Dead Boys

by RICHARD LANGE

  We proceed wordlessly on watery legs into the market. The devil floats at our backs, reeking of sweat and chemicals. Mr. Ho is lying facedown in front of the meat counter with his brother and son and nephew. A second devil stands guard over them, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His shotgun swings up to wink at us, and he yells, “On the motherfucking floor.”

  I’m thinking, Not here, not in these clothes, as I lower my cheek to the gritty linoleum. The box boy pauses on his knees, hands clasped, a prayer burbling out of him, until the first devil kicks him the rest of the way down and tells him to shut the fuck up.

  Mr. Ho says, “I take you to safe. No problem. Don’t hurt nobody,” and the devils let him stand. One of them twists his arm behind his back and jams a gun into his neck. He pushes Mr. Ho toward the office so fast, Mr. Ho stumbles and almost falls. They round the end of the aisle, the squeaking of their sneakers fading quickly. The pin that fastens my badge to my shirt is sticking me in the chest. I hear a hiss and smell something funny and see that the devil left to guard us is hitting a pipe. This is a bad sign, what with the trigger of his gun curled so comfortingly around his finger. It’s made to be pulled, it’s begging to be pulled, and the last thing anyone wants to do when he’s high is say no to a friend.

  The box boy’s watch is close to my ear, and I count the seconds thudding by to keep from screaming when the devil pulls a roll of duct tape from his pocket. He kicks the bottom of my foot, tells me to get up. The tape screeches off the roll, and I use my teeth to tear it as the devil hovers over me, tapping me with his gun. The tape fouls in my shaking hands. It twists and curls and sticks to itself, and I have to toss aside the first few strips. The devil taps me harder, in a new spot each time, and says, “Somebody’s fixing to die.”

  I start with Mr. Ho’s brother, his wrists, then his ankles. When I get to Mr. Ho’s son, he begs me not to cover his eyes like I have the others’. He makes me feel awful for doing the devil’s bidding, for not even contemplating a refusal. They’ll die hating me for this, I think, and then I realize I’ll be dead, too. Mr. Ho and his devil return just as I’m finishing up. I’m shouted to the floor again, but I’m barely on my knees when Jim charges out into the aisle from behind the beer cooler. His little pistol clicks once, twice, then discharges, and the shots are like hammer blows on concrete, sending up sparks that set the air ablaze.

  I scrabble through the conflagration, past the blind men wriggling and screaming behind their gags, to the meat counter. Up and over is the plan, and I make it up but not over before a thousand steel bees swarm and shatter the glass of the case and dig their white-hot stingers into me. I fall back to the floor in an avalanche of pig parts. Will I taste the blast that takes off my head?

  Scarlett glides through the rising smoke to crouch beside me, and the mess I’ve made flattens and recedes and turns into television. Her nose crinkles at the stink of gunpowder, and I can tell she’s worried about ruining her new shoes, but that doesn’t stop her from crouching beside me. As the echoes of the last shots carom up and down the empty aisles of the store, she takes a tissue from her purse and wipes the drool from my chin.

  “Aren’t you pretty,” she says.

  “You didn’t leave.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not,” I say, and I’m not.

  My shoulder is a gory snarl of meat and muscle and yellow fat, but it doesn’t hurt much unless I look at it, and the only time it really pumps blood is when I curl my fingers to see if they still work. Some of them do.

  One of the devils is sprawled on the floor. Scarlett and I watch as he jerks himself into a ball and dies. The other sits with his head between his knees until Jim nudges him and he flops onto his side, his ski mask flushing a deeper shade of red. Mr. Ho is busy untaping his relatives and the box boy, who, as soon as he’s loose, begins to pray again. The Chinese stand together like football players in a huddle, crying into each other’s hair.

  Jim comes over to check on me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t even notice you weren’t around.”

  “I was watching the whole time, my brother. I wasn’t going to let them take you out.”

  He examines my wound with a grimace, then begins clearing away the pig parts.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I think it’s okay. Just be cool.”

  Scarlett snuggles closer. She asks if I want a piece of gum.

