[1-2-3] FIRE

[threedimensions]

Dimensions: [1-2-3]
Timeline: Autumn 1970
Title: Fire
Summary: 9yo Gary Hayes is shown something new by his older brother.
~1.7k

>Warnings

When the car pulled up outside and Jake hurried out the back door and into the garage, Gary eyed him from the corner of the house, where he had been burying the change he'd found underneath the sofa cushion. After another moment, in which the car didn't honk and his oldest brother didn't come back out, Gary pushed the dirt back into the hole quickly and went to see what he was up to.

Jake was digging around in something he'd hoisted onto Dad's unused tool bench, so Gary couldn't see what he had. He could, however, tell that it didn't work. "Piece of shit," Jake muttered.

"What are you doing?" Gary asked.

Jake turned around fast, saw him, glanced around to see who else might be there, and motioned him forward, showing him a tube that held long matches. He shook it, and nothing happened: empty. "Gonna light something up," he said, grinning. "Or we will if I can find something that might prevent losin' a few fingers." He looked into the can again, and then threw it down. "Fucking cocksucking piece of crap," he commented again.

Gary understood most of that, and while he knew 'cocksucking' was a bad word for some good action, he wasn't sure he got the context. "Why is it cocksucking?" he asked. "I don't think it can do that." He totally knew what cocksucking was—he'd found his older brother's magazines. It was gross in a fascinating way.

Jake grinned. "That's just what we say when something's a worthless piece of shit—just like everything in this house. You see a lighter anywhere?"

"Mom left hers on the kitchen table."

"I'll tell you what we're doing if you go swipe it."

Gary considered this, and then he shrugged. "Okay."

"But if you see Kevin, don't tell him I'm out here."

"Whatever, I'll just tell him to stick his head up his own butt and say, 'Howdy.'"

Jake smirked, and Gary went back to the house. He opened the screen door carefully, so that it wouldn't squeak, made his way to the kitchen, looked around and listened, then collected his mother's Zippo from the table. He was almost past the refrigerator, which was making the sound like it was going to shit the bed again, when he turned back, stole two cigarettes from the crumpled pack near the overflowing ash tray, and headed back to the garage.

"Good man," Jake said, taking both the lighter and one of the cigarettes. He waited until Gary stuck his in his mouth, lit it for him, and then lit his own. He took in a long drag and let it out, then stuck it in the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the small lighter. "Fuck it," he said. "Bobby can chance losing a couple of fingers. Not like he needs them all to sit around pickin his fuckin nose all day."

"What are you doing?" Gary asked again.

The older boy gestured to the grey sky. "There's no fucking color in the world anymore," he said. "Look at this fucking dump. The whole neighborhood is falling down, the plants are all dead, and we all go to work and school every day, either go to war and die or get a job and get more brain dead, come home, live every day with assholes like the old man and drunk bitch in there, and then die."

Gary looked at him, frowning slightly. "So...you're going to set off fireworks."

Jake grinned widely, clearly glad his youngest brother had gotten him so quickly; he always had. "You're the fucking genius. Teacher says so, right?"

Gary didn't like that word. It, like so much else, meant nothing in real life. "Can I come?" he asked instead.

Jake hesitated. "Well...it's just—the guys are waiting for me. I don't even know if there'd be room for you in the car."

There was silence for a moment. "Dad's going to be pissed if you take off so early," Gary said monotonously. (Not to mention what he might do if he found out what Jake was doing—but he won't find out, Jake would say, and most of the time that was true.) He knew that Jake's friends thought he was a fucking baby or some shit, even though he would be ten years old in less than two months.

"Yeah, I know. Fuck him." Jake paused again, and then dug in his pocket. He came out with several dollar bills, which he pressed into his brother's small hand. "Here. Go get a comic book or something, and get us some candy and shit for tonight—I'll make us a bonfire over in the ditch by the access road and show you something fucking trippy."

Gary took the money (four dollars!), but he didn't smile. "Your friends are bogus," he said. "I'll light it."

