joshwritesforu

[joshwritesforu]

The Wonderful Winston - Part 3, Candy Gram

Content Warning: Slurs

Read Part 1 here

Read Part 2 here

Harris Nguyen is very tired. The bags under his eyes seem to pull his entire face down with them. He has messy, patchy facial hair that just screams “yes, I am indeed a boy turning into a man.” He stands in the gas stop quick-mart candy aisle. He reaches for the Peanut M&Ms, but stops when he hears a noise. He turns and sees a woman pushing a stroller. He looks back at the candy. Peanut M&Ms. He quickly snatches them and stuffs the bag quietly into his hoodie pocket. He then swipes a pack of Twizzlers, slipping them into his jeans. Harris finally takes a package of two Twinkies and puts those in his hoodie pocket, carefully placing them next to the Peanut M&Ms and clasping his hands together in the pocket so to make the act more believable, and stop the plastic rustling noises. He then takes a bag of Hot Cheetos to the counter.

“Two fifty-eight.” The clerk never even bothers looking up at Harris. It’s 2 a.m., after all. Everyone’s just about dead inside. Harris hands over three dollar bills.

“Keep it.” He quickly walks out, and successfully gets past the automatic door. Success. Harris has pulled off yet another Ocean’s Eleven-style heist with efficiency and believability. He’d personally rate this an 8/10.

Harris promised Mr. Winston he would stop stealing. He promised he’d stop doing most of the things he usually does, actually, but stealing was a big one. And Harris wanted to keep the promise, really and truly, but committing was harder than he could have ever expected. It was just so easy, and what, was the gas station going to fold because some kid took six bucks worth of junk food?

Although he did make the promise.

Five months ago, Harris broke Tommy Bautista’s jaw. When Tommy ran to the office and Harris realized he was in deep shit, he went straight to Mr. Winston’s classroom. He didn’t really know why. Maybe it was because Mr. Winston was one of maybe two teachers in his lifetime who didn’t actively hate him.

“You gotta help me out, Mr. Winston.”

“What’s wrong, Harris? You got questions about the test?”

Harris looked at Mr. Winston like he just asked if dogs could fly.

“What? No. I just punched Tommy and it looks like he’s real hurt. I think I really screwed up.”

Mr. Winston closed his laptop.

“Why did you punch him?”

“He called me a faggot! Multiple times!”

“Was there a reason you went straight to violence?”

“Uh, yeah, he called me a faggot. Like, five times.”

“Okay. Here’s what you do. You apologize. Even if you don’t think you have to, do it anyway.”

“Why? I’m not a faggot.”

“Stop saying that. Let me finish. Call me in. I’ll tell them about your improvement in my class, and how I think your behavior is improving as well. And promise them it won’t happen again. Seem sincere and, even better, be sincere. I think they’d take that.”

“Tommy doesn’t have to do shit? That’s fucked, man.”

“Listen. Tommy’s an asshole, but he doesn’t give the teachers and staff trouble. You’re on thin ice, kid. And Tommy can be an asshole before he’s hit with real-world shit that’ll leave him crying, but you still have a chance. I really think you do. But not if you get expelled.”

“Whoa. Are you allowed to say that about students?” “Are you allowed to punch a guy?”

Harris sat down.

“Do what I tell you. I can get you out of this. But only if you promise to give a damn, if not in any other class, at least mine. Okay?”

“Alright. Fine.”

“Good.”

Mr. Winston extended his hand. Harris reluctantly shook it. And lo and behold, Mr. Winston was right. Harris only took a week’s worth of lunch detention, and in return he started showing up to class. It was hard at first; Harris would barely stay awake long enough to catch what Mr. Winston’s opening line of his Great Gatsby lecture was. His eyes would wander to the girls in class, and he could only glimpse the notes on the board when he was switching views from Andi to Jennifer. But Mr. Winston wouldn’t stop trying. It really was like one of those teacher-student prestige Oscar-bait movies, but with way more dick jokes flung around. Harris came into Mr. Winston’s classroom during empty hours, considering he didn’t really have anywhere else to be, and no one else to hang out with. Every day, something new would come up.

“Man, Daisy’s a real bitch, huh?”

Mr. Winston would chuckle. “I’m not so sure about that. I mean, consider Tom’s behavior, and how that might affect how she acts. Maybe she’s just as pained as Gatsby is, and we just don’t see it as much.”

“Yeah. Or maybe she’s a bitch.”

After a few weeks, things did start getting better. Harris’s grade went from an F to a C-. Mr. Winston got to improve a student. And they both made a new friend.

Yep. Real Oscar-bait, prestige film bullshit.

