Ache (3 page)

“That sucks, but what did you expect?” she asks through a gentle laugh.

“I didn’t expect anything.  Expecting shit is wasted effort, takes up too much time.  Spoils all the mystery.”

“No expectations?  None?”

“Nope.”

“What about the consequences?”

“Fuck consequences,” I say, spitting out more blood.

“Feel better?” she asks glancing at the sidewalk where I spit.

I laugh.  “Yeah, I got a pretty bad cut in my mouth.”

She pouts for me slightly, but with an odd sincerity.  “I’m sorry.”

I wave the apology off.

“So, you don’t even have dreams, nothing?  I think that sounds like baloney,” she says.

“I gave up hope when I was thirteen.  I remember the night like it was yesterday.  So, no, no dreams, no nothing.  Hope is fucking evil, I’m more into survival.”

“Well, that sounds dramatic, I’ll give you that.  Maybe you need to work on your people skills.”

“We can head over behind those bushes, and I can show you some people skills,” I say, leering at her.

There I go again.  “I’m sorry, that was a dick thing to say.”

She laughs and softly pats my shoulder.  “It’s fine.”

She turns facing me and walks backward as she pulls me along by my hand.  “Think about it, we have our whole future ahead of us, all of those years and opportunities, nothing to hold us back but ourselves.  Now that is something to cherish.”  She gives me another one of those sideways glances.  “If we work at it, we can be whatever we want.”

And she believes it.  I can see it in her eyes, even in the darkness, they sparkle with unimagined dreams and possibility.

I
am
jealous of this.  “Maybe for some,” I say.

She gives me a funny look and slips back by my side as we turn onto Fifth Avenue.  We walk in silence.  Her hand is warm and I can smell her perfume, it reminds me of honeysuckle.  I sneak a look at her each time we cross under a street light.  She makes me question my lack of dreams with every halo of light.

“So you don’t even hope to see me again?  Most heroes would be hoping for a kiss, like a reward.”  There’s that sheepish grin again.

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen, besides heroes can’t hope for stuff like that, otherwise they’d just be jerks.  Heroes have to be selfless and shit.”

She feigns a hurt look.  “You never know unless you ask, tough guy.”

“Didn’t you just break up with your boyfriend fifteen minutes ago?  Besides, you’d never go out with a guy like me.”

“I’ve broken up with him everyday for the last month.  He just wasn’t getting it.  And I don’t think you’re a bad guy.  You talk tough, but you’re smarter than you let on, quoting Austen.  I think you’re sweet.” 

I act like I’m plunging a dagger into my heart.  “Why don’t you save us both a lot of time and go straight to the ‘but we can still be friends’ speech.”

She stops and turns toward me as she takes my other hand.  She looks at me for a moment with those serious brown eyes of hers and I see the tip of her tongue through her lips, like she’s trying to concentrate.  She steps close and then lays her hands on my chest.  She stands on her tip-toes and studies my face for a moment and then kisses me on the corner of my mouth.  Her lips are the softest I can remember feeling, like a whisper, a ghost of a kiss.  I can feel myself suddenly trembling, everything tingling at once.

“Didn’t hurt, did it?” she asks with concern.

“No,” I say softly.  I’m glad it’s dark, because I can feel my cheeks burning.

“I aimed for the least swollen part.”

Suddenly, a spotlight hits us.  We separate and shield our eyes.

I knew they’d be heading over sooner or later, but I thought we’d avoided them.

“Bethany, everything alright here?” a tall, average looking cop asks as he steps out of the cruiser.

“Yes,” she says.  I can tell she’s pissed.

So am I.

The cop walks in front of the light and nods.  “Connor, what are you doing on this side of town?”

I’m curious how the cop knows her and assume she’s thinking the same thing about me, but then again, maybe not.

“Hey, Officer Dan-o.  Just walking Beth here home.”

“You two coming from the party?” Dan asks.

“What party?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.  Tell you what, Bethany, why don’t you hop in and I’ll take you on home.  Go on.”

Bethany squeezes my arm and whispers, “Call me, I’m in the book, Bethany Warner, I have my own number.”  And then she disappears behind the spotlight.

“Staying out of trouble?” Dan asks me.

“As far as you know, yeah.”

Officer Dan steps closer, shielding me from the light and glowers as he studies my face.  “Nice girl, huh?”

“Bethany?  Yeah, she is.”

“How well do you know her?” he asks.

“Dude, that’s a weird question.  Why does it matter?”

“Okay, it’s like this, Connor.  You need to stay away from this one.”

“Stay away?  Why?” I ask.

“She has a future,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

“You saying I don’t have a future?” I ask.

“Bethany’s special.  Her father and I go way back, I’ve known her since she was a kid.  She’s going off to college on an athletic scholarship, and she doesn’t need anything
or anyone
messing that up.  She doesn’t need you distracting her or getting her into trouble.”

