Air
by Jefferson Ross

vol 3
num 7

Brian and Ben and Ellen, they all show up at my door and want me to go to this concert with them.  Manny was supposed to go but his girlfriend just dumped him or something like that so now they have an extra ticket.

"But last time-" I say, and Ben's just like, "It's cool."

"But you know I can't," I protest, and Ellen is grabbing my hand and dragging me out of my apartment.

"Just get out for one night," she says.  "Just to get some air."

"Dude, she's right," Ben chimes in, "And get this:  I have some theories for you.  Two theories.  You like theories."

We trot down the stairs and I continue protesting but not very hard so maybe some part of me wants to go after all?

"My theories," Ben says, "Are about music.  You talked so much about it after the, uh, the incident."  He turns around and stares at me, walking backwards.  "So, I figure it this way:  you're into this heavy shit... deep, layered, repetitive.  Structured stuff."

"Uh-huh," I say, not sure if he's going crazy or just high.

"Me, and the rest of the world while we're at it, we like lighter stuff.  Poppy stuff.  Music more interested in kicking a good tune around than denouncing society."

"Yeah," I say.  "Junk."

Ellen stops and turns to me.  "So, this show we're going to, it won't have an effect on you.  That thing that happened... it's like, it won't happen again.  You'll be fine tonight."

"Do you know," Brian says, jumping in, "That some alcoholics can drink wine but not beer and vice-versa?"

I look at him, waiting.

"It's like, the same thing for you!"

Ellen giggles and jumps up and down, the swell of her chest almost enough to dispel any argument on my behalf.  She throws her arms around my neck, hugging me tight:  "It's just that we never see you anymore!"

I look at them all.  "What's the second theory?"

Ben smiles.  "The statute of limitations on craziness is just a couple of months.  And you've been cooped up in that hole for what... almost a year now?  I mean, fuck, you're long overdue for some down time."

So we go.  As we walk, I realize Ben is wrong, I've only been cooped up for six months.  That's when my girlfriend left me.  It was too much, that's what she told me.

I'm moodier, she said.  I changed.

She said I no longer have sex the way she likes to have sex.

I don't think those were the real reasons.

Take Manny, he has a new girl every week.  He doesn't know real loss, he doesn't know the gaping hole that lives inside your heart, he doesn't know what it's like to slam into that brick wall.

Frustration.  With me, with life.

That fucking concert.  That's why she left me.  She couldn't "deal" with it.  And now my friends want me to go to another one?  I'm done, I should tell them no.  But they'll give me a hard time.  And if I keep turning them down... well, I'm not that crazy.  They might not be so eager to see me next time.

'My friends'--it makes me smile.  So fuck it, I have nothing to lose this time.  But when we get there I stop anyway and ask:  "Do you think I'll be recognized?"

Ben laughs.  "Dude," he says, "It's history."

And we throw down our tickets and shuffle through the double doors and we're inside, just like that, and I'm standing there in front of the music.  It's not my music but it bears the unmistakable prick of live music, that extra dimension recordings just don't capture.

I'm disappointed.  Everything is still here, but that's it, that's all.  I thought I would have some revelation, but all I feel is the slight urge to piss.  Maybe I'll be all right after all.

Brian slaps me on the back, hard.  "See, dude, it's not too bad!  No freaking out this time!"  He leans back, gives me a quizzical, examining look, stroking his goatee.  "Naw, you'll be fine."  I open my mouth but I don't know what to say and he's already walking away, hitting some stranger up for a smoke.

Ellen grabs me by the shoulders and steers me off to the side. "We should keep you away from the crowds!" she yells over the music.  Is she being sarcastic?  I mean, they're the ones who fucking brought me here.  We stand there for several minutes, watching the band, listening to the music.  When they finish, Ellen turns to me and asks if I'm all right.

"I'm OK," I tell her, and I mean it; I'm not feeling that bad.  "Last time... I think it had a lot to do with where I was life-wise."

"And that guy?" she asks.  "The one that you punched?"

