Thorman

Somewhere in Williamsburg, in the second story of a little house in a row of others just like it, a high school freshman sits, waiting, staring into space. He’s had people over every other day this week: they can’t break the trend now, can they? His chair facing the corner, his body too heavy to be worth lifting, he stares directly into the peach-colored, ash-stained wall that was once white. Yesterday, a group of fairly attractive girls—or women, he couldn’t really tell—came over and smoked with him, copped some pills from him. That particular day was pretty busy, busy enough that these matrons of the arts certainly didn’t expect to be remembered the next day, but right now this freshman, who has already stopped going to his zone school entirely and reserved his one-way ticket to Village Academy, has gotten fairly hot and bothered. Right now, he is staring at the sign that one of them left—oh, but they were such teases! Tripping on a combination of something and something and something else, a particularly desirable one had snatched a sharpie off the desk and drawn a large labia on the wall behind her, slowly at first, then in broad, vigorous strokes, giggling with all the nervous confidence of a newly initiated nudist. Dropping the sharpie, she had scanned the room, then locked eyes with the freshman as if to ask for approval. No words were exchanged—she briefly clutched her belt, he let out a quantity of drool—not a lot, but enough. She had giggled, picked up the sharpie, added a few hairs to the masterpiece behind her, and left, sharpie still in hand. He kinda wants it back right now, but he can get another.
How long has it now been since one of the really cool ones let him fuck?
He moans a bit, scratches his chin which is just now beginning to sprout its first hairs, and falls into a slump.
Suddenly:

	— Yo, Thorman! Where you at?

He pulls himself back into proper posture—or the closest to such a thing that his body can manage.

	— Thor-MAN! We gonna fuck you up, bro!

He bravely jolts to his feet, standing up for the first time today.

	— Thorman, schmaaaaacked boi!

He hurries out of his room, briefly winces from the light, and stumbles downstairs.

	— Aight, Thorman, time’s up, we hear you!

He bursts out of the door to the main hallway, adjusts his glasses, and meets the crowd with a wide and bright yet blank grin. Several seconds of expectant silence ensue before all those present burst into laughter.

	— Throman, bro!

A tall kid in front with a skullcap hugs him, an even taller redhead in flannel quickly shoves past him, some guests who he doesn’t have the time or willpower to look at slap him on the back, and they all head upstairs.

*

	— Ayy, look at this lil puppy! Who a good dog? You a good dog. You a good dog!

	— shit wack. yr here for one reason.

	— Pfff... Poor thing, living with Thorman. What do you think it’s thinking, surrounded by all of us like this?

	— its thinking “im wack”

	— Hey, come on, why do you have to be so mean to a little dog?

	— why it gotta be so wack?

	— What did a cute dog ever do to you?

	— Oi! You really wanna keep listening to this shit?

	— yeah i feel this shit wack man

The kid had some nameless first-wave punk rock playing on his boombox. I glanced at him from across the room and thought of asking permission to change it up for a second, but really, I was going to do it no matter what. Our bassist and I exchanged a grimacing look, flipped through his CD binder for a moment and didn’t find shit: just more of the same.

	— Oboi, we got a real rebel here.

Nobody responded. I pouted and set the binder down on the bed.
Sitting on the dresser: HISTORY OF POST-PUNK, 1978-1980. Funny: I had the same book at one point. Someone had drawn on this copy’s spine with lipstick with strokes that seemed to extend to and from both covers. I didn’t care enough at the moment to find out whether or not there was lipstick on the inside too: the condition of the sides of the pages seen from afar was enough for me to conclude that it wouldn’t really make a huge difference to the book’s readability at that point. It was a pretty shit book, but man—when I got bored of my copy, I just chucked mine into the nearest public library’s donation box. Different ways of death, I guess: my burial as opposed to his cremation. I knew which way I preferred.
The decor here was a stark contrast to that downstairs. You’d think you were in an office building down there—but up here? You got Thorman. Heaven forbid anyone ever try to sell this house—but maybe it’d be fine. The permanent damage done to this niche might be seen as “rich, authentic, lived-in” by the mongrels who would buy houses here.
Thorman announced:

	— G-ghhh— ghhkkhaaahch— gg-ggiggyhgaAAahH...

The room was stuffed as shit, and filthy, filthy, filthy. We sat on stained towels or napkins or rags: I’m not sure what they were. We drank—I don’t know what, we just drank it. The room was easily the least spacious in the whole house, as well as the most out-of-the way: one had to ascend a whole flight of stairs to get to this tiny, dingy, bombed-out space, the only other space on this level being a closet opposite the door. Thorman practically lived on a desert island.

	— this shit nasty. like some college shit but... nasty, yo.

