by Adam Vine
“Mmm hmm. Mmm hmmm,” Officer Skoakland spat. He nodded. “So: you think you were followed by an average-sized guy, who walked with a slouch. You know he was white, but you don't remember what he looked like. Let's try an easy one. What was he wearing?”
Bea got defensive. “Look. I was scared shitless, okay? Do you know what it's like to be a girl, and have some creepy guy follow you home? He might know where I live!”
“I know, Ms. Ferreira, I know,” the officer said. The sympathy in his voice was so fried and obviously fake, I wanted to punch him in the throat.
“But I can't arrest anyone based on the description you've given me. There are 50,000 people living in the city of Santa Cruz. Half of them are men, and probably half of those could be described as middle-aged and white. Maybe fifty percent further could be described as average height and bearded. You're not giving me a whole lot to work with, if you want me to find the one guy in six thousand who might have been following you.”
“Six thousand, two hundred and fifty,” Bea said coldly.
Officer Skoakland chuckled. “Even better. One more question: what happened after you noticed Mr. Vague, Medium Build, White Suspect? Did you run? Say something to him?”
“I yelled at him,” Bea said.
“What did you say?”
“I told him he was a creep, and to fuck off.”
I expected Officer Skoakland to chuckle at that, too, but he placidly made a note. “Did he say anything back to you?”
“Nope,” Bea said. “Practically ran the other way.”
The officer nodded again and put his notepad in his pocket. “You’re a tough cookie. You most likely scared him off. Doesn't sound like much of a threat to me, to be honest. But I'll file a report and see what I can do. In the meantime, try not to walk around late at night, and if you see anyone suspicious, who might be following you or lurking around outside your house, pick up the phone and call me right away. Okay?”
“What?” Bea said, incredulous. “That’s it? You're not gonna, like, do anything about this? Don't you want the sock? I still have it.”
“Sure, I'll take it right over to the lab. They'll have it DNA-analyzed by morning. No, that's a joke.” The officer shrugged and spat. “What do you want me to do? I can send a patrol out here tonight if you're really worried, but judging by the smell of this place, it seems like you guys have already started partying, so you might be asking for another noise violation if I come back here. I think I may have interrupted the start of another Sunny Hill rager.” He winked at me, and paused to crinkle his nose.
He smells the weed, I realized. I couldn't smell anything, but it occurred to me a straight-laced cop like this guy would be hypersensitive to the smell of marijuana. Our house probably reeked.
As if reading my mind, Officer Skoakland added, “You invite your friend Mary over for the party tonight? Smells like good stuff. Is that white widow?”
Bea cast me a furious look.
"Now, I need to be heading out, unless there's something else you'd like to report," Officer Skoakland said.
For a wild second, I seriously considered telling him about the photos. They did depict what could have been a murder, after all, and maybe I was being stupid trying to figure it all out by myself.
No. Not now. He’s not going to listen.
A cop like Skoakland wouldn't do anything but write me off, like he'd written off Bea’s stalker. Not unless we caught the dirt bag unrolling his sleeping bag. Killjoy pigs like Skoakland didn't care what happened to Bea, or me, or any of us; we were just entitled students for him to rough up when he and his buddies broke up our house parties.
I was too angry to remember whatever Officer Skoakland wished us before turning to head back to his squad car. What I do remember, though, is the short exchange he had with the neighbor when he reached the top of our driveway.
“How's it going, Benny?” Officer Skoakland called up the street.
I craned my neck to see whom he was talking to.
It was Mr. DeLucio, standing out on his front porch, shivering in a pair of sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. His pale gut bulged over the elastic band of his pants like sludge spilling from a slowly tipped bucket.
“P-p-pretty good, officer,” Mr. DeLucio said.
“You still jerking off to these college kids, Benny? Or did you find yourself a new hobby, you fuckin' prick?” Officer Skoakland said.
“I th-th-thought you did that, officer,” Mr. DeLucio replied. He sounded terrified.
