by Jones, Brent
“Yeah.”
Franky balled his hands into fists, raised his voice. “I ain’t never seen Brennan raise a hand to his wife or daughter. Never spent a night in the drunk tank. Never blew his whole damn paycheck at the bar letting the rent go unpaid.” He gave Brennan an intense stare. “You ever get in a bar fight after having one too many? Ever drive home wasted?”
“Never.”
Franky looked back at Rocco, pounded his fist on the table. “He ain’t no fucking alcoholic, Rocco. Give it a rest.”
“Fine. What do I know?” Rocco turned his attention to the opposite side of the room and scratched the back of his head.
Chapter 9
Milwaukee twinkled in the night sky, its lights dancing on the black water. Brennan stood at the edge of the boat, hunched over its railing, casting a vacant stare toward the skyline. He touched his tattoo, bit his lip, did his best to tune out sounds of indistinct conversation, clinking cans, laughter, and a DJ who blared top forty pop anthems.
He thought of Colin, the son of Portuguese immigrants, who had started kindergarten unable to speak fluent English—a likely contributor to his shy and serious nature. As he grew older, he had the good hereditary fortune of chestnut brown hair, an angled jawline, prominent cheekbones, light brown eyes. But he was short as a teenager, socially awkward, wore tattered secondhand clothes. Outside of Brennan, Rocco, and Franky, Colin had had no friends, and he was routinely bullied in high school.
Brennan glanced to his right. “You guys ever think about that very last gig we played? The one at The Labyrinth?” He shouted to be heard over the music.
Rocco took a long sip of beer. “What about it?”
“I—I don’t know. I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“I think about it sometimes,” Franky said. “It was a great show.”
“That wasn’t what I—”
“Don’t think I could ever forget it,” Rocco said. “Met Crystal that night, remember?”
“This fucking guy,” Franky said with a cackle. “Signs up our band to play a gig and ends up with a kid nine fucking months later. Shoulda had on a pickguard, bro, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
Rocco narrowed his eyes. “Harlem was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“I know what you mean,” Brennan muttered.
Franky finished his beer and crunched the can in his hand. “Think maybe we should get the band back together? I mean, roofing only happens during the day. You work days,” he said, gesturing toward Rocco, “and Crystal has Harlem on weeknights. Brennan’s not working right now and he’ll have more time—”
“Now that my family’s dead?”
Rocco wrinkled his forehead, glared at Franky.
“What? Fuck, dude, aren’t we supposed to be trying to cheer him up?” He turned to Brennan. “Brennan, fuck, you know I don’t mean no harm, and I know you wanna get the band back together, too.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think we can jam,” he said. “I wrecked your drums.”
“You what?”
“I ruined them. Stomped ’em to death.”
“What? Why?”
“No reason. You’ll just have to trust me when I say I don’t mean no harm.”
Rocco laughed and slapped Franky on the back. “You goon.”
“I’ll buy you a new set just as soon as my wife’s life insurance comes through. That ought to cheer at least one of us up, right?” Brennan couldn’t have been more sarcastic if he tried. “What I meant earlier was, do you guys ever still think about Colin?”
Rocco answered first. “Every day.”
“Same.”
The night of their last show, The Turds of Yesterday had performed a few original songs for the first time, and the band was elated. After loading their equipment in the back of a cargo van, Rocco, then with a full afro, exchanged remarks with a couple of attractive young women who had been at the show.
He returned to his friends moments later. “Hey, so, these girls are inviting us to a party.”
Franky hoisted himself off the van’s bumper. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s Friday night—no one’s got to be anywhere tomorrow. We had a good show and I say we go celebrate.”
“Where’s the party?” asked Brennan.
“I didn’t ask. House party, I think.”
“Sounds about right. I’d be surprised if these girls are twenty-one.”
“Rocco likes ’em young, don’t you, Rocco?” Franky stuck out his hand for a fist bump but Rocco ignored him.
“Yeah, I’m in,” said Brennan. “Let’s go check it out. If the party blows, we’ll leave.”
