“Freud is just one lone and existential penis joke.” Johnny says as he hangs upside down from the thick branch of a Mountain Ash. The small flowers on the on the tree branches have already wilted with the season, and hardened or rotten berries fall to the ground with every shake of the branches. The branches seem sturdy enough, but Johnny is tall and thick, a build that tends to challenge the integrity of structures from time to time. It has been two weeks since he decided that this, the inversion, was his new method of thinking.
“This is my new method of thinking,” he had told me in the rain, with one hand pinching his nostrils closed. He was dangling from the monkey bars at the
“I don’t think that’s very effective. I mean, every time we talk, are you really gonna find something to hang off of? What if we’re at the pool? In a boat? Can anyone else take you seriously?” I thought about my last question. Pointless. More rain. His Bloodrush.
“Well,” his eyes looked up to the ground, “there are handstands and other options.” Contemplation. “And I don’t give a fuck who takes me seriously, I just need a new perspective.”
Johnny fumbled with the front pocket in his black hoodie. Cold rainwater dripped off the top and his hands were in the pocket to keep from showing his belly. Every few minutes, one of his hands would emerge, filled with wood splinters, and he would sprinkle them deliberately on the ground. I saw some of them had some kind of writing, some of them had dried splatters of blood. I wouldn’t ask.
“Damn, I have a headache. I hope I can adjust to this.”
“Yeah. I mean, yeah. Maybe in time your brain can catch up to your ridiculous ideas.”
Last night he showed up at my window. It wasn’t the first time. My parents have a two s
“What the hell, bro?” I poked my head out the window, he was squatting down in the dark mist of the evening. His dark clothing shadowed his face, and I couldn’t be certain but my guess was that the dampness on his face was more than the weather. Maybe it was the red, puffy eyes. Maybe the mud on his forehead. Something was definitely wrong, but it was not unusual.
“Hey what are you doing?” His fingers were twitching, hand entwined in front of him. The question came out so casual, but his eyes darted from side to side, up and down. Squatted down, his weight sat on the balls of his feet, and his shoes were vibrating from what could be muscle strain, what could be nerves. No questions.
“Me. I’m just watching Leno and Letterman. It’s a battle for my attention, and the remote wins.”
“Right on. Did you see the headlines the other day? There was something about people of an unspecified gender who told police they were assaulted in some way on their way home from an unspecified school by an unspecified number of assailants, perhaps sustaining unspecified injuries or not at all, police didn’t say. It was something like that.”
He still wouldn’t look at me. Was that blood on his fingers? I thought about his dad, about the rage explosions and the kitchen table being turned to splinters, the family photos turned to ash, the salt and pepper shakers that perhaps went into orbit. No questions.
“That shit’s funny, Johnny. Hey. You wanna come in? Bananrama is the musical guest. I don’t know who the other is.”
“No.”
“Alright, so ..”
“I’ve got to change,” his jaw muscles tightened, in the fine mist of the evening and the lack of light I couldn’t tell if his eyes were welling, but his voice betrayed him. “I don’t know what, but something has to change.”
“Okay, Johnny. You want me to turn the television up? You can hear it from out there. Bruce Willis is talking about Die Hard.”
“Yeah, sure.”
--
We walk away from the Mountain Ash and Johnny has returned to silence. His hands still dip into his front pocket, emerging with various sized shards of wood, and he sprinkles them methodically, like a seasoned gardener. He doesn’t look at me and I know by now not to talk. He takes two large handfuls of the wood pieces, one of them large with “-lle” etched into the piece and “-gger” beneath. He squeezes the chips tightly. The jagged edges of some of the pieces must dig into his palms, thick veins bulge on the back of his thick brown hands. His face tightens, the muscles drawing his fatty cheeks tight. Lips part to show gritting teeth, and he is mouthing words I don’t intend to hear.
Johnny throws the pieces into the air, releasing a deep and bellowing yell. I stand wide-eyed, recording the situation without comment. He never looks at me. I am probably no longer here. He turns towards a thick gathering of spruce and hemlock, and with heavy footfalls sprints to the forest entrance. Within the dense underbrush and thick tree trunks, into the world of Devil’s Club, Fiddleheads, and rotted fallen trees, Johnny disappears from my sight and all that is left is the crackle of the forest floor, and the occasional primal scream.
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