Blood drips onto the cover of the Highlights magazine in my hands. Sure is foggy and beige in here. My tongue can’t stop finding the gap where my right front tooth used to protrude. This chair is uncomfortable. The armrests are too far apart and there’s nowhere to put my feet. When do I get my chance to putt?
The blood is leaking through a wad of netting now replacing the tooth. I can’t chew with this stuff where it is. How are we going to fix it? Last time I lost this tooth I got five dollars. Are we in the Tooth Fairy’s house? Is that why it smells like numbing blue pillows in here? I would so much prefer to smell the green right now.
My tongue rests up in the gum, in the gap, pressing into the netting, caressing the pulsing. Tastes salty. I’ll have to spit soon. The lights in here are too bright and there’s a woman trapped behind a glass wall over there. Maybe I should help her escape. I could break the glass if I had my putter.
“Is it my turn to putt yet, mommy?”
“No honey, just sit still please.”
She’s looking at something about New Yorkers. I never met a New Yorker. Someone is talking about car washes. I don’t care about car washes. I slide down in the seat until my feet touch the floor. I can hear high-pitch whines coming from nowhere.
“Oh honey, you’re bleeding again.”
I put my chin to my chest, wiping the wetness onto my collar. Mom gives my chin a swipe with a tissue; it turns red. She puts it in the basket in the corner next to the plant. It’s a very nice looking plant. I should be sure to introduce myself before I leave.
“Mrs. Stearns, the doctor will see you now,” A woman has appeared through the wall next to the glass! What is this place? Where is the windmill? Is it my turn?
“Great. Let’s go, sweetie,” mom pulls me by the hand before I can object. We’re going through the void in the wall. Goodbye, strange foggy room!
“In here, please”
In here? What’s in here? Oh no what is that torture chair? Do I have to sit there?
“Let’s go honey, take a seat,” mom wants me to sit there!
The floodgates open. I can’t help it. Blood and tears. Tears and blood.
“Hi Mrs. Stearns, how are we today?”
“Hi doctor, as I’m sure you can see, we’ve been better. He’s lost a tooth.”
“Oh no! How’d it happen?”
“His summer camp had a field trip to a mini-golf course. There was a kid, a troublemaker, you know the type, running around swinging his putter wildly. Hit little Joseph right in the mouth. Had to give him a couple painkillers to calm him down.”
“Oh no! Well let’s get him all fixed up. Joseph, open up and say ah. This is going to pinch a little.”`
This is an excerpt from an upcoming book of short stories about coming-of-age as a late Gen-Xer/Xennial.
The crack we smoked was funded by my parents. They didn’t know that, of course, but I had their spare ATM card and knew the PIN – a holdover from a younger era when I was still an upstanding and trustworthy child. Although, I wouldn’t have had the PIN if my father wasn’t such a lazy asshole who couldn’t be bothered to buy his own cigarettes in the first place,
“Hey A.W., here’s a note and my ATM card. The PIN is 1969. Take forty bucks out, get me some Marlboro’s, and bring the change home, ok?”
It’s no wonder then that I became a smoker too, and at a fairly young age as well – just barely after my first decade. And no doubt cigarettes acted as a precursor and gateway to the harder stuff, but then again having every damn teacher, parent, principal, cop, politician, bus driver, trash man, bartender, and cartoon protagonist telling kids to “just say no” had no option but to backfire as well.
With all that “no”, plus this cigarette habit, combined with the staunch and obstinate selection of the guitar as my instrument of choice, and the ready availability of drugs to teenagers in the post-hippie Bay Area, along with the mire of angst and anxiety of a brooding teen attempting to “live up to his potential”, even in hindsight I don’t see how I couldn’t have become a heavy drug user. It’s no less deterministic than the comings & goings of the sun and the tide.
So I self-selected into the “alt” high school, where the uniform was in fact all black (when it was still edgy), we could smoke on campus (even the freshmen), the mascot was a dragon (for chasing!), I got P.E. credit for working on my Volvo (a hopeless rust-bucket), and Art credit for practicing the guitar (in class).
The smoking-on-campus allowance was both a holdover from a commonality in the 70s, as well as a subtle acknowledgement that there was much, much, much worse going on, but it needed to be kept out of sight from the school. Getting *ahem* stoned on your break – lunch, free period, whatever – was how both students & teachers showed school spirit. Twomps – a $20 gram of northern California’s finest Indica stuffed into a bulging mini-Ziploc – were practically a form of currency.
“Dude, I got some killer buds if you buy me Mickey-D’s”
“Hey man, give me a lift home and I’ll smoke you out”
“This essay deserved better than a B-“
Alright the last one is bullshit – no one was bribing teachers with weed – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t attempted either. It was *that* kind of high school. And an “eight” could be anything from brick weed brought over from Sonoran supply lines, to White Widow Sativa grown 500 feet up on the Santa Cruz mountain coast, to basement meth of pure crystal concocted by a basement drop-out, to the finest Peruvian-flake coke this side of the Hudson River.
