Ache

by P. J. Post

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do know and I’m pretty sure it will.”

  4

  First Chances

  We pull into the bank and park as I start unlacing my sneakers.

  “What are you doing?” Todd asks.

  “My shoes are covered in dried blood. You really think she’ll say yes to a psycho? I have too many question marks as it is.”

  “You don’t think the swimsuit and the Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt qualifies as psycho?”

  “You’re a regular motivation coach, you know?”

  “It’s ‘cause I care.” He smiles. “Hey, hang on.” Todd reaches into the backseat and retrieves a leftover black and white flyer for our show Saturday night. We’ve pasted several hundred up across the city over the last couple of days, dodging shop owners and cops. “Invite her to the show.”

  “Dude, you’re a genius.”

  “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.” He grins.

  “That sounds ominous; your ideas usually make me nervous. Here goes nothing,” I sigh.

  “That’s the spirit,” Todd says through a grin as he shakes his head.

  I pull the cash from the duffle and slide out of the car again, but this time it’s a neat and prim bank parking lot. Manicured bushes and flowers surround the lot and sidewalks. It’s the better side of the tracks over here, the side with reason to smile.

  The pavement is stupid hot, so I run into the lobby and see her about the same time she looks up at me. I suddenly realize I’m still holding the beer, so I take a quick drink and set it down behind the small trash can by the door normally reserved for envelopes and those little paper coffee cups with playing cards on them. She covers her mouth and I can tell she’s giggling.

  I'm lucky, because the lobby is empty. I make a production of straightening and smoothing out my shirt and push my long hair back over my shoulders before walking up to her window. I know I’m grinning, but I can’t seem to stop.

  “Hi Connor,” she says in that sweet, slightly breathy voice. “Been swimming?”

  “No, why?”

  She glances at my swim trunks.

  “Oh, no. I don’t do swimming, at least not since I was a kid.”

  “This a new, um, fashion statement then?”

  “What?” I give her an innocent look.

  “Nice hat, by the way. Chicken out on getting the mo-hawk?”

  “Something like that,” I say, the innocence fades. “Can you do the deposit slip for me?”

  “I always do.” She starts filling out the slip in big loopy letters and numbers while I lay the stack of cash on the counter.

  “You memorized my account number and everything?”

  “Yep,” she says without looking up.

  “Isn’t that against bank policy?”

  She looks up and grins. “Probably. So you started partying early?”

  “No, um, why?” I ask through mock chagrin.

  She points towards the trash can with her pen. “Well, I thought you might be a little drunk. You’re wearing a swimsuit and a ski cap. Shoes might have been a nice touch. And Strawberry Shortcake? Really?”

  “Hey,” I say pulling on my shirt. “Strawberry Shortcake rocks, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you have any clothes that at least match?”

  The truth is I really don’t.

  “The airline lost my luggage and Todd, he’s my driver, he’s got this thing about malls, so I’m kind of stuck” I joke.

  “You, have a driver?” she asks skeptically.

  “Yeah, but don’t tell him that, he thinks he’s my best friend.”

  “Well, it’s none of my business, but I think you’d clean up nice.” She smiles and her eyes are twinkling, or maybe it’s just the morning light shining across the lobby.

  “I’m one of those unwashed masses you’ve been hearing so much about lately,” I say defensively.

  “Seriously, you’re in here making deposits all the time, you must have a little left over,” she chides me and then she stops and winces. “Sorry, that was so none of my business.”

  “It’s fine, but no I don’t. I just go to the cash-machine and withdraw the same money over and over so I can come in here and deposit it. It’s the best excuse I’ve come up with to see you. You didn’t think I had a job did you?” I grin as charmingly as I’m able, at least, I hope it looks charming and not creepy.

  She looks away and I can’t read her expression.

  Truth be told though, I’m not digging the plan too much about now. The thought of rejection isn’t a game anymore. This is the furthest I’ve put myself out there in pretty much forever, and I feel an unpleasant and unfamiliar anxiety rising.

  She counts the money carefully and places it into her drawer, writes some stuff down and hands me the carbon copy.

  I take it and stand there like an idiot. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink.

  Shit.

  Maybe I should just take the receipt and split real cool like and try again another time, like maybe next Christmas.

  “Something else I can help you with?” she asks.

  Yes, you can save my pathetic life.

  She just stares at me blankly for a moment and then a smile slowly spreads across her face, it’s enchanting. I can smell her perfume, she smells clean and fresh, pure — like something I’d fuck up.

  That smile renews my confidence and I decide, yes — today will be the day she shoots me down in flames.

  “Connor?” she prompts.

  I look down at my feet and then lay the flyer on the counter.

  “My band’s playing tomorrow night at The Underground. If you’re not too busy, maybe you can come?”

  Her smile disappears and now it’s her turn to look down. “Thanks for the invitation, but I have a boyfriend, sorry.” She scrunches her face up when she says it. Rejection’s never been so damn cute.

  But even so, we’re all done here.

  I knew this was how it was going to go, but it still hurts, way more than I thought it was going to, actually. Fucking Todd got me thinking all positive and shit again. I have to remind myself to stop listening to him, broken clock my ass.