“Works for me,” said Franky. “Your friends got friends for us?”
“We’ll see.” Rocco nodded toward Colin, who stood a few paces behind the van. “You in?”
Colin stuck his hands in his pockets. He looked pale, a stark contrast to the on-stage performance he had given less than an hour beforehand. He shook his head. “Not tonight, guys.”
“C’mon, Colin.” Franky approached him and gave his ribs a playful jab. “It might be fun. We’re all going.”
Colin teetered back and forth, signaling consideration. It was clear his answer hadn’t changed, but he was trying to be polite. “Nah, I’m good. You guys go on without me.”
Brennan knew there was no changing his mind. “All right. You at least wanna ride home?”
“I think I’ll just walk. It’s just, uh—” Colin searched for the right words. “I’m just not feeling so great. Gonna see if some fresh air helps.”
“Guess we’ll see you at practice on Sunday.”
Colin gave the band a grin but his eyes were cold, distant. “You bet.” He walked off toward Masten Park. It was the last time anybody saw him alive.
Brennan returned to the moment, finished his beer.
“Ready for another?” asked Franky.
Brennan handed Franky his empty can. “I still just can’t believe we didn’t see it coming.”
Rocco touched Brennan’s shoulder. “None of us did, Bee. But we can’t change it now.” He released a deep breath, looked out on the water. “I mean, Jesus, the way that kid used to get picked on.”
Brennan nodded and thought back to the day Colin got jumped walking home through Masten Park. Brennan, Rocco, and Franky had all gathered around him at band practice. He had a fresh black eye and a split lip.
“Wish I’da never been born,” said Colin.
“You don’t mean that,” said Brennan.
“Fine,” said Colin, filthy and forlorn. “Wish I’da been born some place else. San Francisco, maybe. Mighta been easier out there. People are more accepting.”
“They are?” asked Franky.
“It’s the gay capital of America,” said Rocco. “That’s all he means.” He turned to Colin. “How ’bout this? Let’s make a pact right now, all of us, that we’ll visit San Francisco together someday. We’ll save up some cash and drive out to California. Next year, maybe, if we’re lucky.”
Colin’s expression didn’t change, but his tone brightened a little. “I’d like that.”
Rocco raised a bottle of warm beer, and Brennan and Franky followed his lead. “To new beginnings.”
Brennan returned to the present again, fixated on the notion that California was somehow a beacon of hope. But he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he expected to find out there. A new beginning, all nicely gift wrapped? He cleared his throat. “You remember when we promised Colin we’d take him to California?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“You really think there’s new beginnings out there?”
Rocco took a deep breath, sighed. “Bee, I think we make our own new beginnings. And this—” He pointed to Franky, returning with another round of beer, “—this, is just making it harder to get there.”
“Not this again, Rocco.” Franky handed each man a beer, grunted. “Give it a rest.”
“C’mon, man,” said Rocco. “He spent
the afternoon passed out in bed. We didn’t even make it to The Harley-Davidson Museum.”
“You guys coulda gone without me,” said Brennan, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let me hold you back.”
“Not the point, Bee. That’s not why we’re here.”
“No?
“Come on, man, you’re better than this.”
Brennan hesitated, then raised the tall can of beer to his mouth in slow motion, making a deliberate show of knocking back a mouthful. “You don’t get it, man. And I hope you never do.”
The men stood in silence, finished their beers, and visited the lower deck for dinner.
After stuffing himself at the all-you-can-eat taco station, Franky showed off his uncoordinated moves on the dance floor, his belly heaving with each clumsy motion. He danced alone—others aboard the craft gave him space—while Rocco stood nearby making small talk with other passengers.
Brennan ignored them both, skipped the tacos and stayed close to the bar, ordering himself another beer as fast as he could drink the last one.
Rocco, having lost count of how many drinks Brennan had downed, walked over to him, his forehead creased with deep wrinkles. “Bee, think you oughtta slow down?”
“I fink ahm jusss gettin’ ssstarted.”
“Bee . . .”
