"Is this somebody's case of Amstel Light?" The stranger fished a bottle out of the box by Mike's elbow. "Yours?" Mike shrugged. "Nobody's, then. Pff!" The cap flicked to the side, tumbling end over end like a shell casing. Mike's eyes followed it to the floor. He could have caught it. "Hey," the guy said a moment later, and Mike tuned back in.
"Mike." They shook hands. "I'm just going to apologize right now if I forget, I'm bad with names."
"No problem. Good to meet you anyway."
"Nice shirt."
"Thanks, yeah, it's kind of my favourite. I mean, it's a tiger with a machine gun, how awesome can you get?"
"That's a submachine gun, actually. Not a machine gun."
"Huh? Oh, okay, a sub-mo-sheen." He chuckled and swigged the Amstel.
"A Heckler & Koch MP5-K. You can tell it's a K. It doesn't have the lugged barrel."
"Jesus. Do you know how much the tiger paid for it, too?"
8.09.2010
6.12.2010
21. Boots
"The Plymouth Gran Fury is back, and it runs like a rocket. Get yours from the Chrysler dealership in Buchanan, at Highway 24 and Main, but hurry -- they're going fast." Then the foley guy tipped the switch that played our sound reel, an engine roar and a five-second jingle that Robin's brother had whipped up on the piano years ago. Oh, Robin owned the Chrysler dealership. That jingle was on every ad, this included. All told, it was fifteen seconds tip to tail, and in the next month there were seven of those Plymoths driven off the lot. Robin was thrilled. Shook my hand like he was shaking good luck out of it. Took maybe ten minutes to write the spot, all told. That was in my first week at the Wianoke local radio station, second or third day there.
4.03.2010
20. Marcela & Kurt
Marcela looked towards the window at Kurt’s back. He leaned in the frame of light pouring through; a silhouette, a part of the room’s darkness. He lit a cigarette and translucent smoke trails curled around his head and face.
“Look at that snow fall,” he mumbled. His eyes shifted back and forth as though reading. A circle of fog appeared when he exhaled the smoke, as if it had frozen to the glass. He noticed his reflection around it; it appeared he did not have a mouth.
She looked at the black figure, the shape of him. Muscles clung to bone. It was easy to tell which of his tattoos were old, looking at the distorted shapes. Once, he had been much heavier. The skin had moved and shrank. He'd probably always been fit. The snow drove against the window, attacking him. If he were only a step forward, he would freeze in minutes.
“Come back to me,” she said. Warm.
The room had bare walls; uneven, cracked paint with amorphous areas of bleary, yellowy colour; a ceiling with water damage to match. The bed was a twisted metal frame. Marcela waited in the warm sheets, clutching the blanket over her chest, her past-shoulder-length hair a black escarole on the white cloth.
Kurt said nothing, but turned around and put his back to the window. He breathed through his teeth as his skin touched the cold glass. Something stopped him as he raised the cigarette: a smear of red on the filter's edge, and a flap of skin, thin like an onion's. He licked his cracked lips and drew on the smoke again. Embers cast a hellish glow over the angles of his face. Dropping his jaw, the tumbling cloud fell out of his mouth, and Marcela imagined the souls of the dead. He threw the cigarette. Sparks rolled out like fingertips from an opening hand.
"Alright." He smiled wryly, his teeth like the walls and ceiling. Slowly he journeyed back towards the bed, almost tiptoeing, poised on the ball of his foot like a dancer. Close, he stopped, and bent down, his heels still raised. Marcela became anxious. Kurt reached under the bed. She listened for the click of the number wheels, and the suitcase's latch being opened. It was. He shuffled the gear around and she became excited, almost giddy, and at the same time angry that he had waited so long.
The lighter flicked and flicked and the flame reached up with a palm around the crystal ball. Vapors made the inside muddy. The flame disappeared. The light disappeared. The smoke disappeared. Marcela held it inside her until it was ready to burst out, and exhaled a glittering, crystalline cloud. She felt like an angel set on fire. She heard a soft moan and wasn't sure if she had made it or if Kurt had. Soon, he fell into the bed.
He put his hand in her hair, gripped and released it; she felt the tension in her scalp. As he moved back, he ran the long fingernail of his little digit over her ear and cheekbone, and the white line it traced raised up in redness. He slid into the envelope of open sheets and the sensation of skin contact leapt over her like a thousand fleas. She shook herself out of the reverie and they became a chaotic tangle of limbs, a harmony of tongues and lips and fingertips, hands, ribs, breasts, stomachs, and something that was real, real close to being the kind of love she had believed in when she was a child, before she knew this.
“Look at that snow fall,” he mumbled. His eyes shifted back and forth as though reading. A circle of fog appeared when he exhaled the smoke, as if it had frozen to the glass. He noticed his reflection around it; it appeared he did not have a mouth.
