Waste by Andrew F. Sullivan

Garrison’s thoughts and found its expression through drive-by eggings and violent free-for-alls behind the Zellers on Friday nights. Don’t forget the cadence of that kid’s voice, as if the vocal cords in his throat couldn’t commit to one sound before the other, causing them to trip and fall out of his mouth in a bloody, phlegmy mess. Make that one hundred and fifty-one ways Jamie Garrison had learned to hate the Condom kid.
    The blinds stayed closed and eventually Georgopolous left in a flurry of damp paper and dandruff. His mistress was waiting for him down at the Pillaros Hotel. That was the word in the halls. Mr. Wilkinson took over. He sat across from Jamie in the vice principal’s chair and placed his feet on the table. The room was hot and sweaty. Mr. Wilkinson didn’t say anything for a long time.
    â€œI know what happened with you.”
    Jamie didn’t look up from the floor.
    â€œSaw it in the paper a couple weeks ago, you know. Very surprising,” Mr. Wilkinson said. “Something about a fire, right? That you? Tell me if I am getting close here.”
    Jamie began to rock back and forth in the chair. He tried to stop himself, but his legs wouldn’t listen. This room was too hot. Sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat.
    â€œNow, when we brought up your file, I noticed you lived on— what was it? Olive Avenue, down by a lot of the factory lots, am I right? Not the community housing, but pretty close? Around that neighborhood. Unless you disagree, I’m going to assume we have the facts right.”
    Jamie nodded but kept his eyes closed. He began to regulate his breathing, pulling air in his nose and pushing it out his mouth. The parking lot outside the window sounded quiet. There weren’t any clocks in the room. The low, level tick of Mr. Wilkinson’s watch helped keep track of the seconds. It took eighty ticks for Mr. Wilkinson to speak again.
    â€œI’m sorry. I had to arrange my thoughts. Always better to speak when one has something to say, rather than saying…well, you’ve probably heard that old rotten chestnut before, haven’t you, Garrison?” Wilkinson said. “What I wanted to talk to you about was the fire. It was your house, right? I know a number of the townhomes went up together, but the origin apparently was yours, on Thanksgiving, right?”
    That was the night when the whole place had gone up while everyone was asleep. Smoke filled the hallway, his mother pushing the boys down the stairs, his brother coughing and crying, the windows bursting from the inside due to the heat. Their father stood outside amongst the dead leaves smoking a cigarette and watching the house burn. The bullet hole in his palm was still wrapped in a bandage from a few months before at the abattoir. He didn’t say anything as his wife made the boys stop, drop, and roll on the dead grass. The frost melted underneath their backs, freezing again as they waited for the first ambulance to arrive. A burn bubbled around Jamie’s mother’s neck, fusing the nightgown to her pale flesh.
    â€œNow I know you’ve had a rough time lately, and your brother, what’s he in now, ninth grade?” Wilkinson said. “I know he hasn’t been to school in a couple days, so you obviously have some problems at home. Or wherever you’re staying at the moment. And of course, that is your own private business. I don’t mean to probe.”
    Silence for five minutes. No tears. Jamie grunted. Mr. Wilkinson just sat with his feet up on the table and watched. A dull, low moan eventually began to spurt from his chest like a dehumidifier. It didn’t sound like him. It didn’t sound like anything human.
    Eventually, in that hot room, a two-week suspension was handed down from one sweaty palm to another. Nothing proven, nothing gained. Jamie walked home to the rambling motel in the cold and told his mother he stayed late after