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The Shithole

Amory Paul

    “Are you sure you don’t want to come upstairs?”
    “Yeah. Fuck off.”
    “Harry, you’re drunk.”
    “I know. Fuck off, man.”
    Harry Coen, Lawrence’s childhood friend, was about three inches off of the kitchen tiles, if you were measuring from his ass.
    The drunk Communications major was wedged unsteadily between the refrigerator and the old wooden railing for the steps that led a few feet down out of the kitchen and into the wasteland backyard. Out there, through the small grimy window at the top of the door, one could see an old swing set, some dead grass, a small pool, and a handful of stars. There was a goose loitering around the edges of the pool. Lawrence watched for a few moments to see if it would jump in, to no avail. Eventually, with some degree of apathy, it wandered back off into the bushes at the edge of the yard.
    Lawrence sighed, looking back at Harry. He glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was closing in on one in the morning. Harry still had a small bottle of rumchata that Lawrence hadn’t been able to steal away from him, dangling from the hand attached to the railing. On the bright side, if he tried to take another sip the ensuing loss of balance would probably mean Lawrence could get his hands on it.
    “Harry.”
     He glared at Lawrence. Suddenly a smirk began to spread on his face, pressing at his rosy cheeks.
    “You’re not getting my rumchata, Lawrence,” he slurred, drunken tone tinged with mischief.
    Lawrence chuckled – “I know, Harry.”
    “Not a drop. You’re such a little thief, Lawrence – always have been,” he said, and descended into giggles.
    Lawrence chuckled again, more out of politeness. Harry kept giggling, his whole body shaking between the refrigerator and the railing with laughter, till his laughter gradually died down. For a second, the twinkle stayed in his eye, and when he looked back at Lawrence, he giggled again.
    Then, as silence set back in, his face quickly darkened back to its previous state. He stared down at the tiles between his legs, head hung low. He went to throw back more rum – Lawrence swiped for it, but before he could grab away the little white bottle Harry had more of it down and his sweaty, warm hand had pushed Lawrence away again.
    “Fuckin’ hell, Harry. Are you going to drink the entire thing?”
    The latter kept staring at the tiles.
    “I’m so fucking stupid, Lawrence,” he said quietly, whisper reedy with the effects of the alcohol.
    Lawrence sighed. He glanced back out into the living room. There, the girl Molly had invited laid splayed out on an old torn up sofa, amidst a haze of bong smoke. She was completely passed out. God damn it. He should have been quicker about making a move.
    “You’re not stupid, Harry,” he said tiredly, looking back at his friend, “You just made a stupid mistake. It happens to all of us.”
    “Not all of us do this,” Harry spat bitterly.
    “Listen. I’ve made dumber mistakes-”
    “Just because you’ve done it-”
    “Christ, man, don’t get all fucking defensive!” Lawrence snapped.
    Harry was silent. He stared into his reflection in the puddle of beer slipping between the kitchen tiles.
    He still had the remnants of black lipstick on his mouth.
    “Jesus,” Lawrence muttered, rubbing his head, “Listen, I’m sorry, man. I don’t mean to be a dick. I’m kinda tired.”
    He glanced back at his friend. Still staring into the floor, sullen expression on his face.
    “I’m sorry, Harry. That was a dick move on my part. I’m going to get a beer – don’t move or anything,” he said, a touch sarcastic.
    “I can move,” Harry muttered back.
    “I know,” Lawrence said, rising from the floor and opening the refrigerator, “Just don’t.”
    Harry looked up at him darkly. The other looked back – he laughed.
    “You’ve got fucking rum all over your pants, man. You look like you’ve pissed yourself.”
    Harry looked over himself – he snickered again, seeing the crotch of his trousers were, indeed, drenched with white rum.
    “Come on, man. Let’s go upstairs, get you changed. Here, let me help you,” Lawrence said, reaching down for him.
    “You’re such a slut, Lawrence,” Harry smirked, feigning shock with one drunken hand.