She looked at the black figure, the shape of him. Muscles clung to bone. It was easy to tell which of his tattoos were old, looking at the distorted shapes. Once, he had been much heavier. The skin had moved and shrank. He'd probably always been fit. The snow drove against the window, attacking him. If he were only a step forward, he would freeze in minutes.
“Come back to me,” she said. Warm.
The room had bare walls; uneven, cracked paint with amorphous areas of bleary, yellowy colour; a ceiling with water damage to match. The bed was a twisted metal frame. Marcela waited in the warm sheets, clutching the blanket over her chest, her past-shoulder-length hair a black escarole on the white cloth.
Kurt said nothing, but turned around and put his back to the window. He breathed through his teeth as his skin touched the cold glass. Something stopped him as he raised the cigarette: a smear of red on the filter's edge, and a flap of skin, thin like an onion's. He licked his cracked lips and drew on the smoke again. Embers cast a hellish glow over the angles of his face. Dropping his jaw, the tumbling cloud fell out of his mouth, and Marcela imagined the souls of the dead. He threw the cigarette. Sparks rolled out like fingertips from an opening hand.
"Alright." He smiled wryly, his teeth like the walls and ceiling. Slowly he journeyed back towards the bed, almost tiptoeing, poised on the ball of his foot like a dancer. Close, he stopped, and bent down, his heels still raised. Marcela became anxious. Kurt reached under the bed. She listened for the click of the number wheels, and the suitcase's latch being opened. It was. He shuffled the gear around and she became excited, almost giddy, and at the same time angry that he had waited so long.
The lighter flicked and flicked and the flame reached up with a palm around the crystal ball. Vapors made the inside muddy. The flame disappeared. The light disappeared. The smoke disappeared. Marcela held it inside her until it was ready to burst out, and exhaled a glittering, crystalline cloud. She felt like an angel set on fire. She heard a soft moan and wasn't sure if she had made it or if Kurt had. Soon, he fell into the bed.
He put his hand in her hair, gripped and released it; she felt the tension in her scalp. As he moved back, he ran the long fingernail of his little digit over her ear and cheekbone, and the white line it traced raised up in redness. He slid into the envelope of open sheets and the sensation of skin contact leapt over her like a thousand fleas. She shook herself out of the reverie and they became a chaotic tangle of limbs, a harmony of tongues and lips and fingertips, hands, ribs, breasts, stomachs, and something that was real, real close to being the kind of love she had believed in when she was a child, before she knew this.
3.08.2010
19. Raleigh
Raleigh smelt rubber. She shook her too-large helmet into place and pulled on the chinstrap to make it fit better. The strap pinched and the helmet was still loose, but she figured that was as good as it would get. Eyes forward, she gripped the wheel, counted to three, and pressed the pedal to the floor. Nothing.
"Hey!" The track operator didn't hear her. "Hey!"
"Cool it," he said, running blackened fingers through his ear-length hair. Raleigh thought she caught sight of a tattoo on his forearm.
She looked down the track and wrinkled her nose. The operator waved down someone else's kart and directed them into the pit, then walked over to where Raleigh waited.
"Take it easy out there, willya?" he half-mumbled as he did something to the engine. "Y'r keyed up a bit much."
The engine sputtered to life. Raleigh didn't know what he meant; she wasn't even sure what he'd said. If he said anything else as he stepped aside, she didn't hear it. Someone roared past and yelled, laughing at her. She saw his face, barely: it was Jason Rousseaux, a boy she knew from school. She started after him, but he was a long way ahead. "Take it easy, huh?" she thought. "I'll show you taking it easy."
The kart rocked around the turn and came wide out of it, making Raleigh lean heftily with the momentum. She took a hand from the wheel to wipe sweat from her eyes. Her hand was sweaty too. Focusing on the back of Jason's kart, she saw she was going a little faster on the straightaways. She was catching up, so she drove harder.
"Nice moves!" she shouted above the engines, bringing her kart alongside Jason's after four laps. He looked at her, then back at the road, then back at her. He said something.
"What?" Raleigh yelled. He said it louder and she still couldn't make out the words. Maybe they'd talk when the racing was done, she thought, get a soda at the shop by the side of the track and rehash some of the turns. Then he brought his kart in tightly, and Raleigh tried to get nearer to him so she could hear better. She steered carefully and kept her eyes on the tires, trying to get them close without touching.
He started to yell, and then they were both spinning and bumping as the karts left the road. Grass flew up in rooster-tails from the tires. When they came to a halt, he was in front of her, facing away. She fumbled with her chinstrap and called his name. His engine growled, and the kart did not move. The tires spun. A spray of dirt stung Raleigh's face.
"Hey!" The track operator didn't hear her. "Hey!"
"Cool it," he said, running blackened fingers through his ear-length hair. Raleigh thought she caught sight of a tattoo on his forearm.
