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Happy Fourth of July 2011

9/30/2011

            We all liked Rhys Branagh. Even though he was a unique kind of stupid. Or maybe because of that. He once got arrested in London and fled to Canada in an attempt to escape prosecution. Needless to say, the Canadians returned him to England. So he spent like five years in an English prison. I never really found out what for. One of the tricks Rhys learned in prison is never to confess one’s crimes. Basically, if you can look a part it’s better to let others assume rather than admit -- going in for larceny is all well and good, but if you can pass for a killer let people assume something violent. Tom Muligan says it's something to do with stealing a car and possibly destruction of property while driving said car. But I don’t know. That sounds plausible. I’ve seen Rhys do it before -- he gets tanked and wants to go for a ride, yadah yadah yadah, there’s no more mailbox on Coyle.
            Anyhow the English held onto him for five years then deported his ass back to the States. I shit you not, Rhys came back on July 2nd of 2007. Naturally, we decided to throw a party on the Fourth. When something serendipitous is handed down from the gods one cannot ignore it. Maggie Muligan (that just shows how fucked up the Muligan family is -- who names a kid Maggie Muligan? That‘s just asking people to give her shit, especially when she‘s a ginger to boot. Anyway) got party supplies. She worked at this discount party shop with all that shit people buy for kids' birthdays. Down side is that she can only get a hold of the overstock. So we set up for a Fourth of July barbeque slash welcome home celebration with this fucking mish-mosh: Valentine’s, St. Patty’s, Groundhog’s, pretty much all the possessive holidays, in bits and pieces. We got a fucking Leprechaun dancing with a Groundhog while Cupid excites the creepy pederast next door… fucker peeking over the fence. But Maggie’s doing her part, so nobody is pissed. In fact, it makes the situation more memorable. Plus, fuck all, the one thing that mattered is the meat.
            Jimmy Hoffman calls in a favor to his cousin Merle and bam! We got steaks thick as a brick, ribs that look cut off a dinosaur, chicken, burgers, brats, dogs, pork shoulder to tempt a rabbi -- you’d think we were opening a fucking restaurant. And consequence of which the whole neighborhood gets invited. Personally, I think it’s great since we haven’t had a block party since I was seven, so that’s like twenty years ago. (It all stopped because my Pops and his buddies finished off this one neighbor-asshole’s expensive yuppie vodka. In addition, said assbag happened to be puking in the bushes while they all laughed and drank his eighty dollar liquor... which led to a rift in the community I won’t get into.)
            Now, nobody in our area thinks twice about what to do. Mort Dreyfus and Wally Toten block off the street by parking their cars at either end. Anybody that’s got a table that’s easy to move hauls it out to the street. I put my recliner in the driveway. My friend Pete gets put in charge of the four grills that get carried to the curb.
            Here we have to have what is known as a brief aside: despite referring to the Fourth as a time for barbequing most Americans actually just grill. The difference is seemingly subtle, while at the same time being rather pronounced. If you cook meat within a half hour, you’re grilling. If it takes you all day, or at least three hours, you’re in barbeque country. The thing to really keep in mind is there’s no shame in grilling… unless you use the wrong terminology. No one has now or ever will barbeque a burger.
            Pete exists in a strange middle territory. He is masterful when it comes to BBQ. I’ve seen him slow roast a shoulder till you could pull it apart with a pair of spoons. But he’s got ADD like a motherfucker, so he’s impatient as all hell. Consequence: Pete doesn’t mind grilling. The good thing is that when it comes to parties guys will defer to whomever they know is the master. Like Toby getting put in charge of the cocktails. That man is an encyclopedia of mixacological information.
            “Yo Toby! What’s in a Fat Hooker?”
            “Besides your Dad’s dick?”
            “And your Mom‘s tongue.”
            “Vodka, Peach Schnapps, Rum, and then orange juice or pineapple.”
            See what I’m talking about?
            So it all gets laid out in the street. Pete fires up the coals around eleven. We set the booze on a table in the middle of it all; no one has to inform Toby he needs to orbit this liquor station; and we crack open some cold beers, pop a couple shots. The aroma of expertly cooked meat drifts out slowly luring more people out of their houses.
            All block parties have an implied, albeit optional, toll: bring some food and/or booze. While neither is required, not contributing makes for a bad reputation; people feel taken advantage of… despite the fact said toll is usually paid in such a way as to show off. To paraphrase, ‘I’m better than you. Don’t think so? Look at what I brought compared to you.’
            That being said:
