Sketches 2

Sketches 2

1.
Jeffers’ chest clenched tight and he dug his fingers into the steering wheel until his knuckles were white and he froze — just keep going, keep going, I’m not here, I’m not here — and he was slouched in his seat, making himself as small as possible, when had he done that? He tightened every muscle — including his eyes — and tried to drift by with the car like a log down a river. The yellow Volkswagen passed and Jeffers sat up and was glaring through the rearview mirror — Ignore The Environment, It Will Go Away — what a fucker.

2.
“Give me that stick!” screamed a middle-aged man with receding brown hair. Jeffers shifted his weight because his ass hurt from sitting on the bench for too long. He watched as a little girl dropped her stick and wobbled as fast as she could towards a large wooden seesaw — the balding man lunging after her. Jeffers’ took out a cigarette and lit it with the butt of his old one. Watching that man had stressed him out, and now his palms were sweaty and his face felt heavy and warm.

3.
Jeffers kicked the ball and it soared right under the goal post — the net behind the goal long missing. Mike stood up straight, turned and started walking after it, and Jeffers’ stomach started to feel sick. Shit, he thought, I am a dick. He hadn’t even thought about whether Mike was bored or not. Jeffers always did this — he would be really into something and suddenly realize that the only reason the other person is still there is because he must seem so excited and thrilled by it. Jeffers was embarrassed. He thought of the Christmas when he got his 18-speed bicycle and how he could not stop his face from smiling — the muscles in his cheeks sore and stretched.

4.
Hey, dude, what’s up?
Nothin’, man, how about you.
Nothing.
Cool.
What are you doing tonight?
I don’t know, um, I was supposed to go with Andy and them to this girl’s house at like nine or so, so I don’t know.
Oh, that’s cool.
Yeah.
Cool. Yeah, I think I might go over to Danny’s, you know, drink some beers or something.
That’s cool, man.
Yeah.
Cool, all right. Hey, man, I actually have to eat right now, so I’ll catch you later, okay?
Yeah, that’s cool. See ya, man.
Later.

5.
His palms itched from the shaking lawnmower handle in Jeffers Patrick Henry’s hands. The muscles in the arch of his feet were stretched and stung from the sharp angle his toes made on the ground as he pushed the machine forward. His head down, elbows locked, arms running by his ears — the lawnmower finally angled over at the top of the hill. A smooth wave of satisfaction ran down his arms to his spine from where it spread to every last muscle in his soaking wet body.

6.
His bare back slid on the sloppy bench. Jeffers Patrick Henry grabbed the steel bar in front of him and took a breath and pushed his triceps tight felt like they were not even attached to the bone that ran into his shoulder that felt gooey inside he thought his forehead pushing down on his eyelids so tight they squeezed his eyeballs into his head but his elbows straightened and he brought the weight down to it’s holding spot.

7.
“Can I take your order?” said the drive-thru menu.
“Hold on,” Mike said to the box. Then, turning to the backseat, he asked, “Dude, should I order a pizza vagina?” He stuck his tongue out when he grinned, which made Jeffers shift to the left. The guy can hear you, he thought, but he wouldn’t say anything. Mike was just doing his thing, he told himself.
“If you want, man, I just kind of want a bacon cheeseburger and a medium fry, and I don’t want them to spit in it.”
“Fine.”

8.
I’m very particular about my clothing. I work out, sure, but you can make yourself look a lot stronger if you just buy the right kind of shirt. Tight, sleeveless and dark is the way to go. But it can’t be trashy, either. It has to look like you made an effort to buy good clothing, but that this sleeveless shirt if the only shirt that would fit your massive arms. Obviously this isn’t true, but that is the idea of it. Don’t tell people that because they will know you’re lying.

9.
As Jeffers entered his room, he saw a pair of khaki slacks with big pockets on the sides by the knees sitting on top of the crumpled navy blue comforter at the foot of his bed.
“Mom, what’s the deal with this pair of pants?” Jeffers called down the hallway.
“They were on sale at Marshals so I bought them for you. If you don’t like them we can return them.”
Jeffers felt panic in his throat and down into his lungs. He knew they were for him, but he didn’t want them to be. He wanted them to be hand-me downs from his cousins or something so he wouldn’t have to tell his mother that she just wasted her time. Those pockets would be handy, he thought as he held them by the waist and let them fall down in front of his legs. No, man, these are embarrassing, he thought, and he threw them onto the bed.

10.
Jeffers’ shoes were size 12. They were white Nikes with black stripes and swirls all over the place. When he bought them, he thought they looked fast, but now the stripes really bug him. One stripe runs down the outside of the shoe and curves when it gets close to the toe before ending at the very tip. It looks tacky, he thought. These are the kinds of things that people ten years from now will be making fun of. Are they supposed to be futuristic or something?
He felt the toe of his show like they do in shoe stores and he could fit more than his whole thumb at the top. When he realized this, he sat up and let his arms drop — his shoulders shrugged. He had bought bigger shoes because he was used to buying bigger than he needed.
In grade school, there is always a competition to see who had the biggest shoes. In third grade Andrew had size seven and everyone thought he was so cool. Jeffers remembers sitting on the gym floor before gym class as Andrew’s shoe was passed from hand to hand as his classmates admired it.
And now Jeffers shoes are too big because of it.