Ma took his wrist and pushed up the long sleeves of his black undershirt. “Let me see something.”
She turned over his heavily tattooed arm and examined his inner elbow. Dennis pulled away. “What the hell?”
“I hear so many things about punk music people,” she said in a grim tone. “Promise me you’re not using any hard drugs?”
“Ma!” Dennis and Stuart rebuked in harmony.
Ma clapped once, holding her hands together as she gave a satisfied chuckle. “Guess your ol’ Ma can still pull off a Halloween prank herself every now and again, huh?”
Dennis walked to his dresser, picked up a crumpled orange flyer, and handed it to Stuart. “I’m a drunk. Not a junkie. There’s a diff.”
“Don’t say that!” she rebuked. “You’re not either one! Not anymore.”
Stuart read the flyer and grinned.
Ma sniffed at Dennis’s water glass.
the chalk outlines! on stage tonight! read the flyer. It was a rough, old-school mimeograph job, featuring a grainy photo of Dennis with his bandmates, a muscular Hispanic and a petite sneering alt chick, all of them dressed in campy Halloween-inspired rockabilly gear.
“Once a drunk, always a drunk, Ma. That’s the deal.” Even this sounded cool coming from Dennis.
She patted his back. “You’re doing so well, Dennis. I’m proud of you.”
Stuart offered an agreeing smile, not sure if he should say anything.
“Now hurry!” Ma squealed. “You shouldn’t keep Reverend McGlazer waiting.”
She kissed him and turned to leave. “Oh! Can you drop Stuart at school? You want to hear how Dennis’s jig went, don’t you, Stuart?”
Stuart and Dennis snickered at her word choice. “Sure, Ma. No prob.”
* * * *
Beaming, Stuart raised the luchador mask off his face and amped up the volume. His favorite part of autumn mornings was this: riding in his brother’s tricked-out hearse as leaves blew across the tree-lined streets and swirled in mini twisters, chasing each other under an umber haze.
The trees, fences, and mailboxes along the street all wore such elaborate Halloween decorations, it was like a high-stakes contest. Nylon witches and ghosts floated in the trees, wooden black cat cutouts stood in the flowerbeds, wittily inscribed Styrofoam tombstones jutted from front-yard displays.
Dennis’s 1970 Cadillac hearse was a mobile advertisement for his band, with flames painted on the hood, cartoonish chalk outlines of a voluptuous woman’s corpse stickered on the doors, and a V8 472 cc engine that could roar like an enraged lion. Stuart loved to ride in it, especially to school.
The familiar punkabilly music emanating from the speakers had Stuart bobbing his head, tapping his fingers on his thigh.
Dennis looked at him, pleased. “You really dig that track, huh?”
“I think it’s your best ever.”
“Let’s hope the record company suit agrees.”
“She will, dude!” Stuart insisted. “I’d bet on it!”
The chorus began, and Stuart sang along with appropriate facial contortions.
“I better watch you, man,” Dennis said. “You’ll end up replacing me.”
“Yeah, right,” Stuart said and scoffed with a sideways glance at his brother. “Maybe I can be in the band one day though. Keyboards or something.”
“No way, daddy-o.” Dennis shook his head, as he always did when Stuart raised the topic. “College. Then some more college! After that, college. You’ll be going to college—beyond the grave!” Dennis goosed his brother, right in that spot under his ribs that made him giggle like a baby. But for Stuart, the appeal of one day being like his brother was near irresistible. “We’ll see.”
“For real, Stuart. Mom’s had plenty of guff outta me. She doesn’t need it from her widdle baby bubby.”
“Shut up. You’re doing okay. Pretty good, actually.”
“Maybe.” Dennis took his eyes from the road to give Stuart an earnest, penetrating gaze. “But you’re gonna do better.”
A dozen yards ahead, burly Mister Dukes cast a scowl at them, which seemed reasonable given that he was in the midst of unwinding moist toilet paper from his mailbox. His morning’s labor was only beginning; more of the soggy bands lay draped across his shrubs.
Dennis slowed the hearse and rolled down the window. “Morning, Mister Dukes. Ya got hit?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Dukes waved to Stuart as he wadded the tissue into a handful. “Hey, it wasn’t you, was it, boys? Be honest.”
“Come on, Mr. Dukes.” Dennis stayed cool, as always.
“Aaah I’m sorry. It’s just … that weird music, and whatnot.” Dukes squinted like the concept was a literal indecipherable blur to him. “What d’ya call it? Junkabilly?”
Before Stuart could stop himself, he explained, “It’s called horror punk!”
Dennis nudged him. “Easy.”
“No offense, boys.” Dukes frowned at all the unpapered yards surrounding his. “Guess I’m just too old for all this Halloween crap.”
“Never too old for Halloween, Mr. Dukes!” Dennis called, waving. “Hope you make it to the Pumpkin Parade!”
“Maybe.” Dukes waved, mumbling something they couldn’t hear.
As they pulled away, Dennis gave Stuart a reproachful glare. “Gotta build good rapport with the public, Stuart.”
“He doesn’t respect our music!”
“Nobody does. That’s why it’s called punk, genius.”
Stuart had this thought and the music to fill his mind for the rest of the ride to Ember Hollow Junior High. If they had stayed at Mr. Dukes’s place longer, they would have seen him open his mailbox and find a single piece of orange-and-black-wrapped candy.
About the Author
Photo by Scott Treadway
Patrick C. Greene is a lifelong horror fan who lives in the mountains of western North Carolina. He launched his Ember Hollow series with Red Harvest and Grim Harvest. He is also the author of the novels Progeny and The Crimson Calling, as well as numerous short stories featured in collections and anthologies.
Visit him at www.fearwriter.wordpress.com.
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