            Mrs. Williams brings her German potato salad which Ruth Ginsberg won’t set her ambrosia salad near on account of the holocaust. Jim Duffy continues proving he’s a cheap prick by producing a bowl of chips as his contribution. Whoa! Two whole bags? Way to splurge Jim. The Muligans show up with a trough of taco dip and a super bowl of, I am not exaggerating, homemade tortilla chips. The Blacks, who are whiter than vampires, contribute a punch bowl full of Pad Thai, which my friend Willie spends an hour explaining to his Dad. Lisa Reinhart and her husband Bill -- may he die soon so I can fuck his wife without fear of God -- deposit, not only, a bottle of Wild Turkey but also onion rings you can wear like bracelets… which I hate Bill for because he made them, and consequently I don’t want him so dead anymore. Even my folks come out of the basement… Mom loaded on Valium, Effexor, and wine, Pops on a case of beer, and the two sporting an uncooked cookie dough roll. But I don’t really get excited till I see the Euginedes family coming. They lay out a whole Greek festival of dolmades, spanakopita, tyropita, moussaka, and baklava. I make sure to give yia yia Euginedes a kiss on the cheek, especially for putting out the only real dessert so far.
            A pair of choppers come riding in, bypassing the cars blocking the west end via the sidewalk. Rhys pulls up on a ride borrowed from Bill Portis, with whom he’s staying, and the party can finally get into full swing.
            Over the hours friends show up from all over town. By four in the afternoon the block is swarming with near a hundred people. Pete is dishing out meat as fast as it finishes, according to his satisfaction. Kids are running all over the place. Willie gets pissed at one smartass eleven year old and hits him, surprisingly light, with a water balloon. His Machiavellian strategy doesn’t become apparent till we see the kid’s mom bitching the punk out for stinking of vodka. Rhys pounds Johnny Walker like it’s Christ’s piss with a promise of resurrection. Somewhere around 6:30 the younger Mrs. Euginedes sends her husband home for Tequila, and about then Mr. Williams is getting flirty with anything that has sprouted tits. His wife counters his desire to still feel attractive by slugging back Merlot till Willie’s conversation about Metallica vs. Megadeth is something she can look horny for hearing. The Blacks sit by themselves, people watching and sharing observations. Pete , thankfully, runs out of meat right when everyone is getting too full for food. But the booze keeps pouring.
            For a while Toby turns into a sideshow, whipping up cocktails on command, sometimes fabricating things when he knows some drunk is trying to fuck with him by shouting a bullshit order. “I’ll take a Lemon Whirl.” “Vodka, Lemonade, and ginger ale. Coming right up.” Toby never loses his cool.
            Some of the neighbor’s teenagers hang around looking as bored as possible. My best friend Sid and I know they’re lurking for a chance to sneak booze, so we slip them some drinks. The last thing we need is for their folks to get irritated and that ire to bleed over into other matters. Annoyance provokes people bringing up petty bullshit no one wants to see now. We’re all having the best time in a long while. It’s been too long since this block felt like a community. Normally, we all sit in our own homes, sometimes cordially say hello on the way to the car, on the way to elsewhere. A live and let live attitude pervades, though we all know cliques exist. This house or that one talks to one or the other about how so&so is an asshole for whatever reason. We smile in public but gripe about each other behind closed doors. Sid and I know well enough not to let the teens get on their parents nerves. It could be the start to the end of a great evening.
            Not that we expect the convivial mood to carry over in the weeks, months, and years to come. However, it’s always nice when people can get along.
            After dark my buddy Teddy announces, “I got a surprise.” And heads to his car. He comes back hauling a box, might as well be a crate. Teddy pops off the top and inside is this myriad of fireworks. He pulls out a Zippo and bam! Zipping balls of sparks are shooting around the block, rockets are screaming into the air. He plants a cone on the ground, and it fires up a column of multicolored stars. Teddy hands out sparklers to all the kids that ask. It isn’t long before the whole neighborhood is lit up by colorful explosions, packs of sparklers running every which way, dancing balls of fire, pinwheels burning mandalas into the night; and everyone cheering. Sid takes a handful of Roman Candles, plants them into a front lawn, lights the fuses, and watches the balls shoot in the air. Fu-pop, fu-pop, fu-pop.
            About then Pete is rolling up a fat joint to celebrate a chef session well done. Willie and I are hanging around him, joking, waiting for a chance to smoke, as well as congratulating him on perhaps his finest cooking. Sid is heading over, a beer in hand, his Roman Columns firing color into the sky behind him. We see Rhys head over to the crate, dive in, and run to an empty table. We raise our drinks to him. He smiles over and nods. With a cigarette between his lips he lights the fuses of the two sticks in his hands. He shouts out, “It’s good to be home,” just as the fuses burn down. Everyone cheers. The one in his right hand fires colored balls down the street. The other seems to be a dud. He looks down the tube with a jester’s grin. Sid’s made it over by now. We’re all waiting for the Candle to fire into Rhys’s face -- slapping and jabbing one another, trying not to laugh. Sid says, “That’s not a Roman Candle.” And a quarter stick of dynamite blows Rhys Branagh to pieces.
            The party sort of broke up after that. I don’t know what we’ll do next year. Given what happened to Rhys, it seems too hard to top. We'll probably just keep things low key next Fourth of July.

