EQMM, September-October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Where's he live?"

  I was thinking about what Bill had said about screwing a scream queen. Even if she wasn't a scream queen anymore. It didn't make much sense to me but it sure seemed to make a lot of sense to him.

  "Why don't I talk to him first?"

  She looked relieved. “Good. I'd appreciate that. I'm supposed to start this job next week. A good job. Decent bennies and from what everybody says, some real opportunities there. I want to start my life all over."

  "I'll talk to him."

  She was all business. Grabbing her coat. Sliding into it. Standing up. Looking around at the stained and peeling wallpaper and all the posters, including the latest scream queen, Linda Sanders. “She's a nice kid. Had a real shitty childhood. I hope she can beat the rap—you know, go on and do some real acting. I saw her at a small playhouse right before I left L.A. She was really good."

  I liked that. How charitable she was about her successor. A decent woman.

  Churchill came out and rubbed his head against her ankle. She held him up and gave him that smile of hers. “We both need to go to Weight Watchers, my friend."

  "He stays up late at night and watches TV and orders from Domino's when I'm asleep."

  She gave him a kiss. “I believe it."

  She set him down, put out her hand and shook, that formal, forced way people do in banking commercials right after the married couple agrees to pay the exorbitant interest rates. “I really appreciate this, Jason. I'll start figuring out how I'm going to fix up your apartment. I live in this tiny trailer. I've got it fixed up very nicely."

  * * * *

  "You didn't screw her, did you?” Bill said when he came into the store.

  He'd been hustling around the place, getting the displays just so, setting up the 50% OFF bin of VHS and DVD films we hadn't been able to move, snapping Mr. Coffee to burbling attention. When I told him she'd come over to my place last night, he stopped, frozen in place, and asked if I'd screwed her.

  "Yeah. Right on the front lawn. In the rain. Just humping our brains out."

  "You'd better not have, you bastard. I'm the one who gets to nail her."

  At any given time Bill is always about seven minutes away from the violent ward, but I couldn't ever recall seeing him this agitated about something.

  "She isn't going to screw anybody, Bill. Now shut up and listen."

  "Oh, sure,” he said, “now you're her press agent? All the official word comes from you?"

  "She's scared, asshole."

  "Listen, Jason. Spare me the heartbreak, all right? She's been around. She doesn't need some video geek hovering over her.” Then: “That's how you're gonna get in her panties, isn't it? Be her best friend. One of those wussy deals. Well, it's not gonna work because she'll never screw a pus-face like you. You checked out your blackheads lately, Jason?"

  I swung on him then. When my fist collided with his cheek, he gaped at me in disbelief, then sort of disintegrated, started screaming at me real high-pitched and all, as he stumbled backwards into a display of a new Disney family movie. Most surprisingly of all, he didn't come after me. Maybe I'd just stunned him. He'd always seen Spence and me as his inferiors—we were the geeks, according to him; he wasn't a geek; he was a cool dude who pitied us enough to hang out with us—and so maybe he was just in shock. His slave had revolted and he hadn't had time to deal with it mentally yet.

  "She's afraid you'll tell somebody who she is,” I said. “And if you do, you're going to be damned sorry."

  And then I couldn't believe what I did. I hit him again. This time he might have responded, but just then the front door opened, the bell tinkled. The first customer of the day, a soccer-mom with a curly-haired little girl in tow, walked in with an armload of overdue DVDs. Mrs. Preston. Her stuff was always overdue.

  I had just enough time to see that a pimple of blood hung from Bill's right nostril. I took an unholy amount of satisfaction in that.

  * * * *

  Michele didn't want to see me. She was nice about it. She said she really appreciated me talking to Bill about her and that she really appreciated me stopping by like this but she was just in a place where she wanted to be alone, sort of actually needed to be alone and she was sure I understood. Because that was obviously the kind of guy I was, the understanding kind.

