Adam Zang
Special Ed by Adam Zang
His name was Ed.
His name was Ed and he was nineteen years old, and he liked to drink, but he didn’t smoke cigarettes.
There was one time he drank a fifth of tequila and swung from the ledge near his apartment’s kitchen ceiling, and hit his head on a cupboard and burned both of his hands on a burner on the stove. His friends thought it was funny, and took him to the hospital when they saw he left his palms on the stove. When he woke up, his hands were bandaged in bright white gauze and he didn’t remember what had happened. He was thirsty but the nurse wouldn’t bring him any water so he left without his shoes and clothes, and walked home. He had a headache, and his hands smelled like burnt Pop Tarts.
Ed didn’t smoke cigarettes because his sister used to smoke cigarettes. All of his friends smoked—Birmingham, Dan the Russian Man, Hoover . . . even his girlfriend smoked, and she had a bad heart. Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night, and feel the metal box sewn in beneath her skin right above her left breast. He could hear it humming if it was quiet enough, and it made his fingers tingle. He called her the T-1000, and she called him Shithead, but they loved each other. Even though it was a desperate sort of love, they still loved each other.
Just about every morning right after Michelle left to go to class, Ed would feel intensely lonely. A lot of the loneliness had to do with the fact that he was hung over, but he would pour a bowl of cereal and decide it was too much effort to get a spoon. He would just look at his corn flakes and wish they would eat themselves. They never did, and so he would lie down on his couch and stare at the ceiling waiting for it to crack.
When he was six, his family went on vacation to Jamaica, and they stayed in a shitty little two-room bungalow. His parents slept in one room, and Ed and his big sister slept in the other. His parents would wake up early and go smoke a joint on the beach, and Ed would stare at the ceiling waiting for his sister to wake up so that they could go eat bananas. One morning, Ed was staring and the ceiling began to slowly crack lengthwise from one side of the room to the other. It was like a black fault line creeping along the white plaster. When it got to the other end it stopped and nothing else happened. He told his sister when she woke up, but she didn’t believe him. She told him the crack had always been there. He looked up to her, so he wondered if she was telling the truth. They ate fresh bananas, and he stared at the ceiling waiting for it to crack so he could prove it to her.
Ed had a job as a produce stocker at Kroger. He took crates of apples, pears, and oranges and stocked them in the produce section. That was his job. People would ask him what was in season and he would tell them. “The romaine lettuce is especially crisp this week” and “Florida is in the middle of a drought, so I would avoid the naval oranges if I were you.” He really had no idea what he was talking about, but he took little pulls from the flask Michelle had given him, and that helped him get by. He stocked bananas last, and usually not at all. He never ate them, even when his boss asked him if he’d like to take some home for free.
Michelle wanted him to quit his job and go back to school, but he always shrugged her off, and when she asked him if he wanted to be a produce man for his entire life, he said she should mind her own fucking business—he liked stocking groceries a lot better than writing English papers about dead poets. He could understand a cucumber. It was green on the outside, white with seeds on the inside, and crunchy when you bit into it. There was nothing metaphorical about a cucumber, and he liked it that way. Michelle would then remind him that they had been going out for nine months, that it was her fucking business, and that the only reason why he was talking about cucumbers was because he had had a pint of vodka and four beers.
They had met at one of Birmingham’s parties. She came with her friends, and he had been there since three drinking out of the keg. Birmingham tried to get with her, but she laughed when he told her he had a waterbed. Dan the Russian Man asked her if her boobs were real, and she asked him if he wanted to see, and he said hell yes, and when he thought he was going to get a flash and his eyes got all big, she pantsed him and everyone got a full view of his white Russian ass. Even Hoover hit on her, but everyone knew that Hoover was in love with Birmingham, and so Michelle had a long talk with him about it and he ended up feeling a lot better about himself. It was Michelle who had approached Ed, asking him why he had been staring at her all night.
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“Yes, you were.”