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Why I Quit: The Gas Station

9/18/2011

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            They don’t make people like Ronnie Shannon. Thank god for that. I’d rather spend the night trying to fuck a rabid dog than talk to Ronnie Shannon. Man twitches like the devil is hitting him with lightning, and he screams like a baby crying out for blood. I don’t know whatever made the man, but hell if I don’t want to know what’ll end him. He comes in on occasions when people feel the most relaxed, like the way a phone rings whenever you’re in the shower.
            I work nights at the gas station on Third and Mailer. And all the other clerks know what I’m talking about; anyone who’s worked the night shift knows Ronnie. The most frequent time is after 3 a.m., but any when after midnight is likely to bring Ronnie out. Look down for a minute, look back up, and there he is. Keith told me he comes out from between the hedgerow on the other side of station. He’s probably right, given the direction Ronnie is usually come from. It’s like he comes out of the bushes from nowhere. I mean, there’s houses on the other side, but he doesn’t look like anyone I’d expect to find around here. So anyhow, he comes up between the pumps, walking like he sees right through walls and expects to stroll through them too. That is until he marches into the station. First time I saw Ronnie I didn’t think anything. It’s late, but people come in at all kinds of hours. Fuck, we wouldn’t be open if that weren’t the case. And Ronnie comes in, and like most occasions, he stops with a shudder. Like he got grabbed and halted, you know what I mean? He just shivers violently and looks around. Sometimes he lets out this low sorta wail. I asked him once if he needed help with something and he just looked at me. Looked at me like he wanted to skin me for seeing him. So then he goes around the inside for a bit -- I get stoned kids in, especially in the summer, and they wander around similar, excited by the sight of everything like it’s the first time they ever witnessed the world; but Ronnie doesn’t look happy like those kids, he looks pissed. And when he talks, or tries to, I get the feeling he’s trying to make a point he’s lost the words for. Like maybe he knows what but not how to say. You know what I mean? He’s a greasy looking son a bitch. He looks as if he’s been dipped in bacon fat. But he ain’t fat. I don’t think there’s an ounce of lard on that skinny bastard. He’s a scarecrow come to life, that’s my guess. Some kind of creepy ass Pinocchio -- Ronnie Shannon wandering the burbs after dark. I got Keith to think the same. Tom Dollin doesn’t agree. He thinks Ronnie is an alien trying to figure out how to interact with human beings. And he’s got a point. Sometimes Ronnie can talk, though he only manages a few short phrases before falling back into that crazy muttering growl of his. “Getting’ cold,” he’ll say around winter, or, “Rain’s coming.” I’ve even heard he’s said, clear as a bell, “What’s to think?” That last one really sticks for me because frankly I don’t know.
            Yeah we joke about him, but that’s just to keep from feeling all the terror he inspires. I like to think if it came down to it I could hammer the shit out of him. But he does look wiry. The down side is that he buys shit from time to time. Once in a while he just marches out again, gives that creepy fucking look, sometimes hollers, “Not this time!” then heads off, melting back through the hedgerow. However, on occasion he will bring something to the counter or hold up a pack of cigarettes, never says a thing, just puts ‘em down and waits for a price. Tom thinks we might be able to tell him whatever and he’d pay. But Keith and I don’t want to push him, seem like we’re fucking with him ya know? In case he is some kind of crazy. Ronnie Shannon. There are no words. You have to see him to believe it.
            So anyhow, the other night Ronnie comes in close on three in the morning. It was raining earlier, but that had stopped for at least an hour. He comes in dripping wet, turns to me, gestures at himself, and goes, "You," pointing a finger at me and having a face like hell is coming. Then he bolts out the door and runs back through the hedges. Right away I just threw up my hands, said, "Fuck it." I shut the place down, hung up a sign -- "I Quit" -- and left the station.

