Not in My Backyard

Well, my father’s always been a pain in the ass. It’s a simple fact, of the kind no one can ignore, yet at the same time they do. Like the knowledge of the sky being blue and the grass supposedly being green; everybody knows and consequently overlook it. Perhaps it is the grass, precisely, the root of the problem, what with us living in the country of the gardens and all… I really don’t understand what’s the obsession with keeping well the bunch of the twigs and stuff, even at the cost of sacrificing precious money for like, lets say, the kids college or something. Not that I’m bitter for having to work for every summer of my god damned adolescence to save money for my superior studies. Nah.

Maybe I am, maybe that’s sort of… fuelling me to keep things going. And hell, it’s not my fault I grew to be so cynic because he preferred spending his time and money in gardening than on me, and that he’s most interested in every year’s city gardening competition. Fuck’s sake, it’s not like I was a needy kid or an attention seeking whore; I just wanted some quality time with the old bat, to beat him senseless at rugby or whatever. He should be surprised I turned out to be such a nice boy, because after all, I was raised by a florist father –I wonderfully didn’t turn out gay. Sometimes I’ve wondered if he is… That would explain his detachment from me-, and by intense sessions of video games and Asian cartoons that, given the ideas they implanted in my head, didn’t twisted me into becoming a psychopath or killing myself by sticking a finger or something else in the wrong place.

Fine, I admit it, it’s the rebellious streak in me that he does not fancy, that and my dislike for gardening.

So what if a couple of years back I tried to sabotage his project for that ridiculous contest? Huh?

That’s why he took his gardening to the backyard, and well damn, I felt right down in the dumps. The man was pure evil, he knew it, I knew it, but sadly, child services would listen to shit of what I said because, one, I’m not one anymore and I have ways of proving it, and two, well, just who the hell would listen to what I have to say? Especially after that night I spent in jail for a crime I didn’t commit –Blah, I just smashed a couple of mailboxes one night; in my defence I was wasted and really needed to take a piss, it wasn’t my fault I confused them for loos. Ignore the fact that it happened twice in a night. The shit hit the fan and I was locked because I was severely drunk and wasn’t legal back then. By now I’ve mastered my drinking and pissing technique and am legal, hah-.

So to answer my question, there’s only one person in the world who takes my word seriously, and it’s because she wants to get in my pants. I do believe she would gladly behead me if she ever found out I even as thought that, and I’m not precisely talking about losing the head above my neck.

Her name’s Emma, and she moved to the house behind mine about four or six years ago. I should just say five and be over with it, eh? But I like complicating things. The problem is, so does my dad, and by moving his gardening crap to the backyard he has completely fucked my night escapades towards my sweet, beloved Emma –I bet she would love to hear me say that one… She can keep waiting-. One would wonder, how a bunch of dead tools and living but unmoving objects can stop me from reaching my ultimate objective. –Undoubtedly, I refer to Emma-. Easy, my good for nothing of a father has an alarm system installed to protect his ultra secret yearly project. I –trying to get him mad- innocently asked why he had it, if a spy could easily take a picture if he or she wanted to steal his, obviously, better idea, which considering he was just another ant in a humongous universe suggested he was a tad conceited one. He mouthed me off for a good while, giving me the impression that he wanted to strangle his disrespectful son. Me.

Naturally he kept on with his plan and moved his garden to the backyard. I honestly hope his garden rots in hell; it’d make him suffer more than him actually going to hell. Oh well.

So shit, I need to be allowed to be raging mad if my plans of visiting one gorgeous Emma get frustrated, much more if by the old hag. That sucker. I sighed and put down the beer I was drinking, I looked up to my mates of the rugby team, all quickly stuffing their faces in beer and the always welcome Guinness. I scrunched up my face and rubbed a hand against it, heaving a sigh that made me sound as though I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. And how could that not be? This was supposed to be our night, dammit, we had planned it for months! We had taken all precautions, made insane calculations and this was the perfect night! Then I had to goad the old twat too far and boom! My backyard was not mine anymore to walk through to the fence, jump over it and make my Emma surrender in my arms.

