CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE END OF THE DREAM

Peter's promised to get Alex a skateboard, he's pretty good already. They've been getting along much better lately and plan to go skating together. Lars has offered to help and has a bunch of spare parts and an old board that's not too badly trashed. Peter arrives over at Lars's place with a set of fairly good wheels that he picked up from Geoffrey for five dollars and the two of them begin the job of assembling it with Peter helping. Lars has the old board clamped in a vise and examines the ragged braking end.

"Pete, can you pass me the bastard file?"

"Bastard file? Which one's that?"

"The coarse one on the left there." Lars points to the tool rack, "I'll use a smooth one after."

Peter hands it to him. "Why do they call it a bastard file?"

"I don't know, maybe because they're rough."

"But it doesn't mean that when you call a person a bastard."

"No. Then it means they have no father or the parents weren't married. I looked it up in the school dictionary once."

"Really, it's there? But what if the parents are married, can they still have a bastard?"

"I don't think so, unless maybe the father wasn't the real father."

"Oh, I never thought of that." The truth surfaces in Peter's mind. He wants to leave immediately but waits until Lars has finished putting the board together, and then he races home on it, his mind in turmoil.

Mom is watching TV, she put the hundred dollars Peter gave her towards a colour set. "Mom," Peter demands, "I want to ask you something."

"Can't it wait for the commercial?"

"Mom. Am I a bastard? Am I?" Peter's angry and near tears.

"Peter, what do you mean?" She looks up, concern in her face.

"I asked you, am I a bastard. You know what I mean. AM I?"

"Why Peter, what ever made you think that?"

"Arnold calls me a bastard, and Tom just snickers. Is Arnold my father?" Peter stands with clenched fists over his mother.

"Peter, please, you must control yourself."

"Mom, who's my father?"

"Peter, you must try to understand."

"Who is he Mom?" Peters shaking, he wants to hit her, to beat up his mother.

"Oh Peter!" She becomes agitated and sobs.

"I found out a few things, and I don't look like Arnold, or Tom and Alex either. TELL ME."

"Peter, I've always meant to tell you, but..."

"Then it IS true, I am a bastard." He begins to cry.

"Peter, you must understand." She stands up and puts an arm around his shoulders. Peter shrugs it off.

"Fuck off you bitch, you slut you..." His anger dissolves into self pity and more tears. He just stands there stunned.

"Please Peter... In all these years I've never gone with another man. It's just, it was the first time Arnold went to prison, things had been going well up to then and I was still quite pretty. And it wasn't like it was another man. Tom was just a baby then, and there was this neighbour's boy, and he was only fifteen and he barely looked that, and I used to get him to babysit for me and one night after I got home, I used to drink quite a bit in those days, well, we had a few more together... I was lonely without Arnold... and it happened. I was so ashamed I never saw him again. And I didn't know I was pregnant for months... I tend to skip you know, and abortions weren't so easy to get in those days. I was going to give it up, but you were such a charming baby and... and then Arnold got out early under mandatory supervision. He gave me the worst beating ever and... and I was going to put you up for adoption, but then Arnold went back in for parole violation. Like I really wanted to keep you... and it meant extra money from welfare... And then when Alex came along I thought everything would work out... Like Arnold seemed very understanding at times. But you were always different from the other two... Oh Peter... I love you so."

Peter feels blah, completely blank. He lets his mother hug him and kiss him. Finally, calmly he asks. "Who is he? What's my father's, the babysitter's name?"

"Ricky, Ricky Thurston." Mom is trying to sound cheerful. "He was always so bright and friendly... and he had a nose just like yours." She runs her finger along his nose. "Oh Peter, I love you so much." She kisses him again. "I hope you won't be too angry at me."

"I'm not angry Mom, anymore. But you should have told me... a long time ago." Peter quietly disentangles himself and goes to his room.

Peter enters his room in an emotional vacuum, he doesn't feel like crying, although he feels he should. He thinks about hitting or kicking something, but he doesn't really want to. There isn't much left after his grand clean up a couple of days earlier. His room seems strangely bare, almost naked. He opens the curtains to let in more light and then pees out the window. He thinks he sees Mr. Hicks watching but doesn't care. Everything seems so far away, so remote. Am I stoned? It feels like it. He sprawls himself out on his bed and gazes at the Wall, he's hardly done that since he's started closing the curtains. The upper board where he rubbed in his initials has started to curl and peel. It'll just be JP soon and I bet they'll all be gone in a year. He stares at the Wall a while longer, checking the progress of decay. Then he abruptly gets up and quietly leaves, going out the back door to avoid Mom in the living room.