  The cops arrive, and Jim rushes toward them, yelling, “What took you so long? My partner’s fucking dying.” They order him to shut up. He hurls his gun deep into the store and presses his palms to his temples. I guess it’s sinking in now, what he had to do. The floor is wet with the devils’ blood, twin lakes of it that the cops tiptoe through to yank off their masks. Jim tries to stop them, but they ignore him. The devils turn out to be a couple of kids, sixteen, seventeen. Crazy fucking kids. Jim moves off to sit by himself, folding his body in half like his stomach hurts.

  “Jim,” I say. “Buddy.”

  He looks over at me.

  “Listen.” An awful Muzak version of “Heart of Gold” is blasting over the store’s speakers. Scarlett and I watch as Jim begins to mouth the words, and I promise myself I will never laugh behind his back again.

  “He seems nice,” Scarlett says.

  She sits with me until the paramedics arrive and walks beside the gurney, holding my hand, as they wheel me out to the ambulance. Just before they load me up, she gives me a quick kiss, which is soured by the rain on her lips.

  “Well, bye,” she says.

  “Could you stay?” I ask. “I know this isn’t your life or anything, but it’s starting to hurt a little.”

  She looks away like she’s thinking it over, then turns back to me and nods. She climbs into the ambulance and slides in next to me, and I begin to believe I just might see morning.

  Whatever wonderfulness the paramedics have doped me up with has me smelling incense and hearing hymns. I feel as if I’ve been lanced and drained, and I don’t hate anyone anymore. I cough up a mouthful of blood, but big fucking deal. There exist certain wildflowers that must be burned in order to bloom, and who’s to say I’m not one of them?

  The siren bawls, announcing my departure, and I wave out the windows, flashing everyone the thumbs-up, all the strangers who have lined the rainy streets to see me off, at last, at last, the gracious Grand Marshal of my very own parade.

  The Hero Shot

  WHEN DID EVERYONE GET MARRIED? WHEN DID THEY all have kids? Suddenly there’s no room for me. I spend an hour on the pay phone trying to wrangle a couch to crash on, and all I get is “Sorry,” “Sorry,” and “Really sorry.”

  Fan-fucking-tastic. In-fucking-credible. The cops show up to put me out of the apartment, and it starts to rain. I can’t hold a thought in my head. My unemployment has been used up, and I’ve sold everything but my television.

  The bartender gives me a look when I come dripping in with my suitcase, the Zenith twelve-inch tucked under my arm. I put the set on the floor next to my stool. It’s just past noon, and I’m down to my last fifty bucks.

  “Bring it on,” I say.

  For every three drinks I pay for, the bartender slips me a freebie. I buy him a few, too. He warms to me when he realizes I’m not a bum. The day passes at a slow trot. I’m up, then I’m down. A good idea, a fresh start. Something. Anything. Please.

  I drink through happy hour, the shift change, the after-work rush. Nobody knows me here. I go to put a dollar in the jukebox, but one of the regulars reaches out and grabs my arm and pleads, “No, man, not now,” and what can I do? It’s his hideout.

  A stranger listens to my troubles. Antonio Alfredo Blah Blah Blah. Not to worry, he says, I can sleep in his toolshed. We seal the deal with decent tequila, but he’s nowhere to be found at closing time.

  I spend the rest of the night cradling my TV in the doorway of a beauty supply store. The rain is still coming down. There’s thunder and lightning, and big black bugs emerge f
rom the cracks in the sidewalk and scurry for dry ground. Even with all the booze in me, I can’t sleep. Right before dawn I see bats circling the streetlights.

  I’m waiting for the bartender when he opens at six. The first drink warms me up, the second makes me puke. By noon I have just enough money left for bus fare and a phone call to Riverside. “Mom,” I say — the receiver shakes — “I’m coming for a visit.” I change my shirt in the bathroom, and the bartender treats me to one for the road. I’m teetering, I’m teetering, I fall.

  I’M NOT GOING to fight the old fights this time. We’re a family; that’s all there is to it. It takes her a while to unlock the door. Her hands are hurting her again. I had a key, but I lost it. She hugs me around the neck, trying to smell my breath.

  “You know the rule,” she says. “Not in my house.”

