I roam the Top Stop, eating my dinner. There’s a rack of discounted DVDs in a corner. I flip through them. It’s all stupid shit: movies about killers who use Rube Goldberg contraptions to torture their victims. No subtlety, no style, no sense of humor. Gore that panders to weirdoes with ponytails and goatees.
The clerk says “Shit.” The door opens, a chime rings out. Heavy boots clomp on the tile.
I duck behind a display of fruit pies.
Colt stumbles in. Everything about him looks yellow under the harsh lights: his skin, his teeth, his eyes. He stomps a foot and dirt explodes away from his boot. The clerk asks if he can help with anything, but Colt waves him out of his peripheral. The dirty bully massages his temple, winces, and stumbles to the side. He uses another food display for balance; a package of cookies and a bag of chips fall to the floor. He picks up the bag of chips and opens it, upside down. He drops a handful of canoe-shaped corn chips into his mouth and chews. Crumbs fall out of his mouth.
“You have to pay for those!”
Dirty toilet paper covers Colt’s hand—makeshift first aid from Brock’s attack. Blood has soaked through and become brown at the most saturated areas. A yellow rim surrounds the red. Gore has sealed the paper to Colt’s hand—mummification through infection. One collision with a hard object and I’m sure the bandage will burst open and unleash the vile blood and pus necessary to cause an epidemic of evil, zombie bullies.
“Hey, asshole,” the clerk says. It’s a squeak, the sound of a mouse fighting off a cobra. Colt’s terrible reputation precedes him, even in the grown-up world.
Colt empties the bag into his mouth, crumples it up, and drops the trash on the floor. He repeats the word “asshole,” elongates the “hole” until it becomes guttural in his throat, a sick animal roar: “ass hollle.” He shuffles toward the cash register with his arms outstretched like Frankenstein. Some of the bandages unravel and spool off his arm. Infection drips on the floor.
Ass hollle. …
Ass hollle. …
Colt reaches across the counter and claws the air. The clerk backs up against the wall, looks around for a weapon. There’s a mop sitting in black liquid. He pulls it out and forces the dripping end into Colt’s face. Colt’s head falls back but his arms still reach. The kid gives Colt another wash. The mop’s soggy dreadlocks get caught in Colt’s mouth.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Headlights from the parking lot pour into the Top Stop, pausing the action between Colt and the convenience store clerk.
The sheriff of our town steps through the doors, silhouetted by the headlights of his vehicle. One hand’s on his hip, the other on his holstered weapon. He looks like Eastwood’s Man with No Name. Light shines through the triangles made by his elbows, winged-out and heroic.
“What’s the trouble here, Mr. Stribal?”
“Shithead here doesn’t think he has to pay. And then he was trying to touch me with that.” The clerk points to the wound. The cop breathes through his teeth at the sight of it.
“Yeesh.”
Colt falters. He uses the counter for balance. The cop braces for Colt to fall, careful not to make actual contact. Colt regains his balance.
“I’ll take him home,” the sheriff says. “Hear that?” he yells into Colt’s ear. “I’m going to take you home! You need to see a doctor!”
Colt nods. I wonder what level of hell the cop has to visit to return Colt to his home.
The sheriff ushers Colt out by placing a hand in the small of his back. The bully has become docile.
We watch the sheriff put Colt in the back of his car. He slams the door, sealing Colt in. Then, he jogs in through the door, grabs a donut from the shelf, and leaves without paying for it.
***
In October, the movie theater in Silver Creek only shows horror movies. It’s a single screen relic with sticky floors and stale popcorn, but it shows original 35 mm prints. I’ve come to know the theater crew over the last couple of years, so they sometimes listen to my suggestions, but tonight they’ve decided to play The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, a standard. I’ve seen this movie close to thirty times.
I arrive at 11:30 p.m. and Steve isn’t there. I hang outside for twenty minutes. The fluorescent light from the marquee buzzes, turning people into pale-skinned zombies. I buy a ticket.
A stoned kid runs the box office. He’s reading the Anarchist Cookbook and looks up with bloodshot eyes when I approach.
“One, please.”
“Right on.” Prints the ticket. “Enjoy, Chief.”
I ask if I can use the phone. He makes like he exerts an enormous effort to let me use it.
I dial Steve’s number.
“Hey,” he says.
“Where are you? Movie’s about to start.”
“Oh shit, sorry. Parents say no way I’m going out tonight.”
“What the hell, man? This was your idea. It would have been nice to know sooner.”
“Hey man, it’s not my fault you don’t have a cell phone. I was planning to come, honest. My mom’s being a real bitch right now. You know, the curfew and everything.”
“Whatever.”
“We all don’t have cool dads,” he says. He severs the line. I give the phone back to the kid.
Fuck it, I’m already here.
The theater is empty except for four other people who have made sure to sit as far away from each other as possible. I catch on and find the most inconspicuous seat on the side. I have a choice between a cushion with a spring poking out and one with a stain on it. I weigh the odds that the stain might be jizz and choose the spring chair. I sink down; the seat provides no comfort and squeaks loudly. One of the other patrons shushes me.
