Roaches |
Issue 18
|
|
Little Frankie skedaddled his way down the street and launched himself into the air before bellyflopping into his neighbor's newly raked pile of crumbly autumn leaves. He lay in the deflated pile for a moment, catching his breath, and looking down at his stomach as it rapidly rose and fell. A tickle crept up his arm as he briefly saw, in the corner of his eye, something that looked like a blurry pecan crawling into the short sleeve of his shirt. He flung himself out of the pile and hectically swatted at the thing. It plummeted down before its hard and shiny smooth back slapped onto the prickly concrete street, lying belly-up. Her tiny legs kicked in the air like a newborn in its crib before the bottom of a giant light-up Skecher came crashing down onto her, engulfing her view of the baby-blue sky like the falling lid of a coffin.
“Yeugh!” Frankie blurted out as some chills ran up his spine. He thought the roach felt like a crunchy, fat grape popping under his shoe. He crouched down and saw some white foam bubble out of her cracked stomach as two of her legs began to twitch. Frankie’s left eye would do the same whenever he smelled gasoline or stared at something for too long, as he was doing now. Frankie had never seen a bug so big before. He was more used to killing the sugar ants in his mom’s kitchen: little black things that didn’t look all that different whether they were dead or alive. All that mattered was that they stopped trying to get into his Cap’n Crunch after he smushed them with his palm. The damage he inflicted on this roach was more apparent than that. Her size made her feel more alive to him for some reason. *
Sweaty Frankie got back home and tried to tell his mom about the roach. She stopped him when he got to the part about the pile of leaves and made him promise never to do that again. He gifted her some fluffy words of assurance so that the little, bulky vein popping out of her forehead would go away. He asked her why, and she said her brother had done the same thing at the same age. But when Charlie bellyflopped in, he got scratched and stabbed so badly by a bunch of sharp sticks in the mix that he had to go to the hospital. This story scared Frankie, but it also made him feel inseparable from his uncle, as if he were a younger version of him reborn. Frankie had first felt this way when he learned that Uncle Charlie used to have night terrors at his age, too. The second time was when Charlie told his nephew he used to stutter, as well. Frankie thought these commonalities meant he would someday grow to be as amazing as his uncle. Maybe he’d even be as good at origami as he was.
It felt like Uncle Charlie could make anything out of simple paper: lamp shades, hats, boxes, flowers, frogs that you could actually make jump, birds you could puppet, and, of course, fortune tellers: Frankie’s favorite. Every time Charlie came over, Frankie begged his uncle to show him how to make one. Frankie always forgot, but this time he made a point to really try not to, blinking at every step to take mental snapshots for later review. As Charlie raised the sleeves of his oversized shirt and firmly creased the printer paper on his half-sister's dining room table, Frankie noticed the muscles in his uncle’s arm tighten and bulge slightly. Two bug bite-looking marks were subtly swelling on his upper forearm. The skin around the marks was agitated, too, as if Uncle Charlie had been violently scratching at it under his sleeve when no one was looking. Frankie thought some ants must’ve bit him or something, but then realized they were probably marks from those sticks he’d fallen into way back when. He snapped back to what his uncle was doing and pinched his leg through the pocket of his shorts for getting distracted again. “You think you got it now?” Charlie asked. Frankie said he definitely did, and Charlie said he should show him his own next time they see each other to prove it. Frankie tried his best to practice, but he lost the one his uncle had made, along with those mental snapshots. He also didn’t know how to use Mom’s computer to cheat. Luckily, Frankie didn’t see his uncle for a while after that. Some things were going on with him that Frankie’s mom refused to speak aloud. This was a slight relief for him, as it prolonged his uncle's discovery of how much of a disappointment he felt he was. He knew he was failing to live up to the responsibility of having “Charlie” be his middle name; losing the respect of someone he imagined was everything a father should be. *
Wiry Frankie eventually got the hang of some origami, particularly the leaping frog. He hunched over his desk as he made one in Agriculture class, wishing someone would ask him about it as they waited for the bell to ring. Most students were gathered around Mason’s desk, laughing at something he said as they affectionately but also kinda rudely called him “Quagmire.” Their explanation wasn’t solely because he shared a slight resemblance to the Family Guy character, enormous chin and all, but also because, like a cartoon character, he wore the same outfit every day: a white t-shirt and skinny jeans.
