by Erick Bengel
Baxter killed Philip on a day that did not invite such things.
It had been a depressing winter for the residents of Baylan, many of whom had been praying for weeks that an early spring would bring a merciful end to it. Even more so, they prayed that their thoughts would no longer be driven inescapably inward by the darkness outdoors. Now, however, a feeling of evolution was in the air. The clouds finally withdrew from the sun, creating a halo of vivid blue that expanded outward and appeared as if it might well overtake the horizon in every direction. A fresh, unexpected warmth kept jackets unzipped, nipples soft, and goose bumps restricted to shade. Baylanites found themselves increasingly relieved when, along these climatic lines, the second week of March advanced from a grayish Monday to a golden Friday. Their world was righting itself.
A tucked-away, inconsequential tract of mid-Western civilization (one that would, in a few short months, begin to realize the disappearance of its job market), Baylan had, over the years, seen its share of small-town melodrama. Every street and every corner had its own peculiar tale to tell. But now that the winter gloom had officially begun to retreat, the drama seemed to be waning—or perhaps the usual problems seemed less important in the renewed light of spring. In keeping with their unfailingly superstitious sense of cause-and-effect, Baylanites of all varieties viewed the sudden shift in the weather as their reward for enduring the cold months without complaining too much. And for them each chilly breeze represented yet another death-rattle of that unbearable season.
So as Baxter sat in his car, parked outside the teriyaki restaurant where Philip worked, he made a concerted effort to keep violence on his mind. His enmity toward Philip competed with his fondness for fair-weather days; for a time he even feared that a newfound sympathy would engulf him, hatred and all. But in the end he could allow nothing, not even a sun-drenched spring day, to stop him from punching Philip right in the face. This was no time to heed an uncooperative conscience, although silencing it had so far proven difficult. Indeed, if a passerby had paid close attention, he would have observed Baxter whispering, to no one in particular, “Shut up...”
At 7:45pm, as the crisp evening twilight began to settle upon the land, in the parking lot of Ninja Ned’s Wok Bar, Baxter removed his sunglasses, closed his eyes, folded his hands in his lap, and meditated on his motives. This is what he saw.
According to Sophia, Baxter’s girlfriend, Philip touched her ass roughly thirty minutes into their biology class as she strolled past Philip’s desk on Wednesday morning. She had no doubt that his action was premeditated. As soon as she felt him, Sophia turned just in time to catch Philip’s skinny, spider-like hand recoiling from her nether regions as if singed. She threw him a bewildered glare. Philip’s eyes—unreadable, irresolute, and locked beneath a simian brow—darted around the classroom as if he, too, was on the lookout for the culprit. His evasion didn’t work. No one else seemed to have witnessed the incident, but Philip knew very well that he’d been caught. Rather than attempt a lame excuse, Philip surrendered to his guilt and sought her eyes once more. His gaze traced a path around them. (How dark and green they were. How they blazed through the thin tufts of hair that hung over her face like a set of frail flaxen drapes.) He completed a figure-eight around the black borders of her eyelashes, and then his eyes fell upon her pale, pursed lips. He could sense her teeth grinding behind them. She is so frighteningly beautiful, he secretly confessed.
If it had not been Philip’s hand, Sophia probably would have said nothing. If it had been someone less gangly, less awkward, less carbuncled, less socially retarded, it would have been less an issue. But it was Philip—Philip, who by virtue of his incurable weirdness, must not be allowed to get away with anything. Sophia decided to tell Baxter all about it once classes ended that day. A campus-wide lockdown, however, followed shortly on the heels of a mid-day bomb threat, forcing her to postpone her disclosure for two exasperating hours. Once the students of Herbert Hoover High School escaped from their classrooms and began issuing from their respective buildings in single-file lines, she spotted Baxter and discreetly drifted toward him. She waited patiently nearby as the crisis cooled but decided to spare him her story until they were alone.
