The Morose Delectation of Davey McKidd

New Kid on The Block

Breathing heavily, Patrick stood in the middle of the living room fuming as he allowed Davey to escape his wrath. He walked over to the unused fireplace and gingerly picked up a picture. It was just an image of his wife Mariann, a red scarf billowing behind her, a smile plastered on her face, her big sunglasses, and her arms reaching up, out of the top of the convertible. The car was Patrick's pride and joy. A dark blue 1965 convertible Impala. He had always wanted one and he worked hard to afford it. He remembered the day he brought it home.

“Mari, sweet!” He called her name as he barreled into the house.

“Patty, there was a rumbling outside…I was sure…”

“Yes dear, I know, I’m sorry I’ve been working those long hours and been a right prick at home, but it was all worth it!” He was rubbing his hands together.

“What are ya getting at Patty? You drunk?” She teased.

“That rumbling outside.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s our rumble. You don’t have to walk to the market anymore.” He beamed. Mariann ran outside, her hands pressed to her face, tears welling in her eyes. Patrick came up from behind, encircling her waist and planting a light kiss on her neck.

“Oh Patrick,” she breathed. “You don’t have to take the train any longer.”

“It’s for us.” He implored.

“I know, I was just being silly, it is my favorite color.”

“That was the selling point.”

“I love it,” she said, turning in his arms and cradling his face in her dainty palms. She went up on tiptoes and kissed him fervently. “And I love you.”

Patrick always felt that day was one of the happiest of his life. It was more her dream car than his. And yes, he had been an ass, but he had been tired pulling swings and doubles. But such was his devotion, her dreams became his, and he could care less, for a smile from her lips would sustain him for months. Now their beautiful car sat: rusted, unused, and unloved, in the garage since Mariann had died last year.

"Terminal cancer, I'm sorry, but the love of your life has six months to live." They had told him, give or take a word. Tears welled up in Patrick's eyes and he wiped them away with a sniff and a chug of his beer. "It's all your fault!" He bellowed, smashing the beer bottle in the blackened maw of the fireplace.

*******

Davey remained in his bed, his walkman on, quietly jamming to, rather being distracted by the new Peter Gabriel cassette. Still staring at his posters, he thought about what kind of kid he really was. He wasn’t all that into Hardy Boys or comics like most of the other kids his age. That was probably something that influenced their reluctance to pick him for dodge ball, although he was quite a good player. It was almost like he was a pariah. His escape was the films. After Patrick would slump off in a drunken stupor, Davey would sneak to the family room and fire up the VCR. The movies loved him, they didn’t mock or judge, they just were; no hidden meanings, very upfront. He found trust in those little spinning wheels that turned the film.

He envisioned himself walking the halls, the next morning: sporting a flash new sports coat, sleeves rolled up, his hair slicked to one side and spiked like a rock star. Donning sunglasses and a cigarette, everyone would be whispering about who that new, handsome kid was. He would stroll on by, ignoring everyone.

Everyone except for Cindy Thomson.

She'd stop talking, and stare at him dumbfounded. "Hey," he'd say. She wouldn't respond, just tug at a strand of bunchy hair that would spring back in place when she let go. Davey would walk over, hold his cigarette out so not to burn her and place one hand between her white sweater and denim vest, right at the small of her back, and pull her in close.

"I’ll be your sledgehammer baby." Then he'd kiss her, flick his cigarette in the waste bin, and walk away in slow motion, his back to the trash now engulfed in flames. Davey lay there, musing, a smile fixed on his lips.

He slipped further down into his Star Wars X-wing sheets, his eyes growing heavy, staring at the shadows cast from the galaxy mobile he had made last year in one of his science classes. In an instant he was a space pilot, steering his ship through the asteroid belt. The alien race known only as the Germy Gasch had abducted, Cindy Thomson, the princess of the moon. Captain McKidd would fly in covertly assassinate their leader and save the girl…

Morning came too quickly. As Davey stared at the clock, he noticed that he wasn’t feeling any of those up-lifting thoughts from the night before. It was still dark outside. In an hour he'd need to get up to get ready for school, either that or…

Davey unzipped his school bag and dumped all of his books and papers out on his bed. He stuffed as many changes of clothes as he could fit into the pack, along with his favorite books, and a few of the best cassette tapes. He put his walkman on his belt, and quietly tiptoed down the hall. He descended the stairs, being sure to make a cat-like leap over the bottom two steps that would groan and creak. His landing made a small, dust-stirring, “whump!”

