Noise
- Jan 31, 2025
- 4 min read
by Ulrik Andersen
On the rare moments Ola sat still, you’d catch how handsome he was. His eyes would slip closed long enough for you to take in his long brown eyelashes that would curtsy down his cheeks, pointing daintily to his high-cut cheekbones, the straight crest of his nose and the bright blush of his lips, too red for a boy’s. In those moments Ola looked peaceful. Serene even. But then, a twitch would bubble up from below the surface, tugging a corner of his mouth down, jerking an eyebrow in the air, pulling his lips apart into that funny little laugh he had. Two sharp syllables in rapid succession and no more. High-pitched, like a songbird. And then he’d swear like a sailor, words gushing, raspy like his voice had been run too hard while his hands would jab at the air, sometimes playing drums, sometimes plucking out a riff on an imaginary guitar. And out of his mouth would flow a stream of things that Ola was passionate about. “Have you heard this band Mayhem?” he’d say in his Swedish lilt. “That band is so fucking noise. Ha ha!” And on he’d go. The cover art for the new Cannibal Corpse album was fucking noise. When Varg burnt down that church in Norway? Fucking noise. Hotboxing Isaac’s battered red Toyota was fucking noise. Most of all, heroin was fucking noise. And he’d tap his feet incessantly and put his arm around you and draw you in while gesticulating out into the world, making you feel like you and him were the best of friends, though I think most people barely knew him. Maybe except Isaac who once told me he helped Ola kick by watching him shit his pants for three days, feeding him tomato soup, wrapping him in blankets in the bathtub. Fuck knows where Isaac’s parents were. Fuck knows where any of our parents were.
“He’s so fucking hot” Gabbi said, as we sat baking and smoking on the low wall opposite school, the dry heat and red dust of midday Maputo like a thin blanket shrouding our shoulders while the cracked concrete facades of the surrounding low-rises made disapproving faces at us, silently admonishing us for skipping class. She bunched up her pitch-black hair, lifting it off her shoulders to cool her neck, legs spread in her sky-blue jeans, heels of her Cons kicking against the brick. I sat next to her, drawing on a Benson & Hedges Gold, stealing furtive glances at her slim neck, the delicate fuzz forming slim sideburns that tapered from ear to jawline, her collarbones jutting out above one of the string tops she almost always wore. Collarbones that one night I’d let my lips graze, a bunch of us, crashed out in someone’s bed, at someone’s party. A misjudged moment and a clumsy come-on met by a sigh and the sag of the mattress as she turned around, leaving my childish advances to linger between us, a black pith of rejection and shame lodged in my throat.
“I’d totally fuck him” she said. And she did. Taking him by the hand one night in front of Buzio, the local nightclub where we’d go to sit on the steps outside and drink and smoke, dragging Ola’s gangly frame into the dark, towards the beach. I can’t be sure. I was drunk and stoned at the time, like we all were, all the time, but I remember him looking kind of relieved as she led him away, glancing back at us like an overstimulated child being rescued by a parent.
Ola kind of straightened out for a bit after that, always sitting next to Gabbi, trying to be more boyfriend-like, I suppose. Less jagged. Even those arms of his that used to flutter like big awkward wings stuck closer to center. And he gave it his best shot. Tried to turn the volume down for long enough that maybe he could hear something else. He’d wear his hair up in a ponytail, and do his best to talk about bands he didn’t give a shit about, like Nirvana or Pearl Jam. And I remember calling him out for trying to sound like he actually liked Stone Temple Pilots and for a second he laughed again like he used to, that high-pitched staccato. What a shit band. And maybe I shouldn’t have done that. Maybe I should’ve let him have that. Let him believe even if we didn’t. But I was jealous that Ola had somehow blithely stumbled into her affections without even trying. Jealous that he was able to get everything while doing nothing. And tired, I guess. Of being the youngest, of being overlooked. Tired of trying so hard to be seen but never quite able to escape the soft lines of childhood that still clung to my features as I’d stand in front of the mirror, trying to harden my glare, to straighten the slight dent in the center of my chest, to broaden my shoulders, to carry myself with the same confidence that the others seemed to wear so effortlessly.
But already then, Ola had that slight nervousness about him which junkies on the narrow have. Like they are constantly looking over their shoulder for when the drugs will catch up with them. And soon after, sure enough, he no longer sat next to Gabbi and instead I did, hands-width apart. Close but distant. And the dark semi-circles below Ola’s eyes reappeared and his foot started to machine gun tap again and I don’t like to admit it but I guess I felt a slight shadow of dark relief, almost like an exhale, as the world returned to status quo, as I’d look over at him and Isaac huddled together again, Ola’s long blond hair in sharp contrast to Isaac’s black Santana curls, an arm around his shoulders, the other gesticulating wildly. Pointing out at all the fucking noise.
Ulrik Andersen is a queer writer based out of New York, originally from Copenhagen, Denmark. His work has been featured in Solstice Magazine. He is currently working on his memoir. Visit his site: http://ulrikandersen.com/
