This choice: Go talk to Frank and Joe • Go Back...Chapter #11Will Prescott and the Butt of Itchiness by: Seuzz   You pass a very moody Saturday up in your room, replying to texts from Caleb and Keith with noncommittal grunts. The afternoon fades to evening, and the dusk deepens into night, mirroring your own darkening mood.
It's not that you're angry or upset. Sure, those guys—Frank and Joe, or whatever their names were—basically mugged you. But you were already trying to get rid of that book anyway.
No, what bothers you is the sense that you have just missed having some kind of adventure.
Oh, sure, you have had some kind of adventure, though as that one guy (Joe?) observed it was a very "little" one. And yes, by trying to get rid of the book you were trying to dodge having even that much of one.
But you've had your appetite whetted. And if you were trying to dodge adventures earlier, it was because you were feeling very small and solitary and inadequate.
But those guys are having adventures, clearly. They seem to know what they were doing, and—most intriguing of all—it sure seemed like they had "magic powers."
They were your age too, which makes you feel a little less shy about talking to them about ... Well, about the possibilities for adventure. And they didn't seem like bad guys, and if they were big and really pushy, they weren't nasty the way the basketball and football players at school are.
So what if you went out to talk to them, asked them why they're interested in that book, asked them what kind of things they do, and asked them if you could ... help?
You almost die of embarrassment as you picture the scene.
And yet, after you go to bed, you feel it sprouting within you like the seed of a beanstalk:
A desire to go in search of giants.
The feeling is still there when you wake the next morning.
* * * * *
You're restless all during church, and after you get home and your dad has laid down for his afternoon nap, you tell your mom you're going to drive around town. You have no very clear idea of where you're going to wind up ...
... But you are not at all surprised when you steer an almost direct line back out to that dingy little house where those guys took you yesterday. You drive past it once, peering at it, and note that the pickup is not out front. Okay, you tell yourself as you pull up at the curb and slowly dismount. They're not home so it'll be totally safe to get out and ring the doorbell because nothing will happen and then I can go home feeling like I at least poked at some kind of adventure, and if nothing comes of it it's not because I was—
The door pops open even before you put your fingertip to the bell. That blonde kid—Joe—grins at you with dancing eyes. "Prescott!" he exclaims. "What are you doing here?"
Your brilliant reply, after a half-swallowed "G'uh" is, "Nothing, I guess." You shrug. "I was kind of bored, and—"
"You have lunch yet? I have, but I'm still hungry." Joe shoves the screen door open, then withdraws into the house; you find yourself lurching after him.
"Frank's not here," he continues, "and his portion's not doing anyone any good. Close the door, will ya?" He disappears around a corner. "Anyway, I'd be obliged if you shared the blame for it's disappearing prematurely!"
You'd forgotten what a talker the guy could be.
You follow him into a kitchen and somehow feel yourself invited to perch on a stool at a bar while he pulls a large pizza box from the refrigerator. It's from Balducci's, the city's premier pizza place, and though you are full from lunch your mouth begins to water as Joe opens it up. To his question "Cold or heated?" you stammer, "Doesn't matter," and you and he grab at the stiff wedges.
"So you say you were bored," Joe mumbles around a mouthful of food. "What kind of bored? Itchy hands, itchy feet, or itchy butt?"
Though you don't know this guy, the urge to reply rises in your gullet like an inflating balloon. "'Itchy butt'? What do you mean by—?"
"Oh, you know what I mean!" Joe grins, showing the cheese and tomato sauce in his teeth. "Itchy hands. Gotta do something, gotta do something, gotta do something!" He kneads the air with his fingers. "Usually means there's something you shouldn't be getting into but you can't resist, amirite?" He punches you in the shoulder.
You remember the time you built a potato gun, not because you especially wanted to build a potato gun, but because it was something that seemed like you'd get into trouble for doing, and that made the idea irresistible.
"Or itchy feet," Joe continues, "gotta go somewhere, gotta go somewhere." He bounces on the balls of his feet. "Sick of the same four walls, the same street, the same people. Gotta see something new. I sure know what the fuck that feeling's like."