“I just think it’s funny that you shot down all my friends. I wasn’t too happy about seeing Dan’s bits and pieces, but I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.”
They sat at a table and drank beer and talked about life. At four in the morning Ed fell asleep face down on the table. Michelle wrote down her number and stuck it behind his ear, and he found it in the morning and smiled.
On their first date, he told her he had dropped out of school. On their second date, she told him she had a thing for Mel Gibson. On their third date, Ed held her hand when they went to a movie, and kissed her on the lips right before the lights came on when it was over. On their fifth date, they went to a party, made out, and Michelle told Ed that she had a dangerous genetic heart condition. On their sixth date, they ate raspberries and had sex. Afterwards, Ed told Michelle that his sister had killed herself two years ago. And then he cried, and she wouldn’t let go of his hand even when he tried to pull away. She fell asleep, and Ed put his ear next to her chest and heard the electrical hum of her heartbeat.
He was angry that Michelle had a pacemaker. It always seemed like every girl he met had a problem, and that meant he had to help them. He did his best, but lately he’d been feeling pretty helpless.
When he was a sophomore in high school, Ed’s girlfriend told him that her stepfather touched her when she was little. That was when Ed’s parents first put his sister in a treatment center. He didn’t tell his girlfriend that.
When Ed was a junior, another girlfriend cut herself. She wore long sleeves, and talked about how depressed she was. Ed listened. He hadn’t seen his sister for six months. He heard she was in Detroit, but no one was sure.
A couple weeks later, his sister was waiting for him when he got out of school. She didn’t smell right, and she was smoking a cigarette. She had yellow teeth, and she asked him for ten dollars. He told her their parents were separated, and she asked him if he could score some dope. He gave her ten dollars, and asked her to come home. She said she would be by for breakfast on Saturday, but he never saw her again.
His senior year, Ed’s new girlfriend told him he was selfish the day after his sister’s funeral. She said he never listened to her problems. He went home and thought about crawling in to the oven and baking himself into a nice crispy Ed casserole surprise. It was a little demented, but that was what he wanted to do. His mom saw him staring at the oven and she said she didn’t feel like making dinner. Ed went upstairs and saw his dad packing his suitcase. “I’m moving to Iowa,” he said. Ed went into his room and shut the door. He hadn’t seen his sister sober in four years, and they had decided not to have an open coffin at the wake. He took a sip of peppermint Schnapps that he had hid under his mattress and felt like throwing up, but he drank it down and fell asleep. He dreamt about his sister for the first time since she left. She had long blond hair, and she gave him a popsicle and told him not to tell mom.
Every night for a year, his sister came to him in his dreams. He graduated high school, enrolled in college, and talked with his sister at night. Why did you do it?
I don’t know.
Was it my fault?
I lost it. You’re my little Special Ed. I took care of you on your first day of school. I gave you cigarettes when you were a freshman so that you’d look cool.
I hate cigarettes . . . why’d you leave?
. . .
You left me alone and you aren’t even sorry.
I am, Ed. I am.
Then why’d you leave?
. . .
They talked about how she would cover Ed’s ears when their parents were fighting so that he didn’t have to listen. They talked about how they took turns playing Super Mario on the Gameboy, and how he beat the parts she couldn’t for her. And they talked about how they watched Adventures in Babysitting six times in one day because Ed had a crush on Kelly Preston, and his sister liked the scene when they sang the babysitting blues.
And then one night she was gone. Just like that, he never dreamt about her again. He dropped out of school, got a job as a produce man, got a basement apartment, and stared at the ceiling.
Ed couldn’t eat cornflakes alone, but he could eat them with Michelle. He didn’t like talking about his sister with her, but sometimes she made him, and when she did, he made up stories. Like the one time their parents locked them in the attic and they found five thousand dollars, or when they stole an El Camino and drove to Toledo. “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Michelle would whisper in his ear. Too terrified to reply that his sister had called him Special Ed, or that he had learned to read before she did, Ed would make up another story and get a little lonelier. The funny thing was that he knew she knew he was lying, but she never said anything. “Tell me her name,” Michelle would ask.
