by David Arnold
Me: OK, regarding OMG (who I now feel legit bad having ever even called OMG, bc dude has LIVED A LIFE) there’s too much to text, so I will catch you up later. More recently I have a theory re: Chapter 17 of Henry’s Year of Me. Remember how near the end of the chapter Cletus apologizes to Nathan and how that—well, the whole chapter really—has been criticized for being so totally out of the blue? I think I cracked the case wide open.
Alan: You have my attention
Me: If you recall there was never any explanation as to what Cletus was apologizing for.
Alan: Right
Me: I think it’s because the entire chapter is written from Mila Henry to her son, Jonathan.
Alan: Fuuuuuu;lksd;lfaj;sl fja jf;;alksnd;lfkna;
Me: First, the name. Nathan is so quintessentially un-Henry. Too common, unlike her other character names. Plus that name is literally inside the name Jonathan.
Alan: FUUUUUUULKJAS;DFJ ;LJ;JF; JS;LKAJDS;LKFJAS!!!
Me: I think Mila Henry was doing in one of her books what she could never do in real life . . . I think she’s apologizing to her son.
Alan: For what tho?
Me: Jonathan tried writing
Alan: On Wings of Total Chaos or whatever
Me: & Destruction. And the title was the best thing about it haha.
Alan: Adapted it into a killer bad movie tho
Me: True
Alan: J was a painter too right?
Me: Yeah but never really broke out. Reviews were always “Jonathan, son of . . .”
Me: Mom’s shadow loomed LARGE. I think she felt guilty
Alan: None of this answers your initial question. Why is that one sketch different from the rest?
Alan: (I’ll give you some time on this one)
Alan: (It’s prob a long answer)
Alan: (Me texting would just be annoying)
Alan: (No one wants to be *that guy*)
Alan: (By the way, been meaning to ask: WHATS YOUR FAV COLOR?)
Me: What better way for that particular X to mark the spot than to have it be a discrepancy in the art? If she couldn’t tell her son in real life, hard to imagine she would come out and say it in a book. BUT. She might have been able to toss her kid an Easter egg in the hopes Jonathan would find it for himself. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just for her. Like when Catholics give confession. Just getting it off her chest probably helped.
Alan: Freaking Sherlock over there
Me: Still no idea why the SFs haven’t changed when MY BEST FRIENDS have.
Alan: You’ll get there
Me: In the meantime we’ll always have Joe Pesci
Alan: ???
Me: Home Alone villain
Alan: You’re a genius
Me: A genius with the IMDB app.
Alan: Hold up, Pesci and Umbridge would actually be a pretty good match
Me: Oh I know. Team Umbsci tearing it up with those board games.
Alan: Team Umbsci!!! You’re perfect and I love you
Me: I know
Alan: Don’t you Han Solo me
Me: Is that a euphemism?
At which point Mr. Armentrout confiscates my cell phone.
52 → hypnotik returns
Class had just let out. Thanksgiving break, finally. Between that and my interaction with Alan, I left school that day with lots of spirit, stepped out into the crisp Iverton air, and truly felt, for the first time in a while (maybe ever), like Hypnotik, Alan’s muscly, caped-crusading rendition of me. “Philip Parish,” I said, fists on hips, chin to the sky, “I am coming for you,” at which point this tiny-kid-with-giant-book-bag, who happened to be passing me just then, broke into a full-on sprint, leading me to assume his name was Milip Garish or something, because the kid just took off, and so what with all that buoy in my step, I ran after him, waving my hands above my head, all, “I’m not just standing here anymore!” and laughing in these rhythmic, maniacal gulps, so.
As far as I know, that kid is still running.
53 → over one billion served
That night over dinner we touch on Thanksgiving plans: who is coming, who can’t make it, which casseroles which family member is bringing, et cetera. Apparently Dad cleaned out a guest room so Uncle Orville will, in fact, have his own room when he gets here—a relief, needless to say.