I arrived to this school in the middle of the first semester of my senior year. Changing schools at that point in an academic career does seem absurd, but it was my 12th, so I had to maintain my average. I’d also been invited to leave from my previous private, religiously-hegemonic high school, which I’d barely attended for more than a year (or just barely attended at all really), so I had few options. Staying out of the public schools had been easy enough – I just told my father they were still bussing.
Like every high school ever, the student body divided itself into social cliques on the basis of status, interest, social class, and all the other significant differences teenagers can identify. Being an Alt school, we all already had something in common as the fuck-ups from all the surrounding high schools, like some sort of reprobate all-stars. Although there weren’t many of us – about 60 students in my graduating class – there were still the cliques. But we dispensed with the common hierarchies like the jocks & cheerleaders, or drama kids, or student council presidents, for edgier and meaner fare like punks, metalheads, wiggers, industrial goths, hippies, car junkies, actual junkies, or nerds. Everyone in attendance had a reason to be at the alt high school, and wore it on their sleeve like a trophy.
As an aspiring Lead Guitarist, I fell in with and could move between a variety of crowds. Found a cool industrial goth band that used way too much coke as fuel for percussion-only tracks inspired by Ministry. They didn’t want me to *play* guitar so much as beat on the strings with a chisel at jet engine oscillation. Jammed with some hippies for a bit until I discovered they didn’t care if their acoustics were properly tuned. Ended up forming a thrash/punk band with a couple low-grade meth-heads who could almost keep a beat, Mick and Mikey. Mick on drums and Mikey on bass, with me shining out front on lead guitar.
We couldn’t actually play anything together, but damn, did we look good. Biker jackets and ripped jeans. Steel-toe boots with knife sheaths and chain adornments. Hair dyed in the kool-aid palette. Some punks we knew would actually buy chrome spikes. Fuck that poser shit. We were harder than that. We would pull the metal tops off Bic lighters to clamp onto leather and denim edges where they most certainly did not belong. Guys like Axl Rose and Sid Vicious looked like quaint little toddlers in pajamas next to our teenage excess.
This is an excerpt from an upcoming space opera about gravity tractors and asteroid mining, just in time for the Artemis missions. It’s a fun little scene that ponders what happens when two billionaires actually have to get into the same room together.
Magnus Eton paced the well-trod hallway carpet outside the hotel conference room with mild distress. Ellis Currante and entourage had not yet arrived, and if Magnus were to actually go into the room, he would be put in the position of waiting for Ellis. As long as he remained kinetic in the hallway, he could claim to be doing anything other than waiting. Technically, he waited for no one. Especially not Ellis Currante.
And technically, his Assistant, Jared, had screwed up the scheduling again. “Dammit Jared! What time did you tell them again?”
“I’m sorry sir I thought they would be here. Should I get the puppy?”
“No don’t get the puppy. I’m not uncomfortable yet. But it feels like I’m waiting, and I might be soon.”
“But you don’t wait, sir.”
“No kidding. Go see if he’s at the other door.”
“Sir?”
“It’s the grand ballroom or whatever. it’s got to have more than one entrance. Go find it.”
“It’s the Master Boardroom, sir. But you want me to go find the other doors to see if Currante is waiting near one of them?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t I just get the puppy?”
“Go! Check!”
“Right, okay. Right away.”
Jared, tall and lanky and fat-free, scurried around a hotel corner with footwork ingrained during his JV basketball days. At the next corner, on the opposite side of the Boardroom, stood a sartorial reek of seven, including a gleaming Currante – the infamous Ellis Entourage. Currante had a reputation for never traveling with fewer than four assistants, sometimes up to twelve or thirteen – lawyers and secretaries and trainers and barbers and dentists and psychic vampires and actual psychics and every other species of sycophant, sociopath, or succubus.
Ellis himself was a smooth and suave high-roller, clad in shiny Italian mohair, veneers brighter than an August day in Miami, and a thin and chiseled face from years of triathlon. His movements were dynamic and deliberate, like the specific firmness of his handshake, or the way his suitcoat would flare out as he talked with his hands.
“Oh sir, you’re here,” exclaimed Jared.
“Ah, Jared, my boy! There you are! How’s the ass-kissing business?”
“Very good, sir. Magnus will arrive momentarily.”
“Of course he will. Tell him I left.” Currante and team began to turn around.
“Wait, sir, he’s here. I just got a notification.” Jared pulled out his phone to fake receiving a text.
“That’s more like it. Tell him I’ll come in once he has a seat.”
“Sir, I don’t know if that’s going to work.”
“I can leave instead.” Ellis glared directly into Jared’s eyes while his entourage turned to leave again.
“How about I start a timer right now for ninety seconds? And we both go in then?”
Ellis nodded to the closest Assistant, on his right, who pulled out a phone to set the timer.
“Alright, I think we can work with that.” Ellis offered.
“Okay, great sir, I’ll go tell Magnus, Start timers in 3… 2… 1… start?!” Jared jaunted off to inform his boss of the new plan.