The lights go out.
Nothing happens; the projectionist can’t thread the film.
One of the few people in the audience laughs.
It begins as a chuckle.
It becomes hysterical.
We all sit in the dark, listening to this terrible laughter.
Someone retreats; footsteps pass by me. I’m too afraid to do anything.
Nobody tells him to be quiet.
Finally, the whir of the projection sends a blinding square onto the screen. The laughter stops. The movie begins.
I sit up and make out the outline of the guy sitting in the front row. The Laugher.
The film which you are about to see is an account of the tragedy that befell a group of five youths. …
The hood of his coat is pulled over his head. There’s probably a skull underneath. Death has come to Silver Creek to see the midnight movie.
For them, an idyllic summer afternoon drive became a nightmare. The events of that day were to lead to the discovery of one of the most bizarre crimes. …
***
I wake up in the old theater, and my neck is sore from sleeping in the broken chair. It takes me a little while to register where I am. My watch reads 3:23 a.m.
I slept through the whole movie.
I stand up and stretch. I dread the sleepy ride home. I’m about to leave when I hear a noise—a faint cough behind me.
I’m not alone.
The hood.
The Laugher.
I don’t even turn around to validate it. I break into a sprint, crashing through the doors and onto my bike. That laughter follows me out of the theater.
All the lights in the neighborhood are out, but I still feel the watchful eyes from dark windows as I race through the night.
Brock IV
Brock has brought me a gift, I think.
A bird rests, spread and de-feathered, on my porch. It’s missing a leg and tiny guts fall out of the hole where they should be. Most of the stomach is gone and the ribcage is crushed in.
Somehow, it’s still alive.
It’s the worst thing that my dog has ever brought me.
Brock sits on the on the other side of the lawn, absently chewin
g on the leg. Even from where I stand, I can hear the crunching as the leg splinters and breaks up in his mouth. I look back at the dying bird and try to remember the last thing that Brock killed. Before the butterfly, he hadn’t touched anything. Now he sits there, looking at me with unrecognizing, black eyes. He doesn’t pant or give me the dumb dog smile that I love.
After he’s done with the leg he makes his way toward me. His walk is stiff and his hair stands on end. I’m suddenly aware that I’m standing too close to his trophy. I should back off, but years of friendship keep me from being completely en garde. I put my hand out so he can sniff it, to recognize his best friend. Instead, he takes a quick snap at it.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
He lowers his head to the rest of the bird. Without taking his eyes off me, he rips one of the wings off. The skin on the bird stretches like taffy until finally coming off in his mouth. The bird screams. Brock stares at me with the wing in his mouth; blood drips off his muzzle.
His scratches are worse. Much worse. The wounds extend all the way up his side. It’s difficult to tell where the actual wounds are because they’ve bled all over. Dirt sticks to the gore. The wound is laced with infection. It makes me gag. Flies hop around on him like they’re at a banquet. Maggots wriggle in his cuts.
If he would just let me take him to the vet, I could make him better.
I know this is my fault. I waited too long, but I can make it all better if you would stop scaring me.
The dog keeps growling. Saliva drips from his lips and around the broken appendage in his mouth. When he realizes that he’s at a safe distance to enjoy his treat, he turns around and eats the entire wing.
It occurs to me that Brock keeps the bird alive so it can watch itself being torn apart. It breaks my heart to see him, once my best friend, enjoying this sadistic game so much. I can’t let this continue any longer.
I step down on the bird. I feel it crush underneath my new sneaker. A thick stream of blood squirts out from under my shoe.
I look up and can’t help but think Brock’s smiling at me. It’s the first time he’s done so in some time.
Bull Shark
My dad’s voice is hoarse and loud, probably from neglect. Our conversations lately are limited to yes-or-no questions. It startles me when he asks me where I’m going. He might as well have been hiding in the bushes with a mask.
“I’m going to the aquarium.”
“The what?” He’s unshaven and his eyes are bloodshot, but he seems coherent enough. There is a large stain down the front of his Pismo Beach shirt, which I hope is chocolate. He stands in the doorway to the bathroom. I try to gel my hair, but his stare is distracting.
“The … uh … aquarium,” I say louder, pushing a gob through my spiked bangs. He watches me with a hint of disbelief through the mirror.
“The aquarium? That thing open?”
“I guess so.”
“Why the hell would we need an aquarium?”
“It’s new. It just opened,” I add as if that would be a sufficient explanation.
He looks down and scratches at the stain on his shirt. “Why are you all dressed up?”
I guess it could be considered dressed up: a black, collared shirt, and jeans with no holes. “I don’t know.”
“It’s that Ally girl,” he says. He lets out a hearty laugh that shakes me. He reaches behind him and fishes around in his back pocket, finally pulling out his dried-up wallet. He flips through some bills before handing me a twenty. This, in addition to the cash he gave me earlier has put me in the triple digits. There’s a picture of a penis drawn over Jackson’s face. He notices me looking at it and smiles. I don’t want to know if it’s his artwork.
