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threedimensionsTimeline: September 1972
Title: Empty
Summary: Gary finds that Jake
~1.9k
Gary Hayes walked slowly home from school on Friday, angry and pissed off and wanting to punch somebody else. There was a detention slip in his backpack that required a parent's signature, and his only hope of not getting knocked around by his old man was that their mother would be drunk enough to sign it, but too drunk to care what it was. He'd get Jake to sign it (and Jake would compliment him on smashing the nose of the little prick that wouldn't stop poking him) if Jake ever came home anymore. Not that Gary could blame him, not with how it'd gotten in the house every time their dad and his oldest went head-to-head and fist-to-fist.
When he got home, he was slightly surprised to see no cars in the driveway. Maybe the old man had puked up a couple of bucks and went off to the bar again; maybe he choked on his vomit and laid down for a dirt nap, Gary didn't care. Maybe then he'd leave all of them alone, especially Jake and himself. It was all quiet in the house as he headed up to his tiny room, where he immediately checked the loose board in the wall, making sure neither of their parents or Kevin had found the money he'd been stashing for almost a year. It was still there and he relaxed a little,*1 kicking off his shoes and flopping back on his narrow bed; he slipped his hands underneath his head and looked up at the ceiling, thinking that he couldn't wait until tomorrow afternoon. On Saturday nights, he and Jake would count how much they had and possibly adjust their tentative GTFA date—the day they'd Get The Fuck Away was almost all he could think about, now that it was so close. Jake might have the rest of the money soon, and Gary already had plans for their first day on the road: a fifth of Jack Daniels (that he'd gotten the guy down the street to buy) as his brother's early eighteenth birthday present. They would be so far gone before anyone realized a thing.
.
Later, when Gary managed to run fast enough to get back to his room, he slammed the door as hard as he could and then shoved his small dresser over, pushing it until it was in front of the door. He waited, his eyes narrowed at the door and straining to hear feet on the steps, and after a few minutes of silence he gave up and lay on his bed again, clenching his hands into fists so that he wouldn't cry. It didn't hurt that bad; he shouldn't turn into a pussy just because he got smacked a few times. (Smacked twice, shoved down once, and thrown at the wall once.) Their father had wanted to know where Jake was and what he was doing, and Gary didn't fucking know (not for sure—the short answer was "selling dope somewhere"), but even if he did, he wouldn't have told, not to that asshole. FUCK HIM.
Fuck their mother, too! She didn't give a shit what happened to either one of them, as long as her prized pansy Kevin was fine. (And as long as her cheap wine supply was fine, don't forget that.) Fuck them all except Jake. Gary didn't even care that he hadn't gotten dinner yet—fuck him sideways in the rain if he would go back down there and be around them. Jake would probably bring him something to eat, too, and maybe a joint.
As soon as they were out of this place they could do whatever they wanted. Anywhere but here, please...
.
He woke up early on Saturday, probably due to his stomach attempting to eat itself. When he'd gone to sleep he'd left the dresser in front of the door, even though he doubted if it would actually stop his father from coming in, but at least it didn't look like anyone had tried—good. He just wanted them to leave him the fuck alone. His window was open and he was cold, so he sat up and rubbed his arms, reaching for a sweatshirt he'd thrown on the floor a few days ago that his mother hadn't washed yet.
After a few minutes, Gary realized that there was something on the little crate he used as a nightstand that hadn't been there when he'd gone to sleep. He leaned forward, frowning, and realized it was Jake's Zippo, the one his best friend Sam had given him before the car accident last year. Gary glanced around quickly, wondering if Jake had crawled in through the window and was curled up in a corner, but the room was really too small to have missed another person in it at any time. He had no idea why Jake's lighter would be in his room, since Jake wouldn't have dropped it anywhere—he held on to Sam by thinking of him whenever they lit one up—but he stuck it in his pocket anyway, to give back as soon as he saw Jake. He pulled his shoes on and went downstairs.
He didn't really expect his oldest brother to be eating breakfast in the kitchen, but he still rolled his eyes when he instead saw Kevin at the table eating peanut butter and jelly on toast. Gary opened the fridge, made a face at the horrible smell, and swung the door shut again.
"You don't have to slam it," Kevin said.