***
Magnus considered himself too important to dress up for other people – he was most frequently seen in stained sweatpants under tattered t-shirts, his blossoming belly creating an overhang of the shirt’s hem above his belt-line. Other people should dress up for him, never the other way around.
“They’re not in there.” Jared observed, peeking through the door on Magnus’ side of the Boardroom. “Time’s up but they’re not in there.”
“Go tell him I left.”
“Okay.”
Jared executed a well-rehearsed wind-sprint back down the hallway to Ellis, who was face down in his phone. “He wants you to know he left.”
“He wants me to know? Or wants me to think?” interrogated Currante.
Jared tried to freeze but betrayed himself with a slight flinch.
“Wants me to think. Go tell him to get his ass in there.” Ellis yanked open a Boardroom door for emphasis.
Jared sprinted back like the return from center court to the baseline. Breathlessly, “he’s ready, sir, he’s opened the door.”
Eton grabbed the door handles and threw the double set wide, “Ellis, you cocky–“
The room was empty and the doors were closed.
“Jared, what the fuck?”
The doors at the far end swung open with a loud unlatching, Currante bursting through swiftly, arms askew, “Waiting long, Eton?”
Kelly’s quirky escapades have become legendary amongst her classmates. As a bubbly sophomore at Maple High, she’s entangled everything from gum and pencils to paperclips and staples in her ample blondeness. This entanglement is typically resolved when the nearest, largest brute of a teenage boy can be enlisted to assist with her conundrum. Today, her target is Brandon, a varsity football player planted in the desk behind her, and the entanglement is a pen.
Brandon leans his one-piece metal-and-wood student desk forward as he reaches for the knot. The desk leg slips and announces itself to the class with a shriek on the government-grade linoleum.
“Brandon, what are you doing?”
“Oh, uh, just trying to help Kelly, Mrs. Hannon. She got a pen stuck in her hair.” As Brandon attempts to clarify himself, Kelly emits a half-squeal, half-giggle of embarrassment. It’s not the first time all eyes have fallen upon her.
“Oh not again! Adam, help her out. Brandon, please keep your hands to yourself.” Brandon gains composure of the desk and slouches back into place.
Adam, another classmate, sits to Kelly’s right. They’re in Mrs. Hannon’s sophomore English class, one more in a seemingly eternal series of stepping stones rumored to lead somewhere someday. Unlike most other English classes, where students are arranged in a semi-circle for conversation, Mrs. Hannon keeps her AP class in rigid order – desks facing forward in neatly-aligned rows; no interrupting or talking out of turn; raise your hand only for relevant and respectful commentary.
Brandon & Kelly sit in the end row along the windows, opposite the door, facing the leftmost of three large blackboards on the front wall. The left board is a semi-permanent listing of key dates in the semester. The far right serves up the weekly reading list due every Friday. Mrs. Hannon spends most of her time at the center board scrawling eccentric diagrams of plots and character relationships. And being an AP class in an AP classroom, there’s only twenty desks, and only 14 enrolled.
Adam rotates in the seat to face Kelly, flashes a circumspect glance at Brandon, then reaches out for the pen, “here, I got it.” He unscrews the pen at the center, gives a stroke through the hair, and deftly lets the casing fall to the floor. “Crisis averted.”
Brandon stares outside. It’s snowing again. It’s going to be another muddy and frozen practice. He drifts off thinking through the playbook. He needs to know every step of every play and must constantly rehearse and refresh to stay sharp and help the team. Class continues with another student reading passages from Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter and providing real-time amateur analysis. It’s completely lost on him at the moment.
Walking out of class, Adam offers an unsolicited opinion, “Brandon, bro, you gotta be more careful,” while brushing past in a bustle.
***
After classes end, Brandon kills time in the library before heading to the locker room. He has a crucial test coming up in Algebra II. It’s another of his AP-heavy course-load – four classes total that have colonized his schedule, even the 20 minutes between books on the desk and pads on the field. Along with Algebra and English, Brandon is also handling AP History and AP Chem. He doesn’t know what he wants to do just yet – maybe the conventional Doctor or Lawyer, or maybe something more esoteric, like a Chemist or Computer Programmer – but likes the idea of keeping his options open.
During practice, he puts on the hat of the Free Safety, roaming the deep-field territory of the gridiron at full speed on behalf of the varsity football team. He wants desperately to be a ball handler, either a running back or receiver, but Coach seems to have his favorites, and Brandon never even got a try-out.
He’s not sweating it though – it gives him something to work towards – with two more seasons to make it. And playing varsity as a sophomore is notable itself. Whatever position he’s in, he’ll have a good shot at playing college ball. Something like nine or ten seniors from last year’s team are now playing for collegiate teams, including three down the road at State.
During the full scrimmage, Brandon makes a challenging interception which he returns for a touchdown. His teammates all celebrate a job well done. Coach yells at him for poor footwork prior to the catch. Coach doesn’t want a flashy interception, he wants the job done right. Coach’s face turns bright red as he yells. Brandon wonders what part of an interception is flashy; it is part of the job. But Coach doesn’t take backtalk.