Brennan, deciding he wanted a cigarette, staggered to the stairs leading back to the upper deck. The boat rocked on the water and he lost his balance halfway, caught himself on the descent, just as a man coming down the stairs stepped on his fingers.
Through bleary eyes, a swimming mind, unbalanced posture, Brennan decided the man had done it on purpose. He scrambled to his feet, swayed, examined his attacker. The man looked to be in his late twenties, wore cargo shorts, a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and had long hair tied in a bun. He smiled, extended his hand to help, said, “I’m so sorry, man. Are you okay?”
Brennan thrust two hands in his chest, pushed the man backward on the stairs. “Wasssh where yer fucking goin’, pal.”
The man, caught off guard, stood still for a moment, assessing the situation. The smile drained from his face. “What’s your fucking problem? You fell and I was trying to help your drunk ass back up. I didn’t mean to step—”
Brennan lunged forward, convinced the man was calling him a liar. “You ssshould be murrr—” He toppled with the boat’s movement, hands outstretched, “—careful!” A small crowd of onlookers had gathered at the bottom of the stairs.
The man took a step back, distancing himself from Brennan. “Look, you’ve got a problem, man. Just take it easy. Just—” He pointed at the ring on Brennan’s left hand, “—go home to your family, and . . .”
Brennan took offense to the man talking about his family, and lunged forward again. Rocco broke through the crowd and grabbed Brennan, ushering him out on the upper deck. “The fuck’s wrong with you, Bee?”
“That guy ssstomped on my haaand. He brrrroke my fingers an’ he did it on purrrpose.”
Rocco inspected his hand. “Nothing’s broken, Bee. They’re just a bit red and swollen. You’ll be fine. But what’s gotten into you? Never seen you pick a fight with a stranger.”
“He wuzz talkin’ ssshit ’bout Rosie, too.” Brennan lit a cigarette with his undamaged hand.
Rocco had watched the entire scenario unfold from the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t refute his friend’s claims, just scratched his head and said, “Bee . . . this isn’t you, bro.”
“Then who ish it, Rocco? Who am I?”
Rocco said nothing. He just sighed, folded his arms, and kept watch.
Brennan swayed at the edge of the boat, once more leaned against its railing. “I’m gonna get another drink.”
* * *
Rap-rap-rap. “You okay in there, Bee?”
Brennan heaved again, groaned, hugged the porcelain, desperately hoped the spinning would stop. He was certain he had nothing left to bring up.
Rap-rap-rap. “Bee? Can I get you something?”
Brennan wiped his mouth, heaved again, missed the toilet, and gave his mouth another wipe. His cheeks were streaked in tears. He was helpless to the painful heaves, too delirious to be sure what was happening. The fluorescent lights in the hotel bathroom buzzed, stung his sensitive eyes, and he wobbled on the brink of consciousness.
Rocco stood outside the door. He sighed, his forehead again wrinkled with worry. “What a fucking night.”
Franky, who was lounging on the bed, flipping through muted channels, gave Rocco a blank stare. “Is he all right?”
Rocco placed his hand on the knob and licked his lips, unsure what to do next. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna just barge in but he’s not answering.”
Franky got off the bed and walked over to the bathroom. Rap-rap-rap-rap. He knocked with much more force than Rocco had. “Brennan, are you all right in there? Can we get you something?”
Both men heard retching on the other side of the door. Rocco softened his voice to a whisper. “See? This is what I’m talking ’bout, Franky. He’s out of control. We gotta curb his drinking or we might as well turn back now.”
“He’s grieving, man. He’ll figure it—”
“I don’t think he will.” Rocco scratched the back of his head and winced at the sound of another heave. “We gotta do something.”
Franky lowered his voice. “You gotta do something, Rocco. C’mon, man. We both know the guilt is eating you up inside.”
Rocco narrowed his eyes and grabbed Franky’s shirt. “It’s not like that.”
Franky blinked, puffed out his chest, and rapped on the door again. “We’re coming in.” They listened for a response—more heaving, what sounded like sobbing—and pushed the door open.