“What’s wrong, Jamesie?” It was Markus; he always had a way of figuring out my moods. I once told him about that gay oddity and he all but laughed at my face, saying it was easy as pie because my facial expressions were much more readable than a toddler’s book.

“Nothing.” Of course, that didn’t mean I had to go telling him –or anybody, for that matter- any of my blasted business.

He gave me the suspecting look, his dark mane bobbing up and down with his nods. “Uh huh, have a Guinness, then.” He passed to me and I smiled with wicked glee, grateful he dropped the topic or else I’d have probably blabbered all of my not getting any and almost getting some that was messed by my dad’s brain seizure.

I believe it was precisely Markus’ fault I spent that night in jail, because he was the one who always kept passing me more drinks; I nodded to myself, stumbling on my steps, as I hastily made my way back home, a beer stain on my blue and grey shirt. I burped and promptly ignored the stench of alcohol that came from my own mouth. I stopped in front of a mailbox and stuck my hands inside my jeans’ pockets, grinning like an idiot at it. Maybe it could give me something tonight?

I shook my head rapidly, grunting and kicking myself forward. “My,” Strangled noise from my throat. “You really are wasted, James.” I… giggled. “Mayhap it is time for the ultimate, uh… that.”

I grinned to myself again, it faltering when a large gap replaced my previous thought, then smiling happily at the epiphany of remembering it. I surely wouldn’t be put to jail this time, but I was going to be due for a beating from my dad once I was done.

In the matter of seconds I stood in front of our backyard. I whistled whole heartedly. Dad pretty much outdid himself this year. How sad it was that fate had it to be ruined by a drunk punk, such as me. I grabbed a pebble from the small path and hurled it in the air; I was not surprised it didn’t reach Emma’s window pane, however I was when the alarm didn’t set off.

“Hmm,” I grabbed a handful of pebbles. “Interesting.” I started throwing them, but to be frank, I missed each one of them by a range of, I don’t know, a couple of feet. That’s not okay, considering I play some hard-ass, hard-core rugby; but what can I say, I wasn’t in my highest mental health state.

When I finally understood the pebbles were not working, and that I couldn’t bend anymore because the dizziness only got worse, I decided yelling would be the best course of action.

“Emma! Emmaaa!”

I put a foot on the neat looking grass and felt my pants grow wet, so I looked down, and I vaguely noticed that all of me was getting wet.

“Damn that man to all seven hells.”

But I, well, I was feeling kind of needy right then. I face it, all of me was feeding needy, and definitely not for my father.

“Emma Marie Lachlan!”

My voice was raw and wavering, but I exhaled a relieved sigh when I saw her pretty, sleepy face poke out of her window.

“Ugh. What do you want, James?” She sounded ticked off, and I don’t blame her, after all I basically stood her up on our big night. “You do know the sprinklers are on, don’t you, fool?” She sounded amused then, though.

I shrugged, my back shivered a bit by the cold and the unmistakeable need for her. “I noticed; I just don’t seem to care.”

“Because you’re drunk.” She added unnecessarily, if I may add.

And still I repeated. “Because I’m drunk.” I jerked my head and let a wolfish grin creep up my face. “C’mon lets do it, right now, right here. I’m ready to be deflowered.”

So what if I wasn’t before?

I heard footsteps behind me while she laughed. She leaned against her window and even in my drunken state I saw the glitter of her dark eyes as she regarded me, tucking a strand of her equally dark hair behind her ear, making me rush to the fence and –by the alcohol’s effect, I swear- crash against it and falling back on my back.

“Omph!”

“Blasted boy! Yer drunk again, aren’t ye?”

I spluttered water and propped myself up on my elbows, all the while staring at Emma, praying to God she wouldn’t mock me for the rest of my life for that little stunt after I so painfully squashed my proud manhood against the fence in my desperate attempt to take it closer to her.

“Look at that! Ye lad, ye’ve ruined mine perfect lawn! Mine work! All ruined by yer drunken self!”

“Come down Emma, lets do it in the lawn!”

“James!”