On subsequent plays, the Assistant Coach, acting as a ref, flags him for incidental contact three times. Brandon swears he was within the five-yard limit, or didn’t actually impede, and it was just hand slapping anyway. The League Refs are not nearly so strict.
Brandon assures the Coaches he’ll try harder but maybe college ball won’t be for him.
***
After practice, Brandon drives himself home in his parents’ old Mercedes. It’s a solid and reliable tank of a car that gets him where he’s going safely and isn’t too much hot-rod for a teenager. He works on it some weekends with his father’s help. So far he’s replaced the spark plugs, rotated the tires, changed the oil, and swapped out the muffler. He’s considered if he’d like to go into Industrial Engineering.
Adam, his class- and teammate, was gifted a new Mustang before the school year started and drives like peril unleashed, ripping around in a black leather jacket and backwards ball cap. Adam collected his first speeding ticket within two weeks of getting this car.
Brandon has been pulled over several times, but has never been given a ticket. He does drive defensively and to the law. He’s also pretty sure Adam doesn’t even know how to open the hood on the ‘stang.
He parks in the side driveway of his parent’s five-bedroom American Craftsman, fully bereft of squalor, and enters through the side door, passing the dog-care space replete with dog shower and enough dog food to survive several dog years.
Inside, he kisses his mother on the cheek as they convene in the lustrous marble kitchen. She’s in the process of preparing linguine with clams for dinner, a family favorite. He eats a banana for an appetizer while they chat.
Upstairs, he checks in on his sister before heading to his own bedroom. She’s got a corner room facing the backyard, and he’s across the hall with windows out to the front-yard foliage. His parents’ master suite is down at the other end of the hall, with a bathroom, office, and guest room in between.
At dinner, the family discuss the events of their day, whether mundane or significant. His parents care more for their children’s lives than things like the news of the day or the latest neighborhood gossip. They dig into the details of the kids’ experiences; help them find the correct words to articulate their feelings; offer gentle guidance or calm reprimand where necessary; and otherwise encourage and support achievements.
After dinner, he splits kitchen clean-up duties with his sister. She clears the table and he puts away the leftovers; she loads the dishwasher and he scrubs the pots and pans. Once finished, they’re both upstairs to climb their mountains of homework. The parents reconvene to the living room to watch PBS and HBO with a bottle of red.
***
The next morning, Brandon’s the first one up as usual. It’s a regular school day, and he’s got a full to-do list before the first bell. After yesterday’s distraction, he’s behind with The Scarlet Letter. Mrs. Hannon keeps up the pace; they’re expected to get through 25 novels in a semester, or roughly two per week. Getting behind means getting a “B”.
For breakfast, Brandon scarfs down a quick bowl of corn flakes and inhales another banana. He grabs his backpack, already packed with clean clothes and a dopp kit, to head out before getting caught up in any requisite familial chit-chat.
He’s found it’s much quicker to shower in the locker room. Plus, using the locker facilities at that time, when it’s completely empty, makes the whole place seem small and inviting, like Brandon gets to know it in ways others do not.
He iterates through this familiarity on the drive in. Last year, as a freshman, he was assigned a locker in the far back row, number 11-E. The combo was 14-31-23. He wonders if it’s been changed, or if he’d be able to help himself to some freshman’s private effects. He’d never go through with it, but chuckles at the thought of an oversight by the school administration.
He catches himself nodding off into this daydream of memories, dawn brightness as it is, and returns his focus to the road. Checking the rearview, he notices square headlights closing up quickly. It’s the school’s Resource Officer – a role held by a Deputy Sheriff ever since a kid was busted selling cocaine on campus a few years ago – and it’s not the first time Brandon has seen these lights this early.
Previously, he’s been bathed in red-and-blue and interrogated at length at the spear tip of a flashlight. On this occasion, the lights close up to tailgate distance, but turn off at the lane to the faculty lot. Brandon drives on to the student lot and is able to park to unload his baggage before the accostment begins.
The Officer’s spotlight twinkles off the Mercedes chrome, and casts geometric shadows onto the seats, even from a distance. The Resource Officer has circled around the other side of the school and is now aiming the spot from several rows over.
“Hey Brandon,” the Officer shouts as the window on the cruiser’s driver-side descends, “you’re here early again.”
“Yeah man, just tryin’ to keep up with homework, you know.”
“I sure do, I sure do. That’s important.” the cruiser is slowly rolling closer, “You keepin’ outta trouble?”
“Sure man, I’m too busy for trouble.”
“Too busy. That’s good. Tell me – got anything on you I should know about? Any drugs? Weapons?” The cruiser comes to a stop directly behind the Mercedes, blocking it in.
“Nah man, just books and clothes.”
“It’s Officer.”
“Right. Officer Whitehead. Of course.”
“Yeah of course. You sure you don’t got nothin‘?”
