SATURNUS, THE SWORD

Faded are those memories, those sacred nights I cling to so desperately. I often catch myself returning to these nights in my mind, those nights I spent as a younger man finding his way out of naivety, those beautiful nights I spent in exchange of pain, fighting for love, hate, or anything else we thought worth fighting for. This was the adolescent arena. We were all warriors, rockstars, and unsung artists all-at-once, chasing after our own beautiful ideals. The untamed youth; when we weren’t fighting each other, we fought to realize our dreams, still unbroken in those, the brighter of days. We were full of spirit, but naturally, our youthful passions were undirected. After all, who among us had discovered their cause? Was there a youth within our ranks so enlightened, such that he knew what was truly worth fighting for? Was there a warrior to the thick of indubitably unfinished children, so selflessly devoted, that he would die for his cause? There was, of course, with every incarnation of the young lover.

It is on those most sacred of nights, when the stars align in such a manner, that a young lad will chance upon a star-crossed, kindred spirit, one who leaves him bewitched, irreversibly infatuated, sometimes in a matter of moments. He is rare, the true lover, but no stranger to us. We’ve heard tales of his exploits. His romance inspires the loveless; his faith reanimates the hopeless, and his passions stir us from our collective apathy and toward the sincerity that we once cherished.

These days, I find no formidable conviction among my contemporaries, as I might have in my youth. Instead, I contend with their downpour of disappointment, the agony of unrequited lovers, and a contagious disillusionment left over by passions lost. And within this loveless world to which I’ve made my way, there is little reprieve from the sting of apathy. These days, there is little that can move me. I don’t desire like I once did. I’m happy here, but I can’t help but yearn beneath a calloused demeanor. Indeed, my days of passion have passed, so I retreat into withering memories, if only to recall a slight taste of the lover’s spirit and the warrior’s focus. I yearn for those moments of angst and emotional fire, and I return to those nights if only to recall for a moment, that at one time, I felt whole. For God’s sake, I felt alive! Give me the night when everything was possible! Give me the night I raised in front of comrades! Give me the night when I learned her soul! In those days, happiness wasn’t just a fleeting sensation like you might feel when you get your first girl. Happiness was still so real, and there was no reason to fear a notion as foreign as loneliness. To us, it was another distant enemy, lying far beyond comprehension.

And so today, I recite a story of bliss behind the unkempt, when the world was still a beautiful mystery, one I could never quite solve. I recite a hymn of not knowing, an ode to the graceful, a ballad of unprecedented wisdom, yes, an invocation worthy of the P-town boys. I tell a tale about emerging from the lake of fire, benevolent.

It was as pleasant as crepe myrtle, and yet as wild as bathtub gin, growing up. As younger men, we thrived in the absence of thought, but you can only hide in ignorance for so long. This was Portsmouth. The reality was too loud to hide from. It was in this land, in lower Suburbia, that I endured my first tests of manhood, alongside countless other neighborhood kids. They were all under the same hot, Virginia sun as I, and thus would many become staunch allies and fellow neophytes of city lessons, amidst the rest who would become rivals. We struggled, discovered, and before long, we had been baptized by the trials of life, and we had begun to find peace, knowing that loving a woman will create a respite from death, knowing that pints of Guinness will make you strong, and knowing early on that those who dare venture to Hell were damned even before they went.

We were just hooligans, high on angst. So, what if all our heroes were the losing kind? These were the good times: we had matchsticks, cable T.V., and didn’t give a flying fuck.

It was Summer. The boys were skating. Many were out playing ball. Others spent their days on the water, boating. Most everybody’s time, however, was spent bullshittin’ on the porch, where P-town drama premiered. Friendships and rivalries would come and go, and we watched the action develop into drama among the girls, or into fights among the boys. A Southern scrap never failed to disappoint, always a wonderful show; we were fit little fuckers.

Those fondest memories of mine were spent in ignorance, as we struggled to piece together the world before us. I slowly came to realize that it was this natural pursuit of truth that kept me feeling so alive. Every time, the search for knowledge proved sweeter than its discovery. During this holy period of youth, we were allowed to live without knowing, an invaluable luxury.

In those, the brighter of days, I was rarely sedentary. One way or another, I always seemed to find myself back on the pavement, in transit. I was always just cruisin’, ridin’ ’round the neighborhoods and makin’ my house calls. I’d let the East Coast breeze roll through and find me that perfect moment, when the sweat on my brow felt right.

Our story begins five years ago, on a Summer afternoon in Portsmouth that started the way other—postin’ with the boys, hittin’ up some girls, this, and that. Somewhere along my daily grind, my mother called me and charged me with the task of retrieving my twelve-year-old brother. In those days, a young, silver-tongued brawler and proud Portsmouth soul. He was always up there, politickin. He liked to go up, get some food news, maybe even get into some trouble, but above all else, he liked to talk to the girls. In fact, the more I think about it, girls were the only reason we ever went poolside.

