by A.R. Rivera
I am playing The Reason. The notes and composition are well within my ability. The lyrical content is just as relevant today as twenty years from now. And it sounds great unplugged.
So now, what would have been an original by Hoobastank will forever be known as the break-out, genius work of one G Springer. I’m still working on my stage name.
It’s Abi’s all-time favorite song. Anytime she hears it, she stops what she’s doing and turns up the volume. I can almost see her now, in front of the stereo in her living room, shushing me as she rolls the sound dial all the way up to sing along. She drags out the notes longer than they’re meant to be, clutches her chest and closes her eyes. That image of her and the melody have been looping through my head. The song, like the girl, sticks.
The guitar is perfectly tuned, equipped with the new strings I found inside the junk drawer in my dad’s cluttered kitchen. I’ve worked on my transitions all morning and have them down to a science. The melody is bright and in perfect pitch. All that’s left to do is wait.
The phone call telling me what time to show for the trial performance came early—minutes after sneaking inside the house.
Lazily sprawled on my dad’s puffy arm chair, I strum to pass the time. The house is empty and should be for a few more hours since little G’s talent show starts soon. My fingers work silkily across the new strings, stretching and fine-tuning while running through finger exercises to loosen up. I’m humming—it’s good practice for breathing techniques. Some of the parts carry long notes and I don’t want to sound winded—and warming up my throat since I’m supposed to be there in thirty minutes.
I’ve spent the majority of the last few hours eating leftovers that I’m sure won’t be missed and watching old westerns my dad has on the giant laser disc player, which never did catch on. Now that I have my song down, the last thing to do is drink a cup of hot tea with honey and lemon. It’s good for the throat. The water is heating in the microwave.
When the timer goes off I’m in the middle of a really good rhythm and don’t want to stop. A few more runs through the chorus before I have to leave.
They’ve got no idea what they are about to witness! I cheer for myself, imaging the forthcoming accolades of the live audience when I finish. Every performer needs to have a convincing humility when they bow, so I work on that. Looking into the oval mirror on the opposite wall of the living room, I stand with my hand humbly clutched to my chest, thanking my audience and blowing kisses to screaming girls.
Inside the kitchen, my tea is really dark. I was a little long winded with my Grammy acceptance speech. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, it’s for my throat not my palate, and gulp it down. The lukewarm temperature and bitter taste is a sure sign. I let it steep too long.
Taking one last look around, I check to make sure I have everything I’ll need: guitar, strap, extra picks, and lyrics with notes. I’d love another set of strings but I was lucky to find the one. The new ones have stretched a little more so I fine tune them before throwing everything inside of little G’s gig bag and head for the back yard.
The sun is setting as I rest my things against the porch railing, then shut the aluminum door and lock it from the inside before heading to my old room. In there, I climb back out the window, replace the loose screen, and traipse through the mud beneath the apple trees to make it back around the side of the house and to the back porch where I left my things.
My family might be back before me so I couldn’t leave any traces of entry or exit. They may not care if I was here, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to inform my dad when I saw him last. Even if I remembered to tell him I would pop over, he lacked the presence of mind to respond. I figured it was best for everyone if I just kept my visit secret.
With the guitar bag strapped firmly to my back, I begin my ascent up the pile of rusting metal, then over the tall brick wall into the parking lot of the shopping center, on my way to fame and fortune.
Up high on the wall, the dimming cityscape of a Los Angeles is laid out before me. The pink-orange backdrop never fails to impress. Out there, somewhere, is the person with the power to take me and my life to the next level. I can make up for my wasted youth by creating a better future, or if nothing else, greatly improve the quality of this vivid dreamland. Either one is better than sitting around, passing the time in meaningless increments with nothing to look forward to except the inevitable poverty and insanity.
My next attempt on the theme of improvement—I’d like to continue the conversation with my dad, find out what he meant by “keeper.” I haven’t had a chance to sit down with him since the other night. I think he’s embarrassed over how he handled himself. He should know that he doesn’t have to put on a show for me. I can see why he would feel that way. Exposing vulnerability isn’t easy, even with family.
Walking down the wooden plank propped against the other side of the cinderblock wall, I notice the lot is darker than usual. The lights over the parking area haven’t turned on yet. Walking towards the back corner the shopping center, I notice a crunching sound with each footfall and look down. Tiny bits of glass are sprinkled over the blacktop. The way the grey fragments spin and flip on the asphalt reminds me of the broken street lamp outside Abi’s house.
Coming along the back of the building, just before I turn the corner, something hits me. Hard. I can’t see what it is, but it feels rock solid. In the same moment the buildings leap away, leaving only dark sky in front of me.
I’m flat on my back. On top of the guitar. The edges of it press into my bones. A throbbing fire comes on like a ripple in a pond, starting mild and warm, growing in potency until it feels as pure as scorching flames. It’s more than pain, its agony and spreading between my shoulder blades, screaming up through my head.
