Nine-tenths is Nothing

I, Superior
    There are five kids that hang out with my son.  My wife makes them cookies, drives them to the movies, and all the while they ogle at her.  That's right, my wife is the MILF that your twelve year old sons would like to fuck.  And then there's me, the husband-- protective of my wife from your little perverts.  This is a fight to the death, and only I will leave victorious. 
    Her love and attention will always be mine and never their's for a reason-- I am bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, and better looking. 
    I go to the gym.
    I do taxes.
    They just play on playgrounds.
    They chase girls, like little men.  Little kids dressed up in adult clothes.  Big shoes to fill, and they're trying so hard.  So hard to get the girl.  To get my wife.  But I'll always be better than them.  The silly legal system is trying to help them though, giving me a restraining order.  I guess parents don't appreciate having their kids punted across the playground. 
    Before it gets to that point, I should explain myself.
    I'm really not that mean to kids.  They're usually great, most times.  I just-- I should explain them first.

    My wife, Rene, she is wonderful.   When we got married, it was as if the universe was finally in order.  All forces driving this reality had settled on the idea that, yes, this couple is perfect.  And so it was.  We slowly traveled, living in new environments every few years.
    Portland-- two years.
    Seattle-- one year.
    Paris-- three years. 
    Amsterdam-- two months.  Most of these locations are self-explanatory.  The cities were chosen based on their art communities and how much we could romanticize the area.  The last choice, Amsterdam, was based on a horrible decision to remain fucked-up all the time.   But, two months?  We lived in Amsterdam for only two months?  We got pregnant.  I mean, we got Rene pregnant. 
    We are sitting around in our apartment when she tells me, stoned from hanging out at one of those smoking bars.  Sort of like hookah bars.  Except, in Amsterdam, you're not just using shisha.  Hookah bars in the United States are interesting enough without marijuana.  The whole phenomenon began with returning soldiers from the gulf area.  From the middle-east.  Military popularization.
     "You're pregnant?!" is my only response.  Accompanied by "Shit."  That 0.01 percent chance for birth control to fail really fucked us.  In our drug-addled haze, it took us two months to realize her periods were gone for awhile-- vacationing on some vast biological journey while the kid took control of the body.  Forcing change to come across the face of our lives.  But not just the facade, the real thing changed too.  Everything changed.
    We move back to the United States, this time looking for good schools instead of good art.  Practicality instead of romanticism.  All I'm saying is these little bastards change you.  And two kids, well, they can literally ruin you.

    I first started seeing it in my daughter, the firstborn.  She was the Amsterdam baby.  There are only a select number of drugs she hasn't tried by the age of "newborn."  Needless to say, she's a little off.  When she was seven, she falls asleep on the toilet, and ends up with a minor concussion.  
    Stress Factor: four
    By the age of twelve boys are hitting on her.
    Stress Factor: a rock-hard boner TEN
    I would come home from work and find my daughter on the couch with some boy, the television in front of them-- halfway through a nature show that they were not watching-- her hair messy, his shirt buttoned up all wrong.  The lowest button in the second button slot.  Lopsided colar.  Flushed cheeks. 
    He would leave shortly after, and I'd just mind my business unless the boy was a douche.  Then I'd tell my daughter that and she'd get upset.  Upset as she was at the time of me realizing said douchitude and her not realizing this, she would later come to the same conclusion after hypothetical douche would do something horrible to her.  It was probably just a comment the boy would make, but she cried like it was the end of the world, heartbroken, and I just assumed the worst.
    Maybe he forced her to fellate a banana.  Something stupid that kids would do or get upset over. 
    Maybe he felates bananas.  Only insecure teenagers feel threatened by fierce competition such as inanimate fruit. 
    But I'm not threatened by such nonsense, no, my wife is being fervently pursued by a group of twelve year olds.          Much more cunning than fruit. 
    Not as firmly shaped and sexy, I'd guess, but smarter.  More able.  A fruit can't peel itself, but a child can peel a fruit, if not itself.  But I guess that'd be like carving off your skin, widdling down your outward appearance.  Not to mention the pain of exposed muscle.  The infection and blood loss.
     I don't know which is worse, walking in on your daughter having sex, or knowing twelve year olds want to have sex with your wife.  And it is all my son's fault.  He needs to stop making these friends.