Later on, Harris had an idea. Kissler Oaks High, for some reason, did not have a book club. So with a newfound inclination to read rather than beat up kids on the reg, Harris started one. Mr. Winston would be advisor. They met every Thursday at lunch, and the club had six core members: Kelly, Lopez, Omar, Sheila, Gretchen, and Toby. It was a tight-knit group, a collection of black sheep kids who didn’t seem to belong anywhere else. The type of kids who were actively willing to discuss a novel for their precious lunch hour. This was insane. Harris had actually started a club, a club for nerds, and he enjoyed it. He truly had become what he once hated.

Harris sits on the curb. He takes out his peanut M&Ms and tears into them like some feral animal digging into his prey. He chooses out a green one, and pops it. He rolls it around in his mouth, lets the candy coating melt, and chews the soft chocolate. If everyone knew this is how Harris ate sweets, he’d probably get endless shit over it.

He looks up at the stars. They’re sparse, but at least he can still spot some, even discounting the satellites and occasional helicopter. He swears that he was able to see more of them when he was younger.

His phone rings. COME ON AND SLAM, AND WELCOME TO THE JAM! He looks at the caller ID. It’s Kelly. He picks up.

“Harris?”

“Hey Kelly, what’s up.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“...Nothing much.”

“You know how Mr. Winston didn’t show up to class for like two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know why?” “Thought he was sick or something.” “Dude, I think he’s gone missing.”

Harris chuckles. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.” “Why do you say that?” “Considering people are saying that he’s gone missing. Check the news.” Harris tries to check on his phone, but it won’t load.

“Hold on, I’m out of data.” Harris walks over to the newsstand, and picks up a paper. He flips through it and

gets to the missing persons section. In a sea of lost kids and elderly folk, sure enough, Mr. Winston’s profile is splotched on the page. He has a beaming smile and wears a cardigan.

“Holy shit,” Harris says. He closes and opens the newspaper as if the image is a hallucination that would go away.

“Why hasn’t the school said anything about this?” His voice gets more strained.

“They’re late to everything. And I assume they’re waiting on more details.”

“Details? What details? This is happening because there aren’t any details!” He slaps the paper back in its plastic container.

“Yeah, I don’t know man.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Don’t think we can do anything. The cops are already on it.”

“Sure, like the cops have a healthy thirty-something dude on the top of their priority list. They probably assume he’s gone hitchhiking or something.”

“I don’t know about that. But besides, we’re kids, Harris. We’ll just have to wait, I guess.”

“This is horseshit.”

“I know. Seeya in class.”

Monday. Literature class. For the sixth day in a row, the students have had to suffer under the boot of the teaching style of a lame-ass, slow-talking, nasal-voiced substitute teacher. Harris can’t even remember the man’s name. When he takes roll, it’s like the scene from Ferris Bueller, except far less funny and far more tragic.

“Mark Allen?”

“Here.”

“Jacy… Is it Jacy? How do you say that?”

“Jacy.”

“Jacy. Thank you. Jacy Anderson?”

“Here.”

“Luis. Sorry, how do you pronounce that? Soft or hard ‘S’?”

Thursday. Lunch period. It’s been three more days without Mr. Winston, and now the club is just seven kids gathered around an awkward circle.

“So, uh, how’s it going. What did you all think about-” Harris looks at the cover. “Slaugher-House Five?”

Sure, Harris was the club president, but he wasn’t exactly a great conversation leader.

“I don’t know. I thought there was too much cursing,” Sheila starts.

“Shut the fuck up, Sheila. Why are you always bitching about the dumbest shit?” Lopez bites back.

“Guys, calm down. Even though Sheila’s being an idiot right now, that doesn’t mean you can all have a free-for-all Hell in a Cell action bloc,” says Omar.

Harris zones out. He whispers to Kelly: “You’re in charge.” He walks to the principal’s office and knocks on the secretary’s desk.

“Is Mr. Gonzalez in?” Harris asks.

“Yes, what do you need?”

“To see him.”

“Let me just call in-”

Before he can finish, Harris storms straight to Principal Gonzalez’s office. At this point, he knows far too well how to get there.

The secretary gets up.

“Hey, I need to call in-”

Harris opens the door and sees Gonzalez eating a salad. He sighs, and pushes his lunch aside.

“Why didn’t John call you in?”

“Where’s Mr. Winston?”

“He’s out.”

“Oh really? Cause last time I checked… anywhere that wasn’t you guys, he’s actually missing. For real, missing.”

Gonzalez sighs. “Close the door.” Harris closes the door and sits down.

Gonzalez clasps his fingers together and places his hands on his desk.

“Harris. We don’t want to cause more panic than necessary.”

“A teacher’s missing!”

“Yes, but telling everyone won’t be productive. The police are doing their best, and we don’t know the extent of the situation.”

“The extent of the situation is Mr. Winston could be in deep trouble!” “And there’s nothing we can do about it, Mr. Nguyen. It does nothing to ease the problem and I’m afraid announcing it will only make things far worse. If you’re so inclined, though, there is something I believe you can do.”