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Doing Myth

9/14/2011

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            I hate techno music, but I sell drugs. Which means, if I want to make any money, I have to go where the markets are and that means techno. House, dance, trip-hop, jungle, whatever the fuck you want to call it, that chest rattling aural vomit pounding in every nightclub. I just thank god the raver era has passed, or if it hasn’t, I’m too old for the scene. But I don’t judge. People are entitled to like what they want. I just can’t stand techno.
            Fortunately, I don’t have to spend much time in those places. Usually there’s a bartender, or a bouncer, a waitress, or even all three depending who can act as a one stop. Find that person, drop off a supply, collect the money later, but always know what you gave and what it’s worth. People get weird the minute a wad of twenties is sweating the palm of their hand. And if you think, ‘he’ll never notice,’ trust me, I will. Although, I have never killed anyone, and to please my wife I’ll add, directly. I have never directly killed anyone. Christ almighty, the woman starts watching Lifetime, and suddenly she thinks every OD is my fault.
            I didn’t always have ambition. I used to be content paying the bills, selling dope in my neighborhood. I’d ride a bike house to house, stop off at a few local taps, and be home by eleven to smoke up in my basement, watching tapes with my friends. We had the rent paid, and enough cash, which is the trick. Enough. See, some people can go on for hours about the socio-economic reasons folks start dealing which may be true but only to a point. Because anyone who gets into it, just to earn a living, for whatever reason, would suggest that at some point there’s enough cash. Once you’ve made more money than you could spend it seems reasonable that you should retire. However, I know guys who make millions and keep coming back for more. Why? Something hooks ‘em. Somewhere along the trail something makes you stick to the life. Because it stops being about the money, that’s just there for expenses, the real ambition is for the lifestyle. I remember running balls out down an alley -- I’m twenty at the time -- knowing a cop is just feet behind me and getting this superman rush. I swear to god I flew over this chain link fence, and the cop was done. He knew better than to give himself a heart attack. And I could see how that’s addicting. Or knowing you could fuck anybody in a room just by asking. Hell, when I was seventeen my weed got me back stage at Nirvana. It’s the life that hooks people. That being said, the smart ones know to have a number.
            After that cop I sort of started putting the big picture into play. I can’t say I didn’t always have it in mind, however, I could always sorta shuffle it to the back. Now most guys I know would say, ‘Hey, you didn’t get caught. So what’s the worry?’ Only I’ve got this mind set from my mother, ‘If you know what to worry about maybe you should.’ So I start thinking about the grand scheme of things. I know I can’t do this forever. What’s more is I don’t want to. I mean, seriously, who wants to work their whole life? Get in, make a pile, and get out. So I start figuring out averages in my head -- I was always good with numbers -- which gets me down to 30. Thirty million sounds like a reasonable amount.
            Think about it. I plan on having kids, and I don't want them to have to worry about shit. Then there's the day to day bullshit to worry about: bills, insurance, the unexpected, etc. Life is expensive, and I've got no desire to spend the bulk of mine worry about dollars and cents. So thirty million sounds safe to me. (My buddy, Andy Mehlman, he says it's a number I picked cuz it's so big it'll take me a long time to reach it. Whatever. Andy Mehlman fucked Suzy Kurtz in high school. That's like puttin' ya dick in that used syringe box at the doctor's. However, in a way he had a point.)
            Unfortunately, dealing to the locals is not going to do it. So I branch out which means going places I don’t much like, like nightclubs. It’s funny how a job can give a use to things you never had a use for. Naturally, my stock has to undergo some upgrades. Dealing weed isn’t gonna make me man of the year, if you catch my meaning, but that’s a fact of any business. You have to give the people what they want, not just what you prefer. I still dabbled in acid and pot but mainly for myself and friends. I put out feelers and started figuring what people wanted.
            Now, just because people all want something doesn’t mean it’s the best business to go into. For example: meth is popular, but there are a lot of outlets. Which means you need to get in some quality product before customers pay attention. It’s like opening a burger joint right next to a McDonald’s. You need to stand out in a crowd. So I'm trying to figure out what'll do me the best when I meet Tommy Porter.
