J Kelley
08-18-2011, 11:06 PM
It’s happening again. Muzzle flash in the cold twilight. The smell of nitrous oxide and bleach, thunder of traffic on the overpass, and a hangnail moon. “Go ahead.” That’s what Jared tells the guy in the fatigue jacket. From across the narrow expanse of dead grass I see them arguing under the streetlamp. Every detail sears itself into my brain. The baphomet on Jared’s shirt, how it unfolds as he throws open his arms crucifixion style, and the wind animates his pretty boy Morticia hair, which the rest of us are secretly jealous of. Crowds scatter into their rat rods and vanish down the drag-way into the industrial district. My vision goes telescopic, moving everything close, as the sidewalk recedes. There’s a bullet hole in the no parking sign, which might’ve been there.
The gunman gives a dry laugh, drags a hand across his mouth. Now I’m standing in a halo of light, and he’s pointing at one of us haphazardly. Zips rustle on Church’s motorcycle jacket as he says to calm the **** down. Screams it, actually. To my left there’s a green flannel with a pack of Marlboros in the front pocket and a Big Gulp mixed with whiskey; Sebastian towers over us, tells everyone what they need to do, and I wonder if there’s a way to grab the gun without anybody getting hurt. Let’s talk this out, I say, but I can’t hear my voice. Every nerve cell sparks like a downed power line and the darkness is creeping in between us. As I stand there grinding my teeth, scraping my boot heels against the asphalt, Sebastian starts making threats. This could end badly. I blow into my hands. “Come on, let’s just go,” Jared mutters. “These guys aren’t worth it,” he says, meaning us. He asks for the gun, asks again, finally it disappears into the camouflage jacket instead.
None of us moves yet. Sebastian insists that Jared needs to come with us and I think he’s right. This would be a good time to tackle the bastard, if only he were a little closer, if only I were a bigger guy. I reach for my smokes, pass them around, fighting the urge to do I don’t know what. Now Jared’s playing to both sides, trying to convince us to leave, negotiating with a killer. Then a chartreuse dragster cruises through the shadows. It’s a 1970 Barracuda in chartreuse and I’m pretty sure I know that ride. As the Barracuda growls to curb Jared turns his back on us. He stocks toward the idling car, half a block up the street. He says something to the driver. For a minute I think everything’s gonna be cool but that’s when the guy in the army surplus jacket swaggers up, levels the pistol at Jared’s skull.
My boots are moving under me, kicking up bits of gravel and safety glass. Heartbeats pummel my stomach as fear tries to override my will, immobilize my limbs. I’m screaming, screaming, “No!” but I’m still too far away to do anything. The others are screaming, too. The guys I grew up with…we’re all running toward him but we’re too late. “No, don’t shoot!” Boot steps echo across the concrete surrounding us. “F------ do it then.” That’s what Jared tells him. “Go ahead. I f----- dare you.” My voice fails. I think this time I can save him even though this has already happened. More shots. Bang…then silence. The ground tilts and slams my knees. My friend stumbles over me but I don’t know if it’s Sebastian or Church. They’re both in front of me now, and it’s already too late. Jared slumps. Bang…the Plymouth roars away. The figure in the army surplus coat turns with the gun in his hand. His eyes are blazing suns. Behind him the gutter turns red. The whole sky caves and the earth heaves with sobs. Trembling, the bastard lifts the gun to his left temple. Bang…he collapses and I scream so loudly that I wake myself.
2.
At first I think I’ve pissed the bed. The sheets are drenched in sweat, and even though I’m in my own bedroom, the world feels strange and impossible. For a split second I try to fight my way back to the nightmare, to that moment of unbelieving when it was all just a horrible mistake but I can’t. Relief fades, replaced by anesthetized dread. My ears still ring from the gunshots and I wondered how that’s even possible. Above, the ceiling fan churns the darkness. This is my life, post-apocalypse. Everything’s the same but nothing has meaning.
Through the paneled walls I hear the hiss of my grandfather’s oxygen tank. Lights flicker on the equalizer as from the depthless shadows Glenn Danzig whispers, “Mother.” My ribs ache like someone’s kicking them, and I roll onto my side, folding the pillow over my head. From the nightstand, the soulless eyes of a ragdoll glare back at me, and I taste rot. The second hand of a vintage alarm clock sweeps across the image of a 1950 Hudson, and its 3:00 AM, a long ways from morning. Sleep is not going to happen and I’m afraid to just lay here and think. My thoughts are going to swallow me whole, and I might never find my way back this time.
