Legacy

by Jessica Blank

  Nobody’d looked at me like that since Andy.

  “So what’d you do?” I leaned up against a tree, bark rough against my back, trying to look comfortable.

  “I dropped out, man. Fuck hippies. Laziness is just another form of conformity, y’know? I moved back up here a couple months ago. I’m crashing in my dad’s basement till I can find a squat or something.”

  My mom would hate him. Which I loved.

  “I’ve got a band with some guys. One of them’s in Portland, the other’s in Seattle, so our gigs are, like, on hold for the moment, but we’re getting a house in Portland next year, and then we’re gonna let it rip. I play bass.” He paused meaningfully after the bass thing, like he knew it would impress me.

  “So what about you, Alison?” he said. “What’s your deal?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, on the spot. “I go to school?”

  “What else?” he said, his eyes on me, steady, like he actually cared.

  “I hate my mom?” I said.

  “Good.” He nodded. “Not afraid to speak the truth.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good not to, right?”

  And then he gave me this look, one that said, I know you, fellow outsider: we’re on the same team. It was like he saw me as a person—not a little kid, not Andy’s sister, not a piece of meat. Just me. I’d never had a guy look at me like that before. Especially not one who looked like him. This guy had something for me, something different from my mom, the lonely empty hole of school. If I could have him, maybe I could have a self away from that.

  We sat like that all afternoon, staring out at the Sound, leaned up against the oak tree, trash mixing with grass at our feet. We sat until the Food Not Bombs kids packed up and he hollered to them, “Catch you later,” till the sky dimmed and the sun began to set. He didn’t see a story someone told, a history that preceded me, a reputation or a tragedy. He told me stories about places that weren’t here and assumed I’d understand them. I hadn’t heard of any of it—punk shows, autonomous zones, collective houses—but he didn’t care. I wanted to know everything. I wanted him to take me there someday, to places full of people I’d never met before, who did things and said what they meant and were alive.

  Now I hear a rap on my window, sharp and tinny against the thin glass. I listen for my mom upstairs: nothing. She’s asleep. Jeff’s lip ring glints in the reflected light from my room. I hold my finger up—one sec—and he nods. He darts out of the light, stealthy like a ferret or a criminal, heads back toward his car parked halfway down the block, where he always waits for me. I finish lacing up my boots and pull a sweater on.

  “Hurry up, man,” he says as I climb into the passenger seat of Grandpa. As in, “grandpa car”: American-made, big seats, big trunk, big wheels. It’s from, like, 1980. The peeling navy-blue paint doesn’t show much dirt, which is good, because Jeff’s not much of a washer. His faded black hoodie says “Eat the Rich.” He leans over and kisses me. His scruff rubs against my cheek, sexy and male. His cigarette breath makes me crave one.

  He reads my mind, shaking out a half-crushed American Spirit, flipping open his Zippo. “Here,” he goes. “Knock yourself out.” He starts the ignition and switches on the radio. I roll down my window; I don’t care if it’s raining. I lean out into the asphalt-black night.

  “Hey,” he says. Rain hits my closed eyes, my cheeks, my tongue. One of his crazytown talk shows is playing on the radio: some guy getting super intense about how the government is hiding information about aliens. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “So?” I ask, turning my head back into the car. I’m a little curious about the aliens, but I’d rather feel the air.

  “So,” he says, “I don’t want all of eastern Tacoma to hear.”

  I smile and shake my head. Jeff loves to act like he’s in a spy movie. Like the government is following him, or weird men in black suits. He uses words like shadow government, Illuminati, and security culture, and says it’s crucial not to let strangers know too much about your personal business. You never know who might be listening; you never know who people really are. I think it’s funny that he thinks he’s that important. We’re a couple of kids in Tacoma, Washington; the FBI has better things to do than follow us for listening to the radio.

  We drive to the parking lot at Wilson High, park away from the floodlights, tucked into a dark-shadowed corner. Our own little world, no one else around. He pulls out a bowl. This is what we do: drive to places where there’s good reception, smoke pot, make out while people call in with fantasies of secret weapons systems testing and CIA mind control. The soundtrack might be weird, but I don’t care: this is the only thing I have that’s mine.

