Nimrod

Nimrod

Ryan Roberts

Published by Earth Island Books

Pickforde Lodge

Pickforde Lane

Ticehurst

East Sussex

TN5 7BN

www.earthislandbooks.com

© Copyright Earth Island Publishing Ltd

First published by Earth Island Publishing 2022

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 9781739795597

Printed and bound by IngramSpark

chapter 1

*

nice guys finish last

Today is the last day of my junior year of high school. This morning Frankie Friel got on the loudspeaker and announced to the entire student body of Somerville High School that my mom is The Woman in White, the eccentric lady who walks around town clad all in white. He was the only one who knew—until now. Frankie lives across the street from me; we’ve been friends since we were little kids. More like frenemies, actually, because he’s always pulling stunts like this one with the goal of embarrassing me. When he tosses insults my way, it makes the other kids laugh but it’s not because he’s funny. Far from it. They laugh so he doesn’t set his sights on them, which only feeds the beast, because the more laughs he gets, the more he makes fun of me. The stuff he says, for the most part, doesn’t bother me...except when he talks about my parents.

Most of my classmates are out of their seats conversing with one another as Miss Tucker, our biology teacher, has given us the final ten minutes of the school year to sign each other’s yearbooks and talk about our summer plans. Getting my yearbook signed is the perfect cover, the one I’ve been waiting for since this morning. I cradle my yearbook in my left arm and walk over to where Frankie is standing. When he sees me, he flashes a smirk, letting me know just how proud he is of himself for letting out my secret and I rear back, years of pent-up aggression loaded in my fist, aim for his chin, and knock the smug look right off his face.

Walking the halls en route to the principal’s office is an out-of-body experience. It’s like I’m floating above, watching myself as if I’m in a movie. As I begin to worry about my imminent fate, most likely suspension for the beginning of next year, I realize I hear clapping. I look to see that all the kids and teachers from every classroom have stepped out into the hallway and are applauding me as if I’ve just saved the world. Even the custodians are clapping for me. I had just done to Frankie Friel, thorn in the side of everyone he’s ever come in contact with, what we’ve all fantasized about doing. My luck does not change inside the principal’s office. He softly explains that he’s keeping me here as a mere formality (his words), to give the appearance that he’s disciplining me when in reality he’s thanking me for doing what so many of his colleagues have been wishing someone would do since Frankie first stepped foot in this school. He even throws a few yells in my direction for the sake of authenticity, in case anyone is listening outside his office. After my mock punishment is over, he thanks me for my service and says, Rod, you’re free to go.  

Rod, you’re free to go, Miss Tucker says, snapping me out of my daydream.

As I look around the empty classroom, I realize that the rest of my classmates have left to get a head start on their summer breaks and I am hit with a sense of dread, more damaging than any punch in the face could be. While most teenagers run with anticipation toward their two-plus months away from the monotony of school and the feeling of being trapped inside the same four walls for seven hours a day, that’s the way I feel about going home.

Hey, Nimrod, need a ride? Frankie asks, pulling up next to me in his black BMW. Daydream aside, I'm a nice guy, not the kind to go around punching people. I haven't forgiven Frankie for the dick move he pulled this morning, but I know that he's been extra callous since his mom walked out on him and his dad and he's been lashing out. That doesn't make it right, but in Frankie's own self-absorbed way, this ride is his form of an apology, so I get into the passenger seat and accept—both the ride home and the apology.

* * * * * * * * *

Frankie pulls into the parking lot of the volunteer fire station and tells me I can walk the rest of the way. It’s not far, only about a six minute walk to my house, but I look at him, confused.

Kiley lives that way, he says, pointing to the right. "If I drive you home, then I have to double back and it’ll add another five minutes onto my drive. And I really wanna get there. Did you see what she was wearing today?"

Nice guys finish last, right?

