by I N Foggarty
“He’s right, Matt,” Natalie echoed without looking at him. “If you don’t go everyone will start to think you’re seriously uncool. Lame even!”
“Yeah, Dude, your social standing will be lucky to survive yet another bombshell,” Dylan chipped in.
The anger returned with a vengeance and Matt clenched his fist under the table. He knew perfectly well that by ‘another bombshell’ Dylan counted dating Anna as the first. Since the day she had re-entered his life, Dylan had picked up the dislike he had held for Anna six years prior and had not dropped it since. Even though Anna reciprocated this feeling, some small part of Matt had hoped that the two of them might find a way of burying the hatchet that did not involve an actual blade embedding itself into either of their heads; most likely Dylan’s.
Is this how he would be punished Matt wondered? Had blowing Anna off to spend time with Dylan ultimately led him back towards the same choice he had been faced with all those years ago? If so then whatever god had decided this fate was a cruel and twisted motherfucker.
“Look, Dude, if you don’t show it’s your own funeral,” Raymond said in a serious way like it actually would be an occasion of mourning – the death of Matt’s social standing. He’d had enough of this Matt thought. Even if he had to be blunt he needed to put an end to this. When he opened his mouth to do so a new voice entered the dispute.
“Why exactly is it his funeral?”
It belonged to Anna. Matt turned to look at her but the girl still had eyes only for her notebook, her pen flying across the page. For a moment he wondered if he had only imagined her voice but a reply from Raymond quickly extinguished that idea.
“Uhh Duh? Because it’s going to be the biggest party of the year and only losers won’t be there.”
“Are you sure?” Anna then asked in a voice feigning a naivety that Matt knew far too well. If Raymond wasn’t careful he could soon find himself needing a quick exit strategy.
“Well yeah. Of course. It’s going to be…”
“…Yes the biggest party of the year, so you keep saying. “ She kept writing. “If that’s the case why have you been so worried ever since Matt neglected to respond to your…” she paused in her writing for a second and waved her pen pointing it between the two cheerleaders, “shall we say, initial invite?”
Anna’s words cut through the air and hit Raymond with more force than Matt could have delivered with his hockey stick. He could see it on the boy’s face that Anna had nailed him where it hurt though he could not quite fathom the reason why. It must have had something to do with the fact she was still not giving him eye contact or even looking up.
Raymond licked his lips and forced a diluted smile back onto his face, “I’m not worried.”
The words tumbled out of the weasel-faced boy’s mouth and Matt could see that his face had gone a slightly off scarlet. He now stared daggers at the top of Anna’s head.
A slight smile played at the corners of Anna’s mouth, “aren’t you.”
And there it came, Anna’s trademark. The throwaway question that offered her victim an out. A single chance to retract their words, count their losses and get the hell out of there. Matt had failed to notice it on more than one occasion himself while Dylan remained oblivious to it even though he found himself on the receiving end at least once a week.
“Why the hell would I be worried?” Raymond spat, trying to go on the offensive.
Idiot, Matt thought. Though part of him felt that Raymond wholly deserved what was coming.
“It’s quite simple really,” Anna’s tone cool and her words precise. “Matt’s more popular than you. And that’s before we take into account that he’s captain of the hockey team.”
Matt didn’t know who to look at, his gaze darted between the pair. On one hand, he quite liked the idea of watching Raymond squirm but on the other… there was something quite mesmerising about how Anna managed to remain so placid while devouring someone. Like a documentary they had seen about a praying mantis in Science. But Anna hadn’t finished speaking, he zoned back in.
“The hockey team might not be the football team but they are still major players when it comes to the social ladder. What’s more, they all like and respect their captain.” She pointed the pen at him for a second then went back to her notes.
How someone could hold such command over a conversation while not even looking at their opponent was beyond Matt. He watched Anna strike a line through something she had written.
