Authors: Michael Hornburg
It was a nondescript brick building, but the windows sparkled with colorful flashing lights and we could hear music thumping inside. A pair of rocker sluts fell out of the doorway as we walked up, practically swallowing each other's pierced tongues.
“Is this a lesbian bar?” I whispered to Tracy.
“I hope not.” She shrugged.
The bouncer checked our ID's, stamped our wrists, then opened the silver door. The room was lit with black light. The walls were painted in psychedelic patterns. Go-go dancers were
perched on the bar, cranking to some industrial techno. I couldn't make out if they were boys or girls. The bar was lined with twenty-something beauties. Boys mostly, in leather and suede, some wearing makeup, some with white trash merit badges needled into their arms, everyone holding a long-neck bottle of beer. Junkies filled up all the negative spaces. There was a band playing some high-octane megatrash upstairs. Tracy grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd to a small courtyard out back. The El train screamed overhead, and it was deafening. We sat on some musty brown couch. I propped my knees up to my chin. Tracy peered around for familiar faces, hunting for a rock star, a movie star, or anything relatively similar.
“What'll we do now?” I asked.
“You should call your dad.”
“You call him if you're so curious.”
“This was your ideaâremember?” Tracy stared around the courtyard like it was dinnertime. She might have even propositioned one of the gorgeous barflys if she had a little more time. The purple hickeys from her last conquest haven't even healed before she's on to the next one.
“Let's go upstairs,” Tracy said. “I feel like trawling.”
We climbed the rickety stairs to a one-hundred-degree room packed wall to wall with brand-new Sids and Nancys, a milk white late-night crowd of pierced and branded thrift store bandits. The girl beside me wore a Louise Brooks wig, a white rubber dress, and silver accessories: necklace, polish, and shoes. Stale beer and sweat seemed to be the predominant odors, but I could smell incense burning somewhere in the distance.
The lead guitarist played the opening lick of the next song;
a sweet psychedelic introduction that teased the audience. Everyone leaned forward slightly, anticipating a wall of noise. A blue spotlight focused on the tall skinny guitarist. He was shirtless. Long blond hair hung in front of his face. His instrument was cocked perfectly on his hip. The drummer and bass player kicked into some slamming hardcore, and the room exploded in moshing madness. The singer burst onstage with his head on fire and took out all three microphone stands, finally crashing into the side speaker cabinets. A roadie doused him with a fire extinguisher. White powder floated up into the lighting gear hanging above. He was wearing a bulletproof vest and a large white wig that was now stinking up the room big-time. The singer ripped offhis wig and latched on a steel army helmet, then lunged headfirst into the crowd. The things boys will do for attention.
Tracy looked at me with a big smiley face. She was totally into it. The singer was shoved back onto the stage and he spun around and around, shaking like he was having an epileptic seizure. The guitarist returned to the opening lick. The singer grabbed a microphone and launched into the first verse:
So many possibilities
I haven't got a clue,
I don't believe in anything
It's sad, I know, but true.
My life is all so meaningless
Our futures all are doomed
I might as well go kill myself
There's nothing else to do!
He dove headfirst back into the mosh pit. The crowd held him aloft like some fragile deity, then propelled him back onstage. His arms were extended in a crucifixion pose, his eyes rolled over, exposing whites, like he was possessed or about to puke. The singer pointed into the audience, picked up a microphone, and started repeating the chorus.
All my friends are nobodies
So who the fuck are you?
I might as well go kill myself
There's nothing else to do!
Tracy yelled into my ear, “Fucking intense or what?”
I was thinking about my dad, my mechanic, and my mom, not to mention graduation, and the curse. I expected Neckbrace and his lunatics to show up here at any minute. It was impossible to have fun. Everyone around me looked so bent on irresponsibility. Glancing around the room, it was hard for me to get enthusiastic. Some guy fell out of the crowd and painted Tracy's arm with sweat.
“Gross!” She wiped her arm on her pants leg.