"Hi Pete!" Alex greets him in the back yard.

"Hi, I got your skateboard. It's in the hall. I even took it for a test ride back from Lars's."

"That's great man, thanks." Alex bounds up the back steps and into the house.

Peter makes his way to the 7-Eleven, he has the ten dollars Mom gave him for school supplies and plays a couple of games on the TRON machine. His scores are good but the old excitement isn't there. He wishes Ronnie would show up so he would have someone to talk to although he doesn't know what he wants to say. The remoteness is still there, he feels like an observer not a participant in life. He watches a frazzled looking woman with too much makeup on come in, wander aimlessly among the shelves, stopping occasionally as if trying to remember something, and ending up buying a package of Matinees, his mother's brand of cigarettes. She seems lost and confused, and although she looks more like his mother, she reminds him of Mrs. Preston. Peter stands behind her at the cashier's counter. Hi! I'm Ricky Thurston. Would you like me to screw you? I could knock you up, put a bun in your oven. I bet you'd like that, eh? But he says nothing, just changes a dollar for quarters and starts heading back to the video games. But in some delayed reaction the tears begin to flow and he quickly makes his exit, cutting through to the back of the shopping centre and over to the ravine where he ate the rhubarb pie.

The wave of emotion has passed by the time he stands at the edge of the garbage strewn ravine. Ricky Thurston... Arnold Snider... Peter Snider... Peter Thurston, PETER THURSTON... James Peter Thurston. He likes the way it sounds. And suddenly he feels he makes sense to himself, and that he belongs, he's not sure where, but that he belongs in a way he never felt he belonged before. And he experiences a rush like he's never experienced or heard described with any drug. A high yes, but more of a tallness. Tears return to his eyes but they are happy ones, tears of freedom. Arnold's shit ain't no part of me. Peter turns around and strolls, feeling loose and tall back to the 7-Eleven.

Ronnie's there. They exchange greetings and play a few games standing side by side. It sort of seems like old times to Peter. They each have a Big Gulp and then Ronnie asks, "Pete, do you wanna smoke some red hair? My grandmother in California just sent me an OZ."

"Hey, that is my line. But actually not right now, I'm sort of spaced anyway. I just found out I'm a bastard."

"Oh that's nothing," Ronnie begins with mock seriousness, "I just found out that I'm the best cocksucker in town." They both have a good laugh.

"Tell you what," Peter says, "I wouldn't mind some wine." And they find a willing wino in front of the liquor store who, for a price, buys them a bottle of 'leapfrogmilk' which they drink by the ravine. It's a good time and Peter's well mellowed when he goes home.

Mom greets him anxiously, "Peter! Where have you been? I've been so worried. I want to ask you, ask you to forgive me for what I've done. I know it was wrong, very wrong... Peter?"

"That's OK Mom, don't worry about it."

"But Peter?" She looks at him in puzzlement.

Peter gives his mom a kiss on the cheek for the first time in ages. "Mom, I said don't worry about it."

"Peter registers at Parkridge Junior Secondary. he likes the bigger, more modern school but he has spent the money for school supplies and starts skipping classes the second day of the term. He spends most of his time hanging around the mall and the 7-Eleven, seldom going home before six or seven.

At the end of the first week he arrives home to find that Arnold is back. The family is gathered in the living room, the remains of an immense home delivery, Chinese dinner is stacked on the coffee table and a half full forty pounder of Seagrams VO is beside Arnold on an end table. They all appear to have been drinking, and Arnold is just concluding an apparently hilarious story where a guard 'falls' down a flight of stairs and ends up with twenty stitches on his face. Arnold looks up at Peter standing in the archway.

"Well, if it isn't little Petey." Arnold stares at Peter who remains silent. "So you found out you're a little bastard boy, eh? Petey." Peter steps inside and pretends to ignore him. "Aren't you going to say hello to your 'father'?... He's home for good this time, we're going to be one big happy family... Hmmm? Or do you just cry and scream these days?" Peter pretends to study the TV Guide.

