The Same Thing Over and Over

The salt from the two sachets, torn open as a pair, settled on the back of Derrick Harper’s hand. Some dusted his anatomical snuffbox, the rest collected on the fleshy part beside the base of his thumb. He took a deep breath, held his arm at the elbow with his free hand and said, ‘Ok, go.’ Derrick ground his back against the brick wall behind him as Ed Flavin gently placed an ice cube from a paper cup up on top of the salt. Cecilia Masyonete started the stop watch on her phone. The other kids around, including Stevie Nicks, tensed their bodies on Derrick’s behalf. As the seconds went by, Derrick meshed his teeth and dug his feet into his shoes as though they stood on a sandy beach. Ed said, with a chapel-hush, ‘You’re doing great, D.’ Stevie chipped in with an awed ‘yeah’ but didn’t know what else to say. Even with the pain, Derrick flicked him a derogatory look.

Finally, with an atavistic shout of ‘Motherrr-FUCKER!’ Derrick Harper swept off the water, remaining ice and the salt; Cecilia stopped the clock. She held up the phone so everyone would see the display. ‘Four minutes thirty-seven,’ yelled Ed. ‘That’s gotta be a new record!’ ‘Let’s see,’ said one of the others in the little gathering, who had filmed the event and was now uploading the video. Within a couple of minutes, comments populated the page, many confirming that, yes, this was the longest time anyone had seen or heard about.

Ed shook his paper cup like a deranged carol singer. ‘Any… challengers?’ he gleefully asked. Without warning, two smaller groups had formed: Ed and Derrick facing the other four. The kids of the larger cluster looked at each other, knowing this was expected now. ‘Aww…’ began Stevie, frantically grasping for an excuse – aware that he was the natural mark. ‘Well volunteered,’ commanded Ed, yanking out Stevie’s arm by the wrist. Stevie’s face flushed, his birthmark shading almost burgundy. ‘Oh, ok, alright, I’ll go first,’ he said, looking pointedly at the spare three kids, bolstering himself with a measure of bravado.

The salt and the ice were arranged on his hand, a weird offering. Stevie grimaced for thirty seconds, until Cecila said, ‘Shit, I didn’t start the stop clock.’ Ed smiled at her; ‘We’ll have to start again.’ Stevie wiped his hand on his blazer and held it out again, not even bothering to present the other hand, knowing it would be rejected. This time, Stevie went for fifty-five seconds before gasping and brushing his hand clean.

‘Huh,’ was all Derrick said. Ed expressed his thoughts for him: ‘Not even one minute, Stevie Nicks.’ Abruptly uninterested, the group fell to pieces, leaving Stevie Nicks holding his hand in his mouth, like a dog running from an explosion.

Stevie Nicks was his nickname, not his real name. He was called Steven Nicholson, but his mother had called him Stevie all his life. This was tolerable back in primary school, but when the children from his year carried it into secondary school, their own secret weapon for fitting in – a gift for other kids and an uncomplicated unifier – Stevie knew, to his dismay, that he was stuck with it. The abbreviated surname to go with it came from his English teacher, stupid bint, who heard the other students call him Stevie and said, ‘Well, that almost makes you Stevie Nicks!’ She proceeded to laugh loudly at her joke. Of course, it soon became funny to Stevie’s peers; someone ran a search in an ICT lesson and found a photo of the Stevie Nicks in 1970s finery. Laughter galloped around the computer suite and the full title was fixed from then on.  

The same English teacher was also unforgivable in her casual reference to Stevie’s birthmark, a laterally inverted South America that began just below his left eye, as a ‘port-wine stain’, as though this was acceptable terminology, as though it wasn’t insulting, or didn’t imply some gout-ridden alcoholic uncle sloshing on his head in a demented baptism. Stevie’s mother didn’t know about this, and would have complained if she did, but Stevie never mentioned it and would have been mortified at her calling the school, or worse, marching up the path for a meeting. This was the crux of their discord: just how much of one’s live should be shared. For her, teenagers were incomprehensible, with their need for personal space and privacy, eschewing her attention where only short years ago it was craved.  Her need was to care – care hard.

