Time to Go Home

by Matt Maxwell

Landon set his tray on the plastic table and plopped into the seat. It was too big for his skinny frame, but he pulled himself forward against the table. He separated the food, his Quarter Pounder and fries and Coke, from what he slid to his brother. Landon faced the wall, allowing his older brother a view of the restaurant.

Landon thought about his homework—he still had to read the last few chapters of Animal Farm for Mrs. Dunham and study for a science pop quiz his teacher subtly warned him of. He had only a few hours left before bed, the darkness outside spreading beyond the lit parking lot. He contemplated the few more weeks before summer…and then the daunting and terrifying Lake Central High School. He would be the smallest person, undoubtedly. He hoped some boy from the other feeder school would be smaller, but he wouldn't complain if the biggest runt among runts were a girl.

Although fourteen, Landon looked like a fourth grader—he couldn't even tippy-toe to five-feet-tall. His arms flailed like stalks and showed no form other than bones; the blonde hair on his arm was invisible against his pale skin. Large brown eyes gave him a soft, effeminate appearance. He walked with a slouch from trying to hide, squeeze what little of him there was into being invisible, and from carrying cumbersome textbooks because his school didn't allow book bags. He accepted his fate, though not without intermittent jealousy toward his dad and brother that sent him into days of self-loathing poetic lamentations.

Landon could sit in his dad's calloused hand and be bench-pressed with one arm. "It'll catch up. You'll get big. Have patience. I used to be pretty small too when I was young," his dad often said, oblivious of his own monolithic six-foot-five frame. And Landon's brother, Jacob, looked his seventeen. He had wide shoulders and a face of scruff and acne; from a distance, the fuzz on his upper lip looked like a long ink smudge. He wore size-twelve shoes and stood close to six-feet and walked with slumped shoulders. However, autism had shrunk his mentality to Landon's physical size.

Jacob stared, unblinking, at the people in the room as he slowly picked up one french fry at a time, never eating the tiny wedge he held in his fingertips. He piled those in the upper left corner of the tray.

"Jacob?"

"Black   Sabbath."

"Do you want ketchup?"

"Pantera." His voice was deep and muffled, as if he clenched his teeth or bit one side of his tongue; his lips barely moved. All his words tumbled as if they were attached by tentacles to his breath.

Landon poured a glop of ketchup on the wax paper. Jacob's eyes never moved, but he dipped a fry and ate it. A long dab of ketchup hung from his lip.

Jacob's brown hair was a ratty mess, disheveled, clumps sticking out. In certain cliques he could almost fit in if the hair weren't so thick. When he combed his own hair, he often held the comb like a club and used the smooth end, the teeth in the air. He wore an Evanescence concert shirt, the result of a family road trip—sans Mom—three weekends earlier to see the band. His jeans stopped inches short of his hiking boots.

"We can't stay long," Landon said, "because I have homework to do tonight."

"Tiamat."

"We have to allow time to walk home. If you don't stop to stare at trees, we can be home in ten minutes."

"Skinny   Puppy."

Jacob loved walking, especially to restaurants, and even more so at night. His laborious steps made short jaunts into tedious treks. Usually they went as a family, but Mom had felt the beginning stages of a cold, and Dad had gone to dinner with some business clients. Not the first time they ate by themselves, Landon and Jacob left just before the street lights came on.

Landon could see outside and noticed two heavy-set high school girls in the parking lot. One was a black girl wearing a gigantic North Carolina jacket. Her hair was colored in streaks of bright magenta, tiny bead rolls draping down one side, the other sprayed up like the crest of a wave. Her hands moved as fast as her mouth, which in the few seconds Landon saw her, never shut. The other girl, white, wore a coordinated 76ers outfit, the baggy shorts stopping mid-calf. As she spun to wag a finger at someone on the street, Landon saw "Iverson" on the back of the jersey. Her hair was pulled in tight cornrows and then hung down to her shoulders.

He could hear them before the door opened. He wished Jacob would have gotten a seat further in the back instead of close to the counter.

The NC girl strutted to a bar counter in the middle and sat down; Iverson stood in line, sideways. The two girls were no more than fifteen feet away, and when Iverson opened her mouth the entire restaurant stopped.

"WHATCHYA WANT?" she yelled as if they were on opposite ends of a football field.

"FUCK! JUS GIT ME A BIG MAC!" she blared with a voice hoarse and forceful, full of vibrant cockiness.

