Xander's Rage Part I

           Brandon’s fist soared through the air like a knuckle-shaped bird towards my face so fast it whistled.

            I hope he washed his hands recently.

            “Oof!”

            Brandon’s balled up fist smashed into my face like a freight train into a brick wall. The class ring on his middle finger sliced my cheek open a little bit and warm blood began to trickle out.

            Oh no, germs! I need to dip my face into a bucket of vodka.

             I stumbled backwards into the bar behind me and slid down into a puddle of liquid.

            What the hell? Now I need a shower and a new pair of jeans, I’ll never wear these again. Quick! I need to get some antibiotic cream and some bandages for my face!

            I scanned the room around me and was met by an awestruck crowd gazing right back. Brandon took a couple of steps towards me while he kneaded his knuckles. His fierce eyes shot a look of hatred through my head like a bullet and I was unable to make enough eye contact with him to return the favor.

            Damnit, Clayton. Do something. Stand up and hit him in his gross face. What would Xander Hope do in this position?

            A smile parted my lips as I forced my eyes to meet his. The thought of Xander Hope gave me courage to face down my enemy as if he were the Super Goblin himself.

            “My shoes are still on, Bitch,” I said. Brandon scowled at my comment and thrust his foot into my chest. Oxygen fled my body like zombies were chasing it. The force of his kick rocked the bar above me enough to tip over the bowl of nuts some dude was eating.

            Who eats bar nuts? Seriously, they’re filled with diseases.

            I looked up just in time for the nuts to land squarely on my bloody face.

            The cut! Oh sweet mother of God, now I have AIDS!

#

            Thwack! My dad pulled his hand out of his glove to examine the damage I did with my homemade fastball.

            “Whoo. Boy would you look at that,” said my Dad as he held his hand out for me to see. The palm of his hand was very smooth and in the center of it was a bright red spot where he had caught the ball.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said.

            “You didn’t hurt me, Son. It’ll take a lot more than that to hurt your old man.” He smiled at me and put his glove back on. His salt and pepper hair glistened in the afternoon sun. He was getting old. His face was lined with wrinkles and the bags underneath his eyes were big enough to carry all of his worries. His skin was also tanned so much from being out in the sun that it looked almost leathery.

            Are ball gloves made from human skin?

            “Get back out there!” he said. “We only have another hour before I have to catch my plane.” My dad was a sports recruiter. He got to travel all across America to watch high school and college events so he could see which players were worth investing in. He said it brought in enough money to feed us and that his being gone all the time was a sacrifice for the greater good.

            “Where do you get to go this time?” I asked. My dad threw the ball back to me. It floated into the sun making it hard for me to catch it.

            “A small place is South Dakota called Rapid City,” he said. The ball tipped the edge of my glove and landed a couple of feet in front of me. “Brian Shaffer is a high school baseball star and the minor leagues want me to check him out.”

            I suck at baseball. Maybe if I played like Brian Shaffer Dad would stick around more often to watch me.

            “Where is that at?” I asked him as I picked up the ball and threw it back to him as hard as I could. I was a very thin and lanky child, which made athletics a big challenge for me. Brandon Turner said I looked like a faggot because of how thin I was. The fact that I had shaggy brown hair that fell into my eyes and pale white skin probably didn’t help his opinion of me any. Mom told me to play outside so I could get a tan, but I’d rather stay inside and play Xander’s Rage. Video games are much more fun than sports and being outside.      

            “It’s in the Midwest over near Colorado,” he said.

            “That’s where John Elway played football, huh?” I asked him.

            Don’t pretend you like sports.

            “Sure is, Chief. Did I ever tell you how I recruited him the Broncos?”

            “No.”

            “I did. The Baltimore Colts picked him up as the first overall draft pick in 1983. He was uncomfortable about playing there so I arranged for him to get traded to the Broncos.” My dad was so proud of his John Elway story that he wore a shit-eating grin on his face when he told it to me.

            I may not know much about sports, but I do know that professional athletes have personal agents who do that kind of stuff. Mom said he just helps people get into college.

            “But mom said that all you do is recruit kids into college.”

            “Well that’s most of what I do,” he said.

            “She also said if you’re not busy recruiting you’re busy banging your assistant.”

            His grin quickly turned into a frown and his tan cheeks turned as red as an apple. His eyes glossed over and he looked away from me. I could hear the mumbling as he swore to himself like he sometimes does while he punched the inside of his glove with his free hand.  

            “Dad, are you okay?”