John
    John is our son.  He is the tallest and strongest in his group of friends.  This is not intuitive if you know the Amsterdam background.  You'd figure he'd be a crack baby.  Small and feeble or something.  This is not the case.
    As soon as Rene and I got back to the states, we started this health. . . thing.  I go to the gym now, is what I'm getting at.  I'm not implying that going to the gym and eating well, not doing drugs, that sort of thing, made my son bigger than your son, I'm just straight up saying it to you.
    As strong as John is, I have to stay stronger.  Kids are here to replace us, it's as simple as that.  You have signed your life away to an 18 year contract of education, discipline, and well-being.  After you've poured yourself into it, or it into you, something is missing.  You've lost a part of yourself, having given it to the next stages of mankind. 
   
    Monday is chest excercises.  On my back, pushing fifty-five pounds in each arm, the ceiling lights burn my vision.  In their sick glow, I get those purple blotches that invert color when you blink or hold your eyes shut.  Little ultraviolet globes in the dark-- eyes shut.

    John makes good friends with bad influences.  As a parent, you have to realize you are not the only person raising your kid.  That's what friends are for.  That's what media is for.   And all these sources, they're just part of this big mind, this big collage of ideas and concepts.  And your kid, sitting there watching the advertisements in the middle of a show he runs home from the bus-stop to watch, learns only a certain specification of knowledge.  You have to make that part, the specifications of your child, a priority. 

    Tuesday is arms.  I do curls.  Three sets of ten of thirty pounds for the biceps warm-up.  This is basically toning my body.  It's good to look good.  You can have all the strength in the world and never use it.  At least with toning your body, you're always using it.  Or other people are always using it.  Using your physical appearance, in their mind, to register what you are.  To judge you, to give you some sort of symbol.  Strength without strength.

    John's friends get him to do things.  Not unordinary things, for boys his age, but strange nonetheless.  When he was six, a friend of his smuggled knives out into the playground for the boys, those little men, to use in a game of "Boys Chase Girls."  John ran, chasing them through the grass and sand, the girls screaming and giggling.  John ran with a knife. And subsequently went to the principal's office.  Despite the fact that these were the white-plastic knives that the elementary school provides in the cafeteria, he was in serious trouble.  It's okay to chase girls, they said, just not with weapons.  They were basically saying violence is bad, chasing pussy is okay.  These kids get confused though when, on tv, violence is more prevalent than sex.  A man can nibble people's faces off and wear those faces as masks, but when it comes to simple penetration, they won't show that on TV.  They won't sell that idea.

    Wednesday is hump day.  The week is almost over, but there's still some suffering left in it.  This is why, on Wednesdays, I do the two most painful areas of the body to work(in my opinion): the back and abs.  Aside from your chest, the back and ab muscles are a priority.  Your chest, back, and abs form the basis of your bodily strength.  Without the back to lift, the abs to stabilize, and the chest to push, your frame is nothing more than toned arms and faux-strength.  Without this framework of strength, your body really can't maintain itself.  In the gym, I use the row-machine to help tone my back after I'm done with all the other exercises.  I could be in a boat, but I prefer warm cinderblock landscapes to the dismal cold air of murky waters off of grassy green riverbanks. 

    The same year John got in trouble for chasing girls with a plastic knife, he used another tool to sew havoc.  This time on himself.  I should say he cut havoc, because he was using scissors and not a needle.  Instead of construction paper, John and his friend Tommy had decided to play "Barber Shop Quartet," minus the music.  And minus a big patch of hair in the middle of John's head.  That summer when we went to camp together, you know the kind where you besmurch the Native American people by pretending you are part of a tribe, John's head was buzzed.  It was the only way to fix the damage he had caused himself, and he looked like a little soldier. 