  Jeff’s crazytown talk show goes staticky and he fusses with the radio, trying to tune back in the AM frequency at the bottom of the dial. “Shit.” It doesn’t work. He keeps fiddling. “Fuckin’ piece-of-shit car—” It still doesn’t work. “Crap!” He gives up, flipping the station to KAOS 89.3, the Evergreen State station. According to Jeff, it’s the only thing about Evergreen that’s truly subversive, even if some of the shows play cheesy world music with didgeridoos.

  The didgeridoos mix with trip-hop beats, then sitars, and I finally say, “Do we have to listen to this?” but Jeff cuts me off. “Shh. It’s almost Independent World News,” and sure enough, right then the tabla drums fade and a conspiratorial voice comes on.

  “Good evening, and welcome to the only truly independent news feed for the people. This just in today: Cascade Lumber has allegedly inked a deal with the Bureau of Land Management to purchase one thousand acres of pristine old-growth in the Chinook Pass Wilderness Area. Next up, a long-awaited update on the case of American political prisoner Mumia Abu-Jamal . . .”

  I roll the windows down again. The smoke is getting to me; I want to feel the air. “Hey!” he stage-whispers.

  “What?” I say. “The men in black can’t hear it if I turn it down,” and I do. He starts to argue, but I lean in to kiss him, his metal lip ring cool against my tongue, knowing it’ll shut him up and make me feel alive.

  CHAPTER 2

  On my way in from school, I stop my bike by the mailbox. No car in the driveway: my mom’s still at work. The envelopes are soggy; leafing through, I try not to tear them. Gas bill for my mom. Craft-supply catalog, also for mom. An envelope from the Boy Scouts of America, addressed to both my parents. Shit. I tear it open: You know the joy and rewards of having a son grow up in Scouts. Now help us pass on that opportunity to other children. I rip it up, then crumple the pieces, stuff them in my pocket and remind myself to bury them carefully in the trash can in my room, tuck the pieces under food wrappers and old homework, where she can never see them.

  I also find a letter from school, informing my mother I’m going to LC first-period chemistry this semester if I miss any more labs. Which could affect my ability to graduate. And they appreciate her prompt attention to this serious issue. Shit.

  LC stands for “lose credit,” and it really doesn’t seem fair: no matter how good your grades are, five unexcused absences and you don’t get credit for the whole semester. I do my homework for that class. It doesn’t seem right that getting coffee with my boyfriend in the morning would be that huge of a deal.

  But there it is, right there on the letter, affect her ability to graduate, and my heart starts beating harder, my cheeks pink thinking about what Andy would say to that. He always wanted me to do well. It’s a no-brainer, Al, he’d say. You get decent grades, you can get out of Tacoma and go where you want. That’s all it is: a means to an end. Do your homework so you can go do better stuff. That’s what I’ve been doing, all this time: what he told me. Even though I have no idea what my “end” is, what “better stuff” I’m headed for, I’ve been holding on to his advice, trying to show him that I’m doing what he wanted me to do, trying to make him proud. I stuff the letter in my pocket and make a mental promise: on
time, every day, now till the end of the semester.

  When I get in the door, the phone’s ringing. I dart into my room to answer it, wet boots leaving prints on the ratty rug.

  “Dude, where were you?” It’s Jeff.

  “I was at school. Where do you think I was?”

  “Oh. Right.” Sometimes I think he forgets I go to school. “I was just psyched 'cause this buddy of mine showed up and I wanted you to meet him.” I have a feeling I know what’s coming next. “We were kinda hungry. . . .”

  I worked this summer at a Northwest’s Best Coffee and saved up all my tips; without a car or any friends, I’ve managed to stretch it out pretty well. Jeff wants to make music instead of being part of the machine, which means he doesn’t have a job, which means that when he wants to eat something that isn’t in his dad’s fridge or Food Not Bombs, I get a call. But it’s okay. He has cheap taste, as long as it’s vegan. His car gets me out of school and home; he gets the weed. Plus, when I’m with him, I feel like an actual human being, which is worth more than any of that.