Brennan was curled up on the tiled floor, next to the toilet, splotches of yellow all over. “Git outta hurrr . . .”
Rocco snatched a hand towel off the rack and handed it to Brennan. “Wipe your face, Bee. You’re a mess.”
Brennan took the towel and let it drop to the floor beside him.
Franky filled a glass with water. “Drink this, man. Get some water in you.”
Brennan didn’t respond. He was slumped over the toilet, staring into the bowl and waving his friends away.
“This is what happens when you eat nothing for a week and drink your ass off all day. How is this helping?”
Franky grunted and sat on the edge of the tub. “Can we get you something?” He intended to comfort Brennan with a pat on the back, but it was more of a slap. “Can we—”
A dry heave, some spitting, and Brennan murmured, “Fender . . .”
Franky looked up at Rocco for a second, and then back at Brennan. “Fender? He’s fine. He’s sleeping on—”
“Fender . . .” His voice was hoarse, a faint cry. He spit in the bowl again, struggled to lift his head. “Bring me . . . Fender . . .”
Rocco shook his head. “It’s a mess in here, Bee, Fender shouldn’t—”
“I need . . . Fender . . .”
The room spun harder and Brennan’s field of vision blackened, closing in. He lost consciousness, his mind taking him back ten years to a stormy night outside his apartment.
Chapter 10
Brennan staggered outside into a massive storm, rolling thunder clapping in the evening sky. The pizza delivery guy was soaked and his jacket clung to his body. He greeted Brennan without a smile, the cardboard box in his hands losing its rigid shape. Brennan was uneasy on his feet, swaying from side to side, medicated, semiconscious, and hungry.
The delivery driver opened his mouth to give Brennan the total, but was interrupted by a clap of thunder that shook nearby windows.
“How mush wuzzat?”
“Nineteen fifty,” the driver said. He grimaced as the booze on Brennan’s breath entered his nostrils. “Plus tip.”
Brennan noticed the rain had ruined the cigarette in his hand and he tossed it away. He grabbed the pizza and the driver ran for his rusted hatchback, the rough engine b
ackfiring through a ratty muffler. Brennan paused before returning indoors. A sliver of streetlight revealed movement beneath an Oldsmobile parked at the side of the road. Something was hiding from the raging storm.
Brennan set the sopping pizza box on the front steps and inched closer. Whatever was lurking down there seemed to retreat farther beneath the boxy frame. He got down on his hands and knees—submerging his pajama pants in a murky puddle—and saw a small dog, shivering in the dampness, scared and timid. The dog was emaciated to the bone, chunks of fur missing to reveal rough skin and abrasions. Brennan extended his hand and the dog cowered and emitted a half-hearted growl.
“Wasss yer name?” The dog tilted his head to the side, and Brennan regarded his bare neck—no collar or name tag. It looked raw and swollen, as though he had fought to break free of a rope or a chain. “Guess ya don’t hafff one.” Someone passed on the sidewalk, and Brennan, drunk and soggy as he was, thought he must have looked silly—on his knees, drenched, and babbling to phantoms in the road.
Without warning, the dog replied. Not with his mouth and not in English, but Brennan understood every word. Please don’t hurt me. His speech came out a high-pitched whine. I don’t mean you any harm. I just don’t like the rain very much.
“Where’d you come from?”
I escaped, he said, shaking the water off his body. I’m not sure from where. A place real far from home. My humans drove me out there and tied me to a tree. I thought they’d come back, but they didn’t. Bugs started biting me when I was sleeping, so I broke free and looked for my humans, but couldn’t find them.
“Thasss awful,” said Brennan. “Why’d anybody do ’at to ya?”
Probably because I was being bad. My humans tell me I’m bad a lot.
“Think they’re out lookin’ for ya?”
The dog sighed in his own language. I hope so. I miss them and I want to go home.
“I’m missin’ suhbody riiigh now, too.”
They left me a week ago. Or maybe it’s been two weeks now. I’m not sure. I’m not very good at telling time. I hope they find me. I’ll try to be better. I just hope they haven’t forgotten about me.
