tape but had not been wrapped in ‘CAUTION’ tape the day before.
     They drove on a two-lane road that merged into one. Traffic slowed considerably and Blake could see ahead, where the two lanes merged, there were three police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance. There had been an accident. Two cars had merged into each other. A small red convertible and a black SUV. They were conjoined now – red metal twisted around black metal, shattered glass everywhere.
     “Damn,” Blake’s friend said.
     “Did you ever read Less Than Zero?” Blake asked.
     “Nah…” his friend said.
     “Oh. Well, in the beginning…” Blake trailed off. It didn’t matter. Blake looked at the two conjoined cars as they passed.
     They ended up at the town skatepark. They sat on a bench wearing sunglasses, watching little kids in helmets go up things and down things.
     “When did they build this?” Blake asked.
     “Less than a year ago,” his friend said.
     “I wish we had this when we were kids.” Blake said.
     “I know,” the friend said, “sometimes I…” The friend trailed off.
     They sat in silence. A kid on rollerblades fell and they both acknowledged it by nodding their heads slightly. The sun was setting behind the other side of the park. The sky was a bright red color. “Do you wanna go?” Blake said.
     They left. They drove with the windows down and smoked more weed. Music was playing in the car and they drove around listening to it. They passed by a parking lot and Blake said, “There was a cop in there.” The friend said something and turned down the music. They both looked to see if the cop would follow them.
     At first, the cop didn’t follow them, then it did. “Fuck,” Blake said.
     “Did you put the bowl away?” his friend asked.
     “Yeah,” Blake said, “it’s in my pocket.”
     The cop turned on his siren. “Alright, let’s just chill,” Blake’s friend said as he pulled the car over. “Maybe he won’t smell anything…”
     The cop walked up and told them they had a broken tail light and he just wanted to make sure that they were aware of that. The cop went back to his car and drove away.
     “Jesus,” Blake said. Blake’s friend sighed a little then laughed a little and pulled into traffic.
     “I’m gonna go home,” the friend said.
     “Yeah, ok,” Blake said.
     Blake’s friend pulled up to Blake’s house and a weird noise happened underneath the car.
     “What was that?” the friend asked.
     “I don’t know,” Blake said, “pull up a little bit. I think you ran over something.”
     Blake’s friend moved the car forward and they both looked down to see a squirrel whose back legs and tail had been flattened by the car’s tire. The squirrel was pulling itself by its front legs and had managed to get itself up the curb and out of the street. Blake got out of the car and stared at it in the grass. “What is it doing?” the friend asked.
     “I don’t know,” Blake said.

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