Compared side-by-side, even across the great distance of our driveway and Mr. DeLucio's front yard, the two men could not have been more opposite. Our weird little neighbor looked like an antsier, bespectacled version of Gollum next to the imposing Mount Doom of Officer Skoakland.
Skoakland spat and shook his head dismissively. “Go back inside and watch some kiddie porn, ya bonehead. Or, better idea, buy a new pair of binoculars.”
“I-I-I have every right to do as I please on my own property, so long as I'm not hurting anyone,” Mr. DeLucio said.
“Not really,” the cop said, climbing back into his squad car. “But I'll let your lawyer explain that to you next time. Stay gold, Pony Boy. Ho he he he,” Officer Skoakland chuckled. He closed his car door and drove away, giving Bea and me a wave.
What’s wrong with his laugh? I wondered.
Bea put her hand on my shoulder and let out a sigh. We went inside.
Snapshot #21
Caption: Welcome to Sunny Hill
Ah, here’s a good one: our first kegger. Actually, it was the first party we ever threw at Sunny Hill, a small housewarming get-together that turned into a rager with over a hundred people all crammed under the low, creaking rafters of the garage.
In the picture, you can see Carter and me smiling in the foreground, next to the keg. Carter’s arms are crossed in front of his chest and mine are raised in the air. Carter is wearing a tight black Zara v-neck that shows off his muscles, his head shaved down to a bald sheen, grinning like he just banged a Victoria’s Secret model. That was the night he met Natalia. He was the Bro of the Ball.
I’m standing next to him, righteous drunk with my mouth hanging open, shouting something unremarkable, my big, fat gut spilling out of my XXL t-shirt, some cheesy piece of shit I got during freshman year. You know the one. It’s black with white lettering that simply says, COLLEGE. People always thought I was trying to be ironic by wearing that shirt, but I actually thought it made me look cool.
Bea’s face is creeping into the corner of the picture, tongue hanging out of her mouth, her eyes rolled back. She’s handing me the tap. I gave Bea a pretty hard time for the zombie face she’s making in that picture. She maintains the only reason she looks so ugly is because the photographer snapped the picture while she was mid-sentence. She made out with him, and he took her home when she got sick. She told me the next day it didn’t go anywhere, but I never fully believed her.
That was the night I fell in love with Bea, and the night I realized she would never be mine.
Part 2:
The Wrong Road
“Guys, we need to talk about what's going on.”
I entered the kitchen to see Carter, Natalia, and Jay standing in a loose semi-circle around the breakfast bar, watching a music video on Jay’s iPhone.
My stomach clenched when I heard the tinny, familiar lyrics blasting from the speakers.
“We the Ice Cream Killas,
You know we stack that scrilla…”
A deluge of hot blood flooded my face. “No no no no no no no. No you are not showing them that, Jay.” Jay and I had made that rap video when we were fifteen, right after Jay and his dad finished rebuilding his ice cream truck.
The song was called Stacking Scrilla, and Jay and I were the Ice Cream Killas. We were both too young to drive, so we had only danced around the truck while it was parked in my parents’ driveway, wearing big clothes we thought looked gangster and throwing fake money in the air.
“Omigod! Look at your hair! You guys were babies!” Bea said.
“But they’re about to drop the hottest mix-tape of all time,” Natalia observed.
Carter also had something to add. “Yo, Drew, that chain is baller! What’s that bling on the end? Is that the Ghostbusters symbol?”
I reached to grab the iPhone out of Jay’s hand. Natalia blocked me with her body. Her face was red from laughing, and tears streamed down her face. The others, too, were hysterical.
The song reached the refrain:
“We the Ice Cream Killas,
Rhymes cold as vanilla…”
It was the part in the video where I crouched down in front of the truck’s chrome bumper and started making gang signs with my hands. I didn’t know what they meant, but I had a plastic water pistol painted black to look like a real gun tucked in my pants, and a tinfoil grill on my teeth. My parents’ next-door neighbor, Ms. Lee, called the cops on us, because she thought it was a real gun.
