The years are longer when less of them have accumulated. Punk’s twelfth year was not his worst but it was long. It hung around his body like a summer heat, reluctant to dissipate.
Shearwater County Day School, for Christian boys and girls, for wealthy boys and girls, did an altogether inaccurate job of disciplining and educating the young man. Many of his teachers had no idea there was supposed to be a 24th pupil in social studies class, or someone in the back row of 7th grade algebra. Those that were aware he was missing sighed with relief and neglected to mark the absence down. They didn’t want the administration to find him and drag him back.
Meanwhile, Punk was wherever he felt like being…
He was riding his bike much faster than necessary along the asphalt catenaries of his upper-class suburbiahood. Throwing rocks through well-chosen windows along the way.
He was sitting in the plaza downtown under a tree with two derelict homeless of Jamaican origin who were more than happy to buy him 6-packs of beer at $20 a pop, and who were thus also generous with their endless supply of marijuana.
He was getting his right hand put in a cast.
He was ranting and roaming at three in the morning outside of the house owned by the parents of his schoolgirl crush, picking the leaves off every one of their bushes and piling them neatly on the doorstep.
He was beating up that red-haired kid in the park, squirting sunscreen in his eyes and testing the effects of a large rock to the skull.
He was up late at night masturbating timidly to a single coveted porno tape, procured from his best friend’s father’s astute library. The girl which aroused the most fury in his hot new fist was not the screamer, nor the moaner, nor the writher, but the black-haired girl with the dead eyes who just sort of lay there and didn’t do anything.
He was at the public pool, face covered in Fudgebomb, urinating in strategic underwater locations, snapping bikini bras, dunking toddlers.
He was getting stitches in his forehead.
He was sitting in his parents’ three-story mock-Tudor château estate home sneering at its clean white lines and color-coordinated floral and botanical reproductions. Dragging his toes across the pristine carpets, using every bit of his strength to keep from spray-painting the empty walls.
He was waiting outside of a frat party, his bike stashed in the bushes until the frat boys got to the point in their drunkenness where they would welcome him in with jeers and chant strange initials in a masculine crescendo as he was hoisted to his first keg stand.
He was talking to a prostitute.
He was slowly backing his dad’s car out of the garage, about to find out what it meant to really drive.
He was perfecting a double flip, with twist, off of the high dive.
He was backing terrified yet thrilled 12-year-old girls into corners at the point of his pocket knife and making them lift their shirts, whether they had any or not.
He was pressing his hands against his newly-shaved head as his mother launched into one of her stock hysterias, fringe and diamonds flying everywhere.
He was trying to get from his house to that of the girl he liked, solely by leaping from rooftop to rooftop, crawling across tree branches when necessary. He had made it halfway there and was staring at a canyonesque distance to the next awning.
He decided to change his name. To Punk.
He was sitting on the curb in front of his best friend’s house, their heads propped on bored elbows as they waited for the steaming stack of feces Punk had recently deposited in the road to be run over. By a large truck, they hoped.
He was kicking ass at video games.
He was bounding through a moonless night; joyfully tearing down every strand of Christmas lights he could find.
He was wondering what it would like to be thirteen.
He was beating up his best friend. Because the kid was a pussy.
He was crying and crying face down on his bed because he wanted his fire to burn stuff down, but not half of the entire nature preserve.
He was shoving another pair of crapped-in skivvies in to the back corner of his closet. He didn’t know why that only ever happened to him.
He was flying down the biggest hill in his neighborhood, belly down on his skateboard, eyes stinging with wind and wonder.
He was looking at his father’s face register disinterest at his shivering figure on the doorstep flanked by two policemen.
He was stealing records from his best friend’s older brother. The Clobbers, Fist and Tooth, The Spangers, Dirty McGee.
He was thought responsible for every toilet-papering of medium quality or above in a five-mile radius, whether he was the responsible artist or not.
He was sick of using crutches.
He was smashing the new guitar he got for Christmas because he couldn’t play his favorite punk song.
He was doted on by a certain over-the-hill coked-up biker bartendress who was happy to trade screwdrivers for large tips from an underager. Amongst the soft old lushes at the dank little dive he was a popular personality.
He was stealing more of his dad’s argyle socks. He knew the old doctor objected, but he was much too busy, distracted, and besides a little afraid, to really say anything about it. He had only had the child at his wife’s request anyhow, and she could go to hell.
