That night, there was a reasonably large crowd outside McDonalds, throwing their food at each other with their multi coloured hoods up. Most of them, I guessed from quickly eyeballing them, were between 14-17. The oldest one was probably about 20. Kids with fresh faced stares and hard attitudes, eyeing up passers-by in the hope one will start on them.
I remember one guy who, somehow, managed to get dropkicked in this particular spot by some kid. For obvious reasons, it was never openly discussed but you could sense that he had changed. That he had realised that, in the minds of those around him, he was no longer an individual but a perpetual victim. Defined by a freak incident that would haunt him forever and gradually reduce his confidence year by year, until it got to the stage where he would offer a fight to another kid who happened to bear a superficial resemblance.
I didn’t want that to happen to me, so I pressed on past them. Taking a cue from my good friends, I adopted a stern expression, fixed eyesight and a stride that indicated focus and determination. I also figured that the leather jacket would add menace to my frame.
Walking by the collective, I heard the following:
“So all I heard on the phone was ‘you’re gonna get shot in the spine.'”
“Hahaha.”
“So, I just smoked a waterfall and sat in my granny’s shed for four hours like.”
“Hahaha paranoid as fuck were ye? Hahaha.”
“Aye my fuckin head was melted like hahaha.”
“I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for that snub shit happening the 2nd time. I don’t know what it is with these fucking losers trying to be friendly with me long after I moved on. Is it because we see each other so often or because we run with the same crowd like? Who the fuck cares? I’m not playing.”
At this moment, the conversation stopped as I had just exited their line of vision. I knew not to look back at them.
“Fuck’s sake, check out the grease on that cunt’s head.” Immediately, I feel a tingle at the crown and my ears hotting up. I carry on walking.
“I’m talking to you, ya speccy fruit.”
I balled my fists up but shoved them in my pockets.
Next thing, I felt something floppy hit me on the head, followed by laughter. I was still conscious, so it was clearly nothing serious. It was, however, a McChicken sandwich coated in mayonnaise and spit.
“I’m Fuckin' Talking To You”
The second I turned round to see what was chucked at me, the milkshake carton hit me right in the chest and exploded everywhere, covering half of my face.
Laughter.
I am 13 years old again. I’ve just been egged by teachers and pupils in the school I am leaving because I was overachieving.
{{{A droning, metallic whirl became notable, and the gates began to part. Some other bloke in white overalls was waiting there, with a look that mixed mild annoyance and stoic determination. The two greeted each other and proceeded to unload the van, which was packed with plastic bags containing human corpses. Some had been sliced in order to fit into the bags, but most seemed to be in one piece. Both men would disappear behind the gate and re-emerge empty handed, both looking about as if they were defying someone, anyone to pass judgement on their profession. But there were no passers-by at the time, and I was either not considered worthy enough to be granted the privilege of having a row with two upstanding workers, or I wasn’t in their line of vision.}}}
Fuck it.
The oldest one.
He was keeled over in laughter.
Running towards him, I swung a miserable punch (the first I’d thrown in nearly 25 years) which I can only describe as an attempt at slapping someone with a balled up fist. Although it connected with the side of his face, he continued to laugh, less to do with the punch and seemingly more to do with the fact that he had gotten a reaction out of me.
Second time, I threw a proper punch and make a point of putting some weight behind it as it connected with his nose. I swore I would never do such a thing again. That process of thinking that his nose has almost collapsed as you feel a crunching sensation on your knuckles…
Within milliseconds, blood runs from his nostrils, coating his orange hoodie. He stopped laughing, seemingly a little too startled to react. Those around him, who stayed silent throughout, suddenly gathered themselves and approached their fallen comrade. I decided to leg it in case one of them attempted to take me down.
Gordon from the Four Winds told me that he’d had a knife pulled on him (in broad daylight) near the barbers in Waring Street and I figured that at least one kid in this little fracas was packing. The humiliation would have been unbearable: not only being stabbed outside a McDonald’s but also being killed by some gormless 15year-old who’ll probably film it, send it to all his mates and then wonder how the cops caught him.
Progress, eh?
Zapruder would have wept.
{{{Rusted. Diagonal. Undergrowth sprouting through the back seats. The wheels long gone, and the bonnets treated with moss and excess wood chippings. The lead vehicle even has a Katsura tree growing out of the front end. A thick, bulbous trunk protruding its branches into the thin air while the vehicle sags under the weight of it, the broken lightbulbs seemingly implying capitulation.
Trying to venture your way through the thick foliage that engulfs the ground, you are constantly on edge. Not simply because you are aware that you’re disturbing a spot of beauty that has been reclaimed by nature, but also because forests are a living manifestation of the mermaid’s call. How else do you explain the abandoned cars? The sensation of drooping leaves rubbing against your cheek, while hoping that the next spot you walk on is flat ground, tenses up the muscles and leads to fantasises of owning a machete and swinging it around with reckless abandon. Trying to reassert oneself against the unknown.
