Made to Break. D. Foy

that didn’t justify anyone calling me greedy, not like they could Basil. The cat couldn’t share a stinking thing—not money, not women, not smokes, not booze, not cars, not drugs, not nada. Why the hell would he share the title Creative Genius—whatever that meant: more groupie sex? a solo name-drop in the Chronicle’s Pink Section or BAM magazine?—even though he’d already taken all but the glamor-light itself with his singing and playing both? People by then were comparing him to stars like Paul Westerberg and Chris Cornell and Sting. Did that matter? Not a stewed red penny. A shadow’s shadow threatened the kid. The shadow itself nigh on crushed him. And the thing that made the shadow, when it came too near, it might as well have been King Kong. We sat there stabbing at our shrimps, hoping the waiter would bring us the check so we could go get drunker than we were.

      And the more I thought, the more seeds of deviance I scraped up. In our high school days, Basil’s grandparents left each year for a three-month tour to Europe or wherever, leaving us to our bashes at their mansion in the hills. It was during their last trip, before his grandpa died, that I got plastered on Rainier Ale. I was sixteen years old, shorter and skinnier than I am today, a gawky, graceless runt, for sure, in size five-and-a-half waffle stompers and a Gor-Tex parka stuffed with paraphernalia and drugs, and long, greasy hair, and zits the size of gumballs. Between my having left the party and gained the john, I’d become so drunk that when finally I began to hurl I lost control and shit my pants. And this was no ordinary shitting, either, nothing like a few solid logs you could scrape into the bowl and have done. We were talking about a sloppy, repulsive mess, full of chilidogs and Funyuns and Hostess Apple Pie, to say nothing of all that brew, an honest-to-god shitting if ever a shitting was. Really, I should’ve been proud of that dump, but I was a twerp. It made the Montezuma’s Revenge in some tripper’s shorts look like a painting by Renoir, green and yellow and slimy as it was, running down my legs and the pants at my ankles and even in my boots. To make matters worse—if that were possible—a very special girl had come that night, a little vixen with whom I fancied myself in love. For months I’d been chasing her eye, going so far as to write her a poem she wasted no time laughing at with her friends on the quad. Had I merely barfed, I’d’ve been okay. But I had to go and crap my pants, and that no one could pardon. So there I stood moaning and crying and retching in the shower, and when I called Basil to ask for a pair of trunks, what did he do but burst out cackling. Because that was the kind of guy Basil was. He made buffoonery of your heroics and heroics of your buffoonery. If you told a joke, he made it your inexcusable flaw. You had a flaw, he turned it to a nasty joke. After laughing till he cried, my dear buddy rushed out to the PA for his band. “Hey, everybody!” he yelled at the mike. “Guess what? AJ just crapped his pants!”

      Another time, high on mesc, Basil lit some kid’s hair on fire just because it looked, as Basil said, like it would burn real good. Another time yet he turned me in to the dean after the dean had caught us smoking dope in the bushes behind the portables. I’d run down the hill and got away clean while Basil and the other tard with us stayed put like the dean had said. Basil never knew I was the one who’d slashed his tires the night he fell asleep in his van after banging some girl he’d dragged from The Ivy Room. Basil never found out, either, how I’d filled the lock to his apartment with glue. He was living in a rat hole near West Oakland, whose landlord hated to answer his phone. Wearing his clothes for the days it took Basil to get inside pounded him with jock itch.

      The one person Basil could demand a real Truth or Dare from was Hickory, the only one he hadn’t known for more than half his life. I listened to the howling rain while Jelly Roll Morton bopped on the ivories and Lucille tore open some Mexican candy bar I’d never seen, with a load of marshmallow and other shit that looked like blood. I thought how when it rained my old toad would tell me the undertaker’s wife was coming to take me away. He and moms had so many ways of expressing their love. Every time you sigh, moms used to say, you lose a drop of blood, and that just keeps bringing you closer to death. Then she’d sigh, and I would scream, O Mama, Mama, Mama! while she and my toad fell back laughing. I thought about all the creatures in this wintry world, out where the rocks lay cold and the mud ran thick and the trees and wind and clouds sputtered and racked and rolled, and Basil sat there before me with his impudence and his flaws and his knowledge of and persistence in them. He took great pleasure in these traits. They somehow gave him the sense he’d become indispensable to the people on whom he committed his tiny crimes, the way delusions become vital to the hypochondriac. His face was always glistening with that petty smirk of self-awareness. Even in his antagonism he’d become precious to those he knew—big, goofy, confident, fashionable, dear, droll Basil, the helpmeet fright wig, twentieth-century portrait of Juvenalian adage—two things only the people anxiously desire: bread and circuses. God, how I hated that I loved him. And then there was Hickory lounging in the smoke with her ink-black hair and creamy throat while upstairs Dinky wheezed among his dreams.

      “I should ask her,” Basil said, as I had guessed, sneering Hickory’s way. The booger was still lodged in his hat. “But I won’t. You, doofus,” he said to me, “Truth or Dare. And don’t give us another one of your boring-ass stories we’ve all heard a jillion times.”

      Across the room our bottles sang their nitwit song. I’d talked to them in the past, my bottles, and held them close. “Sweet, sweet booze,” I’d say, “please don’t ever leave me.” I crawled to the table and stuck one in my mouth.

      “Truth,” I said.

      “We want to hear more about your fucked up family.”

      “Yeah,” Lucille said. “Tell us more about your Hare Krishna dad.”

      I smiled my smile of the hero, the general at his table of defeat, surrendering up his troops.

      “I ever tell you my old toad was a paperboy?”

      “Every kid was a paperboy,” Lucille said.

      “I mean when he was forty-two.”

      I told them how after he’d quit the Hare Krishna’s, no place would hire him, no place real. He still had that bald head with the queue down his back. Who was going to hire a guy that looked like soap-on-a-rope? He delivered those worthless inserts with the advertisements in them, I explained, the ones with the Round Table Pizza coupons and Thrifty’s discount ads and such.

      But what I did not tell them was how my whole life it seemed I had to watch my ass, waiting for that fuck to sneak up and holler: Andrew Jackson!

      What I did not tell them was how he would jump, and I’d run, and bit by bit the time would pass until he caught me with his paddle.

      What I did not tell them was how from the shadows my mother would always laugh. Yes, she’d say, yes…