Punkzilla Read online

  This tall skinny black dude called Tron was showing everyone this scab on his dick and he was laughing about it like it was something to be proud of. He wore a fur coat and kept opening it up and dropping these fake leather pants down to his ankles and going “You see it right? Look at that shit yo!”

  Branson kept asking everyone if they’d seen Easy Elise and nobody had but some kid wearing a chef’s hat said he’d heard she was in the hospital because she donated blood at the blood bank and fainted but then someone else said that that wasn’t Easy Elise that it was this other girl called Sky so Branson said “I’m out” and we left.

  While we were waiting for a walk sign Branson told me how he had a room at Washington House and how the top bunk was open because his boy Tom-Tom just got caught selling digital cameras out of the back of a U-Haul and how Tom-Tom got sent to some juvy home in Corvallis where they put a computer chip in your arm.

  So the really weird part that relates to what just happened outside with that old black woman in the shower cap is that at first Branson thought I was a girl too. No shit P even though he wanted to fight me. He said he thought I was some dykey butch chick from Eugene who was trying to act tough and I was like “You’d fight a girl?” and he said he’d fight a dyke any day of the week because of the fact that he got beat up by some deejay lesbian skeezer called Chocolate Yoda a few weeks before after he tried to steal some of her old Cypress Hill records. He said she was like six feet tall and punched harder than his father.

  Me and Branson spent like four days hanging together before he found out I have a dick. It was fucked up too because I woke up in the middle of the night with him trying to go down my pants like he was intending to finger me in my sleep or something. I kicked him so hard I almost knocked his jaw off.

  “I thought you was a bitch!” he cried holding his face.

  He washed his hand in the sink like nine times in a row. I think he even put toothpaste on it.

  P it’s not like I WANT to look like I do. I wish I could grow some whiskers or have a scar over my eye. I’ve even thought about cutting myself I really have just like an inch-long slit over my right eye or across my cheek because that might help me look more manly or less soft or whatever.

  By the way when did you start shaving? Were you my age or did you have to wait? Puberty is like mad skipping me over. I can’t wait to start becoming a man P I swear. And I’m almost positive I’m not a homosexual like you and Jorge.

  “You’d be a pretty bitch you really would” Branson said a few days after he tried going down my pants. He was smoking on the steps to the YWCA. “Them old west-side sweeties would love you.” He was talking about this group of senior citizen perverts who hang out on the west side and play dominoes and this Korean poker game called Thirteen. “Those light-ass eyes of yours. Your silver hair.” I said “It’s not silver it’s blond” but he was like “That shit is mad silver!”

  You couldn’t imagine Branson being from Waldo Ohio. He seemed like he grew up on the streets of New York City or in some gang in Chicago. I figure he just watched a lot of rap videos or visited the right websites or something.

  Once I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. “Grow up?” he said. “I ain’t never gonna grow up. I’m like one of them donkey dudes in Pinocchio.”

  Regarding my prettiness what’s weird is that my hair wasn’t even long when I arrived in Portland. My Buckner high-and-tight had just started to grow out and Branson STILL thought I was a fucking girl. I dyed my hair black a week later. Fat Larkin’s girlfriend helped me do it. Her name was Shurl and she had this little wispy mustache that she put Vaseline on. Her and Fat Larkin lived in a residential hotel around the corner from Washington House. They had this big German sheperd called Saint Ray that only had three legs.

  I stole a Clairol Nice’n Easy kit from the Walgreens and even though it stunk and Shurl almost burned my scalp it worked so now even though you can see my blond roots most of my hair is black.

  Me and Branson were hanging out on the steps to the YWCA because that’s where Mrs. Mitre always gave Branson a couple of bucks for carrying her bag to her car. She’s this elderly skeezer who swam everyday to ease some spinal condition. Her hands shook and she walked all hunched like a troll. She started giving me a buck too just because I was there and then me and Branson would go to the Virginia Café to play video poker. The guy behind the bar liked us because we’d help him take the chairs off the tables and mop the floor.