I crinkle my nose at the memory.  "Look," I say, "You know that feeling when someone is watching you?  That sensation of another?  That..." I show her the distance with my hands, that guy and me, two hands far apart and then close together.  "That feeling," I say, "But one-hundred times stronger."

She shrugs.  "But it hasn't happened since."

"I didn't cause it, Ellen!  He did it to me."

"It just doesn't make sense," she interrupts.

I sigh.  "Ellen, is this why you guys brought me out here?  To psychoanalyze me?"  I look away.  "I know what I felt," I mumble.

"Fine," she says, and walks away.  What the hell is her problem?  She always bugs me along those lines, trying to get me to admit I was wrong.  She thinks that will solve all my problems.  I clench my fists in anger; fuck her!  I didn't want to come to this goddamn place anyway!

I should leave, but I don't.  I lean against the wall with my hands in my pockets.  At some point Ben bounces by offering a cigarette.  When he is gone, I flick it to the ground; fuck him too.

God, what is wrong with me?  I just get so angry some times, so bottled up.  I know I'm not a people-person, but why do I get this way?  Ellen wants to help me and I get pissed off.  I do feel like I should be talking, I should be opening up.  But maybe there is nothing wrong with keeping it all inside.

Yeah, until you punch someone, a voice in my head says.  Until you knock them out cold, break their nose, get kicked out of the show, threatened that you better not come back.  I shake my head.  But that's not how I normally am, I tell myself.  That only happened once.

You're not normal, the voice taunts.  Normal people don't snap, it says before fading into the background din.

But he was going to stab me.  I know he was.  I saw it in my head, I heard him thinking about it.  He was going to stab me and steal my girlfriend.

I'm not psychic, but that one time... I knew I had to act first.  Does that make sense?  My whole life is relatively normal and then I have visions of some guy pulling a knife on me, putting it in my gut.

And the music!  It was such a good show, but for some reason... the music got to me.  It kept building and building and would not stop.  When he bumped into me, I could have sworn electricity crackled.  And that's when I saw it.

My reverie is interrupted by the lights dimming and the main event emerging.  They launch right into their beat-frenzied happy music and I try to dig for the memory but nothing's coming back.  It hovers on the tip of my brain, and every time I grab a hold of it, the memory slides off, back into the pile.

So, a guy who stands too close to me almost ruins my life and all I have is a memory of the memory?  What's wrong with me?  I mean, look at the results:

No girlfriend.

No rest.

No sanity.

And now this, I stop going to all shows, I give up one of my favorite things to do in this world.  Why can't I remember?  Should I settle for this then, the shitty flavor-of-the-month, wannabe rock-stars who simply go through the motions without ever really playing true Music?

Maybe my friends are right.  I mean, look at me, I'm not feeling a thing, that electric tingle that runs my spine is simply not here.  Ben thinks this kind of music won't set me off and maybe he is on to something.

But Ben's not here anymore, is he?  He walked away.  They all did.  The band continues to play, and maybe I get distracted, but then they switch to some sell-out love ballad shit and I'm back in reality, all alone in a room full of people.

In front of me is a hot little brunette with a tiny red shirt clinging to her tits and an ass that just begs for attention.  Less appealing is the jerk-off of a boyfriend with an arm around her, a walking cock who deserves a good kick to the head.  His slimy hands are all over that highly-desirable ass.  And those tits... they just bounce and jiggle and move around of their own accord, and I can only imagine what she's saying:

"Fuck me," I whisper for her.

"Shut up, bitch," I grunt back at her.

"Take me from behind," I mouth in reply.

"You whore," I say back, probably louder than I should have.  When they disengage, those hands run up her body, over her breasts, to her face, and she just melts, this hot little perfect piece of ass in front of me.

It's more than I can take.  Here is this fucking goddess of a woman who wouldn't even give me the time of day and this asshole gets to molest her slutty little body right in front of me and everyone else.  The one girl who ever showed me the slightest bit of interest dumps me because of one fucking concert gone bad, and people like this get to screw their brains out every goddamn night.  Ellen will flirt with me left and right, but only when the others are around, and never lets it go anywhere.  And this bitch in front of me... god!  It just isn't right.