  “He’s a lucky guy,” I say. I say it, because I mean it. “Hey, bring him too, it’ll be fun, it’ll be fun. The other bands playing should be pretty cool. It’s a good crowd, a bit rough, but cool.”

  “How rough? Do I need protection?” she asks.

  “I think your boyfriend can handle it.”

  “And if he can’t?” she asks through a grin I can’t read.

  “Then I’ll jump down off the stage and open up a can of whup-ass.”

  She giggles.

  “Okay, rewind that, but imagine I’m wearing a biker jacket.”

  “No, still not working. I can’t picture you and whup-ass in the same sentence, sorry.”

  I set the flyer down on the counter, slow and gentle, and push it towards her ever so slightly and tap it with my finger. “See you tomorrow night.”

  I give her a big happy smile and as I back out of the bank, Mrs. Farmington, my elementary school math teacher and now one of the bank managers, runs over and starts lecturing me about coming into the bank barefoot. I see Shauna laugh, but I also see her slip the flyer off the counter.

  I wonder if it went into her purse or the trashcan. But if she tossed it out, then what was the point of that whole conversation about protecting her? I suck at this shit.

  I put my hands up defensively and apologize to Mrs. Farmington as I walk out the doors. I pause and watch her walk back over to Shauna. I slip the door back open just enough to grab my beer.

  Shauna sees me and starts to giggle, which Mrs. Farmington responds to with a raised and shaking finger, not turning around to look at me. I smile and slide back out. I hope she’s not in too much trouble.

  The shadow of the bank has cooled the sidewalk right outside, but I start to run again as I step into the sunlight.

 
“Well?” Todd asks as I jump into the Nova.

  “She has a boyfriend.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, well, it makes sense. I told you, I’m not surprised. She’s a couple of years older, has a real job and she’s pretty hot in that 'girl-next-door from a-better-neighborhood' kind of way.”

  Truth be told, she always wears pink lip gloss and has the cutest little nose. She looks like a goddamn fairy. She has a heart shaped face and her strawberry blonde hair is permed. She has bangs and always has her hair pulled back with banana clips so that it does this pony-tail thing. And with her hair back, you can see her slender neck and delicate ears that usually have peacock feathered earrings dangling from them. She has a freckle at the corner of her left eye; otherwise her skin looks like porcelain — except for the golden tan, that is. She’s usually wearing this mischievous look, like she has a secret, but wouldn’t think of sharing, even on a dare.

  Even that dreadful pantsuit they make her wear for work can’t hide it. But it’s her big blue eyes that I can’t escape. They look like steel, almost whitish — taunting me with what I can’t have. They just suck me in and I can’t explain it. Who the fuck knows? And it doesn’t really matter anymore anyway.

  Jesus, what was I thinking?

  Todd interrupts my thoughts. “Wait, she’s hot? You never said she was hot. We’re talking about you, right? Dude, you never had a chance. You should have mentioned that sooner. You realize we’re wasting time we could be partying, right? I thought she had a hump or something.” He hunches over and makes ogre fang gestures. “And you gave it a shot dressed like that? You’re brave, dude — a moron, but brave.”

  “And you’re a dick.”

  I look down at my bloody shoes in the floorboard and then back out the windshield.

  Quietly I say, “I really like her though, it’s like that moth to a flame shit. I don’t know what it is, but it sucks.” I look out the side window at the bank entrance.

  “Dude? Your number’s up, something good is going to happen. You’re all kinds of due.”

  “Yeah? We’ll see, we’ll see, I’m not holding my breath, that’s for sure. But, while I’m waiting, I need to go to the mall.”

  “The eighth circle of Hell?”

  “Yeah, the circle that sells shoes,” I say as I stick one foot up in his face and wiggle my toes.

  Todd grins and pushes a new cassette into the player and now Joe Jackson’s The Man. I love the bass on this album, it’s tight and thumps, but still cuts through. Todd turns it up loud and we drive, each lost in our own thoughts. I bang my head to the groove while I watch the city life go by, normal lives and average people that think today was pretty good and tomorrow is going to be better.

  Suckers.

  5

  Secrets Unshared

  We get back to our rehearsal space and Todd drives by Tonya’s van and stops by the front door. Actually, it’s a converted gas station that’s tucked in between an old industrial park and the railroad tracks that split the town — just like the cliché.

  Tonya, she’s the singer in our band and even though we all help pay for the rehearsals space, it’s not very much, I guess she knows someone and gets it cheap. We were just happy when she joined the band and invited us to use the space. We were jamming in Todd’s garage before, but his parent’s bitched constantly and the neighbors didn’t exactly dig our vibe. We were going nowhere and then she showed up. She even has a P.A., what more can two growing boys want?

  Once upon a time, the garage bays were being converted into one big office or retail space or some shit, but they never finished. Metal studs and half complete drywall partitions line the room, the glass garage doors are still there and open up to our main rehearsal space. Tonya lives in the converted supply loft upstairs. Apart from the oil stained floors, it’s a pretty sweet set up, especially since it’s been my home-away-from-home for a while now. We call it the Garage.

