Thirty-Seven Read online

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  a novel

  PETER STENSON

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  THIRTY-SEVEN. Copyright © 2018, text by Peter Stenson. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Stenson, Peter, author.

  Title: Thirty-seven : a novel / by Peter Stenson.

  Description: Ann Arbor, MI : Dzanc Books, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017003745 | ISBN 9781945814655

  Classification: LCC PS3619.T4764777 T48 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017003745

  First US edition: February 2018

  Interior design by Michelle Dotter

  Cover designed by Steven Seighman

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  “Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t goin’ away.”

  —Elvis Presley

  1. MODUS PONENS

  One always said sickness bears Honesty. I’m not sure if I agree with him. Sometimes I think sickness bears more sickness.

  This story isn’t about Dr. James Shepard, whom I knew as One.

  I wasn’t given a name at birth. I was given one three weeks later, when I was adopted. It’s Mason Hues. You haven’t heard of me. For a year, I went by Thirty-Seven. Sometimes I think numbers are a better representation of our true selves because they denote the order in which we arrived.

  One always said survivors were the only people worthy of living. He said that a person is a prisoner to the idea of betterment until he cannot see a single thing left worth living for. He said that nobody is grateful when he’s enslaved to the entitled notion of things improving.

  I’m eighteen years old. This number is perhaps more important than anything else. It means I’m now a man, now able to die for this country. It means my record is now sealed, any crimes expunged. It means had I been eighteen thirty months ago, I would more than likely be doing life, like the rest of my family.

  One always said that if somebody tells you a story isn’t about something, it sure as hell is.

  I ran away when I was fifteen. This wasn’t because I was unloved or abused—although more than once, I awoke to the man who swore to love and protect me standing in my doorway, the rhythmic rustling of him pleasuring himself to my sleeping body an unmistakable type of gong—and it wasn’t because I was steeped in want of anything in particular. I grew up wealthy. I grew up in private schools. I had enough friends. I ran away because everything seemed easy. Too easy, fake.

  One always said that Honesty bears change. I agree with this. The very nature of Honesty calls for change. Its presence won’t allow for anything else. Once something is known, it fundamentally alters those who know it. It forces action, even if that action is inaction.

  This story isn’t about sex. It’s not about love. It’s not even about family.

  I was the thirty-seventh person to knock on the doors of Dr. James Shepard’s Colorado estate in search of something real. That’s what I honestly believed I was searching for: realness. Maybe I was. I was young, fifteen, like I said. Maybe I was simply searching for shelter. Maybe I was leaving one adopted home for another. Maybe I was searching for betterment. Maybe I thought it my right as a person with a name to choose my own abusive father.

  Dr. Turner worked with me at CMHIP1 to alter my use of pronouns. She inflicted small punishments for my incessant use of we. Sometimes she wouldn’t let me play four square. Other times she wouldn’t allow me to have books in my room. I was congratulated the first time I said I: I want you all to leave me alone.

  One said the use of acronyms was a tool of shirking Honesty. He said POW was comical coming out of a person’s mouth, juvenile, even fun. He said Prisoner of War didn’t have the same placating effect. He said that as humans, everything we did was in order to bury, obstruct, and alter Truth.

  I remember learning the concept of modus ponens in ninth-grade math class. It’s an antiquated rule of inference. It states that if P implies Q, and P is true, then Q is true. One said that sickness bears Honesty. He said Honesty bears change. Therefore, sickness bears change. It’s really as simple as that.

  This story isn’t about ideas. It’s not about ideals. It’s not about betterment.

  I live in a studio apartment in Denver, Colorado. It’s Section 8 housing. I haven’t spoken to my adopted parents in over three years. I eat rice and drink Mr. Pibb for every meal. I spent thirty months in adolescent correctional facilities, both penal and mental health. My record is clean. Nobody knows me as Thirty-Seven.

  One’s favorite singer was Elvis. I know every song by heart. Crying into a five-gallon painter’s bucket, my teeth disintegrating underneath their constant coating of acidic bile, will forever remind me of “Blue Moon.”

  The three deepest, most telling, and unflappable aspects of a person’s character are his first love, his favorite memory, and his deepest regret. When I was fifteen, I spoke these into One’s ear. For the life of me, I cannot remember what I told him. But looking back, that moment—the granite boulder digging into my legs, the stars like a child kleptomaniac obsessed with things that sparkle, the warmth radiating from a stranger’s neck—now encapsulates all three character-determining aspects.

  I have wants now. I want a box spring. I want one of those razors that jiggle to ensure the closest shave. I want a significant other. Someday, I’d like to learn to drive, so I guess I’d like a car. A bicycle would do for now. I’ve learned it’s okay to have material wants; they are not inherently selfish.

  We were survivors. That’s what you know us as: The Survivors. It was never to be our name because we’d shed our names, our origins of birth, our shackles to wanting beings perpetuating the bullshit cycle of consumerism in order to stave off mortality. We were One and Five and Thirty-Seven. We were survivors because we endured round after round of chemotherapy. Some of us didn’t. Twenty-Two died of phenomena. Thirty-One died of an infection. Of course, you know about the ones who died on February tenth.

