How to Lose Everything Read online

  Sam gazed at him like a dancing snake hypnotized by a flute player.

  Suddenly, a hand snatched for the bag. It was Schulz. “Damn it, you asshole, give us the bag!”

  Eric was not only faster than Schulz, he was also taller and stronger. In a split second his arm raised the bag higher than Schulz could reach. With his other hand he grabbed Schulz by his shirt collar. Schulz tried to retreat.

  “What?” Eric demanded, his voice deep and challenging. “What? What is it? Hmm? What do you want?”

  “Eric, let him go,” I pleaded.

  He looked at me. Then he actually did let Schulz go. Schulz slumped down and left the room.

  “It's a fair deal that me and Sam are making, right?” Eric winked at me, as if this was just a joke, as if making Sam eat the cookie would be something we'd laugh ourselves to death about years later.

  “Eric, that's enough. It's not funny anymore. Just leave him alone.”

  But Eric ignored me. He turned back to Sam, who, for whatever reason, hadn't moved the whole time. Eric, who had dropped his cookie when he grabbed Schulz, now took another, equally moldy cookie from the package and held it in front of Sam's nose while brandishing the plastic bag in the air.

  He said, “Come on, one bite, and you'll get half.”

  He winked at me again over Sam's shoulder, as if we were allies in this fucked-up game. And actually—I couldn't help but grin back, even though I didn't think it was funny at all.

  “Just one bite.”

  Sam reached for the cookie. He didn't say a word. Eric let Sam take it, gingerly and solemnly, as if this were a ceremony. Now the furry cookie lay in Sam's hand, and he slowly bent his head toward it to sniff it.

  Suddenly, Schulz returned to the kitchen holding the ax in his hand, still wearing his sunglasses. He looked like the Terminator.

  “You fucking faggot!” he shouted. “Give us the bag!”

  Sam dropped the cookie, and Eric retreated two steps. Schulz brought the ax down so it split the air between me and Sam and hit the plywood of the graying kitchen table with a thunderous roar.

  “We do this together, got it?” Schulz growled. “We came in together, and we split everything we find here. Got it?”

  Eric, his back to the kitchen window, hesitated a second while he swallowed his fear. Then he grinned mischievously.

  “Schulz, get a grip. Chill out. It was just a joke, okay? Obviously we're gonna split it. What kind of person do you think I am? You really think I'd let any of you guys take all of it?”

  Schulz didn't let go of the ax until Eric placed the plastic bag on the kitchen table and opened it for all of us to see.

  Then Eric reached into the bag and began pulling out bills, dividing them one after another into four piles. We stared spellbound at the steadily rising stacks.

  Ten long minutes later, we took our piles of 150 hundred-mark bills and shoved the cash into whatever empty pockets we could find.

  Before we left the house, Sam did another strange thing. We were in the empty room—the one next to the patio. Schulz had one foot out the door when Sam suddenly said, “Wait a sec,” and then he turned and ran down the basement stairs.

  We had no idea what he was up to. Sam never struck out on his own; usually he did what everyone else was doing. While we waited, we started smoking. No one said anything. Eric inhaled on his cigarette with so much force that its ember expanded to a full inch. The corners of his lips lifted up into a self-satisfied smile. Schulz shifted uneasily from foot to foot. I really just wanted to get out of there. I felt my pockets. They were so stuffed I was afraid that something might fall out while I was walking. I pushed the money and letters farther down, pulled my hoodie over my head, and asked what everyone else wanted to do now. “Wanna get drunk?” I suggested. No one responded.

  We continued smoking in silence—everyone looking in a different direction—until Sam came back. He looked confused and stumbled across the room, trying unsuccessfully to regain his composure. He was bent over like a hunchback, and little beads of sweat shone on his forehead.

  “What'd you want from downstairs?” Eric asked.

  Sam didn't answer. He just passed right by us and went outside. When he saw that we didn't immediately follow but were just standing there finishing our cigarettes, he turned around, stuck his head back in, and hissed, “W-w-what are you waiting for? Let's go! Let's go! Come on!”

