by Adam Vine
I did weekly drive-bys of Sunny Hill, and tried to keep a good relationship with the kids who lived there. Year after year, as each new Sunny Hill Crew came and went, I would knock on their door and give them my number, letting them know to keep their parties under control, to report any suspicious activity from the neighbors, and to call me if they ever needed anything, even just someone to talk to. They always befriended me, especially the chubby kids, the ones with the funny t-shirts and ironically huge bifocal glasses, which belied bottomless pits of self-loathing and insecurity underneath. I was the one cool cop in a city of student-hating pigs eager to bust up their good times, and they knew from my friendly, easy-going demeanor that I’d be their buddy, as long as they played by my rules.
But my first, true, Skoakland moment didn’t come until a protest downtown, when a bum rushed me with a glass bottle. Some union was demonstrating down on Pacific Avenue for better benefits, and, as usual, a bunch of anarchists crashed the party. A homeless man started throwing beer bottles through store windows, and I was the guy who stepped in to arrest him. When I moved to take him down, the asshole tried to stab me, so I tackled him and let him have the happy end of my nightstick until he stopped moving.
I wrote it off as self-defense, but the truth was, I’d suffered a momentary psychotic relapse, in which I hallucinated that the man’s eyes were flashbulbs and his teeth were mirrors. I left those details out of the paperwork.
***
It grew harder to convince myself the Union wasn’t real once my friends started dying. I had tried so long to deny it, but I couldn’t run from it anymore. We were marked, doomed from the day we moved into that house. Like Scudds Gurney once told me, the Union always wins.
Carter and Natalia were the first to go. They were killed in a fatal car crash on the Grapevine driving north from L.A. towards Bakersfield. A trucker lost control of his eighteen-wheeler and slammed into them, crushing Carter’s Toyota pickup into a motorhome in the next lane. The coroner sent me the photos. There wasn’t much left of my two friends, or their vehicle. Carter and Natalia both died instantly. I was thankful they didn’t suffer.
Sam was next. He was diagnosed with skin cancer at twenty-nine and died a month later. Out of all of us, Sam had been the one who spent the most time in the sun, and the least inside the house. He was always laying out on the deck to work on his tan or taking long bike rides to the beach. I wrote him a Facebook message to see how he was doing after losing contact for years. He said he was good, working as a journalist in New York City. A week later, he was gone.
Bea and Jay aren’t dead, but the last time I checked, they weren’t doing so hot. They’re living on a pot farm up in Humboldt County. Jay makes his living selling weed, which he grows in a massive underground hydroponic farm. He’s a licensed medical marijuana distributor, and runs his operation with the full legal blessing of the State of California. Bea sells traditional hand-made Brazilian bracelets through her online shop. The plot of land they live on, however, borders a National Forest, where a Mexican drug cartel has dozens of hidden weed fields guarded by men with AKs who wouldn’t think twice about killing some gringo hippies to keep their secrets safe.
It's been two decades since I moved out of Sunny Hill. Other than that one last Polaroid, my only contact with Bea and Jay for the past ten years has been via Christmas cards.
I watched Bea and Jay for years through the picture: cuddling, having sex, saying their vows in the outdoor chapel where they got married in the heart of an old redwood forest, having their baby, crying when their baby died, trying countless times to have another, giving up when Bea discovered she was barren, deciding to live on with their grief. I watched them until I realized there was a better way to get my thrills.
I may have personally dropped a hint to my DEA buddies that Jay is a giant piece of shit, and humanity would be at no great loss if the agency didn't save him and his wife from getting murdered in their sleep. This, in turn, got passed down the shit-sluice of information that is the United States Drug Enforcement Administration to the cartels. Everyone at the agency knows Jay and his wife are living on borrowed time. Eventually, the cartels are going to discover them and make a move.
See, that was Andy's problem. He didn't understand that you don't need to do it all by yourself. A phone call here, a loosened trailer hitch there, a few vital pills swapped out of someone’s bottle for placebos, and you can fulfill the Union's wishes while your hands stay clean enough for you to keep on keeping on. Twenty years under Sunny Hill? That's nothing. I plan on doing this until I retire.