    “Jesus, I meant getting up.”
    “I never knew you felt that way about me.”
    “God, shut up.”
    The two laughed. Harry descended once again into uncontrollable giggles, rocking between the railing and the refrigerator. Quickly seeing his chance, Lawrence swiped away the rumchata.
    “Hey!” Harry protested.
    Lawrence pushed him back down as the other began to rise. He held the rumchata up and out of reach.
    “Sorry, buddy,” he said, “Gotta watch out for you.”
    He set it up on top of the refrigerator.
    Pulling a beer out from the fridge, he cracked it open and took a long sip. He sat back down with his friend on the floor. He looked over at him.
    What really pissed him off was that this was probably the last time he was going to see the dumb bastard for another year.
    The two had come down to Southern Illinois a few days ago. Effingham – it was their hometown, if you could call it a town. The whole place wasn’t much different from the view visible through the backyard door – a lot of emptiness, a lot of abandoned metal, some wandering, dirty animals. The only difference was a few more buildings (though these were sometimes the same as the abandoned metal, and other times indistinguishable) and more people, most of them like the animals. Most of those people, though, were in the house with Lawrence and Harry, so this really was the full experience.
    That was how the old shithole was. A disappointing landscape, a lot of people getting high to avoid the fucking miserableness of it all.
    The two had always wanted to leave, just like everyone in Effingham. Hell, just like almost anybody young in Southern Illinois. They had – they both left for college; Harry on grades and a general ingenuity to a pretty beautiful university out on the coast of Maine, Lawrence on a poverty scholarship and a good sense of charm to a public college out in California. Harry had gotten the poverty scholarship, too, of course. Most kids in Effingham – at least the few that went to college – got poverty scholarships. But it was his grades that had really carried him out to the East Coast.
    They had both moved far, far away from Southern Illinois. They hadn’t ever wanted to go back. They kept in contact over the phone, and sometimes they flew out to see each other, for things like school breaks or big games or just to see each other again. Of course, this was rare. Once-a-year rare, when they had both the time and the money. But they stayed friends. Lawrence was pretty sure they always would.
    And then this dumb idea had come floating down the pipeline.
    Go back to Southern Illinois for a reunion. Molly had come up with the idea – get everyone back together for another party like they used to have all the time before college hit. She was gregarious like that. Unfortunately for Lawrence, Harry was, too, and had taken to the idea right away.
    So now here he was, back in the old shithole. And Harry had cheated on his fiancée.
    “Was she good, at least?” Lawrence asked.
    “Shut up, Lawrence.”
    “Just fucking around.”
    Silence set in again. Lawrence sipped at his beer, watching Harry over the rim. He looked back out, forlornly, at the girl on the sofa. He shook his head, taking another sip.
    “I’m so fucking stupid, man,” Harry murmured again.
    “Hey, man...”
    “I’m a fucking idiot,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
    Christ, he was crying.
    Lawrence didn’t know what to say.
    The silence grew awkward – Lawrence shifted uncomfortably. Harry was crying now. He hadn’t seen him cry in years.
    “Listen, man,” he began again, slowly, “You remember the thing I told you about last time we saw each other?”
    “What thing?”
    Lawrence looked off to the side. He sighed again. “You know, man. The thing with the girl.”
    “I already told you, Lawrence-” Harry started emotionally.
    “I know, I know!”
    “Just cause you fucking-”
    “Harry! I fucking get it! Shut the fuck up with that shit, I get it. I’m trying to say something.”
    Harry was silent.
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Hold on.”
    He put his head in his hands again, rubbing his brow. He didn’t like thinking about the girl.
    “Listen,” he said, emerging.
    “You say that a lot.”
    “Oh my God.”
    “You do, Lawrence,” Harry said, giggling through a snotty nose.
    “Okay.”
    “Can I please have the rumchata back, man?”
    “No, dude.”
    Silence.
    “I’m listening,” Harry finally thickly muttered.