  “Can I pick you up?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  “Cool. We’ll meet Dirtrat at the diner. See you in a few.” He hangs up before I get a chance to ask him what kind of name “Dirtrat” is.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Dirtrat” is apparently a name for someone who is covered in dirt and looks like a rat. Jeff and I are sitting in our usual booth at Archie’s Diner when he shows up, yells “Dude! Awesome!” and slings his arm around Jeff. They do one of those handshakes with several steps, which ends in a fist bump. I can smell Dirtrat’s oniony B.O. from across the table.

  Dirtrat is wearing the same uniform as Jeff and the Food Not Bombs kids: Carhartt pants, black hoodie, patched-up T-shirt. But his is covered with a level of grime I’ve not previously encountered. The dirt on his Carhartts is thick as a coat of wax, his once-white T-shirt now an earthy shade of tan. Short white-boy dreadlocks jut from his head in all directions, zigzagging like electrical currents. I’m glad when Dirtrat sits down on Jeff’s side of the booth.

  Except that sitting across from him, it’s hard to figure out how not to stare. He has big plugs in his earlobes, stretching the skin out farther than a human earlobe is supposed to stretch, and his face is tattooed—yes, his face. The tattoo’s a swirl of abstract black tribal lines, like Jeff’s, except instead of being on his arms it starts on his forehead and swoops down around his eye sockets, trailing off at the tops of his cheekbones. Jeff sees me staring and shoots me a silent look across the table—Quit it. Dirtrat sees me staring and doesn’t care.

  “It’s a vow,” he says. “A vow never to work for the Man. See, even if I get old and, like, tempted, the tattoos keep the capitalist pigs from hiring me. So it’s, like, a way of keeping a promise to myself.”

  “Wow, that’s awesome,” I say. I mean, what can you say? He’s basically forcing homelessness on himself and acting like that’s some kind of moral act.

  “Yeah,” Dirtrat says, “it is,” and cracks a grin. “She’s all right,” he says to Jeff. “You’ve got good taste.” Gold star from Dirtrat.

  Dirtrat is from Olympia. Well, he’s not actually from Olympia, he’s actually from Iowa, but he’s been living in Olympia most recently. Other times he lives in Eugene, or Portland, or occasionally Arcata. He’s got some buddies in Vancouver he could crash with, but he doesn’t want to get into the whole deal with the border. I consider asking him what “the whole deal with the border” means, but I decide against it.

  “Dirtrat and me are brothers,” Jeff tells me, and something about that makes my stomach feel weird. I don’t think he knows what brothers means. “He lived on my dorm room couch practically the whole time I was at Evergreen. He makes a mean motherfuckin’ tofu scramble.”

  “So you guys were roommates?”

  “Nah, man,” Dirtrat says. “I don’t do school. This man here”—arm around Jeff again—“is just a truly hard-core motherfucker, and he let a kindred spirit crash when he needed a place.”

  “Dirtrat was the one who convinced me to drop out and focus on my music,” Jeff says. “Best decision I ever made.” I’m not sure if I agree; Jeff’s played four gigs since I’ve known him. But he keeps saying as soon as he can get to Portland next year, it’ll take off. And he is pretty good; he looks at home up there on the stage with his bass, in the background, happy.

  “Yeah, after I lived on Jeff’s couch, I got this squat going in an old warehouse. We had events there, bands played, it was rad for a while,” Dirtrat says. “This motherfucker played shows, like, every week, and was gonna create, like, a convergence space for groups that are working on, like, issues?”

  “Shit people don’t want at other places ’cause it’s too radical,” Jeff jumps in. “Like direct action around political prisoners, anti-cop action, that kind of stuff,” he says. “But”—and then he looks at Dirtrat—“the rest of the collective turned out to be kind of—I don’t know. They wanted something closer to a straight-edge vibe—”

  “What Jeff is trying to say is that I got myself kicked out for puking on someone’s computer.”

  Somehow I’m not surprised.

  The waitress appears above us, catching the end of the last sentence. “Can I get you kids something?” she says. She looks tired already.

  “I’ll just have a coffee, man,” Dirtrat says. “And maybe some ice.”