  We put out our cigarettes on the concrete of the patio and left. For the last time, I thought to myself. We trudged across the lawn, with the dandelions leaving milky sap spots on our pant legs. We exited through the break in the hedge and were back in the open. We hurried down Flower Street, not looking around, not saying a word to one another. Schulz ran ahead. He hadn't once taken his sunglasses off. Sam, sweating, followed him. I ran behind Eric and tried to keep pace with his commanding strides.

  We turned the corner where Flower Street curved, and suddenly this woman was standing there with her dog who stared at us with its black dog eyes and its searching, striving nose. The woman was about sixty years old and dressed in a blue-and-red-checked smock, like something a cleaning lady would wear. She stopped to examine us. The dog was actually pretty small, a dachshund or something, and it and the woman seemed to sniff at us in the same way, but maybe that was just my imagination.

  We moved past her one by one: Schulz first, hiding behind his sunglasses; then me; then Sam, obscured beneath his baseball cap; and finally Eric, who hung back and looked the woman straight in the eyes, almost confrontationally. The dog barked, and she pulled on the leash and dragged the dog close to her. I turned back and saw that she had also turned to look at us. I felt paralyzed. By the time I realized I'd stopped, Eric and the others were already a good fifty feet ahead of me. I sprinted to catch up to them and fell in with Sam. He was looking at the ground. I asked him if everything was okay, but he didn't answer. He just went faster, as if he hadn't heard me. We turned onto Main Street and the noise of the cars was somehow calming. They sounded normal—not like the eerie silence of the yard and the house. The sun was shining, too. Farther down I could see the yellow walls of the supermarket. That's where we were headed. I couldn't help reaching into my pockets to feel the reassuring paper.

  We entered the supermarket parking lot—a monotonous panel of asphalt about as big as a football field—and Eric told us to hold up. The perimeter was lined with little knee-high bushes. But Sam wasn't watching and his hat was pulled down almost over his eyes, so he walked right into them. He managed to pull his left hand out of his pocket to try to catch himself, but he still fell face down on the asphalt. He lay on the ground, his hat beside him, and swore. Eric laughed and Schulz helped him up.

  “You okay?” Schulz asked.

  Sam reached for his hat and put it back on, adjusting it. Then he felt his pockets and, finding the bundles, looked satisfied. His small, dark eyes peered at Schulz as if he had just woken him up from a nap.

  “So . . .” Eric said, as if he were getting ready to make an announcement. He straightened up, posing like a military commander. He looked pretty stupid, but I have to admit that it worked. We waited for whatever he was going to say. Behind him a shopping cart clattered over the asphalt, heading toward a red station wagon.

  “What now?” asked Schulz.

  Eric looked slightly annoyed to be interrupted. The cart kept clattering.

  Finally, Eric said, “I've got to say good-bye to you.”

  “What?”

  “I'm gonna disappear for a while. I can't tell you any details. It would be too dangerous. But hey, it's been awesome. We had a lot of fun. But look, I'm sorry about before. I have a plan. Everyone has their own destiny that they have to follow. I've found mine and I have to follow it. I'm from the ghetto, and in the ghetto there's only two possibilities: You're either a gangster or a loser. And I've made my decision. You guys get it. Of course you get it. Maybe we'll see each other again, maybe not. It is what it is. Actually, I'm sure we'll see e
ach other again. And then, then . . . Well, I don't want to say too much. But it's gonna be awesome. Really awesome. No more bullshit. I just can't talk about it now. It wouldn't be professional, and I gotta be careful.”

  One at a time, he took a step toward each of us, said our name, and shook our hand. We didn't say anything. We were completely dumbstruck.

  Just before he turned to go, Eric said to me, “Don't forget to read Chariots of the Gods, okay?”

  Then he put his big headphones over his ears, gave a little whistle, and trudged off toward the train station. Seeing him walk away, I thought he looked like a hobo.

  “He's nuts,” said Schulz. “What was all that ghetto bullshit?”

  “G-g-ghetto gangster bullshit,” repeated Sam. At least he was talking again.

  “Yesterday he was going on and on about Zafko and getting into the business,” I said.

  Schulz pushed his Ray-Bans up over his black hair. His eye looked like shit.

  “He's crazy. What a dumbass,” he said.