Although a six minute walk has just been tacked onto my journey, I’m still ahead of schedule. Most days I take the bus home, which won’t find its way to my neighborhood for another twelve minutes or so. It’s way faster if you have a car (I don’t) or get a ride home with someone. Frankie isn’t usually so hospitable but I guess he was feeling guilty for outing my mom as The Woman in White, which is why he gave me a ride (three-quarters of the way) home. The library is right down the street from here so I decide to use my free time to walk over and see if the books I ordered have arrived. My mom doesn’t like it when I’m late—it rattles her nerves, which don’t need any extra help in that department—so I’ll make it a point to be in

and out.

On my way down Olive Street, nearly to the library, a sign for a new business catches my eye and stops me in my tracks: Follow the Sun Yoga. My hero, Sting, is a big practitioner of yoga. Yes, that Sting. Sting the rockstar. Also Sting the environmentalist, Sting the actor, and Sting the yogi. That’s what they call people who do yoga. I used to just refer to him as a yoga person until Rachel Readlinger overheard me saying it in the cafeteria and made a big scene out of me not knowing they were called yogis. With Sting being a major proponent of yoga, and my life’s goal being to meet him, this yoga studio’s arrival in my town, where nothing new ever happens, leads me to believe this could be more than a simple coincidence. Library books be damned—I need to investigate.

Using my hands to block the glare of the sun reflecting off the window of Follow the Sun Yoga, I attempt to see what goes on inside a yoga studio. Of course yoga goes on inside, but I wonder if they practice the same styles of yoga that Sting does: Ashtanga and Jivamukti. The problem is, I have only read that these are the styles he practices, so I am not sure how I would be able to tell one way or the other.

What are you, some kind of pervert?!

I can’t be sure because it all happened so fast, but there’s a strong possibility that I let out a high-pitched yelp, which I have a tendency to do when startled. I turn to face my accuser and see that it’s a girl around my age. I’m sure I’ve never seen her before—she’s not someone you forget. It’s not uncommon for me to become tongue-tied in the presence of a girl, but this one in particular, with her long bangs, heavy black eyeliner, and unencumbered confidence, makes me more nervous than usual.

Who...me?

 Of course she means me. I am the only person around, certainly the only person peering into the window of Follow the Sun Yoga, so she’s clearly talking to me. But I needed to say something, anything, to buy some time to attempt to get my mouth and brain to work in unison.

You’re the only one I see here peeping into the window, unless you’ve got a friend hiding around the corner somewhere.

No, definitely not. I don’t have any friends.

Real smooth, Rod.

Well I’m sorry to hear that, but if I can offer a little advice, the way to make friends isn’t by sneaking around looking into windows.

Oh...yeah...no.

Ugh.

I wasn’t sneaking a peek, I offer. Well, technically I was, but really I was just trying to see if Sting is in there.

Is Sting your dog or something?

"No, Sting the rockstar. Not that I thought he was in there. It’s just that he’s super into yoga and I’m a big fan of his, so I was just—"  

At that moment, my phone rings, prompting another of my trademark high-pitched yelps. It’s no surprise who’s calling me as there’s only one person who ever calls me. Before I’m even able to get out a hello, my mom is already ranting in full-on panic mode. There’s no use in trying to calm her down, not when she’s like this, so I just repeat I’m on my way home a few times before hanging up.

Mom problems?

Oh yeah, you heard that, huh? Sorry about that. My mom just—

No need to apologize, she says. If anyone knows about mom problems, it’s me.

Well, I’ve gotta go.

See ya around, Sting.

Not if I see you first, I say, hating myself for not being able to hold back on a Peeping-Tom-inspired joke. I am so not smooth.

chapter 2

*

favorite son

When I walk in the house my mom is standing right there waiting for me; so close, in fact, that I nearly knock her over with the front door. She tells me how happy she is that I’m home. What she actually means is that she’s relieved. She hasn’t been happy in twenty years, since my brother died. She blames Green Day for his death but that’s a story for another time. His name was Colin. I never met him, being that I’m only sixteen.

I thought the school year was never going to end. Sometimes I think I’d be better off pulling you out of that school and keeping you home with me full time. I feel so much better when you’re in range, she says, handing me my walkie-talkie.

