Ache

by P. J. Post

Oh yeah, I should forget about her because I don’t measure up. Normally, I’d do the opposite of whatever anyone in authority suggested on goddamn principle, but in this case, I don’t really have a choice, because I can’t remember shit.

  I go through my pockets, but no phone number.

  I lean back against the wall and close my eyes against the sun.

  I gave her my hat. I remember that.

  I know it’s going to be a long time before I forget my mystery girl, the one with so much promise and hope. And even though I feel like I was hit by a truck, I’m thinking today might not suck as much as usual.

  I can still smell her.

  Over the ripening dumpster stink is the faint hint of honeysuckle.

  2

  Once Was Play

  Summer, 1982

  Todd pulls his old Nova into the already scorching lot of the abandoned playground and parks by the crippled stockade fence. He ejects the Dead Kennedys and turns the stereo off. The Class of ’81 tassel hanging from the rearview mirror stops swaying.

  “Connor, dude, you want me to go in with you?” he asks.

  “No, but thanks, man.” It’s not just bad enough I have to deal with it; it’s humiliating too, even in front of Todd and although we both pretend he doesn’t — he pretty much knows the score.

  I flick my cigarette out the window and then gingerly adjust my ski cap, grab my beer and slide out of the car. I’ve been short on wardrobe the last few days so I’m wearing a pastel blue swim suit and a pink t-shirt I borrowed from Todd, the pink t-shirt actually belongs to his sister. Todd thought it was funny.

  Todd’s a dick.

  I look up at the cloudless, Oklahoma summer sky and then across the field as I walk past the rusting swings and teeter-totters. The weeds are knee high, dried yellow and sickly. This place looks like a setting for some end-of-the-world movie. It’s just a shitty reminder of the end of a lot of things for me.

  I stop at the fence, a barrier between then and now. I hear Dead End kick back up through the Nova’s open windows.

  Todd’s stereo is the now.

  I open the gate in the fence we used to run through and make my way up to the back of the house. It just squats there like something diseased and slowly bleeding out, too pathetic to be evil. The paint is peeling so badly that more of the bones show through than the faded red. The yard isn’t much better than the playground. It’s a fucking dump and until three days ago, it was home.

  We drove by the front earlier to check, but his crapped out station wagon wasn’t in the driveway. I look in the windows, but don’t see any sign of the bastard, I mean my dad. I don’t have my keys, so I check the windows and back slider, but they’re all locked.

  Fuck it.

  I down the last of my beer and toss the can. On the corner of the crumbling patio sits a Hibachi that hasn’t seen a flame since Nixon. I pick it up and hurl it through the patio door.

  I kick the glass aside and walk in. I’ve been sleeping on the couch at the rehearsal space for the last couple of months, sneaking in and out while Dad was away to wash and grab clothes. I guess I was hanging on, like I didn’t want to accept the end of my childhood, the end of family — no matter how shitty it was, but it did end and the worst part isn’t sadness, it’s feeling nothing at all.

  The house looks nothing like it once did. The photos on the walls are gone, the end tables no longer smell of polish, and even the candles have long since burned their last. Everything that made this a home, all of those comforts are now just fading memories. The inside has been rotting just like the outside, but what I find is much worse than I remember from the fight the other night. Maybe I just never stopped long enough to see it, but now the stink makes dealing with those memories unavoidable.

  I make my way through the kitchen and into the small dining room, piles of boxes and old take-out food containers are stacked like sand castles on the table. I spare a glance at the bugs and see a frame sticking out from under a large overflowing ashtray. I push the ashtray off the table and watch it explode into amber glass shards that scatter across the floor all the way back to the kitchen. I push the used butts aside and tilt the frame up.

