Wild Roses by Denn Killian Matthews.
Category: Fiction
Paperback: 220 pages
Language: English
ISBN-10: 075520414X
ISBN-13: 978-0755204144

1
"Clarence had always stood as my hero, from time immemorial, I am tempted to contend. The element of aloof yet coy lightness in his every move tantalised me. His scornful, cursory glance fascinated me from the heights of his imperial detachment. He almost fell on things when he turned towards them; he enshrouded them ominously with his close aura, as a cat relishes the sight of her prey at her fatal mercy. No soul had ever thrilled me in this manner before - to disorientation. In his gestures I perceived the decree of necessity. In his own style, he was capable of the best or the worst, mind you. As I laid eyes on him in the high school refectory, whereas he had been no more than a nameless presence so far, something in the depths of my being was stirred and counselled me to eschew his company. Our relation was a gun of powder in a velvet glove. At times we shared power over a third party but he essentially sipped his massive authority over me, an authority all the more baffling as even though my senses commanded along this drift, the purity of our amity was solely challenged by the fluttering of adolescence. The faintest trace of ambiguity was radically discarded with clamour. Our supreme fear was to be called ‘sissy boys’. The few reckless mates who had given in to a foolhardy impulse to call us so wound up bruised, endowed of a black eye or bombarded with rich curses ranging from an array of abuse regarding their parents to any convenient person related to them in any degree. I must say that it was no petty insult to call Kelly a ‘faggot’ at the slightest ambiguity on his part, in anticipation of the glower he’d fling at me or the parade of manhood he’d show forth in anger and contempt. The flush of excitement which arose from the spectacle of his susceptibility surfacing inexorably was solely balanced by his unreal ability to regain complete composure in the next breath. Rumours could prompt Clarence to become outwardly disparaging towards me publicly or behind my back in order for him to refute surmises of corrupt fellowship. ‘I am most defiant of this decadent creature here,’ Clarence could easily declare.

Clarence royally rose from a crouching position to a fully steady stature by a springy impulse of his fingers, and raced along the track, flirting with the white stripe, on the brink. More than once did he swerve and arrogantly follow the next lane for lack of traffic; the nearest runner was feet behind and Clarence revelled in the luxury of grimaces or a slight sway of the hips, as his lead permitted. From the remoteness of his statuesque bearing he waved airily and shouted, ‘You have now met your master!’ He greeted the late runners in a subtle blend of cheers and shrill cries meant to herd the cattle into their barn for fodder, the rogue. Then he would collapse with style and inhale deeply a goodly number of times. The manner in which Clarence emitted muffled moans was as eloquent as his sweep of the tongue across his fleshy lips to collect the taste of the beads of sweat around them ? he was enjoying himself! His Highness screened his eyes with his hand aslant and saucily peeped at me from under it. By the same tacit pact I would acknowledge and venerate his superiority as well as roll out the red carpet for his abuse, or even further, receive it as manna. Granted was the fact that I was as much a puppet set to motion under his deft, velvety fingers as he was a subject to his own colourful moods. Torn between opposite fits of humour, he did not stand the feeblest frown to hover across my face; he commanded unconditional acquiescence and possessed a quaver in his grin which was terribly laden with impending menace, reinforced by a false bottomed glare beyond distance. Half-heartedness was obviously uncalled-for as long as his dignity remained safe from threat. Our frequent rows were triggered off, and cut short at his will. I regarded this behaviour as a flaw in his imperial personality, a flaw which concerned me and hurt me at once. His provocative sallies stirred varied reactions from me, truly guarded most of the time since I was aware of his potential for violence behind his armour of impenetrable vigour. He always paled by the end of his race. Many a time, he would still be lying spread-eagled across the track when I’d reach the finish line where he would sling a provocative, ‘Stopping on your way, bubba?’ then cover his eyes with his wet hand.

I dropped to my knees and leaned over him, one leg at either side, my boldness prompting me to clap my sweaty hand over Clarence’s mouth and flick my middle finger through his slightly parted lips, and eventually break into a maniacal peal of laughter as I darted my finger about.

‘Pretend you don’t relish this, you damn faggot!’ I blurted out maliciously then instantly punctuated my cue by an uncontrollable chortle arising from unfathomable depths. The expression on his face all of a sudden turned fierce; he displayed a tremor in his upper lip which imparted him a naughty air in contrast to the properly dazzling whiteness of his teeth. He locked my head in his arm before he gave me a scalp scrub to remember and ruffled my short hair into a bristling unruliness.

‘Why the hell did you do that?’ he repeated.

‘The spur of the moment, man,’ I replied. A substantial slanging match ensued. Clarence called me a ‘bitch’ and other variations in the same vein, whereupon he crowned his string of abuse with an inconsiderate tug at the waistband of my shorts, uncovering the lily upper part of my derriere. The unnatural hue cast by the electric orange of the tiered seating pervaded the stadium. Even though I never considered myself to be more than Clarence’s wan shadow, I viewed him as a reflection of me, a triumphant replica. Our complicity embarrassed me more often than not in spite of the purity of our bond.