“No Officer Whitehead. I ain’t got nothin‘”
“Al-righty. Study hard. I’ll see ya. Again.” Officer Whitehead cruises off.
Brandon gathers his gear and hustles to the locker room. He feels deeply feculent, a sensation of disgust on his skin, and wants nothing but the cleansing warmth of a long shower to get past the accusations.
***
Everyone gets sick, and Brandon is not immune. He’s missing Monday classes after jogging in the snow on Sunday. Runny nose, headache, and mild nausea have him down for the count. His mother calls the school to excuse the absence while he persists in bed until lunchtime.
He arises for her offer of Chicken Noodle, which helps with the nausea and headache. His sinuses continue to pressurize and expel, for which Mom prepares hot chocolate.
“It might not cure what ails ya, but it’ll make ya forget about it for a minute.”
“Thanks, mom.”
***
Later that afternoon, Brandon would much prefer to call Kelly to acquire his missing homework, but he can’t find her number amidst several notebooks. He has to call Adam instead.
“Hey-yo?”
“Hi, can I please speak to Adam?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“Hey bro, it’s Brandon.”
“Who?”
“Brandon. From school.”
“Brandon? I don’t know any Brandon.”
“Yo dude, we’re both in Hannon’s class. I need the homework.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really, bro?”
Brandon hears the plastic percussion of the phone returning to its cradle. Adam has hung up.
***
Brandon did call around, but only learned the creativity his fellow students put into their answering machine greetings. Not a single classmate picked up and no assignments were completed. There will be no explaining to Mrs. Hannon – he’ll just have to hope he’s not called upon for his thoughts.
Heading to class, he spots Adam coming from the opposite hallway, and stops to express the confrontation.
“Hey bro, what the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“I called you for the homework last night.”
“Oh, that was you?”
“Yeah man, that was ME. You know, BRANDON!”
“Look, dude, I forgot. When you called, I just couldn’t picture a black dude with a fade named Brandon. Why would I? Better luck next time, buddy.”
Adam proceeds casually into the classroom to take his seat at his regular desk.
This is an excerpt from an upcoming book of short stories about coming-of-age as a late Gen-Xer/Xennial.
Curse #1
I know I’m getting more mature but I’m not quite willing to part with my long-held pastime of playing with legos just yet. They’re not as good as Penthouse, which I adore, but I can still play with legos in my parent’s living room while watching my parent’s TV. Presently, my hands fumble and compress random bricks together as I await the return of my beloved MTV. That stupid Noxema girl keeps getting in the way and she’s not even that hot. I don’t see what the big stupid deal is. Play a stupid video already.
But what to build that’s not stupid? So bored of toddler relics like cars or planes or space ships. Lego should make a motorcycle. That could be cool. Or they could make a Terminator set with all the robots. That would be cool. Or a guitar. Yeah! Like a full-size lego guitar with strings and pickups and everything!? That would definitely be… though that would take forever to build and probably wouldn’t sound good anyway. I wonder if you could even play it? Would the string tension cause it to break?
Hrm… I don’t have enough pieces for a guitar of any sort… but something related… a mini drum kit maybe? Nah, I don’t have enough flats. Flats… Hrm… Oh, I could build like a concert scene! I’ll start with the stage! I bet I can make it look satanic if I use only red and black bricks. That would be really cool!
I locate a few red narrows along with a pair of black wings. If I lay the narrows sideways, it creates the flat stage platform. Then, if the wings go upright on the ends, and a single narrow across the top to hold it together – could be the lighting rig – it’s practically the stage from Donnington!
Fortuitously, MTV returns from its payday break with the spritely bristle of the ringing power chords that open Paradise City. I look up from the plastic bricks to see the familiar black-and-white pan across the anticipatory stadium; the boys on stage for their sound checks; the stadium floor scantily clad with a small group of conspirators. Axl snaking around the stage in his purest white leathers, strawberry feathers wisping in the breeze.
Just an urchin living under the street, a hard case that’s tough to beat
Paradise City was their second video, coming out not long after the first had so dramatically changed my life. When I heard Welcome to the Jungle for the first time, I was staggered and astounded and immediately questioned everything I thought I knew about life. I’d never even conceived music could express vitriol and anger and aggression like that. To that point I’d only engaged with comparatively mushy fare like Huey Lewis or Mister Mister. But those are lame in Paradise City.
The opening echo of Jungle forebodes violence and tumult and darkness, warning us of a traveler approaching on the road from a distant land. The riff drops us into the fever dream of a dense street corner, inhabited by tough guys and drug dealers and hookers and all the city dirt. The chorus shoves us down onto the pavement, like a bully exacting tribute, then tramples us with an urban rumpus.
Rags to riches, or so they say, gotta keep pushing for the fortune and fame
And then Paradise City brings it back around to make it a rockin’ party spot again, bright with warm weather and pretty babes. So I’m rapt now, watching the stadium throng, packed with the kids, eyes slightly glazed and heads banging back and forth like proper true believers.