    Thursdays and Fridays are totally miscellaneous exercises.  Forearms, shoulders, aerobic business.  These things get taken care of.  I think to myself about camping with my son.  He always runs off to play with the other sons there.  I think I should take him camping with just me, or with the family.  Maybe it is too late to form those bonds now at twelve.  The last time we pretended to be a part of the Apache tribe, he was ten.  That was two years ago.  Now he's twelve, and still crazy, with crazy friends.  Crazy friends who want to fuck my wife.

    Tommy
    Tommy is my son's role model.  He is two years older than him, at fourteen, and is the source of all my problems.  And the source of my son's first bloody nose.
    This one time, I came home to my son's friend, Tommy, in my bedroom.  My wife on the bed.  His hands on the fringes of her sun dress. 
    It was summer, and Rene likes to sleep in hot weather.  She takes naps.  On this particular day, she was taking a nap while several of the boys were over.  This was a horrible mistake. 
    Tommy, the sneaky and overly paranoid friend of my son's, he has his hands on the fringes of my wife, Rene's, sun dress.  Those sun dresses are very attractive, and I can see why he wanted to investigate, but, it's my wife, and I will kill him.  
    But kids are not afraid of death.  From twelve to the mid-twenty's it is hard for a kid to die, unless by some outside force or unfortunate accident.  It's just that people in this age-range are generally the most healthy.  It takes drunk drivers to snuff out their life.  It takes not getting your meningitis shot before going to college to annihilate their will and/or ability to live. 
    So, kids are not afraid of death.  Tommy is not afraid of death when I come in the room, looming from behind, blocking the doorway. 
    He's a smart kid.  But not smart enough to realize that lifting my wife's dress, and checking out her underwear, is a death warrant, especially for someone I can kill.  Like a fourteen year old, who I could totally smash.  With his scrawny arms, pure baby lungs, and stubby legs not suitable for sprinting to avoid my baseball bat.

    No, he was smart, just not smart enough to realize I could hurt him.  He got what he knows, what he's afraid of, from the news.  He's afraid of convicts escaping.  He's afraid of rabid dogs.  Dogs that can not be contained by fences.  Cujo(?) 

    So I come into the room, see him, and scream, "THE LOCAL PRISON IS ON FIRE, ALL THE CONVICTS HAVE ESCAPED, AND THE POLICE DOGS HAVE GONE MAD, RUN, RUN HOME TOMMY."  This startles my wife into awareness, but sends Tommy the pervert into a piss-soaked dash out of my room. 
    It sucks knowing my son looks up to a kid that has to resort to catching glimpses of underwear under dresses.  She wasn't even wearing her hot black lace underwear. This kid needs the internet.  Some nice amateur video, where the girl says it's her first time, but it's definitely not. 
    It especially sucks for my son, looking up to someone like Tommy.  The kids in the neighborhood are playing hide-'n'-go-seek one night, and John follows Tommy to his hiding spot in the bushes.  When the seeker finally makes his way to the bushes, John and Tommy's eyes peering from within the dark green and brown covering, Tommy bolts.  John follows.  Feeling abandoned, John is in tears. 
    This is, after all, the kid he has always looked up to.  Tommy always hung around when John was little.  Toddlers have a sort of novelty to them, and Tommy was there to wear it thin nearly every day.  He lived right next door.  "Tommiee" was John's first word.
    He grabs for Tommy's shirt.  Feeling the drag, Tommy turns, mid step, into a full blown punch.  Wham! Right into John's nose.  Blood blooms and explodes into the air, his blood black from the darkness of night.
    That night, while icing his face, John tells me he wishes "Tommy" hadn't been his first word.  He wishes he didn't know him at all.  Next week, what do you know, he's friends with him again.
   
    Tommy's voice is like poison to John.  Anything he says is truth.  This absolutely effects John's perception of things.  John came home once from school, the age of six, asking me why I had a vagina.  Then I had to explain what a vagina was and why I didn't have one.  I may be the yin or the yang but I am not the yang or the yin-- the opposite of what I'm supposed to be.