Amidst the legion of moments of physical proximity I never dared describe inaccurately as accord ever since our high school senior year, scarcely any have retained a vivid memory, specially for we both simultaneously fell in love with our future wives in the thick of our sophomore year in college. These surges of affection were systematically blurred into a procession of humour and derision. If a game of forfeits gave way to sensuous exposure, any faux pas was spared through a wry witticism or a repulsive gesture, and above all by the participation of further friends.

I grabbed the deck of cards offhandedly, shuffled, let each member draw a card, turned mine over, glanced at it, sported a grin and eventually threw an ace of diamonds on the coffee table.

‘Who’s going to be brown bread?’ I teased. Clarence’s delay to show his card was an avowal, in addition to his sullen air, that he was in possession of the lowest card. He tossed over a measly deuce of clubs. I chafed my hands together rapturously and pursed my lips.

‘Wash that lame grin off your mug before I knock it off for you,’ Clarence threatened. The all-male audience permitted more boldness in the nature of forfeits. An awkward silence descended on the room. Pair after pair, all eyes were riveted on me, expectant of a forfeit situated in the heights of the challenge.

‘Go on, spit it out now. Let’s not drag your victory out,’ Clarence bridled and drawled with scorn.

‘I....want....you....to....peel those classy pants of yours and....’ I pitched a pillow to him, which he nimbly caught in mid-air. ‘Do this pillow before the whole public as you stand in the middle of our highly perplexed circle.’

‘What the hell? Are you serious? You are definitely sick. Pull yourself together at once and we’ll pretend we have never heard that one,’ Clarence reproved in tones of finality. The muffled whispers from the circle drew the incident to a conclusion, until I resumed, ‘I knew you wouldn’t have the guts to perform this forfeit.’

‘Listen to that fag!’ he slung at me as he held the pillow level with his fly and pressed it against his crotch. He ground at the pillow under our eyes! I roared with laughter.

‘No wonder your girl ditched you,’ I taunted Kelly.

He catapulted the pillow at my face, hoisted it anew, tumbled me over onto the sofa and pinned my neck down before he abraded my face with the pillow; he hurled it at me disdainfully.

‘Make yourself useful: go fetch me a brew,’ Kelly commanded as a stamp of chastisement apt to seal the entire mishap. His reputation had been salvaged but I did not deem us even at this point, if he did. I obeyed his injunction reluctantly with a view to dimming his vigilance and dissipating suspicions of possible retaliation. I whisked a half full pitcher of ale from the refrigerator and carried it along with a glass into the living room. His glass served, I humbly proffered it to him.

‘Your glass is served, Your Honour.’ Nothing in the shape of a thank you was uttered from his lips. He had gulped a quarter of the glass down and stabbed it on the table. The moan he let out right after amused me in the light of my imminent blood-curdling lark.

‘Good beer?’ I said relishing the sight of his bright and unsuspecting expression.

‘Yes, nice and refreshing.’ Clarence swept the tip of his tongue across his lips and burped.

‘Oh, I am glad you appreciated it because you have just quaffed a glassful of my urine.’ I dared as he was sipping some more. He planted the glass away and coughed maniacally.

‘You crazy fuck, tell me that was a dumb joke’, was his first response. I tapped his back gently.

‘A joke? Are you joking? But you said you liked it,’ I teased and broke into another peal of uncontrollable laughter. In a fit of wrath mixed with indignation he socked me a slap in the face, toppled me over the sofa to the floor, then pinned my chest down with his foot.

‘I want to hear that this was a detestable farce on your part.’ He was compressing my chest with his heel, in his stocking feet; he wriggled his toes.

‘Of course that was a detestable farce. I apologise,’ I stuttered under the perplexed eyes of the circle, thinking, ‘But at least I consider us even now for the flush of anger I caused you, and another thing, I have succeeded in inducing you into a ridiculous position, lamely hammering at a pillow under the eyes of a whole circle, you bastard.’

The lavish compliments my mother would never fail to shower Clarence in incensed me profoundly, all the more as she implied, merely through her glances at me, an undue comparison with me which left me sullen and envious. This impression was bolstered by the untimely death of my father a handful of years before, for it precipitated a void solely the assumption of my unfamiliar rank as master in my own home could alleviate, as my mother wordlessly conveyed. This role she forcefully strived to fit me into nettled me to the point of evolving into a burden. Consequently I blamed Clarence for this. Only years later had I attained a given level of self-mastery, had I learnt not to take this personally. For the time being I simply wished my mother could rest her eyes on the charismatic Clarence on all fours, literally battered, struggling to reach the bathroom in short-winded crawls while he fumbled for support until he sank headlong into the enamel tub. To guard against all eventualities, it had been strongly established as a golden rule that I would by no means mop his vomit in the contingency of an irrepressible regurgitation prompted by excessive carousal, only I finally would clean it for him, reluctantly. For the sake of our amity...."