“Oh, hell nein! Take yer horny selves elsewhere, far away from my lawn!”

“Emma,” I whined. “I really, really want you.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re sober and preferably in pain.”

I moved aside the reddish bangs of hair that didn’t let me see her pretty, flushing face… oh, there it is. “No, now!”

“Not in my backyard!”

“Marry me, Emma!”

I made out some gasps from between the endless sound of water drops falling all around and on me.

“James McKay!”

And then I passed out. I don’t know if it was because I was too tired after the rugby match, or because I was too wasted, or because I was turned on so hard –nice pun- that my body spontaneously combusted. In any case, I reckon it wasn’t exactly how the night was supposed to go; the original plan was for me to sneak out of my room, get in Emma’s, have a passionate night in where I’d make her scream, moan and groan my name as she arched under me, because of me, and after that, when we were too exhausted to move I’d ask her to marry me and have her cry against my neck in joy, to then give in to each other for some more love making; but instead she shouted my name because I embarrassed her in front of my father before passing out over a lawn that once stood the chance of taking the fat award this year.

The next day I woke up with a sour mood, with an even worse taste in my mouth and a head that throbbed like a bitch. I rolled over and fell off my bed. My nose hit the floor in an awkward angle, but I let it that way. It didn’t hurt that much, not more than my head. I laid sprawled on my stomach even when someone got in my room, and from the soft jasmine scent I knew it was my Emma. Then, I wondered what her response was. Was it stupid of me to hope for a yes, considering the events?

“Who brought me to my room?” I sounded husky, my throat hurt and I was very thirsty. “I’m thirsty.”

She snorted and jumped over me to sit on my bed. My back stiffened as her foot brushed it lightly. “You should be; you were really wasted last night, even to go as far as to say some pretty idiotic things.”

I felt deflated, that had to be a flatter no than a flat no. “Oh… So, um, who brought me up?”

“Your dad and I, you gave us quite the work out. That rugby is giving you too much muscle as to move you easily. How do you cope with it?”

She was talking about my muscles, or the rugby. Why? I have no idea. No, I did. After spending six years, three months and one exact week knowing her, I’ve come to comprehend that when she says seemingly pointless things it’s because she’s using them as an analogy to something very important, but an analogy only she understands.

Maybe she’s talking about my hangover, my drinking habit or my broken heart?

“I deal.” I spat, turning my face the opposite way from hers. Last thing I want right now is for her to see me biting my lip to not wail like a baby.

“James, about last night-”

“Save it.”

“But-”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

There was a pause. “So now you don’t want to hear my answer? Or were you really that drunk last night?” She sounded hurt. “I don’t get it, don’t drunk people always state the truth, or where you lying when you asked me to marry you, sounding so desperate?”

That sad tone could only mean one thing, I ventured…

“No, please tell me your answer.” And in my best apologetic tone too, even though barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

I waited for her answer, but then the engines in my head moved, crushing a spider or two in their sudden awakening. I jumped from the floor, probably resembling a school girly with the squeal, ignored the spirits of the dead spiders pounding against my skull from the inside and tackled my Emma against my bed, all that before giving her a long, deep, acidic tasting kiss that brought life even to the tips of my red hairs.

My beautiful Emma said yes!

“Lets make love in the backyard!” I told her breathlessly after the kiss.

She widened her gorgeous, dark eyes. “I don’t think-”

Then my dad’s voice shouted, just from outside my room. “Not in my backyard!”

And I was surprised to hear him scream and look at me, blissfully and proudly for the first time.

My dad… He’s such an annoying fellow, always ditching me for plants, always scolding me, looking down at me, disapproving of my choices and actions, always absent. But that day I saw for the first time how his green eyes, so much like mine, gazed at me the way a caring parent was supposed to, and the cascade of glistening tears under them that spoke for his heart what his words could never say, always twisting on the way up so it seemed he didn’t care, that he was a manly man.

And right then, in the arms of my future wife, staring at my elated father, I cried, even if I spoiled this year’s chance of him to win the big check for his garden.

Take care, y’all!

Armith-Greenleaf