Unhinged

2

Oliver

My mother named me after Oliver Twist, which was ironic because she'd never read the book or even seen the movie. She just thought it was funny. I think the carelessness with which she named me set the correct precedent for how she would treat me for the rest of my life. Without much thought, and paired with a cruel yet somehow humorous aloofness.

I wander down the street, putting my hands in my pockets, feeling around blindly for the one thing I care about right now. A bus ticket to Oklahoma. It cost 300 dollars, which...honestly is a bit much for what I'm getting; sitting next to some greasy stranger who'll either lay their head on my shoulder without consent or talk a hole in my ear even if I put my headphones in.

That tap on the shoulder, that makes me take my AirPods out while they lean over and say: can you hear me?

No. No, I put my AirPods in for that reason. I don't wanna hear you. But I can't say that, because that's not polite and in North Carolina being polite is more important than anything. Being polite is valued over being good. Or nice. Which is why I'm leaving.

Because I'll be honest...I'm not either of those things.

I came with my family in 2006 with the rest of the New Yorkers who spent the rest of their tenure in the south talking about how they were from New York but never mentioning why they left.

My family was especially silent about our real reasons for the migration. Oh, it just got too expensive.

Yeah. I guess so.

That's the polite way to phrase what happened. But none of that matters now. I hear Oklahoma is the West. I would've gone back to New York except I hate it there. It's cold, and everyone is a dick and being a dick is less fun if everyone else is too. Oklahoma feels like a good place. I think the west will be a welcome change from the South. A little politeness a little brashness a good middle ground between where I'm from and where I'm at. Not to mention the tornadoes.

I'm looking forward to it. The tornados are why I'm going. I've always wanted to see a storm like that in person. They always blow right past us in North Carolina. It may be odd, but I want to be swept up in a tornado. I think it'll be an interesting way to go, the world in a flurry around you, creating beautiful chaos, sweeping the ground, unending lives, and then dissipating into the sea.

I'm also looking forward to never hearing another North Carolina southern accent. If I never hear nu-uh, he just moved here from down the lane, it'll be too soon.

I stop at the bus station and look up the dusty machine. I specifically got here late, to avoid the small talk of waiting with strangers.

Going on a big trip?
Got anything planned?
What calls you to the west, tee-hee?

Fuck that. I got a seat, and I want to sit in, put my music on, and forget that I'm alive. The gentle nodding off, where you're so content with your lack of thoughts you fade into nonexistent for a moment? That's what I'm looking for. Finally, I board the bus, shuffling through small aisles, and take my seat. I got a window seat, thank god, so if I do fall asleep, I can rest my head on the window, instead of some unassuming stranger who I'll doubt will extend me the same courtesy.

I inhale shakily. Oklahoma. A new start. A storm that isn't me. That's all I want. I have 10,000 dollars in my backpack, 100 percent battery on my phone and AirPods, this bus ticket, and a tentative sense of optimism.

And I think that'll be enough.

Until she sits down. She sits down next to me, and I mind her at first. But then the scent of her wafts over to my nose. She smells sweet like she bathed in cotton candy. So I look over because the last thing I need is some 14-year-old claiming I'm trying to touch her. Instead, I find a woman around my age.

She's in all pink, like a Barbie, and the tag for her very, very mini skirt is still attached as the security tag. Her eyes are a deep brown, almost black, her lips full and glossy, pink.

I'm sensing she has a favorite color. She dons a pink crop top with the word slut stretched over her tits. And then she looks at me.

Her eyes sweep my form, my frayed hoodie, and baggy jeans, scuffed shoes. And then she looks away, no doubt surmising I'm poor.

Well that was exactly what I was going for. But something tells me a girl like her isn't looking for a poor man.

"Oklahoma?" I ask softly.

She turns her attention to me when I speak, cocking her head inquisitively as if I've prompted her to take a second look. I sit up a little straighter under her intense gaze.

"That's where the bus is going," she replies shortly.

Of course. Right. Well, she's snippy. No North Carolina politeness I can tell you that. I grin.

"No small talk for you, huh?" I try again.

She grins. "You have some of the most...beautiful eyes I've ever seen."

I blink. My eyes? They're not all that special. A gentle green that bleeds into hazel, muddy and not quite discernible. I think her eyes are prettier than mine.

"Thank you. You...you're beautiful." I shift, swallowing the bitter aftertaste of those very creepy words.

She smiles goodnaturedly. Wow. Her teeth are perfect.

"I wonder how they taste."

I'm sorry.

"Come again?" I civilized my confusion with a discombobulated smile.

"I wonder..." she says again lowly, leaning in her tongue languishing on her words. "How they taste," she whispers, licking her lips.

Nothing I could ever say could be as creepy as that sentence. And yet...

"Probably not very good, but you could sell them for a grand. If you pluck 'em right."

Her lips turn up, and she chuckled and leans back. "Well...aren't you a little surprised? Is that an offer...?"

Should I offer my name, my eyeballs? A quick tussle in the sheets. I settle for the first one.

"Oliver,"

"Like the book," she grins, tapping my knee in recognition.

"Something like that," I smile back. "You on the hunt for some eyeballs to eat down in Oklahoma?"

She crosses her legs and grins, leaning back in her seat. "I'm pretty sure it's up. Up and across but I...never passed Geography."

I smirk and shrug. "Who did?"

"Just looking to see the sights. I...never got out much."

And I don't bring up eyeballs again, and she doesn't threaten to eat them. We sit in silence for a moment. One of her locs is in between us, the rest slung over her left shoulder. Halfway through the ride, her head touches my shoulder.

She sits up suddenly with a frown, clearing her throat, and sliding her skirt down.  I glance at my phone noting the breaking news.

Mayor Greenwald was killed. They think it was a hit. I shift, my backpack feeling hot against my skin. Then I turn my screen off and try to get some sleep.