The kids were gabbing about what their spirit animals would be, and Mason loudly proclaimed that Frankie’s would be a graham cracker. Everyone laughed, as it was just absurd enough to make middle schoolers think it was the craziest thing they had ever heard. Frankie felt a jolt of embarrassment for a second, but it quickly dissipated as he was more grateful for being included than insulted. There was something in the way that Mason said the remark that made it not feel like an insult. The following school year, Frankie saw that Mason was in his P.E. period and was surprised that the usual crowd of fans wasn’t around him. The class stood in their assigned spots in the gymnasium, about to start their group stretches, when Mason turned his head and saw Frankie, just a few students behind him. Mason gave him a subtle nod of recognition, and Frankie responded with an awkward wave. After stretches, they left to run a lap on the track. When Mason eventually caught up behind Frankie, he panted, “So, who do you think would win in a twerking competition, Helen Keller or Martin Luther King?” Frankie laughed and blurted out, “What?” “You heard me.” “What kinda question is that?” “It’s a tough one, ain’t it?” No matter what Frankie said, Mason kept pushing him for an answer. Frankie even tried to make Mason feel judged for asking such a question, but these tenuous remarks just brushed by Mason like the dewy breeze they felt on the track that morning. Frankie eventually stumbled his way to saying Helen Keller. Mason disagreed with him and proceeded to make a case for Martin Luther King. “Helen Keller would just be too off beat.” They ran the track together every day after that and helped each other with their mandatory workouts, holding each other's legs during situps and counting each other’s pushups. The first time Mason held Frankie’s knees for class workout, he struggled his way up and noticed Mason had a bunch of slightly raised scratches on his arms; Mason said they were from his cat. Afterward, they would always sit next to the track on a lonesome wooden bench that had “friendship” painted in teal bubble letters on the back. They would talk about the usual teenage boy stuff: girls, SpongeBob, Star Wars, conspiracy theories, Vines, sucking their own dicks, homework, butt pimples, ear pimples, and basically everything else that wasn’t their actual lives. Frankie liked how Mason seemed to make up his own slang, like “take a Ralphy” (turn right), “take a Larry” (turn left), “let my pipsqueak speak” (take a piss), and “have her treat me like a lamp” (give a handjob/tug on his “cord,” making him “light up”). Frankie thought Mason was cool, and Mason knew it, and despite being the same age, he was everything he thought an older brother should be. Frankie tried to act casual whenever Mason said something insane like, “In the last two days I’ve eaten nothing but a weed brownie and four tater tots,” or “Three years ago I sucked my own cock, and it revolutionized the way I see the world around us.” But there were still some things about Mason that he wasn’t crazy about. Like the fact that Mason liked guns. So much, in fact, that he would print and laminate pictures of them onto his pocket lighters. Frankie could sense that their politics didn’t quite align, but that sort of stuff didn’t really matter all that much in middle school. All that mattered was that they were in the same class and could make each other laugh. Frankie first saw one of Mason’s laminated lighters when they both skipped their first periods one day and went to the graveyard down the street. Mason led Frankie toward one of the mausoleums to smoke a joint that he had. “Don’t mind the roaches on the floor, I come here kinda often.” “There’s fuckin’ roaches in there?” Mason laughed, “Joint butts.” “Oh.” Frankie wasn’t sure if this term was common or just another of Mason’s inventions. When they entered, Mason asked if Frankie had smoked before, and Frankie said, “Of course,” but Mason could tell he was lying. Especially when Frankie took his first few hits and coughed so hard he threw up some sudsy white foam on the chalky white floor. Mason didn’t laugh or say anything that would make Frankie feel embarrassed. He just crouched down next to him and pulled out a bottle of water from his backpack to help put out the fire in his throat, along with some crumpled school papers for him to mop the vomit with. “Now don’t freak out on me and start worrying about swallowing your tongue or some shit … that always used to happen to me,” Mason said. Frankie so vividly imagined what it would feel like for his squishy, wet mouth muscle to slip into his throat and lock in place, blocking any air from the outside world. He started gently biting the tip of his tongue to ensure this didn’t happen, but stopped whenever Mason looked at him. They snuck back onto school grounds in time for P.E., and Frankie thought he was going to have a panic attack. He was certain everyone could smell the pot smoke on him, and if they didn’t, the fact that he acted like a lizard creature pretending to be a human during stretches must’ve given him away; all while still trying not to think about dying of numb tongue asphyxiation. He avoided his teacher’s eyes as if they were search lights looking for an escaped convict. All Frankie wanted now was for this feeling to end, for his heart to stop beating so fast, and for everything to be normal again. As usual, Mason helped Frankie with his situps, but when Frankie’s face reached up to Mason’s, they both started laughing hysterically at how funny and serious their faces looked at that moment. They tried explaining why they were laughing to each other, but Mason’s initial burst of laughter was accompanied by a single awkward but joyful cough, which made Frankie laugh even harder. Then, they laughed even worse because of how much they couldn’t stop laughing. They fell back onto the grass, clenching their stomachs, tears coming out of their eyes, their faces turning redder than the pimple on Frankie’s back that wasn’t quite ready to pop. *
Bearded Frankie shared a booth with his wife, Valerie, at a darkly lit, overpriced fondue restaurant. For some reason, they were going through their lives and telling each other about every best friend they ever had. It was Frank’s turn, and he started telling her about Mason: how they met, the crazy things he said, the mausoleum incident, and how they stopped talking after Frank’s parents divorced. He told her about how, when he moved to a new town with his mom, he didn’t really see the point in staying in touch with Mason anymore. He was still a couple of years away from getting his license, so it was basically impossible for Frank to get weed from him. Frank was honestly fine with this and was mainly excited to start high school and meet new people, most likely finding another smoke buddy.