I reach around, trying to turn, to get up, as red drips from the side of my face. There’s a loud snapping sound, then a portion of the plank I used to walk down the wall clatters to the ground beside to me.
“I’m surprised you showed.”
I can’t look up to see him but I don’t have to. I know what Dylans’ voice sounds like. I also know he’s holding the other end of the board. From the looks of the piece beside me, he’s got the bigger part. I wonder if it broke across my back. The incredible stinging makes me think it’s a definite possibility.
“I’m surprised you didn’t show sooner.” I say, forcing myself up onto unsteady legs.
There’s a swift blur and I’m face up again, thanks to a wicked kick. The taste of denim mixes with blood.
“Chicken shit,” I spit. Just inside my periphery are three bodies. Dylan and his two friends.
“Aw, don’t be upset. They’re only here to watch.” One side of his mouth curls up.
I roll again, remove the constricting straps of the guitar bag and get back to my feet as fast as I can, talking to buy time. “Good. I want witnesses that my killing you is self-defense.” I make eye contact with each one, trying to determine their level of commitment. Their eyes are flat like their faces and I can’t read them.
In third grade, me and a couple other kids were being bullied by this one who was at least twice the size any of us. One day, I drew enough courage to complain about him to my dad. He told me exactly what I feared: I had to fight back. I told him that I couldn’t, the kid was huge, if he could just see him he’d know that I would get beat up more for fighting back. Right now, his response echoes in my head, reminding me of the lesson. “There’s no shame in losing, son, unless you never tried to win.”
Dylan laughs, strolling closer and I brace myself.
I don’t need to be psychic to know what’s going to happen and I have no illusions about my capabilities. Dylan means to return the shame he felt when I beat him up in front of his little sister. Once he feels he’s redeemed himself, he and his friends will leave. So, as the other two rush from both sides to hold my arms, the fists start flying. I wiggle out of my jacket, kick, bite and punch, do everything
I can think of to cause as much pain as I can in the shortest amount of time.
Maybe I should just take it. Maybe it would be over faster. If not for my stubborn pride. I can’t let this little wannabe street punk use his friends to beat the life out of me and get away with it. Even if I deserve it. It’s not in me.
They pull from all sides, trying to knock me down. I plant my feet apart and heave. I don’t know who, but one of them flies out and away. The second, a blond kid, tall and scrawny with freckles, moves into the opening. Dylan steps back, almost like he wants to see whats gonna happen. I work my foot behind the blond kids’ leg and shove. While he teeters, I yank his shirt up over his head and hit him until he falls down. When he lands, I plant one good kick to make sure he stays there, and step over him with Dylan locked in my sights.
He steps closer, looking all smug.
I don’t feel anything, but the pale world quivers.
I should’ve gone for the board when I had the chance. As I drag up from the ground, someone shoves and I fall to one side, unable to get my hands beneath me like I want. The gravelly pavement of the parking lot burrows into my exposed skin as the three idiots start kicking me. I can’t get up, but keep swinging, landing most of my blows on legs and shoes.
Time is an odd thing. It stretches for the underdog, but also feels like it speeds up. Soon, my arms can’t extend. My eyes can’t lend one more second to their glaring hatred. Whatever thrill lies in the uneven pairing has to wear off soon—maybe sooner if I’d just stay down, but I am the master at making things difficult.
Tiny rocks grind into my ear and side while they kick and spit, cursing me, my mother, my existence. I think they hit me with the board again. Or a sledgehammer. Their shoes are soft at least, canvas high tops and runners. They cackle and grunt, enjoying my pain as I falter, helplessly curling in a fetal position as a final means of protecting my head and vital organs.
There’s no one around to help in the dark, empty lot. Only one car: a dirty Jeep Cherokee. I peek between my forearms covering my head and concentrate on it, committing to memory all the little details. It’s gray, maybe blue. There are hand prints in the glass next to a makeshift ‘wash me’ plea scraped into the crust covering a back window.
Combat boots run into my line of sight. They aren’t Lisa’s, though I’m sure she’s around here somewhere enjoying the show like she promised. These boots aren’t shiny. The tops are obscured by a long coat. The hem of it swings in the breeze when the boots lunge. One of the kids, the blond one, sprints away and doesn’t look back. The tapering blows stop as three more sets of feet block my view of the Jeep. Two sets of sneakers running away. A pair of combat boots keeping pace behind them. The man is in a trench coat. He catches Dylan by the shirt collar. The other kid, whose face I never saw, doesn’t even slow down.
I work out of my curled position, ignoring the aching and the limp, energized at the chance of payback. I head towards the brawl that’s moved near the Jeep.
