Saint Walsh

Oliver Mulvaney

I was oil and water mixed together in a burning frying pan--just mad. With every minute, I popped sending out my boiling fumes, not caring who it harmed in the process. My mother got the bulk of my deadly rays because there was a story floating around amongst us siblings that she was the one who tore us away from our father. My father the coolest, gentlest, alcoholic I could think of, brash and confident even in his worst state and giver of the best hugs known to any man, or in this case, child. I might not have said, but I had plans, little sixteen year old me, to be a pissed off jerk until my father returned; Beverly Hills was going to feel my wrath.

This was before the school shooting that skyrocketed me to unfathomable fame, this just so happened to be the week before it. Treading down a dim lit path on the way to the abandoned part of the beach I immersed my brain in deep thought. The breeze cool, subtle, the skylights romantic, the smell of salt refreshing, much unlike the moment which was to come. It's amazing how you note every little detail of your surroundings right before you're about to do something stupid.

I was peeking into the synthetic jewelry stores and old stop-and-shops. I grazed my hand down the windows of the most famous diner the Peach Pit. I knew Donte and Rolland were going to meet me there, our competitors would also be there, no one knew about this little "gathering" except the ones invited. I knew all my boys were going to be looking to me that night, they expected me to do what I said I would do and that's kick the living crap out of the ones on the other side.

Knowing this, I couldn't take walking anymore, I glided into a light jog to my destination, to what I dramatically considered my calling; that's right; I was headed for a fight and I wasn't about to let anyone stop me.

Following the smell of under-aged drinking and a lit bonfire, I knew my opponent was already there. His name: Scott Silver. His father: David Silver. David Silver is a famous music producer. Bread in the DJ booth of West Beverly High he rose to fame with his quick wit and super dope beats becoming the superstar of his day. Along with being a superstar, he became a douche bag; my bad; I mean a bonafide douche bag. And his son Scott Silver was following closely in his footsteps.

My friends and I hated these rich snobs. They always thought that just because they were raised with no manners that they could throw people around. That was about to get fixed.

On the coast I arrived, and Scott Silver was waiting. He was tall and long faced, built like a Backstreet Boy and furious like a mother***. When I think about it, he looked a little bit like Saint Walsh. He had the same devilish grin and the same eyes of arrogance. If I was to envision Saint Walsh standing before me I would assume he'd be a Scott Silver, which made what I was about to do a whole lot easier. Smirking back at Donte and Rolland, they sounded off saying things like "Rich boy really gonna get smack!"

I cracked my knuckles and loosened my muscles, because even though I was visibly just a scrawny little white boy my dad had taught me a few of his moves. He was always afraid that something would happen to us because he lived his life out on the run so every Saturday morning he would pull me aside, only me, and tell me, "let me show you how to fight like a Power Ranger." It was my father's teachings that assured me I would be victorious. There I was standing upfront, the only white boy amongst my friends, and on the other side was Scott Silver. Who was Silver's back up guys? Only the preppiest set of white boys ever. On his right, was the famous poet's son Ace McKay and to his left was the billionaire's son Joshua Sanders. All of them were heirs to what they called the Saint Walsh Money Circle. Didn't matter if their aspirations were just to chill in the pool the rest of their lives, they could still make money. Loaded on liquor they screamed, "KILL HIM!"

They hated me, and I hated them.

Scott took another swallow of beer and began swinging. He was extremely off-balanced which allowed me to knock him off his feet easily. Scott collapsed onto the sand like an oak tree in a forest, heavy and with a loud thud. Wasting no time, with a burst of luchador-ness I pounced on him with my elbow out diving right at his chest. Satisfaction hit when I heard him cry out in pain. I could have easily ended it right then but the crowd participation urged me on and I brought Scott Silver back to his feet only to knee him in the jaw sending him tumbling back into the sand again. I licked my lips tasting the blood that shot up from his mouth. At this point, it hadn't even been a full ten minutes and the star quarterback's face was stained with purple and red blotches. My boys were slapping me on the back and my oppressors were shocked into confusion. Their faces of surprise thrilled me. I delivered an ominous cackle having beat up Scott Silver so bad that he was motionless on the beach's floor.