She looked down the track and wrinkled her nose. The operator waved down someone else's kart and directed them into the pit, then walked over to where Raleigh waited.
"Take it easy out there, willya?" he half-mumbled as he did something to the engine. "Y'r keyed up a bit much."
The engine sputtered to life. Raleigh didn't know what he meant; she wasn't even sure what he'd said. If he said anything else as he stepped aside, she didn't hear it. Someone roared past and yelled, laughing at her. She saw his face, barely: it was Jason Rousseaux, a boy she knew from school. She started after him, but he was a long way ahead. "Take it easy, huh?" she thought. "I'll show you taking it easy."
The kart rocked around the turn and came wide out of it, making Raleigh lean heftily with the momentum. She took a hand from the wheel to wipe sweat from her eyes. Her hand was sweaty too. Focusing on the back of Jason's kart, she saw she was going a little faster on the straightaways. She was catching up, so she drove harder.
"Nice moves!" she shouted above the engines, bringing her kart alongside Jason's after four laps. He looked at her, then back at the road, then back at her. He said something.
"What?" Raleigh yelled. He said it louder and she still couldn't make out the words. Maybe they'd talk when the racing was done, she thought, get a soda at the shop by the side of the track and rehash some of the turns. Then he brought his kart in tightly, and Raleigh tried to get nearer to him so she could hear better. She steered carefully and kept her eyes on the tires, trying to get them close without touching.
He started to yell, and then they were both spinning and bumping as the karts left the road. Grass flew up in rooster-tails from the tires. When they came to a halt, he was in front of her, facing away. She fumbled with her chinstrap and called his name. His engine growled, and the kart did not move. The tires spun. A spray of dirt stung Raleigh's face.
3.05.2010
18. Spaul
Spaul plugged in the multieffects panel, the jet flange, the treadplate distortion and the harmonic octaver, daisy-chained the stomp boxes together and set the noise gate at eighty decibels. He checked the guitar tuning and put his foot on the wah pedal. The set began, and Spaul strummed variations of the same chord progression for fifteen minutes straight without changing.
"It's just, it's just that I think we should branch out, you know," Spaul stuttered. Peter held up his hand.
"Spaul, North Korean Board of Tourism is a noisepop electrosynth shoegaze band. If you want to explore other styles, that's your business."
"What's that, you mean I should just play the same chords forever?"
"That's up to you. Forcibly emphasizing a harmonic theme is a tenet of the subgenre. It's a very specific subgenre, Spaul."
Spaul was reluctant to quit the band he'd co-founded. He hadn't co-founded it with Peter.
They played another show, and as Spaul counted beats until the breaks where he'd crank up the distortion or turn on the octaver, he watched what Peter did. Writhing with his guitar, making the work of the looping digital echo look like tremendous effort, Peter showboated at the front of the stage, singular notes almost inaudible inside the wall of sound. Spaul pulled the strap over his head and leaned the guitar against the nearest amp, letting the feedback rise to obscene levels as he walked off the stage. It took Peter a couple minutes to realize.
Almost three and a half years later, Spaulding lightly tossed a few bills on the table next to the empty glasses. "I'll get this round," he said, standing up. "Get another if she comes by?"
"To moving up in the world!" One of his friends laughed. "Sure thing, cheers."
The flyer taped above the urinal made Spaulding do a double-take. NKBT.
'Great acronym,' he thought, 'like a dyslexic New Kids on the Block.'
The photo had only one face he recognized. He stared at his former bandmate. The names of the musicians were written below.
"Speter?" He blurted in disbelief. "Speter? That doesn't even make sense!"
"It's just, it's just that I think we should branch out, you know," Spaul stuttered. Peter held up his hand.
"Spaul, North Korean Board of Tourism is a noisepop electrosynth shoegaze band. If you want to explore other styles, that's your business."
"What's that, you mean I should just play the same chords forever?"
"That's up to you. Forcibly emphasizing a harmonic theme is a tenet of the subgenre. It's a very specific subgenre, Spaul."
Spaul was reluctant to quit the band he'd co-founded. He hadn't co-founded it with Peter.
They played another show, and as Spaul counted beats until the breaks where he'd crank up the distortion or turn on the octaver, he watched what Peter did. Writhing with his guitar, making the work of the looping digital echo look like tremendous effort, Peter showboated at the front of the stage, singular notes almost inaudible inside the wall of sound. Spaul pulled the strap over his head and leaned the guitar against the nearest amp, letting the feedback rise to obscene levels as he walked off the stage. It took Peter a couple minutes to realize.
Almost three and a half years later, Spaulding lightly tossed a few bills on the table next to the empty glasses. "I'll get this round," he said, standing up. "Get another if she comes by?"
"To moving up in the world!" One of his friends laughed. "Sure thing, cheers."