About fifty minutes later, they walked to his dented, puke-green Oldsmobile in the school parking lot. There she told him everything. Just as she had anticipated, Baxter grilled her on the details.
“Which hand did he use?” he asked with inflated urgency.
“Uhhh…Right one, I think…No— Yes, the right one.”
“How long did it last?”
“What do you mean…?”
“How long was his fucking hand on you?”
“Oh, I only felt it for, like, a second. Thought it was an itch at first. He could have been doing it longer, I suppose. It was hella cold this morning, so my body was probably a little numb anyway.”
“Didn’t you say anything?”
“To him? No, not a thing. What was I supposed to say? The whole thing took me totally off-guard. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t mind. Or notice, even. But I sure did. And then I glared at him. That was my revenge—the evil-eye. Never fails.”
“Doesn’t he know you have a goddamn boyfriend? Isn’t he fucking aware that I exist?”
“No idea. But, ya know, you don’t exactly make a secret of yourself.”
Baxter breathed slowly and deeply through his nostrils, his gaze concentrated on an indefinite point in the distance. A part of him—possibly his troublesome voice of reason—knew that he shouldn’t have asked his follow-up question. But whenever he sensed that an injustice had been committed against him his maturity was always first to resign.
“Did you enjoy it?”
I should have seen this shit coming, she mused.
“Oh sure! In fact, I asked him to stick his hand out so I could back my ass up into it! And then after class I took him to the girl’s bathroom and let him feel my tits with his left hand!”
Baxter did not appreciate Sophia’s sarcasm even when he could understand it (she was often a little too dry for him). He crossed his arms and started pacing the yellow line of his parking spot. After about a minute he stopped and spat on the ground.
“Manly,” she replied.
He turned to her, unable to simulate deep-thinking any longer.
“Just make sure you take a shower before you touch me again.”
Sophia began to reexamine her reasons for telling Baxter what Philip had done and decided that it was because she knew she was a bad liar, and Baxter always hated her when he sensed that she was keeping something from him. She did not need to add any blame-worthy behavior of her own to her boyfriend’s list of things to privately avenge. Still, she also decided then and there that Baxter was a somewhat less-than-ideal first choice to have confided in, and that she should probably start making some new friends one of these days. Without another word, she left him in the parking lot, having determined that Baxter could use a little silent-treatment.
On Thursday, Baxter ignored her right back. He ignored her blonde hair beaming in the sunlight of a new-minted spring. He ignored the magnificently nasal sound of her laughter. He ignored the way her conversation flew directly over the heads of most of her friends (along with the precociousness that tended to suppress the expansion of her social life). In short, he ignored every little thing that he loved about her.
The day passed without a spoken word between them. Baxter noticed that (on his side, anyway) a belated regret began to set in, regret with its attendant loneliness. He wanted to slap her and he wanted to make love with her. Both desires culminated in the most sad and violent masturbation of his life (once in the bathroom during study hall and twice at home after dinner). Emptied at last, he understood that a bold gesture was called for, something sweepingly romantic and wholly unexpected. After entertaining the usual ideas—flowers, teddy bears, a red-eyed apology, or any combination thereof—he thought of beating the living shit out of Philip. He masturbated again, clearing his mind of the usual emotive clutter, and knew exactly what to do.
Baxter did not know if he had violence in him. Here was an opportunity to find out, an opportunity to fight for something sacred. He was flushed with the kind of righteous anger he typically reserved for his African history class, when he would take it upon himself to defend unpopular opinions. Now it seemed that he had a more popular opinion to defend because just about everyone he knew disliked Philip—and for good reason. Neither the jocks nor the preps nor the emos nor the goths nor the winners nor the losers nor the queers would induct Philip into their ranks. The bullies who had once picked on him had given up long ago, having realized that ignoring him altogether was probably worse. For Philip, any attention was better than no attention. Although many people—family and faculty alike—felt sorry for him and wanted to help him, even more abandoned hope that he would ever outgrow his spotlight-junkie phase. Philip was evidently bent on social suicide, and as the years went by his fellow students watched the regression of his behavior with a morbid curiosity not unlike that associated with car accidents and sex scandals.