            Tommy used to be a chemist chasing down his PhD till one afternoon he disappeared for eleven days. Nobody knew why, even he has a fuzzy recollection, but to me it was like a fucking miracle. If I had to explain it I would get more lost than my Uncle Carl on a road trip. The basic gist of it is this Tommy concocted a deliriant, which is legal, however, most guys don’t care for them recreationally. Deliriants make you more psychotic than trippy; the experience is rarely enjoyable. But, and this is the part where I get lost, Tommy figured a way to make a deliriant tolerable. Which is all I needed to hear.
            See, Tommy Porter was dating my cousin’s best friend, Trisha, who bought acid from me, so I met Tommy around Christmas where he told me about his "fugue," as he put it. He says they’re used to treat asthma, ulcers, in surgery, sleep aids, and allergies. So it’s technically a legal form of acid he’s put together. Of course, I don’t buy this till he offers me some. Still, I’m not stupid. I give it to a couple of guys I know, who I treat like guinea pigs whenever I doubt the quality of something. They tell me it’s acid, mind blowing and this is where I get the name, ‘Mythical.’ We call it Mythical at first, which gets shortened to Myth, though Tommy prefers Delirious, but the debate could rage to no reason. Drugs never live with one name. Eventually it’ll change either way. So, for the time being, we called it Myth, and left it at that. (Now, I’m dating myself a bit here, because I still call it by my name. However, like I said, and to Tommy’s delight, Delirium won out in the end. Close enough to make him happy, but I still prefer my title.)
            New drugs work their way slowly into the market, unless they act like something familiar. With a cousin like LSD-25, a lot of people thought they had a toe in the water, but there ain’t nothing like Myth. Our trips are the kind people write stories about, turn into legends, and rarely come home from. I heard about one guy, he sold his house to live in an apartment for a year and use the income from the sale to just do Myth all the time. He wrote some book about which is spinning around the internet that I thought was terrible, but people tell me you gotta be on Myth to get it. Whatever. The point is, we had the latest craze, and we're the only makers of it. That isn’t to say other guys didn’t try to figure it out, only the cats with the means to do it have much simpler ideas. They go the corporate route and buy you out. And if you want to keep dealing you can, just know your place. Tommy took his cut and moved out to Vashon Island with Trisha. I laundered mine, which left me a little short, so I still have to make trips out to make up the difference. 2.2 million and closing.
            Of course, the government is starting to step in, and it’s only a matter of time before they figure out how to make this illegal. The problem isn’t making the law -- it’s testing for the stuff. Only people that do Myth on a regular basis show signs in their piss test. The casual user can, given a short amount of time, pass it off as Benadryl, or Gastritis, or asthma medicine, or whatever. The list goes on. Though talk still gets out. ‘Too good to be true,’ is what comes outta most people, but I don’t pay attention. I keep seeing these news stories the same as anybody about the “Toxic Shock” of too much Myth. (Right there, ‘too much.’ You do too much coffee it’s liable to give you a heart attack.) They say it isn’t what I’d claim. I mean, I’m no chemist, but I trust Tommy. He says it’s this and this, I haven’t seen anyone croak on it, who's to say otherwise? After all, the media is just an arm of the government anyway. They have to tow the status quo which means drugs are bad, period.
            My wife keeps trying to feed me these articles. One of the side effects from Myth is supposed to be brain rot. And I don’t mean casual shit like memory loss or getting all clumsy and shit. I mean, chronic Myth users are being called self induced Alzheimer’s patients. But I don’t see it. If anything, the problems are probably the big rings. Like any company, drug dealers try to maximize profits which means fiddling with manufacturing costs. Instead of pure cocaine, it gets cut with whatever, everybody varies: chalk, sweetener, baking powder, baby powder, blah, blah, blah. The same is true with Myth. Somebody’s probably making it and not following the recipe exactly. I remember seeing the mix and thinking, ‘We could use gasoline instead of that, or grain alcohol instead of this rubbing shit.’ But I didn’t want to risk it then. Tommy said it all had to be precise, although, he’s a chemist, so he doesn’t think about manipulating the thing for cost, he just thinks about the product, which is his baby in a way. So when I hear about people bleeding to death from nose gushers, or self-mutilated suicides, I know what to think. Someone either fucked with the recipe or the assholes are doing too much. Like these fucked up kids they keep talking about. It’s the mother’s fault for doing Myth while pregnant. Jesus Christ.
            Anyhow, I make a few trips during the week, drop off my bundles, and I close out around eighty thousand a month. Nothing super grand but more importantly, it’s steady. And my number is getting closer.