What must it be like to be at a show like that?? So many people, so much energy, such chaos… What is a concert anyway? Is the band merely providing the soundtrack for this decadence? The backing track to these party animals ravaging the feed box? What of the beers and bodies and boobies flopping all over? The mosh pit moves like a school of fish in a breeding orgy, rubbing and grinding – are people having sex somewhere in that crowd?? They totally could! What else could be going on??!?
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty
Attending any sort of hard rock or metal concert for the first time – considered the most hardcore option among my middle school buddies – was one of our rites of passage, right up there with kissing a girl, learning to drive. smoking a cigarette, chugging a beer, and getting a tattoo. Everything a budding hard rock acolyte needs. Prom is for the squares.
“Oh won’t you please take me hooooooooooo-argh“, Axl moves into the frenzy.
Shirshhh! A pile of lego splashes onto the glass from my brother’s hands as he kneels next to the table, “hey”.
“Oh hey what’s up?”, I didn’t notice him come in.
“You talk to mom?”, he asks, surveying the plastic stock, a couple bricks already in hand.
“When? Since we got home? No?”
“You forgot to clean the litter box again.”
“I told her I’d do it when we got home. I’m still home, right?” For at least an hour now.
“Yeah sure, you should tell her that. She’s in her office now. I think maybe she’s P-O’ed.” He’s already got a race car chassis built. My stage stands empty and is clearly too small for the figurines. Maybe it’s a stage for They Might Not Be Giants.
“Eh, I’ll just go do it now so when she asks I can say it’s done”
I start to stand up to clean the cat toilet as the song closes out when I hear the MTV News intro,
and Kurt Loder comes on. Kurt Loder is exactly who Peter Jennings would be if he wore all black and people actually offered him drugs at parties. Or street corners.
“In a surprise to no one, a warrant has been issued for the arrest of Guns ‘n’ Roses front-man Axl Rose. Rose has been accused of inciting a riot after leaping into the crowd during a show last week at Riverport Amphitheatre outside St. Louis.”
The riot was old news – standard rock star roleplay – but the warrant was new.
“The band’s management has maintained Rose’s innocence, while the county sheriff who filed for the warrant has stated that, ‘lawless rock stars will not get away’. Rose himself has stated the sheriff is trying to score publicity points in an attempt to arrest the singer unlawfully.”
Of course the sheriff was trying to score points. He’s the man.
“However, presumably to evade arrest, management has announced the band will reschedule the international leg of the Use Your Illusions tour, and Rose, already in Tokyo, will be in Asia for the next three months. Attorneys for the band say…”
Three months? But MY ticket is for next month? Does that mean they’re not coming then? The concert is cancelled?? They’re not coming??!? I’m not going to the show!!?! Oh no the SHOW IS CANCELLED!!?! OH NO I’M NOT GOING!!!!!
I’m only pushing 90 or so as I blow through a rack of abeyant speed cameras. Earlier I had imbibed significant quantities – and varieties – of booze but now felt my buzz had mostly worn off. Certainly felt comfortable enough to drive this fast in my hot-shit sports car. I referred to it as “The Blue Menace” due to the way I drive it where I want at the speeds I want, governed only by the laws of physics, not traffic. Apparently, not getting caught by the cameras was just a matter of daring and gumption. Then again, maybe they’re mired in bureaucratic capture and were never actually turned on. Regardless, in six months of blazing around as a rolling hazard, I’ve gotten nothing. No photos. No tickets. No restraint.
I’m coming back from yet another night of “just one more’s” and “sure why nots” in the northern suburbs, the result of running into an old college fling on a different night of carousing a couple weeks back. She was leaving with a group of coworkers wrapping up a happy hour. These are the office gals who like to get crazy by having a second – or even third – margarita with the overindulgent, to-die-for queso while complaining about management’s attentiveness and their husbands’ lazy underwear.
I had recognized her amber blonde hair under the dim lighting of the host stand as her group walked out. Also helped that she looked like a railroad spike next to her sandbag coworkers, tall and lean, towering over their squat little office bods. Nice to see she’d kept it together, despite the drab office fashion, with square shoulders, slender but rounded hips, and no belly to speak of; an aesthetic to remind a man of her college days. We chatted for a bit and agreed to meet later.
###
‘Later’ ended up resurrecting an old tradition – getting smashed the night before Thanksgiving. After exchanging texts, we agreed to convene at a shopping mall bar in her local faux downtown with a couple impotent cross streets roosted by sporty “brought to you by”-brand stores and surrounded by a desert of parking asphalt. Perpetual office space for rent on the second and third stories, alongside cheap fast-fashion luxury apartments for just over market rate. Marble countertops upon which the rooftop pool can leak.
I parked somewhere in the outer rim near an exit and hiked my way in. Some of these places have shuttles that circulate this far out (next stop: Urban Irony); some of us prefer tasting the smog on a walk. I arrived at the slick, over-adorned bar-restaurant, replete with its mirror-and-mood-lighting excess, to find she’s saved a seat for me. This time it did take a second glance to recognize her – this isn’t the after-work queso look. She had gone home and dolled up like a glossy magazine cover. Her blue undershade on the eye, paired with the perfect subtle pink lip stick, hair up with a few strands dangling down, and understated tight-jeans outfit all coyly whispered, “I’m here for the fun”, like a book between the sheets.