Silence, except for the rustling on the ground whenever the feet are moving.}}}
Christopher Owens, 2023, “dethrone god”, Sweat Drenched Press, ISBN-13: 979-8858837312
I didn’t want that to happen to me, so I pressed on past them. Taking a cue from my good friends, I adopted a stern expression, fixed eyesight and a stride that indicated focus and determination. I also figured that the leather jacket would add menace to my frame.
Walking by the collective, I heard the following:
“So all I heard on the phone was ‘you’re gonna get shot in the spine.'”
“Hahaha.”
“So, I just smoked a waterfall and sat in my granny’s shed for four hours like.”
“Hahaha paranoid as fuck were ye? Hahaha.”
“Aye my fuckin head was melted like hahaha.”
“I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for that snub shit happening the 2nd time. I don’t know what it is with these fucking losers trying to be friendly with me long after I moved on. Is it because we see each other so often or because we run with the same crowd like? Who the fuck cares? I’m not playing.”
At this moment, the conversation stopped as I had just exited their line of vision. I knew not to look back at them.
“Fuck’s sake, check out the grease on that cunt’s head.” Immediately, I feel a tingle at the crown and my ears hotting up. I carry on walking.
“I’m talking to you, ya speccy fruit.”
I balled my fists up but shoved them in my pockets.
Next thing, I felt something floppy hit me on the head, followed by laughter. I was still conscious, so it was clearly nothing serious. It was, however, a McChicken sandwich coated in mayonnaise and spit.
“I’m Fuckin' Talking To You”
The second I turned round to see what was chucked at me, the milkshake carton hit me right in the chest and exploded everywhere, covering half of my face.
Laughter.
I am 13 years old again. I’ve just been egged by teachers and pupils in the school I am leaving because I was overachieving.
{{{A droning, metallic whirl became notable, and the gates began to part. Some other bloke in white overalls was waiting there, with a look that mixed mild annoyance and stoic determination. The two greeted each other and proceeded to unload the van, which was packed with plastic bags containing human corpses. Some had been sliced in order to fit into the bags, but most seemed to be in one piece. Both men would disappear behind the gate and re-emerge empty handed, both looking about as if they were defying someone, anyone to pass judgement on their profession. But there were no passers-by at the time, and I was either not considered worthy enough to be granted the privilege of having a row with two upstanding workers, or I wasn’t in their line of vision.}}}
Fuck it.
The oldest one.
He was keeled over in laughter.
Running towards him, I swung a miserable punch (the first I’d thrown in nearly 25 years) which I can only describe as an attempt at slapping someone with a balled up fist. Although it connected with the side of his face, he continued to laugh, less to do with the punch and seemingly more to do with the fact that he had gotten a reaction out of me.
Second time, I threw a proper punch and make a point of putting some weight behind it as it connected with his nose. I swore I would never do such a thing again. That process of thinking that his nose has almost collapsed as you feel a crunching sensation on your knuckles…
Within milliseconds, blood runs from his nostrils, coating his orange hoodie. He stopped laughing, seemingly a little too startled to react. Those around him, who stayed silent throughout, suddenly gathered themselves and approached their fallen comrade. I decided to leg it in case one of them attempted to take me down.
Gordon from the Four Winds told me that he’d had a knife pulled on him (in broad daylight) near the barbers in Waring Street and I figured that at least one kid in this little fracas was packing. The humiliation would have been unbearable: not only being stabbed outside a McDonald’s but also being killed by some gormless 15year-old who’ll probably film it, send it to all his mates and then wonder how the cops caught him.
Progress, eh?
Zapruder would have wept.
{{{Rusted. Diagonal. Undergrowth sprouting through the back seats. The wheels long gone, and the bonnets treated with moss and excess wood chippings. The lead vehicle even has a Katsura tree growing out of the front end. A thick, bulbous trunk protruding its branches into the thin air while the vehicle sags under the weight of it, the broken lightbulbs seemingly implying capitulation.
Trying to venture your way through the thick foliage that engulfs the ground, you are constantly on edge. Not simply because you are aware that you’re disturbing a spot of beauty that has been reclaimed by nature, but also because forests are a living manifestation of the mermaid’s call. How else do you explain the abandoned cars? The sensation of drooping leaves rubbing against your cheek, while hoping that the next spot you walk on is flat ground, tenses up the muscles and leads to fantasises of owning a machete and swinging it around with reckless abandon. Trying to reassert oneself against the unknown.
Silence, except for the rustling on the ground whenever the feet are moving.}}}
Christopher Owens, 2023, “dethrone god”, Sweat Drenched Press, ISBN-13: 979-8858837312
⏩ Christopher Owens was a reviewer for Metal Ireland and finds time to study the history and inherent contradictions of Ireland. He is currently the TPQ Friday columnist.
Great short story like excerpt from your book, Christopher. A good vignette about adolescence.
ReplyDeleteVery good book. For anyone who hasn't yet done so, get a copy and immerse yourself in it.
ReplyDeleteIt's great writing Christopher
ReplyDelete