“Me, trouble?  I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say through a sarcastic grin, but also think back to what she said earlier about hard work and not just anyone getting scholarships.  She really was cutting me a lot of slack.

“I know inside there, somewhere,” he says, poking me in the chest, “is a good kid.  I know you got handed a shit deal, Connor, and it’s not your fault, but she deserves better and you know it.”

I just stare at him.

He rests one hand on my shoulder and squeezes with fatherly concern.  “If you do care about her, do her a favor and let her go.  And if you’re just looking for some tail, do me a favor and let it go.”

I think about what he’s saying, analyzing the words and letting them wash over me.  I’m not hurt, because the words are true.

Some shit just is.

I nod.  “Yeah, I know.”

“Good.  So,
Mister What-Trouble
, you’re drunk and it looks like you’ve been fighting, so why don’t you clear on out before you get arrested.  I never saw you, got it?”

“Got it,” I say and watch him slide back into the car and kill the spotlight.

I have little glowing balls of after-glow dancing around my vision and can’t make Bethany out as the cruiser pulls a u-turn and drives back down Fifth.

The entertainment didn’t last long, but it was nice just the same.  Some strange feeling is pushing the rage off to the side.  I think I’m feeling what the old folks call
giddy
.  I can’t stop grinning.

Just because Dan-o thinks it’s a good idea to make myself scarce, doesn’t mean I’m necessarily in agreement.  Dan-o’s right, I’m not good enough for her or anyone like her, but then who’s to say what 'good enough' is anyway?

Maybe she can help me be good enough — better, acceptable?

I cut through backyards, one-hopping chain-link fences until I get to the far side of the neighborhood and take a seat on the concrete behind a U-totem convenience store.  I light a cigarette and try to relax, tapping out drum beats in the air.

I should be going home, but my dad is going to be pissed about losing the band income, so I’m in no hurry.  I’d go over to Todd’s, but he’s away on a family vacation or something.  And I’m not sure we’ve known each other long enough to just drop by this late.

I lean back against the cinder-block wall thinking about Bethany, her eyes, her smile, holding her hand and that kiss.  It was nothing really, just a little kiss, but it was special to me — she’s nothing like those other girls, the ones Dan-o thinks I’m 'good enough' for.

I’m trying to figure out how to see her again when I pass out.

§§§§§

The sun wakes me as it rises over the dumpsters and it’s already hot.  My head is throbbing way more than a hangover deserves, my knees are screaming in pain as I bend them and my face hurts, I can feel the swelling.  I look around the alley — happy fucking birthday.

I try to remember last night, but everything is hazy.  I remember the Lounge and parts of the fight at Kyle’s.  I remember big fists anyway and can feel what they did.  Maybe I got a concussion?  I remember a girl, a cute girl, a fun girl.  I can remember bouncy blond curls and yellow clothes, but I can’t remember her name or what she looks like.

What the fuck?

And then I remember Officer Dan-o telling me something.

Hey Dan-o, what are you saying there?

Oh yeah, I should forget about her because I don’t measure up.  Normally, I’d do the opposite of whatever anyone in authority suggested on goddamn principle, but in this case, I don’t really have a choice, because I can’t remember shit.

I go through my pockets, but no phone number.

I lean back against the wall and close my eyes against the sun.

I gave her my hat.  I remember that.

I know it’s going to be a long time before I forget my mystery girl, the one with so much promise and hope.  And even though I feel like I was hit by a truck, I’m thinking today might not suck as much as usual.

I can still smell her.

Over the ripening dumpster stink is the faint hint of honeysuckle.

Summer, 1982

Todd pulls his old Nova into the already scorching lot of the abandoned playground and parks by the crippled stockade fence.  He ejects the Dead Kennedys and turns the stereo off.  The Class of ’81 tassel hanging from the rearview mirror stops swaying.

“Connor, dude, you want me to go in with you?” he asks.

“No, but thanks, man.”  It’s not just bad enough I have to deal with it; it’s humiliating too, even in front of Todd and although we both pretend he doesn’t — he pretty much knows the score.

I flick my cigarette out the window and then gingerly adjust my ski cap, grab my beer and slide out of the car.  I’ve been short on wardrobe the last few days so I’m wearing a pastel blue swim suit and a pink t-shirt I borrowed from Todd, the pink t-shirt actually belongs to his sister.  Todd thought it was funny.

Todd’s a dick.

I look up at the cloudless, Oklahoma summer sky and then across the field as I walk past the rusting swings and teeter-totters.  The weeds are knee high, dried yellow and sickly.  This place looks like a setting for some end-of-the-world movie.  It’s just a shitty reminder of the end of a lot of things for me.

