Story for critique

(This is a new edited version)
Crashing

Daniel McCloskey


The wind blew through Tara's hair that Saturday afternoon. It was a beautiful fall day with clouds that were white and fast and reminded you of things.

"Tommy?" she said.

Tom Cole was a skinny boy of fifteen with dark neat hair. He looked up at Tara.

"Remember when this was scary?" she said. "When we would laugh, and our faces would turn all red just thinking about it?"

"I remember," said Tommy looking back down at the maze of knotted metal pipes and staircases below them.

Tara spit, letting the saliva moisten her lips and drop. Tommy was reading a gigantic textbook, stopping sometimes to jot something down in his notepad. Tara watched her spit fall and fall and fall.

When Tara and Tom first came to the steel mill they were in eighth grade. The steel mill was looming and ancient. Morning glories grew in all these little corners of the ground floor. That used to be their favorite game, finding the tiny purple flowers. They never thought they would ever go as high as they were now. But they had been everywhere, in every room. They opened every compartment and pulled every lever until there was nothing left to do but climb.

They used to come to the steel mill all the time. But Tom skipped a grade and then got his G.E.D., just like his brother did. He started college as Tara started high school, and now Tara hardly saw him at all. When they did see each other they no longer explored the mill. They just went straight up, to the top, where not a single morning glory grew.

They were sitting on one of the two hand-towers. Each tower had a platform which was surrounded by four smaller towers that jutted out like fingers.

Tara never saw her spit hit the ground; it lost her attention.

She put her arms out like an airplane, balancing on a rusty banister.

"Stop that," said Tom, scowling. He half sat, half lay on the platform among brimstone, moss and grasses that had found a way to grow on steel grates.

Tara's blue sweatshirt was unzipped, and a gust of wind tore through it. In a moment she lost her balance. She sucked in air and lurched forward, grabbing at the banister. A glistening silver box slipped from her pocket. She breathed a sigh of relief, watching the silver flash amongst rusted steel.

"What was that?" Tommy asked.

"My cigarette case," Tara said with a touch of sorrow, still watching its shimmery descent.

"You smoke?" said Tommy..

Tara stepped down from the railing. "Yeah, and I drink too."

"You do?" he said, looking up at her.

Tara was standing very close to him now. She was older than Tommy, sixteen. Her skirt went to her knees but from Tommy's angle you could almost see all the way up her legs.

"Yeah," she said. She stepped over Tom and sat down on his stomach. "And you know what else?" She leaned in so their lips were close together. "I fuck," she whispered.

For a moment everything was still. Somewhere a pigeon flapped its wings. Cars drove on a distant road. A boy biked with his hands in his pockets under clouds that were fast and white and reminded you of things.

"You do not," said Tommy.

"Sure I do," she said, "I did it just the other day, and I'm going to do it again. Right now."

"Shut up," said Tommy, half embarrassed and half irritated. He looked away from her, beyond the steel mill, beyond the field, the road, the train tracks. Their faces—an inch apart.

"Fine," she said, rolling onto her back, lying next to him. "I do have sex though."

"Who with?" he asked.

"Michael Fielding," said Tara.

Tommy laughed.

"I do!"


Down town, far from the steel mill, there was a small commotion. A convertible was stopped in an intersection. On the right side of the car was a sleek racing bike lying on its side, its front wheel spinning. On the driver's side was a boy in his late teens who was stumbling around like a hangover, with his hands still in his pockets. The driver of the vehicle was an extremely startled, mousy, middle-aged man with glasses and a slick haircut. The boy was not mousy. The boy was shaggy and taut and slim—a street dog if anything. The mouse-man went to open his door, but before he got a foot out the boy kicked the door shut again with disgust. The boy hawked a bloody loogie on the window and cursed with blood oozing from his nose and forehead as the car sped off.



Tommy and Tara stood at the base of the steel mill staring at five gory pieces of polished metal and about ten cigarettes scattered on the ground.

"I didn't even know it was made out of that many pieces," said Tara.

They both gazed at the wreckage. On one of the pieces "J. H. C." was inscribed in feminine cursive. Tara picked up one of the unbroken cigarettes and fished a lighter from her sweatshirt pocket.

Spark, smoke, fire. "Just think," said Tara, "That could have been me." She was watching Tom, looking for a reaction.