He wanted to be a person that was seen as someone who didn’t give a shit about shit, but Michelle saw through that—it was like she could see his insides, and that is what kept him with her. He couldn’t leave her because she would see that he didn’t really want to. Ed could deal with the fact that she had a heart problem, and that her sister had died because Michelle knew when to talk about herself and when not too. She was smart, and could read his insides. He told her he loved her at least once a day.
“Don’t fucking blow it with that girl,” Birmingham told Ed after Michelle had left one afternoon. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“Fuck you.”
“It’s true,” Hoover said, lounging on the couch, smoking a cigarette. “We didn’t see you for a year after . . .”
“Shut up, Hoover,” Birmingham said.
“All’s I’m saying is that at least when she’s around you don’t fucking end up in the hospital every night from drinking—”
“Shut the fuck up, Hoover.”
“It’s all right, dude. Who wants a beer?”
Ed knew that he was an alcoholic, but he figured it would pass with age. Once he was older he would become responsible, get a real job, go back to school, but for now the alcohol helped push the loneliness away. The walls weren’t so close with a few shots of Jack down the shoot. He would get his shit together when he could eat breakfast alone. It was a only a matter of time before that pang in his stomach would disappear, the ceiling would crack, and he would be able to breathe again.
When he was drinking alone, his rationale after three beers was that things would get better, and so he drank more because he was happy, but after six beers he thought that he might like to stick his tongue in an electrical socket, and so he drank some more because he was not someone to act on first impulse. After ten beers he usually fell asleep, and always woke up in the middle of the night with his sister’s name almost escaping his lips, looking for her in the darkness.
Ed was lying in bed on his back, in a half dazed state, and Michelle had her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. She had a slick covering of sweat on her body. “I love you, Shithead,” she murmured, trailing her finger down his stomach.
“Love you too, Anna.”
“What?”
“Said love you too, babe.”
“No, what’d you call me?
“Babe.”
“No, you called me Anna.”
“I did?”
“Who’s Anna, Ed?”
He was coming back to full post-coital consciousness. “I don’t know, babe. Do you know any Annas?”
She stared at him, and he knew she knew he was lying. She stood up and began to put her clothes on. “Tell me who Anna is, or I’m leaving this house right now.”
“I really don’t know—probably just a slip of the tongue.”
“I think more than your tongue might have been involved if you’re confusing me with another girl, Ed.”
“Babe—”
“Call me when you feel like telling me who she is.”
She put on her shoes angrily and methodically, double knotting the laces for emphasis, waiting for Ed to say something, but he never did. She left without slamming the door.
Ed knew that Michelle knew. This was her way of putting her foot down, an ultimatum, an excuse to make him open up and tell the truth. He saw this was a ritual that Michelle needed to have happen . . . she thought it was time. Ed rolled over and tried to sleep, but the silence in the room was too loud. The dull hum he was convinced Michelle carried around with her was gone—most girls have a smell, but she had a sound. He took four straight shots of vodka, one right after the other, and the silence only grew louder. Ed picked up the phone and dialed her number.
“Who is she?” she asked before he could say anything.
Ed hung up the phone and took four more shots, one right after the other. He picked up the phone, tried dialing, and couldn’t find the numbers with his drunk fingers. Ed let the phone rest next to his ear, the dial tone drowning out the silence.
She called him the next day.
“Who is she?”
Ed stared at the ceiling and tried to change the subject to rodeos and the great dangers of bull riding, how he had seen this one picture where a bull had gotten his horn directly up a cowboy’s ass. She hung up on him. He tried calling her again. She asked the same question and he hung up. They did that fourteen times that day. Dial. Question. Hang up. Dial. Question. Hang up. Ed fell asleep with the phone buzzing next to his ear for the second straight night.
Ed didn’t go to work the next day. Michelle called, and she asked if he was all right.
“You didn’t go to work today, I was worried,” she said.
