Y'all Never Appreciated Me

October 2034

Sean Preston drove with the windows down. The air was crisp. San Quentin was far, and his brother was there, tried and convicted and awaiting a sentence. It was a lot to think about. Sean Preston listened to trance music for most of the six-hour trip, and he thumped the dash to those cool, hypnotic beats.

Jayden James had stabbed a man. The man was no one, but Jayden James stabbed him until he died. The man, the no one, walked out of a Christian store, and Jayden James slashed him twice in the neck and four times in the stomach. He used a six-inch blade and whispered, "Give me your blood," repeatedly. Jayden then removed the man's red-soaked Mickey Mouse varsity jacket, put it on over his black mesh tank top, licked his hands, and drove north on the 101 before parking about three quarters of a mile south of Redwood National Park. He wandered into the woods as the sun set. When the California Highway Patrol found him later that night, he was asleep at the base of a tree (not a Redwood) with his pants bunched around one ankle and his hands covering his genitals.

Sean Preston pulled off the freeway at a rest stop. He checked a map and peed. He laughed to himself at the idea of anyone getting a rest stop blowjob. He'd had anonymous gay sex at raves and Goth raves, and maybe that's why the idea of sneaking off to a freeway bathroom seemed so absurd to him.

And his mind flipped through memories of those raucous raves. He recalled the time he snorted crushed Ecstasy off a black bodybuilder's penis. No one knew the bodybuilder's name. They called him Hotel.

At a gas station, Sean Preston bought a Mounds bar and a Fanta Orange. The man at the counter gave him dirty looks and struck the register keys with exaggerated force.

“You think you’re gonna end up all right? Goin’ on the way you do?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You think you can just… drink this colorful drink and prance around like this? One day you’ll have to answer to God. All your sins… all that you do… you’re gonna have to answer to God.”

“Just give me the stupid drink, you fuckin’ asshole.” Sean Preston’s heavy lisp caused the man to wince and gnash his teeth. His dirty nails dug into the counter. “You don’t have to act so mad. I know you like what you see.” Sean Preston unwrapped his Mounds and performed fellatio on it in front of the gas station man. With his other hand he masturbated the Fanta bottle. He then pressed the Fanta bottle against the seat of his pants as if it was sodomizing him. His muffled moans were abruptly cut short by an eruption of ire and outrage.

“Get out of here, faggot cocksucker fag! I’ll chop your dick off with my goddamn hatchet, and let’s see if you–” Sean Preston was already outside, laughing nervously and nearly choking on a mouthful of coconut and chocolate. He ran to his car.

He reached under the seat and touched his H&K just to feel safe.

He drove. The early afternoon sun gleamed in his aviator sunglasses. He felt a buzz in his pants. He reached in and removed his mini phone stick. He dropped it in the car’s communicator dock and a semi-transparent display opened before him. Call from Aunt Jamie Lynn. Accept. Video chat engaged.

“Hi, Aunt Jamie Lynn.”

“Hey there, Sean Preston. How are you?”

“I’m doing fine.”

“You drivin’ somewhere?

“I’m going to see Jayden.” She was quiet. Her face was still.

“You tell him I say hi.”

“I will.” She knew he wouldn’t.

“Baby, I had a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“Well, you know Maddie’s getting married next year.”

A voice shouted from the other room. “Hi, Sean Preston!”

Jamie Lynn turned her head. “Maddie! I thought you went to the store.”

“I haven’t left yet, Mom.”

“Well you get in here and say hi to your cousin then!” Maddie entered the room and waved. “She’s getting married in November next year.”

“I didn’t know! That’s great! Congrats, honey!” Sean Preston waved back. “Ugh, you look gorgeous. You’re going to be a beautiful bride! I can’t stand it!”

“It would mean a lot to me if your mother came to the wedding.”

“Oh. Aunt Jamie Lynn, I don’t know. I… I haven’t talked to her in months.”

“You can reach her though, right? I just… I cry at night because I miss her.” Maddie put her hand on her mother’s shoulder.