She saw the raw blotch on Stevie’s hand, as any good mother would. ‘Oh! How did you do that?’ Stevie sat like an anvil. ‘Food tech,’ he blurted. ‘Oh dear, dear. Did you run it under cold water?’ ‘Of course mum.’ He glanced furiously at his younger brother, David, who was squirming on his chair. Stevie knew that David knew; he was aware that he had to keep him quiet.

Later, Stevie was flipping through a manga comic when David sidled into his room and shut the door. ‘Have you ever done the blackout challenge?’ Stevie gazed at him, hovering between brotherly concern and senseless one-upmanship. ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘I think we should try it,’ said David.

The two boys pulled down bedclothes and arranged them on the floor. David took out his phone. ‘We have to film it.’ Stevie nodded, ‘I’ll go first.’

Stevie squatted in the middle of the soft area and breathed in and out rapidly, hyperventilating, while David counted aloud, using a stage whisper. At thirty, Stevie stood up, stuck his thumb in his mouth and blew out as hard as he could, but without letting the breath escape so his cheeks ballooned like rumours. After a moment, he slowly staggered first right then left, his eyes starting to loll, and collapsed onto the duvet in a fashion akin to being tipped from a sack. David stopped the recording and checked his brother – ‘Stevie?’ Stevie rolled over and grinned at him. ‘How’d it look?’ ‘Epic.’ David had a go too, wilting peculiarly slowly to the floor, and soon the videos were online for all to see, except their mother, who didn’t really know how to use the internet, thank heavens.  

The next morning, before school started, Stevie was shooting some baskets in the yard, on his own as usual. It was not that he was bullied as such; yet he was always on the edge of other children’s lives. An afterthought, or just not a thought. On this morning, though, he was approached by Ed Flavin. He had Shemera Johnson in tow. ‘That was fake,’ opened Ed. ‘You dropped your knee before you fell over, so you can’t have blacked out,’ explained Shemera. Stevie held the basketball in two hands. ‘It must have just gone like that on its own. I was unconscious!’ he protested. ‘Whatever. No one will believe that,’ summarised Ed. The duo walked away, leaving Stevie hopelessly standing there, as though cut off by a rising tide.

That weekend, Stevie and David were at their dad’s so they had to catch the bus after school on Friday rather than walking. On the 65 at 3.10, Stevie sat just behind the rear wheel arch on the left-hand side. He noticed a little crack, making a jagged hole in the corner of the curved plastic plate bulging up underneath the seat in front. When the bus went over a pothole, the portion of floor bounced up some. You could just catch a glimpse of the wheel spinning below. Stevie was blessed with a moment of inspiration, one that would change his life, no less. As a result, at his dad’s, all weekend he was jittery. The three of them went fishing, and dad was cross at Stevie for ‘spooking the fish with those hyperactive legs.’ They went to see a fantasy sequel at the cinema, but if you asked Stevie today what happened in it, there’s no way he’d be able to tell you. David, who knew Stevie better than their dad, was conscious that something was up and watched his brother carefully. In the bunk beds in the little room over the garage on Saturday night, David whispered: ‘What’s going on with you?’ Silence for a minute. ‘I’ve invented a new challenge,’ murmured Stevie back. ‘Salt and ice, blackout… they’ll be nothing compared to this.’ David felt a thrill – he wasn’t so old as to be unimpressed by default. ‘What is it?’ he breathed. Stevie lent over from the top bunk and squinted at his brother in the dim light. ‘You’ll see soon enough.’ David bugged for details, but Stevie kept quiet. His glory was not to be shared.

Being a teenager goes on forever; it’s just long years of the same thing over and over, unpunctuated with excitement. At any rate, that’s how Stevie Nicks felt. However, the day had come for a genuine highpoint: something unforgettable. Stevie told Ed at school in the cavernous dining hall. Derrick was there too but one did not speak to him directly – if you were a boy named Stevie Nicks anyhow. ‘Ed. I’ve invented a new challenge. Better than salt and ice, much more dangerous than blackout.’ Stevie was breathing hard, gnawing the tip of his finger. Ed and Derrick smiled, almost lovingly, at one another when hearing this charming notion. ‘Oh yeah?’ said Ed. ‘What is it?’ ‘Come on the number sixty-five at ten past three tonight and see,’ Stevie offered. Ed grunted at the lack of information. Derrick waved his hand and Stevie left, unsure if he’d have the spectators he wanted. He had to risk it anyway. He went and found David near the maths rooms. ‘Tell mum when you get home I have revision club after school,’ he instructed. ‘Why?’ ‘I have to do something. Just tell her… please.’ ‘Ok.’ David’s friends stared at Stevie’s birthmark. He frowned at them then brushed his fair hair forward with his fingers and walked away.