  In other words, it was the sort of thing I'd been hearing from girls all my life. How nice I was and how understanding I was and how they were sure, me being so understanding and all, that it was cool if we just kind of left things as they were: you know, being just friends and all. Which is what she ended up saying.

  As usual, I'd gotten ahead of myself. By this time, I had this crush on her and whenever I get a crush of this particular magnitude I start dreaming the big dream. You know, not only having sex but maybe her really falling in love with me and maybe moving in together and maybe me getting a better job and maybe us—it could happen—getting married and settling down just as the couples always do in the screwball comedies of the ‘thirties and ‘forties Bill and Spence always rag on me for liking so much.

  Over a three-day period I must have called Spence eight or nine times, always leaving a message on his machine. He never called back. I finally went over there after work one night. He had a two-room apartment on a block where half the houses had been torn down. I was just walking up to the front door when Spence and Bill came out.

  They were laughing until they saw me. Beery laughter. They'd both been gunning brew.

  Bill was the one I watched. His hands formed fists instantly and he dropped back a foot and went into a kind of boxer's crouch. “You got lucky the other day, Jason."

  "I don't think so, Bill. I think you got lucky because Mrs. Preston came in."

  Spence's face reflected the disbelief all three of us were probably feeling. I couldn't believe it, either. I'd stood up to Bill the other day, but I think both of us thought it was kind of a fluke. But it wasn't. I was ready to hit him again.

  The only difference between the other morning and now was that he was half-drunk. Brew makes most of us feel tougher and handsomer and smarter and wittier than we really are. Prisons are packed with guys who let brew addle their perception of themselves. Or dope. Doesn't matter.

  He came at me throwing a roundhouse so vast in scope it couldn't possibly have landed on me. All I had to do was take a single step backward.

  "I don't want to fight you, Bill. Spence, pull him back."

  Whatever Bill said was lost in his second lunge. This punch connected. He got me on my right cheek and pain exploded across my entire face. He followed up with a punch to my stomach that doubled me over. “Kick his ass, Bill,” Spence said.

  Even though I was in pain, even though I should have been focused on the fight I was in, his words, the betrayal of them, him choosing Bill over me when it should have been Spence and me against Bill—that hurt a lot more than the punches. He'd been my friend since third grade. He was my friend no longer.

  Bill hit me with enough force to knock me flat on the sidewalk, butt first. If this had been the other night, I would've jumped to my feet and started swinging. But I was still hearing Spence say to kick my ass and I guess I didn't have enough pride or anger left to stand up and hit back. I just felt drained.

  "You all right?” Spence said to me. I could hear his confusion. Better to stick with Bill. But still, we'd been friends a long time and to see me knocked down—

  "He's just a pussy,” Bill said. “C'mon."

  I didn't stand up till they were gone. Then I walked home slowly. I took the long way so that I'd go past Michele's place. The light was on. I turned off the sidewalk and started moving toward the house, but then I stopped. I wasn't up for another disappointment tonight.

  * * * *

  Video Vic's real name wasn't Vic; it was Reed, Reed Patrick, and when I called him next morning and gave him my week's notice, he said, “You don't sound so good, kiddo. You all right?"

  "I just need to be movin’ on,
Reed. I enjoyed working for you, though."

  "You ever want to use me for a reference, that'll be fine with me."

  "Thanks, Reed."

  That night, I surprised my folks by showing up for dinner. Mom had made meat loaf and mashed potatoes and peas. I figured that was about the best meal I'd ever had. They were surprised that I'd quit my job, but my Dad said, “Now you can start looking for something with a future, Jason. You could start taking classes again out to the college. Get trained for some kind of computer job or something."

  "Computers, honey,” my mom said, patting my hand. “Jobs like that pay good money."

  "And they've got a future."

  "That's right,” Mom said, “computers aren't going anywhere. They're here for good."

  "You should call out there tomorrow,” Dad said. “And my buddy Mike can get you on at the supermarket he runs."