  When he plays video poker Branson always doubles down no matter what the machine deals him so we’d either win big or lose everything. I made $114 once and it paid our Washington House rent for a month. This big guy with a pink face named O’Meara takes the rent money but he never talks to you. He just stands behind this bulletproof window all day and reads hot-rod magazines.

  Spanish Dave slept on our floor for a week. He was running from some girl who claimed he got her pregnant and she was supposedly hunting him with a letter from a lawyer and a digital camcorder. Spanish Dave spoke Spanish in his sleep but English during the day. When I asked him how much Spanish he knew he said “I don’t know no fucking Spanish. I can like count to FOUR and shit but that’s it” but he was fluent in his sleep P I swear. He’s fourteen like me and Branson but he has hairy armpits and he would get people to give him a quarter to see naked pictures of his mother that he downloaded off the Internet. “That’s her I swear for God” he would say. “Look at them titties kid. Nice right?”

  Man my stomach feels twisted in knots. I just hope I get to Memphis okay so I can see you P. My hand is mad killing me too so I’m going to end this letter.

  I just heard an announcement that we’re getting close to some place in Idaho where we’ll get like a half hour to walk around and get something to eat.

  Maybe that lady with the shower cap will give me another cigarette if I’m nice to her? Maybe I should tell her my name is Shirley?

  Love,

  Jamie

  P.S. I can’t believe you’re dying. Please don’t die.

  October 10, 2007

  Dear Jamie,

  Hi, honey. How are you? I hope well.

  I haven’t received a letter from you in a few weeks, and I just wanted to check in with you to see if you’re okay. I spoke with Master Sergeant Mastaglio the other day, and he mentioned that schoolwise you were doing better. In fact he shared the good news that you got a B+ on your most recent history test. I was very proud of you when I heard that, Jamie. It honestly made my day. He also told me that you’re still struggling a bit with your Monday drill ratings. Just remember what your father told you: Marching and maneuvering a rifle is like anything else; it just takes concentration and a little elbow grease. I hope you’re still taking your medication. I know your father and I were very detailed in our request to the infirmary nurse, as was Dr. Carroll, and as you already know, she thinks that Buckner can be a very positive step for you.

  Things at home are good. The fall seems to be flying by. It feels like it was the end of August just a few days ago. It’s been quite chilly this week. I just pulled all of the old wool blankets out of the trunk in the basement. You know how stubborn your father is about turning the heat up.

  Edward just got word that he was accepted early to the University of Chicago undergraduate premed program. Your father and I were so thrilled! And I know Edward is relieved. I think his shoulders have dropped six inches since he got the news. He even went on a date last week. He took this nice young woman from the neighborhood to go see American Gangster, with Denzel Washington and that Australian actor your father likes so much. Afterward they went miniature golfing and had cheesecake at that little late-night café by the library. When he came home, his head was in the clouds and he seemed pretty smitten. I think he’s in love, and your father enjoys teasing him about it.

  I have been spending most of my time fixing up the basement. I just had the new paneling installed, and the carpeting is going to be put in tomorrow. Your father
wants to get a pool table, and we already ordered a flat-screen TV and an entertainment system. It’ll be a good place for you boys to blow off steam when you’re home from school.

  So the main reason I’m writing, Jamie, is to let you know that your father and Edward and I are definitely coming down for Parents Weekend. We’re planning on staying in town, at the Comfort Inn. We’ll arrive Saturday morning, attend the Parents Welcome Brunch, walk around a bit — I know your father and Edward want to hit the golf course for a round — and then we would love to join you for the movie in the dining hall that evening. I understand they’re showing Pearl Harbor, which has that wonderful English actress in it, Kate Beckinsale (I think your father has a crush on her!). Then we’ll let you have the rest of the night to yourself and join you again for Sunday brunch and chapel and the football game. We’ll probably head back to Cincinnati after that, but you’ll no doubt be sick of all the doting at that point.

