by R. D. Tarver
“It’s just for a few weeks while we get the old ranch house fixed up,” his mother had promised. “Until then, we’re just going to have to make it work.”
Jesse contemplated the transition into his new environment as he toyed with the frayed hem of his favorite t-shirt—a hand-me-down from his older brother, Rick. There were holes in both of the armpits, and the inverted pentagram that held the faded Slayer logo was barely visible, but it was still his favorite.
The sound of the truck rattling down the dirt road drew nearer; it plodded along like a rusty old comet, dragging a long tail of dust up the gravel drive.
Bessie. That was the name Randy had given his old ‘77 Chevy Bonanza. How did people arrive at the names of their inanimate objects? And why was the pool of names so shallow? He watched the truck pull up the drive, saddled with what remained of his earthly possessions.
Randy’s tall, wiry frame emerged from the dissipating dust cloud. He nodded to Jesse as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing a tattoo of an eagle carrying a sword in its talons. The ink had long faded from its original black to a dark-greenish color set within the canvas of tan, leathery skin.
The lenses of Randy’s transition glasses had grown dark. The optical effect created the impression that his stepdad was always pissed off about something.
“Little help, Boss?” asked Randy.
Bessie’s tailgate was broken, requiring Jesse to stand on the rear tire to reach over the side of the pickup bed to retrieve the cargo.
He made a quick scan of the bed’s contents. Wedged between the wheel well and a pile of boxes rested his prized possession: a Fender Squire bass with a rosewood fretboard and black nitro finish that his parents had bought him on his thirteenth birthday.
Jesse had taken the modest manufacturing afforded to the base model and added several upgrades—namely a replacement of the stock pick- ups, machine heads, and the addition of a locking bridge. Even though it was his first project guitar, he was still satisfied all these years later with the work he had done.
He slipped the gig-bag strap over his shoulder and pulled out two boxes: one labeled KITCHEN, the other embellished with a hand-drawn skull and crossbones and the words RICK THE PRICK in bold black marker.
He brought the boxes into the trailer and deposited the first on the kitchen counter where his mother was battling what remained of the previous tenants—an embedded squadron of red wasps. She had managed to corner one of the bogeys behind the blinds of the kitchen window with a broom.
“Thanks, hon.” The words came between labored breaths as she pivoted back and forth on the balls of her feet. “Did you put your brother’s bed together like I asked?”
Jesse shrugged. “Can’t. The frame got busted up in the move, so I gave him mine.”
“And where are you going to sleep?”
“I’ll just put my mattress on the floor. No big deal.”
She swatted at the blinds just as a pair of yellow-tipped antennae emerged from between the slats.
“He can’t just sleep in a regular bed. He needs the adjustable frame to elevate his legs.” The insect folded its legs neatly up under its abdomen and fell twirling to the ground like a downed fighter jet.
Appearing satisfied with her conquest, she opened the window and called out to Randy. “What happened to Rick’s bed? Jesse said the frame got busted.”
“I said it’s not a big deal.”
His mother’s mouth gaped open. “That bed cost almost two thousand dollars after insurance. They’re not going to shell out for another one.”
Jesse relented. He knew when it came to his brother’s health, or money, that it wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on.
She swept up the wasp carcass into the dustbin and slammed the contents into the trash can. “I’m sorry to be the bad guy, but it actually is kind of a big deal.”
“He’s not a baby. He’ll be fine.”
His mother continued to yell at Randy through the open window as Jesse set off to deliver the remaining parcel.
He expected to find his brother fast asleep, as was generally his habit at two p.m. on a Saturday. Instead, Rick was at his desk in the customary meditative trance that accompanied one of his sacred listening sessions. Jesse observed the ritual elements: headphones resting atop his gleaming white dome, oversized wire-rim glasses laid down on the desk, and the smell of recently lit incense that announced the sanctity of the rite in progress.
Sensing the presence of another, Rick raised his hand, palm out, towards the source of the intrusion.
Jesse set the box down on the desk and pulled on the left ear of his brother’s hi-fi headphones. “You’re welcome, dickhead. Also, mom found out about the bed.” He let go of the padded headphone speaker, allowing it to thump against Rick’s skull in a manner that satisfied Jesse more than it should have. The headphone cable danced back and forth a few times before it came to rest next to the turntable that spun hypnotically at his brother’s side.
Jesse received a blow to the arm before Rick motioned for him to quiet. He produced a second pair of headphones and handed them to Jesse, who accepted the gift with reverence. Jesse jettisoned the gig-bag, stuffing the bass in the corner of the cramped, shared space before slapping the headphones over his ears and slumping to the floor.
Rick leaned forward over the arms of his wheelchair to reset the needle, knocking over a stack of photos pulled from a nearby shoebox. The topmost photo was an image of Rick and his late girlfriend, Julie, sitting on a motorcycle.