  What did she do to her hair? Something funny. “It looks good,” I tell her. She’s put clean sheets on one of the beds, but my brother’s high school golf trophies are frosted with cobwebs. He and I shared this room forever. Mom hasn’t changed anything. It’s as if we died, and she’s honoring our memories.

  I open a drawer filled with comic books, grab a few, and sit at the desk where I did my homework and built model cars. I swore it wouldn’t happen, but here I am again. My mouth is dry, my head throbs. The first twenty-four hours will be the worst. It takes time to get used to having a body again. I turn the pages. The Incredible Hulk bounds across the desert, covering miles with each leap, a soaring green cannonball.

  EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS place makes me sick. It struck me when I was twelve, and from then on I was miserable. I don’t know what it was — the dust, the crowded church parking lots, the way any kind of decent plan fell apart. The one teacher I could stand in high school said that everybody hated their hometown when they were my age and that I’d grow out of it. But not me. Never. I left for the first time at seventeen, and I left running.

  Hollywood, baby. I slept on the floor of a guy who had moved from Riverside a year earlier to start a band. He got me a job busing tables at the restaurant where he worked, and within a month they made me a server. I blew my tips on beer and ecstasy and dated a rich girl who lived in the Hills.

  It’s hard to recall how happy I was. I don’t let myself get that excited anymore. Everyone I knew was on the verge of something big. And me, too — why not? You could see it in the double takes we got when we walked into the clubs. “It’s you,” said the music. “It’s you,” said the lights. “It’s you.”

  MOM MAKES ME lunch. Tomato soup, grilled cheese, and a tall glass of milk. She washes dishes while I eat. The TV is blaring in the living room, one of those court shows people love so much. Mom’s robe is pink silk. Her toenails are pink, too. She keeps herself up, that’s what everyone says. I think she’s sixty, sixty-one. My brain can’t do the math right now. She was a schoolteacher for thirty years.

  “So, the whole world’s against you, huh?” she says.

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “How do you look at it?”

  “That way. Sometimes.”

  Mom laughs, but if she wants trouble, she’s out of luck. I’m fading fast. I count the crumbs on the table, gathering them with a moistened fingertip. My headache has sharp spines that gouge me when I swallow. The tile is cracked, the wallpaper moldy. Mom spends all her money on clothes.

  “Tell me again how it’s not your fault you were evicted,” she says.

  I can’t even hear her. I’m too busy trying to keep my food down. She’s not being cruel; she thinks she’s funny. All her friends tell her she’s funny. All those friends of hers. She wasn’t around much when we were growing up. I feel so heavy, I have to use both hands on the tabletop to lift myself off the chair.

  THE SHEETS BURN. I curl my fingers and toes, and my breath roars in and out. The shadows of the trees outside stroke the ceiling. I put all my faith in them. It’s not right for a grown man to be back in the bed that he wet until he was ten. Part of me wants to work on a plan, but the rest of me shuts down and bows again to the leafy shadows. We need sleep. A bird sings, and the sun slides lower in the sky. I’m losing another day.

  I LOADED TRUCKS, I tended bar. I got my head shots done. Nothing happened the first year or the year after, but I still believed. People gave up and moved away, and new people arrived to replace them. There was always someone hopeful to talk to. “You’re dreaming,” Mom would say when I called, but what was wrong with that? It was a good life for a young man. The big thing wasn’t money, the big thing wasn’t cars or clothes.

  And then — wow! One of the regulars at the club I was working at in those days was a half-assed agent named Rusty, who was always mouthing off about who he knew. I finally got fed up and said, “Rusty, you’re so full of shit. Why don’t you send me out on some auditions?” He did, and I got the second thing I was up for, two lines in a straight-to-video quickie.

  We shot on the patio of a mansion in Malibu. The guy playing our boss paced back and forth, reminding us of the insults, the lies. He wanted us to make things right. He wanted us to go to war for him. “Can I trust you, Frankie?” he asked. “Absolutely, Vito,” I replied. The lights were hot on my face. The camera dollied toward me, and the assistant director pointed. “It would be an honor to die in your service,” I said. One take. One. The other actors said I was a natural. They had all been on TV and drove new cars. I felt like I’d finally turned a corner.