By fourteen years, I had been in long pursuit of that essential male wisdom: a savvy sense of the female. I liked stopping at the pool to talk to ’em, but not more than any other P-town young buck. All the P-town boys learned one way or another, that their girls were some of the best-lookin’ in the land. There is nothing like a tan, punk-rock P-town woman. I mean a woman. At seventeen, these girls are grown. For fourteen-year-old P-town-stags like myself, chasin’ these ladies meant game. The guys, we tried and tried, and even though we didn’t pull ’em every time, we learned a thing or two about smooth and what it is. Only the graceful could rock with the right rhythm, so we all learned a little lover’s rhetoric.

To me, a trip to the pool meant talkin’ sweet to some pretty, P-town lovelies. Naturally, I accepted the responsibility from my mother. I grabbed my banana seat and pedaled into the mid-air of midsummer in South Virginia. It was about five o’clock. The girls would stay poolside until nine. I had plenty of time, so I set off to pay Christine a visit.

Now, I knew my girl Christine was rockin’ some loose-cotton, wood-cut punk, so I intended to catch her alone. Easy game. Her mom kept box, and her dad rode Harleys all day. I don’t know what he did for money; I didn’t need to know. I knew enough to be sure they were out. I wanted some of her English loving.

I rode my bike to the other neighborhood and arrived to find Christine in the company of her boyfriend and his boys. They were busy making sentences out of their stupid, drunken thoughts and throwing them at one another. I knew how to define the tokens of P-town vernacular, yes, but I didn’t even bother to discern meaning from their inevitably thoughtless banter. They carried their 40oz bottles as if they were the baddest cats on the porch. Indeed, this porch was theirs, and I recalled reading in school about Neanderthal man, and his territorial behaviors. I was not in the mood for conflict today.

Christine spoke first as I walked my bike up.

“Hey, Doc!” she shouted with a slight slur.

She had clearly gotten into her boyfriend’s bottle. I gave her a hug and glanced over at her man, whose expression turned to anguish when he saw my swagger movin’ in, up against his B-game. I took a seat on the cooler and said,

“What’s going on fellas?”

“You tell us, Doc.”

Her boyfriend was lit. I shifted one of my Marlboro Reds out of the box and answered,

“I’m going to the pool.”

The boyfriend fumbled around with his phone, so he spoke something simple:

“Your brother up there?”

“Yeah,” I said.

He took a sip from his forty and peered at me from bloodshot eyes. He stood up in vain attempt to even himself with me, and he said,

“You Wayland boys ain’t ever level-headed.”

I tensed at the foolish comment. I had it in mind to take him right there for blaspheming the family name, but it was in my instinct to play it cooler than cool, especially in front of a fool. I grew up in the nineties, and I watched the passion of our culture die out from beneath us. I couldn’t see it on MTV, but I found it in moments like these. I was warmed with the fire of passion, as I stared into the eyes of this simple fuck before me.

“We know our ABC’s,” I said.

With this effortless quip, I lit my cigarette and began to grin. I took a drag, and something incredible happened. The nicotine hit, and I found that perfect moment, where the sweat on my brow felt just right. Time stood still, and I fell into a trance; I entered a realm of epiphany, where I had all the time in the world to make a decision. This moment came, and I was taken by introspection. For one hallowed moment, I sympathized with this moron’s underclass. It’s America, after all. This man was allowed to act halfway retarded. He was free to remain blatantly ignorant of basic etiquette. This stupid swordfish simply could not have understood the severity of his affront, so the question remained: Would I leave it to God to whoop his ass for eternity? Or would I just punish him today?

I noticed my reflection in his eyes, blinking. I looked hard at myself, as I was reflected in the eyes of my enemy. I could make out all the lessons I’d ever learned, from all those 90’s rude boys, with their leathers and Monte Carlos. I saw all the older cats, too, and everything they ever taught me about manhood.

Then, I noticed a glimmer in the frozen eyes of the impossibly basic asshat before me. I saw my reflection across the lens of his eyeball. I saw it blinking.

Am I hallucinating?

Then, he started talking. His mouth moved and I heard his words in my thoughts. I felt my heart skip as he asked me a question.

“How do the strong take from the weak?”

The voice seemed to carry from all sides. My image in his other eyeball was frozen still, as my own body was. I thought about the question for a moment, and I answered as well as I could.

I don’t know. They fuck ’em up.

“Easy, slick. Every shaman knows you gotta look your enemy in the eye, dead in the center of his soul.”

His soul?

“Yeah. And a real soul man’s feelin’ to have a place for his eyeball spirit guide, dig? I got hungry men, up in this eyeball.”

A piece? A piece of what? What’s that mean?

“His soul, man, you gotta eat it. The whole thing. Devour it like prey, baby.”

What?

I blinked, and my reflection resumed with me. This strangely insightful moment had passed. Everything caught back up to pace, and I gathered myself in the present, still staring into the eyes of this junglefuck cretin. I looked down for a moment, and I inhaled deeply. Then, with a malicious determination, I sent a glare straight into the eyes and soul of that helpless simpleton. The glare pierced the gaze of my reflection, warped into every last retinal nerve, and entered the darkened recesses of his stupid mind. I saw the suns appear before my eyes, as brown and primitive as I expected.

Gotcha.

