Vince

Part 1 His dad is a bigot, Vince thinks, and an ignorant one, at that. The four of them sit at the dinner table, his parents on either end and his brother across the way, but only his father speaks. “Damn Arabs,” he’s saying as he slices into the pork on his plate. The noise from the TV carries from the living room into where they sit because his dad turned the volume up to hear the news while they ate. A clip about rising gas prices prompted this little tirade. “There’s enough oil in Texas, Sylvia, I’m telling you now.” He waves his fork and looks around the table—Sylvia nods, yes dear, and Corey starts up. “In school?” he asks. He’s thirteen and talks in questions. “My history teacher? He said there’s a pipeline running right across the country, right under us, so we don’t really need that oil over there, you know?” Only Vince stares at the food on his plate and says nothing. He doesn’t care about rising gas prices or a damn pipeline underground. He just prays that the weather comes on soon because that’s the only time his dad shuts up. No more news stories, please. His dad has to have views on everything. Take Vince himself, for example. The only time his dad talks to him is to complain about something. His clothes—black jeans and punk t-shirts, heavy black boots that clomp when he walks through the house, a long gray-green trench coat he wears year-round—his dad hates his clothes. “You look like a freak,” is one of the nicer things he’s said. Then there’s his music, hard metal bands like Korn and Rage Against the Machine that his dad doesn’t understand at all. “Those aren’t songs,” he tells Vince. “It’s nothing but garbage. Turn that s**t down.” No matter how low he has his stereo already, it’s always turn it down. And of course, his hair, a major source of contention. Naturally darker than Corey’s, Vince’s looks almost black, so much so that even his own mother accused him once of dyeing it. His dad hates the color, hates the cut: in the front long bangs hang down around Vince’s eyes and in the back it’s clipped short, the bottom almost shaved. “If you’re going to cut it,” his dad says, “then cut the whole damn thing.” Before this look, Vince had let his hair grow out, almost chin-length, and his dad hated that, too. “You look like a hippie,” he muttered one night. For once, Vince listened. He’s called a lot of things in school—punk, Goth, loser, freak—and pretty, perky, popular people cringe from him in the halls, but he sure as hell ain’t a hippie. Hippies wear flowers and bright paisleys and sing about peace and love. Vince likes black, as dark as it gets, and the closest he’ll come to listening to popular music is Garbage, just because he likes that song about the rain. So out came the razor, and he sat on the closed toilet seat in the upstairs bathroom and cut his hair, everything but the two long strands just in front of his ears. They frame his face and give him an almost elfin appearance. He’s not sure what he thinks of the style yet, but his dad hates it so it’s staying for now. Everything about Vince bothers his father. Some days he wonders if he were to leave, run away or just move out, would anyone even notice? His mom, definitely, because he helps her out around the house. But they don’t talk the way they used to, when he was younger and more sensitive to the taunts of the kids at school, and he’d come home in the afternoons only to throw himself down on his bed and struggle against tears that wanted to fall. Then she would step softly into his room, sit on the edge of the bed, rub his back and let him talk. She’s a great listener, his mom—she’d have to be to live with someone like his dad. But Vince is seventeen now, the names don’t hurt him anymore, and when he comes home from school he’s careful to lock the door to his room so no one will bust in while he jerks off. At the head of the table, his father chases his meal with a glass of scotch—because he has a high-paying job and they live in one of the better subdivisions, he gets drunk on expensive alcohol, nothing cheap like wine or beer. Vince knows what’s coming when his dad sets the glass back down and turns towards him, his bleary gaze already hardening. “I bet you have something brilliant to say about this,” he declares, and then he waits to see just what light Vince will shed on the subject. “No,” Vince replies, speaking to the food on his plate. His father can’t stand that. “Look at me when you answer.” Slowly, well aware of his mother’s and Corey’s stares, Vince raises his head an inch or two, no more. He turns slightly and gives his dad ten full seconds in the spotlight of his dark eyes. In his mind he counts them, one, two, three, all the way up to ten, before