“Now if it just so happened that the captain of the hockey team decided that a social event wasn’t important enough for him to go to, then the entire team might come to the same conclusion. Naturally, of course, the girlfriends of the team members would then likely decide not to go without their boyfriends. Of course, one or two girls is all it takes to destabilise the rest...” She paused and Matt saw her pen write something quickly. “…It’s simply a case of the butterfly effect. But you already know all this don’t you, Raymond.”
Catching a brief glimpse of their faces Matt could see that Natalie and Dylan held dumbstruck expressions similar to Raymond’s. The girls to whom the later now seemed to be clutching onto for support looked to be contemplating ditching their host. Matt also didn’t fail to notice that Mark had a slight smirk on his face and that Kitty had tried to bow out of proceedings by producing a book of poems, which she almost set alight by the sheer intensity of her stare.
After a moment’s silence that felt like an eternity, Raymond rallied for a final assault. “Oh yeah? Well. Well…What on earth would you know about it, you social reject.”
Matt almost shared in Mark’s smirk, the rage in Raymond’s voice quite amusing. If that had been his best shot Anna might not leave him with enough pieces to properly reassemble himself.
Anna sighed, almost sounding disappointed in the angry tone her opponent had used. “I don’t have to care about my own social standing to be able to understand the concept or the rules. At the end of the day, I’ve accepted who I am and am happy about it.” Her tone suddenly shifted to one that could pierce its way through steel. “But Have you, Raymond? Have you accepted who you are? Have you accepted the fact that at best you’re only on the second tier of the social ladder? Hence the second rate fashion always just behind the others, the second string cheerleaders and the personal invites to a party that you can’t trust the simple word of mouth to capture enough guests for. Have you accepted all of that and the fact no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you can never quite make it amongst the Sancti in Paradiso.”
Ok, she had lost him now Matt thought. The ‘what in where’? While his mind tried to figure out what on earth Anna had meant he saw her gaze shoot up from her notepad and lock onto Raymond’s. To Matt, it appeared as though his girlfriend’s piercing green eyes were ablaze with an almost demonic like inferno that could simultaneously end any argument and burn a hole into their target with laser-like precision. He had a mad split second where he almost knocked Kitty’s book aside to keep her safe from any potential crossfire.
“Tell us, Raymond,” Anna continued, her gaze now seemingly petrifying her victim and rooting him to the spot. “Does your craving for social acceptance amongst your peers stem from a lack of attention at home? Or does it come from something much deeper than that?” At that point, Matt heard the subtle change in her tone to one of almost friendliness. “You can tell us, Raymond. It’s not as if you’re the only person here with that affliction. We could have a group therapy session.”
Matt didn’t know whether he should laugh or feel sorry for the boy. Raymond’s face had gone the same shade of red as his destroyer’s hair and looked like he wanted nothing more than to be anywhere doing anything else. A quick glance at the table told Matt that no one would come to Raymond’s rescue, Natalie and Dylan held expressions dark and almost unreadable while Kitty’s grip on her book had tightened to the point her knuckles had turned white. Mark had lost interest and sat watching Kitty quietly. The two cheerle
aders had now disentangled themselves from their master and were slowly edging away while the occupants of some nearby tables had turned to watch. After a short period of silence, Raymond rediscovered his voice.
“You’ll pay for that, Mark me well you spiteful bitch you’ll regret saying that to me,” He blurted, squaring his shoulders.
“If the best you’ve got is petty name calling, empty threats and some shoulder movements then I’m disappointed.”
Without another glance Matt watched Anna return her focus to the report in front of her. Raymond growled before he fired his parting remark. “You had better watch your back, Bitch.”
“Goodbye to you too, Raymond,” Anna sighed as she re-read a paragraph and with a shake of her head put a cross through the entire thing.
The weasel-faced boy stormed off and Matt decided that though he wanted things to return to the state they had been in before the altercation, to the status quo, there was zero chance of it actually happening. Once the dust settled the badgering would begin and he would be forced to continuously reaffirm his decision to spend Friday night with Anna. The only solution would be to escape. Pushing his chair out from under the table he picked up his bag and tray.
