Wrecking Balls

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The rotund boy Giordano hung in the sky like a cannonball orbiting the earth, ready to drop.

The wiry Charleston C. never did see Giordano coming, having skulked away from the two McKinney sisters, ten and twelve. The two young blondes had laughed in his face, at him rather than with him, and that was comic death.

“Well that didn’t work,” he said as he reassessed his comedic inventory and stumbled to the center of his yard. Charleston Cranston, ten years today, retreated lost in an existential crisis. If not comedy then what?

Gary Giordano could have only attained such an impressive altitude by launching himself up off of the bench beside the picnic table.

Charleston descended into a dark alienation. Those two girls didn’t appreciate how tough it was crafting original punchlines. Long, dreamy blonde hair and sparkly green Irish eyes, they were too pretty to ignore. Each morning before school he thought up a new joke for another chance to talk with the younger McKinney, but only as a step toward her budding older sister. Now he had to concede that they were out of his league and pretty mean too. A full decade’s setbacks, he could feel the weight of social stratification pinning him down.

Gary Giordano wielded a grey plastic sword and wore a green Ninja Turtle shell upon his back. The opening syllables of “Cowabunga” gurgled from his lips.

The freshly cut backyard teemed with strangers, but Charleston couldn’t help but feel alone in the universe. His presumed special day whipped past, while he felt disconnected from society, like it was all illusory. Invisible, he doubted the entire birthday institution. The grownups drank and smoked amongst themselves. Several kids chatted about kids' stuff.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The late afternoon glare eclipsed then by that oversized Ninja Turtle who dropped from the sky and splattered Charleston down into the lawn. The impact nearly snuffed out his fragile existence. His face squished into the grass, he strained just to keep breathing.

A surreal scene played out above. Charleston's mother salvaged her bottle of gin as their picnic table toppled with its cargo of hamburgers, hot dogs and condiments.

The chubby Ninja Turtle rolled away laughing to himself.

But Giordano’s own father stormed closer, whipping off his leather belt. “I told you I ain’t in the mood for your bullshit! Come here, you!”

Gary changed tune to scramble away. His plodding old man grabbed for him, unable to latch on. The father corralled in Gary at the fence's corner and left him with nowhere to run.

Charleston, still on the ground and dazed from the impact, flipped a middle finger in Giordano’s direction, as the other was seized by the arm.

“You’re overdue for a beatin’,” Gary’s father shouted and cracked down on him with the leather belt. The old man's pants slipped lower as he delivered the increasingly severe lashes.

Charleston hid inside the house. Gary was whipped in front of the party. His plastic turtle shell blocked several lashes, but soon the severity captured everyone’s attention. They feigned concern, which was not quite the same as acting.

In his kitchen Charleston cringed at his compatriot’s screams. Some birthday party. At least the cake was saved. Spying through the sliding glass door he pondered if he was better off with no father at all than with someone like Gary’s.

Charleston’s mother handed Gary’s father a fresh beer, and he was distracted from assaulting the kid any further.

After he deemed it safe, Charleston slid open the door to reemerge. He spotted Gary sitting alone on the grass in the corner. Swiftly snatching a thick slice of his birthday cake from the resurrected picnic table, he snuck up behind Giordano.

Gary jerked aggressively to himself, and he discarded his cracked tortoise shell.

Charleston saw a bit of blood at the corner of Gary’s mouth, short brown hair tussled in various directions. The portly Giordano had trouble sitting.

Charleston sat beside him. “Hey?”

“What?”

He revealed the slice of vanilla lemon cake, and he shrugged. Gary’s eyes locked onto it.

“Unless you’re watching your weight.” He pulled the plate back.

Gary looked up in astonishment. The two laughed for awhile, and Charleston relinquished the cake slice. Gary tore into it.

Charleston thought a moment. “You wanna play Warcraft?”

Gary considered, as he sucked vanilla-lemon icing from his fingers, savoring each bit. “In a minute.”

“Cool.”

●●

Giordano tossed down his game controller. “Nah I don't wanna play anymore. What else ya got?” He peered around the unfamiliar den.

“Come on!” Charleston pleaded. “I'll spot you thirty seconds.”

“What do you mean?”

“You start. I'll close my eyes and won't even move. You count.”

“All right. Let's do it.” Gary dove to retrieve the controller, and their war games continued.