Jesse had coveted the bike, a ’77 400cc Honda Rebel, given to Rick by their biological father. The smell of the leather seat and the grip of the handlebars came rushing back, along with the many hours he spent sitting on the bike, pretending to ride it. Rick had even taken him out on it a few times before the accident. “Sissies sit on the sissy bar,” he would always instruct.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Rick said, carefully dropping the stylus on the record.
An eruption of unbridled electricity broke from the crackling vinyl. Jesse was immediately pulled in by the sound. A barrage of heavy kick drums settled into a bombastic cadence, an ominous prelude forecasting the inevitable sonic assault that would follow.
A pair of screeching guitars ripped through the pulsing rhythm, neighing like bucking broncos as they were broken into submission by the soaring vocal swarm that rose above it all.
Jesse recognized Rob Halford’s unparalleled range and vocal command as the track raged forth. He motioned for his brother to hand him the lp cover that stood propped up on the turntable lid to confirm his intuition.
He held the album cover, transfixed.
A winged chrome warrior, fist raised high, clutched the throttle of a demonic serpent cycle whose wheels, composed of gleaming metallic saw blades, hovered over an apocalyptic cityscape poised to sink into the fiery depths of Hell.
Jesse closed his eyes, entering into the divine soundscape conjured by the living metal gods themselves—Judas Priest.
As the second track ripped along, Jesse felt the tingle of goosebumps pushing up the hair on his arms. No sooner had he begun to lose himself in the music than he began to feel a sharp turbulence as he was pulled from his celestial orbit, crashing back into the mundane realm where he opened his eyes to find his mother standing before him, arms crossed.
“Is the truck empty?” she asked.
Jesse pulled the headphones from his ears and tossed them on the desk, aiming for the stack of photos. The disruption ejected Rick from his trance. An expression of shock gave way to understanding as Rick followed Jesse’s cue by placing a picture frame over the stack of loose photos. The frame held a recent polaroid of the Lynn brothers seated around their mother during her fortieth birthday celebration.
“I’m going, I’m going,” sighed Jesse. “Rick was just showing me the new record.”
“Randy has been running back and forth on the interstate all day long. The least you could do is make an effort
to pitch in.” She caught her breath as she examined the state of disarray that permeated the cramped bedroom.
Jesse put his hands up in an attempt to diffuse the coming onslaught. “Okay, don’t freak out. I said I’d do it.”
“This place is a pigsty, Jesse. You start a new school on Monday. Get it done.” She looked to the cluttered desk and picked up the framed polaroid that lay on top. “Oh, geez, I hate this picture.”
“Because it reminds you how close to death you are?” asked Rick.
She swatted Rick’s shoulder with the frame. “You’re not off the hook either, mister. You’re supposed to be finishing with these boxes, not warping your brother’s mind.” She handed the frame to Rick. “I want them all unpacked before supper.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stopped on her way out the door. “Boys, I know this is rough, but we have a chance at a new start here, and I need to know you are all on board.” She gestured to the mess as she continued. “The longer we spend moving into this hole in the wall, the longer it will take to finish up your grandparents’ house.”
“We’re on board,” said Jesse. Rick nodded in affirmation.
“Okay then,” she sighed. “Because if not, I’m going to send you both to stay with your Aunt Nancy so we can get some actual work done around here.”
“Oh no,” said Rick. “Please don’t force us to live in a retirement castle on Grand Lake with our cool aunt, tossing back cocktails with all the hot divorcee trim.”
Her smile faded. “She lets you guys drink?”
“Only when we take the boat out,” the brothers answered in unison.
His mother threw her arms up in the air and left the room.
Once she was out of earshot, Rick turned to Jesse. “Nice save, fuckwad.” He fished out the picture of Julie and the motorcycle from the stack of spilled photos and put it inside the desk drawer. “So help me—if you so much as put a scratch on my headphones.”
Jesse gestured to the lp cover. “So it finally came?”
Rick nodded. “Despite the best attempts of the Reno dipshit brothers.” He retrieved the LP cover and inspected it for any damage. “Six months, one week, and two days late, but she finally arrived.”
“Sweet. Can you make me a tape?”
“One step ahead of you, little bro.” Rick reached into the cassette deck mounted below the turntable and pulled out a newly minted cassette tape. He placed it in its case and handed it over to Jesse, who received the offering as if it were a holy relic. “This is going to change everything you’ve ever thought about Priest.”
2
Jesse and Randy had finished unpacking the truck by the time the sun had begun to recede beneath the trees. The two had worked in silence until the chore was done.
As they carried in the last of the moving boxes, Randy turned to Jesse before entering the trailer. “Try to go easy on your mother for a while. All right, Boss?”