Tom was still looking at the case, unblinkingly.

"Are you all right?" Tara asked, exhaling.

“Yeah,” Tom said, but he didn’t look away. "Where did you get it?"

"The case? Goodwill or someplace. Why?" said Tara.

Tom shrugged.


When Tommy's older brother Jed went to college he still lived with his father - after all, he was only fourteen. But when his younger brother got accepted at the same age, Jed managed to convince their dad to let Tommy move in with him. It's hard to say who their dad thought was going to look after whom.


When Tommy got home, his brother's bike was lying in the middle of the kitchen behind an open doorway. The handlebars were bent jagged, and a good amount of paint was missing.

Tommy carefully stepped over the bike and walked into the living room, where his brother was sitting on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a remote control in the other, a cigarette in his mouth, and a bloody kitchen towel tied around his forehead.

"How goes it little brother?" said Jed.

Tommy walked between his brother and the T.V., blocking Davy Crocket. He put down his books and took a seat.

Davy stormed into congress.

"You shouldn't drink with that," said Tom, looking at his brother's head. "Alcohol inhibits your ability to clot."

"I know that," said Jed. "I'm the one that told you that. But did you know that it also gives you super powers?"

"I'm serious," said Tommy.

"Me too," said Jed, and then he took a swig, flicked a lighter, and made a face like he was playing the trumpet.

A burst of heat and orange light filled the room. As Jed spit fire he accidentally shot his cigarette into his lap.

"Jesus Christ Jed," said Tommy, arms blocking his face. "Do you need to do that inside?"

Jed scampered to pick up his lit cigarette, which he had spat on his lap.

The living room was clean, but not orderly. The couch was at an odd angle so that you could lie down and comfortably see the television. There was a lopsided foosball table that Tommy bought for his brother used. Jed got drunk one night and wrote a different dead president on the back of each player and gave them numbers according to their order of presidency. On the mantel were a couple of textbooks, a few empty bottles of whiskey and a sculpture of Confucius, which Jed stole from the public library for Tommy's last birthday.

"Fine," said Jed, "I'll stop drinking if you start." Jed lifted the bottle toward his brother.

Tommy watched Davy Crocket.

Jed shrugged and took another swig, flicked his lighter. Tommy blew out the flame before Jed got a chance to spit. The two brothers’ eyes met. Jed swallowed.

"When's the last time you saw dad?" Tommy asked.

"I'll get you a glass." Jed stood and made for the kitchen.

"He was asking about you," said Tom. “I told him we'd visit today.”

"It's no good. Why would I visit a psychologist that makes me fucking crazy? It's counter productive," said Jed from the other room.

"He's your dad, not your therapist," said Tommy.

"Maybe that’s not what I need right now. Besides, I can't see him with this.” Jed popped his head through the doorway and pointed at his forehead. “He'd probably make me go to the hospital or something." Jed popped back into the kitchen. "And I won't be able to see him next weekend because we're having a party Friday, and I probably won't look much better then."

"We're having a party?" asked Tommy.

"Oh, yeah. Is that all right?" said Jed.

Tommy shrugged, which Jed couldn't see, but he got the idea.

"Cool," said Jed. “I don't think we have any clean glasses.” He came in with a plastic bugs bunny mug. "It's a pretty nice day out. I think I'm gunna go see mom." Jed placed the kiddie cup full of whiskey in front of his little brother. "You could come," he said hopefully.

Jed and Tommy's mom had died four years ago; she hung herself with one their father’s neckties on her forty-second birthday. Tommy hadn't been to her grave since. Jed went almost every week.

"Just drive me to dad's before you go," said Tommy.

"Drive yourself," said Jed pulling a set of keys from his pocket and tossing them to his little brother.

“I don't have a license.”

“And I'm drunk,” said Jed. "I'm going to go to a couple parties tonight so I'll be home late." Jed took one last swig of his whiskey and slammed it down on the mantel next to Confucius. He looked at his brother. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," said Tommy.

Jed looked his brother up and down once before grabbing his jacket. It had a rip in the shoulder and a little blood on the front. "I'm going to borrow your bike, okay?" he called from the kitchen, and then he was gone.


