The Kid

   Sure, he was ugly, and sure, he always had bad breath. And he wasn’t too smart and nobody liked him. And he couldn’t dress for shit, and he was poor, and he was religious, and he was wearing glasses, and had an acne problem. Yes, he needed crutches to walk and he had a slight speech impediment; his nose always seemed to be running and since he had some kind of bowels problem, he kept emitting gas and kept apologizing and off he went, the clickety-click of his crutches on the linoleum getting fainter. But he always lingered on long after he was gone, because of his gas and because of his breath, which were hanging on in the air like invisible clouds of poisonous gas.
   Yes, the girls pointed at him and laughed; the boys avoided him, and even the teachers couldn’t bring themselves to feel sorry for him. He was just too much of everything. And yes, his father beat him once in a while but nobody, not even the police, could blame him. In fact, we all secretly admired his parents for not having killed their son. He was so messed up, an accident would have been believable: the crutches slipped on the stairs and he broke his neck, or... he was taking a bath and the toaster just fell in the tub. Anything. Anybody would have gladly given a hand to get rid of him. A cop could have shot him at night, for example, and then claim that he mistook one of the crutches for a rifle. But he never went out at night. Because it was too damp. And of course, he had lung problems.
   When we heard that, we all started to smoke around him.
   The unpopular kids became popular, because next to him, everybody was popular. The ugly kids liked him around since they didn’t seem quite so ugly anymore. The cool kids resented him because they couldn’t wear sunglasses anymore. It was a sign of being a sure loser. He always wore sunglasses. He was an albino, you see.
   He was a freak of nature. A bad joke from God, who felt mischievous when He had created him. A bad cosmic joke, that’s what he was. He was so ugly, I felt offended looking at him. Looking at him was like being insulted by a close friend: something you couldn’t quite believe and preferred to ignore.
   Nobody could pronounce his name. But nobody needed to anyway, since nobody ever spoke to him. The teachers never called on him in class, but it didn’t matter: He always shouted out loud whatever answer the teacher was waiting for. Nine times out of ten, it was the wrong answer. Or nobody could understand what he was saying. People like him - and God, please tell me there aren’t many more like him - well, they’re usually extremely smart. But not him, no. A plastic chair had more smarts than he had.
   On the good days, he just fell asleep at his desk, probably because of his narcolepsy. At least we didn’t have to listen to him for a while. But when he woke up, he was usually in a strange mood. His Touret syndrome came on at full force right after his sleeping episodes and so after a few months of this, whenever he would fall asleep at his desk, the teacher would ask for some volunteers to drag him out of the room – chair, desk and all - and out in the hallway. When we heard insults through the door, we’d know he was awake.
   Other teachers complained, saying that the insults in the hallway could be heard all over the school and that some of the words he was using were offensive and shouldn’t be heard by young children. Personally, I always wondered how anybody was able to understand what he was saying.
   One day after the Christmas vacations, my friends and I were discussing the presents we had received from our parents when we heard the familiar sounds of the crutches getting closer, and so we all of a sudden felt like we had to be somewhere else. But as I turned around, I found myself face to face with him. He smiled and I gagged at the smell of his breath and at the sight of one of his pimples oozing pus on his cheek. He told me something, but I couldn’t understand what, and kids being cruel and mean, I told him to get the hell away from me and I left him there, all alone.
   To this day, I still don’t feel sorry for him. Maybe I should, but I do still think that I did the right thing. In fact, I started thinking that if we could all be mean enough with him, maybe he’d eventually do us all a favor and kill himself. But that never happened. He was one of those happy cripples, the kind that’s happy to be alive and all that crap.
   I wish I had a great story to tell, or a tragic ending to all this. Maybe one day he came to school and killed himself in front of us all. Or he shot a few people. Or he killed his parents. Or something like this. But no, we just graduated and went to the prom and seeing him in a blue tuxedo, with his sunglasses on, his leaky nose and his crutches was not sad, it was pathetic. Of course, he didn’t have a date. Rumor was that he’d actually asked the prettiest girl in school and she’d laughed at him. Then he asked the ugliest girl and she laughed even louder than the pretty one. Then he asked his mom, but she slapped him and told him she never wanted to be seen in public with him.
   At this point, a normal person would have gotten the hint and not gone. But not him. He rented a tux and came alone. Of course, he couldn’t dance with his crutches and everybody at his table made sure not to sit anywhere near him. I was one of them. I was exhausted, I danced so much. When I wasn’t dancing, I was standing by the punch bowl. I tried to sit at another table, but it was somebody else’s chair. In the end, the people at my table ended up outside, on the steps. Somebody had of course brought a flask and we were drinking and laughing, trying not to talk about him, not wanting him to ruin this night. Our night.
   But of course, we soon heard the crutches and we took this opportunity to run to our table and all sit. Somebody grabbed his chair and dragged it at the other end of the room and when he came back, he looked for it and couldn't find it. And so, instead of going away, he just stood there, smiling, pretending he was in on our conversation. That’s when we decided to dance some more.
   And then the prom was over and we all went our separate ways. I had my first French kiss and it was divine.
   Then I went to college and graduated and got a job and a family.
   Sometimes, late at night, when the whole house is sleeping and I’m alone, enjoying a smoke in the living room, I think of him. First, because I started smoking because of him - to give him lung cancer. And then because I wonder what he’s become.
   I’m sure he’s still around, probably still in that town, living with his parents, or maybe on his own. His parents might have abandoned him; or maybe they agreed to pay for his rent if he’d only move out. He probably wasn’t working. After all, what could he possibly do?
   And I usually fall asleep in my chair and my dreams are filled with the hollow sounds of crutches on linoleum, of sniffling and insults echoing in hallways. And I see a big face, full of anger and zits, approaching me, ready to smother me with its sulfur breath.
   And in my dream, I scream.