  This story isn’t about voluntarily going through chemo. It’s not about Survivors, at least not with a capital S. It’s not about family members who died.

  I’m eighteen. I used to be Thirty-Seven. I used to be Mason Hues. I used to be John Doe.

  One always said that consequences were 99.9% man-made. I found this difficult to believe until we did things without the world’s judgmental eyes, and then I understood his words to be true.

  Dr. Turner told me in CMHIP that I could be anything I wanted. She told me my entire life lay ahead of me. She told me I was smart, exceptionally so. She told me I could go to college and pick my profession. She asked me, if I could choose anything, what I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought for a second and then answered, making sure to use the first person singular: I want to be anonymous in a group of people who’ve nursed me through my pleas for death.

  This story isn’t about what happened on February tenth. It’s not about The Day of Gifts. It’s not about the seventy-seven people who were murdered.

  I was fifteen when I ran away. I was fifteen when One put a needle in my arm and shot me with my first dose of Cytoxan. I was fifteen when I was arrested and charged with seventy-seven counts of being an accessory to murder. I was fifteen when I lost my name once again, the authorities keeping me anonymous. Just a token of horror for the masses to rally be
hind, a child in the wrong place at the wrong time. Poor kid, poor fucking kid.

  One also said that if somebody explicitly tells you what a story is about, to keep your heart closed because this person was preaching, and nothing—not a single damn thing—coming out of a preacher’s mouth is ever True.

  One always said we are nothing without one another. He said everything could be traced back to the loneliness of our family of origin’s cruelties of abandonment. He said we were doing the most remarkable thing imaginable: forging bonds deeper than blood, embarking upon lives free of want amidst a loving family of our own choosing.

  This story is about a boy who ran away from adopted parents who loved him the best they knew how. It’s about a boy who found a home in the mountains of Colorado. It’s about a boy who lost his name through three rounds of chemotherapy, his only sickness rooted in the I. It’s about February tenth, The Day of Gifts. It’s about coming of age in locked cells, some with padded walls and some with toilets that never fully got clean. It’s about turning eighteen and becoming a man and amassing the small luxuries of even the lower class, crossing off wants without any cerebral wherewithal.

  Modus ponens. It’s a weird thing to remember learning. It deals with how to infer truth. But it’s not a law, and that fact is what keeps me awake on a mattress with no box spring wondering.

  1 CMHIP—Colorado Mental Health Institute at Pueblo

  2. EMPLOYMENT

  I know how to listen without hearing words and I know how to listen to words without listening to body language and I know how to listen by simply watching the centimeter of skin that connects the ear to the face. It doesn’t matter how gifted a person is in deceit: the creasing, stretching, pulling, and wrinkling of this stretch of skin is the most accurate polygraph ever created.

  I’m thinking about this while a woman I don’t know cuts my hair. She’s older, mid-thirties. Her mirror has a picture of a balding man who probably loves football holding a boy with red hair who seems happy enough. I think her name is Stacey. She sees me notice the picture. She takes this as an invitation to tell me about her family.

  It’s my first haircut in three years. My hair’s a lot darker than it’s been most of my life, at least the first fifteen years of living. I understand this to be a normal trait of hair growth after extensive chemotherapy treatments.

  She asks how I want my hair and I shrug and she places a heavy book in my lap. I flip through. Every picture looks forced, moments where parents wanted their children to matter and then older children who wanted their parents not to matter. There are a lot of turtlenecks.

  I turn to see if she’s watching me. She is. I see a twenty-something guy speaking on his cell phone outside of the salon. He smokes a cigarette. I like his air of indifference, even if it’s an act. I can’t remember seeing his particular hairstyle—buzzed short on the sides and long on top, greased back at a slight angle.

  “That,” I say.

  Stacey sees the guy. She grins like the world suddenly makes sense. She wets my hair and starts cutting. She asks about my plans for the day and I tell her to find a job and she takes this as a chance to tell me about the economy and recession and about her political views.

  I also know how to listen while staring into somebody’s eyes, giving all the appropriate cues, while not hearing a single word uttered. I’m doing this. The sick know this tactic. So do the incarcerated. My hair falls to the floor. I’d cried the first time I woke up and my sheets were covered in my own poisoned hair. They were tears of joy, of belonging.

  Stacey tells me I will have to beat the girls off with a stick. I blush because I’m not good with flirtation. She says, “If you were a few years older…”

  “You’d what?”

  It’s Stacey’s turn to blush.

  It serves her right. Embarrassment is a passive-aggressive tool used by those who don’t believe their wants are worthy of being heard. It’s cowardice. If she wants to make a pass at me, she could simply ask if I wanted to copulate in the back of her minivan, the one her balding husband still makes payments on. I would tell her no. I would tell her I was a virgin, at least in regard to vaginal intercourse. I would tell her I appreciated her honesty.