On Friday, Baxter continued to ignore Sophia (and chose not to masturbate either). He found it impossible to concentrate in class. When he thought of what the night would bring, his privates swelled. He was always good at finding his tunnel-vision, his rage. Baxter replayed the incident through his mind, the offence as he imagine it—Philip’s hand reaching for Sophia’s unsuspecting ass—until he became addicted to it. Until his version became the functional reality. Until he was convinced that to grind Philip to a dickless pulp was the only way to right the boy’s grievous wrong.
Baxter knew where Philip worked and when. Philip was a tragically necessary part of Baylan’s downtown scenery, one of the fixtures of physical labor haunting the diner-laden strip mall. If he wasn’t at work, hovering languidly over a wok, he was lounging about some other restaurant, usually crouched in a booth, his nose buried in a crumpled comic book. One might reasonably think that Philip either never went home or didn’t have a home to return to since the experience of eating out in Baylan seldom lacked the opportunity to catch his inimitable face.
As soon as school let out, Baxter drove home and took a cold shower. He slipped on his favorite t-shirt—a cottony-white sk8ter with a bejeweled skull on the breast—and a pair of blue jeans, then headed out to greet the late afternoon at 4:40pm. After filling his tank, he drove to Ninja Ned’s and parked in a spot that allowed him to glance now and then through the front windows. He kept his eyes, hidden behind sunglasses, on the traffic of patrons and staff—dressed in full ninja regalia—and particularly on the lanky ninja manning the stir-fry in the kitchen (although the register-ninja occasionally blocked Baxter’s view). Blinking minimally, Baxter waited.
His mind lapsed into second-thoughts. Perfectly natural, he thought. But why on this day of alldays? Why is it my sorry-ass luck to have to get even with someone on a day as lovely as this day? I shouldn’t have to be here, defending a damn thing—
Shut up.
The evening drew in and the stars came out. It was the first night in months that the firmament, a black shroud ornamented with blinking, benevolent lights, was entirely visible. In the darkness, Baxter found his rage again and began to think unforgiving thoughts, thoughts that made him wince. It had taken him almost a full year of platonic dating to be able to touch Sophia’s precious ass. Philip had cheapened that privilege by stealing what Baxter needed to earn through months of unwavering patience and loyalty. Yet, Baxter thought, it was possibly the closest thing to a sexual moment that Philip had ever experienced. The virgin-boy was probably desperate—
I said, Shut your mouth.
Who gives a shit if Philip’s a loser? Since when does that justify playing grab-ass with other men’s girlfriends? (The very idea that Philip knew what Sophia felt like made Baxter sick.) Philip has desecrated Sophia, turned her into jerk-off fodder, infected her with his touch. If I fail, I will have no right to be with Sophia—I will have no right to pretend that I’m good enough for her—I will be the boyfriend who gets things done—I will earn her and she will forgive me—She will fall in love with me all over again—Philip will never find love or happiness, not like I have—He will never know what it means to be held by somebody who loves him, who cannot get enough of him—He will never truly live—
Shut the fuck up, cunt rag.
—Philip is a selfish, unlovable bastard—He’s not good enough at anything or for anybody—He’s a specimen of uncoolness, a waste of everyone’s time—Someone should really fuck him up for good, put that pathetic little shit out of his misery—
I have a charge to keep.