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Fire Across the Sky

9/8/2011

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            Dozens of palms slapping at the oak, demanding the entrance be thrown open, not a one doing more than leave skin. But no one inside paid it any mind. It takes more than pity for any group to risk its own life. The mother clung to her child, stifling weeping by burying the young face in her chest. The father muttered under his breath, stinking of vodka. The sister lie crumpled in the corner, the hole in her chest no longer leaking.
            “I hope they all burn. Here and after,” the father said. His wife nodded agreement. The young child sniffled and pulled away from the comforting. He looked around the room, his eyes somehow always glazing, never really seeing his sister’s corpse.
            Her eyes hung half open. She seemed to sigh. The father said it was only trace gases escaping; it meant nothing.
            “So what now?” the mother asked.
            The father glanced at his wristwatch, “We wait. It’ll be about ten minutes.”
            “That soon,” the boy said.
            The father went over to punch the door, “Do you hear that? Ten minutes you fuckers.”
            “And then what?” the mother asked.
            Dragging his knuckles, enjoying the pain as he scraped, the father said, “I don’t know. This door might not protect us.”
            “They all seem to think it will,” the mother said.
            “They think a lot of things that aren’t true.” The father made his way to a private corner, his privacy implied by a blanket of shadow. There he drank deeply, struck up a cigarette, and glared at the corpse of his daughter, part of him wanting to blame the teenager herself. She should have moved faster, looked less vulnerable, been not so clearly the child he preferred. Glancing at his son, he wished the bullet had chosen the younger of the two. He would have shot the younger child, assuming the parents’ preference leaned towards the youngest.
            “We have no food,” the mother said.
            “Yes. We do.” The father glared at the son. The sister seemed to wink at the boy.
            “Some bread and a pitcher of water," the mother said.
            The son said, “I don’t need much.” His mother smoothed his hair, smiling at the boy. She said, “That’s not the point.”
            Outside the horde paused. Those inside the vault held their breath collectively. Deep resonating thuds assaulted the door. Bolts in hinges shuddered as if anxious to pop free. The father sighed, “They’ve finally got the sense to make a ram.”
            “Will they get in?” the mother asked, her hand on her son, squeezing his shoulder to slow the fear filling his face -- nine years old and already facing the end.
            Two more violent quakes shook the door before the father said, “No.”
            “I’m scared,” the boy said.
            “You should be,” the father remarked.
            “David.” The mother’s sharp tone telling the father to hold in such thoughts.
            But the vodka kept him from silence, “The sky is on fire. Shit. I’m afraid. Anyone who isn’t is an idiot.”
            “David.” The mother’s eyes rolled to indicate their son. But he didn't hear her, hear his name -- they'd all become cardboard cutouts: titled as archetypes tend to be but nothing detailed, substantive. He could ignore the other occupants, labeling them as little more than titled positions, but he couldn't ignore his daughter's dead eyes.
            Spoiled bitch, the father thought, his contempt growing alongside grief. She had tried reasoning with the crowd, a sixteen year old against the mob, and they shot her for it. “There is no room, but…” a blast from somewhere in the sea of bodies. The writhing panic stricken surging as if the thundering pistol sounded some invitation -- the starter pistol for their entrance, a hundred people clamoring to get into a 40X25ft. space. Her body fell on top of her brother. The father pulled them both inside, the boy towed along under the weight of his sister, while the mother pushed the door shut. The crowd almost made it inside, however, the father’s shotgun proved an adequate, though temporary, rebuttal.
            “Is it the Russians?” the boy asked, looking up at his mother.
            “No.” The father swigged back a shot that made his head spin. The mother frowned when the boy wasn’t looking, his eyes gone back to the sister. Seeing her disapproval the father sneered, “Happy New Year. 19-55!”
            “It could be a false alarm,” the mother lied. She had seen the fires on the horizon. Not the ones on the ground, but the wave coming across the sky.
            The father got to his feet, stumbled, and held himself up against the wall. His bottle clinked against the brick. The determined shuddering of the door finally stopped. Some more gunfire sounded, thuds coming through the wood, but the sounds outside were dying down. He walked, using the whole wall as a support, to the daughter’s corpse. Keep thinking in general, nothing specific, this is not your girl but a girl, a daughter, a teen, the father kept telling himself. Standing over her he said, “I built this place to make my daddy shut up. He kept saying, ‘The bombs are comin’, the bombs are comin’.’ Hell, we’ve got a wooden door on this thing. That isn’t going to stop a nuclear anything. I always figured this would turn into a rec room or something, an outdoor den… when all this calmed down.” Looking towards the door he added, “I never thought we’d be in here for anything serious.”
            The mother let her son slip from her fingers. She grasped at him, realizing his trajectory too late. The boy walked up beside his father, took the older man’s hand in his own, and met the man’s eyes when he looked down at his son. Getting down on one knee the father took the boy’s small soft face in his hands, held it and said, “I will never love you like I did her.”
            “David!”
            “Shut up Marie!” The bottle shattered against the wall.
            Muffled screams started to come in from outside as the vault filled with heat. We’ll cook like it's an oven, the father thought and was tempted to say aloud. I would be doing us all a favor to kill them both rather than let them fry, he considered. Shoving the boy away he said, “Go to mommy.” I should have known better, he thought, I was in the war, should’ve just dragged them all inside. But these teens today seem to think anyone can be reasoned with, provided the right words. The daughter read too much, he knew that now, too many ideas and convictions without real experience.
            Blackening and crackling, the burning outside making its way in, a revolting stink coming with the smoke seeping through the door. It seemed only a matter of time. Sitting on the floor, staring into his daughter’s empty eyes, the father passed out of consciousness. The roar of the inferno the last sound he heard.

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            The door burned away. The snarling fire outside sucked at the air creating a wind that made the mother cling to her son. It seemed they would be pulled outside by the sucking gale coming from the fire storm. A black, charred form fell in the doorway, twitching as the flames ate away at it. The boy’s screams choked him, too big to get out his throat.
            Her hair fell in her face as the winds died down. The mother still held her son tightly, but the fear was fading. Fire had washed over the land, raging horribly but not to remain. Only the scars born on its passing would stay as a sign it had ever been, a memory to always plague those who witnessed it and haunt the future with its possible return.
            Her husband still unconscious on the floor, she stood once the fire quieted enough to leave the doorway empty. Getting to her feet, the mother took the boy’s hand in hers. She said, “Do as I say Max.” The boy nodded, getting to his feet, ready to follow. She smiled, a comforting lie she wished to be sincere.
            She led the boy out of the vault, telling him to keep his eyes up, looking to the horizons. Outside black skeletons littered the ground. Some looked blended together, having fused to one another as they burned in each other’s arms. Others were pieces, fragments made in the conflagration. The houses all down the street still burned as did most of the trees. Grass had vanished leaving just the fire hardened soil. She looked where her garden had been and saw a smoldering pile of coals. Heat still hung in the air, but it was cooler outside the vault. To the east the fiery wave made its way across the sky -- the mother had no idea if it might circle the globe, coming back again, but she knew she preferred the world outside the vault, the tomb her husband still occupied.
            Someone else must have survived, she kept the thought in mind, shuffling through the ashes: the dead, the houses shedding gray snow, the smell of burning like the new scent of the world. David was of no use to them, her and Max. It wasn’t just Anne’s death. The burning sky undid all the cracks in the man; held so loosely together after the war, the sight of the horizon shattered him. Marie saw it in his eyes. She had hoped… she would do her best to make sure Max survived. The future was all that mattered to her; the possibility… she held no illusions any longer, just the hope the fire would not return, that they could be safe somewhere... if they just kept moving.