We caroused over a couple many fancy cocktails and a charcuterie board. Got a little toasty while chatting about all the adult things. Public schools suck and are failing her kid. Her ex-husband just bought – and crashed – the mid-life crisis sports car (his was Italian; mine is German). And the HOA fined her for trash cans when she was all of five minutes late. I might have said a word or two as well.
Closed the tab at this first spot with lemon drop shots – for the nostalgia – then sauntered out for a walk to cool off. Stopped into a whiskey store to ask if they had anything “to help our baby sleep.” Ran out giggling. Went into a toy store and inquired about sex toys, this time “for our toddler”. Ran out with exuberant giggling. Tripped and slipped and stumbled, across the sidewalk, into the planter, into the tree, into a car and its traffic, and laughed about it all in front of everybody.
Tried to walk past a wine bar but did not make it. Ended up emptying another several glasses while digging deeper into the meaning of life. She drank red, I drank white. We found no meaning in that.
Submerged somewhere in the fourth or fifth glass, she made the offer. “Hey A.W., it’s been so much fun hanging out. It’s good to see you again like this. I have some good beer at home, and the kid’s at her dad’s. Want to go back to my place? I’ll drive so you can leave your car.”
Yes.
“Let’s do it.”
Perfectly happy to let her do the drunk driving on this one. It’s only a mile or so down the road but she did bounce the tires off a couple curbs, run a red, and turn onto her street from the middle lane of the main road at speed. I was thoroughly impressed. All for nought though, as we made it safely back to her condo without internment.
###
After we spend some real quality time together, dancing and vibing and whatnot (clothing optional), I had this uneasy feeling maybe my Blue Menace was going to get towed. I thought I might have glanced a sign that “Overnight Vehicles Will Be Towed” and maybe leaving it wasn’t the best plan. Good news that the oasis was only a mile or so down the road, and there are even kept-sidewalks the whole way. Put on my walking shoes and made the drunken stumble-trek back in no time at all.
Walk the last few yards attempting to comprehend a police car silently parked in the lot, not in a space and no siren blinking, but merely guarding the tow truck driver, who has apparently already started. My Blue Menace is downright petite next to monochrome SUVs and oversize therapy trucks, and there’s a brief moment of panic when I can’t pick it out. Walking a bit further reveals it to be behind one of those SUVs that comes with its own garage.
I hopped in and drove out, deliberate & lethargic, like a sports car commercial. Unsuspicious.
Freeway is maybe half a mile up the road, and the cop’s buddies are surely out on patrol – he probably let them know I’m coming – so I do a controlled cruise in the right lane to prevent arousing any suspicion. It works too well when I arrive at the freeway on-ramp without having encountered another car, and I catch a case of impatience. Caution gets kicked out of the car like a hooker with herpes, and I’m onto the ramp to accelerate hard in a lively and vivacious manner.
Already pushing 80 by the time I can see the rest of the freeway. I dial back to merge and coast along for a minute to get situational awareness. A few receding headlights in the rear-view suggest sparse traffic. In the left door mirror I do see a couple headlights approach. A winged Honda flies past, with a black BMW giving chase. Confirms we’re all free to drive as we see fit now. I ramp it up as I blow past the rack of speed cameras. They’ll never catch me.
Make it home without incident and sleep it off. That morning it’s Thanksgiving so I’m off to somewhere else for the rest of the day, driving and drinking and flouting once more.
###
Around noon on Friday, there’s a knock on my door. It’s the local police. Last time they knocked, it was because a kid had vandalized my car. I don’t have that car anymore.
I open the door, “Sir, are you A.W. Stahl?”
“Yeah?”
“We have a warrant for your arrest for driving under the influence.”
“You do? How?”, I can hear the grumble of a low-rev torque engine, “What’s going on here?”
“You’ll find out. Come with us please,” as if declining coffee before the check.
As it was now immobilized on a flatbed, my hot shit sports car was now in hot shit.
###
In court, I did in fact find out. First, they presented the itemized receipt from the bar-restaurant. That had eight drinks on it. The wine bar receipt had ten. The video from the whiskey store was portrayed as an example of our inebriation, as was the sidewalk shuffle. Pics or it didn’t happen, right?
My college friend did testify that we had split all of those receipt drinks and that she had kept up, drink for drink, just like the college days, but ultimately her testimony just confirmed how damn much I’d consumed before my little freeway time trial. I was proud she’d tried to stand up for me, but even if only half the alcohol were mine, it was still more than enough.
And beyond the receipts and video from the turncoat merchants, they had still-frame footage from various private security cameras as I had walked into the lot to retrieve my car. Enhanced close-up pictures as I was getting into the driver’s seat. Plate reader pictures with timestamps as I approached the freeway. Video of my one-man on-ramp drag race, replete with facial exuberance. And the freeway cameras were in fact active – a recent change I found out – and came with facial recognition. Their delay was by design to intentionally lull drivers like me.