  I pretended to be interested in what he was saying. I'd never seemed interested before. He looked happy about me, the way he had when I was a little kid. I hadn't seen him look this happy in a long time. He also looked old. I guess I hadn't really, you know, just looked at him for a real long time. The same with Mom. The lines in their faces. The bags under their eyes. The way both my folks seemed kind of worn out through the whole meal. When I left I hugged them harder than I had in years. And all the way back to my little room, I felt this sadness I just couldn't shake.

  * * * *

  Over the next week, the sadness stayed with me. I'd realized by then that it wasn't just about Mom and Dad, it was about me and everything that had happened in the past couple of weeks. I tried Michele a couple more times. The second time she was real cold. You know how girls are when they aren't happy to hear from you and just want to get you off the phone. After I hung up, I sat there in the silence with Churchill weighing a ton on my lap. I felt my cheeks burn. It was pretty embarrassing, the way she'd maneuvered me off the phone so fast.

  The next night, no longer gainfully employed, I walked across town to the library. I was reading the whole run of Robert Jordan fantasy novels. He was one of the best writers around.

  Even though the library had bought six copies of his new hardcover, they were all checked out. I picked up a collection of his short stories. He was good at those, too.

  * * * *

  On the walk back home, I saw them coming out of a Hardee's. He had his arm around her. They were laughing. I was ready to fight now. Just walk right up to him and punch him in the freaking chops. He'd be the one sitting down on his butt this time, not me. And I'd remind her that she still owed me an apartment cleaning.

  Good ole Michele and good ole Bill. That's the thing I've never understood about girls. Hard to imagine a guy more full of himself than Bill. But she obviously thought he was just fine and dandy. Otherwise she wouldn't let him have his arm around her. He was going to sleep with her and then he was going to tell everybody. I wondered how she'd react if I told her.

  But I couldn't. Much as I wanted to go over there and tell her what was really going on, I couldn't make my legs move in that direction. Because I could live with my self-image as a geek, a loser, a boy-man, but I could never live with myself as a snitch.

  * * * *

  A few days later I signed up for computer classes at the community college. I gave up my room on the rent-due day and moved back home. The folks were glad to have me. I was being responsible. Dad said his buddy Mike could get me on at his supermarket and so he had.

  What I did for the next few nights, after bagging groceries till nine o'clock, was glut myself on the past. I still had boxes of old Fangorias and Filmfaxes in my closet and I hauled them out and spread them on the bed and just disappeared into my yesterdays, back to the time when there was no doubt that I was going to Hollywood, no doubt that I'd be working for Roger Corman, no doubt that someday I'd be doing my own films, and no doubt they'd be damned good ones.

  But my time machine sprung a leak. I'd get all caught up in being sixteen again and grooving on Star Wars and Planet of the Apes and Alien but then the poison gas of now would seep in through those leaks. And I'd start thinking about Michele and Bill and Spence and how my future seemed settled now—computer courses and a lifelong job in some dusty little computer store in a strip mall somewhere—and then I'd be back to the here and now. And not liking it at all.

  On a rainy Friday night, my mom knocked on my door and said, “Spence is downstairs for you, honey."

  I hadn't told my folks about the falling out Spence and I had had.

  I just said okay and went down to see him. He was talking to my dad. Dad was telling him how happy they were about my taking those computer courses.

  I grabbed my jacket and we went out. I hadn't so much as nodded at Spence. In fact, we didn't say a word until we were in his old Dodge Dart and heading down the street.

  "How you been?” he said.

  "Pretty good."

  "Your Dad seems real happy about you being in computer classes."

  "Yeah."

  "You don't sound so happy, though."

  "What's this all about, Spence?"

  "What's what all about?"

  "'What's what all about?’ What do you think it's all about? You took Bill's side on this whole thing. Now you come over to my house."

  He didn't say anything for a while. We just drove. Headlights and neon lights and streetlights glowed like watercolors in the rain. Girls looked sweet and young and strong running into cafes and theaters to get out of the downpour. His radio faded in and out. Every couple of minutes he'd slam a fist on the dash and the radio would be all right again for a few minutes. The car smelled of gasoline and mildewed car seats.