He was trying to eat the world alive. His grades suffered.
Shearwater County Day School, for Christian boys and girls, for wealthy boys and girls, did an altogether inaccurate job of disciplining and educating the young man. Many of his teachers had no idea there was supposed to be a 24th pupil in social studies class, or someone in the back row of 7th grade algebra. Those that were aware he was missing sighed with relief and neglected to mark the absence down. They didn’t want the administration to find him and drag him back.
Meanwhile, Punk was wherever he felt like being…
He was riding his bike much faster than necessary along the asphalt catenaries of his upper-class suburbiahood. Throwing rocks through well-chosen windows along the way.
He was sitting in the plaza downtown under a tree with two derelict homeless of Jamaican origin who were more than happy to buy him 6-packs of beer at $20 a pop, and who were thus also generous with their endless supply of marijuana.
He was getting his right hand put in a cast.
He was ranting and roaming at three in the morning outside of the house owned by the parents of his schoolgirl crush, picking the leaves off every one of their bushes and piling them neatly on the doorstep.
He was beating up that red-haired kid in the park, squirting sunscreen in his eyes and testing the effects of a large rock to the skull.
He was up late at night masturbating timidly to a single coveted porno tape, procured from his best friend’s father’s astute library. The girl which aroused the most fury in his hot new fist was not the screamer, nor the moaner, nor the writher, but the black-haired girl with the dead eyes who just sort of lay there and didn’t do anything.
He was at the public pool, face covered in Fudgebomb, urinating in strategic underwater locations, snapping bikini bras, dunking toddlers.
He was getting stitches in his forehead.
He was sitting in his parents’ three-story mock-Tudor château estate home sneering at its clean white lines and color-coordinated floral and botanical reproductions. Dragging his toes across the pristine carpets, using every bit of his strength to keep from spray-painting the empty walls.
He was waiting outside of a frat party, his bike stashed in the bushes until the frat boys got to the point in their drunkenness where they would welcome him in with jeers and chant strange initials in a masculine crescendo as he was hoisted to his first keg stand.
He was talking to a prostitute.
He was slowly backing his dad’s car out of the garage, about to find out what it meant to really drive.
He was perfecting a double flip, with twist, off of the high dive.
He was backing terrified yet thrilled 12-year-old girls into corners at the point of his pocket knife and making them lift their shirts, whether they had any or not.
He was pressing his hands against his newly-shaved head as his mother launched into one of her stock hysterias, fringe and diamonds flying everywhere.
He was trying to get from his house to that of the girl he liked, solely by leaping from rooftop to rooftop, crawling across tree branches when necessary. He had made it halfway there and was staring at a canyonesque distance to the next awning.
He decided to change his name. To Punk.
He was sitting on the curb in front of his best friend’s house, their heads propped on bored elbows as they waited for the steaming stack of feces Punk had recently deposited in the road to be run over. By a large truck, they hoped.
He was kicking ass at video games.
He was bounding through a moonless night; joyfully tearing down every strand of Christmas lights he could find.
He was wondering what it would like to be thirteen.
He was beating up his best friend. Because the kid was a pussy.
He was crying and crying face down on his bed because he wanted his fire to burn stuff down, but not half of the entire nature preserve.
He was shoving another pair of crapped-in skivvies in to the back corner of his closet. He didn’t know why that only ever happened to him.
He was flying down the biggest hill in his neighborhood, belly down on his skateboard, eyes stinging with wind and wonder.
He was looking at his father’s face register disinterest at his shivering figure on the doorstep flanked by two policemen.
He was stealing records from his best friend’s older brother. The Clobbers, Fist and Tooth, The Spangers, Dirty McGee.
He was thought responsible for every toilet-papering of medium quality or above in a five-mile radius, whether he was the responsible artist or not.
He was sick of using crutches.
He was smashing the new guitar he got for Christmas because he couldn’t play his favorite punk song.
He was doted on by a certain over-the-hill coked-up biker bartendress who was happy to trade screwdrivers for large tips from an underager. Amongst the soft old lushes at the dank little dive he was a popular personality.
He was stealing more of his dad’s argyle socks. He knew the old doctor objected, but he was much too busy, distracted, and besides a little afraid, to really say anything about it. He had only had the child at his wife’s request anyhow, and she could go to hell.
He was trying to eat the world alive. His grades suffered.
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