“So then, how do you know he didn't kill anyone?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Dean.
Patrick held up his hands in frustration. “I don't know, maybe he was sitting in the tunnel playing his PSP, and a fucking hobo showed up and tried to take it from him, and he stabbed him in the eye with a pencil.”
John and Dean exchanged glances and burst out in laughter almost simultaneously.
He stared at them amusedly. “I'm just saying,” he said.
“First of all,” John said, “if he murdered someone in that tunnel, there would be all kinds of people there. Ambulances, firetrucks, the national fucking hobo society—”
Dean laughed loudly.
John continued, “And they wouldn't be taking Tim back to school, they'd be taking him to jail, man.”
“It's not like I was totally serious.”
Tim sat down in a chair in the Principal's office. He stared down at his fingernails. The police officer was talking to Principal Harris in the next room.
What were his parents going to say?
Was Elmer okay?
What was his crime here, really?
Suddenly, Officer Yates came out of the office and sat down next to Tim. He smelled like a mixture of pine needles and Febreze.
“Listen, son. I hope I haven't scared you too much. But you need to understand something. When I was your age, I used to dick around like you all the time. I didn’t take school seriously, took me a long time after the real world hit me for me to get my shit together. And it pisses me off to see kids skipping school and fuckin' off—sorry—like you've been doing. I used to go to this very school, and I know it sucks. Don't tell anyone I said that, but you need to be in school, man. I've worked this area for a while now, and I've seen you walking up and down the streets during school hours. It was time you learned your lesson.”
Officer Yates stood up. “Hold out your arms.”
Tim reluctantly held his arms in front of him like a sleepwalking bear. Officer Yates pulled his nightstick from its holster and drew back.
Tim winced.
Quickly and as gentle as a butterfly landing, he popped Tim on the wrist.
“Now go in there, Principal Harris needs to talk to you.” He turned to walk out of the room. Turning, he said, “Stay out of trouble, Mr. Johnson.”
Tim knocked on Principal Harris' door.
“Come in.” Came the voice from the other side.
Tim opened the door, and Principal Harris reached out his hand as if he wanted Tim to shake it.
Awkwardly, Tim reached his hand out, a bit apprehensive.
“I just wanted to shake your hand, son,” said the principal. “Officer Yates tells me your quick thinking and action possibly saved another student's life this morning.”
Tim was astounded.
Harris continued, “And while I have no idea what both of you were doing off school property when it happened, Officer Yates assured me that it was definitely before school began this morning. Is that correct?”
“Y-yes sir.” Tim stammered.
“Fantastic. No harm done then.” Principal Harris was thinking of how good of a reflection this was on the school. A white student uses quick thinking to save the life of a fellow black student using knowledge he gained while attending his school. The implications. “Tell you what, Tim. It's the last day of school, how about you take the rest of the day, and start that summer vacation early. You've earned it.”
Tim was still in shocked disbelief.
“Yes, sir,” he said finally. “Sounds great.”
“Have you got a way home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great.” This was a good thing. He didn't need Tim telling the whole school what happened.
Tim walked out of the front doors of his school early that day, unsure whether he should feel pride or some other feeling. He stood, hands on hips, shirt flapping in the wind, and gazed around the campus wondering how he was really going to get home. He had lied to Principal Harris, of course; he didn't have a car.
“Hey, Charles Manson, they really let you out already?” John said from Tim's left.
Tim turned and saw the three of them watching him. His face flushed. He dropped his hands from his hips quickly.
Tim told the three of them what happened, leaving out, of course, his motive for wanting to go to the tunnel. Instead, he said he had put an SNES emulator on his PSP, and he had planned on trying to beat Super Mario World this morning. The group of them listened intently, only speaking when they were sure he was done talking.
“Hot shit, man,” Patrick said. “That's awesome.”
“Does your wallet have teeth marks on it?” Dean asked.
“If it does, it's from you getting too close when you kiss his ass,” John said, making kissing noises.
They all laughed.
“Only problem is I told him I had a way home,” said Tim.
“You do,” said John. “Right Pat?” He looked in the direction of the back parking lot. Towards Patrick's car.
Patrick thought for a moment. He looked at Dean. “You cool with this, too?”
“Yeah man, fuck it, let's go.” Dean said.
“Okay. Fuck it.”
CHAPTER SIX
The four of them walked to Patrick's car as he unlocked the doors. John called shotgun and climbed in the front seat. Dean and Tim each took a seat in the back and shoved the random trash out of their way. Patrick reached for a flyer that was stuck under his windshield wiper and read it aloud: “My Last Midnight and Little Girl Lost. End of school bash. Five bucks to get in.”
He tossed the flyer onto the center console, and Dean reached for it and read it for himself. “No way I'm going,” he said.
“Oh my God,” said Tim. “Is this about Paige Jackson? Let her go, dude.”
Paige Jackson was Dean's ex-girlfriend. She had dumped Dean at a My Last Midnight show at the old Wired venue.
But the way that she had broken up with him was the worst. She had begged Dean to take her to the show all week, so he had gotten Patrick to sort of chauffeur them around for the night, an excuse to include him on the show too, since he had also wanted to go.