Tommy's room was the most organized part of the house. The walls were clean and white. He had a cream dresser and a white desk with a black chair and a black lamp, but in the dark everything looked a deep soggy blue. Tommy couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the smashed cigarette case shimmering in the stupid autumn sun. It had belonged to his mother, Janice Hatfield Cole “J. H. C.” Tommy wanted to see it again, to fix it. He should have taken it when he had the chance. Tara probably would have given it to him; it was broken anyway. He didn't know how it got to a thrift store. He guessed his father must have let a bunch of stuff go.

It was late when Jed came home. Tommy heard him stumbling over his own bike. A girl's laughter echoed in the dark. Jed whispered something and then laughed himself as the two of them made their way toward Jed's room.

Tom rolled over in a tangle of sea-green sheets. Soon the whispering from Jed's room gave way to the steady squeaking of box springs. Tom put a pillow over his head to keep out the soft screams of the invisible girl and eventually fell asleep with an erection.


When Tuesday came around he decided to ask Tara about the cigarette case. He knew it was unusable now, but there was a possibility that Tara hadn't thrown it away.

He knew she would be getting out of school at two fifty, and since it was a nice day he decided to go and wait for her.

The sun shone bright and it seemed like everyone was outside trying to take advantage of the last warm days before winter. Tommy sat at the front gate and watched people and pigeons pass by. The bell rang and a flood of kids Tom's age poured through the iron gate.

After a couple minutes of waiting, he spotted Tara walking his way with Michael Fielding. Tommy froze. Mike looked much bigger than Tom had remembered. Tommy looked away and started walking with the crowd of high school kids, but it was too late. Tara spotted him.

"Tommy!" Tara yelled and ran toward Tom, pulling Michael behind her.

"Oh, hey," said Tom as the couple closed in.

"What are you doing here?" asked Tara.

"Just taking a walk," said Tommy. "Hi, Michael."

"Hi Tom." Michael and Tara were still holding hands.

"Are you all right Tom? You don't look so good," asked Tara.

"Yeah, I'm, you know. I'm fine," said Tom.

The crowds started to thin as the stragglers moved through the gate. A car honked its horn.

"That's my ride," said Michael, letting go of Tara's hand. "See you later Tara."

"Okay," she said.

"It was good to see you Tom," said Mike as he hopped into the back seat of a dirty green sedan.

"Yeah," Tommy said too quietly for Mike to hear.

Tara waved as the car sped off. Then she turned her attention to Tommy. "Do you want to walk me home?" asked Tara.

"Sure," said Tom, and they started. "So you’re going out with Michael now?"

"I told you I was didn't I?" said Tara playfully.

"No, you said you had sex with him and I thought you were joking," said Tom, not playfully.

"Maybe you should take me more seriously," said Tara.

"You were joking, right?" said Tom.

Tara shrugged, and kicked a rock.

"This isn't funny Tara."

"What's the big deal?"

"Nothing," said Tom. He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched the sidewalk.

"Aww," said Tara in a puppy voice, "You’re jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"You can't stand seeing me with another man."

"He's not a man."

"He's bigger and stronger and older, than you are," said Tara, wearing half a smile.

"If those are your qualifications I know some nice brick walls you might want to fuck."

They stopped walking. Tara lost her smile. "You didn't have to say that," she said. It wasn't the insult; it was the tone of voice.

"And you didn't have to fuck Michael Fielding." Tommy was yelling now.

"I think I'll walk the rest of the way by myself." Tara started to walk again.

Tommy followed her. "Don't go now. We were having a conversation," Tommy said.

"Fuck off Tommy." Tara was walking fast, but Tommy matched her steps.

"Why don't you just answer the question?" said Tom.

Tara stopped and turned. Tommy almost ran into her. Her face was right at his—closer than it had been at the mill—and she looked like she was going to cry. "I shouldn't have to."

All of his anger was gone. He looked on stupidly as Tara ran off, her blue sweat-shirt flapping. She turned a corner and was gone.


Jed repainted his bike and replaced his handlebars with a length of wood that he sawed from their broomstick with a bread knife. The wood made fine bars, but sweeping was awkward.

It was Wednesday afternoon when the paint dried and Jed got his bike back together. He greased the chain, pumped the tires, and went for a ride.

An autumn breeze made Jed shiver. Just as his fingers touched the bottom of his pockets, a girl burst out into the road.