he repeats himself, enunciating clearly. “I said no.” “No what?” his dad prompts. f**k him for being a stickler for form. Another five seconds, the time stretched like a rubber band between them, threatening to snap. Finally Vince believes he sees something in his dad’s face that might be discomfort or defeat, he’s not sure which, but it’s enough to make him say, “No, sir.” His dad clears his throat. For a moment no one speaks. Vince thinks he’s just about had enough of this—dinner and his father, the complacent way his mom just lets the pompous d**k go on and on about whatever comes to mind, Corey’s adoration and quick agreement with everything he says, as if he’s ten feet tall in the kid’s eyes. Time to head on up to his room, the only sanctuary in this house. Even if he does nothing more than lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling with the lights out, it would be better than this. From the living room, a reporter’s voice drifts into the silence that hangs like a funeral pall over the dinner table. Something about a local Catholic church, Vince only half-listens because he’s not into religion. He used to do that scene, CCD after mass every week, Bible school in the summer, retreats and lock-ins, when his parents made him. He doesn’t go anymore because he doesn’t quite believe. He doesn’t quite not believe, either—there’s a cynical part of him that thinks if God exists, then someone somewhere is looking down at life in this back-ass town and having a great big cosmic laugh, but he can’t ignore another, deeper voice that whispers maybe, just maybe, he should believe a little bit, just in case. In case God isn’t a bigot like his father. In case God just sort of forgot about him and will apologize for putting him through all this s**t when he finally dies. Suddenly his dad sputters, “Damn homos.” The vehemence in the word is surprising enough to make Vince look up again, his brow furrowed. He doesn’t know what prompted this latest outburst, but before he can ask, his dad goes on to explain. His voice drowns out the TV, and with something like indignant anger he looks down the table at his wife. “You know, Sylvia, these perverts are everywhere anymore. Every time you turn around, it’s another priest molesting a child. A priest…” He pauses, but Vince knows that’s not the end of it. He’ll eat another two or three bites, mull it over in his head, stew about homosexuality in general and gay priests in particular, and then start up again. “In CCD?” Corey asks, eyes bright. They shine like polished pennies when he’s excited. “We talked about—” “Goddamn faggots,” his father interrupts. Vince glances at his mom, whose nervous gaze darts around like a butterfly, unable to land on one thing for very long before flitting away to something new. For a brief second, she even dares to look at him, at his mouth, his nose, his eyes, and her lips twist in disapproval but she doesn’t say anything. She looks away as his father continues. “Shouldn’t put men like that on the altar. Going after the children, that’s just sad. Sack all the ones with homosexual tendencies—” he seesaws his hand, a piece of pork roast dangling precariously from his fork, in what Vince thinks is a pathetic attempt at imitating effeminacy. His dad doesn’t know what the f**k he’s talking about, but that’s never stopped him before. “Can’t trust a gay man around kids and you know it. Look at your Uncle Harry.” “He wasn’t gay,” Vince says. It’s not his uncle, it’s his mother’s, and he wasn’t gay, he was just a lecherous old man with the shakes. Just because he had that silly s**t-eating grin on his face whenever someone sat in his lap didn’t mean he was getting off on it. With some difficulty, his father gives Vince his full attention. “And you would know?” he asks. The scotch is well diffused in his system by now, and there’s an edge to his voice that Vince has heard before. “I know gay men don’t prey on kids,” Vince sighs. This is an old battle, one he’s weary of fighting. So they have differing views on the subject, can’t they just accept that and move on? But no—his dad is the type who demands only one opinion under his roof, one mind, and that’s his own. Look at Corey, he’s still young enough to buy into that whole father knows best routine. Not Vince. He’s simply biding his time until he graduates, then he’s out of here. Picking at the food on his plate, which he already knows he isn’t going to eat, he tries, “A man doesn’t mess with boys because he’s queer, Dad. He does it because he’s sick. It’s like saying all straight men just want to tear into little girls.” He looks around the table for support and doesn’t find it—his mother is fiddling with the napkin in her