I lured her over to the side bar and bought a couple beers, handed one to Tracy. The microbrew was thick as plasma, the air choked with secondhand smoke. I was anxious to spin by my dad's house.
“At least I want to see the building,” I said, “to get a sense of it.”
Tracy got bored after a few more songs and finally agreed to go, but only after I promised we could check out another
club on the West Side afterward. We slammed the rest of our beers and retired back to the sidewalk.
“I can't wait until we move down here,” Tracy said. “We are gonna be so famous.”
“For what?”
“For us.”
We jumped back into the Volkswagen and headed downtown. Two-story brick buildings were stacked one after another, dark alleyways ran between them. Large drooping elm trees deflected the streetlights. It was a spooky place, at this hour anyway.
“What's the number again?” Tracy downshifted on Belmont, peering over the dashboard.
“Six-five-four,” I said.
“There it is.” She pointed to a brown brick building.
It wasn't what I expected. I don't know what I expected, but I know I envisioned something bigger and livelier. The building seemed dark and unimpressive, more ominous than glamorous. The good news was that it looked like there might be some lights on in the first-floor window. Tracy pulled over at the corner.
“I should go with you,” she said.
“No. Wait here. I'll be right back.” I popped the door open and hurried up the block. There were a lot of dark green bushes and I felt discreet, but I wasn't quite sure what I was hiding from. I stopped at the doorway, but there weren't any names on the mailboxes. The hallway was littered with supermarket flyers and take-out menus for Chinese food. The glass door was locked. I rang the first bell, then rang another one, wondering whether I should leave before it was too late. Who was
going to benefit from this? How would I explain myself? What if he's with another woman? What if he's wasted? When I turned away from the door the porch light went on. I froze. I heard the door swing open, so I spun around and was face-to-face with someone older than my grandma.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The woman peered, semi-trembling, from behind a chained door. I glanced down at her ancient slippers.
“I'm looking for a guy, sorta tall, his name is Terry Swanson.
“He doesn't live here.” She started to close the door.
“Did he move?”
She backed farther out of sight.
“I'm looking for my father,” I blurted out.
The old woman peered through the crack in the door. “What makes you think he's here?”
“I was told he lived here.”
“My husband died seven years ago. You say he's your father?”
“No, I'm sorry. My dad, he's a younger guy, not your husband. You got it all mixed up.”
“What kind of man would abandon such a beautiful girl?” she asked.
“That's what I'm trying to find out.”
“I'd never live with a man ever again,” she said. “Can't trust them. Never could. Never will. You shouldn't either.” She wagged her finger at me.
I started backing down the stairs.
“You all alone?” she asked.
“My friend is waiting for me in the car.”
“You be careful,” she warned. “There's a lot of trouble running around out there.”
The door slammed shut, and I heard a series of metal locks click one after another, then the porch light went out. I stood there for a second looking up at the second-floor window, then slowly backed down the steps. The wind went out of my breath and I felt myself suffocating, as if I had suddenly stopped breathing and had no idea how to start. I sat on the steps and tried to regain my composure.
It was gone. It was just a wish. Nothing changed. I walked back over to Tracy's car, opened the door and climbed inside.
“What happened?” Tracy asked.
“Wrong house. He moved. I don't know.” I stared out the window, swelling with disappointment. Once again Dad had somehow slipped from my grasp. All I wanted to know was that he was okay, whether he thought I was too, whether he was a good man or a bad man, whether he's making it or still trying. I feel like I'm stuck in a never-ending breakup. He's there even when he's not there. Dad the friendly ghost.
A
LL
night long I dreamt of my father. Tossing and turning, he popped in and out of my conscience with the agility of an acrobat. At one point he looked like my mechanic and then Bobby was my dad and we met in the park and went on a boat to a famous landmark, but I can't remember which one, then all of a sudden he fell overboard and I awoke in a panic.
Mom was screaming at the top of her lungs. It was horrible, an incredible bloodcurdling shrill you only hear in the best B movies. She was freaking overtime. I jumped out of my bed and ran downstairs.