The man yells something and Dylan is squirming, trying to get away. I grip a wad of his hair and slam it into the cars’ back window. It cracks into a star. Dylan falls to the ground. The blood in his hair makes me feel a little better, but I kick him once for good measure before stepping back to look around. There’s no traffic, no witnesses, no lights, or cars, only the echo of sirens in the distance.
“We have to leave.” The man says.
Adrenaline pumps through me as I run. I don’t need a shopping cart or a board, just one, flying leap. I go from lot to the side of the wall, landing three steps along the bricks before reaching the top and pull my body up. When I look back to check, the dude’s already on top of the wall about four feet away. He scrambles down just as quickly with impressive agility for a person of his solid build.
Not one to be outdone, I stroll heel-to-toe across the top of the wall to the end of my dad’s garage and step off, aiming to land in the thin strip of spongy grass in front. It’s not until after my knee jams into the socket of my good eye, that I think it might have been a better idea to shimmy down the trellis on the side of the garage. Still, I pop up as if nothing happened. My neck responds with a jolting stab of pain.
“Nice landing.” His accent is unlike any I’ve ever heard so I can’t tell if he’s joking. Instead of guessing, I pretend not to notice. “Here,” he takes the misshapen guitar bag from his shoulder and holds it out. “This is yours.”
I cringe at the sound of splintered wood. “Thanks for helping back there.”
He shrugs, stroking a wild beard and looking away into the dark. “Where are we?”
“I’m staying over there.” I point across the street to the empty house with the ‘For Sale’ sign leaning against the side of the porch. “Come on, I’ve got something for that.” I point to his bleeding hand. He looks surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed the cut.
Walking towards the porch, there are a sharp pains in my ankle and ribs, significant enough to make me wince with each step and breath, but it’s nothing compared to the audible pounding in my head.
“Have you got a name?” I think my ears are clogged because my voice sounds like it’s coming from a broken speaker.
“Daemon,” he answers, grunting as he limps alongside.
“I’m Gerry,” I answer.
There are no handshakes or meaningless pleasantries. Traditional formalities don’t intermingle with blood. I walk through the back door of the abandoned house and into the kitchen, flipping on the light on my way to the sink.
A steady trickle flows from my head down my ear. The feeling attempts to coax my stomach into a roll but I force myself to swallow. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on disconnecting myself from the sensations, from feeling the pain, from the ordeal, from everything. No one else is going to do it for me and I have to get cleaned up. Afterword, I can collapse—so long as I stay awake for the next few hours. The papers I got when they released me from the hospital say you’re not supposed to fall asleep after a head injury and I surely have another one of those.
Standing over the sink, I notice Daemon is still waiting outside the doorway on the back porch.
“What are you, a vampire?” I ask, turning on the water.
He looks in curiously from outside. “What?”
“Are you waiting for an invitation? Come inside.”
He walks in while I count the lumps on my skull. There are three sizeable welts and two relatively small compared to the one enormous goose egg. “Ouch,” I mumble, though the hurt screams at the slightest touch. My fingers come away red.
Daemon notices the pizza.
“Help yourself.” I invite, leaning over to stick my head beneath the stream of cool water.
Lumps are a good sign, I tell myself. A hard blow that doesn’t produce swelling is a sure sign of concussion. Accompanied, usually, by nausea and dizziness. I’m determined not to experience any of them.
The water runs red. I stay under until it runs clean against the porcelain sink. A pile of napkins serves as a towel to blot myself dry. It hurts no matter how soft I dab.
I hope I don’t need stitches because I’m not going to the doctor. I can’t afford it and they may want to report the incident. I probably have a warrant, too, because I never checked-in with my lawyer or probation officer. That first night out, I was hoping to wake up in the right place.
“Do you want any of this?” Daemon asks, sounding like he’s got a mouthful of food.
“No.”
“Who were those guys?”
“Nobody important.”
“What did you do to them?”
After wiping my head with the last few napkins, one comes away red. I press the wad of wet paper back to the main lump. He really helped me out, so I guess he’s entitled to a little bit of explanation. When I turn around to answer, I get my first good look at him. What I notice right off is the oversized beanie and then the familiar dark eyes set against pale skin. “It’s you. You wer
e on the bus.”
Perception is a strange thing. Circumstances can make it change like the numbers on a clock. The man before me—though I’m sure he’s the same man from the bus: the one who haunted my dream, scared the living hell out of me the last time I saw him, the one who shoved me and dislocated my shoulder—he’s not the same man whose probably just saved my life. This man looks different. Still tall and imposing, but no longer threatening. Maybe it’s because the tattoo that lines the slope of his forehead giving the appearance of a permanent scowl is now hidden.
“The bus that crashed?”
“Yes!” I grip my temple. The reverb kills.