“You and your little lady friend go out and have a good time.” He adjusts the waist on his pants and scratches his stubble. “Listen,” he says, speaking quietly and leaning in close. “You can bring her around. I don’t care. I’ll give you some privacy. And let me know if you need any protection. You know.” He makes a ring with his thumb and index finger and puts another finger through it. “Just want you to be safe.”
I shudder and mumble some sort of thanks before walking past him.
“Please let me know if you’re going to be out late.”
“Sure Dad.”
“And Jason.”
“What?” It sounds snappier than I intend.
“That dog of yours—he doesn’t look right. I think he needs to go to the vet.”
“I know. Don’t let him in the house.”
***
The aquarium looks like nothing else in Silver Creek. Most buildings stick to more of a rustic décor, but the aquarium looks like it was made in the near future, with glass domes jutting out and smiling dolphins painted on the side. It’s really more of a complex, a plagiarized version of Superman’s Crystal Fortress, but somehow more oppressing. I enter and meet an animatronic, talking octopus. The craftsmanship on the creature is pretty good—the latex arms unfurl as the sea creature welcomes you to its home. The voice of the octopus sounds like someone trying to do a Bela Lugosi impression. It’s a little upsetting. I turn away only to meet a similar, talking clam. The shells are too aggressive when they flap together. I retreat outside and wait for Ally.
Her mom drops her off. I forgot that she probably can’t ride a bike after her accident. I make the friendliest face to her mom that I can muster. She gives me a disapproving look from inside the car and says something to Ally. They both look annoyed. After one more hostile look in my direction, she lets Ally go and drives off.
I can’t even pretend to hide my happiness at seeing her.
“Hope you haven’t been waiting long.” She gives me a hug. Any awkwardness that could exist from the other night in the graveyard disappears with that embrace. Even with an injured arm, she squeezes hard.
“It hasn’t been too long.” I pause and look behind me at the entrance and gesture to the sea monsters. “I didn’t want to wait with them.”
“Oh yeah?” she says. “Well, don’t worry. I’m sure we can fight them off together.”
“If you say so.” Somewhere in the parking lot, a child screams, which is immediately cut off by the sound of a car door slamming shut.
We enter the aquarium fortress holding hands.
***
We get by the electronic animals without any hassle, and they seem more comical now that Ally’s with me. It makes me feel very childish. They seemed so scary when I was alone.
It doesn’t take very long for the quality of our town’s aquarium to amaze me. The vast amount of sea life is breathtaking. Ally and I wander through the tropical fish area, which is arranged in a massive water-maze: the walls are actual, clear tanks that extend from the floor to the ceiling. There aren’t plaques specifying species or anything, just one big ocean world where the multi-colored fish swim in and out of the protruding walls. The speakers run ambient music and muffled underwater noises to compliment the overall ethereal quality. Every now and then, a soothing woman’s voice comes over the music and talks about the species swimming along the walls. She has a British accent. I ask Ally if British people know more about marine life than Americans. She says, “Yeah they probably do.”
I watch kids run behind the protruding glass walls; their images become blurred and distorted. There’s a little kid behind me, blowing on the glass with his lips suctioned to it. I smile at the thought of these kids trapped like fish.
The next room has touch tanks and more kids run around, playing tag and yelling while their parents stand oblivious. Futuristic podiums jut out of the floor, each one supporting a large Petri dish of sea life. I touch a sea anemone. There’s a slight suction and its little arms curl around my finger. On the other side of the room, a wild kid lets out a piercing scream that causes me to jerk my hand back, pulling the anemone out with it. The creature lets go of my finger and drops to the carpet. Ally stifles a giggle. I hurry to put it back in the dish
, hoping that it’s not dead.
We walk over to the screaming kid and see that the Petri dish is full of urchins. He’s sucking on his finger, his cheeks vacuumed in for maximum healing effect. He must have poked himself on one of the sharp spikes. I dare Ally to touch one of them.
“Aren’t they venomous?” she asks.
“You think they would let you touch venomous animals?”
Ally points to the CAUTION sign and shrugs. “I don’t know. Some people can be evil. It could be a trick.”
“Like some evil genius uses this aquarium as a front to kill people with his deadly urchins?”
“Something like that.”
“Awesome.” I look down at the urchin and decide that it’s actually not such a far-fetched scheme.
“Fine,” Ally says, “I’m going to touch it, but if I die it’s your fault.”
She lowers her hand slowly into the dish, fingers spread and palm-down. While her attention is focused on her hand, I take advantage of the opportunity to look at her body. Barely visible through her sweatshirt, the slight swelling excites my imagination. I almost forget about the urchin. My eyes move up toward her face, but not before noticing the milky-whiteness of her skinny neck poking out of the baggy sweatshirt. A neck that would be beautiful to strangle, I think before quickly adding, in a Dario Argento film.
She looks afraid to take the plunge. The stalling gives me more time to study her. Besides a few acne blemishes, her face is perfect. Her glasses have slid down her nose and I want, with all my being, to push them up for her. I also want to tuck her hair behind her ears, and then kiss her. Maybe I would like to feel her up, moving into a private bathroom where she would wrap her legs around me and I would carry her into a stall, unzipping her hoodie and. …
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