Davey quickly scanned the living room. His father sat in the armchair, his eyes closed, drool trailing down his chin. Davey quietly turned the handle and held it while he closed the front door, squeezing his eyes tightly shut only chancing to open them again once the door rested in place. When he was a safe distance from the house, he started running, his Chuck Taylor’s making a whapping sound as they hit the dew covered pavement.

Since he was supposed to have been in school, Davey avoided the main streets. His escape would never be successful if the cops picked him up and deposited him right back in that ridicule infected hell hole…or worse: at home. He could see his father now, the disappointment in his features, his fist eclipsing Davey’s face. Screw that! He refused to be caught, he had made his decision and his life was his, to live, however he chose.

Hunger, however, was a nasty little bed partner. Davey found himself hugging the shadows in an alley across from a convenience store attempting to get psyched up. His plan was to run in and grab whatever he could. He belittled himself for not thinking far enough ahead to take some food from home. To be honest, it was of little importance. His main goal had been to get out, which he had done. Plus, Patrick McKidd kept little else but beer in the fridge. Now, he just needed to get a little something to eat.

“Hey kid…you lost?” Davey hadn’t even seen the other youth standing atop the fire escape. He took a few tentative steps backwards. In an acrobatic leap the kid jumped onto a dumpster and then down to the ground. His gaze, although his visage was covered by an oversized green hunter’s jacket, penetrated Davey’s head and past his eyes… to his secrets, to his desires, Davey felt naked.

“Yello, what's crackalackin?” The boy yelled, making another attempt at conversation. Davey was still timid. He stepped back even further. "Dude, what's your damage?" Davey was sure this was some homeless kid from the streets. He was surprised by the lack of smell he thought all homeless people…

“Stank?” The kid let out a mirthless laugh. Davey looked at the kid in shock. Had he just read his mind?

“Damn skippy! Gag me with a freakin' spoon.” "So Davey, wanna take a chill pill and hang out?" Davey couldn’t remember offering his name; perhaps he had and didn’t realize it. He was so hungry, and yet, he was drawn, enthralled really.

He told the kid a few of the things that he had on his mind and then slowly divulged into everything. He just spilled out, like a floodgate had opened in his mouth. Words pushed at one another, each clawing for purchase, fighting to get out. At the end of his tale Davey stared at his hands. They were laid out across his knees, his fingers playing with the scalpel from earlier that day. He wondered how it had come to be back into his hands. His new friend, the kid in the parka, arm around his shoulder, asked conspiratorially, “You gonna hold up that store with that little sticker?”

“What?” Davey looked down, his fist gripping the blade. This kid had either seen a lot of violence on the street or wasn’t all there in the head. Davey wondered if it couldn’t be a little of both. If he saw a kid in an alley with a knife he would do everything in his ability to avoid him. Let alone approach him, like this weirdo. The kid sighed after a moment, “Look man, if you’re hungry, I’ll go get you something. After that you can come home with me. Deal?” he turned on heel and took off towards the store.

“Where’s home?” Davey called to his retreating back. He was a little unsure. He didn’t trust this kid. He seemed a little crazy, but maybe he wasn’t too bad.

"A place of dreams," the boy exalted, hands thrown wide in the middle of the street.

"What's your name?" Davey asked.

The kid in the green parka just turned to him with a grin and locked his gaze. “Back in a flash!” He dashed into the store, leaving Davey to stand outside alone. Davey watched the clerk; her hair pulled into a pony tail on the side of her head. She leaned against the counter, chewing her gum in huge, bored bites and fiddling with the mess of necklaces adorning her throat. Then, in a matter of seconds, she was screaming and the kid was running out.

He trotted by, yelling over his shoulder, "Book it Davey," and disappeared down the street in fits of laughter. He tucked into a side alley that Davey nearly missed; it was some sort of magic eye trick; an “optical illusion” he thought they were called. The wall couldn't be seen for looking at it.

"Not enough dough. That girl was such a Betty!" He reached into his coat and threw two candy bars and a Coke over to Davey. He fumbled them in the air but eventually caught them and held his bundle tightly to his chest.

"Soooo, I liberated some merchandise." The boy said as he took a huge bite out of a Baby Ruth then, using it as a pointer, mumbled, "By the way, we're here."