Jake shook his head. "No fucking way. You need both middle fingers to show people not to fuck with you. I'll take you next time, okay? I gotta go—meet me by the ditch around three or so."

"Fine."

Jake stuffed the lighter into his pocket and lightly punched his brother on the shoulder as he passed. Gary watched him go up the driveway, chance another look back up at the house, and dive into the backseat of the car. It tore off, and Gary was sure their mother would get up now. As he already had his denim jacket on, he walked out of the garage, then turned around and headed back, cutting across yards until he got to the other side of the block.

Jake didn't get back until after five; Gary and Kevin were in the kitchen, eating macaroni and cheese with pieces of cut-up hot dog when the front door opened and the yelling started. Dad was drunk again, Jake shouted right back, and after something heavy hit the wall, Gary jumped up from the table and went out the back door, slamming it as hard as he could. Kevin yelled after him, but Gary ignored him, cutting across the yard to the right this time, getting to the alley and going south. He ran as far as he could without stopping, and then he walked the rest of the way toward the highway, crossing it and then jumping down into the steep ditch. The area was deserted, and he carefully worked out the loose rock in the pile to get one of the cigarettes he'd stashed there. He hated everything in the world the instant he realized he didn't have a lighter.

About fifteen minutes later, someone else dropped down next to him: Jake. He had a mark on his face that would turn black and blue by tomorrow, and there was some blood under his nose. Gary glared at him, and Jake grinned. "Don't worry, I got it."

"You got what?"

Jake noticed what Gary was still holding between his fingers, and then he grinned and pulled out their mother's Zippo. "Need a light?"

"I hate you sometimes." Gary put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled when his brother held the flame to the tip. "I told you he was going to be pissed at you," he said as he breathed out the smoke.

Jake shrugged. "I don't fucking care. He's a drunk asshole and I'll do whatever the fuck I want." He grinned again. "You will too. Here, look what I got you."

Gary took what looked like another cigarette and inspected it (thinner—smelled different—no filter, innards a different color), then looked back up, unimpressed.

"It's a joint, dipshit," Jake said patiently. "We smoke it like a cig, and the world will sing."

"I know what it is. And I hate singing."

"I hate your face," Jake said kindly, and lit the joint.

Gary carefully butted out his Camel to preserve the rest of it, listened to his big brother explain to him how hitting weed was different than taking a drag from a cigarette, and watched carefully. He tried it himself as Jake started to gather some small sticks and road debris to make them a fire. It was getting chilly, but Gary didn't notice that his fingers were almost numb until the third time Jake passed him back the joint (which he found kind of gross—at least with regular cigarettes you got your own and not spit germs from everyone else) and he fumbled it, grabbing the wrong end and getting a small burn on the inside of one finger—which he also didn't feel.

"Holy shit, you okay?" Jake asked, grabbing his hand. He looked for a second and then grinned again. "You're going to meet a tall, handsome man who goes by the name of Champagne, the Main Pain."

"Shut up, butt dumpling!"

"Turd burglar," Jake returned.

The fire had finally gotten going, and Gary got closer, holding his hands close. "I can't feel my hands," he announced.

"Can you feel the top of your head?"

Gary thought about this, and then he broke up laughing. "No!" he said. He felt awesome. He sort of felt like he was wearing a hat, although he was definitely not wearing a hat.

"That's because it floated away," Jake said knowingly, leaning against the side of the ditch. "I can see your braaaaain."

"My brain is awesome."

"It sure fucking is," Jake agreed. He looked at his youngest brother with some measure of affection while he toked away. When he passed it to Gary again, and the kid hit with relative ease (he wasn't ten yet, but he was a fast learner—Gary was pretty sure he was smarter than both of their parents combined, with Kevin's numb nuts thrown in there too), Jake grinned again. "You're going to do whatever the fuck you want," he repeated. "And you're not going to let our shitty, drunk father tell you what to do." His eyes were gleaming, and Gary suddenly wished he could focus better—there was something to pay attention to here, but he didn't know what. "Stick with me, kid," Jake said, very softly. "And we'll go places."

"Where?"

"Anywhere but here."