I grinned and glanced at Nina, who raised her eyebrows and shook her head while drinking the mystery-liquid. She might have gotten up and made a cheesy, lame, Japanese-laced joke if there was even room to stand, but the room was like a crowded subway car right then: so many people in so little space that a single motion might send everyone toppling over. Right then, Thorman let out a loud groan, and the door swung open, hitting some girl in the back of her head—who knows if she even felt it. A middle-aged woman stood right in the entrance-way, wearing an assortment of Buddhist-Hindu-Shinto-miscellaneous eastern charms. The whole room fell silent, save for a low scraping noise. She scanned the crowd, giving an individual glare to each and every one of us. Her gaze finally stopped at Thorman—the source of the scraping noise. He was cutting up lines, and he hadn’t thought to stop. A silence ensued—only several seconds long, sure, but it seemed to take forever. Finally, the middle-aged woman let out, in a warm and bright but incredibly raspy voice:

	— Do you need anything?

Thorman was still cutting up lines. Not looking up from his task, he shivered for a moment, then shook his head, and went:

	— N-nnn-nah.

The middle-aged woman nodded, then closed the door and left in one swift motion. The bustle resumed. I glanced over to our bassist, who had broken out into the most exuberant laughter I had ever seen from him. I looked over at Thorman, still not finished with his task, still intent on it.
Poor fucking kid.

*

You think you hard, but my boy tough. He’ll take the L. He growing a nice ol’ scruffy beard, carrying his guitar but no amp, singing falsetto and shit. He get together with his bro, they go way back, and he gonna write a song about a girl who done him wrong. Shit. Then he’ll come up in here with one name on his jacket and another on his person. He don’t talk politics and he don’t like trendy shit but he gonna make sure he’s heard. You know shit going down when Altan Zayd roll up.

*

There’s a kid in the backyard lying prone, wearing nothing but a button-up, arms stretched out. It’s just like the last time I was here. Cute kids. This is a nice place. Thorman better not get used to having a backyard past high school, though.
Zayd’s on the other side of town with Aldun, I heard. Why Aldun? That boy’s boring. I could head over and see Sergei and Ben. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do after this.
In the back: Takahata’s met his match.

	— Hey, man, nice to meet you, I’m Franko.

	— We’ve met.

I nudge that weird bassist hanging out in the corner, rolling up. He’s around so many people, but who’s his group? Poor kid. He turns around faster than the speed of light. Damn, is he gonna snap my neck or something? But it’s all okay, and he gestures toward the door. I giggle a bit. We don’t end up moving.
Takahata and Franko are still at it.

	— Hey, so what kind of camera is that, bro?

	— I dunno. I take pictures.

	— Me too! You know, my school has a darkroom. Do you develop your own photos?

Someday they’ll either kill each other or just straight up get killed by the same person: maybe even me!
I nudge the bassist again. He raises his chin up again, holds it high for a moment, then drops it, and laughs in a weird sorta guttural but nervous but still threatening way.
He darts upstairs.

*

Teen auteur stumbles into future professor stumbles into future inmate, bodies, glasses and joints collide, twitching limbs fail to assert so much as a budge, and the whole house lets out a low groan.
Through the boombox seated on the windowsill right above the backyard:

	— fuck kill steal shit

And finally the music here’s got some life, even if the guests don’t. No matter: Thorman has woken up to stolen pills and ruined belongings, like he does more or less every night these days, and it’s time to kick everyone out until they all come back tomorrow, and maybe the day after, and almost certainly the day after that if not then. Now, Thorman is rising to his feet, struggling to stay upright, maybe scanning his immediate surroundings for something to put in his mouth or nose. Now he is heading downstairs, tripping over discarded garments, glasses and—
Thorman and a certain bassist are face to face.

*

Like good St. Nicholas, here is Altan Zayd, coming to visit the children and post-children of New York, all gathered now in Williamsburg. He was going to bring Levi along, but, well—Levi will be Levi, and if he not down for shit that night, he just not gonna be down for shit no matter what.

*

	— lemme cop some more

	— Why you, man? What? What’s wrong? How you not turnt by now? Come on. Y-y-you flush it, bro? Are you a square?

Unmoved by this response, the nasal whine of Thorman’s voice doing nothing to help, the bassist shoves Thorman aside and heads upstairs.

	— Hey, what the fuck, man?

Thorman waddles after him as fast as his body will allow.

*

Coming down the street to Thorman’s house, Zayd squints and rubs his eyes. Here is everyone he was going to surprise, coming towards him, and then some. Too many people, too little direction. Like the tribe of Israel wandering the desert up in here.

	— What happened, yo?

	— yo why you here

	— Eh, just wanted to stop by, see what Thorman up to.

	— hnnh... nah. nah, son.

	— Well, okay.

	— why you not with aldun? thought you were hanging there man.

	— Nah, kid gets boring.

	— yo we gonna see ben sergei that whole crew. you down?

Zayd shrugs, turns around and joins the slow march—or collective lurch—towards the station.
What a waste of a subway fare.

*

The next afternoon, Thorman slowly pulls himself up from the floor, lurches into a reclined position, and stares at the stains all around him. He begins counting but stops fairly quickly. He looks at his wall, observing the new graffiti from last night, while clawing at his stubble and nodding like the art critic that he might never be at this point. He looks from one broken glass to one discarded glass to the next, to the next. He thinks of everyone last night and gets really sad all of a sudden.
How long has it now been since one of the really cool ones let him fuck?