Anytime I’m not in school, my mom insists that we each keep a walkie-talkie on us, the same pair I used to play with when I was a kid. This way she can get in touch with me anytime she needs me (which is often) and it also prevents me from venturing outside of the walkie-talkies’ frequency, hence staying ‘in range.’ My mom is old school so she doesn’t own a cell phone; she doesn’t believe in them. Not only is she old school, she’s also old. That’s not me being rude; she really is old compared to the parents of other kids my age. So is my dad. I already mentioned my dead brother, Colin. Well, when they had him, they were the normal age for having kids. But that was a long time ago. He died nineteen years ago, when he was just twenty. The pain of losing a son and spending the rest of their lives without one was too much to handle so three years after Colin’s death, when my dad was fifty and my mom was forty-seven, along came Baby Rod. That’s me, only I’m not a baby anymore and Rod isn’t the name they gave me. At the risk of sounding like a basket case, Green Day, along with the death of my brother, is also to blame for my nickname.

When my mom asks me why I’m so late (and by ‘so late,’ she means three minutes later than usual), I attempt to change the subject. I’m not supposed to take rides from Frankie. They don’t mind me going over to his house to play video games but getting in the car with him is a different story and would probably give my mom

an aneurysm.

Did you know there’s a new yoga studio in town? Right across from the library.

Of course she doesn’t know. My mom walks all over town but for some reason she refuses to walk down Olive Street. She’d rather walk twenty minutes out of her way than take that street. It’s no use asking her why not, because she’ll never say. She’s got a lot of...quirks.  

It sounds like it could be fun. Maybe something you’d be interested in trying? I could even try it with you if you want.

As I’m saying this, the look on my mom’s face tells me it’s more than she can handle. She doesn’t do well with change. My mom is a creature of habit and I know better than anybody that there’s no way in hell she’s going down to that yoga studio, but the thought of seeing that girl again got the better of me and I decided to take a shot.  

I wish you wouldn’t be late, you had me worried sick. Now can you get me a glass of juice? Mommy’s really thirsty.

Sure, Mom.

The pills my mom takes dry out her throat, so she asks me to make her juice quite often. I’m happy to do it. Did you know that most juice you buy in the grocery store has hardly any juice in it at all? Store-bought juice usually contains only 10% juice and the rest is added sugar and other random ingredients. When I learned this, I told my parents, thinking they’d be as appalled as I was, but they’re old school and they like their Tropicana, so knowing that it’s barely juice at all that they’re drinking didn’t stop them from buying it. This led me to start making my own juice. Since I didn’t have an electric juicer at the time, I would squeeze oranges and lemons with a hand juicer I found in my parents’ cabinet, which I don’t even think they realized they had. It’s this little white doohickey made of glass that has JUICE embossed across the front. That’s how I figured out what it was in the first place, as I had never seen one before. Its base looks like a tiny rowboat with a handle on one side. Coming out of the floor of the rowboat is this thing that looks like half a football with jagged lines running vertically along its length. That’s where you press the orange or lemon, and then the juice trickles down and sits on the bottom, waiting to be poured into a pitcher. You have to press a lot of fruit to fill a pitcher so adding water helps and also makes it less sour. After I started making my own juice, I would pour it into their empty Tropicana containers (which became empty after I poured the original contents down the sink). I would do this without them knowing, of course, and at first my dad drank it and said, I think Tropicana changed their recipe. Why can’t they leave well enough alone? which is an expression I find silly. Why settle for well enough? Why wouldn’t you want something super awesome? After a day or two, my dad began enjoying my secretly homemade juice even more than the regular Tropicana he was used to.  My mom didn’t really notice at all, because she usually only drinks juice after she takes her pills and by then she doesn’t notice much, not for the next few hours anyway. Eventually I told them I was replacing the Tropicana with juice I’d made by hand and I think they were a little weirded out, because what thirteen-year-old kid makes his own juice and sneaks it into empty Tropicana containers to trick his parents? Since then, I’ve been on juice duty.