            “I’m fine little guy. Give me a sec will ya?” After a few minutes my dad turned back around and threw the ball into the sun. “Heads up, Clayton!” He yelled. I gazed into the sun in search for the ball, but it was too late. In an instant the sun hid behind the ball as it smashed into the upper part of my cheek. White light filled my vision and a humming vibration bounced against the walls of my head. My hands shot up to my cheek to check on the damage. At that same moment my dad rushed forward and put his hands on my shoulders. Tears welled up in my eyes and I fought as hard as I could to hold them back. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of him.  
            Don’t cry Clayton. Don’t. Men don’t cry, just like daddy always says. Be a big boy. I bet Brian Shaffer never cries. Would Xander Hope cry if he got hit in the face with a baseball?

            “Hey, okay. You’re alright. Just sit down and let me see your face,” he said. I moved my hands away from my face and my dad got a better look.

            “Okay, open your eyes and look at me.” I opened them for my dad to examine.  “Welp. It doesn’t look like you’re going to have a concussion, but you’re going to have a pretty nice shiner there, Boy.” My dad picked me up and walked me back to the truck. My lower lip quivered as I fought the urge to cry. The pain in my head was almost too much to handle.

            “Are you okay sport?” He asked me.

            “Mmmhmm.”

            “I’m so proud of you, Clayton. You just got hit in the face with a ball and not one tear. I don’t know any other eight year olds that could handle that kind of punishment.”

            Achievement Unlocked! Got hit in the face with a baseball and didn’t cry.

            I laid my head on his shoulder the rest of the way to the truck. I don’t get to spend a lot of time with him and this was nice. We got into his black Chevy and drove straight home from the park. Dad took me into the downstairs bathroom once we got home. I hated this bathroom. It was so small that my fat Aunt Ciera could never fit in there when she came over for Christmas. She always used my bathroom upstairs instead. It was awful because she always made it smell like she cooked rotten tuna in there or something.

            “Okay, let’s wash your face and put a little bandage on that cut you have there.” My dad sat down on the toilet and used a sponge to wet my face. He then lathered some soap over my cut.

            “Ouch!” I yelled.

            “Relax little man, I have to make sure the cut stays clean,” he said. I tried my best not to wince at the pain.

            “Dad?”

            “Hmm?”

            “What does banging mean?” He used the sponge to rinse my face off as he let out a sigh.

            “It’s not a nice word and you’re too young to understand it right now, Clayton. Trust me, Son. You’ll know when you’re old enough to comprehend it, I promise you that.” Dad opened his first aid kit and pulled out a Snoopy Band-Aid. “What do you think, Son? Is Snoopy good enough to protect your cut?”

            “Yes,” I said as I giggled. “Why do you have to protect the cut?”

            “Because if you don’t it could get infected and make you sick. You wouldn’t want to get sick would you?”

            “No sir.”

            “Atta boy. Now why don’t you go out back and play while I get my bags packed for Rapid City.” I ran out back and jumped on the swing. I sat there for a moment pondering what Rapid City looked like. Maybe it had tall buildings like in the pictures I’ve seen of Denver. Maybe it’s a cowboy town with hardly any people. Dad said he hated going to cowboy towns because everyone called him a city sticker, whatever that is. I touched the bruised area around my swollen eye and felt a sharp pain rocket through my skull.

            Leave it alone, Dummy.

            I put both hands on the swing and began to rock back and forth. The wind softly blew past my face as I gathered momentum. I rocked faster and faster which caused me to go much higher. The pit of my stomach had a funny feeling in it when I got as high as I could. It felt as if I were sinking each time I fell backwards, but nevertheless I was filled with glee at how high I could go. Xander Hope would be proud to see how manly I am right now.

            Maybe dad will come out and watch you before he has to go. He seemed pretty upset when I told him what mommy said. Did mommy mean banging like someone does when they’re knocking on a door really hard? Was he punching his assistant? I bet he could get in trouble for that.

            I swung back and forth for what seemed like hours and eventually the back door opened. I was momentarily excited to see if it was Dad coming to watch me, but it was my mother who came walking out wearing her orange and white Sunday dress. It looked funny though because she was wearing brown slippers with it so she didn’t get her feet dirty on the patio. She had long blonde hair and a slender body, but her face looked tired. She was aged and, like dad, wore her stress in the bags under her eyes. She’s been crying a lot lately about Dad and his assistant and this made her eyes red and puffy. Sometimes her make up would drain down her face making her look like that scary singer.

            She said she was going to kill him and that whore if she ever saw them again. She also told him to get out and never come back. But dad would always come back to see me, he promised.

            “Come over here, Sweetie!”

            “Hi mom!” I yelled from the swing set. I swung back as far as I could and then soared forward. Once I was at a peak elevation I leaped from the swing and landed in the yard. I got up and ran the rest of the way to mom.

            “Oh! Clayton, your eye! What happened?”