Thereafter, Charleston C. and Gary G. played video games in Charleston's den on most days. The boys spent their free time pushing buttons, stuffing their faces with junk and sludge, and battling to defeat the other. In a particularly heated match Gary threw triangular corn chips at Charleston's face like ninja stars.

“Ow! You got my eye! Dickhead.” Charleston rolled away off the couch to guard his face. Gary rolled, laughing at his sadistic success.

The commotion caught the attention of Charleston's mother. She sauntered to the doorway behind them with a can of cheap beer. She peered in to inspect the den, but the position of the couch obscured her view.

“What now?”

“Nothing, mom.”

“Why don't you lazy shits go outside for a change? Leave me alone.” She popped the top of her beer and sipped lovingly.

Down below the couch the boys pretended to guzzle while making ridiculous faces. When she wandered off again their video game resumed.

“You still got me in the eye, asshole.”

“Lucky shot,” said Gary. “What can I say?”

“How 'bout sorry?”

“All right, all right. I'm sorry. Jeez.”

●●

Several years later, on St. Patty's Day, Charleston needed to celebrate his ancient heritage. So he snatched a bottle of Port from his mother's kitchen cabinet. For some unknown reason she had no interest in the dust-covered bottle, a gift, but Giordano did. After downing half the liquor, the boys drew up ambitious plans.

Gary said, "That's how my uncle would do it."

"Isn't he in jail?"

Giordano shrugged, "Whatever.” Gary assumed a spy movie persona. “The plan's perfect. But it needs two operatives."

"Okay?" Charleston could feel the room twirl.

Gary jumped up. "We're goin' to the video store, right?"

Charleston's head bobbed. Vision floated in and out of focus, gravity erratic. "Yeah. Okay. Right now?"

Gary said, in a hushed conspiratorial tone, "I'll grab the tape, and I'll toss it as soon as you go out through the scanner. You gotta catch it. Don't f**k it up."

"So I walk out and turn around, and you throw me the video?"

"Exactly."

Charleston mulled it over. "Let's do it."

"Fuckin' A."

●●

Drunk bicycling was new, and Charleston wobbled to stay vertical. Their ramble to the video store, around three corners, turned out to be the easy part.

As he tripped in toward the automatic doors of Videorama, Charleston hesitated. Events were moving too fast. He hadn't given it enough thought.

Gary spun back in the doorway. "Come on. What're you doin?"

Charleston called him back with his hand. "I don't know, dude."

Giordano lumbered up. "You're not pussin out? Are ya?"

"No."

"Well come on. You gotta catch it man. Don't f**k up. Leave me hangin'."

Charleston stood tall. "Pssh. I wouldn't do that."

Giordano gave him a once over. Nodded with approval. "We're partners, man."

"Fuckin' A." Charleston held out his fist for the bump.

Soon they were within the walls of Videorama ducking low between the racks. A loud horror film played on the monitors up on the walls, screeching violins and nervous footsteps. Jolting stings rattled Charleston to the core.

The shelf layout familiar, Gary easily located the cassette. He nodded to Charleston. With precision they strolled toward the magnetic RFID reader contraption.

Charleston inspected the chrome structure as best he could as he stepped through.

The store's manager, under a light brown mullet, was an unknown. The guy seemed cool, but if they were caught Charleston had no idea what he would be in for. Still plastered on Port, he tried to maintain an aura of normalcy as he marched through the security device. But he knew his chest was up by his chin, and he pranced awkwardly and off balance.

Behind him, Gary coughed and took a long stare at the manager behind the counter. Charleston twisted to the side of the scanner and waited. His torso bobbed left and right each second Gary delayed. He could feel the terror mount.

The killer slashed and stabbed on all the screens. An actress screamed bloody murder.

Giordano checked the manager one final time. A woman with a whining baby in a stroller rang up and they held his attention.

“Come on,” Charleston whispered, breathing through his clenched teeth.

Gary whipped the VHS tape over the 2-liter soda display and to the side of the scanner. It whirled like a weaponized Frisbee. Charleston jerked to snatch it out of the air. Hands pulled the video inside his jacket in a miraculously smooth misdemeanor.

When the two boys returned to their den/base of operations with the VHS cassette they had entered a new stage of their journey. They viewed that comedy performance, Eddie Murphy's Raw, until each one could recite the entire monologue. Eighty-four times or more.