“What happened?” I asked. “Whatsa matter?”
Mom pointed toward the front door, then went and called the authorities. I went to the window and that's when I saw it. Sometime during the night our driveway had been sprinkled with dog corpses. There was a German shepherd with its neck twisted sideways and two mutts that were shot and dumped
on our doorstep. Strewn one beside another, flies hovered over their cold bodies. A horrible stench hung in the air. In the center of it all was a DieHard battery.
The police arrived on the scene
el pronto
and questioned us all to death. They asked my mom if she was a witch and whether she ever practiced animal sacrifice or any other satanic rituals, then they wanted to know if she had any underworld connections, did she owe anybody money, were there narcotics hidden on the premises? A few neighbors stood on the edge of their lawns, pointing, looking curious, but keeping their distance. Our house had been marked by the devil himself, some children of Manson had visited, left their gifts, and departed, sparing the intended victims of death but haunting the house forever.
A yellow Department of Contagious Diseases truck rolled up and parked beside the mailbox. A couple of guys wearing white masks and rubber gloves jumped out and cautiously approached the animals. They leaned over each dog and shined a flashlight into their ears and mouth, as if maybe they'd all been attacked by fleas or plague. Then they took out some other equipment and did air samples, as if the house might be leaking radiation or something.
My mom thought it was some sort of tasteless gesture by a jealous one-night stand and gave the police a greatest hits list of her latest conquests, but I knew the dogs were intended for me. The locker fire was just the beginning. Somehow I got hooked up with Mr. Way-Wrong Loser and now the playground was haunted. I gave Mom another Valium, and when the hysteria finally settled down a bit I called Tracy.
“I hope they fucking got cholera!” she screamed. Tracy acted all tough at first, but I could tell her bravado was getting a little
less intense. Her kamikaze spirit had been deflated slightly in the last twenty-four hours. She wasn't her usual Rambo self.
“First my locker, now this. I don't like it.”
“It's just mind games,” she said.
“Well, they work.” I was beyond panic.
“Listen, in a few days we'll graduate and all this will just be an extra notch in your bedpost.”
“I don't have any notches in my bedpost, thank you.” I shifted the phone to my other ear. “The cops were here again. They asked about the car battery.”
“What did you tell them?” she asked.
“I told them we didn't have a car.”
“Did they say anything about Bobby?”
“No. Why doesn't he call me?”
“He seems to have a lot on his plate right now.”
“So do I!”
“Well at least you two have something in common.”
“What are we going to do?”
“What can we do?”
“Well, I'm not just going to sit around and wait to be killed by a bunch of beer guzzling dog murderers. They know where I live! I think I should come clean with the cops. It's the only way out of this.”
“Are you crazy? That's exactly what Neckbrace wants you to do. You'll go to jail!”
I was getting so paranoid I started to wonder if I could even trust Tracy. If I was the curse, wouldn't that benefit her? Wouldn't she go on to live a long life full of hundreds of boyfriends? This whole thing was getting too far out of hand. “I have to go. I'll talk to you later.”
I found a cigarette in Mom's purse, then went out on the porch to watch the last carcass get stuffed into a white plastic bag and dragged away. I started smoking in junior high because I thought it made me look older; when I got older I said to myself that it made me more introspective. Now it's just a stinky habit that ignites fierce retribution in the morning.
I flicked the half-burned cigarette into the yard, then got the hose out of the garage and washed down the driveway. The neighbors were still hovering together in bathrobes, staring. Even Jewels was up bright and early for the excitement, pretending to retrieve his mail for a closer look.
I felt incredibly nauseated, my stomach was a brewing sludge pit of indigestion, so I turned off the hose and went and sat on the toilet for a while. A pair of dark purple loops hung under my eyes. My hands trembled slightly. My gums were sore. My head was throbbing. I finished my business, splashed some water on my face, brushed my teeth, then went downstairs to make coffee and slam some Advil. My brother was in the kitchen sprinkling sugar over his Froot Loops.