"Beat"

Beat

By Kelton Sears

Punch in the face.

Kick in the ass.

Right in the testicles.

I don’t feel any of it. The guy, whatever the hell his name is, Devon or something, keeps laying into me. I mean, he looks like he’s getting really into it. Since I started doing this I’ve learned that a lot of people are really pissed off.

Their parents suck.

They have bad grades.

They don’t like their girlfriend.

Their cat died.

For whatever reason, people are really angry. Most of the time they take it out on other stuff. They eat more. They become assholes. They wet the bed. It manifests itself somehow, and people don’t like it when that happens.
So that’s where I come in.

I was surprised that I was somewhat of a pioneer in the business I run. The business I run will never be threatened by a lack of demand for my product. My prices are affordable and I deliver. Why people haven’t done what I’m doing before, I don’t know. It’s kind of a no-brainer.

Fist in the eye.

Jab in the gut.

Knick on the shins.

I hear my finger snap. The guy, Devon, stops for a second and looks at me. He heard it too. I can tell he’s worried. “That’s gonna cost you extra,” I say. He shrugs, and starts beating the hell out of me again.

I really don’t feel anything. Ever since I remember, I have been Superman. I have been invulnerable. I mean, bones still break, and I have some weird stomach disorder, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel pain. Doctors said my nervous system is wired wrong or something like that. I never understand what they are saying. Just nod and look interested and people think you give a rat’s ass. It’s all about selling it. That’s another thing I’ve learned since I started my business. People come back if you sell it.

Moan.

Scream.

Whimper.

And people love it. I don’t feel it, but I sure as hell act like I do. People will believe anything if you fake it right.
Devon is sweating. Every time he makes contact with my body, every swing, smack, and shove is just more money for me.

Ouch I yell.

Cut it out.

Oh god, not there!

I find that the use of these stock phrases really enhances the whole experience. They’ve become automatic. Second nature. I just blurt them out every once in a while, and the customer eats it up. The customer is always right. Always.

I remember there was this one time at camp. These kids in the cabin next to mine were from out East and they were totally out of their minds deviant. Insane. These were the kids you hear about on the news who shot their slingshots at a cat and killed it just for fun, sending the community into outrage. These were the kids who detonate bombs they made from a recipe they found in the Anarchist’s Cookbook. These were the kids who really do set their farts on fire instead of just talking about it. These were the kids who lived their life hanging on by a thin strip of duct tape, surviving on cheese-wiz and Ritz crackers. They made this game that was sort of a sick version of chicken. The cabins were two stories, so one guy would go up to the top and set up a bunch of bottles on this ledge. Each bottle was filled with water, and they gradually got more and more full. The guy playing had to sit on this couch on the lower level and spread his legs while the guy on top dropped the bottles one by one onto his balls. If you move, you’re out. If you wince, you’re out. If you scream, you’re out. Most guys were done after the first two bottles, which where maybe 4 ounces full. They had to fill up a gallon jug for me. I took that too. They all hopped up and down and yelled “damn dog!”

“Shit man! How you doin’ that?”

I just don’t feel it, I tell them.

“Man yo balls must be made of steel or somethin’ dawg! Nevadie!”

Yeah, I tell them. Nevadie. I tell them to let all their friends know back in the ghetto know too. They can kick my ass all they want. I only cost ten dollars per session.

So they amp it up. We go outside and they take their gallon jug full of water all the way up to the top of the three story cabin complex. Lying in the grass, I am staring up at a bunch of giggling psychopaths thirty feet up.

“Ready?”

I give them the thumbs up.

When the jug hits, I am thinking how impressed I am that they managed to aim it right on target with my balls. Maybe they’ve done this before.

“Holy shit dawg!”


Devon hands me ten dollars covered in blood. Come again, I tell him. He walks away behind the gap in the chain link fence smiling. He’ll be back. Judging by the smell, his anger is manifested as sweat. The coating on the ten bucks he handed me reconfirms my hypothesis. It’s different for all kids. My friend Aaron gets really perverted when he’s pissed. Makes a bunch of sex jokes. My girlfriend makes this wheezy noise like a mouse when she get’s angry. Devon just happens to be a sweater.
It ends up my finger was just dislocated, not broken. I just pop it back in and start wondering what I will spend my money on. Maybe some Taco Bell. I am kind of hungry.