I shut my eyes and hold my breath; I shove my fists into my pockets.

I should...

  go over there...

     and...

And they break away.  The girl smiles and flips her head around, sending her dark brown hair flying, and she looks my way, a quick glance thrown over the shoulder, and she sees me.

Is she reading my mind?

I can't help it, I smile back at her, the same dorky fat-cheeked smile I might give anyone who looks my way.  Just a small, "Hey, hello!" type of smile, lips pulled upwards and no teeth.  She doesn't deserve my innocent little smile, but I can't stop it in time.

She snorts.  I see it, a small puff of air out of her nose, just the briefest action but one that doesn't go unnoticed.  Her eyes, they almost bug out of her head and I doubt anyone not standing exactly where I am would have seen it.  Just a small, "Oh my god," expression, with a "Can you believe him?" chaser thrown in to boot.

That's all:  a glance over her shoulder, a quick escape of air, and a fractional widening of her eyes.  And then she turns back to the jerk-off.

I'm sure that slutty puff of breath has not even dispersed and I'm right behind her, fists clenched and muscles tense.  My arm is back even though my fist is low.  I put my shoulder into it but it is like pressing into a wall and I can barely move against the invisible force and all I want to do is push her over and pull her apart and wave the pieces around and maybe just annihilate what's left, I'll forget about the dude, just push him aside because he's a nothing and who is this slut who can reduce me so, lay me out with nothing but a glance, she's nothing but another fucking whore, a useless, ordinary, fucking whore.

I can't even lift my leg, it weighs too much, it feels like the entire concert hall is attached to my boot.  The girl is inches from my face and still unaware of her pending doom, she has no idea about my clenched teeth and shaking fists and the pounding pain in my head.  My vision swims and all I can think about is Ellen, another hot little flirt who keeps me at arms length all the time.

Ben, with all the fucking answers, whose shit-eating grin needs to be punched in daily.

Brian, an empty, drug-filled husk who hovers through his wasted, pointless life.

And me:  nothing more than a dead, worthless little boy.

Last time, I punched a man.  I attacked him.  He stood too close and I freaked out.  Visions danced in my head and I ruined him for it.  Do I want to do the same to this girl?

My god, I can barely breathe, and the pressure behind my eyes, it's out of control.  Dangerous levels.  If I can just hold this, not move for a few seconds, maybe it will all subside.

Just... stay... still.

The girl, the slut, she turns ever so slightly, not enough to see me, but enough to poke her right tit out, enough to show me the delicious curve of red fabric riding down and over her soft, tender breast.  Right in front of me, she allows her perfect breast to float around, this perfect specimen of feminine beauty.

It's too much, too much I can't have and too much I lost.

My headache, it just explodes.

The people around me, they fall in rows, the shockwave from my head flattening them out, sending them to the ground, the only sound in the room their surprised gasps and grunts, the crashing as the band's instruments tumble to the ground, their bodies quickly following.

I'm standing alone in a room full of stunned, prostrate people.

The speakers broadcast static and feedback and then go silent.

I take a deep breath and let it out.

The girl, she looks up at me and there is fear in her eyes, of course there is fear, I just leveled an entire room, didn't I?  God, I'm exhausted.  The girl, her shirt has ridden up a little, and I can see her belly and her increasingly pale skin half-way up her torso.  It's not as far as her tits though and what must she think of me now?

This girl is not my girlfriend, and maybe all of this, the last six months, maybe it had nothing to do with her after all.

Next to me, Ben sits up, and he runs a hand through his ruffled hair. "Dude?" he asks, but I'm already half-way turned around, walking towards the exit.

I have to get some air.

 - the end -

bio: Jefferson Ross has only a small handful of publications to his name thus far. He feels most at home with science-fiction and horror but likes experimenting with dark-fiction pieces like "Air".