  Maybe when your father and Edward are golfing, you and I could take a walk and just catch up one-on-one. I’d love to know what’s on your mind with regard to your future. I know you hate talking about that stuff, but a gentle conversation on the subject might be good for both of us. I promise I won’t push too much, scout’s honor.

  Anyway, we’re very much looking forward to spending some time with you, Jamie. I can’t wait to see this short haircut!

  Love,

  Mom

  P.S. I’m enclosing a picture of Edward and your father at the lake house. Can you believe the size of that fish?

  October 17th, 2007

  Son,

  Your mother informs me that you have decided to be a cynic and not answer her letters. You should know that she is heartbroken about your choice to discontinue your correspondence. The few replies you’ve written to her since heading to Buckner have given her great joy. I hope you will consider picking up the pen again and letting her know how you are doing.

  Speaking of your progress, I have recently been in communication with the commandant’s office, and Colonel Stoops tells me that though you have shown some improvement on the drill field, you are still very much behind the others. Son, I would urge you to take the initiative and put some extra time toward it. Colonel Stoops assured me that if you made a formal request to your first sergeant, he could arrange procuring a rifle for you from the battalion logistics officer — I believe the cadet’s name is Captain Voskul. An extra hour a day working through the Fifteen Count Manual movements will definitely pay dividends. I know you are more than capable of excelling in this environment. The damn stuff is in your blood and in your bones, and we all know how smart you are. Those Buckner entrance exams don’t lie. So please go knock on your first sergeant’s door and make an effort.

  As your mother told you in her last letter, she and I and your brother Edward are going to see you in a few weeks, at Parents Weekend. I look forward to visiting with you and hearing how things are progressing.

  Love,

  Dad

  March 7, 2008

  Dear P,

  Today has been the shittiest day of my life.

  I’m writing to you from the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car. There’s this really old lady in the front seat whose one eye keeps leaking. I don’t think it’s tears it’s more like some liquid form of LIFE leaving her. Her hair is so white it hurts to look at and she smells like diarrhea and old flowers. This man with blond hair is driving. He has a bald spot at the top of his head and a sunburnt neck. I think his name is Dale or Dave or maybe Dan and he’s one of those adults with braces. He’s really quiet and maybe like forty and he’s wearing a tie and a short-sleeved shirt and he drives with both hands on the wheel. They’re pretty quiet people. Every once in a while the old lady sighs. She might be his mom but she could be his grandmother too. I’m just glad I’m finally out of the rain and not dead.

  The shittiest day by far P even shittier than that experience with Alan Skymer in the Super 8 Motel even shittier than when Mom and the Major took me to Red Lobster to tell me they were sending me to Buckner and I never thought things could get worse than that. I’m okay now but about ten hours ago I got jumped in the bathroom of the Greyhound station in Caldwell Idaho.

  I didn’t think I was going to be able to write you again for a few days because my hand got so sore from the other letters. When I make a fist it feels like there are needles in it or something but I started getting the shakes again and I figured writing you would calm me so I’m going to give it a try.

  I spent about half the morning hiding behind an abandoned Mexican restaurant staring at a big-ass cornfield and getting rained on. It’s been raining like a motherfucker all day and till Dale or Dave or Dan and this old lady with the leaky eye picked me up on the side of the highway I was seriously thinking about laying down on one of those yellow lines and ending it all like letting a semi blow right over me.

  So anyway back at the Greyhound station in Caldwell Idaho these dudes jumped me and stole all my shit except for this notebook. I was the only one in that bathroom pissing at the middle urinal when I heard someone come in behind me. The next thing I knew a forty of Budweiser got busted over my head. It sounded like two cars crashing deep in the pulp of my brain. They got me right above my left ear and there’s a huge knot there now and I have a feeling that it’s going to keep swelling and I’ll wind up with a serious growth on the side of my head.