  The glow lasted months. I took acting classes and went on dozens of calls. I spent hours at the gym — me and everyone else. Nothing came of it. Then Rusty went to jail, and I couldn’t get another agent to see me. Extra work didn’t pay the bills. I began to doubt myself, which is deadly in that business.

  HULK IS IN love with a shapely green girl who’s just as strong as he is. Together, they defeat the bad guy. I’m missing the next issue, but in the one after that the green girl is dead, and Hulk is alone again. Mom busts in and whips open the curtains and the window. She wrinkles her nose at the smell. I’ve been lying here for days, but I think I’m over the hump now.

  “I need help with the groceries,” Mom says.

  It’s windy outside. Fallen leaves school like fish in the street, following each other from gutter to gutter. The mailman passes by, keys jingling. I carry the bags into the kitchen. Mom’s on the porch, all bundled up in a hat and scarf. She smiles at the bare trees.

  “The most beautiful time of year,” she says.

  We’re deep into fall. Nights are cold, and everything that dies is dead. I’m a summer man, myself.

  SpaghettiOs, bologna, pot pies — all my childhood favorites. Mom’s proud that she remembered, but I haven’t eaten this shit in years. We put it all away, then watch TV. There’s a car chase on every channel. The driver makes a big loop, the police right on his tail, from the Hollywood to the Harbor to the Century to the San Diego. People crowd the overpasses to cheer him on. He waves and honks his horn. Mom and I split a box of macaroni and cheese.

  “Your dad used to do that, the way you chew with your hand over your mouth. Do you remember?” she says.

  “I was maybe six, Mom.”

  “I remember things from when I was six.”

  “You think you do.”

  “The neighbor boy did magic tricks. He could make bottle caps disappear.”

  Dad died of cancer. He smelled like medicine. From pictures Mom has, I know he played golf and rode a motorcycle. The car on TV spins out, and the driver makes a run for it. I want a drink. Not desperately, but a beer would be nice, and if I had a twelve-pack, I could bullshit with Mom all day long. She changes to a talk show, and I go to my room and read more comics.

  MY BROTHER’S HOUSE is about a mile away. Paul. I walk over. He’s in his garage when I get there, working on his truck. I’m three years older. We’ve never been particularly close. He’s surprised to see me.

  “Mom didn’t call?” I say.

  He shrugs. We stand side by side, look
ing down at the engine. The fan belt is loose. All the men in the neighborhood took him under their wings when we were kids. He could catch a ball, swing a hammer. They loved him more than they loved their own sons.

  His wife, Kelly, comes out. We’ve only met once before. Her dad owns the plumbing company Paul works for. I didn’t know she was pregnant. She asks the questions Paul won’t. I like that.

  “How long are you staying with her?”

  “It’s kind of open-ended.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Nah, taking some time off.”

  “She must be so jazzed. She talks about you constantly, wondering why you don’t come see her more often.”

  “She’s lucky she has you guys so close.”

  This is a dig. Mom’s already told me they never visit. Kelly gives me a dirty look and goes back inside. I hold a flashlight for Paul while he tightens the belt. All his screws are sorted by size and stored in baby food jars. His tools hang on the wall above his workbench, each outlined in Magic Marker. I think he’s happy. He seems happy.

  “Is that how you’re going to play it this time, that you’re visiting?” he asks.

  “There’s some stuff to do. The house is in bad shape.”

  “Good a place as any to dry out, I guess.”

  I can take it; I’m a man. I ask him for some weed, a little something to smooth the rough patches. He still smokes — I know he does — so what’s with the disgust on his face? What’s with the sigh? He wipes his hands on a bright red rag before walking into the house. Growing up, I tried to be a big brother to him, but he wouldn’t have it. He scorned my advice, denied my wisdom. I never trusted him, either. We turned on each other all the time.

  I’m playing with a vise mounted on the workbench when he returns. I put my finger in it and tighten it until it hurts. He passes me a film canister containing a fat green bud.

  “Atta boy,” I say.

  I STAYED AWAY those first few years, made all kinds of excuses not to come home. Acting in the movie finally gave me something to talk about, though, so I told Mom she’d see me on Christmas Eve. I don’t know why; we were never any good at holidays, Mom, Paul, and I. All the things you were supposed to say and do — one of us would invariably crack under the pressure.