Jay threw me a wink. “That’s Drew Mayhem.” He pointed to the screen.
“Is that where that nickname came from?” Bea said.
“That was his rap name.”
“And who were you?”
Jay grinned. “I was JK-47.”
Bea threw her head back and howled. Natalia buried hers in her hands.
Look how small I was back then. Back before I was fat, I thought. Or less fat, anyway.
How could that son of a bitch show this to Bea? They’re making fun of me. Not Jay, he's in the fucking thing, and Jay would never laugh at me. But the rest of them; they're making fun of me. Laughing at how stupid and fat I look.
I felt Carter’s arm around my neck. “Why so pale, dawg? Thought you was cold as vanilla.” A barely stifled laugh threatened to burst from his lips. I was so angry I could have hit him.
“I so need a copy of this to put on YouTube,” Natalia said.
Jay saw the look on my face and turned the video off, putting the iPhone back in his pocket. “C’mon, man. We were just dumb teenagers. It’s funny.”
I looked down, so they wouldn't see how pissed I was, and tried to get myself back under control. How could he? How could he show that to Bea?
“Dude, you are so red,” Bea said.
When I was sure I wasn't going to take a swing at someone or burst into tears, I said, “There’s something important we need to talk about.”
Hearing the tone of my voice killed their laughter. I leaned on the counter between the empty handles of liquor and half-eaten burritos.
Carter’s voice grew serious. “What’s going on?”
“Do you wanna tell them?” I asked Bea.
She shook her head. “You should.”
I took a deep breath and began. “Bea thinks someone is stalking her. Some sick fuck jacked off into a sock and left it on her car last night. Then today, some guy followed her home from the grocery store. She yelled at him, and he ran away.”
Natalia said, “Attagirl!” Bea shrugged.
“We called the cops,” I said. “But, the officer…”
“Was a joke,” Bea said.
“At least, he thought it was. Alfonso said he’d stop by tomorrow, but that’s a long shot.”
“Was it Officer Skoakland?” Carter said.
“You know him?” I said.
“Every black man in Santa Cruz knows Officer Skoakland… racist asshole. Sat me down on the curb one time outside a party, while he let all the nice white kids go on their merry way,” Carter said.
“So he's not just a douchebag cop on a power trip, he's a bigot douchebag cop on a power trip. Great,” Bea said.
Carter waved it off, wrapping his arm around Natalia’s waist. He kissed her on top of the head. “I've dealt with a lot worse from cops like him because of this beautiful cocoa skin of mine. Skoakland acts tough, but he's a coward hiding behind a badge, and he knows it.”
“So what are we gonna do?” Jay said.
“I'll tell you what we are not going to do,” Bea said. “We are not letting this crap ruin our night. Let's get drunk.”
Jay picked up the handle of vodka and poured five shots. We clinked our shot glasses. Jay said, “To Bea! And fuck creepy stalkers!” We drank.
“Uh, one more thing,” I said, after the burn subsided.
My friends looked at me expectantly.
I hesitated. I was going to tell them about the pictures, but I suddenly didn't think it was such a good idea. I wasn’t certain I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing.
Would I tell them what I thought I saw, only to open the shoebox and make a complete fool of myself in front of Bea? My friends would think I was insane. But that wasn't as bad as the possibility that Bea would.
I smelled wet dirt and crinkled my nose. Did someone leave a window open?
“Uh, Drew?” Natalia said.
“Thunder, you in there?” Carter said.
The whole room had fallen silent. I came to, like I was waking up. “Just keep your eyes open for anything weird tonight. That's all I was going to say. We should keep things low key. And it might not be a bad idea to carry weapons.”
Carter scoffed. “Please, dawg. These are the only protection we need.” He balled his fists and pretended to punch me, dancing around and throwing fake jabs and hooks. I slapped his hands away, trying not to laugh. But as usual, Carter got the best of me.
“Knock it off.”
“Get your ass burnt tryna touch this lightning,” Carter said, throwing a one-two at my ribs.