Stevie waited at the bus stop; word had evidently circulated and vague curiosity or boredom had assembled a small crowd. He was glad to see Derrick and Ed lurking there, with Shemera and Cecilia and various others, but his nerves jolted, for he realised he couldn’t back out. The kids who normally got the bus anyway knew something was up. When the 3.10 pulled up, everyone let Stevie get on first. ‘Afternoon, Driver!’ Stevie said cheerfully as he slid the change into the tray, feigning confidence for his first time in front of an audience. The woman behind the glass looked balefully at him. Stevie went to the seat behind the one over the wheel arch again, and the other children gathered on around, most standing. Once the bus heaved away, Ed queried, with atypical courtesy, ‘Well, Stevie Nicks, we’re all here. What challenge have you brought us to see?’ The others tittered. The way he said the name seemed to remind them it was funny – although many had forgotten why.

Stevie bit his lip and bent down under the seat in front. He slipped his hand into the crack in the floor and lifted the arc of plastic up a few inches. ‘Can you see the wheel?’ Necks craned and excitement grew. ‘You can get your arm down there. The challenge is to hold the wheel when the bus stops, and only move your hand away when the bus moves. If you aren’t careful, you could get your hand trapped.’

Derrick stuck out his bottom lip in a begrudging ‘not bad’ gesture, but Stevie couldn’t see him from where he was. ‘Ok, but it’s only a challenge if you leave it till the last second,’ Ed told him. ‘Otherwise, there’s no risk.’ ‘Sure,’ conceded Stevie. He looked around at everyone from his kneeling position on the floor.

The bus halted at some traffic lights. Stevie paused then shoved his arm into the gap. He held the wheel, gripping the rim within the tyre. Shemera elected herself adjudicator and knelt down to verify that Stevie was holding the wheel. ‘He’s done it,’ she declared. There was a hiss as the brakes were released and Stevie hastily withdrew his arm. He looked around for some sort of approval. The kids were underwhelmed.

Derrick Harper spoke: ‘Too easy. You can hear when it’s setting off.’ He pulled a paper napkin from his blazer pocket. Taking his time, for he knew they’d all wait, Derrick tore it in two. He twisted each half into a feathered nub, like a pair of shuttlecocks. ‘Earplugs.’

Ed picked up the theme. He crouched beside Stevie and removed his striped tie. He set it carefully around Stevie’s head. Ed reached back for the napkin earplugs and handed them to the plucky Stevie Nicks. He took them and pressed them into his ears. Ed pushed down the tie over the other boy’s eyes and patted him on the shoulder like you might a horse, to say ‘let’s go.’

Stevie swallowed nothing, his mouth dry. His legs were shaking. He raised the plastic floor with one hand and gingerly reached in with the other. The bus stopped at a shelter, lurching so the onlookers grabbed bars and seats to keep their balance.  Stevie reached in further and took hold of the wheel for a second time. The cluster of children was silent. Stevie’s legs stopped shaking and he closed his eyes behind the blindfold. For a moment, he felt relaxed, calm and sort of mesmerised by his own vulnerability. It was like being in the zone for a perfect free-throw. The other people heard the hiss and the clattering close of the doors; they shifted about. Derrick raised a hand to quiet them all.

The bus moved away from the stop, but Stevie Nicks held on. Suddenly, the vehicle accelerated and they all saw Stevie jolt forward nauseatingly. Then he flopped back, in a bent heap in the corner formed by the seat behind him and the wall of the bus. Horror and panic clutched the group of school children. The bus hesitated in a queue of traffic. Cecilia leapt to the door and stabbed the emergency exit button above it. The whole pack bolted out of the door, the bus driver hollering after them.

Stevie slumped on the floor, smiling faintly to the ceiling as his stump wept onto the grey floor. At least, it would not be the same thing over and over, anymore.