"You don't have to take up all of the assface, but fate seems to be flowing that way this morning."
Kevin made a noise of disgust. "That's really uncalled for."
"So everything I do has to be called for first?" Gary decided the solution to his problem of what to do today until Jake came home had arrived. "Beat, heart!" he commanded. "Breathe, lungs! Create turd, part of me that looks like Kevin's face!"
"Knock it off or I'm telling Mom," Kevin recited, as if it was one word.
"Flip, finger!"
"MOM!"
Gary snorted and laughed, turning to the back door and breezing through the shitty screen. It was only ten after seven, but soon enough the sun would be all the way up and he could probably mow or rake two or three more yards to get an extra few bucks to throw on top of whatever else they had so far, which might make their count today the final one. Maybe they could go next week.
.
He didn't want to open it.
The loose board where he'd put all of the money he was saving to run away with didn't look as if anyone had been into it, but obviously there was only one way to know for sure. He just didn't know if he wanted to know, not with what it would mean. He didn't think he did. But he couldn't not know, not even for a little while longer, so his hand reached forward and his nails picked at the edge and the whole piece came out—almost jumped out, as if the universe or something else was eager for him to see.
He saw, all right. He stood and stared for a long time, even though he knew everything he needed to know from the second he saw that the space was empty.
He knew that all of the money was gone. He was also pretty sure that he and Jake were the only ones that knew of this small stashing spot, and was definitely sure they were the only ones that knew about the money.
He knew that all of his hopes were gone.
He knew that Jake was gone.
Jake hadn't come home all day Saturday, or Sunday, or Monday. On Monday night, Gary sat in his room, unable to do anything but sit and stare and try to get his thoughts in order. A huge part of him wanted to vault out of the window, stick his thumb out at the highway, and just go. Maybe he'd get killed, but apparently nobody in the world gave a shit about him, so it wouldn't matter anyway. Jake hadn't been seen or heard from since Friday morning, when the neighbor had heard him and their father yelling at each other again; their father seemed to be glad Jake hadn't shown his face, their mother looked vaguely worried but seemed to decide the answer was in the bottom of her box of wine, and Kevin didn't say anything about him at all.
Jake had just split, and only Gary seemed to be wondering what the fuck just happened. His mind screamed with circles of we had been planning to go! and why didn't he even tell me, why didn't he say goodbye?, but the worst was what came a few minutes later when he heard his parents start to scream at each other downstairs. Why did he just take the money and leave me behind?
Soon enough, his parents stopped yelling and Kevin turned on The Beatles in his room, which Jake hated and of course Gary hated too, and Gary slowly knelt down next to his bed and reached underneath for the other secret hiding place. The loose board in the floor came up and he pulled out the Jack Daniels, then sat on his bed and studied the label. It didn't look like Jake was coming back, not with the money gone, a bunch of his shirts and jeans gone, his records and his signed poster gone, and no one had seen him in four days. Gary wondered if his brother would send him a fucking postcard from wherever he ended up going as he skipped away from here—if so, he could put it on the wall like jailbirds did inside their cells, since that's what he was going to be until he was eighteen. Maybe sooner if he could get away.
"Fuck this big, wide, shitball— and every single person on it," he said softly, almost meditatively, and unscrewed the lid of the bottle with a hard twist. The taste was awful, but when you lived in nothing but shit, you had to expect nothing but more of it. He had a few gulps and felt vaguely nauseous for a while before starting to feel a lot better. "Happy birthday, asshole," he said to the brother was no longer there. "I hope you're still alive in three months." He paused to consider this, and then he dug the Zippo out from his pocket and looked at it. He felt nothing and nodded, like he'd expected that, and bent down to put the bottle away in its hiding place again. Once that was done, he turned out all of his lights and lay on his bed on his back, fingers laced behind his head, feeling pleasantly buzzy.
So, I'm all alone, he thought. That's what I get for trusting someone to help me, but all he cared about was getting out himself. That's the real way the world works, and I better fucking remember that: nobody's there for me except me. Everybody just lies to everyone else for themselves, so don't trust anyone.
Much later, he wished he would have just listened to himself: people—the world—did not deserve second chances. He didn't even deserve them himself.
WARNINGS