Chapter Text
“Did you know that Die Hard was made to be a sequel to Commando? They couldn’t get the money to hire Schwarzenegger, and he didn’t even want to be in the sequel. He was about to start filming Predator, and then they just came up with a new name for it and now it’s one of the most popular movies ever. Predator is pretty popular too, I guess, but it’s not even close to being as good. I wonder what Die Hard would’ve been like with Schwarzenegger. It would’ve been so dope, right Carl?"
“Sounds like bullshit to me, Sam," I said. "Why would they want to make a Commando sequel? That movie sucks dick.” Sam was always trying to act like he was an expert on these conspiracy theories he got from randoms on the internet and then repeated them back to me as if I didn’t know he wasn’t full of shit.
We shared a bus seat together, the school bus kind where it was just a long bench made of a kid-proof rubbery fabric. The seats were green and the walls of the bus were light grey. There were lights on the ceiling, but they weren’t on right now since it was a sunny afternoon.
Sam made a noise of disgust. “Commando does not suck dick, man, maybe you suck dick if you think Commando sucks, Britney,” he added with a mocking tone. He’d been calling me ‘Britney’ ever since I shaved my hair last week. I generally kept it pretty short but I’d been thinking of joining up with the military and asked for it to be buzzed just to see what it was like. It made me feel like a different person.
“No, I think you suck dick for thinking Commando doesn’t suck dick, fuck off dude,” I said while shoving him. It was a cool April afternoon, and thankfully it hadn’t rained, so we were spared the hell of a musky and ultra humid bus ride back from school. Opening a window helped sometimes, but then you’d get rained on. And anyway, we weren’t supposed to pull the windows down past a certain point marked with sharpie ever since that thing with the water balloons. Or was it the thing with the cooked pasta noodles?
Sam and I kept arguing about the movie the whole ride back. Our stops were near the end of the route, and after being on the same bus from 7th grade to our sophomore year, we had exhausted any topic that actually mattered and all we ever talked about now was dumb shit. Maybe we only ever had talked about stupid shit. I couldn’t remember it being any other way.
Sam bragged to me that his parents let him watch their movie collection, and he got a big head over the fact that he was watching “retro” movies like Die Hard rather than stuff like that new Harry Potter movie that was coming out this year.
“Sam, you don’t know anything, just shut up,” I said. I was antagonizing him out of habit at this point. Sam grinned, “Yeah? Maybe you actually know more since you’re old now. I still haven’t given you birthday punches man.” He cracked his knuckles. “Touch me, and I swear I’m going to break your nose again,” I warned. It had been an accident last time. He pouted and went back to looking in his backpack for something.
Sam already let the bus driver know that he was getting off at my stop today. We got off the bus together, him trying to punch my arm while yelling, “let me hit you baby, one more time,” and me slapping his fists away. We ran half the way back to my house like this. Eventually, we both were out of breath and decided to walk back like normal people.
We passed by tons of little white flowers. They hadn't been there even a week ago, and it really made me feel that spring was here.
When we got to the front door, it opened before I could even finish getting out my keys. My dad was there, grinning. He was dressed in his usual going-out clothes: a leather biker jacket, blue jeans, thick sunglasses tucked into a faded white tank top.
“Welcome in, big guys,” my dad said. He stepped back and ushered us inside with exaggerated arm gestures and a bow as if we were honored guests to a royal castle. Our steps were loud on the wood floor as we entered the dining room. To my relief, only three balloons, some colorful confetti, and a birthday tablecloth patterned in cartoon candles and cakes decorated the space. I’ve been telling my parents to stop treating me like a kid for years, and this may have been the first time they didn’t hang up the Lego themed decorations.
“Happy birthday, honey!” my mom said, turning half around with her gloved hands still in the sink rinsing dishes. She’d just finished setting the casserole in the oven by the time we had gotten back, and the room was warmed by the stove. The TV was on, but nobody was paying attention. It was some kind of drama I think my mom had already watched tons of times before. The murmuring from the characters in the show made a pleasant and comfortable atmosphere. I then looked at the store-bought cake on the table.