My impending timeline for a college decision sits in the middle of the table like Dad’s experimental vegan lasagna: no one touches it, we barely look at it for fear of contamination, its very existence boggles the fucking mind. After dinner I hunker down in my room with the bonus materials of This Is Not a Memoir and bide my time until the sound of my parents’ sustained chuckles from the next room over die down. Around ten p.m. I dig around in the back of my desk drawer for the fake ID Val and Alan’s cousin made for me last summer. Keys and wallet now, and last but not least: Parish’s Abandoned Photograph.
The hallway is quiet. Now or never. I creep to the top of the stairwell, down the stairs, carefully avoiding that traitorous second-to-last step, with its squeaky floorboard. I considered telling Mom and Dad I was going out with Alan and Val, but inevitably they’d want to know where. And since I wouldn’t be with them at all, that stuck me with two lies to land. One was hard enough to get by Mom; two was like infiltrating the CIA, so not mission impossible but damn near close. But really, once Mom mentioned disabling the alarm for Uncle Orville I knew sneaking out would prove far less risky.
“Whatchya up to?”
“Shit. Penny. What are you doing down here so late?”
“You know I like to read by the fire,” says my sister, fists on hipbones like Pan the Man. At her heels, Mark Wahlberg lets out the quietest of yips, like even he understands the importance of stealth right now. Hell, he probably does, the cheeky little bastard. “What are you doing down here so late?”
“I’m not doing anything.” I fake yawn. “Just headed to bed, actually.”
For a second she stands there in those holey jeans, an old Sammy Sosa T-shirt (with a defaced name on the back so it now reads Soso), rain boots, and an eye patch. And then, quietly: “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“Wherever you’re going, take me with you.”
“I’m going to bed is where I’m going.”
“I’m not dumb,” says Penn.
“Penny—”
“Take me with you, or I’m telling.”
Every sibling relationship operates under a certain code: call it the Sibling Bill of Rights. Each bill is different, its principles as varied as the kids themselves. Under ours, Penny is free to annoy the ever-loving bejeezus out of me, and I, in turn, have carte blanche to replace every contact number in her phone with that of Domino’s Pizza. (Though admittedly, these antics have recently fallen by the wayside. Who knows, maybe we’re growing up.) Point is, our Bill of Rights states in no uncertain terms that there shall be no tattling, not ever, for any reason, under any circumstances, period.
“Be reasonable, darling. Remember our little outing at the Wormhole? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I don’t know which scares me more: Threatening Penny or Cunning Penny.
“It wasn’t bad at all, Penn.”
“Okay, so where are we going?”
I glance up at my parents’ closed bedroom door. “I need to go to this bar—”
The words barely escape my lips before Penn’s eyebrows shoot a foot in the air. “A bar?” she says.
“Oh boy.”
“Like . . . a bar bar? Like with a bartender?”
I don’t even want to think about how much higher Penn’s eyebrows might be if she knew how many times I’d been to a bar bar.
“Will you keep it down, please? And yes. Bars usually have bartenders.”
“Wow.”
“Look, it’s not a big deal, Penn.
But obviously—”
“I can’t believe we’re going to a real bar.”
“Uh, no,” I say. “I am going to a bar. We are not going anywhere.”
“Wait, don’t we have to be twenty-one? How are we getting in?”
“Penn, read my lips. You’re not going.”
Her eyes squint, and I can tell she’s weighing her earlier threat. Our front hallway suddenly transforms into a dusty scene from the Wild West, the two of us in a showdown, hands at hips, thumbs twitching, waiting for the other to draw.
Penny looks up at my parents’ door and says simply, “I’ll do it.”
“Penny. It’s a bar.”
“Exactly, darling.”
In the end I have no choice. I agree to let her come if she agrees to remain in the vehicle at all times, text at the slightest hint of trouble, and bring along Mom’s pepper spray. I’m buckled in with the engine running before I notice Mark Wahlberg in the backseat. Penn sits next to me, knees tucked under her chin, just staring me down with smiles. I’ve grown used to her whimsical fashion, but the eye patch is downright distracting.