So I climb from the mattress and search the floor for yesterday’s clothes: faded Levis and a rangy Iron Maiden t-shirt that I leave on the carpet. Each movement seems like an effort and I have to force my puny muscles into action. Feeling a tug at the nape of my neck I yank St. Christopher from a tangle of chestnut strands shaved into a 5-inch stripe down the middle of my scalp. My rangier flannel transfers from the bedpost to my shoulder as I drag sweat socks out of a broken drawer. The solid oak dresser seems massive in this room, and it’s cluttered with change, ticket stubs, and so much random crap that it takes a minute to find matches.
The only light in the hallway is the glow of a dimmer switch next to a louvered bathroom door but it’s enough to delineate from the shadows an array of picture frames on the floral wallpaper. Sun-washed images of dead people, a few of my grandparents in their youth, an old school portrait of me when I used to smile for the camera. In case my grandmother’s awake I move quietly and don’t turn on a lamp. Grandma’s a light sleeper and I don’t want her worrying too much or asking a lot of questions about whether I’m getting enough rest. It’s bad enough that she probably heard me scream. Tenuously I edge my ways toward the dining room and a sliding glass door that leads me to the patio and a row of Rubbermaid trash bins filled with aluminum cans. It’s my job to stomp the cans flat for recycling, which has been a good stress reliever. But I can’t stomp cans in the middle of the night so I light a Marlboro, savoring the first sulfur hit, and search through all the smog and light pollution for stars.
In the front pocket of my flannel, beside some loose cigarettes, there’s a note from my ex-girlfriend saying that she’s sorry about Jared and that she wants to get back together with me. I can’t. Sure I probably say that every time Beth break things off because it’s getting too serious or her parents don’t approve or I drink too much or whatever. Then she calls me up whimpering and blubbering that I’m her destiny and passes me a 5-page letter during study hall and I crumble…but it’s no use anymore. Every time I think of Beth there’s her sad canting voice again, telling me that my friends drag me down. There are no stars but an aircraft blinks between the power lines, listing toward Bob Hope Airport. I gaze at the orange ember at the tip of my cigarette instead. Tendrils of smoke lift from my hand and wind their way into the night and the layer of haze between the mountains and I mutter to myself that Beth doesn’t know anything.
The gunman gives a dry laugh, drags a hand across his mouth. Now I’m standing in a halo of light, and he’s pointing at one of us haphazardly. Zips rustle on Church’s motorcycle jacket as he says to calm the **** down. Screams it, actually. To my left there’s a green flannel with a pack of Marlboros in the front pocket and a Big Gulp mixed with whiskey; Sebastian towers over us, tells everyone what they need to do, and I wonder if there’s a way to grab the gun without anybody getting hurt. Let’s talk this out, I say, but I can’t hear my voice. Every nerve cell sparks like a downed power line and the darkness is creeping in between us. As I stand there grinding my teeth, scraping my boot heels against the asphalt, Sebastian starts making threats. This could end badly. I blow into my hands. “Come on, let’s just go,” Jared mutters. “These guys aren’t worth it,” he says, meaning us. He asks for the gun, asks again, finally it disappears into the camouflage jacket instead.
None of us moves yet. Sebastian insists that Jared needs to come with us and I think he’s right. This would be a good time to tackle the bastard, if only he were a little closer, if only I were a bigger guy. I reach for my smokes, pass them around, fighting the urge to do I don’t know what. Now Jared’s playing to both sides, trying to convince us to leave, negotiating with a killer. Then a chartreuse dragster cruises through the shadows. It’s a 1970 Barracuda in chartreuse and I’m pretty sure I know that ride. As the Barracuda growls to curb Jared turns his back on us. He stocks toward the idling car, half a block up the street. He says something to the driver. For a minute I think everything’s gonna be cool but that’s when the guy in the army surplus jacket swaggers up, levels the pistol at Jared’s skull.