Antiquated
    Rene sits in her car, in a line, on a street-- stopped at the dangling red-eyed box.
    A Bicycler sits on his sodomy-machine of a bicycle seat-- something not meant for his large body-- waiting in front of her, looking awkward.  In an ocean of rolling metal hills, an organic melon of a head, tanned, with shaggy hair sprouting from the top like a plant out of dirt, seems misplaced. 

    This is suburbia.  A place where romanticism and freedom go to die.  A place where jobs mean less than road trips and plane tickets, and more semi-survival skewed competition.  And in this place, real survival is strange.  The forgotten need to simply live remains overshadowed by constant neediness. 

    This poor bastard on the bike looks so strange, with his antiquated, however efficient, technology, and he is thus shunned.  When he's not carpooling with three of his buddies, he's riding his bike to work.  When he's not doing either of those things, he is working.  When he's not working, he's taking night classes-- English as a second language.  He is struggling, trying. 

    The dangling triocular box redirects its power from stop to go, and turns green.  Rene puts her foot against the pedal and accelerates forward.  Right into a Ford Escort that decided to run the red.  Decided.  The extension of itself-- the driver-- decided.  The extension of the driver now lay crumpled in the middle of the intersection.  Lucky for Rene she was driving a much bigger, more robust sort of tank-- her bumper bent, halfway through the windshield of the Escort. 

    Traffic all around comes to an immediate stop as some drivers abandon their motorized husks to check on the accident.  The Bicycler takes advantage of the scene and pedals around the accident, almost as if he doesn't even notice.  He is late for work.

Punted
Things arise and she lets them come;
things disappear and she lets them go.
She has but doesn't possess,
acts but doesn't expect.
-The Tao Te Ching
I walk onto a playground, kicking up dust with each step I take. Left foot, right foot, I could turn around.  Left foot, right foot, I won't back down.  Not now, with the sun in my eyes, the showdown afoot.

    "YOU," I shout, pointing at Tommy. "My wife says you touched her thigh while she was driving, and that's why she wrecked our fucking car!"  He turns and meets my eyes.  "That's right fucker, you're dead."  He starts running and crying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  He is pissing himself.  I catch him and spin him around.  He has flopped his tiny boy penis out and now my face is covered in urine.  He laughs and I punch him in the face, knocking out a tooth.  He crumples to the ground and I punt his body several feet with a swift kick to his side.  He coughs and sputters as he spins through the dust storm we've created. 

    I feel bad now, watching his little body huddled in the fetal position.  His face is bloody and his pants soaked in pee.  
    I am hit in the back of the head with a fast moving baseball and am knocked out.  I wake up in a jail cell.  I feel like an underage kid who wakes up in a hospital from alcohol poisoning-- my first thought is, " I am so fucked."  I am bailed out by my wife who is released from the hospital with a minor concussion and a surprise.  We are pregnant again.  With a daughter and son already, we were set to be replaced in this world.  But now we're just overpopulating.  Rene tells me our son has something he wants to tell me. 

    I go to John and ask him what he wants to tell me.  His bottom lip trembles at the thought of telling me, and he begins crying when he finally does. 
    "I threw the baseball, dad."
    "That's okay, I deserved it," I tell him, completely believing it. "I'm glad you did," I add, realizing that sometimes only the people who don't want to hurt you can help you by hurting you.  Society creates us to some extent, but through ourselves, we can create downfalls that will only better serve to rebuild us better than we were before.  We can be better. 
    "I'll be at all of your trials, dad.  I'll get on the stand and lie if I have to.  I don't want you to die"
    "I'm not going to die, Johnny.  Probably just go to jail or do community service for a long, long time."
    Even if kids these days are fucking perverts, that's no excuse to not trust in my wife's ability to handle situations like Tommy.  I'm an adult for Christ's sake.  I am better than children.  For now.

Comments

[Curtis]

[das ist gut] Very cool. The way I read it to myself was like Patrick Bateman, just slightly less crazy.

[cageyness]

[this is good]

chingao wey! (damn, yo.) please tell me this is based on a true story. if so, i'm sorry you went to jail, but en serio...how else is a little sheister like that gonna learn?

whether it happened or not, great storytelling, sir. thanks for the diversion.