lap so she doesn’t have to look at either husband or son, so she won’t have to choose sides, and Corey eyes Vince with suspicion, as if the person across from him can’t possibly be his own brother. “Gay men aren’t pedophiles,” Vince explains. “They love other men, not—” “Did I give you permission to speak?” his dad asks abruptly. Permission. The word tears through Vince, ricochets inside him like the little silver marble in a pinball machine once it’s put into play. Permission…“Screw you,” Vince announces. His dad’s face reddens. “What the hell did you just say?” Vince’s chair scrapes across the hardwood floor as he stands. “I’m not sitting here listening to your bullshit any longer,” he says. He’s had enough. As he picks up his plate, his mother finds her voice. “Honey, sit down and finish your dinner—” “I’m done.” Vince doesn’t bother to push his chair back in, just turns and storms into the kitchen. His plate gets dropped unceremoniously into the sink to clatter against the stainless steel. His drink he finishes first, then tosses the cup in after the rest. His dad’s voice carries in from the other room, loud because he wants Vince to hear him. “I don’t know why I put up with him, Sylvia. I honestly don’t. Such disrespect—” “Cliff, please,” his mother starts. It’s the most she’s said to her husband all night. “My father never stood for that crap.” In the kitchen, Vince looks at his reflection in the window above the sink and mimics his dad, MY father never stood for that. Yeah, and his father made him walk to school barefoot when he complained about how his new shoes gave him blisters. Uphill, five miles, in snow, to hear Cliff Sanford tell it. His dad is full of s**t. His mom tries again. “Cliff, he can hear you.” “So?” Vince closes his eyes and can see the self-righteous bastard puffing up like a damn blowfish. “This is my house, Sylvia. I’ll say what I want, when I want, and if someone here doesn’t like it, he can leave. As long as he’s living under my roof, he’s going to have to live by my rules.” That my roof, my rules bit again, Vince is sick of it. “You don’t give a s**t about anyone else but yourself,” he calls out. He can feel his dad bristle from here, and he grips the edge of the sink in frustration. “This is my house, too—” “Do you pay the mortgage?” his dad yells out. “Or any of the bills? Because if you do, son, I haven’t seen any of the money. Until you start lending out a hand around here—” “Cliff, stop it,” his mom admonishes. Vince hears her chair push back, much softer than his had been, and he knows she’s coming in here. He should go upstairs just to get away from all this. “You couldn’t pay me to live here,” he mutters as she comes up behind him. She nudges him aside to get to the sink. “Don’t let him get to you,” she murmurs, quiet so his dad won’t overhear. “I do plenty around here.” The hell with him. “I know you do.” She scrapes the remaining food from her plate down the drain, then flicks the switch for the garbage disposal. A deafening whirr fills the kitchen, drowning out anything his dad might be going on about in the dining room. Flicking the switch off, his mom pokes a fork into the drain to make sure everything’s down and says, “You two used to get along so well when you were younger. What happened to that?” I grew up, Vince thinks. He realized somewhere along the way that his dad didn’t have all the answers, didn’t even know half the damn questions, but he still had something to say about all of them anyway. He can’t admit ignorance, he hates difference, he won’t tolerate any deviation from his way of life, his mindset, what he believes is the only way, the right way. Anything that doesn’t fit into his predetermined mold of the way it should be is filed away as immoral, un-American, wrong. Vince fits into that category. Does his mother actually think he likes these arguments? “I’m going upstairs,” Vince answers. It’s the best he can do—he doesn’t like to fight with his mom. It’s not her fault his dad is such an ass. Maybe he can sneak out later, just get away, sometime after midnight when everyone else is asleep and he should be, too. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Planting a quick kiss on his mother’s powdery cheek, he mumbles, “Thanks for dinner. The food was good. Too bad I can’t say the same about the company.” Tears glisten in her eyes because she hates this fighting. Wait until Corey grows up, Vince wants to say, but he has a feeling his brother won’t go through the same phase. He already hangs out with the in crowd, well-to-do kids with designer clothes and preppy haircuts, the kind Vince never fit in with at school despite the fact that he lives in the same neighborhood. They’re plastic, all of them, with their perfect smiles and perfect hair. When he was younger, Vince tried desperately to be one of them. His family has the money, he can afford the clothes. Once he wanted to be popular. Now he just wants to set them all aflame, watch the plastic melt and run together. Watch them burn. How can he explain this to his mother, who was top of her class in high school and went to college on a softball scholarship? She was the cheerleader, the straight-A student, the homecoming queen. And he’s her oldest son—how can he possibly hope she’d understand that he isn’t one of the sheep herded down the halls of his school? That he has a mind like the universe, expanding beyond this little town, this small family, this world? “If you just try to fit in,” she’s told him, but he did that. He tried to laugh when they laugh, to get upset over the same stupid s**t that bothers them, to go out for sports. It didn’t work. He felt like the Tasmanian Devil inside, whirling around maniacally, trying to get out, trying to escape, and no one heard his cries for help. No one cared. Another couple of months, he thinks. It’s November now, he’s almost done with this half of the school year. A few more months and he’ll graduate, he’ll leave this place behind. His whole life has been seventeen years of winding up and he’s so ready for release. He can’t wait until he’s out on his own because then he’ll finally put all this behind him and come alive. When he starts for the hall, his mom catches his elbow and asks, “Take the trash out, dear? Tomorrow’s pick-up.” Vince sighs. “Mom—” Her face closes as she turns away. “Fine,” she says, picking up a rumpled carton of cigarettes from the counter. She taps the pack against her palm to extract a smoke, then fumbles with a lighter as she tries to get it lit. Her hands shake so bad that the small flame flickers unsteadily. “I don’t ask for much around here, Vincent.” She only calls him that when she’s angry. Vince doesn’t know why she’s mad at him—he didn’t do anything, damn. “We all have things we don’t like to do. I have the dishes and laundry and meals, which is more than the rest of you guys. Corey has the cat box. You have the trash.” Two w*********h bags sit in front of the stove, tied up and overstuffed because his mother always packs them full until he can barely lift them. Vince looks at them in disgust. “What’s Dad have?” he asks, bitter. His father doesn’t do s**t around the house. “Vincent,” his mother warns. Her cigarette is lit now and she drags in a deep breath. The tremble in her hands is almost gone. He doesn’t expect more of a response, and she doesn’t disappoint him. Disgusted he heads down the hall, his boots clomping on the hardwood floor with a hollow sound that echoes inside him. Thump thump, like his heart. “Vincent—” “I’m getting my coat,” he replies. “Jesus. I said I’d take it out.” Actually no, he didn’t, but he will. She’s right, it is his job. At least someone here helps out around the house, he thinks, snagging his trench coat from where it hangs in the hall closet. The coat is unlined and rustles when he walks. The first time he wore it, he thought everyone could hear the swish of his sleeves against the sides of the coat. Now he doesn’t care. He likes to think the noise bothers people. It bothers his mom. She doesn’t like the coat. “Makes you look like a hood,” she’s told him. When he enters the kitchen, the look she gives him is disdainful and haughty. “Must you wear that?” “It’s chilly out,” he explains, not that the coat will keep him warm. He wears it mostly out of spite. When he bends over to pick up the trash bags, his mother breezes by, ruffling the tails of his duster. “Just take it out,” she says. He isn’t sure if she means the trash or his coat. Maybe both. In the dining room, she begins to clear the table—he hears the c***k of silverware but looks over his shoulder anyway to make sure she’s gone. Then he straightens up and reaches for her cigarettes. Menthol lights, the toilet water of smokes, but he’ll take what he can get. He shakes out two, stacks them one above the other behind his ear, and pockets the lighter before she can come back and catch him in the act. Just two cigarettes. With the way she’s been going lately, she’ll think she smoked them herself. The bags seem lighter this time and when he reaches the front door, he even swings one over his shoulder like a backpack. It’s the thought of getting out of this stuffy home for a few minutes—that alone lightens the load. It’s the promise of a smoke outside, in the dark, alone. It’s away from his dad—even if he has to hang out in the trash alley behind the house, it’s out, and sometimes that’s all that matters.