  It’s a family picture. There I am, big, green eyes full of hope staring out from a tanned face wearing a still innocent smile. My t-shirt is striped like a stick of gum, and my thick dark hair is just starting to get long. I’m nine in that picture. I run my hand through my hair now, careful of the cap and the newly shaved side over my right ear — it’s like a lop-sided mohawk. My hair falls almost to my waist and has a long blond streak down the back, where the new status quo is buzz cuts and shaved heads, I’m a freak even among my own crowd. I absently rub the black rose stud in my ear and remember the neighbor girl who gave me my first earring.

  She had purple hair and a bad-ass attitude to go with it. I remember I was almost thirteen and she used a needle. The others are more recent. I rub the scorpion tattoo on the back of my neck, my mind wandering farther than usual.

  A lot of things happened after this photo was taken. I flip the frame over and remove the back and carefully slide the picture out.

  I glance through the doorway to the living room and notice that the furniture is still overturned, some of it’s broken and there’s still blood on the front door from the other night, like an exclamation point on the end of my childhood. I return my attention to the photo, staring at Mom as I head down the short hall to my room.

  The door is open and inside is pretty much what I expected.

  My books are ripped and scattered all over the floor like a carpet. My high-boy dresser drawers are busted and piled one atop the other on my mattress, the one that lays directly on the floor. My clothes are everywhere. He was thorough, but I don’t keep my money anywhere a dumb-ass drunk like him would find it.

  I look inside the small closet to see that my Mom’s Martin guitar is missing, no doubted pawned. It hits me hard and I’m sad to know it’s gone, one more fucking thing to add to the list. The only surprise is that it lasted this long. I was a fool for leaving it here in the first place, but that goes on a different list. All my other guitars and equipment are over at our rehearsal space, safe and sound.

  I walk across my life and grab the carcass of my high-boy and push it over and then place the photo on it. Kneeling down, I pull up the rug to reveal a small wooden floor plank that doesn’t fit as snugly as it should. I pull up the plank with trepidation, but my stuff is still here between the floorboards.

  I grab my two thousand odd dollars and set it carefully aside. Underneath the money is a small Cameo on a silver chain. I place it gently around my neck and pull it up to my lips and kiss it. I’m not going to cry, it’s been too long for that now. But even so, that gut check has been taking more effort lately.

  Goddamn it.

  I grab the ratty duffle bag from my closet and toss it on the floor by the mattress. I use a Sabbath shirt off the pile to wrap my cash in and set it inside along with the photo. I collapse onto the mattress and look around the room. A few band posters hang loosely from the walls, crucified on their push-pin nails. The walls are a dull mildewed yellow. They are spider-webbed with white scars, indelible reminders of each time the drywall was busted and cracked.

  I stare at my room and feel even more depressed. Nearly eighteen years of life, and I can’t fill up a two foot long duffle.

  3

  Brainwashed Zombies Unite

  I grab two more long-neck bottles of beer out of the refrigerator and absently follow the sound of the Nova’s stereo back to the parking lot, but I’m thinking about Shauna. There’s something about her, I want to ask her out, but it never seems like the right time. She’s not part of the scene and maybe that’s part of what draws me to her and frightens me at the same time, like I’m not her type — like I’m beneath her.

  The weird thing is; she’s what I want and need, but represents everything I hate. And strangely, somehow, seeing her for a few minutes makes everything better in
a way that nothing else does, at least for a little while. Maybe it’s the possibility of sex with someone with self-respect. It’s all pretty confusing.

  I look down at the duffle and smile. I even have an excuse this morning.

  Todd pulls up his black, secret-agent-style sun glasses as I walk up to the car and take a swig. He has a flat-top styled mohawk with a tail, but the front is still long. He stares at me through his curly bangs with a troubled expression. He’s a year older than me, slightly round and slightly short. Today, he’s wearing a D.O.A. shirt and denim overalls. Somehow he makes it work.

  Ever since our gigging schedule picked up over the last few months, the band has been getting closer, but Todd’s been with me the longest.

  He turns down the stereo. “Where’s mine?” he asks.

  “What? I just had to deal with all this bullshit, and you’re not even worried about me?” I ask.