The last of Baxter’s spring-induced sympathy faded with the last of Baylan’s twilight. One by one, Ninja Ned’s employees left the premises, followed eventually by Ned himself, a small beady-eyed old man whose crooked, inoffensive posture offered a touch of terrific irony. Baxter was momentarily afraid that he’d lost his target in the throng of customers and employees passing to and fro from Ned’s corner of the strip. His sense of purpose returned, heightened, when he realized that Philip would be the only employee closing down the restaurant that night—the anointed ninja with the super-special closing keys. Baxter became irritated by the fact that Philip had somewhere to be on a Friday night, that Philip was necessary to the operation of an establishment, however pointless his position, however demeaning his duties. After all, it isn’t just any ninja who carries around keys like that: such keys are a mark of distinction for the ninja who has earned his tenure by sweating year after year behind a greasy wok. Baxter wondered if Philip’s keys made him feel important.
By 9:15pm a lone bike remained on the rusted rack outside Ned’s—Philip’s, Baxter deduced—surrounded by the remains of bicycles dismantled long ago by sneaky, resourceful meth-addicts. The restaurant’s interior lights, glowing with neon intensity, bled onto the pavement outside the windows of the dining area. The deserted parking lot evoked the stillness and anticipation of a darkened theatre moments before the curtain rises.
At 9:40pm the lights went out, save for the flickering fluorescents in the kitchen. A large solitary figure, his mask removed, swept the floor, moving from one end of the kitchen with systematic ease. Baxter, sensing the time for bitter business, stepped from his car, shut his door silently, and leaned against the cold metal, crossing his arms.
Philip’s silhouette passed from the kitchen through the dining area and toward the front door. He stepped into the night, broom-first. Standing still, he let the door close behind. Baxter watched Philip scan the parking lot. Philip’s eyes, adjusting to the darkness, seemed to peer through Baxter. Then Philip looked right at him. The two boys held their stares uncomfortably long. Philip flinched first and, awkwardly, proceeded to sweep the front steps of the restaurant with the far-from-reassuring knowledge that Baxter was still watching him. Philip had half an inclination to ask Baxter if he needed help with something. But the night was no longer young, and Philip didn’t feel like attending to anyone else’s needs at that moment. When he was finished, he held the broom in the hollow of his right elbow and brushed his grimy hands onto his apron.
As if he’d been waiting for a cue he couldn’t name, Baxter started toward Philip. His stride—one part swagger, three parts strut—lengthened as he made his way across the parking lot. Philip didn’t move. Baxter, seeking evil incarnate in the eyes that had set upon him, found instead the uncertain-looking boy peering from beneath his notorious brow. Baxter had expected a reaction. Philip didn’t give him one. When Baxter finally struck him, it was Philip’s unresponsiveness that he hated most—that and the overpowering odor of soy sauce, sanitizer, and sweat emanating from the boy’s unwholesome body.
It was over so quickly that Baxter didn’t have time to enjoy it. He threw his weight into a single punch that did not hook and did not miss. It landed right on Philip’s nose and kept going, his fist replacing the space that had been occupied by Philip’s head. The critical act now complete, Baxter pulled his fist back as if to reload. He started bouncing energetically on the balls of his feet like a manic prizefighter.
He was bouncing when the boy fell. Philip did not fall instantly, but when he did it was in one fluid motion. For a moment, his head appeared to lift itself back into place, his body holding itself upright, even as he lost consciousness. Then, as if his frame had turned to twine, Philip went limp, partly backward, partly downward. He hit with impressive force, his head making contact with the upper step at the very moment his broom did the same. The twin sounds produced a harmonized clatter that echoed down the empty strip and across the empty parking lot. Philip’s eyes remained open, half-lidded and vacant, while his body fidgeted faintly, as if he were struggling to awaken from a bad dream. At last he was still, his sleepy eyes fixed on the night sky.
Baxter stopped bouncing but kept his fists up, expecting retaliation. Awash in triumph, he stood over Philip’s motionless body—and waited. After several moments, he dropped his guard but continued to wait. Then waiting began to seem silly. A sinking feeling crept into his bowels: this was not supposed to happen. An alarming calm ensued. The blood came. Baxter hadn’t thought of blood. He had an urge to call for help but checked it. All urges seemed to die inside him. He was filled with impotence, a crippling, terrifying impotence. Too stunned to panic, too stubborn to help, too late to think.