            “Dad and I were playing catch at the park and I got hit in the face,” I answered. She cradled my face with both of her hands and examined the bruising and swelling around my eye.

            “Oh, we should get you to the doctor to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” she said.

            “Dad already looked and he said I didn’t. Besides I don’t want to go anywhere until he has to leave for Rapid City.” The melancholy on my mothers face said it all. She looked very sad at that moment. She stared down towards the ground for a second before looking at me with tears streaming from her eyes. I’ve never seen her look this sad before.

            What about that time Miss Gretchin ran over our cat, Bootsy? She was pretty broken up about that.

            The tears made their way down her cheeks. “Baby. Your daddy left twenty minutes ago,” she said.

#

            “You have no filter, Clayton,” she told me. “You can’t just say whatever is on your mind. You embarrass people in public even though you have no intention on doing so.” Her face was fat and looking at it made me nauseous. I wanted to tell her that her fat face made me sick, but that would only prove her point. I didn’t like having to see her three times a week, but mom told me that therapy was good for me. She has been worried since dad left eight years ago.  

            “Well, I don’t think that’s true. I don’t say everything that I’m thinking,” I said.

            “Really? Well can you explain to me how you got that black eye? And please, Clayton, don’t tell me you got hit by another baseball.”

            “Alright. I was on the redline yesterday sitting next to this really obese girl I go to school with. I couldn’t help but notice that she was emitting a God-awful smell. I wanted to be helpful so she could spare herself the humiliation and the rest of us the stench, so I told her that she smelled like a shitty-microwaved diaper. She found that offensive and punched me in the eye. Which I don’t really think was fair because I found her smelly armpits offensive and I didn’t assault her.”

            My lack of a verbal filter has flushed my social life down the crapper. I just don’t know how to talk to people.

            “Do you understand why she got upset and hit you?”

            “I’m guessing it’s because I embarrassed her,” I said.

            “Correct. You made it known to everyone on the subway within earshot that she didn’t smell pleasant.”

            “No, I told her she smelled like a shitty-microwaved diaper. I promise you that anyone in earshot could smell it as well.”

            This lady is an idiot.

            “Please, Clayton. I’m going to ask that you keep the swearing to a minimum if you can,” she said.

            Is the word ‘shitty’ that bad?

            “Whatever.”

            “Do you think about what you’re going to say before you say it?” She asked.

            “Yes,” I replied. “I don’t feel right when I keep things to myself.”

            I hate this office. It smells like cab driver feet. Wait, what exactly does that smell like?

            I laughed out loud at my thoughts.

            “What’s funny?”

            “Nothing, I was just thinking that your office smells like cab driver feet and then I realized that I have no idea what that would actually smell like.” She pursed her lips together and tilted her head to the side causing the fat on her neck to bulge out. This was her way of telling me that she wasn’t amused. It was a very unattractive look for her.

            “I’m sorry,” I said.

            “It’s fine. Let’s talk about your fear of germs,” she said. I wasn’t listening though. I was peering out the window behind her at the guy blowing leaves in the parking lot. His orange jump suit resembled that of someone who was in prison. He was wearing giant white and green earmuffs to block out the noisy leaf blower.

            What I would give to be able to stand down there and blow leaves like a mindless drone without the fear of getting dirt into any part of my body. I wish I could roll in the mud, pet a dog, or even touch a boob without feeling like it’s going to kill me.

            “Clayton?”

            “I’m sorry, what?”

            “I said let’s talk about your fear of germs.”

            “It’s a living hell.”

            “Why?” She asked.

            “What do you mean why?” I reached down and grabbed my backpack. From there I stood up and walked over to her large brown desk. I set my backpack on it knocking over a couple of the frames she had of her family. There they were, mother and father wrapping their arms around their kids while Niagara Falls roared behind them.

            I wonder if Dad would have ever taken me to cool places like that. He said he was going to take me to the different cities he always got to go to when I got older. He said he would teach me how to recruit, even though I don’t think that is something I would ever care to do.

            I opened the backpack and revealed thirty small bottles of Purel.

            “My mom spent over thirty dollars on this crap just in case I’m nowhere near a clean sink. If I am near a sink after shaking someone’s hand or touching something that has germs, I will wash my hands for a good ten to twenty minutes.” I held my hands out to her so she could see the red blotchy skin. “That’s from this morning because I forgot to wash the knobs on the sink before I touched them. I hate doing this but I feel compelled to stay as clean as possible. There’s like this annoying voice in my head that is telling me to stay clean. It’s repeats itself like a broken record until I oblige the urge. I’d rather just live in a bubble sometimes.”

            I need to stop explaining this to her. Look at her nodding her head as she pretends to listen. She doesn’t care and she never offers to help. She just pretends like she wants to figure out some mental reason why I do this stuff. How does that make you feel, Clayton? She says that all the time and it makes me want to slap her chubby face so that smug look she has will go away.