Andy failed because he used the Union to gratify himself. He only killed so They would let him stay down there in the basement, spying, sneaking, masturbating, sometimes drugging and raping, all in a vain attempt to relive his glory days. But Unions don't succeed if their members act purely out of self-interest. They succeed when their membership grows, and their message spreads. So I'm doing things a little differently than old Skullcracker Skoakland. I take my time. I keep it by the book. I hold my eyes on the prize. Because I want what They offered. I want to go to the Other Sunny Hill. I want the trampoline and the orchard, the bouncing and blazing and partying until the end of time. I want my friends to stay my friends, and I want Bea, forever. It's not what anyone would call a perfect outcome, but it's the best of all possible outcomes for a broken piece like me.
But hey, what do I know? I’m a small time police officer with the Santa Cruz PD, a never-married, forty-two year-old pig who lives alone on a boat in the Santa Cruz harbor, who lifts weights five nights a week, and occasionally bangs the cute bartender with the tramp stamp down at The Avenue Bar and Grill so I don’t have to take her in for dealing meth. Little old me, I don’t know shit.
I did get Andy Skoakland’s old Crown Vic cruiser, though. That was my first request when I joined. It’s a ghost vehicle, only one on the lot. Good old Andy had a Ford Mustang V8 dropped under the hood. They were going to auction it. I took that baby home for $800.
***
We’ve all heard that blind people hear and smell better than the rest of us, because they can’t rely on sight to navigate their world, and it’s true. But all of us can reach that level of aptitude in the other four senses with enough practice. If you spend enough time alone in the dark, you can learn to see without seeing. It isn’t possible in a matter of minutes or hours. You have to stay in the darkness for days, or maybe weeks at a time. You have to use up all your vacation days and your paid sick leave. You have to make sacrifices. But in the end, it’s worth it.
I can pick out words perfectly through floors and ceilings. Hear them arguing about politics. I can smell a girl’s perfume as soon as she walks in the house, taste the subconscious dread that she’s being watched. I can feel the vibrations of their beds moving when they have sex.
I can see everything from down here.
***
“If chu guys throw big, loud parties here, there es gonna be problems. It es a nice neighborhood. The homeowners like their peace and quiet. I should know. I sold them their homes.”
The knob of the garage door clicked and wiggled as it mated with the key, swinging open. Alfonso entered the garage, leading five bright, young, college-aged faces: two handsome boys and three pretty girls of various races, hair and clothing styles.
Alfonso dabbed his sweaty brow with a silk handkerchief. It was blue, with a Fleur-de-Lis motif. “If chu guys are making noise after ten P.M., chu can expect a visit from the police department.”
“What about small get-togethers?” a blonde surfer boy with a baby face and a shag haircut said.
Alfonso smirked. “Please. I know the difference between a party and a get-together. Chu know what it es?”
“What?” the blonde boy said.
“Nada.”
The students looked at each other with a mixture of disappointment and secretive defiance. They would party here, all right; they’d throw the best Jell-O wrestling parties and Halloween parties a
nd white trash parties and lingerie parties this dilapidated old wreck of a 70’s porno house had ever seen. And if the police got called, so what? They were young and beautiful, about to sign the lease on a college house with ocean views and a wrap-around sun deck, a high-ceilinged living room that looked like an upturned boat, a fruit orchard and barbecue pit in the backyard, a garage they could transform into their own private bar complete with couches, Christmas lights, and vintage tower speakers.
I could see it in the way their eyes gleamed. This was a house for drinking and friends, sex and drugs, high-fives and beer pong. This was a house for making memories that would last a lifetime.
“But, as long as chu guys are responsible, I think it will be okay. Make sure chu keep the noise down, and chu will have the time of chur lives here. This property es great for students.” Alfonso put the handkerchief back in his pocket and looped his thumbs through his suspenders, resting his hands on the giant bulb of his gut.
“What about sub-letting?” a slender black girl with a huge coiffeur of walnut curls said. “I’m studying abroad next semester.”
“And where are chu going?” Alfonso said.
“Scotland.”
“Scotland,” Alfonso repeated, savoring the word. “I have never been there.”
“What about smoking?” a pale, red-haired girl said.
“Please do not smoke inside, or throw chur cigarette butts over the balcony, as it could cause a fire. Otherwise, chu are all adults.”
The girl frowned and stared at her shoes.
A slick-haired Latino boy wearing an Iron Maiden tank-top that showed off his supple, muscular arms walked over to the only piece of furniture in the garage – a dusty old piano, wheeled up against the far back wall- ran his hands along the keys, and said, “Yo, can I play this?”