"Dad." Tom interjects trying to cool the scene.

"I think he should join in our family celebration. Petey... Here." Arnold pours a glass of rye and proffers it to Peter who remains seemingly engrossed. "And what's that on your head? Sprouting feathers? You planning to fly?"

"Dad, please." Tom interjects again and Mom pleads with her eyes.

"What about that other guy?" Alex pops in, "The one you said the guards brought in the French wine for."

Arnold resumes his tales from the Don Valley jail. Peter makes his way around beside him. He has heard that a judo chop on the side of the neck can kill. He positions himself carefully and then with all his strength he lets loose at Arnold's neck and follows up with a punch to the nose. Arnold, more startled than hurt, grabs an arm and twists as Peter strikes him again.

"What's all this about Petey?" he demands as he grabs the other arm and pulls him close.

"Fucker! You're the REAL bastard." Peter spits in his face. Arnold flings him to the floor half way across the room. "Fucker!" Peter screams as he gets up. Arnold moves slowly towards him as Peter picks up the heavy ashtray stand and swings it wildly. Arnold grabs it from him and sends him sprawling with a smack across the face. "Fucker, fucker." Peter charges again with blood flowing from his nose. Arnold catches him with a knee to the gut and a fist over the ear and the pins him to the floor. Peter spits at him again and Arnold almost leisurely begins slapping his head with hard, angry regular blows.

Pinioned in the Body,

The struggle shifts to Mind.

The slams are like a Counting,

He takes them as he finds.

...... And Peter doesn't SCREAM.

Unconsciousness's beckoning,

And the gravity of Despair.

But holding on to Something,

Proves that you're still there.

"You fucking bastard." The words from the battered child's face are clearly heard... It's the end of THE DREAM.

Arnold's perplexion has overcome his rage, but his fist is still poised high over Peter's head. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"No Dad, don't." Tom rushes over crouching beside his father, "Don't hit him no more!"

For Mom a trance is broken and she rushes over too. "Peter! Peter! Peter! Are you all right'?... Peter'?" The scene is suddenly quiet save for Mom's sobs and Peter's subsiding gasps. Arnold looking around lowers his hand and Alex simply stares in open mouthed amazement.

"I'm OK Mom." Peter's trembling but manages surprising control.

"Pete's not like he used to be." Tom says flatly.

Arnold stands up and looks dumbly around him, using paper napkins to wipe Peter's blood off his hand. "Are we gonna be a family, or not?" His question is received in silence.

Mom helps a woozy Peter over to a chair and mops at the blood on his face. Peter can still feel the slamming ringing in his ears and there's a dull throbbing pain in his head. Tom pours himself another drink, tops up Arnold's and passes it to him. After a minute Peter staggers, head back and still dripping blood, into the bathroom and locks himself in.

Peter places a cold wet towel over his face and rests, sitting on the edge of the tub. After a while Mom comes by and knocks, Peter tells her he's OK, that he'll be fine. He goes to the basin and gently washes his face, almost all of the blood seems have come from his nose, but the swellings are bad and the throbbing over his temple is trying to take over his head. His twisted arm and bruised ribs also give him a lot of pain especially when he moves. After taking off his bloody shirt and cleaning himself up, he slips into his bedroom, changes his clothes, gathers a few things into his Adidas bag, picks up his skateboard and sneaks down the hall to the kitchen. The sounds of squealing tires, guns blasting away in some shoot out and the last gasps of dying victims come from the TV in the otherwise quiet living room. Peter finds what he is looking for stashed beneath the cookbook on the top shelf of the left hand cupboards and silently lets himself out the back door.

He climbs painfully into the Sally Ann drop off box and rearranges it's contents. As he relaxes his pain becomes intense again, he knows he can let it drag him down. But he can also, like his mohawk, wear it as a badge. This time he is going somewhere, exactly where doesn't matter. And this time he has the three hundred dollars rent money. He lies back making himself as comfortable as he can. And once again from somewhere over the drone and swish of the traffic come the sounds of the Dayglo Abortions, each syllable clearly enunciated.

I'm.. my.. own.. God.

I'm. my. own. God.

I'm my own God.

I can do whatever I want,

Cause I'm my own God.

I don't have to worry if it's right or wrong,

Cause I'm my own God.