They had tracked my car, and its speed, and my face as I’m driving, for the entire journey. It took a day’s worth of AI processing to put it all together – Thanksgiving Day – and at the end, a warrant was spit out by a machine. The AI had also inferred my BAC as well over the limit and that was good enough for the judge; the computer never lies. I spent my weekend and then some in jail.
I counted the pulses on her wrist while spotting my watch. This was the third time I’d done so in the last ten minutes. It had spiked somewhere around 200 right after she collapsed. I couldn’t actually count fast enough to tell. She was under the influence of the dystopian trippy result of two boxes of OTC sleeping pills downed with a pint of vodka that could peel paint off a Soviet tank. The last check put it near 120, but now it had slipped to around 30. Her muscles had wobbled as if composed of jelly, interspersed with spastic and trembling motions of the limbs, right before she fell. She had tried to say something, but was incoherent when her tongue could only produce mumbles and garbled pronouncements. Now, laying on the floor, her lips appeared sculpted in a pale blue pucker.
They’ve likely said their last words.
II.
She was a tall brunette, unkempt hair and features similar to a horse, with broad shoulders slouched over a saddlebag belly. Not terribly fat, but without the curves of most women her twenty-something age. Although her choice of clothes did nothing to flatter her shape: natty grey t-shirts slung over average unpropped breasts, and baggy pants with enough extra to stash a bag of potatoes. None of it had been replaced in years.
I know her as my roommate’s ex-girlfriend. They were together when he and I worked in the same office, punching the same clock, pulling the same paycheck. Small as it was I needed couch space and he was kind enough to oblige with a blanket and a word of warning.
Shortly after I’d arrived, she had cheated and gotten kicked out. It was all drama with her, or maybe addiction, or maybe outright emotional ignorance, that led to her flighty and reckless escapades. She had started doing speed with a coffee-shop coworker, then disappeared with him for three days after they were mutuallly terminated. Eventually she’d plied her way back with my friend, promising various sex acts that would make a retired hooker blush.
I guess my friend was into that kind of thing and had taken her back.
III.
When I’d gotten home she asked me for a cigarette in an alert paranoid tone, her eyes glazed and bulging. I figured her for tweaking, so tried to pay her state no mind and didn’t give her one. She trotted from the kitchen to bedroom and back again while I mindlessly got stoned to Jeopardy. Hadn’t noticed she was downing the pills three or four at a time, washing with big gulp pulls straight off the bottle with every trip.
When I stepped onto the balcony on the cell having a smoke I heard her gurgle and told earshot I disagreed with whatever her head was doing.
“What the fuck are you on?”
My roommate was out on his bed, nauseated by the same ham and mayonnaisse sandwich for the eleventh day in a row. He had no notion he was sleeping through her overdose; the pills were for him in the first place. He probably left out an open pack that she found.
Didn’t notice when she stole a cigarette of mine, but saw her return holding grocery store coupons, like one off every seven dollars or some horrible delusion like that, as an offer. Apparently the drugs gave her a sense of guilt, and she could still form words and phrases, so had proferred this strange barter. With minimal exasperation I agreed with a hand wave and a nod, then turned away into my cell.
She lit the wrong end of the cigarette.
IV.
Of course, “normal” didn’t come easy to this couple to begin with, and there was no normal to return to. The apartment stunk of vitriolic statements that would hang in the air for an hour, like the stench of a wound changing its gauze. After airing out the awkward they’d begin the violent make-up sex, and I would have to recuse myself to the bar with the other couch surfers. At least I knew those nights that by the time I got to it I wouldn’t really care that I was sleeping on a couch.
She had always talked of depression and nervous breakdowns, and the breakup had provided the perfect opportunity – I didn’t understand why she hadn’t done it then. After a couple weeks of drunken exile it didn’t sound like a bad idea to me either. A suicide fog had formed in the apartment, with the only community we had being one of shared despair. Words would fall as dust to the floor, questions remained unaswered, indifferences solidified, and not enough confidence to sweep it back up again.
Not much living in this place.
V.
And now, I find myself in a world of wonder; the wasteland of what-ifs. The phone is operable, as are several other means of communication, but… “Does anyone need to know, I mean…”.
I conjure for a moment – death’s possibilities – and what the experience would be to be front row at a fatality, to see the gripping collapse as the deceased comes into focus, the closure of a lifetime of memory, the end of a single-play tape with no rewind.
The third pulse check also reveals an arctic core, and I know she’s not long. She is thoroughly poisoned now, a gloss developing over her thoughts, and the voyeurs want to watch, the vicarious get a taste, the morbid have satisfaction.
She twitches on invisible strings, curled on the floor, eyes rolled, jaw clenched, head tilted, throat taut, mouth foamed, convulsing as the nervous system shuts down.
This is her last success and I am but its audience.
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