“I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.” They swapped half-smiles.

“Well, I’ll let you go, Sean Preston. I know you’re driving.” She waved, bending her fragile fingers at the knuckle joints.

“Bye. I’ll talk to you soon.” Her face blipped away. He drove.

He rolled through the main gate and pulled into visitor parking at San Quentin. He stepped out of the car, and ochre dust rose from his designer slip-ons up to the knees of his fitted jeans. A bee landed on his shoulder. “Ahhh!” His hands fluttered, and the bee flew away without stinging.

He eyed the rows of gothic arched windows, and they, in turn, peered back at him. The building, the place, the many-eyed creature and overall purveyor of justice, accused him. He felt the hefty weight of condemnation upon his bony shoulders. He felt scorn fall through the breeze with the lazy deftness of a dead leaf in autumn.

Inside, Sean Preston ran his fingers over bumpy surfaces and bars coated with countless layers of drab paint. He sat before reinforced glass and waited for the guards to bring his brother.

Then, after minutes, Jayden appeared, his weathered, beaten body contained in a clean orange jumpsuit. The skin beneath his shaved head looked grey and sickly. Real shackles partially covered the tattoos on his wrists. He sat and looked at his brother with frozen, ravaged eyes. They sat together and apart.

“Tell Dad something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Tell him, ‘Fuck you.’”

Sean Preston shut his eyes and felt his brother’s anger.

Jayden gingerly placed two fingers on his temple. A sanguine grin peeled across his haunted face. He parted his thin, cambered lips. Tears welled in his eyes, and he banged his head down on the table surface repeatedly. Two guards rushed to his side. They each grabbed an arm and hauled him away.  He cried silently and continuously banged his head in the air as if the guards were carrying the table along with.

“Jayden!”

That was it. Jayden got carried off. That was the visit. Sean Preston shook his head, saddened by his brother’s mental indisposition and annoyed that he’d driven so far for a thirty second conversation and subsequent outburst. He left.

Outside, the sun retreated behind a lumpy horizon. Sean Preston looked at the sparkling, dark water of the San Francisco Bay. In the privacy of his mind, he wished he were straight so he could enjoy those kinds of things with a woman. That was normal. He was just a sad, freaky homo. A tear dripped down his homo cheek. He thought of Judy Garland, and he hated himself even more.

He returned to his car and programmed a navigation route to San Francisco. The car would get him there. He steadily applied more pressure to the gas pedal as hostile blood pulsed through his tan, veiny hands. He accessed the contact list on his phone stick. “San Francisco,” he growled. The names and numbers shuffled and reordered. “Start. In SF for the night. Looking to party. Edit. Looking. Erase. Need to party. Stop. Highlight all. Send.”

Responses popped up just seconds later and continued to appear as he traversed the 101 toward Presidio. His friends Geyser and A-Slay both recommended an all night rave in an abandoned restaurant by the piers near Telegraph Hill.

He headed there, parked in an alley, and crawled into the backseat. He kicked off his shoes and stripped. He pulled a new outfit out of a black tote on the floor. With fury and resolve, he slapped his forearms, shook his head, and did a bump.

Muted rave music throbbed from inside the building. Sean Preston moved fluidly toward it like a snake to a rave. At the door, a bouncer patted him down, and a trampy woman with dyed black hair wrapped a neon orange paper bracelet around his wrist.

A-Slay found him. They greeted with a French kiss and mild groping, and Sean Preston followed A-Slay to a corner where they downed Ecstasy and gin. The speakers blasted a mix of raging synthesizers and leaden bass with an austere voice bellowing “Never Surrender. Never Surrender. Ultimate Party. Never Surrender.”

They reached Geyser, and they all whirled under the flashing lights. They released energy that no one could match. And with MDMA coursing through their organs, they were untouchable. Sean Preston howled like a ship lost at sea desperate to be found.

Geyser flexed his muscles and humped the floor with slow, confident thrusts. A-Slay straddled his body, and pushed himself into Geyser’s arched back. Their mouths remained open as they danced like two gasping fish.