“You do know this is more of a Halloween costume than your actual Halloween costume, right? Starting left fielder for the Cubs, Captain Jack Sparrow, and his trusty sidekick, Mark Wahlberg.”
Mark Wahlberg barks from the backseat.
“Right field,” says Penn.
“Hmmm?”
“Sosa played right field.”
“Okay, then.”
I start up my car and pull out onto the street. Our subdivision is always empty this time of night, but it feels even more uninhabited than usual, staged almost. Every house light is off, the streetlamps reflecting a light dusty snow on the ground, which seemingly dropped from the sky when no one was looking. (This happens occasionally.) You can almost feel the neighborhood hunkering down, anticipating a few days of holiday hibernation.
“So why don’t you want to swim?” asks Penny, and out of nowhere, too.
“What makes you think I don’t want to swim?”
“You’re not swimming, are you?”
“You know about my back.”
The words hang in the car for a bit; Penny stares out the window. “So do you think he’ll have one of those little white towels thrown over his shoulder?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“The barkeep.”
It’s questions like this the rest of the drive into the city, and when we finally pull into the Windy City Limits parking lot, I’m shocked to realize I know the place. It used to be called Shitbucket, and it’s where Val and Alan and I first used our fake IDs. Not to rain on the new ownership’s parade, but barring some sort of miraculous interior renovation, Shitbucket is a far more appropriate name for this venue than Windy City Limits. If I remember correctly, the walls are covered in Sharpie-drawn expletives, the bathrooms have no doors, and they serve PBR by the trough.
I do notice, however, that they’ve updated the marquee in the parking lot.
“That,” says Penny, “is impressive.”
The sign is made from actual repurposed McDonald’s arches, the glowing yellow curvatures turned upside down so the very large “M” is now the “W” in “Windy,” and where once there might have been something to the effect of The McRib is back! there is now just a list of bands and artists performing this week.
TUESDAY–THURSDAY, 9P–1A: OPEN MIC
FRIDAY, 11P: YE REALLY OLDE EGGIES
SATURDAY, 11P: BOGIES ARE PART OF THE HUMAN ANATOMY
SUNDAY, 11P: METALLICAN’T
OVER ONE BILLION SERVED
“So this”—Penny has all ten fingers spread out in front of her as if witnessing some historically relevant occurrence—“is the bar.”
“It is a bar, yes.”
“I can’t believe I’m at the bar.”
“You are in the parking lot of a bar.”
“It’s perfect.”
I shift in my seat, run through the set of rules with her again. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but there’s something about that gleam in her eye every time she says the word bar, like it’s the Great Hall at Hogwarts and we’re about to be sorted into houses.
“I’m leaving the keys in the car so you’ll have heat. I want to hear the doors lock as soon as I get out, okay? And don’t unlock them for anyone, under any circumstances, until I get back.”
“What if someone’s bleeding out?”
“What?”
“You know, like, if there’s a stabbing, and someone’s dying on the ground.”
“If there’s a stabbing, call 911.”
“So I should just let the guy die, then?”
“This was a mistake.”
“I’m kidding, Noah. Not that stabbing someone is a laughing matter. But I’ll be fine. I won’t open the door. For anyone. Not even for stabbings.”
I remind her I have my phone on, and to call or text if she needs me. Then, just before getting out, something else occurs to me. “Why did you want to come tonight?”
She pulls out her own phone, scrolls through God knows what, and says, “‘It’s useful being top ba—’”
“‘It’s useful being top banana in the shock department,’” I interrupt. Should have seen that one coming. I climb out of the car, and can’t help wondering at the real reason behind Penny’s outrageous clothes and her seeming inability to answer simple questions. It’s almost like she wears these masks because she doesn’t want to face the world as Penelope Oakman. I approach the bar entrance, pull out my fake ID, and push down a small whisper in the back of my mind: So what’s your excuse?