    Lawrence took a deep breath, scratching his head. “So you helped me out with the girl. You helped me out cause you know I love Barbara. You know I love her, right, man? I love her more than anything in the world. We’re probably gonna get married, just like you and Gina. And you knew that the thing with the girl was dumb, and the thing with me and Barb was great, and that it was dumb to let something dumb get in the way of something great like me and Barb have. I did a dumb thing, yeah, but it was even dumber to let it get in the way of me and Barb.”
    “I don’t fucking love Gina,” Harry said.
    Silence.
    Lawrence stared at Harry for a long time.
    “Well, then, what the fuck do you feel so shitty about, man?!” he exclaimed.
    “Because it was an asshole thing to do, Lawrence!” Harry snapped.
    “So fucking what?! Did what I did make me an asshole?”
    “Yeah, Lawrence! You’re a fucking asshole sometimes. You’ve said it yourself!”
    Lawrence groaned, burying his head back in his hands. Harry kept glaring at him.
    “Okay,” Lawrence said, voice muffled by his palms – he raised his head, “So it was an asshole thing to do. So it was an asshole thing I did. So we’re assholes sometimes. That’s just how people are. We aren’t exempt. And especially in this fucking shithole, man-” he gestured wildly around him at the dirty kitchen “- It’s a shitty, rotten fucking place. It makes you do shitty, rotten things.”
    “That’s not good enough, man,” Harry moaned, leaning his head back against the wall and staring desperately at the ceiling.
    “Why not?!”
    “Because I don’t want to be an asshole, Lawrence! Everyone here is fucking assholes! Everyone from this stupid fucking town is assholes! We grew up with all these stupid fucks being stupid fucking assholes to each other and I don’t want to be like that!” Harry screamed.
    The girl on the couch stirred – “Where’s.. The fucking pipe?”
    Harry sank his head down into his knees again. He held it there, hands clasped in his hair, unmoving. After a moment, Lawrence could make out the faint glint of tears, dripping slowly from his nose to the puddle in the tiles below.
    “You’re not like these assholes, man,” Lawrence said, quietly, “Don’t think of yourself like that. You’re the best guy I know.”
    No reply.
    “Why the Hell are you engaged to her if you don’t love her, man?”
    “Because she’s not from here, man. She’s from the opposite of here. She is the opposite of here. She doesn’t even have any student debt, man,” Harry said, chuckling bitterly.
    “Some rich chick isn’t worth-”
    “And what should I do instead?” Harry asked, raising his head from his knees – his eyes were red, wet, “Marry some other poor motherfucker on a poverty scholarship? Get some shitty fucking apartment together till we can’t afford it and have to leave Maine? End up in some shitty town like this, get some shitty trailer, be a shitty fucking pair of parents just like we had to some shitty fucking pair of kids just like we were?”
    Lawrence watched him. He hadn’t seen Harry this angry in years, not since they were kids.
    “I don’t want to ever come back to this shithole, and I don’t want to ever make anyone else have to grow up in this shithole, either,” Harry said, sinking his head back into his knees, “I don’t give a shit if I love Gina. I just don’t want to be an asshole.”
    Silence set in once again.
    “I just came here to see you, man.”
    A pause.
    “Well, shit, you should marry me,” Lawrence said.
    “What?”
    “Since you seem to be so fuckin’ in love with me,” Lawrence grinned.
    Harry chuckled.
    “You could have just come by Cali.”
    “I wanted to see Molly, too.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    “Free booze.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    The two laughed. Harry wiped his nose on the back of his palm, still chuckling. He shook his head, resting it wearily in one palm.
    “God, I’m drunk,” he said.
    “I know, buddy. Hey, let’s get some fresh air, man.”
    “It stinks like goose shit out there.”
    “Don’t be a cynic.”
    Lawrence rose from the floor, setting his beer down on the railing and helping Harry up to his feet. Linking an arm around his back, he led his drunk friend gradually to his coat in the living room, helping him slowly put it on, and then out the grimy kitchen door into the backyard.