Chewing on my 7-Layer Burrtio, I start running excuses through my mind for my parents. They believe pretty much anything. It’s less about coming up with new excuses than it is remembering old ones. It’s all about consistency. They usually buy it if I say it had to do with P.E. Yeah. I’ll go with that one today. I got a black eye playing pickleball and my partner accidentally swiped my elbow with his racket. That’s good.

“You know it’s my birthday tomorrow.”

My girlfriend is so subtle.

“I really liked that bracelet we saw in the mall.”

I wonder what she wants for her birthday?

“You know that one we say in J.C. Penny’s? With that little swirly jewel thing?”

The one that costed two hundred dollars? Yeah, I remember that one.

“I’m just saying, you know… I liked that bracelet. And my birthday is tomorrow.”

“So you want me to get you the bracelet for my birthday?”

She hugs me and starts kissing me. Really laying into me. I can’t feel pain, but I sure as hell can feel this. Funny how the nervous system works.

All of my friends are staring at us. Screw them. I have a girlfriend. And she’s making out with me. The bell rings and Aaron walks up to me, Wolfmother blaring out his iPod headphones. He loves that classic rock crap. Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, ACDC, any band that sings about kicking ass, chicks, cars, and has a scathing guitar solo in it somewhere. I keep trying to get him to start listening Radiohead.

“So what are we doing after school?”

I tell my girlfriend, that I’ll see her at lunch.

“We’re getting Karen a bracelet for her birthday.”

Aaron takes one of his headphones out, “What?”

I repeat myself.

“Alright. You got enough money?”

Well, after Devon yesterday, and Brett earlier this week, I think I have $190. Damn. Ten dollars short.

“Yeah, I got enough cash. Let me call you actually. I gotta do something right after school.”


I didn’t have anyone scheduled for today, so I had to get crafty. I’ve learned to distinguish a regular person from an angry person. It’s all in the eyes. People who are pissed have pupils that are slightly more dilated than normal. There’s some science behind it, but I figure its because of the same reason why your ass hurts when you sit on it too long. Lots of strain. So I think the guy’s name is Chad. He’s a gritter. That’s what we people in the biz like to call someone who grits their teeth when they are pissed. You can tell because the ends of their teeth are usually really flat and even from all the years of pent up rage. He’s not very strong, so I have to fake it harder to compensate. His little scrawny muscles contract as he beats me with his fists. He keeps hitting my ass. Is he gay? Oh well, need the ten bucks.


Me and Aaron walk into the J.C. Penny from the home décor side. Sometimes I come here alone and just look at all the books they put on the bookshelves. You know the ones. The books they put on the bookshelves in furniture stores to make it look more homey. They always cover up the title for some reason to make them seem more generic. I guess people like generic crap. I always pull them off the shelf and read them. Most of the time they are just glossy hard back classic art books. The kind of books people put on their coffee table to make it seem like they are educated. Sometimes you get lucky though and find a completely left-field book. I found a book on the anatomy of tapeworms in Ikea once. Did you know the largest tapeworms can grow up to fifty nine feet?

So I buy the bracelet. It’s kind of ugly, something my aunt would wear. But hey, my aunt doesn’t make out with me. It’s all for Karen. Aaron is listening to his iPod as we walk home, I think it’s Queens of the Stone Age. He really should start listening to Radiohead. It’s really dark out, Chad took longer to beat me up than most do. We start to cross the street when I hear a loud snap. Aaron curses out loud as I see my leg twisted backwards in the wrong position. The guy gets out of his Hummer and starts cursing too.

“God dammit! Are you okay? Dammit! Your leg! Get in the car. I’ll take you to the hospital. Dammit, why wasn’t I looking? My insurance is going to go through the effing roof.”

I just sit there blinking. I can see the blood pouring out, but I don’t feel it. I probably should go to the hospital. I heard that most of the cost of an operation is from anesthetics, so I guess mine will be cheap.