No One’s First, And You’re Next

By Stefan Jurewicz

“Pass me that remote, boy.”

Without batting an eye, Patrick crossed the living room and handed his father the remote that was sitting on the coffee table in front of his easy chair. His father tipped his head back and poured the last of his beer down his throat while simultaneously reaching out for the controller. The way his free hand flailed around as he looked through the foamy bottle—which was clearly affecting his depth perception—amused Patrick, though he knew better than to let it show.

“Quit waving that shit around!” said his father, angrily.

Wordlessly, Patrick placed the remote directly in his father’s hand, then crossed the living room once more to grab a new beer from the mini fridge they kept next to the TV. As he opened it, daytime television non-sequiturs floated through the airspace as his father skimmed through channels, he daydreamed it was all part of the same show.

“—lieve that he could do something li—”

“—killing and eating a chicken during an internet live—”

“—not the father!”

Applause and jeers pummelled Patrick’s ears as a devastated man covered in tattoos took a walk of shame across the stage.

Years ago, Patrick had asked his father if he would mind turning the TV down so he could study, and his father had responded by turning it to the maximum volume. It had stayed that way ever since.

Without a word of thanks, Patrick’s father snatched the new beer from his son’s hand and returned to channel-surfing. Convinced his progenitor would be occupied for the next while, Patrick seized his opportunity to return to his own business.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the front door open behind him.

“Patty-cakes! Help your mother with the groceries,” came a woman’s voice.

So close.

Patrick turned, a smile already plastered on his face, and went to help his mother carry in the two small paper bags. She was still in her tan Burger Barn uniform—as reliable an omen as a storm cloud on the horizon.

“Hey mum, how was work?”

“Awful!” she cried, removing her slip-proof shoes, “people just have no respect these days.”

“Is that your mother?” Patrick’s father yelled from the other room.

“Yeah, dad,” Patrick called back.

“What?” his father screamed over the TV.

Patrick bit his bottom lip, swiftly swinging the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter before poking his head into the living room.

“Yeah, dad, mum’s home!” he tried again.

“Good. Tell her we’re out of beer!”

‘Out of beer’ was code for ‘running low,’ if ‘running low’ was code for ‘I don’t want to talk to your mother.’ Patrick’s father was no less aware of his mother’s temperament on work days than he was, and thought himself clever for sending her out on errands to keep her away from him.

Patrick’s mother only worked three days a week. After his father’s accident, his parents learned that there was a ‘sweet spot’ of sorts in their local welfare system—a margin of income that allowed them maximum benefits with the minimum amount of work. So long as his mother kept up appearances that she was looking for something better, and that my father would one day return to work himself, the checks would keep coming.

Ignoring her husband, Patrick’s mother went straight upstairs to her room to change. She returned wearing a baggy Looney Toons t-shirt and pajama pants. She microwaved a couple TV dinners, grabbed a beer from the mini fridge, and sat on the couch next to her spouse. As she twisted open the bottle, she swung her legs up onto his lap.

“Would you rub my feet?”

“Jesus, Arlene! You’re rotting my beer. Ask Patrick.”

But Patrick had already snuck upstairs the moment his mother had opened the microwave. Established in his bedroom, he opened his book bag and pulled out his math homework.

Patrick’s bedroom used to belong to his father, who had inherited the house upon his own father’s death. Because of this sentimental connection—one of the few his father was capable of—none of the posters on the wall, nor the magazines on the shelves, belonged to Patrick. He didn’t dare move them, either.

As a child, he had attempted to clear a corner for his modest book collection, only to find them on the lawn when he came home from school the next day, soaked and entirely illegible. A few years later, in a fit of adolescent frustration, he had ripped the poster of Wayne Gretzky off the wall. His wrist had never fully recovered, to this day throbbing dully whenever he put too much weight on it.

Patrick rubbed his wrist, remembering the way his father had jerked it this way and that, and the sound it made when it had finally fractured, before putting the thought out of his mind and returning to his homework. 

From a young age, Patrick had demonstrated incredible intelligence—so much so that his elementary school teachers would often write home about moving him forward a grade or enrolling him in ‘gifted’ programs. But after the first letter had been met with derision—claiming both that Patrick must have cheated on his tests and that these so-called ‘gifted’ programs were nothing but a money grab—Patrick never let another pass through their front door. Instead, he adjusted his behaviour, fudging enough answers on his tests to make sure his ‘gifted’ status would be forgotten and the letters would stop coming, though making sure not to overdo it and raise suspicion.

Despite this, he was still a dedicated student. His thirst for knowledge extended into every facet of his life. He felt that the more he knew, the better equipped he would be to face the world when he finally got out from under his parents’ roof. So he studied, did his homework, and read incessantly.

