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Authors: Charlie Human
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my ass.
There’s a sharp pain in my chest and I feel short of breath. The walls of the room lurch and spin like I’m on an out-of-control fairground ride. I gasp for air. ‘Mom,’ I shout. ‘MOM!’ There’s a thud of footsteps coming up the steps and then my mother sticks her curl-framed face into my room.
‘What’s the matter?’ she says with a worried look.
‘I think I’m having a heart attack,’ I gasp, clutching my chest. She sits on my bed and puts her hand on my chest, checks my pulse, feels my head and then smiles at me.
‘Baxter,’ she says, ‘you never were a very emotional boy. You’re like your father that way.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’ I say, clutching my chest again. ‘It hurts so much.’
My mom smiles her infuriating smile again. ‘I think you’re worried about Esmé,’ she says. ‘You’re having a panic attack.’ The idea is so ludicrous, so transparently, pop-psychologically vapid that, well, it might just be true. My mind becomes unhinged again, split down the centre with logical, clinical businessman Baxter on one side and feely-emotional, metrosexual Baxter on the other:
BizBax: We’ve obviously been ingesting too much oestrogen from the plastic in our food. It’s affecting our judgement.
MetroBax: It’s our girlfriend. If we’re cut, do we not bleed?
BizBax: Cry me a river. Let me tell you a little story. When Thomas Farnsworth tried to scale the north face of Everest in 1976, his expedition got stuck in an avalanche. His entire climbing crew was lost and he had to cut up their corpses with a shard of glass and eat them to survive. He lost all his fingers and toes from frostbite. While gnawing on the gall bladder of a friend do you think he stopped and cried like a little bitch?
MetroBax: You made that up, didn’t you?
BizBax: The factual inaccuracy does not affect the sentiment which, in case you missed it, is stop being such a goddamn pussy.
MetroBax: That night when you were first with Esmé. You remember that? If you can honestly and truly tell me what you felt I’ll leave you alone, you emotionless cyborg. Just tell me.
‘Love,’ I say.
My mother leans forward from her perch on the end of my bed and looks at me quizzically. ‘Baxter?’
‘Love,’ I say again. ‘That’s what I felt when I first met Esmé.’ My mother beams with all the benevolence of a medieval Christian mystic. ‘I knew you were in there somewhere,’ she says, softly tapping my chest.
It’s time to undergo a fundamental recalibration. A shifting of paradigms brought about by the introduction of new data into what I had previously thought was a closed feedback loop. I thought love was a ridiculous kids’ story that only stupid adultsbelieved in. Like politicians’ promises and Scientology. But it’s real. The shifting of paradigms is finished. The information is assimilated. Old directive: Prevent gang war at Westridge. New directive: Save Esmé from whoever has taken her and rip out their heart. Just try to stop me.
The Van der Westhuizen house is a riot of activity. I weave my bike through the cops and reporters that have congealed at the front door. ‘Nobody but family and friends,’ a large cop says, putting a restraining hand on my handlebars.
‘I’m Esmé’s boyfriend,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to see the family.’
‘I’ve got a kid here who says he’s the kidnapped girl’s boyfriend,’ he barks into his radio.
‘Let him in,’ a voice squelches from the radio. The cop jerks a thumb toward the door. I lean my bike up against the wall and turn the ornate brass handle of the front door to step inside.
Inside, relatives are standing around and patting each other consolingly like great apes. Several policemen are wandering aimlessly around the living room as if expecting Esmé to pop out from behind one of the giant pastel-pink couches. Esmé’s mother is perfectly made up and is playing host, as if this were a party she’d thrown. ‘Oh, we’re
There’s a sharp pain in my chest and I feel short of breath. The walls of the room lurch and spin like I’m on an out-of-control fairground ride. I gasp for air. ‘Mom,’ I shout. ‘MOM!’ There’s a thud of footsteps coming up the steps and then my mother sticks her curl-framed face into my room.
‘What’s the matter?’ she says with a worried look.
‘I think I’m having a heart attack,’ I gasp, clutching my chest. She sits on my bed and puts her hand on my chest, checks my pulse, feels my head and then smiles at me.
‘Baxter,’ she says, ‘you never were a very emotional boy. You’re like your father that way.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’ I say, clutching my chest again. ‘It hurts so much.’
My mom smiles her infuriating smile again. ‘I think you’re worried about Esmé,’ she says. ‘You’re having a panic attack.’ The idea is so ludicrous, so transparently, pop-psychologically vapid that, well, it might just be true. My mind becomes unhinged again, split down the centre with logical, clinical businessman Baxter on one side and feely-emotional, metrosexual Baxter on the other:
BizBax: We’ve obviously been ingesting too much oestrogen from the plastic in our food. It’s affecting our judgement.
MetroBax: It’s our girlfriend. If we’re cut, do we not bleed?
BizBax: Cry me a river. Let me tell you a little story. When Thomas Farnsworth tried to scale the north face of Everest in 1976, his expedition got stuck in an avalanche. His entire climbing crew was lost and he had to cut up their corpses with a shard of glass and eat them to survive. He lost all his fingers and toes from frostbite. While gnawing on the gall bladder of a friend do you think he stopped and cried like a little bitch?
MetroBax: You made that up, didn’t you?
BizBax: The factual inaccuracy does not affect the sentiment which, in case you missed it, is stop being such a goddamn pussy.
MetroBax: That night when you were first with Esmé. You remember that? If you can honestly and truly tell me what you felt I’ll leave you alone, you emotionless cyborg. Just tell me.
‘Love,’ I say.
My mother leans forward from her perch on the end of my bed and looks at me quizzically. ‘Baxter?’
‘Love,’ I say again. ‘That’s what I felt when I first met Esmé.’ My mother beams with all the benevolence of a medieval Christian mystic. ‘I knew you were in there somewhere,’ she says, softly tapping my chest.
It’s time to undergo a fundamental recalibration. A shifting of paradigms brought about by the introduction of new data into what I had previously thought was a closed feedback loop. I thought love was a ridiculous kids’ story that only stupid adultsbelieved in. Like politicians’ promises and Scientology. But it’s real. The shifting of paradigms is finished. The information is assimilated. Old directive: Prevent gang war at Westridge. New directive: Save Esmé from whoever has taken her and rip out their heart. Just try to stop me.
The Van der Westhuizen house is a riot of activity. I weave my bike through the cops and reporters that have congealed at the front door. ‘Nobody but family and friends,’ a large cop says, putting a restraining hand on my handlebars.
‘I’m Esmé’s boyfriend,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to see the family.’
‘I’ve got a kid here who says he’s the kidnapped girl’s boyfriend,’ he barks into his radio.
‘Let him in,’ a voice squelches from the radio. The cop jerks a thumb toward the door. I lean my bike up against the wall and turn the ornate brass handle of the front door to step inside.
Inside, relatives are standing around and patting each other consolingly like great apes. Several policemen are wandering aimlessly around the living room as if expecting Esmé to pop out from behind one of the giant pastel-pink couches. Esmé’s mother is perfectly made up and is playing host, as if this were a party she’d thrown. ‘Oh, we’re
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