  “See you later, dude, I have to go by work and pick up my check,” Todd says over the top of his shades.

  “You want fries with that?” I ask.

  “Kiss my ass,” he says, scowling.

  I grab my shoes, duffle and shopping bag from the backseat and wave as Todd races out of the parking lot. He’s always in a hurry, like it matters when he gets his check, but he seems to be having a good time just the same. I think he’s bogarting the secrets to happiness.

  I see that Keg Vomit’s van is gone. They hit the stage last night wearing matching striped shirts from the sixties and were all sporting medium length blond hair that they had pushed to the side. We thought they were going to do Beach Boys songs all night, but they torched the place, very intense. We met them after the show and besides being a great band, they were a blast to hang out with, so we invited them over.

  Everyone in the scene needs each other, not many are making any money playing punk, and hotels aren’t in the budget. We’re still trying to be a big fish in a small pond, but lots of touring bands end up crashing with us and for the most part, they’re pretty cool, like they are staying with family — family they don’t owe money to.

  I open the door and walk in to hear Bow Wow Wow blasting, asking if I want candy. I turn down the mixer.

  “Tonya, you should keep the door locked,” I shout up at her through the balcony of the loft above.

  I dump my things on the remaining case of beer and fall into the couch. I look up to see Tonya leaning over the half-wall of her balcony.

  “Be right down,” she calls.

  I hear her rummaging around and then she turns the corner of the stairs. Tonya is an enigma. She always wears oversized flannels over t-shirts and baggy chinos with waffle-stomper boots, regardless of how hot it gets. They make her look heavier, frumpy, but it’s hard to tell because she seems kind of petite too. She has big brown eyes, smooth skin and a light complexion that makes her look younger than her nineteen years. Her hair is a shoulder-length mess of purple and red. She’s wearing an old, baggy sweat suit now that says Property of North, which I assume refers to the High School on the other side of town — the one I didn’t go to — and those white pom-pom socks that I’m sure frequent those same high school halls.

  She was really shy and acted a little weird when we first met. But when she joined the band earlier this year, we hit it off just the same, and we just kept getting closer, but over the last three days, since she picked me up from the Emergency Room, it’s become something else, something special. She looks at my stuff and then steps up onto the couch and collapses down over her legs, tucking them underneath. She looks small sitting on the couch like that. She leans her head against my shoulder and takes my hand, cradling it.

  “Was your dad there?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Want to talk about it?” she asks.

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, you know I’m always here, right?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Thanks for everything. I’d have been fucked without you this past year.”

  “I’m your friend. Friends don’t abandon each other, thick and thin.”

  I squeeze her hand and lay my head against hers.

  “What did you buy?” she asks.

  “I thought the bloody shoes were a bit much, might wear them on stage though. I got some Reebok hi-tops.”

  “White?”

  “Of course.”

  “Socks? Underwear?”

  “Who wears underwear?”

  “Commando? Gross.” Her cheeks flush. It’s cute.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I got some from the house, which reminds me, we can’t use my dad’s washer and dryer anymore, so I need to go the Laundromat later.

  She sits up. “I didn’t think about that. This totally sucks.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Yeah it is. The Laundromats are super nasty, my shoes always stick to the floor and I don’t even want to think about what that is,” she says as she holds her toes.

  “I’m out of cl
ean pretty much everything. I have to go. Give me a ride?”

  “Yeah.” She grins. “You know what the worst part is?”

  “What” I ask.

  “I’m going to have to do my clothes there too. Your dad really does suck.”

  “Because of the laundry?”

  “Well, yeah, why else?” Her grin turns sheepish.

  “But we’re not going to talk about it, right?” I remind her.

  “Yeah, but Connor, I do need to talk to you about something. Can I talk to you, honestly?”

  “Always,” I say.

  “I mean, really honest?”

  “Yes.” I lean forward so I can see her face and look at her with concern.

  She looks up at me, those big brown eyes all serious.

  Her mouth gets small.

  I’m suddenly worried.

  She turns away, pauses dramatically and then looks back up at me with puppy dog eyes.

  “What? What?” I ask.

  “You stink, dude. Can you please take a shower, like soon? Please?” she says through a grin.

  I lift an arm and sniff and then look at her again. “What?”

  “Grody!”

  She stands up and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s take care of your head first.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I answer.

  She leads me up the stairs to her small apartment. It’s really just an empty room that doesn’t even have proper walls or a closet. The bed is made with a lavender quilt and she has a small teddy bear resting against the pillows. The walls and exposed framing are painted a deep maroon. A clothes rack on wheels sits out from the wall amidst piles of clothes. A space heater is the only other thing in the room.

  Fortunately, the one thing they did finished during the renovation was the bathroom. It’s wrapped in white tile and has a real shower with real water pressure.

  She guides me in and sits me down on the toilet facing the wide mirror on the wall behind.

  “This may hurt,” she says and carefully pulls the ski cap off. She grabs a few hair clips and pulls my hair away and pins it up to reveal the bandages. Blood is soaking through.