Alfonso shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
The boy picked out a few notes with one hand, the opening riff of Wasted Years.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m gonna have to do some work on this thing to get it in tune.”
“Please do not mess around with that. It es very heavy and old. Chu might injure churself,” Alfonso said. “Now, to the back yard. This way, please.” Alfonso motioned for the five students to exit the garage.
The Latino boy hung back a moment, his gaze lingering on the piano. “Yo, wait up,” he said. “There’s something behind it.”
The college kids paused at the door. Alfonso dabbed, and sighed impatiently. The boy leaned over to peek behind the piano. I could see his eyes through the cracks in the Hobbit door, trying to seek purchase on whatever was hidden back there in the darkness.
“Raul, c’mon,” the red-haired girl said.
“There’s a little door,” the boy said. “It’s tiny. Yo, lemme see if I can reach it.”
I saw his arm swing back behind the piano, fingers fishing for the doorknob. My heart hammered inside my chest. A bit closer.
Alfonso raised his voice. “That es the door to the storage area. The owner keeps some of his things under the house. Please don’t touch it.”
Almost there.
“Can’t see shit without a flashlight, anyway,” the Latino boy said, retracting his arm. He stood up and dusted himself off.
Oh well. We’ve got plenty of time.
Alfonso shook his head. “When chu sign the lease, I’d prefer if chu all didn’t mess around back there. It es unsafe.”
The students gave each other a wary look. “Unsafe… how?” the black girl said.
“There might be rats. Now, please. This way,” Alfonso said, dabbing.
The six of them turned and headed for the stairs. “I will tell chu a story,” Alfonso said as they exited the garage. “I have two granddaughters, twelve and thirteen. Chu know what they said to me this past weekend? They said Granddad, we want to go to a slumber party. Our mom says we can go, but we need to ask chu first. Of course, I said no. They asked me why. They said I would let them go if they were boys. And I said yes, because boys don’t get pregnant!”
The boys both chuckled. The girls groaned. I heard the keys jingle as Alfonso locked the garage. I was alone in the darkness.
I ran the damp earth through my fingers, then stood, undressed, and folded my clothes next to the sleeping bag. They’re so much like us, I thought, climbing in, like the way we were. I’m a different person now, but not so different I don’t remember. They’ll be perfect.
***
You can see so much down here. Andy did. It's dark and cold, but it's actually quite pleasant. Lying in the earth, cool and naked, makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger than yourself. Skoakland had the right idea. I can still hear his words the night he died: It was never the bones. It was never the pictures or the dreams. The things you saw were images of your depression.
Andy had tried to explain it to me, but I couldn’t understand at the time. I understand it much better now, and I know I made the right decision. They are so much more than Scudds Gurney and Annabelle Leigh. Those were characters, illusions conjured by Them to tell me a story. In reality, They are infinite. They are those who will never be remembered, from this world and so many others.
I was never going to be remembered. I was always the monster. I was always the one on the outside looking in. I was always the pictures under Sunny Hill. So I paid my dues like Andy did. I got a room with a view. Their power will continue to grow here, with each new generation of students, and elsewhere, too, for once the Hole is open, it can never be closed. It can open inside anyone, at any time. It can open in the privileged and the oppressed, in the lost and in the found. It opens when we lose hope, when our faith in our friends and family flickers, when the last threads holding us to one another buckle and snap. All of us are broken in our own individual way.
So, a word of advice, from someone who has lived it. Never neglect the people you love. Treat them with dignity and respect. Never be cruel to them. Because you never know what might push them over the edge and send them plummeting to Us, and We are everywhere: at your school, at work, standing in front of you in line at the grocery store, praying next to you at church, commenting on your Facebook feed. We are always watching, waiting for a way in. We want what you have, and We always win. You cannot fight us, cannot escape us, cannot survive us. For We are the endless broken pieces, and We are union.
We see you.
Ho he he he.
About the Author
Adam Vine was born in Petaluma, California. By day, he is a game writer and designer. He has lived in four countries and visited thirty. His short fiction has appeared in various horror, science fiction, and literary fiction magazines and anthologies. When he is not writing, he is traveling, reading something icky, or teaching himself to play his mandolin. He currently resides in Los Angeles.