  “Oh, I’m just kidding around,” Stacey says. She runs a comb through my hair. I can see my ears. They look bigger than I remember, longer. Sometimes I wonder if I look more like my maternal mother or father. I wonder how old they were. I wonder if either of their character-defining regrets is giving me up.

  “Saying you’re probably a real lady-killer, is all,” Stacey says.

  I understand she is trying to do her job. She’s paid to cut strangers’ hair. She combats her insecurities with dull banter and flirtation. I wonder how many times she’s cheated on her husband. I wonder if she has ever done things to harm her son in order to regain a sense of Self. I’m granted no Gifts of Understanding about her outside life because I’m three years removed from living in Honesty. I tell her thanks and she’s quiet and the skin connecting her ears slackens. I give her a three-dollar tip, which I think is more than generous.

  I live in a part of Denver my parents wouldn’t have let me visit alone back when I resided underneath their roof. It’s close to The Salvation Army and The Mission, so it’s mostly those types of people, at least on the street. But it’s gentrifying. There are bars and dispensaries now and even a few music venues. There are a lot of people who look like they’re trying very hard to appear poor with their garish tattoos and tight jeans. During the weekends, drunk guys stumble around and scream and try to convince semi-conscious girls to share a cab.

  It’s okay.

  It’s fine.

  It’s all I can realistically ask for.

  I stop in a coffee shop and wait in line for six minutes and ask the guy with a neck-beard if they are hiring and he tells me no. I go to a deli and am told the same thing. I find a pizza parlor and ask for an application and the girl laughs and tells me it’s all done online and I feel stupid but only a little. One always said rejection could either be rooted in fear of fact—either something about you unnerved the other; they were afraid you’d take something they had or prevent them from achieving something they wanted—or fact itself: you weren’t good enough.

  I walk into a thrift shop on the way to my apartment. I have a good feeling inside the store because a female country singer’s doing a cover of “In the Ghetto.” The store is cluttered and warm and mildly cared for. I finger the sleeves of shirts. I pick up a pair of black boots with three-inch heels. I’m not sure if they are men’s or women’s. It seems like the type of store that has cats. I walk over to some men’s shirts.

  “That shirt would look good on you.”

  I look over my shoulder. There’s a girl around my age, probably a few years older. She’s dressed like she needs attention in white and black leggings and a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, the holes of which expose her naked side ribs and black bra. Her hair is black and boy-short with wisps of sideburns.

  “This is normally when you say something,” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t complimenting you. That shirt would look rad on anybody.”

  I laugh. So does she. I look down at the shirt. It’s solid navy with white snap buttons. She inches toward me and then she’s at my side and I feel nervous. She takes the shirt off the rack. She holds it to my chest. The back of her right hand grazes my chin. I think about One cupping my face as he pressed his forehead to mine, our eyes open, us staring into each other’s whites, our pupils out of the way so no deception was able to occur.

  “Just like I thought. Looks good,” she says.

  “How much?”

  “You don’t want to try it on? You’re just going to take my word?”

  “I guess.”

  She lowers her hand. She tilts her head. Her neck’s skinny and it looks like she has an Adam’s apple or maybe that’s just because she has short hair and looks a little like a boy.

&nbs
p; “You’re new, huh?”

  “To Denver?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve come back after some time away.”

  “During your time away, did you learn to speak like a robot?” She smiles. Her teeth are mostly straight like she’d had braces but not worn her retainer.

  “Kind of.”

  “What’s in the bag?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond and pulls the edge of the King Soopers plastic bag and peeks inside at my two applications. She frowns at me. “That’s like the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” She peeks one more time. “God, it’s…Little Johnny out in the big city trying to find a job with his little grocery bag.”

  I’m not sure what to say so I smile because that’s what humans do.

  “I just want to fold you up and put you in my change pocket.”

  “Are you hiring?”

  “Are you even old enough to work? To be walking around by yourself, unsupervised?”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Now I know you’re full of shit.”

  “I don’t drive.”

  Her smile fades and then it’s that fake pitying look or maybe it’s real pity and she puts her hands on my shoulders and I have to fight from making a sound.

  “Be straight with me: who are you?”

  Her hands are warm through my T-shirt. I want to press my forehead to hers. I want to be back inside. I want to be getting sick while a family member rubbed my back. I never want this moment to end.

  “Just a kid looking for a job,” I say.

  Her chin tries to hide a scar the size of an ant. I tell myself to quit with my own insecurities and wants and focus on hers: she wants something different. She wants what I’d wanted. She comes from money (the confidence evident in her ribbing and her mostly straight teeth), and she’s come to Denver for college, where she’s probably a sophomore, working here for extra money, but more for something to do that’s different from her beer-drinking, morning-after-pill-swallowing friends. She wants authenticity, which she thinks will bring her closeness, the opposite of her family and their fake smiles.