  "He's getting really weird."

  "Who is?"

  "'Who is?’ Who do you think is, Jason? Bill is."

  "Weird about what?"

  "About her. Michele."

  "Weird how?"

  "He's really hung up with Michele. He won't tell me what it is but somethin's really buggin’ him."

  "I'm supposed to feel bad about it?"

  "I'm just telling you is all."

  "Why? Why would I give a shit?"

  He glanced over at me. “I shoulda stuck up for you with Bill. The night he knocked you down, I mean. I'm sorry."

  "You really pissed me off."

  "Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry. I really am. I—I just can't handle being around Bill anymore. This whole thing with Michele. She's all he talks about and she won't let him do nothin'. He says it's like bein’ in sixth grade again."

  I wasn't up for just driving around. I'd done enough cruising in my high school years. I said, “You seen that new Wes Craven flick?"

  "Huh-uh."

  "There'll be a late show. We could still make it."

  "So you're not still pissed?"

  "Sure I'm still pissed. But I want to see the Wes Craven and you're the only person I know who's got a car."

  "I don't blame you for still bein’ pissed."

  "I don't blame me for still bein’ pissed, either."

  * * * *

  I didn't hear from Spence till nearly a week later. After the Craven flick, which was damned good, he started talking about other things we could do but I just told him I was busy. Sometimes, friendships, even long ones, just end. One thing happens and you realize that the friendship was never as strong as you'd thought. Or maybe you just realize that you're one cold, unforgiving prick. Whichever it was, I wasn't up for seeing Spence or Bill or Michele for a long time. Maybe never.

  I went my glum way to computer classes and my even glummer way to the supermarket.

  * * * *

  He was in the supermarket parking lot waiting for me when I got off work. I walked over to his car. It was a warm, smoky October night. Big-ass harvest moon. I wanted to be a kid again in my Halloween costume. I could barely—just quite—remember what it had been like to go trick-or-treating before the days when perverts and sadists hid stick pins and razor blades in candy apples.

&nbs
p; I walked over to the driver's side of his car. I wanted to walk home. October nights like this were my favorites.

  "Hey,” he said.

  "Hey."

  "You doin’ anything special?"

  "Yeah. Nicole Kidman called. She wants to go get a pizza with me. She said she'll pay for it. And the motel room afterward."

  "Remember to bring a condom."

  "She's got me covered there, too. She bought a big box of them."

  We just looked at each other across an unbreachable chasm of time and pain. He'd been a part of my boyhood. But I wasn't a boy anymore. Not a man yet, to be sure. But not a boy, either.

  "He's pretty screwed up."

  "We talking about Bill?"

  "Yeah. Had the day off. Drinking beers with whiskey chasers."

  "Good. We need to drink more. Make sure we're winos before we hit twenty-five."

  "I think maybe we should go over to Michele's place."

  "Why?"

  He stared at the passing cars. When he looked back at me, he said, “You better get in, Jason. This shit could be real bad."

  * * * *

  It was one of the little Silverstream trailers that are about as big as an SUV. Except, given its condition, this one should have been called Ruststream. It sat between two large oak trees on a corner where a huge two-story house had been torn down the summer before. The rest of the neighborhood blazed with laughter and throbbing car engines and rap music and folks of both the black and white persuasion filling porches and sidewalks, most of them trying to look and sound like bad-asses. Her trailer was a good quarter block from its nearest neighbor.

  Bill's motorcycle leaned against one of the trees. No lights, no sound coming from the trailer.

  "Maybe he's getting the job done,” Spence said.

  "Maybe,” I said.

  The door was open half an inch. I opened it wide and stuck my head in.

  "What the hell you think you're doin'?"

  I couldn't see him at first, couldn't see anything except vague furniture shapes. Smells of whiskey and cigarettes. A cat in the gloom, crying now.

  "Get out of here, Jason."

  "Where's Michele?"

  "Where you think she is, asshole?"