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Every Boy Wants to Be a Hero

9/1/2011

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            The one chance Martha Branson had might be Luke Ansome. He watched her religiously, especially on hot summer nights. Having no air conditioning, Martha would throw open the windows of her home and if luck favored him, Luke could sometimes catch her aroma on the air. She cast a scent like baked cinnamon apples, and Luke avoided wondering if he really smelled her or his imagination. Perhaps young men of thirteen are supposed to be out playing games, not falling in love with glimpses through curtains and whiffs on summer breezes. But Luke felt there were worse ways to waste youth.

            Of course, she knew about the boy. For a while, at first, Martha did her best to stay out of sight. Her house occupied a stretch near the woods south of town; and she knew Luke liked to hid in the tree line, watching her. She didn’t know his name, though she’d seen him with his mother, on occasion, at the local store. One night, months back, she caught a glimpse of the boy in a tree. Initially she opted to dash past windows on the side facing the woods, pulling curtains shut, and planning to tell the boy’s mother whenever she saw her next. However… her husband, George, left her three years back for a women named Elsa Dee, a southern tart with more breasts than brains. The experience left Martha more than a bit unsettled. George used to reach for her in the night and pull her close, kissing her into a state of frenzy. But over time he reached for her less. She did her best to inspire his desire: dropping from a curvy120 to 105, purchasing lingerie through a catalogue (always desperately afraid someone in town might find out), and even going so far as to attempt certain acts which would make her mother die hearing about. In the end, begging him to explain why he didn’t want her anymore, George said, “I’m just too used to you. Maybe in a couple years, when I’ve settled down, I’ll be back.” And with that he left. George sent her money for a few months, but the cash eventually stopped. Martha got a job at the post office sorting mail. It paid the bills. She took to a new routine -- work, bills, empty home, occasional meals -- which if anyone pressed she’d be forced to confess was just her way of passing the time till she died. At thirty-seven years old Martha Branson harbored no delusions about her husband’s return. Yet, she believed his actions somehow indicated she was meant to be alone.

            So her initial shock at the sight of Luke Ansome gradually faded. She went from dashing to strolling past windows, eventually taking to lingering at one or another. When she realized he never brought friends Martha felt flattered in a way. The boy didn’t want to share. George once suggested… she liked the idea of belonging to one person.

            One night she lounged in a window wearing a black lacey two piece. Luke just watched, content to be a witness.

            They passed each other in the store one afternoon, and neither acknowledged the other. Luke thought Martha behaved in her home for her own satisfaction not his and didn’t dare let her know he watched her by even risking eye contact. Martha could never explain to Luke’s mother how she knew the boy, so she ignored him herself. The secrecy made her wet. Luke carried the grocery bags home low.

            And the two carried on in this fashion -- witness and observed, disciple and goddess, promise and possibility -- well into the fall. Until one night, a spring in her step knowing it was Friday, the school year shaping their current routine, Martha arrived home to find the lights all glowing. She wondered for a second if Luke had, for whatever reason, decided to break their unspoken divide; and she couldn’t help feeling a bit excited at the prospect. She’d fired his desire to the point he stormed into her house, waiting to take her with all the passion his youth could muster. It seemed unlikely. Yet, she entered the house without concern.

            “Hello?” Martha called from the door.

            “In here,” the gruff voice sounded familiar. Her heart dropped into her stomach. George.

            Martha made her way to the bedroom at the back of the house. She found him sitting on the bed, smoking. When she entered the room he pointed at a new piece of lingerie already spread out on the mattress for the evening.

            “You expecting someone?” George asked. She could tell he’d been drinking -- the way he sweat in the cool air, and his eyes wouldn’t hold still, constantly drifting.

            “What do you care?” Martha said, surprised at her own ferocity.

            George stood up, “Well, the fact you are my fuckin’ wife.”

            “Who you left,” she said making sure not to fully enter the room. She stayed close to the door, ready to slam it shut and run.

            Nodding, a loose rubber neck bob, George said, “I said I’d be back. So I’m here. And you’re not seemin' too glad about it.”

            “What have I got to be glad about?”

            “I came home.”

            “Yeah? Why?”

            He shrugged, “I been to New Orleans baby. And I ran out of wild oats… as it were.” Martha grimaced at the way George scratched his crotch. She wondered if he’d always looked like this: hutched over in sweat streaked clothes, staring out of bloodshot eyes with purplish halos. She didn’t have any photos of him to remind her. Somewhere in the midst of August, during a heat wave when she’d rub ice on herself as she sat in the window, she drank a few tall glasses of whiskey and sour mix. Listening to the ice crack in the cocktail, she caught the notion to burn George out of sight, perhaps then out of mind. Martha collected every photo she could find, piled them in a wash basin, and took it all outside. Standing naked at midnight, she burned the pictures. Only now she felt a twinge of regret because she had no reference to know the man who used to be George and this thing before her. Maybe he wasn’t the one who had changed -- her evolution giving her new eyes to see him in a different perspective; Like a prism refracting light to a different color.