Landon tried to hide behind the bars of his seat; he waved his hand to get Jacob's attention. Jacob's expression never changed. He stared into the center of the restaurant.

"YOU WANT LETTUCE? YO."

"HELL NO!" she blurted as if someone had asked her if she were an Eskimo. "YOU KNOW I DOAN LIKE THAT GREEN SHIT!"

Iverson put her hands on her hips. "WHATCHYA WANTA DRINK?"

"A DOUBLE SHOT OF HENNESSEY!" NC laughed uproariously.

She weaved her head. "AIN'T THAT DA TRUTH!"

"TELL THAT WHITE PIMPLEFACE BOY TO GO THE LIQUOR STORE AND GET ME SOME!" She laughed even harder, slapping the bar with her hand.

"HE NEED SOME OXY TEN, TOO! YO!"

Landon glanced at the counter and saw the boy's red face. The teller looked down, biting his lip. Landon couldn't discern if he was embarrassed or angry.

NC stuck both hands in the air and swirled her hands and hips, laughing. "WHAT'S YO PROBLEM, BOY?!"

Landon didn't know she directed her question at his table—he was still trying to camouflage into the chair rails. Jacob didn't blink.

"YO! ZOMBIE! I'M TALKIN TO YA!"

Landon knew that Jacob had caught her attention. His heart raced. Blood drained from his chest and he felt cold, felt infantile.

"WHAT DA FUCK'S YO PROB?!" She dropped from the chair and stomped over. "YO! KRISTANA! COME CHECK OUT DIS FREAK!"

Landon didn't turn around but mumbled. "Leave him alone, please. He's autistic. He can't help it." His voice was tiny, as loud as the ice melting.

"HE WHAT? ARTISTIC? WHAT DAT GOT TA DO WITH WHY HE STARIN AT ME?"

"Autistic. Autistic. His brain doesn't make connections."

"NO SHIT!"

Iverson walked over and snapped her fingers at the tip of Jacob's nose. He didn't blink. "That is so phat! Yo!" She was still loud but no longer yelling.

"What's you name?" NC asked.

Landon answered, "Jacob. Can we just ... "

"I didn't axe you! I axed him." She leaned over the table and asked again. "What's yo name, freak?"

"Kyuss." His face a stolid painting, recognizing nothing, stared beyond her.

"What kind a fuckin name is dat?" Iverson blurted. She slapped NC's arm. "Dat honky got a fucked-up name!"

"No," Landon mumbled. "He talks only in band names. The last letter he hears is the first letter of a band." He wanted to eat his food but his hands shook uncontrollably. He hid them beneath the table, leaning his elbows on his knees to stop them from shaking. He wanted to disappear. He looked at the counter—several employees gawked. Landon's eyes pled for help but the oglers did nothing. Landon couldn't turn in his seat to plead for help from other customers. He prayed an adult would intervene and rescue them, but he knew they were just as scared of the obnoxious girls as he was, knowing, betting, that one of them carried a blade ... or possibly even a gun.

The girls jumped up and down, slapping their hands against their legs. "Oh dat some cool shit! Yo Yo"

"Gimme another one, G!" Iverson shouted into Jacob's face.

"Emperor."

"Who da fuck is dat! I ain't neva heard no rapper named Emperor!"

Landon sighed. "He doesn't listen to rap."

NC waved her hands. "He doan listen ta rap?! Then what do he listen to?"

Landon knew it would be a waste of energy—he wouldn't even be able to complete three sentences—to explain Jacob, how his room is a music store and concert hall, replete with posters, stacks of CDs, a stereo with surround sound, and a computer. Nor how Landon spends hours on the computer, networking with older teenagers to find bands Jacob would like, downloading songs and videos for Jacob to critique by a simple metronomic tap of his right index finger, never in time with the beat. If his finger didn't move, he didn't appreciate the music. Jacob's 100-CD changer was loaded with music, metal and rock during the day, ambient at night or when it rained.

He decided a terse, general answer would be best. "Rock."

"Say who?" Iverson reached down and grabbed several fries from Jacob's pile. He didn't register the pilfering. Landon opened his mouth and then let it shut.

NC answered, "You know! Yo! Dem skinny white dudes screamin and all dat shit!"

"Gimme another one Yo!" A chunk of a fry flew over the table. She didn't seem to care.

"Opeth."

"Damn bitch! Dis boy can't even speak true English words! He makin shit up!"

"Pink   Floyd."

"Can we eat our food, now?" Landon asked.

"Shut up! Dis is cool!"