You remember all the times you've been chased—by invisible bats wheeling at your head, it sometimes felt like—out of your room and into your truck and up to the mall or out to the river or just out of town for five miles because you couldn't stand the rut you were stuck in.
"Itchy butt. That's when you wanna sit yourself in a catapult, cut the rope, and fling yourself at the Moon or maybe just into a brick wall, because you're so sick of you and yourself everything in your life."
Oh God. It's that one you're feeling, isn't it?
You're brought back from a momentary reverie when Joe leans into your face with a hard grin. "Okay, it's your turn to say something."
But you turn very shy, even though you feel confessions welling up inside your chest. "Oh, I was just thinking about that book is all," you stammer. "And I was wondering—"
"That's boring," Joe says, and he waves you silent. "Already gone. Let's talk about something else."
You're not to be dissuaded though. "So how did you guys know about it? That book, I mean."
"We explained that yesterday. When you emailed John Reilly, he let me and Frank know, and we—"
"Were you looking for it? Where did it come from? Who are you guys, and—?" You swallow as you remember the weird stuff they did to you yesterday: that "tar baby" they trapped you with, and the invisible claw that picked you up and threw you around. "The stuff you were doing to me."
The smile vanishes from Joe's face, and eyes glint with sudden fire. "Oh!" he exclaims. "It's like that, is it?"
Your fear rises like smoke. "Like what?"
The front door opens, and a deep voice calls out. "Whose truck is that blocking the driveway?"
Joe leaps past you into the dining room. "It's Prescott!" he yells. "He busted in here, Frank, and he's eating the rest of your pizza!"
"Prescott? Who the—?" Frank swaggers in. He's in a t-shirt and athletic shorts, and he's bunched all over with muscles. It may be a trick of your imagination, but he seems to swell up when his eyes fall on you. "Oh," he says, and his eyes are cold. "Hey. What brings you around?"
"Your part of the pizza, Frank! I told you—! Hey!" Joe flinches as Frank slaps him on the side of the head, then he flies at him. They tussle a moment before Joe gets flung aside. Frank, paying no more attention to his roommate, draws up to stare down at you. (It's like he's grown a couple of inches while crossing the dining room.) He snags the last triangle of pizza. "Thought we were done with you," he says.
"He's got itchy butt syndrome," Joe says as he picks himself up. "So he came over."
Frank holds your eye. "Don't ask me to scratch it for you." His gaze isn't unfriendly, exactly, but it's definitely wary.
"He wants to know about us," Joe says. "All about us." He laughs. "Where we come from, what we do, and how we do it." He drops heavy hands onto the base of your neck and kneads your shoulders. "Fuck you for being such a showoff yesterday, Frank. Because after that, Prescott is fascinated by us. Aren't you, Prescott?" He kisses you on the cheek and laughs again.
You tense all over but say nothing.
"It's dangerous being fascinated, Prescott," says Frank. "Snakes are fascinating. Crocodiles are fascinating. Tigers are fascinating."
"Dragons are fascinating," Joe chimes in. "And elves." His fingers continue to work on your shoulders.
You try shrugging him off. "Look, I was just bored," you insist, "and I was driving around, and I happened to drive by your place—"
"You didn't just happen to drive by," Joe says. "We're not in a part of town where anyone 'happens to drive by'. We made an impression on you." He chortles. "I'm naturally memorable, but Frank made an effort."
Now you do squirm. But Joe doesn't give you a chance to protest. "Tell me I'm wrong, Prescott. Tell me you don't have our scent in your nostrils, tell me you don't want to know what that scent is!"
"No, I just—"
"Tell me I'm wrong." He pokes you in the shoulder. "Say it, say it. Say I'm wrong."
"You're wrong, I—"
"Say 'You're ring-a-ding, shing-a-ling, ding-a-ling wrong!' Say it exactly!" He pokes at you until you quote his stupidity back at him just to shut him up.
"Good." Joe slaps you lightly on the side of your head and hops up onto the counter. "Now we can have the job interview." He winks at Frank, who returns him a very skeptical scowl.
"First question," Joe says. "Are you fascinated by us?"
Every organ in your body, from your appendix to your lungs, leaps and spasms and swaps places with another organ. Out of the capsized wreckage a single word bobs up out of your chest and out of your mouth: "Yes." You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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