“I need some air,” he declared, tucking the chair back in. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Without waiting for a response he took one last agonising look at Anna, whose hair still caught the light, then turned to disappear amidst the mines. From back at the table he heard a single clear voice say, “goodbye, Matt,” and he knew who it belonged to.
Hitting the rocks
Stars glistened like diamonds in the darkened sky, the waning moon augmenting their splendour with an eerie glow. Along the skyline, there were scarce few lights to be seen. While down at street level the few surviving street lamps did little to keep the shadows at bay. Amongst the shrouded and silent buildings, a single-storied structure was holding its own against the looming darkness. From its windows light spilt forth while a green and red neon sign above the doorway that read ‘Joe’s Rock’ made it the most distinguishable dwelling around.
Outside the front door of ‘Joe’s Rock,’ a man stood on the sidewalk; a lit cigarette in his hand. Just shy of six foot he had broad shoulders with grizzled black facial hair that partially obscured an old crescent-shaped scar on his right cheek. Clad in black pants and battered old leather boots and jacket, any passer-by would have been forgiven for thinking he was a biker, except there were no motorbikes around. Slowly he raised his hand and took a long draw of his roll-up. The end glowed bright orange and the paper burnt up towards his fingers. A lump of hot ash fell to the ground. Carelessly he dropped the butt, exhaled a plume of thick grey smog and crushed it underfoot.
Casually he turned around and headed for the door into the bar; it creaked when he opened it. Inside, the small room had been crammed with round brown wood tables each with an array of un-matching chairs surrounding them. On just about every tabletop sat at least one emptied glass yet upon scanning the room he could see only a handful of other patrons. Forcing his way between the tables and towards the bar he took in the décor. Stained wood panels covered the walls and bar front while a dirty short pile green carpet lay underfoot. On the ceiling, several spotlights and, strangely, a giant old mirror with a tarnished brass rim were embedded providing ample lighting. No art adorned the walls save for the hefty collection of old state licence plates along with several faded bits of memorabilia pertaining to the local football, baseball and hockey teams. A game of some sort played on the TV behind the bar, emphasising the owners liking of sports.
Two men in checked shirts and jeans played pool on a faded blue table that had clearly seen better days. Some sort of acoustic guitar music leaked from the old-fashioned jukebox that had been squeezed into the far corner, though more a trickle of sound than the general roar of indecipherable noise one normally found in this sort of place.
When he finally made it past the last of the tables the man couldn’t help but feel that all eyes in the room were on him. Perhaps he’d wandered into a regular’s only sort of place. That would explain the air of tension and the distinct lack of chatter. He didn’t let it bother him. He had drunk in most of the bars in this part of the city, many of them a lot rougher than this place. Taking his time he sat down on the bar stool second from the edge and rested his elbows atop the counter.
“What’s your poison, Mac?” the barman asked almost instantly, limping over and wiping his hands first with the towel over his shoulder, then on the apron around his waist.
The man could sense the collective gaze of the room squarely fixed upon the back of his head, everyone waiting to see what he would do before returning to their own business. He locked eyes with the barman then gave him an appraising sweep, took in his arms thick and inked and the steely expression he held. The barman’s fingers twitched slightly towards the counter. No doubt going for a baseball bat or some other such nonsense. He had the air of someone that people generally listened to. Yet the girth of his waistline coupled with his balding blonde hair and a greying horseshoe moustache suggested that he was well past his prime.
“Beer,” he replied eventually in a gruff Hispanic voice and the collective hush suddenly released. Chatter started up again as if nothing had happened. Even the music seemed louder.
“You got a name stranger?” the barman then asked offhandedly though much more amicably, picking up a glass and holding it up to the nearest tap.
A few tense moments passed between them before the patron gruffly replied, “Ramone.”