To be sure, Philip looked ridiculous lying there next to his broom, sprawled diagonally across Ned’s steps, his soiled apron twisted around his inelegant body like an old sundress, his head emptying onto the pavement, a permanent look of narcotic apathy on his face. And his hands, the hands that had started the whole thing, were dirty, the nails stained brown with teriyaki and bitten to the pink flesh. (Had he washed his hands since Wednesday? Was the knowledge of Sophia’s body still imprinted onto them?) The blood persisted. As Baxter watched, the red traveled with little resistance down Ned’s steps and began to puddle at his feet. The blood embarrassed Baxter, the intimacy of it, as if he’d caught Philip pissing on the sidewalk in broad daylight. Blood should be private.
The day’s warmth had vanished. Baxter suddenly felt cold, and tired. He sat down next to the boy, his back turned. From time to time, he glanced over his shoulder at his handiwork. It wasn’t until the blood reached him that Baxter fully understood what was transpiring inches from where he sat. There would be plenty of time later for shame, for sadness. Now he merely felt stupid—stupid and alien, accompanied by an unshakable apprehension that he, too, had been deeply wronged by something. (Didn’t I do just what I was supposed to do? Didn’t I do what men before me have done?) He wanted to cry but felt too stupid to cry, knowing that it would have consisted only of sighs and whimpers and other helpless noises.
“Shut up.”
Baxter’s attention drifted to his surroundings. A profound thing had occurred, he was certain, and yet the world hadn’t noticed. Everything around Baxter remained as predictable and uninspiring as ever. This familiar area of Baylan had seen him through his changes. It had witnessed his childhood, his first kiss, his private passions and pains. He had made and lost friends here; he had learned to love here. This unassuming strip of commerce cradled his history. It knew him, what he had done and what he was capable of. Yet this area—with its shops and diners, its clothing stores and dwindling career opportunities, holding more of Baxter’s secrets than any of his friends had ever held—now turned painfully, unmistakably foreign.
Baxter, feeling unwelcome, rose and drove home, his world having come irretrievably apart.
He returned to the scene on foot shortly past five in the morning, just as the cloudless dawn, in all its calming grandeur, began sweeping over the town (it was going to be a stunning spring after all). Many of Baylan’s police officers had already gathered there, engaged in the solemn bustle of their routine. Baxter watched them from a safe distance as the officers strew tape, laid chalk, sprayed paint, and eventually hoisted a large white bag into the back of a van, which drove away shortly thereafter. Baxter could not masturbate all weekend.
On Monday, the faculty of Herbert Hoover High announced the death of Philip Brian Walling, Jr. The news was greeted throughout the campus with breathtaking indifference. On the following Wednesday, the school newspaper (The Hooverville) ran a short, inconclusive article on the boy and his fate, including a picture submitted by his parents of a younger, slightly chubbier Philip, his mouth curved into a lifeless half-smile and his indecisive eyes staring blankly beneath that insufferable brow.
Later that day, Sophia, her hands thrust into the pockets of her purple spring jacket, approached Baxter while he was eating his sack lunch alone in the campus courtyard, a shallow grassy field crisscrossed with concrete walkways and beleaguered by several unfashionable brick buildings. They didn’t speak, but it marked the first time in a week that they had acknowledged each other. Baxter remembered at length why he had wanted to fight Philip in the first place: lodged in an unhappy corner of his mind, a place where he had been too afraid to look since Friday, there remained the smallest hope that Sophia would thank him. Now he knew, as he glared idiotically into her green eyes, that a simple “thank you” would be too much to ask for. He resumed ignoring her. And Sophia, in a voice too low to admit sarcasm, asked him, “Did you enjoy it?”
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