Helen Caulfield and the taste of amphetamines., chapter 5
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By the time I got to the hostel, it was 10.30pm. My feet were soaking wet because - yeah, the soles are small- the soles of my shoes were falling off my shoe. I scrawled my name onto the register and clamoured myself into my room. It was a quite dull, crumby room, I'll admit. I locked my room door and pulled off my shoes. I put on my casette player and turned on my shower. Our rooms were en suite. Thankfully, I didn't share my room with anyone. I stripped off and jumped into my shower. I looked over the scar on my arm like I had looked over it so many times. It was on the upper part of my left arm. It was a pink, circular scar, like a little scarred moon to remind me that the moon was watching me. I still can't remember how or why I have that scar. It's just always been there.
Like not knowing my mother or father.
I've been told about them, sure, but I sure as fuck never seen them. I have seen their photographs, though. But, as most people know, a photograph isn't really a trustworthy way of showing someone who someone is. sure, it shows their physical side, but fucking hell dude, the physical side of people, that's the part that changes. Okay, I know, I know. People grow up and mature and all that corny crap but I know what I mean. a picture tells you nothing of their personalities. Before my Grandfather died, he wrote me a little notebook of what they were like. I'll let you see an extract.
Your mother was named Maria Joan O'Malley. She was a pious Catholic until she met your father. She liked the smell of the fields when it rained and new patent leather shoes. She worked as a pharmacist in Boston, right near the damn Fort Point Channel. She lived alone with a cat named Scamp. She had orginally came from Cork in Ireland but moved over here when she was 24 in 1965.
Your father, my son, Malcolm Caulfield was a highschool dropout. He liked the taste of cheese and lettuce sandwiches and the sunset across the bay. He lived in Berkeley with his roommates. He sometimes played in a band. He loved the saxophone. He played with three other guys:- Reese Kilroy, Larry Koffman and Andy Armstrong. I never did like the guys he hung around with. They weren't...good people, Helen. Believe me. That's why your parents are dead.
Your parents met when she went on vacation to Oakland and went into a little roadside café called Lil' Jims. It's now a goddamn Starbucks. Never believe in capitalism, Helen. Never. They soon fell for each other and got married a year later. She moved here and had you two years later.
But, one day supposedly, your dad betrayed his 'friend' Andy. He brought his newborn son with him. You were 5 years old when they were shot. The only reason you are here today is because you were here, with me. We scattered their ashes off the Bay Bridge, remember? But now, I grow cold. I feel death driving into me, forked and hooved. Remember them, Helen. Remember what happened to them.
All of a sudden, I just started crying. I cried loud and hard because I didn't give a damn who saw me. Besides, I was in the shower. Nobody was gonna hear me or see me. So I let myself cry like a baby wanting it's Mommy's breast.
I dried myself off and changed into a comfortable tee and shorts. They were kinda long and baggy but I liked them anyway. I looked in my lower closet and delved out a jar of chocolate spread. I started spreading it over some bread. It looked suspiously blue but the middle slices were fine. I ate greedily and gulped down icy water. I was finishing up my snack as the door knocked. I went over cautiously.
"Who is it?" I called through the door. I wasn't unlocking it if it was someone I didn't like. Obviously.
"It's me," whispered back the male voice "Elijah." Elijah Wood was a new guy in the hostel, barely here for a few days. I opened my door and gave him a weary eye.
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna shoot the crap for a while? You seem the most intelligent of the lot here." He seemed okay. I would have too, if I was in the mood.
"I can't. Sorry, really I am really sorry. I have paperwork due for tomorrow." I watched his face carefully. I saw it fall shoddily and I couldn't stand it. "Ah, come on in then. An hour or so procrastination won't kill me." I stood aside to allow him into my room. He seemed a good guy. I thought I was quite popular then.
Like not knowing my mother or father.
I've been told about them, sure, but I sure as fuck never seen them. I have seen their photographs, though. But, as most people know, a photograph isn't really a trustworthy way of showing someone who someone is. sure, it shows their physical side, but fucking hell dude, the physical side of people, that's the part that changes. Okay, I know, I know. People grow up and mature and all that corny crap but I know what I mean. a picture tells you nothing of their personalities. Before my Grandfather died, he wrote me a little notebook of what they were like. I'll let you see an extract.
Your mother was named Maria Joan O'Malley. She was a pious Catholic until she met your father. She liked the smell of the fields when it rained and new patent leather shoes. She worked as a pharmacist in Boston, right near the damn Fort Point Channel. She lived alone with a cat named Scamp. She had orginally came from Cork in Ireland but moved over here when she was 24 in 1965.
Your father, my son, Malcolm Caulfield was a highschool dropout. He liked the taste of cheese and lettuce sandwiches and the sunset across the bay. He lived in Berkeley with his roommates. He sometimes played in a band. He loved the saxophone. He played with three other guys:- Reese Kilroy, Larry Koffman and Andy Armstrong. I never did like the guys he hung around with. They weren't...good people, Helen. Believe me. That's why your parents are dead.
Your parents met when she went on vacation to Oakland and went into a little roadside café called Lil' Jims. It's now a goddamn Starbucks. Never believe in capitalism, Helen. Never. They soon fell for each other and got married a year later. She moved here and had you two years later.
But, one day supposedly, your dad betrayed his 'friend' Andy. He brought his newborn son with him. You were 5 years old when they were shot. The only reason you are here today is because you were here, with me. We scattered their ashes off the Bay Bridge, remember? But now, I grow cold. I feel death driving into me, forked and hooved. Remember them, Helen. Remember what happened to them.
All of a sudden, I just started crying. I cried loud and hard because I didn't give a damn who saw me. Besides, I was in the shower. Nobody was gonna hear me or see me. So I let myself cry like a baby wanting it's Mommy's breast.
I dried myself off and changed into a comfortable tee and shorts. They were kinda long and baggy but I liked them anyway. I looked in my lower closet and delved out a jar of chocolate spread. I started spreading it over some bread. It looked suspiously blue but the middle slices were fine. I ate greedily and gulped down icy water. I was finishing up my snack as the door knocked. I went over cautiously.
"Who is it?" I called through the door. I wasn't unlocking it if it was someone I didn't like. Obviously.
"It's me," whispered back the male voice "Elijah." Elijah Wood was a new guy in the hostel, barely here for a few days. I opened my door and gave him a weary eye.
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna shoot the crap for a while? You seem the most intelligent of the lot here." He seemed okay. I would have too, if I was in the mood.
"I can't. Sorry, really I am really sorry. I have paperwork due for tomorrow." I watched his face carefully. I saw it fall shoddily and I couldn't stand it. "Ah, come on in then. An hour or so procrastination won't kill me." I stood aside to allow him into my room. He seemed a good guy. I thought I was quite popular then.