Sean Preston kept his eyes closed while he writhed on the dance floor. He opened them every so often as if coming up for air in pool of ugly, tenebrous murk. Blurred bodies in purple and lime Lycra whipped past.

“I have the entire universe inside me!” screamed A-Slay as Sean Preston spun with his arms locked at ninety-degree angles. They saw him stumble, spit out an ice cube, and fall into a mighty speaker. The speaker fell and hit the ground. It sparked and the audio distorted. Most people stopped and saw Sean Preston on the ground with a fresh cut across his cheek. A bouncer hoisted him with one burly arm, and Sean Preston was ejected.

He returned to his car. The alcohol made him stumble, and a distant memory propelled forward from a blank, liquor-induced nowhere.

He was eighteen. On a Friday night, he drove to San Francisco with Jayden. They’d never been. They knew some kids who were throwing a house party in Bernal Heights. They got lost and never made it to the party. Instead, they stopped at a crowded Industrial club and stayed until it closed. Late in the night, a man with thick brushes for eyebrows and a silver sailboat necklace approached them at the bar. He tugged on his vest and touched Jayden on the arm. “My, my, my… look at you. A couple of angels with dirty faces. Who wants a drink?”

“We’re fine. Thank you.” The words jumped from Sean Preston’s mouth. He grabbed his brother’s other arm and pulled him into the anonymous dancing crowd. Jayden nearly spilled his vodka cranberry. They reached a brick wall and rounded a section of metal pipe railing. Sean Preston put his mouth to Jayden’s ear. “We look out for each other. Forever.” Jayden nodded.

Sean Preston produced a pillow from underneath the passenger seat and crawled into the back. He’d barely kicked off his patent leather ankle boots before he was asleep.

Saliva slid out of the corner of his mouth, and he twitched, immersed in a dream.

He heard a smooth voice. It rang between his ears like an icy, wonderful, New Age song. “Sean Preston, I am an ordained peace-feeler, an aura-shaper and spiritual guide. I am a homosexual like you, and I am coming to you now to help you because you are distraught.”

“No, I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“You are not fine. I can see the damage.”

“I’m fine!” he shouted.

“Listen. Anguish… your anguish… it is with you. It is part of you forever. But you’re letting it dominate you. You’re letting it injure you. I can help, but you must heed what I say.”

“I don’t need any help! Fuck you!”

“Shhhhhhh…” The peace-feeler appeared from above like an angel without wings. He was dressed and draped in what could have been a million yards of rich, flowing silk. He swooped down and cradled Sean Preston in his arms. Together they floated into the air, and the peace-feeler delicately ran his skeletal fingers around Sean Preston’s ears. “I know.” He squeezed Sean Preston tightly. “I know how it is.” Sean Preston heaved. His body jolted, and with each spasm his pain doubled. They rose, coupled, into a pale, purple fog.

They hovered, and the peace-feeler let Sean Preston weep until eventually the crying lessened and trailed off. Sean Preston was a listless, contorted mass in the peace-feeler’s arms. The peace-feeler listened to haunting echoes reverberate around them, and he held his beleaguered companion close. He felt Sean Preston’s pride melting away.

“Everything is going to be fine,” the peace-feeler whispered into Sean Preston’s neck. A gust of wind whipped their clothes into their bodies.

“You’re wrong.” The young man, young Sean Preston, had dead eyes. Only his mouth moved when he spoke. “Where were you yesterday? Where were you the day before? Where were you twenty-nine years ago?”

“No, Sean Preston. I am here now. You change now. There is no past.”

“Put me down. I am filled with rage, and I am vile.”

“I will not.”

“Put me down.”

“I am not giving up on you.”

Sean Preston pulled his arm back at the elbow as if stretching, but when it stopped his fingers clamped inward forming a fist. His forearm whooshed forward, directly into the balls of his peace-feeler. The spirit screeched and dropped its property like a failure Harpy. Its hands turned to claws and it dug into its own face, peeling and tearing at flesh until keratin met bone.