"Shit," said Jed. He swerved; he and his bike bounced and tumbled and slid to a stop. His bike was on its back about ten feet away from him, front wheel still turning. "Are you all right?" said Jed, lying on his side with his hands in his pockets and his face on the pavement.

The girl stood frozen in the center of the street, untouched, blinking her damp eyes. She started to laugh.

Jed rolled on his back. "Good."


Tommy couldn't pay enough attention in any of his classes to take notes that Thursday. He just kept thinking about Tara and the cigarette case, and how he may never see either of them again. He had never missed a day of class in his life, but he decided not to get up on Friday morning for his nine o'clock. He stayed in bed past his eleven and even his one o'clock class. By the time Tommy got out of bed his body hurt all over and Jed was getting ready for the party.

"Morning sport," said Jed "I didn't realize you were home."

Tommy was in his boxers, scratching the mess of hair that made him look more like Jed's brother than usual.

"What time is it?" Tom asked.

"Like five," said Jed, who was attaching speakers to his C.D. player.

Tom walked over to the mantel where there was an open bottle of whiskey. He picked up the bottle and took a sip. His face crumpled and he spit the whiskey like a burst pipe.

Jed was laughing loudly.

"You like this stuff?" said Tommy, rubbing his tongue.

Jed eventually caught his breath. "An acquired taste," he said. "There's beer in the fridge, maybe you should start with one of those. If you drink now."

Tommy walked into the kitchen, grabbed a beer and took a seat in the living room.

"I'm not saying you have to, but you might want to consider putting some clothes on before the guests arrive," Jed said to his little brother.

Tommy shrugged. "It's not like any of my friends are coming."

"That's not true. All of your friends are coming," Jed said. "I ran into her on the street the other day. Almost."

"Who? Tara?" asked Tommy.

"That's the one," said Jed.

"She said she's coming?"

"She said she might," said Jed.

"Oh my god," whined Tom, "Why would you tell me this?" Tom stood up and walked back into the kitchen.

"Why wouldn't I?" asked Jed.

"Because now I'm going to be wondering all night whether she'll show," said Tom, wrapping six more beers in a hand towel. "And then when she doesn't, I'll die." Tommy took the beers into his room and put them on his bed.

Jed followed his brother. "Isn't this a little premature?" said Jed, "The party doesn't even start for another three hours."

"Tell me when it's over." Tommy wrapped himself in his blankets and sheets. "And if Tara comes, tell her where I am," he said, and began to drink.

In those first three hours Tommy finished only four of the seven beers he had with him. In the first half-hour after the party started Tommy drank the rest of them. He stood up and sat down and paced and was still. He slouched over his dresser, peering into the mirror above it. Tom touched his lips, then his face. He made a mild attempt at straightening his hair, but it was no good. Each moment went by individually. Tara didn't come bursting through the bedroom door. And it was too much for Tommy to handle.

More beer. When Tom opened the door the party was frantic and loud like Christmas lights. “Are these all named after presidents?” someone said.

“Yeah, my brother did that. Pretty cool right?” said Jed.

Tommy walked in the kitchen, and filled his towel with beer again. Nobody seemed to notice that there was a fifteen-year-old boy walking around in his underwear. Tommy had to step over a guy doing push ups to get back out of the kitchen. In the living room the foosball table was on fire, and Jed was winning. Tom got on his knees and crawled through a girl’s legs to get to the dark, warm, seclusion of his room.

He sat and waited. Sometimes he drank or paced, but mostly he just sat. He kept on waiting until his clock radio read 3:00am in square red type. The party was winding down, and Tommy couldn’t sit still or stand straight anymore. People were falling asleep on the couch, and Tara wasn't coming.

If she wouldn’t come to him, he would go to her. Tommy pulled on a pair of pants and threw on his jacket without a shirt. He shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers, grabbed the keys from his nightstand, and slammed the door behind him.

Jed was playing basketball in the driveway with a tall brunet and a boy with a handlebar mustache. At this point none of them were able to make a basket. When Tommy burst out of the house Jed almost didn’t recognize him. Tommy dove into the car and turned the key. He threw it into gear, looked behind him to make sure nobody was in his way as he gassed it. Jed yanked the boy with the handlebar mustache to the left, and the girl dove to the right. The basketball hoop laded on top of the car, and the air bag went off.