  “Don’t whine, it’s annoying. Priorities dude, priorities. Beer?”

  I pull the bottle from behind my back and hand it to him through the window. He smirks and then finishes the can of beer he was nursing and tosses it into the parking lot.

  “Martin’s gone, huh?” he asks.

  “Was there any doubt?” I ask as I toss the duffle in the floorboard and drop back into the car.

  “Sucks, dude. Sorry.”

  “Thanks. Drive me over to the bank. I need to make a deposit.”

  Todd tips his head and his shades fall back into place as he drops the Nova into first and stands on it, fish-tailing the car and getting us back out onto Elm Street.

  He glances up at the rear view mirror. “I hate that park. Even when we used to hang out there, I didn’t like it. Remember the ghost stories?”

  I watch it recede through the side mirror as we drive over the drainage ditch bridge. “I don’t think about it.”

  Todd glances at me with real concern, a look he gives me all too often lately and I pretend not to notice, as usual. And, as usual, he lets it go.

  “Do you ever think about wearing seatbelts?” he asks from out of nowhere.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “I heard they are thinking about passing a law.”

  “Like you can’t drink and drive, no open containers, that kind of law?”

  Todd laughs and salutes me with his beer and takes a drink. “Yeah.”

  I’m happy to change the subject. “I’ll bite, why?”

  “Save lives,” he says.

  “Save them for what? Who expects to live anyway, brainwashed suburban zombies? You really expect to see thirty?”

  “I don’t know about you, but yeah, thirty seems doable,” Todd says.

  “I didn’t expect to see sixteen, thirty is a lifetime away. Let’s see if I live long enough to register for the draft, then we’ll talk, assuming Reagan doesn’t declare war on someone or start launching nukes.”

  Todd just grins at me and casually keeps us on course, one hand on the cue-ball stick shift and the other lazily draped over the wheel, holding his beer by the neck.

  “Sixteen, huh? Sounds like you’re still whining? And Reagan isn’t going to nuke anyone, least not anyone we know,” he says.

  “We’ll see, we’ll see. Aren’t you worried about signing up for the draft?” I ask, grinning at him.

  “Nah, I think I’m good. Besides they aren’t actually drafting anyone anymore, it’s just signing up.”

  “I know, but we register for a reason; you never know when Uncle Sam’s going to need you again,” I say pointing at him, “it doesn’t matter anyway, I think you’d love basic training.”

  The memory of Vietnam is never far away with MIA flags and bumper stickers to remind us. We all know guys or family that came back all fucked up, or didn’t come back at all. We joke about the draft, like we joke about everything else, but it’s fucking unnerving, especially with Reagan in office.

  “The only thing basic I’m worried about is math over at the Junior College,” Todd says.

  “I can’t believe you’re buying into College, Junior or otherwise.”

  “Hey, if the parental units want to spring for it, I can at least show up. C’s aren’t that tough.”

  “I’m losing you, man, you’re going to run off and join the corporate machine, go to work for the oil companies or something.”

  He laughs. “Never, but,” he pauses and looks at me.

  “Never, say — never,” we sing at the same time.

  “Cool band,” he says.

  “Best name ever.”

  Todd nods his head. “You know, now that I think about it, maybe they said it saves money, money or lives, one of ‘em,” he says.

  I laugh. “Now that makes more sense. We could write a song about this, there’s one in there somewhere.”

  “Fascist fucks,” he suddenly shouts in time with a non-existent melody as he pounds the ceiling of the Nova.

  “Fucking-A.”

  He pauses and tilts his head. “Are we hypocrites for bitching about zombies living a meaningless suburban existence even though we’re living a meaningless existence in the suburbs?”

  “No, that’s what makes us experts.”

  He grins and takes another sip.

  It’s a short drive and soon the bank is in view.

  Todd looks over and points his beer at me. “Okay, dude, time for some tough love. It’s been like, forever, since you started talking about that girl at the bank, if she’s there, maybe today would be a good time to ask her out. If she says yes, you’ll feel a shit-load better. Don’t give me that look, you know you will.”

