Chapter 2 (Part 2, Cont)
His mother on the other hand had an off and on relashionship with a self proclaimed "cassanova" (Inconspicuously named 'Phil') who lived on my street. His house was a dusky bungalow, both inviting and creepy in a distinctly 60s fashion that I could never quite put my finger on, even reflecting upon it later. My only actual interaction with the man, beyond school yard rumors spread by pre-teens with an obsession with the word 'pervert' and the stange powers it gave them was a brief handshake at a neighborhood barabeque shortly after we moved into town and a brief glance, a secret moment of unspoken communication, a thousand pardons and guilty admissions several months later when my father returned home from the road and let him have it with a solid right hook to the head in return for his unwanted advances on my mother. Brian's mother had begun to see him shortly thereafter and was constantly on the rocks with him, more of less living there while occationally taking breaks to have sordid flings with men even worse then dear old Phil. To this day, whenever I hear the word pedophile (even though, as far as I know, he was not one) I picture his moustache. It was the stuff of nightmares or erotic dreams of the mentally disturbed.
Brian and I had come to an agreement some years before, at the genesis of our friendship. I would never ask questions about the various comings and goings in his family and he in turn would never question my seemingly random desisions at school or at play. This worked out fine for the both of us, and while it may seem strange to think of it this way, our friendship blossomed in our conspiracy of silence. To really stretch any sense of art in the prose here, you could say that we were nourished by the manure formed by the years of shit we simply ignored, rotting away underneath the facade of our typical male indiffrence.
Wow, someone should shoot me for just writing that.
Anyway, Phil was out of town on a buisness trip that week (Sex tourism in third world asia? Tongues wag!), his buissness now totally forgotten. Brian's mother was at another 'on' period with him, and things were about as stable as they ever got. I had made a point, ever since our shared glace, to never enter Phil's house when he was present, so the timing of everything worked out just fine for me. Our system was a machine of well-oiled perfection. I would start my jounrey by sneaking through a secret hole in my back yard fence, a tiny opening surrounded by rotted wood and nails threatenting tetanus. That opened up into a small thicket, which would eventually become a clearing and then an unsuccessful mini-mall. At the time however, it remained a thicket, and I would work my way through it, a hidden path discoverd through years of Brian's childhood, years which he quickly imparted to me as our friendship grew.
From there I would come to Phil's Fence, thick fence posts adorned in thick coats of a musky brown paint. I mean seriouesly, even his frikking fence was creepy! That fence also had a secret exit, although this one had been engeineered by Brian one day, quick work with a screwdiver and jigsaw, the result being a trap door of sorts. It was easy enough to find if you were looking for it, but who would be? After pushing through there, I would be in Phil's backyard, the home of a few clearly aborted attempts at gardening and not much else. From there, it was a quick jog to the back door from where I would administer our secret knock. Upon hearing my knocking, either Brian would let me in, or his mother, although she would usually let me in almost immediatly, not allowing me to finish the complicated staccato beat that Brian and I had pre-determined. She claimed that I was the only one who used the back door, so there was no need to wait it out. She didn't understand.
Brian and I had come to an agreement some years before, at the genesis of our friendship. I would never ask questions about the various comings and goings in his family and he in turn would never question my seemingly random desisions at school or at play. This worked out fine for the both of us, and while it may seem strange to think of it this way, our friendship blossomed in our conspiracy of silence. To really stretch any sense of art in the prose here, you could say that we were nourished by the manure formed by the years of shit we simply ignored, rotting away underneath the facade of our typical male indiffrence.
Wow, someone should shoot me for just writing that.
Anyway, Phil was out of town on a buisness trip that week (Sex tourism in third world asia? Tongues wag!), his buissness now totally forgotten. Brian's mother was at another 'on' period with him, and things were about as stable as they ever got. I had made a point, ever since our shared glace, to never enter Phil's house when he was present, so the timing of everything worked out just fine for me. Our system was a machine of well-oiled perfection. I would start my jounrey by sneaking through a secret hole in my back yard fence, a tiny opening surrounded by rotted wood and nails threatenting tetanus. That opened up into a small thicket, which would eventually become a clearing and then an unsuccessful mini-mall. At the time however, it remained a thicket, and I would work my way through it, a hidden path discoverd through years of Brian's childhood, years which he quickly imparted to me as our friendship grew.
From there I would come to Phil's Fence, thick fence posts adorned in thick coats of a musky brown paint. I mean seriouesly, even his frikking fence was creepy! That fence also had a secret exit, although this one had been engeineered by Brian one day, quick work with a screwdiver and jigsaw, the result being a trap door of sorts. It was easy enough to find if you were looking for it, but who would be? After pushing through there, I would be in Phil's backyard, the home of a few clearly aborted attempts at gardening and not much else. From there, it was a quick jog to the back door from where I would administer our secret knock. Upon hearing my knocking, either Brian would let me in, or his mother, although she would usually let me in almost immediatly, not allowing me to finish the complicated staccato beat that Brian and I had pre-determined. She claimed that I was the only one who used the back door, so there was no need to wait it out. She didn't understand.
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