Jed began to laugh. Tommy struggled out of the car and glared at his brother. Jed stopped laughing long enough for Tommy to turn and march off.

“That’s my brother,” said Jed.

Tommy walked briskly and with purpose. If he couldn’t quite remember what that purpose was it didn’t matter, because he would remember soon enough. The cold air kept him awake, and sheer carelessness drove his path. He watched his shadow grow and shrink as he moved under stars and street lamps. A left, a right, straight.

When Tommy came to the big black cemetery gates, he realized what he must have been doing. He scurried up and over the fence.

Though he hadn't been there for years, he had no difficulty finding his mother's stone in the drunken dark autumn night, and soon he leaned against it.

He looked around and looked at the ground. "Hi Mom," Tommy whispered. "I don't really know why I'm here. You can't hear me." Tommy choked a little, his eyes glassy and his fingers and nose pink with cold. "Because you're dead. Mom." Tom moved his mouth around, looking for a word, "I'm just a kid. I was just a little kid, and I'm just a little kid." Tommy's face was contorted and his eyes were wet. "Maybe a kid is a kid too, but, and." Tommy wiped his face on his jacket sleeve and gasped for air in the dark. Tommy ground his face into the rock and bawled. He was still crying when he decided to leave. He stood abruptly, and just as abruptly collapsed, vomiting in the grass. He had not eaten anything that day, and beer and bile came up through his nose. How was there so much in his stomach? He burped and wiped his mouth. And, just as he was about to go, a little weedy stalk with a bud at the end caught his attention. It was sprouting up between his thumb and forefinger in the grass.

He plucked it up and walked away.


When Tommy got home only his brother and the kid with the mustache were awake. They were passing a joint back and forth and drinking coffee.

"Where have you been?" asked Jed.

Tommy shook his head, grabbed another beer from the fridge (the last one) and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm gunna take a bath."

The bathroom was a mess, but the tub was still clean. Tom closed the door and filled the tub. He placed the bud on the windowsill, stripped down, and sunk into the steamy water. He sipped his beer until the bottle could float like a toy ship. Then he slid down, submerging his whole body under water and letting himself float like an unborn baby. Outside the sky began to lighten.

There was a knock on the door. Jed gave his comrade a confused look. "Come in," Jed yelled.

Tara walked in the door.

"You're a little late for the party," said Jed.

"Sorry, I couldn't sneak out last night," Tara said.

"Last night?" said Jed's friend.

Jed looked at his watch. "Shit it's seven thirty."

"Is Tommy around?" asked Tara.

"Yeah, he's in the bathroom," said Jed.

"Oh, okay. I'll wait," said Tara.

"No, he's taking a bath. You better just go in," said Jed.

"Are you sure?" asked Tara.

"Yeah, sure."

Tara knocked hesitantly at the bathroom door. "Tommy?" She opened the door slowly and peered in. The medicine cabinet was open and pills were spilled into the sink. There were empty beer bottles lying sideways on the floor next to Tommy's clothes. "Tommy?" Tara took a step and peered over the rim of the bathtub. Tara's eyes went wide. A half full beer bottle bobbed in the water, and below it was Tommy, completely submerged, limp, lifeless. Tara trembled, leaning further over the tub. Tommy's eyes popped open under the water. Tara screamed. Tommy's body burst from the water, and gasped for air.

"What the hell?" said Tommy.

"I, I, I," said Tara.

"What are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me," said Tommy.

"I scared you?" Tara said. "I thought you were dead." Tara looked Tommy up and down.

Tommy became embarrassed. He sunk down until the water was at his neck, strategically placing his arms.

"Is everything all right in there?" Jed called from the living room.

"Fine," called Tommy. "What's up?" Tommy asked Tara, turning a little red, but trying to keep cool.

"Nothing really," she said, "I just wanted to make sure you knew I was still mad." Tara smiled a big dumb smile.

"You missed the party," said Tom, smiling back.

On the windowsill, the bud was opening: a gooey alien egg.

Tara walked over the beer bottles and stepped into the tub. She lay down next to Tommy, her clothes swirling without gravity. She kissed him on the cheek. "I love morning glories," she whispered.

"Me too," said Tommy. “Did you fix the cigarette case?”

Tara blushed a deep and lovely violet. “It can’t be fixed,” she said.