"My brother isn't a sideshow."

NC motioned a mock swipe against Landon's head and glared with wizened violence. She turned back to Jacob. "Yo! Freak boy! You wanna hang with us and have some fun?"

"Nevermore."

Iverson howled. "Now he quotin poetry on us!"

Landon contemplated getting up. He wanted this to end and knew it required adult interference. But he didn't want to leave Jacob alone, not even for twenty seconds. "Jacob?" he asked, hoping his soft voice would be more recognizable than the obnoxious cackle of the girls.

"Black   Tape   for   a   Blue   Girl."

"Hurry up and eat so we can leave."

"Vast."

"Shit foo! You cain't leave! We gonna eat wif you!" NC looked at Iverson. "Go get our food! This bitch be hunnngryyyy!" NC took off her coat and threw it on the adjacent table.

The restaurant was silent. Landon wished he would have brought the cell phone. The girl's proximity made him nervous and repulsed him. With every wave of her arms, which was often, she sprayed a gagging, malodorous scent; their stentorian banter gave him a headache. He didn't want to go to high school next year.

When Iverson returned and the two began their jeering again—between mouths of food—Landon quickly got up and walked to the counter.

"Yo! Kid! Get me ketchup while you dere!"

Landon looked directly at the group of employees. "Get me a manager." He didn't know if his tone sounded bigger than his body, or more direct than he felt. If they would take him seriously. No one moved.

Finally, the pimpleface who the girls berated earlier answered. "He's on his lunch break."

"Where is he?"

"Over there," he said as he pointed to a corner in the restaurant. Landon followed the finger's direction and saw a kid, barely older than the girls still pestering and mocking Jacob, slouched in a corner, his arm around a girl. They both were laughing as they watched the show.

"Go tell him that if he doesn't get those girls away from us I'm going to call the cops." They stared at him. He figured they were trying to decide if this impudent fourth-grader would go through with it. In the back of his mind, behind the tension of the situation, he wished he were his dad's size—he'd show the bitches some social tact.

After several seconds, an employee walked to the corner, leaned into the manager's ear, listened for a short reply, and returned. He looked above Landon, still watching the scene. "He said go ahead and call them. He's on his lunch, so he's not on the clock and can't do anything."

"This place is going to be in so much trouble!" Despite acting twice his size, he still felt small. He tromped back to his table.

Even with mouthfuls of food and inhaling large gulps of drinks, they continued, loud, oblivious. NC, both hands busy with food and gesticulations, asked, "You ever watch B-E-T?"

"Therion."

"You gotta watch that show! Niggas be getting craaaazy! Channel forty-four." She laughed.

"Riot."

"Dis is like rain main!" Iverson yammered. "Too bad he doan know numbers."

"Savatage."

"Or real music." She rocked forcefully in the chair, causing it to creak and groan.

"Celtic   Frost."

"This is sooo ill!"

"Love   Spirals   Downward."

Landon grabbed Jacob's hand and pulled. Jacob barely moved, responding as if someone had accidentally bumped into him. Landon refused to look at the girls, hoping that by ignoring their eyes—though he would have rather ignored their voices—they would cease to exist. He'd have to eat something at home after abandoning the food.

"YO!" NC screamed. "YOU AIN'T LEAVIN YET!"

"Tool."

He tugged harder, punched Jacob's shoulder. "We're going home. Jacob, get up. Now!"

"Warrior   Soul."

NC grabbed his arm sleeve. "Shit! Honky! We just havin some fun! Ain't nuttin wrong!" Landon jerked away and glared at her.

"God   Lives   Underwater."

Iverson slouched in her chair. "Aw! Let em go. It's probly they bedtime anyways."

"Steely   Dan."

"This motherfucker cracks me up!" NC bayed.

Landon thought he saw a smile crease Jacob's façade. He yanked with all his might, and Jacob, like a sloth, responded by lifting his arm. "Come on! Dad's waiting for us!" Landon prodded.

"Skyclad."

The girls rocked in their chairs, threw their hands up. NC opened her mouth to reveal a gooey mass of cheeseburger burgoo. "Are you goin home to get yo daddy?"

"Yes," Jacob muttered as he stumbled in front of Landon's arms.

Landon never looked back on his way out, but cussed under his breath, angry at his size, infuriated at the apathy of others. He bit his lip to fight back tears. He kept a hand on Jacob's shoulder.

Copyright © Matt Maxwell 2005

Time to Go Home was first published at the now-defunct WritersBar.com