The two of them had picked up Paige and taken her to eat at TGI Fridays. After dinner, they had gone to Wired—the local coffee shop which also hosted bands—for the show.
During the night, Paige had been acting strange towards Dean. And when the band started playing, she got up and started dancing obnoxiously in front of the lead singer. The singer took off his shirt and threw it on the ground, growling into the microphone and climbing the wooden ceiling supports like King Kong. He seemed to sing every word to Paige.
My Last Midnight was known for their antics, but this still bothered Dean. What the hell was this guy trying here? Suddenly, Paige trotted over to where Dean and Patrick were standing. The band was between songs and the singer announced that the next song was a slow one called Coloring Book.
“Oh my God, I love this one!” Paige exclaimed to Dean.
Dean said, “That's great.” His frustration was visible.
“Look,” she said. “I can't do this anymore. I've been meaning to give this to you.” She looked at Patrick as she shoved a note into Dean’s hand. “Thanks for the ride,” she said. She turned and ran back to the front of the crowd.
Dean looked down at the folded note in his hands. He opened it and read the note:
Everyone's been telling me that you are social suicide. And I can't cope with these feelings that you're giving me. I wanted you to want me for me, but now all you want is my body. I really hate to leave you on a night like this.
Paige
She had broken up with him for the singer from My Last Midnight. What was worse, she had done it using their lyrics.
Patrick pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Where am I going?” he said.
Tim said, “Well, was Wolf at school?”
“I didn't see him,”
said John.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I highly doubt it.”
He pulled the car back into the road. “Okay then,” he said, “we'll go by his place.” He eyed Dean and Tim in the rearview mirror. “I still need your money,” he said.
Light-hearted grumbling came from the backseat as a shower of two fives and a ten landed in his lap.
“Thanks,” he said. “I get tired of buying for ya'll.”
“I get so tired of buying for ya'll, blah blah blah…” came the playful, jeering voice of Tim.
“Aye, fuck you buddy!” Patrick said, doing his best Canadian South Park character voice.
Dean was quiet. He was thinking about the upcoming trip. He was thinking about the Goatman. He still hadn't had a chance to tell the guys what he had read the night before.
They pulled into the Fox Chase subdivision, found Wolf's house and pulled into his driveway.
Patrick gathered the money and added his own and John's, totaling forty dollars. “You guys are coming with me, you know,” he said.
Uproar filled the car.
“Come on, man,” Dean shouted. “We don't know him like that!” Tim and John nodded in agreement.
His fingers twisted and gripped on the steering wheel. He turned in his seat to face everyone. “I don't give a shit about that! I'm tired of dealing with him on my own. He already offered us the deal, he's not going to back out when you guys walk in. You guys always want to enjoy, but you never want to go any further.”
John said “Well, we do throw in money, you know.”
“You're coming,” Patrick said as he got out of the seat and shut the door. The rest of them got out of the car slowly.
They shuffled sluggishly towards the doorway, knowing the rest of their day would be confusing, and most likely, terrifying.
He raised his hand to press the doorbell when they heard a sound.
Pssst.
Looking above them, they saw where the sound had come from. Wolf was standing in an open window. He began to lower a metal ladder out of the window onto the ground between John and Tim.
Wolf was wearing a Slipknot shirt and big pants with chains hanging from them. All black. His hair was in dreads.
The ladder clanged on the concrete driveway, and Dean mumbled something about how there was no way.
“Quit being a bitch,” Patrick muttered.
Wolf said, “You guys have the forty dollars, right?”
“Yeah, we got the money, but why are we climbing into your house like firemen rescuing old ladies?” Tim said.
“Bro,” Wolf said. “D’ya want the shit or not?”
They wanted the shit.
One by one, they climbed the ladder until they were all inside the room. Wolf's bedroom was a room above the garage of his mom's house. He pointed to his door. “I had a lock put on the door,” he said. “To keep my bitch of a mom out.” He pointed to a cordless phone in the corner. “And that right there is my personal phone line. Had it installed so I could handle business in private. Turns out my mom's boyfriend works for the cable company, so—free shit.”
Patrick had been in here many times, but the other three boys looked around the room in amazement. The ceiling was slanted on two sides, running up to the roof. Along the walls were dozens of posters showcasing metal bands and obscure movies. Wolf had a large flat-screen television and a huge collection of games and movies. In the corner of the room stood a bookshelf with little metal tins on the shelves and incense burning in a glass holder. There were wall-mounted speakers in all four corners of the room, and Rob Zombie was blasting over the speakers, yelling about digging through the ditches and burning through the witches.
“This is awesome,” said John.
“Yeah,” agreed Tim and Dean in unison.
It was pretty cool, thought Patrick. If not a little bit lame. I mean who still listened to Disturbed?
He turned away and rolled his eyes. He thought that they wouldn't think it was so cool in a few minutes.
Wolf began pulling bean-bag chairs out from the closet and placing them around the room.
He picked the bag closest to him and plopped down hard in the most anticipatory fashion. It was a gesture that said let's just get this over with.
Wolf looked at Patrick, then turned to stare at the other three. Dean looked at Wolf in wide-eyed confusion.