    The air was cold outside – Harry immediately cursed aloud. Lawrence laughed, clapping him on the back. The two staggered awkwardly together a few feet forward, arm in arm, before stopping in the stretch of dead grass beyond the roof of the house. Up above, the stars spread wide and far. That was one thing to say about Southern Illinois. Most nights, you could count on seeing more stars than you’d ever think existed living back in California.
    The two stood in silence for a moment, watching the night sky. Harry shivered – Lawrence glanced at him. He thought for a long time about what he wanted to say.
    “If you don’t love her, you deserve better, man.”
    “That’s not the point, Lawrence,” Harry replied quietly.
    “Yeah, it is. If you don’t love her, you’re never going to be fucking happy. No matter how far you are from this shithole, if you keep letting the fact that you’re from here make your decisions for you you’re never going to be happy. And you’re going to keep doing asshole things, because this place is for assholes and if you can’t get it out of your head that you’re from here you’re gonna be an asshole just like all of these assholes, no matter how rich your wife is. You’ve gotta fucking shake it off yourself, man. You aren’t this shithole. You deserve a lot fucking better than to think of yourself in its terms.”
    Harry was silent for a moment.
    “What about you, man?” he finally asked, sniffling, “Why’d you cheat on Barbara?”
    Lawrence looked at Harry for a long moment, looking for something in his face.
    There was something Lawrence found himself looking for in a lot of faces. The girl with the bong back inside. The girl back in California. Barbara. He hadn’t found it in any of these faces, but until he found it, he’d keep saying he saw it in Barbara. She was a really nice girl.
    He’d started out looking for it, long ago, in Harry’s face. He looked here for it again.
    The latter was looking out at the stars.
    Eventually, Lawrence turned his eyes backed down to his feet.
    “I don’t know, man. It was an asshole thing to do. And sooner or later, I’ll tell Barb, because I know she deserves better, too. I know we’ll work it out. But I’m worried about you, man. An unhappy life is really hard to work out. I don’t want to have to see you go through that shit.”
    Harry said nothing at first. He glanced over at his friend, then back up at the stars. He shut his eyes tight for a really long time.
    “Lawrence.”
    “Yeah, man?”
    “I think I’ve sobered up enough to drink the rest of the rumchata.”
    “Fuck me!” Lawrence exclaimed, pushing his laughing friend away, “You’re such a fucking drunk!”
    “Listen, Lawrence, I swear I’m good to drink the rest of it.”
    “Christ, man.”
    “I can do my ABC’s if you want.”
    “You can’t even speak without slurring.”
    “Can I please have the rest of the rumchata?”
    “We’ll share it, you fucking boozehound.”
    “Awesome. God, it’s cold out here.”
    Arm-in-arm, Lawrence still helping Harry with basic walking, the two shuffled back into the house. The grimy old wooden door clicked shut behind them and the backyard returned to its Southern Illinoisian silence – the constant, background buzz of cicadas from the tall, dark trees that circled the yard. The noise is nearly nonexistent for any who have lived in Southern Illinois for any period of time, or any place like Southern Illinois, for that matter. It continues on forever everywhere it is, and it continued on forever in that backyard.
    Eventually, some dirty animal wandered out from the woods and into the backyard, tripping over beer cans and shattered glass bottles, crushed cigarette butts stuck to its paws. It was probably a coyote.
    It paused on the dead grass that stretched across the backyard, and beyond the backyard across flat, flat fields forever, all littered with beer cans and shattered glass bottles, the ground lined with crushed cigarette butts, and looked between the ground and the endless stretching sky above.
    The glint of the broken glass mixed in easily with the glow of the stars. A very strong field wind blew over it all.
    Suddenly, the dirty animal began to run. It darted off of the scene, dead grass clinging to its fur. It probably ran where the wind blew it. It probably had glass in its paws.

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