“Who is she?”
“That’s what you have to tell me.”
They were both stubborn as hell. Ed knew that he was wrong, but he got angry anyway.
“Just fucking let it go, Michelle. Just, fuck. Christ.”
“I will not let it go. Who is she?”
“That’s it. We’re done. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Ed! Wait—”
He threw the phone across the room, and it shattered into tiny little phone bits, scattering wires and plastic all over the carpet. Throwing the phone felt good. He wished he had more of them so he could do it again, but he only had one, and so he went over to Birmingham’s and drank a fifth of gin
“Christ, Ed, why are you sleeping with my phone? I’ve been looking all over for it.”
“Sorry,” Ed said, rubbing his eyes.
Birmingham took the phone and dialed. “Yeah, Hoover, party here tonight. Three kegs. Tell everyone, and bring all those high school chicks your sister knows. Bring your sister too . . . Yeah, she’s really fucking hot, man, and that’s why you’re bringing her. Later.”
Ed went back to sleep.
He woke up from his dream into a dream. In his dream, he was drinking a beer with a beautiful woman on a comfortable couch. They were talking about classical music, and when he woke up Birmingham was handing him a beer on an uncomfortable couch, and talking about all the hot chicks Hoover brought to the party. “They’re so young . . . and supple. Fucking supple, Ed. Get on it!” Ed reflexively drank the beer in his hand and rose in a stupor, instincts asking for another.
The next thing Ed knew, he had a full beer in his hand, and a girl was trying to talk to him, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He felt deaf, like he was underwater. He couldn’t breathe. He drained the beer, took a moment, and let out a giant burp. The girl laughed as he gasped in oxygen, filling his lungs with air until he thought he was going to explode, and then exhaled gratefully.
“You’re funny,” the girl said.
He nodded and noticed his hearing was back.
“Do you know who this is?” Dan asked him, slapping his arm around Ed’s back.
“You’re Dan the Russian Man,” Ed said, still feeling a bit confused.
“No, you fuck ass. This girl—this girl is Hoover’s little sister.”
“Hoover Jr.?” Ed asked.
“No, man. This is a lady. Her name is Anna, and she is into you,” the Russian said loudly.
Ed and Dan looked up, the girl staring at them from two feet away.
“Thanks, Dan,” Ed said. “Thanks for your help.” He was thinking about Michelle and the way she sounded like a downed telephone wire, electricity splashing onto pavement and wet grass.
They were sweaty, lying in between a mixture of stuffed animals in Birmingham’s little sister’s bedroom. It was hot, but Ed hid under the covers, looking up at the ceiling, waiting for an answer. He had a stuffed giraffe resting uncomfortably under his lower back, but he was too scared to move.
“I really like you,” the girl said, rolling over and laying her arm across his chest. “I feel like we really connect, you know?”
Ed stared at the ceiling, and got an intense feeling of deja vu.
“Last year, I was really messed up,” the girl said. “I had to take some time off of school because of it . . .” When he didn’t ask her what had happened she kept going anyway. “I just got really depressed, and lonely, and felt like nobody cared about me. I tried to kill myself see?” As she was showing Ed the faint scars running perpendicular to the veins on her wrist, there was a loud crash and a thud in the room directly above them. Somebody yelled. A thin crack appeared on the ceiling, and began to spread like a lightening bolt across the drywall.
“Oh, wow,” Ed said, pointing. “Look, Anna.”
They watched as the crack kept spreading until it reached the other side of the ceiling and then it stopped. Ed could breathe again; it felt like a strong wind was rushing through the crack in the ceiling and into his lungs, stomach, and limbs.
“Did you see that?” he asked the girl.
“Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“I have.”
“Birmingham’s going to be pissed.”
Without saying anything, Ed got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and threw up in great heaving amounts. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands and face, and then walked six miles in his bare feet to Michelle’s house. He rang her doorbell, and she answered.
“I’m ready to tell you who Anna is,” Ed said.