  I had never been knocked out like that before P like waking up and having no idea where I was or what happened. When I came to I made this weird sound like AAUAUAUUAAUAULL all high-pitched and girlish. For a second I thought I was mentally retarded or some sort of vegetable man who lost the use of his brain. I could hear this faraway ringing sound and it took me a minute to figure out that the noise was coming from inside my head. I can still hear the ringing a little now. It’s sort of mixing in with the hum from the engine of this car. At first it freaked me out but ten hours later I’m finding it weirdly comforting.

  They got my wallet and this turquoise belt buckle with a black bear on it that I got in Portland. My right eye is pretty swollen too and the side of my head stings like a bitch and my ear has been bleeding off and on for most of the day. I probably have a concussion so I’m trying to not fall asleep. The dude who picked me up keeps rolling the window down every few minutes because he thinks it’ll keep me conscious.

  I remember learning about that concussion thing in health class when I was still in school in Cincinnati and how if you fall asleep when you have a disaster to the head that you can go into some kind of coma state and never wake up.

  When I got off the floor of the bathroom I couldn’t walk so good and I had to go to a knee and then I got sick and puked in the sink. I spent about ten minutes picking little pieces of glass out of my ear where the bottle broke. I probably need stitches but I can’t exactly snap my fingers and wind up at a hospital plus I’m basically a certified runaway and who knows where I’d end up if the Major found me. To make things worse my bus took off without me and the driver that guy with the hockey mask knew I was in the station. He said he would wait but he didn’t.

  In my Buckner gym bag I had around five pairs of underwear and some socks and another pair of jeans and some Listerine breath strips and that alarm clock and a Game Boy Micro 20th Anniversary Edition that Branson stole for me as a going away gift. Even though it was from Buckner I liked the gym bag because it wasn’t too big and if I needed to I could use it as a pillow. I spent almost all the money you sent me on that ticket too. Remind me to never ride Greyhound again.

  But the reason I’m seriously fucked is because they got my cut of the April Yon Collection which was around a hundred and sixty bucks! I’m just glad they didn’t take this notebook which has everything I’ve written to you so far plus the letter you wrote me at the beginning of December which is tucked into the inside pocket plus a letter from the Major and a letter from Mom and a card from her and another card from Buck Tooth Jenny and a letter from Edward and a letter f
rom Grandma Beauty and a letter from Cornelia Zenkich and this other letter to Mom that I wrote but never sent. The notebook is mad thick like one of those ones you’re supposed to use for multiple subjects in school but I’m not surprised they didn’t take it. You can’t really get much for a spiral notebook especially with a bunch of shitty writing in it.

  I felt like calling you P but I didn’t want to waste what little money I have left which I had stashed in my sock which is exactly sixteen bucks. It’s the change from the bus ticket. I swear I’ll keep all my money in my sock from now on.

  After I picked the glass out of my head I cleaned the cuts with that cheap pink squirt soap stuff and went out to the waiting area and fell asleep on a plastic chair with lots of ballpoint pen graffiti on it and had a dream of flying gorillas. I knew I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep because of the concussion rule but I couldn’t help it. I think my body just needed to like shut down for a little while. The last thing I remembered was that in the ballpoint pen graffiti I thought I could see the face of Abraham Lincoln like with the beard and the black top hat and everything and check this out P it made me think about how Edward used to draw him in the margins of his textbooks how he would draw him sitting in a chair mostly but how this one time he drew him dancing in the middle of an ice rink. He didn’t draw skates on him he drew him wearing shoes and there were all of these kids skating all around him. It was a really detailed drawing P did you ever see it? Do you know the one I’m talking about? Seeing Abraham Lincoln’s face in the middle of that ballpoint ink graffiti made me think about how Edward has always had this secret talent of drawing Abraham Lincoln but how no one really knows about it and how he keeps it hid like he’s ashamed of it or something. Do you have any idea why he would be like that?