I stop at the fence, a barrier between then and now.  I hear
Dead End
kick back up through the Nova’s open windows.

Todd’s stereo is the
now.

I open the gate in the fence we used to run through and make my way up to the back of the house.  It just squats there like something diseased and slowly bleeding out, too pathetic to be evil.  The paint is peeling so badly that more of the bones show through than the faded red.  The yard isn’t much better than the playground.  It’s a fucking dump and until three days ago, it was home.

We drove by the front earlier to check, but his crapped out station wagon wasn’t in the driveway.  I look in the windows, but don’t see any sign of the bastard, I mean my dad.  I don’t have my keys, so I check the windows and back slider, but they’re all locked.

Fuck it.

I down the last of my beer and toss the can.  On the corner of the crumbling patio sits a Hibachi that hasn’t seen a flame since Nixon.  I pick it up and hurl it through the patio door.

I kick the glass aside and walk in.  I’ve been sleeping on the couch at the rehearsal space for the last couple of months, sneaking in and out while Dad was away to wash and grab clothes.  I guess I was hanging on, like I didn’t want to accept the end of my childhood, the end of family — no matter how shitty it was, but it did end and the worst part isn’t sadness, it’s feeling nothing at all.

The house looks nothing like it once did.  The photos on the walls are gone, the end tables no longer smell of polish, and even the candles have long since burned their last.  Everything that made this a home, all of those comforts are now just fading memories.  The inside has been rotting just like the outside, but what I find is much worse than I remember from the fight the other night.  Maybe I just never stopped long enough to see it, but now the stink makes dealing with those memories unavoidable.

I make my way through the kitchen
and into the small dining room, piles of boxes and old take-out food containers are stacked like sand castles on the table.  I spare a glance at the bugs and see a frame sticking out from under a large overflowing ashtray.  I push the ashtray off the table and watch it explode into amber glass shards that scatter across the floor all the way back to the kitchen.  I push the used butts aside and tilt the frame up.

It’s a family picture.  There I am, big, green eyes full of hope staring out from a tanned face wearing a still innocent smile.  My t-shirt is striped like a stick of gum, and my thick dark hair is just starting to get long.  I’m nine in that picture.  I run my hand through my hair now, careful of the cap and the newly shaved side over my right ear — it’s like a lop-sided mohawk.  My hair falls almost to my waist and has a long blond streak down the back, where the new status quo is buzz cuts and shaved heads, I’m a freak even among my own crowd.  I absently rub the black rose stud in my ear and remember the neighbor girl who gave me my first earring.

She had purple hair and a bad-ass attitude to go with it.  I remember I was almost thirteen and she used a needle.  The others are more recent.  I rub the scorpion tattoo on the back of my neck, my mind wandering farther than usual.

A lot of things happened after this photo was taken.  I flip the frame over and remove the back and carefully slide the picture out.

I glance through the doorway to the living room and notice that the furniture is still overturned, some of it’s broken and there’s still blood on the front door from the other night, like an exclamation point on the end of my childhood.  I return my attention to the photo, staring at Mom as I head down the short hall to my room.

The door is open and inside is pretty much what I expected.

My books are ripped and scattered all over the floor like a carpet.  My high-boy dresser drawers are busted and piled one atop the other on my mattress, the one that lays directly on the floor.  My clothes are everywhere.  He was thorough, but I don’t keep my money anywhere a dumb-ass drunk like him would find it.

I look inside the small closet to see that my Mom’s Martin guitar is missing, no doubted pawned.  It hits me hard and I’m sad to know it’s gone, one more fucking thing to add to the list.  The only surprise is that it lasted this long.  I was a fool for leaving it here in the first place, but that goes on a different list.  All my other guitars and equipment are over at our rehearsal space, safe and sound. 

I walk across my life and grab the carcass of my high-boy and push it over and then place the photo on it.  Kneeling down, I pull up the rug to reveal a small wooden floor plank that doesn’t fit as snugly as it should.  I pull up the plank with trepidation, but my stuff is still here between the floorboards.

I grab my two thousand odd dollars and set it carefully aside.  Underneath the money is a small Cameo on a silver chain.  I place it gently around my neck and pull it up to my lips and kiss it.  I’m not going to cry, it’s been too long for that now.  But even so, that gut check has been taking more effort lately.

Goddamn it.

I grab the ratty duffle bag from my closet and toss it on the floor by the mattress.  I use a Sabbath shirt off the pile to wrap my cash in and set it inside along with the photo.  I collapse onto the mattress and look around the room.  A few band posters hang loosely from the walls, crucified on their push-pin nails.  The walls are a dull mildewed yellow.  They are spider-webbed with white scars, indelible reminders of each time the drywall was busted and cracked.

I stare at my room and feel even more depressed.  Nearly eighteen years of life, and I can’t fill up a two foot long duffle.