Then, I ate his soul.

He flinched and stepped backwards, slightly, causing him to clumsily fall into the chair behind him, like the tower of Babel. The sight of this backwater know-not-shit collapsing onto his own fat ass was too much beauty for me to bear; I could no longer suppress my victorious grin. The incidental standoff had put me in a menthol mood, but I had none, so I took a drag still hot off my step-father’s reds.

So long as I was in the alpha status, I’d see about the women. I decided to make eyes at Tinie. She put on the hints of enticement at my glance, and her excitement inspired a lovely sensation within myself. I smiled. God bless that little syndicate saint.

I walked over to her with my hands in my pockets, wearing a smile that said hello, so I wouldn’t have to myself. Her boyfriend was sitting on the couch. He noticed my approach, and I was eager to know how he would react to it. But, based on what little I knew of this team of porch-fucks, I was forced to the conclusion that the man was probably the exact opposite of impressive. I sent him a challenging glance, and he looked away to take a swig off his 40oz. I looked back at his girl and stared at her lovely lips, as they formed her words.

“With our boots on, darling.”

Her beautiful blonde hair ran down the back of her perfect shape. She wore an enchanting pair of short shorts. Her mom had kicked her out, so now she stayed with her boyfriend for a place.

It was something ’bout being cryptic as a young man that made me feel like an icon, if only in my own mind. However, I was already weary of the unspoken conflict, for the scene was that of a jilted soul in the presence of a young, fear-no-other romancer. To offer a slight, yet alluring love to a pretty thing in the company of a drunken fool, built on ideas of possession—this is how shit gets started down in P-town. To steal another man’s girl, especially so effortlessly as I might have here, would bring about inevitable trouble. Not only would it attract trouble, it would bring about the very worst kind of it. I’m talking about the bullshit. Down in the neighborhood, there were ninety-nine disputes before eleven AM, and the broads were a hot topic amongst dusted militis, yo.

I realized that the only thing I would accomplish at this girl’s home today is anger an entire faction of water-trash. Lovely as she was, this would be a waste of my time. I was bored, in need of adventure, and dusk was approaching quick, so I said my farewells and got back on my bike. Tinie gave me the look batter and wave. One of the boyfriends managed a drunken nod. Lord knew what my brother was up to. Night at the pool could get rowdy. It was time for me to leave.

There’s nothing like the set of the sun on the Chesapeake clouds. It was like a shower of warm Mornings. The sky looked as though it had drunk from the same Grape Kool-Aid that we all lived out here. I felt the climate draining me; I began to grow weary and overheated. Time passed like it was kept on a Dali clock. It was time to make something happen.

I pedaled hard over the pavement down a few streets. Evening had come, and you could hear the crickets raising hell. I listened to the sound of the wind as I pierced the Portsmouth air, but I was suddenly distracted by an overwhelmingly foreboding sensation. A deep fear echoed from my gut. I knew this exact moment. My intuition was in turmoil, and I could feel it in my stomach, as if suspended in freefall. The sensation passed, and I rode on with my eyes wide open. I could feel something coming, plainly as I could feel the last beams of the setting sun, as it faintly fell upon my skin. It warmed my mind and eased the stresses of premonition.

I was getting close. I was able to hear all the people carrying on. They had Blue Oyster Cult on the radio, but the reaper was the furthest thing from my thoughts. For the time being, I was just worried about getting up with my brother. So, I parked my black banana seat bicycle on the rusted rack. Then, I started toward the gate to sign in.

The old man, Sam, was working the office, which was really just a shed at the entrance of the pool. It was whitewashed, but the paint was coming off. Sam asked me how I was. I answered with a generic response as I wrote down my information. I was in a rush to my little brother. The old man seemed to take offense at my dismissal, but the dispositions of old men were none of my concern, so I simply asked him if he’d seen my brother. He had not, and thus was the melancholic old man now useless to me. I walked on, entered the pool club, and began my search for the little shit.

The pool was alive, its form twisting and crashing, as though it were dancing to a destructive beat. I could hear the shrill voices of young teen girls laughing at dirty humor. As I moved toward my brother’s usual table, I saw some of the boys carrying on a few seats down. They were discussing something with an evident vigor, slapping each other on the back, as if made men. My brother was nowhere to be seen, so I headed over to the squad, now very excited about their topic piece.

“He spit in his fucking face!” a guy said.

“Who did what now?” I said, as I approached.

The guy that was speaking gasped, and the rest stopped to look me over. I walked up to one of the chairs to lean on it.

He said, “Doc, how you doing?”

Never one for formalities, I answered simply.

“Fine.”

I looked around. The little bastard was nowhere in sight. I attempted to restart the conversation, asking,

“Who was it you were just speaking of?”

He replied, “Your brother, son.”

That uneasy feeling returned in full force. My brother had a knack for stupid. I was just hoping it hadn’t crossed the line to the point I’d have to clean up the aftermath.

“What now?” I groaned.

He went on to tell me that my brother had a row with the lifeguard. Apparently, my brother broke some loose rule, and the guard didn’t much like it. So, he got down in my brother’s face. The thing about the Wayland—