The last of my anger about the music video slipped away. “Are you suggesting there’s a possible storm on the horizon?”
Carter put his hands down. “Baby, there’s always a storm on the horizon.”
Jay's brow creased in consternation. “I don’t really see how you guys can be laughing right now. This shit might actually be serious.”
Outside, the black shapes of the trees shivered in a gust of wind.
“On that note, there's something I need to show you guys,” I said. “Come downstairs.”
I was careful to open the garage door slowly, so I wouldn't knock over the beer bottles. They were still where I'd placed them earlier. No one had come or gone.
We ducked through the Hobbit door with flashlights in hand. I led them to the hole where I'd found the box of pictures, the sleeping bag, and Coleman lantern. My friends gathered around me. I told them my theory about the basement sleeper.
Bea frowned and said softly, “If this is some kind of a joke, Drew, you are one seriously fucked up individual.”
“What you see is exactly what I found when I came down here earlier,” I said.
Carter sighed. “Why didn't you show us earlier when Porky Pig came over to bitch us out? You couldn't tell us then?”
I shook my head. “I didn't tell that dickhead cop because he wouldn't have done jack shit. And, there wasn't a good time to tell you. You were taking a nap.”
Natalia raised her voice. “Drew, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Carter said, “I've gotta go with Tal on this one. If this is real, I mean, if this is what we think it is… someone's been sleepin' in our basement.”
“We already know who it was,” Bea said quietly.
And Carter, “Okay, Queen Bea. Who?”
“The person who’s been stalking me.”
I fenced my hands at them both. “Whoever this asshole was, he's not coming back. If he tries, I'll crack his skull open myself.”
Natalia scowled at the ground. “I'm so moving out.”
Carter hung his head. “C'mon, baby. You overreactin'.”
“Overreacting?” Natalia said.
“You think this has something to do with those pictures we found?” Bea said. “I mean that sleeping bag is literally next to the hole.”
“It could. Those pictures are old, but this guy just happens to sleep right next to the hole?" I shrugged, unsure of what else to say.
Bea shivered and hugged herself. “Maybe
we should call Officer Woman-hater again. Make him do something about it.”
I shook my head. “He’s not going to believe us.”
“Maybe not.”
I cracked my knuckles. “Nobody is gonna mess with my friends. Nobody is going to follow them around, or watch them through the windows, or creep under our house, or leave fap socks on a young woman's car. Not on my watch. Not gonna happen.”
Jay rubbed my back softly. “Oh, sorry,” he said, pulling his hand away when I turned to glare at him. “You just had a smudge on that shiny white armor.”
Bea giggled. Carter, too, was forced to smile.
“Oh, goddamnit,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. I was glad at least one of us had enough of a sense of humor to break the tension, even if it was at my expense.
Jay grinned. “Man, relax. I've got a shotgun in the car. Nobody is gonna do shit. We’ll be fine.”
“Whoa. You serious?” Bea said.
“As a bad case of herpes,” Jay said.
“Can I see it?”
“My herpes?”
They laughed again. I got jealous Jay was stealing what was supposed to be my spotlight by making Bea feel safe again when I couldn’t. But I was still grateful he was there.
“No. I mean your shotgun, dumbass,” Bea said.
“Do you know how to handle a firearm safely? Have you ever shot a gun before?”
Bea cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why, because I'm a woman?”
“No, I, no, I just meant,” he stuttered.
Bea patted him on the chest. “I'm just kidding. Of course I've never shot one before. I'm from San Francisco, dude. The only thing people shoot there is fernet. Now who needs to relax?”
Jay let out a sigh of relief. “Well, if I'm getting it out anyways, I might as well teach you how to use it properly, so you don't accidentally blow someone's head off. Or, if you need to blow someone's head off, I can show you how to do that, too.”
“So, let's go. Anything to get away from this slasher movie bullshit,” Bea said.
This seems more like psychological horror than a slasher flick, I thought, but I kept it to myself.
