The Warehouse

“Am I hurting you?” Not yet. I thought to myself as Ezra slightly lifted his lanky body off of my small frame.

“No,” I shook my head allowing my lips to crease into a reassuring smile.

Ezra was always so kind and thoughtful. He had been since we were in middle school. It bothered him, being different than most boys his age. Unfortunately, he was reminded daily of his weakness and inferiority in ways that could destroy a child. Ezra was tall for a 19-year-old, 6 foot 5 to be exact and naturally lean due to all the farm work him and his younger brother, Dameon, performed daily. While Dameon preferred to chop wood, slaughter animals, and work the tractor, Ezra preferred to mow the lawn, garden, and milk the cows. Both boys pulled their weight, and no job was less than the other, but Ezra was the son who got the most shit from his mother. Whenever family called and asked how the boys were, his mother would say “You know Ezra, out there picking flowers,” or “Ezra’s in the barn frolicking with the animals,” adding an exaggerated eyeroll or an occasional chuckle. His benign nature infuriated her, she talked down on Ezra to anyone who would listen. And for each insult she spewed about Ezra, she praised Dameon. In her eyes, Dameon would make a wife proud one day. “Now my boy Dameon ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty,” she’d say matter-of- factly. As if gardening didn’t make your hands dirty. To her animal blood and operating heavy machinery trumped soiled yard hands. It wasn’t that Ezra didn’t know how to chop wood, snap a chicken’s neck, or operate heavy farm machinery. He just preferred not to, finding peace instead in tending to the animals and the yard.

Ezra’s father, who had injured his back in a motorcycle accident when the boys were just shy of becoming teenagers, rarely had to lift a finger. Partially because he couldn’t do much anyway and mostly because he no longer had to. Ezra and his brother had been running the farm since they were 12 and 13 years old. Their father supervised but never micromanaged. He taught them all they knew and was proud of his boys for taking on his legacy. He made sure the bills were paid on time and finances were in order. Ezra's mother kept the house up, cleaning and making sure hot food was on the table every day. She also slung insults, played favoritism, and was Ezra’s constant reminder that he was weak. He became good at ignoring her or maybe he became numb. It was easy to go tit for tat with someone who deserved it; he remained reserved out of respect. He was so self-contained it was scary. I had only seen Ezra get really upset once or twice. One of those times he had had enough of his mother’s shit and all but told her to go to hell before his dad stepped in to play mediator.

“That's enough!” his father declared slamming his large fist down on their cherry wood kitchen table. “Loyola, don’t you ever get tired of running your mouth? Both of you quit shit-talking, sit down, and let’s finish dinner in peace.” It was one of the few times his father raised his voice, and it was just as surprising to the boys as it was to Ms. Loyola.

“Yeah, she piped down after that,” Ezra said telling me about their spat the following day.

Ezra was a lot like his dad. Calm, read a lot, and barely raised his voice. His mother was resentful of that. Wanting both of her boys to be boisterous and assertive like she was. Dameon admired Ezra’s calmness wishing he had the balance. A confession he only shared with Ezra in secret. I was the only one who reassured him that his benign ways weren’t signs of weakness but of strength, discipline, and courage. It’s why I made him cry one night. Like full on sob. I felt terrible in the moment. Later I realized that I had helped him assuage something that had been weighing him down all his life. For years I watched Ezra take shit from his mother with little to no support from his father or Dameon.

It was one of the few Saturday nights I was able to drag him out of the house. He had declined to join some friends and I at a pub in Colorado Springs but agreed to hang out with me once I got back to our small town. I honked the horn of my jeep once I was in front of his house. Seconds later I saw him trotting down the driveway, the ends of his distressed Boyz N’ the Hood graphic tee slightly blowing in the wind.

“Hey, cautious boy,” I said as he closed the door and put on his seatbelt.

“What’s up, Sage.” I pulled out of his driveway and onto the road.

“My friend Joshua is having a rage party tomorrow at his uncle’s warehouse. Some glass, old electronics, a few ceramic pieces. He’s giving us first dibs. Interested?”

“A rage party?”

“Yeah. You smash some shit with bats, against the wall or against each other. There’s not really any rules aside from wearing closed toed shoes,” I quickly glanced down at his red Vans and decided they would suffice. “Which you’re wearing. Oh, and protective goggles.”

“So, a semi-quiet night of gaming isn’t going to happen, is it?” I laughed and rolled my eyes.

“It will. But later. It’ll be fun!”

Joshua told me we could stay until about midnight before his uncle came back to lock up. It was a little after 10pm when we pulled onto the neatly graveled driveway. There were two pick-up trucks parked to the left of the all-white warehouse. A bright lab white light glowed through a small window of its triangular top.

“Come on,” I said and hopped out the truck. “We gotta go around back.”

There were a few metal workstations set up against the walls. A couple of electric saws and a few drills were the only tools in the medium-sized warehouse that once supplied used metals and electronics. My eyes landed on the rather neat pile of junk that we soon would obliterate. There were a few old VCR’s, DVD players, two white Compaq Presario computer monitors and one brain, an original PlayStation, two TV monitors, and a large rubber bin filled with ceramic bowls, glasses, and plates varying in size.

“You brought me here to kill me, didn’t you?” Ezra said.

“Nah, I wouldn’t take you out like this, I’d let you die with a little dignity,” we both laughed before Ezra’s cautious nature interrupted our joke.

“Nah, but seriously. You sure it’s okay for us to be here?”

“Positive,” I said looking for the metal bats and goggles Joshua said would be left in here for us. I spotted them neatly resting up against the wall of one of the workstations and grabbed them before walking back over to the pile. I handed Ezra a bat and a pair of goggles.

“Tonight,” I said. “We fuck shit up.”

