twenty-something

From the archives: an unfinished story that seems awfully fitting today.

Greener

One year and two months into his second relationship, a month before it would end a second time, he glared at the boy through coin-slot-sized squinted eyes, emitting a silent growl from his closed mouth, teeth clenched so tight that the decaying back-right molar began to ache. He was furious, frightening himself with his anger, barely restrained, closer to loosing control than, maybe, ever.

He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment, arms crossed, seething. He couldn't remember ever wanting to hurt someone more. He wanted the boy to leave before this erupted and, yet, he couldn't bring himself to wake him.

To him, the boy seemed so small right then, half his size, a quarter of what he usually was. He was asleep on the futon, curled into a tiny little ball, clutching a pillow tightly. He couldn't stand to look at him anymore, so he ascended to the loft.

Twelve rickety steps on the ladder, he collapsed on the apartment's other futon mattress, the one on the floor up there, and buried his head into one of the pillows, growling. With the muffled roar, he suddenly recognizes the anger within him, connected to all the times in his life he's, alone, let out such a primal display -- screaming, yelling, carrying on -- throwing a private temper tantrum to express the feeling he usually kept inside. And the same thought as always pops into his head. Hulk Smash.

It makes him laugh a bit, calm for a second. He is six-years-old. He is Dr. Bruce Banner.

As a kid, he loved comic books but hated The Hulk. He never read his book, watched his show, or had his action figures. But he knew about the Green Goliath from the Marvel trading cards he collected. Banner was a mild-mannered scientist who, after being bombarded by gamma rays, was cursed to transform into a raging man-monster anytime he got pissed off. He hated the Hulk because he could always relate, from the first time he heard of the hero. He was an unassuming guy with a deep, dark secret, a seething leviathan of anger that would rear its roaring head in times of great stress. And so was Bruce Banner.

At fifteen, he punched the refrigerator so hard it moved. At seventeen, the fireplace. The mantle took it, but the fridge fought back, forcing him to wear a bulky wrist brace to heal a hand injury he'd long ago forgotten the details of.

At nineteen, in the dorm shower: For some reason, he felt compelled to punch the wall, the tile. He punched it repeatedly, as the hot water sprayed against his body, punched it again and again. He clenched his teeth tight together and squinted his eyes. His hand, his whole arm, trembled in pain. Finally he stopped and looked down at his fist, bawled up and shaking, blood streaming from his battered, raw knuckles.

He rubbed his knuckles across the tile, leaving trails of his fresh, red blood. It colored the walls brightly, as he artfully painted it across, dragging it with his knuckles, shaping it with his fingertips. He was hypnotized.

At twenty-one: "I would never," he remembers Joe, his first boyfriend, saying almost exactly two years prior. They stood in a grimy New York City subway station, their first, and only, trip to the city together. "It's just -- I don't know -- I know it's just that the 'grass is greener' -- I'm tempted sometimes. But I would never." The train arrived. "You need to relax. It's all in your head."

He looked around. There was nothing to punch except for a few concrete posts and, of course, Joe. A week later, once back to their usual existence and long-distance love, Joe dumped him before he had the chance. Two months later, he found out that he had, in fact, been cheating on him.

In a moment, he was back downstairs, kneeling in front of the futon. "Wake up," he spat at the boy, violently nudging him, grabbing him by the tight shoulder, once, and pushing him hard towards the futon. He feels contented by the motion, calmed, expressed -- but then he feels guilty.

The boy hardly notices. He grunts, groans, grips his pillow tighter and squints his face, barely disturbed.

He growls at him again, pushes again, goes through the motions, this time using the boy's name as punctuation.

He assaults him with the question he figures will shock him awake: "Who's Chad?"

The boy's eyes open, barely registering anything.

He repeats: "Who is Chad?"

The boy wasn't much less of a man than he was. Two years younger, he was twenty-one.

Now the boy struggles with consciousness. Jolted awake, he now sits upright and barely so. His dingy white T hangs loose on his small frame. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie. I know what happened. I just want to hear it from you."

Sleep is gone, replaced by revelation. "Did you read my email?"

He now wished he hadn't.