  I said that we should go inside because I wanted to get something to drink. “Also, I kinda want to steal some-thing,” I said.

  “What are you, stupid?” Schulz shot back. “We don't have to steal anything anymore. We'll never have to steal anything ever again. From now on we're only gonna buy stuff. And we're gonna buy everything! Booze, clothes, candy, PlayStation games, cars, girls.” He gave a short laugh: “Everything, we're just gonna buy every-thing!”

  He was right, in a way, but what I'd learned was that buying something just isn't as exciting as stealing it.

  We should have gotten a shopping cart, but we didn't bother. We just went through the brightly colored aisles and grabbed anything that was even vaguely appealing, stuffed it under our arms, and went to the register. On the conveyer belt we put a six-pack of Heineken, a lineup of mini Jack Daniels bottles, six packs of cigarettes (red Winstons, Marlboro Lights, and, for Schulz, two packs of Davidoffs at eight marks a pack), Twinkies, gummy bears, Cheetos, Funyuns, gum, and a Playboy.

  “I'll pay,” Schulz said and pulled a bill out of his pocket. The register opened and the bill was placed with the other hundred-mark bills, secured with a plastic lever, and exchanged for some cleaner bills. Sam took the wad of cash and coins and stuffed it all in the sagging pocket of his baggy pants. Then we went to the half-pipe.

  “D-d-does anyone have anything to smoke?” Sam asked as he pulled a Heineken out of the cardboard container. The cap flew off and tumbled through the air, landing with a muted clink on the blacktop.

  We shook our heads. Now that Eric was gone, we didn't really know what to do anymore. We'd lost our compass.

  “Dan might have something,” I said.

  “Does he sell?” asked Schulz.

  “Not really. He always says he doesn't want to deal. But maybe we can make him an offer he can't refuse.”

  Schulz giggled like a little kid. Our bottles clinked as we tapped them together. Some beer sloshed over my hand. We lay flat on our backs on the asphalt. Around us were cigarette packs, bottles of Jack Daniels, and all the rest of our stuff. We smoked our cigarettes while still on our backs, sitting up only to take a swig of beer.

  “I've got a French test tomorrow,” I said. I had to laugh. Schulz snorted.

  “What a load of shit.”

  I said, “I don't think I'm gonna go to school. I'm gonna skip and we can go to the city. Or just get drunk.”

  At that moment I felt a burden fall away from me. It was like that sensation I'd had in the McDonald's, only more complete. I think maybe what I was feeling was a sense of real freedom. Other people who had cooler clothes, who got better grades, who could skate better, or who had Jeep Wranglers—I really didn't care about them anymore. We were friends and we had money. Things were really getting started now.

  “Do you think he'll come back?” I asked.

  “I don't care,” said Schulz.

  “H-he's got nothing now. No school, no home, no nothing.”

  “Why don't you cry about it,” said Schulz. “It's his own fault. I think he'll be back soon. He'll run out of money faster than he thinks. Then he'll come and beg us for some. Just wait and see.”

  “Jack Daniels,” said Sam, sitting up and reaching for the array of little bottles in front of him. He threw one to me and one to Schulz, and they landed on our stomachs.

  “So, Sam. What were you doing in the basement?” asked Schulz.

  “B-b-basement?”

  “Yeah, why did you even go down there? And why were you acting so weird afterward?”

  “W-w-weird?”

  “Yeah, w-w-weird. Stop repeating everything I say.”

  Sam looked quickly to the right and then to the left, like he was checking for eavesdroppers. Then he lowered his head toward us and whispered:

  “B-b-bones!”

  “B-b-bones?” echoed Schulz.

  “B-b-bones!”

  “B-b-bones.”

  “C-can you stop repeating everything?” I said. “What kind of bones? Chicken bones? Dog bones? Human bones? What kind of bones were they?”

  Sam took another Jack Daniels, twisted the top off, and chugged the whole thing.

  “Just b-b-bones. There were b-b-bones. I dug deep down into the mound of dirt. Wanted to see what was in it. With the sh-sh-shovel. I was digging and then s-s-suddenly there were b-b-bones.”

  Sam's stuttering could be so irritating sometimes.