Sean Preston fell through the air. His heart remained calm, and his thoughts remained dulled as though he’d been half-sedated by a timid anesthesiologist. He saw the ground consume more and more of his view, and he braced for his collision prepared for death.

His body bucked, and he was awake again in his car with ropes of cold sweat streaming down his face. The crest of the orange morning sun hung on the horizon. Pale, beautiful light spilled into his car. He knew soon the heat would come. He wiped his hands on his shirt, took it off, and put on a yellow and green tank top.

With fervor, he clambered into the driver’s seat and sped away.

On his way out of San Francisco, he stopped for breakfast at a chrome-heavy diner. He ordered enough food for three people and ate it all. The waitress stared while he ravenously ate sausage links and sides of bacon with his hands. He dipped entire rolled pancakes into scrambled eggs and licked maple syrup off his fingers.

His car dash spoke to him. Tracking. Locating… Dad. A map digitized and blinked in around a pulsing blue dot. Located. Sean Preston sped.

The car squealed to a stop in a paid lot. He opened the door and left the vehicle running. A confused Korean lot attendant watched Sean Preston drop three twenties on the ground and walk away from the car.

Outside a popular hotel bar, Kevin Federline cavorted with friends. His immaculate, oversized shirt stated Neva Surrenda above an embroidered jungle cat. His cocked hat sat atop a cushion of cornrows. He stood proud like a tree (not a Redwood), erect and healthy. His trademark wily smile shined through patches of surrounding stubble. He saw his boy approach, and he held up. His friends went on ahead.

“Yo, what up, SP? Long time, no see.” He leaned in for a man-to-man hug, but Sean Preston stepped back. “A’ight. I see how it is.” Kevin Federline sized up his stringy son. A sneer ripped across his face. “Y’all never appreciated me.” He moved to rejoin his posse.

“I have a message from Jayden.”

“Yo, look. I’m a big-timer. I tried to give y’all boys e’rythang, but check it… y’all di’n’t want it bad enough. I got other kids, and they doin’ fine. It’s on you. That shit’s on you.” He turned away from his son.

“I said I have a message from Jayden.”

Kevin Federline stopped in his tracks. He was irritated. He had loved his children. He had raised them, and they had turned on him. They became despised, deviant homosexuals, and they showered him with spite. They clung to their mother, but she was the disaster. She was unstable. She never did right by them, and still, the more she mistreated them, the more they wanted her. He blamed her. Deep in his soul, whatever that was, he blamed her. He blamed everyone. He was not a joke.

“Yeah, what? What does that murderer have to say to me?” Kevin spun around and faced the barrel of a gun. His eyebrows lifted, and his nostrils flared. He threw his hands up and said, “Naw!” but Sean Preston had already pulled the trigger and fired a bullet into his father’s gut.

“Fuck you.” And in rapid succession, Sean Preston expelled rounds into Kevin Federline’s heart and face.

People unaccustomed to screaming screamed. A small plot of Beverly Hills panicked. They ran. Sean Preston stuck his H&K in his front pocket and calmly walked back to the parking lot. The still-baffled lot man spoke into a brick-sized walkie. The car had not moved. Sean Preston got in and drove away before anyone knew to stop him.

Sirens in the distance implied a pursuit.

And it ended some time before noon. Helicopters circled a small spot on the 405 where police moved in on a flipped car. Smoke rose.

November came. A team of florists fluttered near Jamie Lynn and her daughter.  A boy in catering whites rounded a corner. He nearly tripped by way of his own lanky limbs. Jamie Lynn saw. He was lean and beautifully goofy like her nephews. Her chest tightened and she fought an ensuing tear. It came and slid from duct to chin. Those boys were gone now; one was dead and the other would wither on death row. She shook it off.

Her hands still quivered. Maddie turned and smiled. “Momma…” The sun snuck through a thick canopy of tree branches and leaves to dot her silk dress. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”