“I thought I was crazy. No one knew about this.” He sets the pizza on the counter, wiping his hands on his faded black trench coat. “Why does no one miss all of those people?”
“You know as much as I do—probably more. I don’t really remember what happened. I woke up in the hospital with a dislocated shoulder and a concussion.” I throw that tidbit out, in case he feels like explaining.
He leans against the counter, shaking his head, staring into nothing. For a split second, I can’t be sure but I think I see a flicker of something in his stare. Maybe, fear?
With his unusual accent he asks, “Where do you think we are?”
The bottle of pain killers is on the counter. I take a few and offer him some. He refuses, raising a covered hand. The napkin he’s using is smeared with orange grease. Moving it reveals a long scrape on top of a bruise.
“It stopped bleeding. Well?” He urges.
“I have no idea. This place is like a dream. Everything is the same but not at all like I remember. Like it isn’t real, you know?”
“Yes, I think so. Very strange. My friends are younger.”
“Mine, too. I keep thinking that I’m lying somewhere in a hospital, plugged into life support. Is it possible we’re the only survivors?” A massive wave of fatigue hits me and suddenly I can’t stand up anymore. I lean against the kitchen wall and let my legs slide away, relaxing into a comfortable heap on the linoleum.
“Maybe we are both dead, already.” Daemon counters, shoving a short yellow jar into my face. “Take this balm. Wipe it on the cuts on your head, hands, and your stomach, and your face . . .” The sound of his voice trails off as he stares, curious again. “You look different.”
“Everyone does.” I look at the short yellow jar. The label’s printed in a foreign language. There’s a crude picture of a wasp with an oversized stinger next to a rattlesnake. “What’s this?”
“It is made from the venom of bees and snakes. It is very effective.”
My hands tremble as I take the container.
“I thought those men were going to kill you.”
“Boys—and so did I.”
The petroleum-like stuff in the jar looks and feels like soft bees wax. The smell reminds me of the flowers in Abis window box. The scent helps clear my head.
“Use it everywhere and you will be better in the morning.”
I still can’t place his accent. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard. His pronunciations are clear, but halting. There are no sounds spilling between words, no s carried from ‘use’ to ‘it’. It’s as if he’s working very hard to be understood.
“How did you spot me?” I ask while carefully scraping the jelly onto the fiery lumps on my head.
As Daemon answers, I close my eyes and imagine him dressed in various forms of stereotypical garb from every region around the world that I can think of, trying to place his unique enunciations.
“I was walking through the alley when I saw you fighting. You have a death wish. Or why start a fight with three men?” When he says three, it sounds like tree.
“Only boys,” I correct, “huge, idiotic kids. And they started it. I was just hoping to finish.”
The balm stings for a second before numbing everything it touches. “This stuff is amazing,” I say, slathering it on my forehead and old black eye. “Does it work on sprains?” It does nothing for the headache, but I barely feel the throbbing cuts on my head. I rub the soft wax on my ankle and then lift my shirt to check my ribs. My whole side is painted in purple and black.
“Yes, use it everywhere. Why would a man start fights with children?”
“I got into it with the tall kid a few days ago. It was a misunderstanding, and he was pissed because he lost.”
“Which tall one?” Good question considering everyone is short compared to him.
“The one who hit me with the board.”
Daemon laughs a little too raucously. “He hit you with a board!”
“You missed that part, did you? Luckily, it was only the neck of the guitar that broke.” I point towards the crumpled instrument still hidden in its case on the floor.
“Yes, very lucky. Where was your destination?”
“The Brick Lounge. They have live music on the weekends.”
“You are a musician, then.”
I nod, wiping down the last few spots on my neck and back. “Where are you from, Daemon?”
“That is hard to say. My ancestors are from what you call Turkey and regions of the Southern Americas.”
“You didn’t grow up in L.A.” He’s so light complected I find it hard to believe he could have any relations in any of those regions.
“Don’t you know? No one in Los Angeles is from Los Angeles.”
Like a ton of bricks or a wall—the wave of drowsiness I’m swimming in crests, pulling me down. Combined with the fatigue, I don’t stand a chance. I’m barely able to keep my eyes open now that the pain is fading.
“Tell me where you are from, Gerry Springer.”
“L.A.” I mumble, fighting to stay awake.
“I will come back tomorrow. We will find a way home after you have rested.”
“Okay,” I try to enunciate, but it’s just not worth the trouble.
After the kitchen door closes, I start crawling. On the way towards my makeshift bed in the living room it occurs to me that this sudden bout of lethargy could be symptoms of a serious head injury and I know that I really should care about it, but am incapable.
Come death or hell, I’m going to sleep.
When the smooth nylon of the sleeping bag is beneath me, I collapse, ready to fall into dead sleep.
Fragments seep into my subconscious, gaining color and structure as I drift into the deep.
Lamentations