There’s no juice left in the fridge so I have to make more, which takes a little while. Not nearly as long as it used to because now I have an electric juicer. My parents got me one for Christmas last year so now I can make all kinds of juices. It still takes a while to cut up all the fruit and then clean the juicer afterwards, which you have to do after each use or it gets all kinds of funky. By the time I get back downstairs, my mom is asleep on the couch, clutching an old family album filled with pictures of our family taken before I was alive. Looking at those photos is like looking at a completely different family and not solely because they are pictures of my parents with a boy that isn’t me. The strangest part is how different my parents look. Not just younger. My dad was in shape back then and could do things like play baseball with his son, the one who isn’t me. My mom had a great big smile on her face in most of the photos, which is hardly ever the case these days.

My dead brother, Colin, was the golden boy. Star baseball player, great student, doer of no wrong. I, on the other hand, am good at...making juice. With my mom asleep on the couch, likely for the rest of the afternoon, I set her glass of juice on the coffee table, bring mine upstairs with me, and google: how to tell when a girl is flirting with you.

chapter 3

*

sting-chronicity

You probably think it’s strange that a kid my age is into Sting. Well if it is, it’s only weird that a kid my age these days is into Sting, because back in the late 1970s and all throughout the 1980s, practically every kid my age was into his band, The Police. Stewart Copeland, the drummer for The Police, made a documentary called Everyone Stares, which I watched on YouTube. In it there was a scene in which, after one of their concerts, Sting couldn’t get out the back door of the building because there were so many teenagers crowding the place chanting, STING, STING, STING!! Police (both actual police officers and the other members of his band, The Police) were trying to help him escape. He looked totally freaked out but you could tell he reveled in the adoration of his fans at the same time.

The first time Sting appeared on my radar was while watching my all-time favorite movie, Bee Movie. It’s an animated movie written by Jerry Seinfeld, who my parents really like for his TV show, which they used to love watching with Colin back in the ‘90s. Every time Seinfeld’s name comes up, my dad makes the same lame joke: I love Jerry, even though he spells his name wrong. My dad spells his name, Gerry, with a g. Personally, I think Jerry with a j looks better, but a g makes more sense if it’s short for Gerald, like it is for my dad. Then I learned it could be short for Jerome, too. This is what dad jokes do: they force me down rabbit holes that have no destination. So let’s move on. Bee Movie had a major impact on my life for a myriad of reasons: 1.) it was my introduction to my hero, Sting; 2.) it's the reason I stopped eating meat; and 3.) there’s the name connection. We’ll get to the other two later but for now let’s stick with Sting.

There I was, a little kid watching a movie with his mom. Toward the end of Bee Movie there’s a courtroom scene in which the main character, Barry (who is a bee), is suing the human race for stealing honey from the bees and Sting is called to the witness stand. I had no idea who he was but I thought it was cool that his name was Sting, so I asked my mom about him. After Colin died—for which she blames Green Day—my mom stopped listening to music. I was young and didn’t realize that music was something she avoided; it was just normal to me that we never had it playing in the house. That’s all I knew so I didn’t think twice about it (or even once, for that matter). But this day was different. My mom suddenly became more animated than I’d ever seen her, telling me about Sting and The Police. She was wide-eyed, talking with her hands, and her voice contained an unfamiliar excitement. She opened the entertainment center underneath the TV and pulled out a CD by The Police. My mom brought me up into Colin’s room and played The Police on his old stereo, the only one in the house. She had me by the hands as we listened and danced together. It was truly one of the happiest moments of my life. And it was over as quickly as it began. The moment the CD ended, it was as if my mom snapped back into reality, her reality of not allowing herself to feel joy, as if that would somehow be an affront to the memory of Colin. I was a little kid so I didn’t understand this at the time; it’s something I worked out later as I replayed the scene over and over again in my head, not knowing what went wrong, wondering if it was something I had done, wondering if it would ever happen again. The following day all of the CDs were missing from the entertainment center.