“Aint seen you roun’ these part’s before,” the barman said wiping the glass off and offering it over the bar. Though by no means an expert on accents, Ramone could tell the man originated from the south. “I’m just passing through,” he said taking the presented drink.
A lie of course though it was not likely the bartender would see him again to call him out on it. Averting his gaze he took a long drink in the hopes that the… unknown… barman would take the hint and leave him alone. After an argument with his ‘boss’ the previous night, every bar, seedy hole in the wall or coffee cart he had gone to, other members of Los sin techo, the organisation to which he belonged, had been there already and had done nothing but irritate him. Hence why he had found this joint.
Besides their headquarters, there were several bars and other establishments that the members liked to frequent. However, this place was not one of them and if he had never been here before then neither had any of the others.
“Your bike out front?” bartender Bob asked; polishing a glass. He held it up to the light and peered at it one eye squinting then started polishing again.
So much for avoiding conversation, Ramone thought bitterly as he took another drink; the beer wasn’t properly chilled. “I don’t ride,” he said pulling a face.
“That’s a shame.” When the man spoke Ramone heard the scraping of a stool being dragged across the floor and realised that the barman had just sat down. “I used to ride an ol’ FXS Low Rider back in the day.” Ramone looked at him blankly; he didn’t know the first thing about motorcycles. “That’s a 1979 model Harley to the uninitiated. I must’a ridden her up and down route 66 more times than I’ve served frosted beers.”
Ramone held his tongue, he should have taken his drink to one of the tables. Draining his beer he placed the glass down on top of the woodwork with a thunk and started fishing in his pockets for his zippo and a smoke.
“I’ll pour you another,” the barman offered, whipping the glass off of the bar and holding it back under the tap at a stretch.
Watching the cloudy liquid begin to flow, he became aware of another person now on his side of the bar.
“Evnin’ friend,” a short man in a blue shirt and brown pants said from his left. Ramone didn’t bother to answer, did everyone in this place come from the damn south? He huffed a sigh on discovering he’d run out of roll-ups and busied himself with the process of making some more. This didn’t se
em to bother the newcomer as he directed his attention to the bartender instead, “same again, Joe.”
“That’s your third one tonight, Sammy. Best make it your last or Bessie will have your skin,” Joe replied reaching for another glass.
Great, the bartender knew the first names of his boozers and their bitches. This was not the sort of place a member of Los sin techo should be frequenting. Though granted that had been the objective. He’d have a quick smoke followed by an even quicker drink then head for home. Pulling a tobacco pouch from his outside jacket pocket he expertly rolled a single cigarette while the bartender sat down his beer and Sammy’s drink. Clicking his zippo into life, he brought both up to his face…
“Hold on son you can’t light up that there rollie in my bar.”
Ramone looked up at the bartender, the smoke between his teeth. He lowered the lighter. “Why the fuck not?”
“It’s that there law they darned passed.” The bartender pointed to a placard behind the bar that dictated the Smoke-Free Illinois Act of 2008 and the consequences of breaking it. “Where you been of late?”
“Aww screw that,” he admonished flicking the zippo back into life. He was so sick and tired of people telling him what to do of late.
“Joe said no,” blue-shirted Sammy butt in, turning back to look at Ramone.
“So shit,” he spat around the smoke.
All of a sudden the blue-shirted man shot an arm out and caught hold of Ramone’s raised lighter hand. “Joe. Said. No!” he repeated firmly, dull grey eyes locking onto beetle-black ones.
Ramone looked at the hand the man gripped his wrist with and then to his freckled face. Balling his free fist he shot out a punch and caught him square in the nose, sending him hurtling towards the nearest table. Sammy crashed into it with a loud thud, the sound of shattering glass ringing out while someone elsewhere in the room shout the words “Jesus. H Christ!” Not satisfied with having floored the man Ramone closed in on him and was about to unleash a furious boot to his abdomen when a loud double click sound from behind him made him freeze. Apparently not a baseball bat after all.
