Free Boys in Gilded Cages by Jarod Powell

to look away, like he’ll start a fire with his
mind if they keep their eyes fixed to his. If he unfocuses his eyes
the weeds and the trees become a big stream of blur, discolored but
one with the sky. He’d learn the value of doing this later on in
life, but eventually he’d forget how, even when things whiz by so
quickly.

    His dad thinks he barfs pea soup. He caught
him padding the headboard of his bed when he stumbled in, tripping
on the brown bag of nails in the doorway. His dad looks at him and
keeps stapling, probably more staples than he needed. He’s
nervous.
    What you doin’, Dad?
    Just some precautions, he says.
    I’m fine, you know. You don’t have to do
that.
    Just in case. He pauses.
    Don’t worry, his dad tells him, fluffing the
pillow. We’ll have you up and purring like a kitten in no time.
    That night his dad put the extra Bible
stolen from a hotel room on the night stand.

    The padding on the headboard was way
conspicuous as he tried to sleep. He kept his head turned up to
analyze it for the first few hours till his spinal chord felt like
it might snap, then he kept it in his memory as he stared at the
poster of some anonymous Sports Illustrated model.
    His cousin Bayda tells him about dreams she
has. Sometimes they have zombies or ghosts or something scary, and
sometimes they are full of mysterious religious shit, like Jesus
comes to her in a field of light and tells her not to have sex
before marriage or smoke pot or whatever. He don’t really like her,
but he likes listening to her talk. She’s real smart about some
things, and fantastical in her delivery. It’s hard not to like her,
kind of.
    Do you ever have, like, dreams about like,
romance? He asks her.
    No, never.
    Never?
    No.
    Well, what about…
    What?
    Forget it.
    No, what?
    You’ll think I’m a pervert.
    Oh, listen. That’s just the devil getting to
you. You just have to clear your mind while you’re awake, and the
dreams will stop.
    What in the world are you talking about? He
asked. Here she goes again, talking straight up bullshit.
    You know, read the Bible more; actually
listen to in church.
    I’m not sure you get what I mean.
    I get what you mean.
    But dreams can’t be controlled, I don’t
think. I think they happen due to thoughts we don’t dare have on
purpose.
    That’s one way to look at it, I guess.
    I like to think of them as something that
makes us let our blocks down we hold around lots of people or in
crowds – the same guards that tell us to hold in our farts in
church or at the dinner table –
    Oh, man, don’t be gross.
     
    Or like when your parents are gone, and you
steal from the liquor cabinet just because their shit’s always
easier to deal with later.
    You lost me.
    But these are daydreams.
The dreams I can control, but choose not to. Choices always have punishments.
Sunday school pretty much says that’s what life on Earth is all
about.
    You mean consequences.
Choices always have consequences .
    Huh?
    That’s what you should mean. Don’t let the
Devil take you on like that. He will make you jaded and cynical and
lazy. Don’t be lazy.
    I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but
we’ll get into it more later. I’ve got to go babysit.
    Oh man, have fun.
    Yeah, right.
    Cynical and lazy, don’t be! He said with a
grin.
    Shut up.

    He tends to ride his bike before his
doctor’s appointments. It’s not something he does on purpose.

He runs the same route, the county road in
front of Greer’s house. Riding past Marcia’s house, he waves at her
family every time but they never wave back, except Marcia. It
doesn’t bother him because they’re town outcasts and so is he, and
in some weird way he takes pleasure in predicting they’ll
eventually come around when they get to know him. It’s a psychic
bond they’re too stubborn to acknowledge. I guess it calms him.
    He knows exactly what happens on these rides
he takes. Greer stops him with some gossip, usually about the
neighbor he’s taken