            “I see,” she said. She looked down at the paper in front of her and began writing something. I tried to get a good look at it.

            “You can sit back down, Clayton.” I walked back to my seat and sat down. I zipped my backpack up and placed in on the floor next to the chair.

            “I drown my hands in sanitizer if I’m nowhere near a sink,” I added. She kept writing for a moment before looking back up at me.

            “What goes through your head when you think you’re dirty? Like if we were to shake hands right now, what would you think?” She asked.

            “I would probably question where your nasty hands have been and wonder whether or not they’re clean. I would then get this overbearing fear that if I don’t wash my hands right away I’ll get sick, and I don’t ever want to be sick. Then there’s the annoying voice I mentioned.”

            “How come you don’t ever want to be sick?”

            What a stupid question. Ask her why she doesn’t ever want to be skinny.

            “That’s an obvious answer. Who in their right mind wants to get sick?” I asked. She looked at me for a moment while she rolled the bottom of her pencil across her lips.

            That’s so gross. She’s going to get herpes or something nasty. What if the paper she was using that eraser on had eggs from a spider. What if that eraser picked up those eggs and are now being spread across her lips. She’ll have spiders growing out of her face! Oh my God! What if her office has spiders? It smells like shit and I think spiders are attracted to that. Get clean, now!

            I reached into my bag for the sanitizer. I lathered my hands up and scrubbed them hard like a surgeon would. She pulled the pencil away from her face and began writing again.

            “Your mother tells me that you play a lot of video games. I want to know more about that,” she said without looking up.

            “What do you want to know about it?”

            “Let’s start with your favorite game, tell me a little bit about it.”

            “Xander’s Rage,” I said with a big smile on my face. “It’s about a powerful knight, Xander Hope, who is sent on a quest to rescue the Princess of Xanar, Josephine. Everyone who tried to rescue her fell victim to the Super Goblin that guards her, but Xander is the best knight in the land for the job.”

            “Sound’s like a typical knight’s tale,” she said. “What about this game do you find so appealing?”

            “Xander Hope. His character is who I want to be in real life,” I replied.

            “How do you mean?”

            “He’s brave and handsome. He doesn’t let bullies put him down and even in the face of certain death he finds a way to overcome these obstacles. His quirky dialogue is also something I find very appealing. The bad guy always has something snarky to say, but Xander replies in kind with his own sarcastic quips. It’s brilliant.”

            “So you like the character more than anything else in the game?”

            “No. Well sort of. He is the game. Xander Hope is everything. Hell, even his last name represents something that I admire”

            “Hope? What do you hope for, Clayton?”

            “I hope to be more like Xander in my own life. He’s a great role model. I also hope that one day my Dad will come back to see me and that my Mom can be happy again.”

            “Those are nice things to hope for. But do you realize that Xander Hope is not a real person?”

            “Yeah. I’m not delusional.”

            “Well it’s not really healthy to look at a fictional character as if he were a role model. You need to be inspired by real people.” My heart sank into my stomach. Why can’t Xander Hope be a role model?

            She’s doesn’t understand. She probably had a perfect little life growing up with a mother and father that stayed together. Her mom and dad probably took her and her siblings to Niagara Falls like she does with her kids now. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have her dad run out on them leaving her mom in a deep state of depression. She doesn’t know what it’s like to come home from school to find her mom passed out drunk on the couch with a note on the fridge saying dinner is in the microwave. It was always fish sticks. What does she know about who should and shouldn’t be my role model? Life isn’t full of rainbows and lollipops, it’s full of shit is what it is.

            “I suppose my father should be my role model then?” I asked.

            “Would you like to talk about that?”

            “Why?” I asked. I lowered me head and stared at my red hands. The aroma of the fresh sanitizer tickled my nose as I twiddled my thumbs.

            Damnit mom. Just because therapy helped you doesn’t mean that it’s going to work for me.

            “Xander Hope never left me. He’s always there when I need him, even when I’m not playing the game. He sometimes gives me courage to go into school to face Brandon Turner everyday. He helped me say hi to Sander Gardner when I always too much of a pussy to even look at her. Xander’s story let’s me escape the reality of my life. He’s taught me more life lessons than my father ever did. All that sperm donor left me with was a fear of germs. I’m reminded of whom my role model should be every time I wash my hands. Don’t you dare tell me who can and can’t be an inspiration in my life. I’m not a six-year-old boy worshipping his favorite football player. ” I got up from my seat, picked up my backpack, and walked over to the door.

            “Clayton, we still have ten minutes.”

            “No, I’m done talking to you.”

            She doesn’t care. No one does.