* * *
A look from the bouncer like maybe he suspects something, but I don’t open my mouth. Alan and Val’s cousin (the procurer of fake IDs) hammered home the necessity of silence. You will feel the urge to jabber, he used to say, to joke about what a baby face you have and how annoying it is. I implore you—fight those urges. Let the ID do the talking.
The bouncer stamps my hand SHTBCKT. (Windy City Limit’s ink stamps have, apparently, yet to catch up to its new signage.) He then nods toward the entrance with a grunt, and like that, I’m in. And it’s exactly as I remember it. Sharpie expletives, doorless bathrooms, horse-sized buckets brimming with yellow beer; the air is sticky, pulsing with grime.
A really great birthday present, for me, would be one hour alone in this place with a pressure washer and microfiber mop.
Onstage, a band is rocking in that balls-to-the-wall way so you can’t tell if they’re trying to make music, make love, or if they’re just super-hungry.
Also, they aren’t wearing shirts. So I don’t know.
I claim one of the empty tables near the back, text Penn to make sure things are fine. The crowd is sparse, though not as sparse as you’d think given the holiday week. There seem to be quite a few baby faces scattered throughout, eyes darting over gulped beers, spurts of overeager laughter, kids popping French fries with the gusto of a chain smoker on break. (I have no memory of French fries last time, which makes me wonder if the fries came with the repurposed arches outside.) The whole place sort of screams, We don’t give a shit how old you are.
The shirtless band’s song comes to a close. They unplug guitars and pack up gear while a guy with a ponytail and a shirt that says GO THE F*CK AWAY climbs onstage.
“Okay, uh,” he says, consulting a piece of paper in his hands. “Let’s hear it for . . . shit, that can’t be right. What’re you guys called again?” Behind him the shirtless guitar player mumbles something, to which he responds, “Really? Okay.” Then, back into the microphone, Ponytail shakes his head. “Let’s hear it for Rippd . . . without an e.” Shirtless Guitar Player mumbles something else. Ponytail is all, “Dude, I’m just relaying information. Rippd without an e, that’s what you said.” Shirtless Guitar P
layer mumbles again, to which Ponytail lets out a little laugh, turns back to the microphone. “One more time for Rippd-without-an-E, who just played their Final-with-a-capital-F show at Windy City Limits.” Shirtless Guitar Player flips him off; Ponytail turns and points to his shirt.
Doorless bathrooms or no, this place is all right.
“Okay, my name is Dave, and I’m the . . . events coordinator here at Windy City Limits.” He says this like even he can’t believe his ears. “Tuesday is open mic night here at our recently revamped institution. You guys see the new sign outside? Fucking baller, right? We stole it, along with the French fry recipe. Rock ’n’ roll.”
I don’t know if Dave is joking, but I’m starting to think this place is more liable to get busted than a Longmire party.
“Speaking of rock ’n’ roll,” Dave continues, “next up we have a band guaranteed to knock your socks off, all while keeping their shirts on. Give it up for Lenny Lennox and the Xylophone Virtuosos.”
A solitary dude with a xylophone climbs onstage, explains to Dave that he is not a band, but an actual xylophone virtuoso. Dave rubs his temples in a circular motion, his ponytail seems to wilt, and for the next twenty-two minutes Lenny Lennox plays the hell out of that xylophone.
All I can think is how much Alan would love this. I pull out my phone to take some video for him, but only have 8 percent battery and decide to save it in case Penny texts.
After Lenny’s set, Dave introduces “solo artist Harrison von Valour Jr.,” which actually ends up not being the name of a person at all, but a band.
It has been a long night for Dave and his flaccid ponytail.
Harrison von Valour Jr. plays three songs. The music isn’t bad, a little reminiscent of early Radiohead. Once done, they pack up their guitars while Dave introduces Pontius Pilot. Some of the kids in the crowd clap a little, and I wonder if Philip Parish performed in their high school gymnasiums too, if he was a guest speaker in their AP English classes, if maybe this is what he does, just scatters photos of people with mysterious inscriptions on the back.