The back wall of the warehouse was all exposed brick. The floor, lined with thick blue tarp. A handful of what looked like white painter’s coats hung from two metal hooks that were roughly drilled into the wall. I grabbed two and tossed one to Ezra.

“You need to blow off some steam. Smash some shit up and get mad.” I put on the painter’s coat and fastened the four buttons.

“I can’t just get mad, Sage. Anger doesn’t really work that way.”

“That’s exactly how anger works,” I said. “You walk around holding so much shit in. This is a healthy way to release some of it.”

I walked over to the bin and secured the googles over my high puff before picking up a wine glass. Like a pitcher, I leaned to the side, cocked up my left knee, and hurled the glass with my right hand. I smiled seeing its pieces sprawled across the tarp. I turned toward Ezra, a large white plate in hand and shoved it into his abdomen.

“Break it,” I said sternly. He gave me a weird look before he took the plate from me and turned to the wall. Tilting his head to the side he took a deep breath before he flung the plate, frisbee-style and it went flying into the wall.

“Didn’t that shit feel good?” He shrugged.

“I guess.” I rolled my eyes and tossed another plate at the wall before handing him a heavy ceramic bowl.

“Find your anger,” I said. “All you’ve ever heard was how weak you are. How you’ll never be half the man your dad was before the accident. How Dameon is stronger and built for the kind of life that would make a wife proud. How no woman would ever take you serious as a man because of the kind of work you do. It’s all bullshit. The way your mom talks to you is bullshit. How she's so proud of Dameon and can't wait until he takes over as the man of the house because his shears-yielding older brother Ezra wouldn’t be fit to take on such a role. Such a responsibility.” Ezra clenched his jaw.

“Okay Sage, I get it,” he sighed. I pushed.

“No, you don’t get it. You can’t just let her or anyone else walk all over you and say whatever the fuck they want about you.”

“I said, I get it,” he snapped. “I don’t let people walk all over me and I don’t care what people say about me either,” he shrugged fiddling with the bowl in his hands.

“You do care,” I said stepping into his space. He turned his head away from my glare. “You do care and it’s okay to care. It’s okay to get mad, it’s okay to lose your shit sometimes. Yell, curse, throw a fuckin’ plate, break a piece of fuckin’ glass, Ezra.” I smashed another plate onto the ground, inches away from our feet. Ezra flinched.

“Get angry,” I said. “Allow yourself to feel!” His shoulders stiffened and his chest began rising and falling, his breathing becoming more labored.

“Get angry, don’t run from it, face it. When are you going to release all of that built up anger? Do it, now. Don’t hold back, I know you’re tired—”

Ezra let out an inaudible sound. It was as if he had used the hotness burning in his stomach combined with all his strength to toss the thick ceramic bowl over his head. It shattered almost to dust because of the impact. He grabbed another bowl, a plate, and a few glasses shattering them all. With a fury in his eyes, he grabbed the metal bat pounding down on the old computer brain like it was a cinder block. The monitor followed, then the PlayStation. I watched as debris flew from every angle. His chest continued to heave as his eyes quickly scanned the room for what he was going to destroy next. He crouched down to pick up the other Compaq Presario monitor before flinging it across the room. He finished the job with the bat completely demolishing the monitor's gray screen. When he was done, he looked back at me tossing the bat to the ground never breaking eye contact. As if to say, “is this what you wanted?” He held up his fists to his temples and shouted, the vein in his forehead pulsating. Like a baby calf, his knees buckled beneath him. He collapsed to the ground sobbing uncontrollably. I ran over to him. Holding him the only way someone my size could hold him as he hunched over me completely shattered. His chest heaving like an old car trying to start.

“Breathe,” I said rubbing his back. “Breathe, it’s okay. Let it out, it’s okay.”

My voice, my touch, my reassurance calmed him. It calmed him that night and for many nights to come. The only thing Ezra ever needed was for someone to see him.

“You sure I'm not hurting you?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“Okay good,” Ezra sighed. “You let me know if I do,” I nodded. Ezra slowly began entering me. I gasped, placing my right hand on his chest.

“I’m okay,” I reassured him. “I’m okay, keep going. Please.”

He searched my eyes for more reassurance before he continued. I winced and Ezra leaned down cupping my small breast with his hand, drawing my nipple into his mouth. First the right then the left. His lips were soft, intentional. I felt a sensation I had never felt before and began to relax even more. I let a moan escape as he flicked his tongue over my dark brown pearls. He was halfway inside me and I felt myself stretching around him. He paused briefly looking me in my eyes.

“You want me to keep going?” I nodded, sucking in my bottom lip. He placed two more kisses on each nipple before he placed a kiss on my lips. I opened my mouth wrapping my arms around his neck welcoming his gentle but playful tongue. He grabbed my left leg, letting his palm rest behind my knee. He broke the kiss once more.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” I said breathlessly.

Ezra continued slowly. I gasped, not realizing how much more of him was left. I froze for a moment, taking shallow breaths as I tried to adjust to his fullness.

“Breathe,” he said. “Slow deep breaths,” I obliged, slowly exhaling. I relaxed some more as his strokes became more rhythmic. They were slow and controlled, deep, like my breathing. Things were happening to my body, to my mind. I relaxed my right leg letting him rise and fall into me. The pleasure was starting to alleviate the pain.

“You okay?” he asked pausing for a moment. “Am I going to fast?”

“I’m fine,” I said pulling him back into me. “Please, don’t stop.”

And after that he didn’t. Not until my entire body shook from all the stimulation. I’d heard stories about what this experience would be like. But never any as good as this story would be. I pictured this moment in my head a plethora of times, but I never imagined it would be like this. Everything was perfect. The candles, the blankets, the flowers, the honey-colored owl with green eyes perched in the tree beside the barn, the stars, and Ezra. Ezra was perfect.