Mason didn’t really make that much of an effort, as well, never texting Frank, but still sending him an annoyingly crazy amount of silly Instagram reels. Frank didn’t really find the reels all that funny and struggled to think of things to say in response, so he eventually just stopped responding to them. He felt a little bad about it, but also kind of judged Mason for sending those reels rather than making the effort to type a proper text message if he really wanted to keep in touch. Their relationship was bound to burn out, Frank thought, and it did. Then, a few years later, Frank saw a trend of posts from his old middle school classmates. Each post was either a picture of Mason or a black screen with a few cryptic words and some broken-heart emojis. Frank reached out to one of them to ask what happened, and they were shocked he didn't already know, given how close they seemed. Mason had died; he shot himself with his father’s gun. Frank started stuttering on the last few words of his recollection to Valerie. A few hot tears started to roll down his cheeks before he hid his face from her and began to bawl. He struggled to catch his breath as he tried to silence himself for everyone else’s sake. Valerie had never seen him cry before; they were both surprised by this sudden burst of emotion. When Frank first heard about what happened to Mason, he didn’t feel much of anything. For whatever reason, it didn’t feel real to him. Maybe it was because it’d been years since he’d seen Mason, and he simply struggled to grasp the idea that he was truly gone. Or maybe it was because Frank felt like he didn’t have the right to be upset. It’s not like they had any deeper connection besides laughing at dick jokes. They weren’t real friends, and his actions showed this. Real friends stay in touch; real friends reach out to each other when they need help, they respond to each other’s messages, and they don’t judge each other for stupid surface-level shit. What good was Frank to Mason? He couldn’t do anything for him, not even respond to his silly Instagram reels. That night, after finding out, Frank did what he thought he was supposed to do and snuck out of the house to dramatically drive the streets, listening to sad music and searching for that feeling he wasn’t having, whatever that feeling was supposed to be. Those thoughts were absent from Frank that day in the booth with Valerie. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much older he was now than Mason ever was. It was over a decade since he died, and, for some reason, something inside Frank chose this moment to start feeling it. Maybe it was because he now saw Mason as not just his friend but as a young kid. Frank was a teacher now and taught kids of Mason’s age. Mason today could easily be one of his students: troublemakers with a chip on their shoulder, acting like they don’t give a shit about anything, hiding the fact that they give so much of a shit that it’s hard for them to breathe. He wished he could promise Mason today that life would get better: he would grow up, move out, meet new people, leave the miserable town that once felt like his whole world, discover parts of himself he never knew existed, maybe even fall in love, live so many stories worth remembering, have so many more laughs; laughs so good they hurt. Frank wanted to stop crying. It was such a dumb thing for him to do. He hated himself for being so naive and so full of himself for thinking he could have done something to help. Like Mason’s problems were simple enough for him to solve, or that they were basic enough for him to grow out of. All those things he wanted to tell Mason were luxuries that Frank had been dealt. He knew he didn’t deserve them any more than Mason did. It was just luck of the draw, like jumping into a pile of leaves that didn’t have sticks in them. *
Skinny Frankie pierced the needle into a bulging vein in his arm. He thinks about the vein that would poke out of his mom’s forehead whenever she got mad at him. Would it greet him today if Mom knew what he was doing, or would her face just skip straight to the expression she made when she heard about Uncle Charlie? Frank had never seen that face on her before. Even today, when she’s happy, he can see the scar of it, or maybe he just can’t unsee that face. He also can’t unsmell the scent of his apartment: catshit. He gets so impatient and short-tempered whenever he sees the impacts of his neglect fold in on him: the society of maggots living in the tower of dishes in the sink, the blanket of dust covering the few pieces of furniture Valerie didn’t take with her, or the countless crumbs sprinkled all over the floor that cling to the bottoms of Frankie's bare feet wherever he walks. But it all ultimately doesn’t matter. Once he hits the plunger of the syringe, they all evaporate from his mind; all he feels then is a creamy warmth swim through his limbs and cradle his body as he sinks into the catscratched couch. All feeling in his face is gone in an instant, and he prays his tongue doesn’t fall into his esophagus.
He chooses to stare at the ceiling, as too much head movement always makes his skull start to feel hot and hollow, followed by a wave of sweaty, cold nausea. His eye begins to twitch as his sticky cat sits on his lap and stares up at him. He looks down at her and smiles. Her glance then darts to the wall next to them. In the corner of his eye, he sees that fuzzy pecan again, sticking to the wall. She’s alive, and he’s so fucking sorry. The roach approaches them as he steadily raises his hand toward her like God to Adam, noticing the holes in his arm. How exciting, a new commonality he has with his uncle. They actually look nothing like bug bites, he thinks, or stick marks for that matter. How stupid was he? His mother never did say what happened to Charlie. How embarrassing that it took Frankie this long to figure it out. At least he has the comfort of being just like his uncle. |
ANTHONY LANDICINI is a writer who holds a BA in Creative Writing from Florida State University. You can find his previously published work in the following literary magazines: Blood + Honey, Half and One, The New Absurdist, Oddball Magazine, BULL, JAKE, sneakerwave, and Cacti Fur.
|