“Oh no…” I groaned. It was a white sheet cake with the transparent plastic lid still affixed to the black plastic plate underneath it. “New Achievement! You’re 15!” was written in happy purple icing in looping cursive on the cake. The problem was the flowers. The cake was covered from the top to the sides in bright, pink, many multi-petal’d, flowers. A sunny yellow pistil was centered in each garish blossom, and they dutifully decorated nearly every inch of the damned thing. Sam and my dad start cracking up behind me.
“Mom, why are there…flowers on the cake?” I said while gesturing helplessly toward the horrible thing.
“Why? Why not, they’re lovely flowers and the decorator did such a nice job. She is a very sweet lady Carl, and she had just the best ideas. They were all so wonderful, but I thought that having a cake with meaning for once would be nice!” she said. I tried to not look annoyed. I don’t think I did a good job, because she glanced back at me and said, “Carl, they have beautiful meaning, and you should be glad! It’s a great cake, honey, really.”
I slapped my hand on my forehead in despair then, and tried to not seem too distraught by the girly cake. It wasn’t a big deal, really. I glanced behind me. Dad was trying his best to contain his laughter, but Sam had his hands on his knees while shaking in giggles. I made an excuse for Sam and I to get out of there and play Halo just so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.
Sam and I played games until the casserole was ready, then we all gathered around and had dinner. When the plates were put away, my mom set the cake out on the table and turned out the lights. My dad lit a candle with the Zippo he always carried on him and used it to light 14 others before pushing the first candle back into the cake.
I felt weirdly nervous, even though it was just my parents and Sam singing happy birthday to me while I sat there and endured it. They ended the song with loud applause and my dad doing those piercing whistles that I could never do as loud as he did.
“Make a wish, Champ,” Dad said.
I thought about it for a second.
I wish that we get a dog.
I blew out half the candles. Then, during my next deep breath in, I thought:
I wish my family and I live safe, happy lives.
I blew out the rest of the candles. You would have thought I just did a backflip in rollerskates with how enthusiastically they were cheering. As we were eating cake and watching The Price is Right, my dad turned to me.
“You want your present now?”
“More?” I had already opened up both presents from my parents and Sam.
He grinned. “Now that you’re 15, I think that makes you old enough to start lessons.”
“Lessons?”
He procured a keyring out of his jacket and pinched one key in particular and held it up to my face. “Motorcycle lessons, son.”
“No way, are you being serious?” I almost leapt up in excitement. My dad and I had worked together to fix the motorcycle up sometimes, but I had never been allowed to ride it before. I’d been begging him for years to let me take it out on my own, but he had never budged in his refusals. My mom thought it was too dangerous and always gave me a look when I asked within earshot of her.
“Dead serious. Come on, let’s go. You too, Sam.”
Cheering, we both got up and followed him to the front door.
My dad had been riding that machine for as long as I could remember. He rode it around less nowadays, but we made sure the bike kept pristine in the garage. I remember when I accidentally knocked it over years ago. The thing was heavy as fuck, nearly 700 pounds, but you wouldn’t really think that from just looking at it. Its own weight left a hell of a dent in the body, and I’d freaked out at the time thinking my dad was going to go nuts on me. Instead, when I admitted to him what had happened, he was still pissed, but he told me we would fix it together. We ended up spending that month in the garage together fixing up all kinds of things with the bike and the Chevy.
I was in the foyer about to follow dad out the door when suddenly, something caught my attention. There was nothing different about the corner my eyes suddenly felt magnetized to. It was the same wooden dresser-desk thing, dusty porcelain figures, and empty fish tank.
I stared at the empty tank. Why was it empty? Didn’t we have fish in there just the other day? I couldn’t remember what their names were, but I remembered their bright orange glittering scales and flowing fins. They were pretty. I liked watching them when I was reading books in the corner with the armchair next to it. They were violent, though. Maybe the tank was too small or something, but I’d woken up to one of them missing an eye a couple of times.
The strangest part was, there was still water filling the aquarium. The filter, the light, and little decorations were all still there, running like usual. There were things living in there, but nobody was home. For some reason my whole chest started hurting. As if it were being squeezed tightly. What were their names?
“Come on, Carl,” my dad said while standing right outside the door. “Hurry up, man! Sam’ll get to ride off without you at this rate, slowpoke,” he said while jangling the keys at me.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, crap. Wait!”
I ran after them and didn’t look back.