My boots are moving under me, kicking up bits of gravel and safety glass. Heartbeats pummel my stomach as fear tries to override my will, immobilize my limbs. I’m screaming, screaming, “No!” but I’m still too far away to do anything. The others are screaming, too. The guys I grew up with…we’re all running toward him but we’re too late. “No, don’t shoot!” Boot steps echo across the concrete surrounding us. “F------ do it then.” That’s what Jared tells him. “Go ahead. I f----- dare you.” My voice fails. I think this time I can save him even though this has already happened. More shots. Bang…then silence. The ground tilts and slams my knees. My friend stumbles over me but I don’t know if it’s Sebastian or Church. They’re both in front of me now, and it’s already too late. Jared slumps. Bang…the Plymouth roars away. The figure in the army surplus coat turns with the gun in his hand. His eyes are blazing suns. Behind him the gutter turns red. The whole sky caves and the earth heaves with sobs. Trembling, the bastard lifts the gun to his left temple. Bang…he collapses and I scream so loudly that I wake myself.
2.
At first I think I’ve pissed the bed. The sheets are drenched in sweat, and even though I’m in my own bedroom, the world feels strange and impossible. For a split second I try to fight my way back to the nightmare, to that moment of unbelieving when it was all just a horrible mistake but I can’t. Relief fades, replaced by anesthetized dread. My ears still ring from the gunshots and I wondered how that’s even possible. Above, the ceiling fan churns the darkness. This is my life, post-apocalypse. Everything’s the same but nothing has meaning.
Through the paneled walls I hear the hiss of my grandfather’s oxygen tank. Lights flicker on the equalizer as from the depthless shadows Glenn Danzig whispers, “Mother.” My ribs ache like someone’s kicking them, and I roll onto my side, folding the pillow over my head. From the nightstand, the soulless eyes of a ragdoll glare back at me, and I taste rot. The second hand of a vintage alarm clock sweeps across the image of a 1950 Hudson, and its 3:00 AM, a long ways from morning. Sleep is not going to happen and I’m afraid to just lay here and think. My thoughts are going to swallow me whole, and I might never find my way back this time.
So I climb from the mattress and search the floor for yesterday’s clothes: faded Levis and a rangy Iron Maiden t-shirt that I leave on the carpet. Each movement seems like an effort and I have to force my puny muscles into action. Feeling a tug at the nape of my neck I yank St. Christopher from a tangle of chestnut strands shaved into a 5-inch stripe down the middle of my scalp. My rangier flannel transfers from the bedpost to my shoulder as I drag sweat socks out of a broken drawer. The solid oak dresser seems massive in this room, and it’s cluttered with change, ticket stubs, and so much random crap that it takes a minute to find matches.
The only light in the hallway is the glow of a dimmer switch next to a louvered bathroom door but it’s enough to delineate from the shadows an array of picture frames on the floral wallpaper. Sun-washed images of dead people, a few of my grandparents in their youth, an old school portrait of me when I used to smile for the camera. In case my grandmother’s awake I move quietly and don’t turn on a lamp. Grandma’s a light sleeper and I don’t want her worrying too much or asking a lot of questions about whether I’m getting enough rest. It’s bad enough that she probably heard me scream. Tenuously I edge my ways toward the dining room and a sliding glass door that leads me to the patio and a row of Rubbermaid trash bins filled with aluminum cans. It’s my job to stomp the cans flat for recycling, which has been a good stress reliever. But I can’t stomp cans in the middle of the night so I light a Marlboro, savoring the first sulfur hit, and search through all the smog and light pollution for stars.
In the front pocket of my flannel, beside some loose cigarettes, there’s a note from my ex-girlfriend saying that she’s sorry about Jared and that she wants to get back together with me. I can’t. Sure I probably say that every time Beth break things off because it’s getting too serious or her parents don’t approve or I drink too much or whatever. Then she calls me up whimpering and blubbering that I’m her destiny and passes me a 5-page letter during study hall and I crumble…but it’s no use anymore. Every time I think of Beth there’s her sad canting voice again, telling me that my friends drag me down. There are no stars but an aircraft blinks between the power lines, listing toward Bob Hope Airport. I gaze at the orange ember at the tip of my cigarette instead. Tendrils of smoke lift from my hand and wind their way into the night and the layer of haze between the mountains and I mutter to myself that Beth doesn’t know anything.