  “No food?” the waitress asks, gunning for an excuse to kick us out.

  “Nah, man,” Jeff says. “He’ll eat.” He turns to Dirtrat. “It’s on Alison,” he says. “She’s cool.”

  “Yeah?” Dirtrat turns his weaselly face to me. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, even though I don’t really feel like paying for him. “I don’t mind,” I lie, making a mental note to take that up with Jeff later.

  “Sweet!” he says, and scans the menu. “Okay, so are the hash browns vegan?”

  “Excuse me?” the waitress says, shifting her weight, pen still poised to write our order. “Vegan?”

  “Yeah, y’know, do they have animal products?” He turns to me. “I’ll dumpster whatever, but if it’s paid for, I try to go vegan.”

  “They’re potatoes,” she says.

  “Right, but are they like cooked in bacon grease? Or butter?”

  “They’re cooked on the grill. With everything else.”

  Pause. “All right. Cool,” Dirtrat says. “Can you just ask them to cook them in vegetable oil?”

  She is clearly planning to do no such thing. “Sure.”

  “And maybe throw in some peppers and onions and mushrooms and stuff. Is that cool?”

  This waitress is obviously going to put meat in his food. My mom used to be a waitress; I can tell. “Anything else?”

  “Nah, nah, I’m good. Thanks, man.”

  Jeff orders the same thing Dirtrat did, and I get eggs and coffee. Even though I don’t usually eat meat, I ask for bacon on the side, as a secret apology to the waitress.

  I don’t think it helps.

  * * *

  • • •

  We use the rear entrance to Jeff’s dad’s basement, so we skip the rest of the house. Jeff says that entrance is the only thing that makes living there tolerable: because of it, nobody can watch when he comes and goes. He has autonomy.

  The rickety screen door swings shut behind us as we head down the narrow staircase to Jeff’s cave. Dirtrat runs his hands against the wood-paneled walls, reaching out in both directions, filling up the space. I love this basement; it’s my refuge, the place where Jeff and I hide out—like home, if home were a place you liked being.

  Jeff’s sleeping bag is on the couch; his stuff spills out of cardboard boxes onto the floor. Clothes, boots, pamphlets that say “Profane Existence” and “Against All Tyranny,” a pile of bootleg CDs wi
th Xeroxed black-and-white hand-lettered covers, obscure punk bands I never heard of till I met him. Crass and Conflict, Christdriver and Assrash. I like the energy of them, even if they sound more like a car crash than music.

  I tumble down onto the pilly brown tweed couch: familiar territory. Weeknights Jeff always wants to drive around in Grandpa, but weekends, when we have more time, I talk him into bringing me down here. It reminds me of how Andy’s room used to feel, except more mine. I mean, it’s Jeff’s, but that’s one step closer. I’m far away from my mom, too far for her sadness to pull at me. There’s no radio, no TV, no voices except ours—not that we talk much. We listen to his music, and laugh at stuff, and we have sex. Jeff’s the only guy I’ve slept with besides Andy’s friends, and it’s nothing like it was with them. It’s not like the way the asshole jock guys look at me, like they’re taking something. It’s real, and human, and he’s nice to me. And in this dead gray rainy town, it’s pretty much the only time I really feel alive.

  Dirtrat slings his scuzzy frame pack onto the middle of the couch, then plops down next to it. I kind of want him off the couch; it isn’t his. I try to inch away from his pack without him noticing. “Dude,” he says to Jeff. “You’re totally set up down here.”

  Jeff nods, his eyes bright and cocky. It’s part of what I like about him: that thing he has where he’s proud of himself for doing what he does. Where everything is a decision he’s made, based on ideas that he’s thought about; like it’s all on purpose. Like his life is something that belongs to him. I don’t have that thing. “So you’re good on the floor?” he asks Dirtrat. “I mean, we could take turns on the couch if you wanted—”

  “Nah, nah, I’m ultra-low-maintenance,” Dirtrat says. “Built for ultimate portability.”

  Oh. Shit. “You’re staying here?” I turn to Dirtrat.

  “Yeah, man, I lost my place in Olympia, so Jeff’s letting me crash till I figure out what’s next.”