  “It’s only been a few weeks and she’s so out of my league, no really. She’s not going to say yes.”

  “You’re good with girls. You’ve got the look, the hair, the charismatic desperation.”

  “Thanks. I’m not good with girls like her, she’s nice.”

  “Nice? What does that even mean?’ Todd asks.

  “You know what it means.”

  “Oh, she’s not a slut?” Todd laughs.

  “Fuck you and no, she’s not. She’s special.”

  “Oh, special, huh? What, she have all her teeth or something?”

  “Most of them.” I chug half my beer and stare back at him.

  “Since when did you ever give a shit what a girl thought of you? Wait. Does this have something to do with your mystery girl fantasy?”

  “No. Why would you think that?” I ask indignantly.

  “Fuck, it does. You haven’t mentioned her in a while. I should have known.”

  “I didn’t mention her now,” I remind him.

  This is getting irritating.

  “You didn’t have to. Dude, you were two ships passing in the night. I heard that in a movie.” He grins. “It happened, whatever that was and now it’s long gone. Time to move on.”

  “I did move on.”

  “Did you? You spent a year looking for her and pestering folks around Sterling Hills. Are you sure that was the end of it?” Todd asks.

  “It was only six months.”

  “Oh, that’s much better, only six months. Dude, why? What was so important about her?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I say, dismissing the subject.

  We stop at a red light and he starts running the stick shift through the gears. I’m hoping he’ll get distracted with traffic and drop it.

  “What do you mean I wouldn’t understand?”

  He’s not going to.

  “She was normal,” I say.

  “She was rich, that isn’t normal.” He looks more serious now, which means he understands more than I want him to.

  “She was good, man, I mean like good and evil good, you know? There was something about her, something pure and hopeful and shit,” I say.

  “She was just some chick. Lot’s of hot chicks out there, dude and the evil ones are way more fun.”

  “No, it wasn’t about being hot or getting laid.”

  “What else is there? Look
, she’s not that special,” he says as he takes another drink of his beer. “No chick is that important.”

  “Yeah, she is. She made me forget about, forget about, you know.”

  “No I don’t, forget what?” he asks.

  He’s going to make me say it.

  I turn and glare at him and then shout. “The pain, man. The fucking pain. My whole fucking life, just everything.” I take a breath and try to dial it back down. “She was like a goddamn promise to make it okay. I thought she could make me matter, make me worthy or something. She was like raining sunshine,” I say without thinking.

  “Sorry, man.” He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, but I shrug him away. “I didn’t know it mattered that much, but raining what?”

  The light changes to green and Todd slowly gets us going again.

  I lean back in the seat and take a drink of beer as I close my eyes. “She knew who I was, maybe not everything, but she accepted me for me. No one’s done that for a long time. You fucking happy now?”

  “I accept you,” Todd says quietly.

  I look over and grin, all my frustration slips right out the window. “Yeah, you do. Thanks man, but it’s not the same. She gave me hope. Pretty fucked up, huh?”

  “Honestly?” he asks.

  I look at him and his expression makes me start to laugh.

  He laughs too. “I mean, I think I get it with your dad and everything, but yeah, it’s fucked up.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think about her anymore, not really, you know?”

  “Yeah, sure you don’t.” He gives me a slightly disapproving look and then laughs again as he shakes his head. “Okay, so back to the bank chick, shit or get off the pot, dude. You can’t bitch about not being accepted or worthy or how great she is at blowing sunshine out her ass if you don’t ask her out.”

  I laugh again. “It was raining sunshine.”

  Todd just levels a look at me as if to say, Don’t be a pussy.

  “Whatever, I’ve had enough emotional bullshit lately, I’m all good,” I say, waving him off.

  “Nah, you can take a little more, but maybe she is your mystery girl, maybe she isn’t. You’ll never know unless you ask — don’t hurt to try,” Todd says.