He voraciously devoured young adult novels in his childhood, and by the time he was sixteen had fallen in love with the writing and lifestyle of the Beats, his copy of ‘On The Road’ so worn from countless rereads that many of the pages were loose and held together by a rubber band tied around the cover. He often daydreamed of embarking on a journey to Mexico, just like Jack and Neil, falling in love with the smell of hot asphalt and rubber as he burned down the highway. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to drive, and didn’t know anyone who was willing to teach him.

 When he’d finished his homework, Patrick was hungry. He tiptoed out of his room, down the stairs, and peered into the living room. His father had passed out, but his mother noticed him out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh, there you are, Patty-cakes. Get your mother another beer, will you?”

Patrick nodded and did as he was told.

“Today was hard,” she said.

Patrick nodded again, appearing as sympathetic as possible.

“So hard,” she emphasized.

Patrick cringed on the inside. He wished he’d stayed in his room.

“Why’s that, mom?” he asked begrudgingly.

Arlene smiled drunkenly.

“Sudge a nize boy,” she slurred, before launching into a circuitous monologue about how cruel every customer and co-worker had been that day, never stopping once to consider her feelings about any given thing. She took every look, every gesture, as meaning something deeper, and ultimately more sinister, than could ever be intended.

Something Patrick had learned a long time ago was that self-awareness wasn’t a ubiquitous concept for most people, despite how often he heard them claim it. He knew none of these instances were true—in fact he was sure many of them held similar views about his mother as she did them—but he nodded and agreed with everything she said. Trying to explain to her that it was more likely those people weren’t thinking about her at all would be like trying to teach a fish the ABCs.

When her monologue turned towards repeating earlier stories using different words, for lack of more material, Patrick waited for a break to interject as politely as possible.

“You hungry, ma? I was just about to make something for dinner.”

She shook her head, hoisting her beer up to imply that it was nourishment enough, and Patrick took his leave. He made a peanut butter and jam sandwich and took it up to his bedroom.

***

“So, then, if n equals two, x must be—?” Mrs. Delaney paused, scanning the room.

Half of Patrick’s class had their hands raised, himself included.

“Amy,” she called.

“Uh, seven?” said Amy.

The class giggled.

“Good try, Amy,” said Mrs. Delaney sweetly, “anyone else? Stewart?”

“Nine?”

“That’s correct! X equals nine.”

Mrs. Delaney turned to complete the equation on the blackboard, and every heterosexual boy in the class adjusted themselves. Jane, still closeted, shifted awkwardly in her seat.

Sandra Delaney was the newest addition to the staff at Washburn High, and at twenty-five was also the youngest. She had graduated from teacher’s college with honours, after having received a full scholarship, and her bubbly personality and good looks assured that everyone but the most bitter found her extremely pleasant to be around.

Patrick was no exception. Ever since Mrs. Delaney had become his math teacher, his daydreams of travelling to Mexico with nothing but a few dollars in his pocket and a case of wine in the trunk had become significantly less lonely. He had had crushes before, but they were purely physical. He knew none of his classmates could give him the intellectual companionship he craved, but Sandra Delaney, she was another story. She wasn’t just smart, but the smartest in her class. She wasn’t just considerate—she exuded care. 

As he watched her body twist and turn underneath her dress, he turned over another equation in his mind—how to solve for her attention.

“Quit drooling, creep,” came a whisper to his left.

Andrew Jenkins jabbed him in the side with his pencil. Patrick flinched.

“Everything okay back there?” asked Mrs. Delaney, who had turned just in time to see Patrick jump.

“Yes, Mrs. Delaney,” said Andrew, “I was just explaining to Pat here why x is nine.”

Mrs. Delaney raised an eyebrow.

“That’s very kind of you, Andrew. Why don’t you explain it for the rest of the class? Just in case there are others here who aren’t quite as willing to ask for help.”

Andrew went bright red, and the class ooh-ed in unison.

“Um…” Andrew stammered.

Mrs. Delaney smiled, but let him off easy, continuing with her lesson as if nothing had happened. She locked eyes with Patrick briefly before returning her attention to the class. His pulse skyrocketed.

When the bell rang, Patrick quickly stuffed his books into his bag and made for the door.

“Patrick, would you hang on a minute?” Mrs. Delaney asked from behind her desk.

Every boy still in the room cursed his name in their heads, giving him dirty looks as they passed. Not one hadn’t dreamed of being asked to stay back with their beloved Mrs. Delaney.

When the room had cleared, Patrick approached her desk.