The fifth and final album by The Police (and the one we danced to that day) is called Synchronicity, a concept developed by Carl Jung, a renowned psychiatrist (or maybe psychologist—I can never remember the difference) back in the late 1800s/early 1900s. The concept holds that events are meaningful coincidences if they occur with no causal relationship yet seem to be meaningfully related. In other words, Jung believed there was a large pattern to life, that it wasn’t just chaos. Heady stuff, huh? I’ve tried reading Jung. I borrowed a copy of his book Man and His Symbols from the library at least five times but I’ve never been able to read it all the way through. Sting seems to be a big fan of his work. On top of being one of the biggest rock stars in the world, he’s also quite bright.

  We never spoke of that moment again, but whenever I watched Bee Movie (which was a ton), my mom would disappear as Sting’s small part in the movie approached and I understood that Sting had some kind of power that I did not fully grasp. That day was the beginning of my fascination with him and in years to come he would continue to appear in my life at pivotal moments involving my mom, leading me to believe that he holds the key to unlocking the happiness that is buried deep within her. I feel that Sting and I are connected— these moments of synchronicity are too genuine to ignore, and I know in my heart that if there is a way that I can meet him, I’ll be able to unlock the mystery and help my mom turn back into the happy person she was when Colin was still alive.  

chapter 4

*

at the library

I live in a small New Jersey town you’ve never heard of called Neshanic Station, where every day is exactly the same. Without a driver’s license, the only thing to do in Neshanic is daydream about getting a car and leaving this town behind. Perplexing to me is the number of people who get their licenses yet end up staying here for good. I imagine many shared my fantasy of getting out until one day they conceded, accepting their small-town fate of being born, living, and dying all in the same place. My birthday is in September; this year it’s just a few days before the start of my senior year. I’ll be turning seventeen, which in New Jersey is when you’re able to get your driver’s license. Able, that is, so long as your mom doesn’t have an earth-shattering fear of you getting behind the wheel. Guess who won’t be getting his license in September?

My mom is having a better day today. Yesterday she hardly moved from the couch at all, not even to eat dinner, so my dad ended up eating both his meal and hers when he got home. Today she’s out on one of her walks, so now is the perfect time for me to get over to the library to pick up the book that Mary, the librarian, has for me. You may consider sneaking off to the library while my mom is out deceitful, but I don’t have a job (she won’t allow it) so I can’t afford to buy books from Amazon, and I have to get them somehow. Plus, I enjoy spending time with Mary.

I used to spend practically every Saturday at the library. My dad felt guilty that I spent so much time looking after my mom and cooking the majority of the meals so he wanted me to take one day a week to get out and do something for myself. He called it my free day. The problem is, in my boring town, there isn’t much to do. I started going down to the library and ended up really hitting it off with Mary. Not in a creepy way. She must be 70 years old, which is just a guess—I’d never ask. We would talk about books, movies, etc., and then I’d end up helping her rearrange the entire fiction section, which was a ton of work but we had a blast doing it. After a while my mom, who didn’t like me being gone every Saturday afternoon, changed my free day to Sundays, the only day the library is closed. I brought this up to her but she just kept saying, I’m sorry but it’s out of my hands. My dad said he’d talk to her but either he didn’t get around to it or the talk didn’t go well. Either way, now I have to be creative about getting myself to the library.

Every time I leave, I set a timer for an hour and a half and I always make sure to keep my walkie-talkie on me, just in case. My mom’s walks can, and often do, take longer than this but they are never shorter, and I err on the side of caution to ensure that I return home before she does.

There’s a shortcut to get to the library that shaves a good five minutes off the walk from my house. Two homes on Maple Ave. share a driveway and if you cut through it going in between their detached garages, it leads you through an alleyway that lets you out at the library’s back door. I discovered it one time while my dad and I were out looking for my mom when one of her walks was lasting longer than normal. Now I use it when I’m in a pinch.

Usually when I arrive, Mary asks if she should put on ‘our songs,’ which is code for a Sting CD we both love. Listening to music goes against what you probably think of as library etiquette, having to be quiet and all. I once asked Mary if she could borrow My Songs, Sting’s