“What’s that.”

“There’s a hotline where you can call in and give any information you can. I’m sure you have something you can give. Here’s the number.”

Gonzalez scribbles down a phone number and hands it to Harris.

“Alright. Thanks.”

Harris leaves and Gonzalez digs into his salad.

[joshwritesforu]

The Wonderful Winston - Part 2, Class of 2002

Read Part 1 Here

“I’m going on a trip, Kevin.”

“Oh? To where?” Kevin eats his bagel in running shorts. It’s too cold for running shorts.

“Visalia. An old friend’s gone missing.”

“Oh, God. That’s terrible. Feel pretty awful you have to go to Visalia, though. You should at least stop by the beach.”

“I might.” Camila dumps a can of wet cat food in Tiger’s bowl. “Remember to feed him.”

“I will. You have a good time.”

Camila purses her lips. “Sure.”

The plane shakes just enough to wake Camila up from her deep sleep. She looks outside to see the brownish landscapes and dust-covered highways of Central California. Home. The chain restaurants and flip-flops here replaced the underground kimchi cellars and stylish boots of New York City. Here, the world was just a little sadder, a little less pretentious, and a little calmer.

The pilot gets on the speakers. “Folks, we’ve begun our descent into Fresno, California. Seventy-six degrees and clear skies. We’ll be at the gates in about twenty minutes. Thank you for flying with us.”

Camila gets her fat Jansport, the only thing she’s packed. After watching a YouTube video on effectively stuffing luggage, it’s been her pride to be able to fit two weeks of clothes and amenities in a single school backpack. Practically sorcery.

Walking out of the airport, the whiff of pollution mixed with the faint hint of cow dung slaps her in the face. She forgot how unpleasant the heavy air was. After a while it becomes unnoticeable, but returning to it is akin to using a snorkel. A dirt-lined snorkel with hay filters.

Camila sees Pauly standing next to his parked car. Sunglasses cover his icy blue eyes, but she can still see them, cutting right through the dark polarization. He smiles, but not in that youthful, dumb, beaming way that showed off too much teeth and gums. It’s normal now. A pleasantry.

“Mister Worldwide!” Camila screams, running towards Pauly.

They hug, and Pauly laughs. The guffaw isn’t so annoying anymore.

“How long has it been?” Pauly says.

“I can’t even remember.”

“You wanna stop somewhere to eat?”

“Nah, I had like a million almonds on the flight.”

“Sounds like an ordeal.”

“Oh, it was.”

Winston sat on the couch with Camila. Winston wore his glasses perched just a little too low on his nose. He had a streak of gray hair running down his head. He always seemed to wear some kind of plaid or flannel. He was vegetarian. Essentially, he was as obnoxiously hipster as any 18-year-old kid in the farm districts of California could be.

Camila and Winston had been dating for about three months now. They were convinced they had something real, like most lovestruck high-schoolers did.

“What are we gonna do?” Winston said. His scrawny legs were on the coffee table. He nervously bit the rim of his red solo cup.

“What are we gonna do about what?” Camila said.

“You’re going to NYU. I don’t want to lose you.”

Camila rubbed his back. “You won’t lose me. We can always chat.”

Winston smiled. “That’s good.” He picked up her cup. “Refill?”

“Duh.”

Winston got up. Pauly stumbled onto the couch, and spilled his drink on the carpet.

“Shit.” Pauly let a nasty burp rip.

“Dude, are you okay?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Do you need something?”

Pauly dug his head into his hands. “I regret not saying it.”

“What?”

Pauly looked deep into Camila’s eyes. Looking into Pauly’s pupils, you’d swear you could just look right through him. Forget mirrors of the soul, these eyes were tunnels. Pauly started leaning in to Camila. His face got far too close to hers.

Camila pushed Pauly away.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Seemingly out of nowhere, Winston tackled Pauly to the ground, and punched him with force no one would have ever expected out of the frail theater kid. The others gathered around to witness the slaughter.

Screams of “Fuck him up!” and “Beat his ass!” and the occasional ironic “Get him a body bag!” filled the house.

In the chaos, the “Class of 2002” banner was taken down and torn up into a cloud of blue lint. And for a month, Pauly’s face was plagued with a deep purple and crimson bruise.

Pauly and Camila drive to Visalia in a car much nicer than anything on the road in at least a 50-mile radius. Camila looks outside at the dust kicked up by zooming masses of cars.

“So what are you doing now, Pauly? You ever make that video game?”

“Nah. I work in software security.”

“Shit, that sounds harcore.”

“Not really. I just make sure computers keep running okay after a hack or virus infection.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s really not.”

“You’re right.”

“How about you? Livin’ it up in Manhattan?”