My back was turned, so I didn't see Joshua and Ace darting towards me. They speared me to the ground and what was only meant to be a one-on-one affair turned into an all out battle. The five of us went at it like our lives depended upon it and we had no intent of stopping the mayhem.

What occurred next was a string of blurred events which all seemed foggy to me. Something hard came over my head and I unwillingly dropped. I could feel the little stream of blood bursting from my skin and parting a path down the tip of my cranium to my neck. Even in this moment of nearly fainting, I remained conscious to witness my attacker; a furious Steve Sanders. He marched over grabbing his son Joshua pulling him to his feet and cursing at him. He did the same to Ace McKay and Scott Silver. A moment which read clear as day, a father concerned and coming to defend his kid I interpreted as "look the rich boys are going to get away again!" Then I did the boldest move, leaping from my frozen state I pounced on Mr. Sanders, and his backside nearly landed in the center of our campfire flame. I don't know what came over me but even with his clothes parched I continue to beat on him. Rolland and Donte were trying to break my hold at this point, because from far off it was slowly starting to look like attempted murder. The rest of the boys came in to get me off of Mr. Sanders. They finally gripped my arms and collectively threw me across the sand floor. My cheeks collided with the coast and the serene night water gently kissed my face coming and leaving with my blood. With scared faces, the guys peered at me as I laid helpless on my stomach like I was some sort of alien, or even more so a maniac. Joshua helped his father to his feet as the rest stayed as far away from me as possible. The next thing I knew I was being hauled away by a member of another outside party; my brother; Ronnie. Where did he come from? I had no idea. Ronnie had been coming home late from studying he said, but I knew whatever he was doing some girl was involved. He had a serious woman addiction.

Ronnie didn't need to be present for long to know that I had gotten myself in deep crap. He carried me over the mounds of sand and forced my limped body into my mom's broken down Chevy, slamming his foot on the gas we sped away. A faint voice could be heard attempting to chase us down, "YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS MULVANEY!!!!" I recognized it as Joshua Sanders.

When my brother was sure we were ok and safe from any trailing cars he slammed his hands on the steering wheel. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING OLIVER!?"

My head was pressed against the leather door oozing blood from the side of my mouth. On the outside, I appeared more like a drunk passenger than a person who won a fight. I didn't hesitate to scream at my brother telling him that those boys disrespected us, "they are racist and crude," I rebottled. I went on and on and on giving my brother instances of a time when Mr. Sanders did this and when Scott Silver did that; wanting to hype up my argument. I went off and when I was done my brother slowed down and parked on an abandoned curb. It was the most deserted place in Beverly Hills with one wandering flyer dancing in the wind. We were underneath a dying street light and that's when he turned his whole body around to see me. It must have been the brokenness of my state, but he looked especially like my father in that moment. No, my dad didn't have mixed guy dreads, or mixed guy mocha skin, like my brother, but he did have kind eyes, that's what my brother inherited from him; his kind eyes.

Ronnie picked up my hand, squeezed it gently, and shed a small tear on my behalf. He didn't think I saw it, but the tear was there traveling like a shooting star leaping off his chin.

"What's wrong?" I asked bewildered, which was my final line, because I fainted right there in that car with my brother holding my hand. Getting hit in the head makes you delusional, and you want to know how I know? Because what I thought I told my brother wasn't what I told him. When Ronnie resounded: "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING OLIVER?!"

I thought I was rambling on about respect when really I whimpered, "Don't tell Daddy, Don't tell him! Scott Silver, Ace McKay, Joshua Sanders... all their dads get to be there for them. Why not mine? I didn't mean to do it, it's just when I saw Steve Sanders coming to his son's rescue it reminded me that daddy was not coming for me. I hate this place. I hate it so much! I want my daddy!"

It was then my brother knew that all those talks of how bad the Silvers, McKays, and the Sanders were just figments of my imagination. Because I needed something to hate. Because if I didn't find something to hate I would end up hating dad. And it didn't matter how much of this was dad's fault I couldn't hate him.