            She wondered how much of him she forgot, or simply failed to realize, blaming herself when he left.

            Martha folded her arms across her chest, “What do you want George?”

            “I’m home baby,” he spread his arms wide, advancing as if to hug her, hold her close. She took a step back. George’s face fell, “Whatsa matter? You don’t miss me?” He jutted a thumb over shoulder, jabbing at the lingerie.

            “I want you to leave,” she said.

            “Well I ain’t goin’ nowhere you fucking bitch!”

            Martha turned to go, figuring it would be best to call the police from a neighbor’s house rather than argue. She took two steps before a pair of vices clapped around her arms holding her in place. Hot breath stinking of cheap bourbon hissed down the back of her neck.

            “What you gonna do? Huh? What you think you gonna do? This is my house. You’re my woman. Nobody leaves me. No big titty sluts and not you. Nooo, not you. Not you.”

            She squeezed her eyes shut.

            He kissed her on the shoulder, muttering, “We get back to us, and it’ll be all good… all good…” -- pulling her back to the bedroom -- “All good… good.”

            Through the window, from the trees, Luke Ansome watched his lady walk back to the bed. He didn’t recognize the man, but Luke did recognize the actions. He’d seen enough films to know what a kiss on the shoulder might mean. Usually the screen faded to black and then the next morning started playing. However, instead of a fade out, Luke watched the man spin Martha around and kiss her hard on the mouth. Her arms wriggled, feeling all over as the man clutched her. The man grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her onto the bed. Luke thought it looked passionate and wondered what it would be like to do the same -- throw yourself into the moment with an animal fury, grasping and pawing at one another till you screamed… help?

            “Help! Hel-up…” It sounded like someone shouting then getting a hand slapped across their mouth. Sometimes at school kids got beat on, and the larger boys would clamp a hand down to stop any shouting for teachers. The quick shrill scream followed by the muffled holler -- Luke knew what it sounded like, what it felt like.

            The stink off George’s hand filled Martha’s nostrils: tobacco, bourbon, and some earthy aromas. She slapped at him as best she could, but he ignored her struggling. It almost seemed to excite him. Her eyes stared at the window hoping.

            Luke didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t figure how to explain being in the area. He thought, I can say I was walking along and heard the shout. But that would mean admitting to a lie -- he’d told his parents he’d be at the creek, on the other side of town, fishing with some of his friends. People would find out what he’d been doing. He knew that would mean trouble. He started climbing down the tree slowly, afraid for the first time someone might see him.

            “That’s my girl -- oh girl!”

            A rock crashed through the window.

            “What the fuck?” George jumped out of Martha, thudding against the wall next to the bed. He launched himself off the bed and planted a foot right on broken glass. Jerking his foot back, he twisted at an awkward angle and fell in the corner. Swearing he pulled his cut foot to his face, the sock filling with blood. He plucked a three inch shard out, hollering all the way. Leaning against the wall, George got to his feet. Walking on the heel of his cut foot he limped to the window and called out, “You fuckers! Breaking a window, interrupting… I oughta…” he felt the first blow. But when he turned to acknowledge what had happened, Martha brought the rock across his temple. George spun around and fell into the broken glass. Martha dropped to her knees and beat on his skull till she felt the rock hammering the floor boards. Then she stopped. Still holding the stone, she squeezed her eyes as tightly shut as possible trying not to cry.

            “Hey lady?”

            She sucked in a startled breath.

            “Are you all right?”

            Martha sniffed back running mucus. She looked over at the window. Luke peered in through the broken pane. Martha made a hybrid sound, laughing-crying. A strange twisted smile spread on her face, and she wiped away the tears on one cheek leaving a smear of blood. Dropping the rock, she got to her feet.

            She went to window and whispered, “I’m fine. Did you…”

            “Yeah,” Luke said quickly, “I didn’t know what to do.”

            Martha placed a hand on the side of his face. Luke blushed just a touch; her hand felt so soft. Martha said, “You did just fine.”

            His eyes darted to the mess on the floor, “Is he…”

            “Yeah.” Martha nodded without looking. She stroked the boy’s cheek with her thumb, “But never you mind. He deserved it. You understand?”

            “He was hurting you,” Luke said.

            “That’s right,” Martha replied. She placed a finger over her lips, “And it’s our secret.”

            “I understand.”

            “Of course you do,” Martha said, smoothing the boy’s hair back. It stuck down, plastered by George’s blood. She smiled, “You saved me.”

            She leaned through the broken pane and kissed him on the mouth.

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Happy Fourth of July 2011

Why I Quit: The Gas Station

Doing Myth

Fire Across the Sky

Every Boy Wants to Be a Hero

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