Camila chuckles. “In a sense.”

“What do you do?”

What do I do? She thinks, leaning her head against the window.

“I’m writing some stuff. Pieces about movies and TV.”

This is… technically true. Occasionally, Camila would post angry tweets reacting to specific episodes of Orange is the New Black and write strongly-worded open letters to the filmmakers of Heathers. Yes. Multiple.

“Nice. Very nice. How’s Kevin?”

“Kevin’s good. Kevin’s great. He’s probably home taking care of Tiger.”

“Tiger?”

“That’s our cat. He’s black, so it’s kind of funny that I named him Tiger, cause most people name their orange and striped cats Tiger. I thought it was funny, anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s funny.”

It really doesn’t seem like he found it funny.

Twenty minutes of silence passes. As Pauly drives, the cars and buildings get more sparse until finally they reach the worn-down Welcome to Visalia sign. Pauly takes a sharp turn into an empty parking lot.

“What are you doing?” Camila asks, confused.

“Open the glove box.”

Camila does, and discovers an Altoids tin. She opens it, revealing a compressed bit of beautiful, stinky marijuana.

Pauly pulls out a glass pipe. “I’m not going into Visalia sober. I hope you weren’t planning on it either.”

Camila chuckles. “You’re a goddamn genius.”

[joshwritesforu]

The Wonderful Winston - Part 1, Camila

This was a long-form thing I wrote a while ago, but never got around to finishing. Hopefully on tumblr, I actually, you know, finish someTHING. Enjoy.

Chapter 1: Camila

The gigantic glass pane humble interior designers would call a “window” overlooks the aggressive Manhattan city lights.

It’s 3:08 AM.

Camila, in her fleece doberman-patterned pajamas, sits cross-legged on her bed. Her face reflects the bright iPad screen like a cold fluorescent surgeon’s light. Another night, another BuzzFeed video. The city is always alive, and Camila seems to have taken that vibrancy to heart, as seen in her own solo bedroom party.

Tiger, a black cat, lays across from Camila curled up in such a way that it wouldn’t be surprising if he uncoiled into an active helicopter rotor. He shoots a what the fuck are you doing look to Camila.

“Leave me alone, Tiger.” Camila taps on the next video. This one’s about Australians trying Thai food for the first time, or something. She’s lost track. Tiger proclaims his boredom with an annoyed yelp, and leaps off the bed. When Camila married Kevin, this isn’t exactly what she imagined. Maybe it was what she should have expected, considering her idea of a “perfect” marriage came from decades-old sitcoms. To be fair, it didn’t seem like Claire Huxtable sat in the wee hours of the night reading whatever the 80’s equivalent of listicles were. Mr. Huxtable was usually there, and not off in Madrid, or Hanoi, or Minnesota to talk about board game manufacturing with other old white businessmen who talked very seriously about which faces to add to “Clue.” Kevin’s wedding vows should have read “I, Kevin Markovski, take you, Camila Maldonado, to be my lawfully wedded wife, like Elyse Keaton in Family Ties, to have and to hold, from this day forward, long after our hippie days and our transformation into the perfect white-bread, Michael J. Fox spawning family, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. Or at least until the Scrabble people have an emergency meeting.” The home phone rings.

Camila looks up, startled. No one calls the home phone. Not even her mom. Who even has this number? She crawls towards the arcane device, and after a few obnoxious rings, picks it up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Camila?” It’s a familiar voice. She can’t quite place it, but the tenor is undeniably rooted in her past.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“It’s Pauly.”

Pauly. Of course. She remembers her most visceral account of him, the Cuban kid with buzzed hair and striking blue eyes. The Pitbull jokes were endless. She remembers his loud and grating, but charming, guffaw. She remembers his drunken episode as he tore down all of the cheap paper decorations put up by the prom committee in a weird attempt to impress his crush with crazy antics.

“Pauly! What’s up? Shit dude, long time no see!”

“Yeah, yeah.” There’s a sadness in his voice.

“What’s going on?”

“You remember Winston?”

No shit I remember Winston, she thinks. I haven’t suffered a traumatic brain injury yet.

“Of course! Why?”

Pauly takes a deep breath. “He’s gone.”

“…What?”

“He’s missing. The cops and volunteers have been searching for two weeks. No trace of him.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. Lydia’s taking it pretty hard.”

“I bet. Yeesh, what do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, but it looks bad.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I was actually wondering, it’s kind of a stupid idea, but if you wanted to come down here. I know it’ll be a long flight, but just for the sake of one last hurrah befo-”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

The truth is, adulthood proved to be a disappointment. After years of wishing to get to the big city, the truest symbol of “making it,” life here was a downgrade. Farmland and pseudo-suburban bliss defined a happy childhood. And even if she’d never get that feeling back, at least she’d return to what encased her once-lovely life.