  “But you didn't have a flashlight. How did you manage to see anything?” Schulz said.

  Sam looked at him questioningly.

  “Chill out. You just imagined it. It was way too dark to be able to see any ‘b-b-bones.'” Schulz stood up and rubbed Sam's shoulder, as if he were a dog that needed pet-ting. “Maybe you s-s-smoke too much weed.”

  “S-s-stop m-making fun of me all the time. If you had a st-st-st-stu-, st-stutter, it . . .” he swallowed the next few words, “. . . so funny.”

  I drank a quart of milk. Fresh, white, sweet milk. Then I got into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I was exhausted, but there was an anxiety in my fatigue that kept me from falling asleep. After tossing and turning for half an hour, thinking about the money, the house, Eric, and the bones—everything that had happened that day—I flipped on the TV and smoked a cigarette. It felt like everything was pulling me under, trying to suck me down into a gigantic wave and spit me out in some remote corner of the universe.

  I put the TV on mute, like Sam always did when he was trying to fall asleep. He'd learned this from a stoner who used to sell him overpriced weed. The guy told him that the silent images stimulated your brain while you slept and opened doors to your unconscious or something. I thought about that stoner. He'd always reminded me of a mole. I watched the TV news guy talking, unable to hear a word. I thought how cool it would be if whenever someone got annoying you could just turn off the sound. If there were a mute button for teachers, parents, security guards, and all the other assholes. It would also be pretty damn funny. When you couldn't hear what he was saying, the news guy went from looking really serious to looking really hilarious. That was exactly what made Sam so cool, that he didn't talk much.

  In my desk drawer was over fifteen thousand marks, and Eric was on his way to . . . Where was he going? What was that weird mobster farewell speech all about? And what had he actually said? He'd been talking a lot about Zafko and comm and P's. He wanted to be a dealer, and he really meant it.

  And what was up with Sam? He couldn't have seen any bones down in the basement. This was reality, after all, not a horror movie. I wished I had someone to talk to, like a friend who was normal, or a girlfriend. I thought of Lena. Eventually I fell asleep still thinking about her.

  The next day, after school, I set out for the half-pipe alone. I hadn't seen Sam, Eric was gone, and Schulz, as usual, had other plans. I didn't mind. I took my skateboard with me so I could practice some tricks by myself, without smoking any weed or drinking anything. I had a few bills in
my pocket, but I'd left the rest in my desk drawer. I didn't really feel comfortable leaving all that money there, though, and planned to find somewhere better soon.

  I passed through the chilly underground walkway at the train station. On the way I scanned the tags on the wall tiles. Most of the graffiti was just dicks and pussies. Up above I could hear the train stopping. Within seconds, people began streaming down the steps. Then, amid the crush of bodies, briefcases, and newly lit cigarettes, I saw her. She was coming down the stairs, and in two seconds we would run right into each other. Seeing her made me lose my train of thought. I became scared that I wouldn't have anything interesting, or at least coherent, to say. She was wearing a short black dress with spaghetti straps. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in waves, and she looked as cool as ice behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Meanwhile, I was wearing pants that were two sizes too big and a bright blue T-shirt. I was still a boy, and she was practically a woman. She looked like one, anyway. I tried to smile like I knew something she didn't, partly because I thought that was something that worked for me, but also because I didn't know what else to do. She seemed not to see me. Maybe it was too dark with those sunglasses on. She walked past me.

  “Lena!” I called.

  She turned back toward me, slowly, lazily. I was suddenly aware of the sound of all the wooden soles and high- heeled shoes clacking against the concrete.

  “Oh. Heyyy Jonnn.” The creaky way she said it made it sound like she'd just woken up. It was like she didn't even care enough to say my name. It sounded stupid.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “To see Schulziiiie.” She drew out the last syllable in another winding creak.

  “Oh yeah?” I asked, still smiling, but looking more nervous than cool, I was sure.

  “Yeah, where else? What about yooou?”

  “Skating,” I answered. “I'm going skating.”

  “It's so cute how you still like doing that. Have fun with all the twelve-year-olds, I guess. I've gotta run. I'm already late. See ya.”