Jesse looked to the ground, unable to meet Randy’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”
They passed from beneath the greying sky and into the warm light of the small kitchenette where his mother was cutting up vegetables next to a skillet filled with sizzling ground beef. Jesse’s stomach grumbled as he inhaled the welcome preparations for mealtime.
With his mother’s back turned, Jesse grabbed the soft-pack of gpcs on the kitchen table, shaking it to jostle a few cigarettes loose towards the torn-out corner of the pack.
“I’m gonna go take a walk up by the house. Be back in a while.”
His mother called over her shoulder, “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And promise me you’ll stay clear of the Old Townsite,” she started. “You remember what happened to little Jimmie Shankly? He fell down that mineshaft and —”
“And broke both his little legs, and no one could find him, so he starved to death, cold and alone—yeah, I know.”
“Such an awful story.” She shivered, presumably imagining Jesse in place of the dead boy at the bottom of the mine. “By the time I was your age nearly every one of your uncles had gotten stitches, or worse, from playing around in that death trap.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Jesse kissed his mother on the cheek and grabbed his jean jacket off the coat rack before striding back out into the evening air. “This place is practically Mayberry. What’s the worst that could happen?”
3
As he walked the property, Jesse was reminded of the time spent at his grandparents’ ranch when he was younger. It was a strange sensation to retrace the steps of your previous self across a landscape also marked by the passage of time. The longing for stability—for home—felt that much more elusive as he plodded along the bittersweet trail of memories.
The tawny, rolling hills lapped up the static horizon, a scene worthy of a picture frame that his mother might have hung from one of the woodgrain wall panels inside the trailer.
A lone grain silo stood some distance from the house, dilapidated and worn. He recalled the lazy afternoons spent inside the silo shuffling through owl pellets with his cousins, and the ossuary of small rodent bones that had amassed there over the years.
The ancient space possessed an eerie energy, rife with the potential to spur a child’s imagination towards the sinister. Jesse could remember knowing that some ancient evil had taken up residence within the ailing structure, though the passage of time had dulled the potency of the spell.
He lit a cigarette and headed towards the old ranch house.
As the house came into view, he saw a flash of light streak across the windows from inside. Probably just some meth-heads looking for something they can pawn. Welcome to Macomb Springs. New start, my ass.
As he approached the front door, he could hear laughter and the sound of breaking glass coming from inside the house. Music wafted out from one of the shattered front windows. Jesse recognized Ozzy’s vocals bellowing out the chorus of “Bark at the Moon,” the title track of his third solo album, released on Epic Records in November of 1983.
The data arose spontaneously, flowing naturally into his stream of consciousness. Ever since Jesse was a child he had exhibited uncanny musical recall. He could hear a song once—any song—and tell you the name of the song and the band that played it. And if he liked the song, he could even tell you what album it was from, the label that released it, and the year it came out.
The side door next to the garage on the east end of the house had been left ajar. Jesse finished his cigarette, listening to the commotion coming from inside the house. As he drew nearer, he heard a voice from inside.
“Hey, shut up for a second. I think I heard something.”
The music stopped.
A long-haired teen wearing a backwards ball cap stepped out from the shadows of the interior of the empty house. In his hands he brandished an empty beer bottle, and on his face, a pubescent attempt at a mustache.
“Hey, man, this is our squat.” The words squeaked out from behind a row of large, rodent-like teeth that showed beneath his upper lip.
A second voice called from the darkness. “Yeah, this one’s taken. Go find your own, perv.”
Jesse stepped on the butt of his cigarette, and let his eyes adjust to the dark interior of the house. He felt for the familiar shape of his pocket knife inside the watch pocket of his jeans and took a step forward.
Before he could cross the threshold, a teenage girl dressed in all black with matching black makeup stepped out from the shadows. The girl waved a bundle of smoldering herbs in the air and positioned herself between Jesse and the other two vagrants. She scanned Jesse for several moments before she finally spoke.
“It’s cool. He’s projecting a benevolent aura.”
Appearing satisfied with the assessment, the others stood down.
She took a step closer to Jesse. The whites of her eyes cut through the murk of violet ashes that streamed in through the undressed windows—a well-suited ambienc
e forged in the dying embers of daylight.
“I’m Mal. This is Alex.” The crash of a glass bottle breaking against the stone fireplace followed her introduction. She nodded towards the sound as she continued. “And that abomination of nature calls itself Rust.”
“That’s ’cause I’m all metal, and you know it,” Rust called out from the shadows.
“So who are you supposed to be?” she asked. The words were tinged with an electricity almost made visible as they charged the air in the darkened doorway.
“Jesse.”
“What the fuck do you want, Jesse?” asked Rust.