“Don't you know you're being rude, man?” Wolf asked Dean.
“I'm sorry?”
“Don't be sorry, just sit down. Shit, you treat all your hosts with such disrespect?”
Sitting, Tim said, “I think you've got us wrong man, we, Wolf, it's just that we didn't know. We're sitting. Right, guys?”
Dean and John looked sheepish as they sat down in their chairs.
“Pat,” Wolf said. “I'm assuming your friends are more of the meet the guy in the bathroom at school and toss the bud and the money under the stalls type. But as you know, I always let everyone test my product. I think of it as a courtesy. I mean, where else can you test something out for free before you buy it?”
Patrick thought, car dealerships, gym member-ships, oh I could go on. He kept these thoughts to himself, though.
“We appreciate this,” said Tim.
“Yeah, man,” John said. “Thank you.”
Wolf walked over to the bookshelf and opened one of the metal tins. He pulled out a fist-sized chunk of fuzzy green marijuana. “Now, as Patrick will tell you, I'm very generous with my bud. I don't fuck with those little glass pipes or coke cans or none of that hobo shit. I make blunts, and I make ‘em loud. So, sit the fuck down, and get ready.”
Tim looked around just to be sure he wasn't crazy, and they were all indeed already sitting the fuck down except for Wolf.
“Will we be here a long time?” Dean said. “I've got supper at five.”
Patrick shot Dean a look.
Wolf finished rolling the hefty blunt and began running his tongue up and down the sides of the paper, his tongue ring bobbed up and down. John saw this and thought he was going to puke.
Wolf stuck the blunt in his mouth and lit the end of it with a match from the shelf. The tip lit up a bright orange as he inhaled. He sucked in deeply, and after a few seconds, he blew the smoke out of his mouth, filling the room. The smell of it was terrible and amazing at the same time.
Finally, Wolf walked over to Patrick and handed him the blunt. He took it, said thank you, and began to inhale. Turning to Dean, Wolf said, “Don't worry about supper, man.”
Dean, unsure of what to say, just nodded and said “Okay.”
Patrick began coughing violently and passed the blunt to Tim, who was sitting on his left. Then Tim passed it to Dean, and Dean passed it to John.
After everyone had taken their turn with the blunt and the resulting coughing fit, Wolf went to the stereo and began playing some spacey instrumental music.
Patrick was floating already. He looked to his left and saw Tim slowly bobbing his head from side to side, his eyes glazed.
“Good shit, huh?” Wolf asked.
The four of them mumbled in agreement, and Wolf began to laugh hysterically. “You guys can't even fucking think!”
Wolf pulled up his own chair and sat down and began to explain the intricacies of unlocking the full potential of your mind.
Here we go, thought Patrick. Always some stupid bullshit.
Dean sunk down in his chair and stared at the ceiling. A poster for Slipknot's album, IOWA was on the slanted ceiling opposite him. The poster prominently displayed a sinister looking black goat.
Wolf saw Dean staring up at the poster. “You like that album?” he asked.
“What?” Dean's voice seemed to come from someone else.
“Do you like that album? You a Slipknot fan?” Every word seemed to reverberate around the room.
“Oh,” Dean said. “No, not particularly. I guess I just wondered what the deal was with the goat.”
Wolf lit another blunt and inhaled. “Well,” he said, “
the goat is supposed to symbolize the face of the Devil. Some call him Baphomet.” He said all of this so matter-of-factly that it was obvious he felt proud of his knowledge.
Dean relaxed in his chair and closed his eyes, trying his hardest not to think of the Goatman.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After his bags were packed, Patrick was asked by his mother to go over his story once more. He told her that he and the other boys were going on a church trip to Tennessee. There was a church trip, but the boys wouldn’t be attending. After their parents had forked over the money for the trip, each of them were supposed to take it—along with the permission form—to the church on a Wednesday night meet. Instead, the boys had gone to Wal-Mart and purchased camping gear and snacks. The only problem with their plan was in the assumption that none of their parents would talk to the Youth Minister at the church, Garrett Jones. It was a risk they took, understanding the consequences, but the boys felt certain it wouldn't be a problem. None of their parents could stand 'Brother Garrett,’ as they found him pretentious and judgmental.
Patrick stood in the kitchen and talked excitedly to his mom about how they were going to be going into the slums and ministering to unfortunate children. When his mother's face showed a look of suspicion, he toned down the excitement a bit and instead shifted the conversation into a different direction, recalling all the pretty girls they had seen last year, and how Brother Garrett let them stay up as late as they wanted. This seemed to satisfy her.
Dean and Tim had both been dropped off at his house that Saturday morning around eight o'clock. The plan was to get to the campground around lunchtime and have plenty of daylight to set up their tents and get wood for a fire. Their parents, however, only knew the bus to Tennessee was leaving at ten o'clock and, for whatever reason, the boys wanted to arrive together.
Kids were weird.
When Gary Hall walked outside to get the paper, the three boys were busy trying to shove all their bags into the tiny trunk of Patrick's Tempo. Amused, he stood for a moment watching them, and then he took a sip of his coffee, set it down, and walked over to the three of them.
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