The flyer taped above the urinal made Spaulding do a double-take. NKBT.
'Great acronym,' he thought, 'like a dyslexic New Kids on the Block.'
The photo had only one face he recognized. He stared at his former bandmate. The names of the musicians were written below.
"Speter?" He blurted in disbelief. "Speter? That doesn't even make sense!"
1.31.2010
17. Earl
It wasn't a good idea, but Earl didn't know that as he fastened the chinstrap on his helmet and inched the shopping cart over the edge of the ravine.
"Accidental-slash-dental coverage. No, that's not a typo. It's the category of insurance related to incidents of an unintentional sort, resulting in damage to your teeth. I'd say that's about what we're dealing with here, wouldn't you?"
"Yef. I gueff fo." Earl nodded.
The tissue around the stumps in Earl's gums was the colour of turnips. One eyetooth, mostly intact, jutted out at a ridiculous angle. The dentist prodded it with a latex-coated finger. Pain exploded from that spot in a pattern that reminded Earl of spiderwebs, or maybe the stripes on a watermelon. "Yep," the doc said, "that's a mid-root coronal fracture. This one's got to go, too." He picked up a pair of grippers. "Want to do it right away? No sense in waiting."
"Uh-kay." Pain again. Twisting, white-hot rivers that began with the motions of the dentist's wrists and traveled at light speed through Earl's head, straight through his brain and out the other side. "Uhhhh," he said.
"...so that's pretty much why I can do this," and Earl pulled a beer out of the plastic ring pack and opened it against his front teeth.
"What was that, Earl, four years ago?"
"I reckon five." He swigged from his can.
"Think you could bite open a bottle?"
"Accidental-slash-dental coverage. No, that's not a typo. It's the category of insurance related to incidents of an unintentional sort, resulting in damage to your teeth. I'd say that's about what we're dealing with here, wouldn't you?"
"Yef. I gueff fo." Earl nodded.
The tissue around the stumps in Earl's gums was the colour of turnips. One eyetooth, mostly intact, jutted out at a ridiculous angle. The dentist prodded it with a latex-coated finger. Pain exploded from that spot in a pattern that reminded Earl of spiderwebs, or maybe the stripes on a watermelon. "Yep," the doc said, "that's a mid-root coronal fracture. This one's got to go, too." He picked up a pair of grippers. "Want to do it right away? No sense in waiting."
"Uh-kay." Pain again. Twisting, white-hot rivers that began with the motions of the dentist's wrists and traveled at light speed through Earl's head, straight through his brain and out the other side. "Uhhhh," he said.
"...so that's pretty much why I can do this," and Earl pulled a beer out of the plastic ring pack and opened it against his front teeth.
"What was that, Earl, four years ago?"
"I reckon five." He swigged from his can.
"Think you could bite open a bottle?"
16. Arnie
Arnie's old man worked the second shift on the line, standing eight to ten hours a day fixing roll bar after roll bar to one four-door chassis after the next. It wasn't a job with a lot of variety, but he wasn't the sort of man who needed much of that. The job kept him and Arnie and Arnie's mom fed, clothed, and under a roof, and that was enough. Some thousand-odd times each day, the pneumatic drill sped up to however many RPMs and back with a sound like an overgrown kazoo, and it was from a couple decades of that happening, what made Arnie's old man go a bit hard of hearing.
Arnie walked to school and sat up at the front, because he wasn't much of a reader and it helped to keep close up. He was doing a times table and counting up sixes on his fingers when something struck him in the back of the head. He yelped with surprise and forgot his math problem.
"I saw that!" said Mrs. Carver. "Now you get up here, and you give me that pea shooter!"
Tanner Edwards stood up slowly and walked over, glowering.
"You're sitting in the corner for the rest of the day, mister." She walked over to Tanner's desk and began moving it towards the wall.
Tanner looked at Arnie like it was Arnie's fault Tanner had shot him. Arnie looked down, at his workbooks, at the numbers. He tried to think of how many times to add sixes together to get forty two. The numbers blinked out as Tanner's fist crashed into the side of his head. Arnie jumped out of his seat and tackled him.
Mrs. Carver turned around, pushed her cat-eye glasses up to the bridge of her nose, and sighed at the fracas.
The principal looked at Arnie, who sat fidgeting, counting the tacks in the fringe of the leather-upholstered armrest. Arnie counted 'one, two, three' in his head, 'one, two, three' so many times he didn't know how many.
"I've called your father," said the principal, "but there's no answer. His work number, as well, to no avail. Hard to get a working man on the line, it would seem. Foreman doesn't think it's fair to use up his break minutes before their time." He touched the corner of his moustache. "Look at me, Arnold." Arnie did as he was told. "Mrs. Carver tells me you hit that Edwards boy. Bloodied up his nose. And I know he hit you first, but that doesn't mean I can just call it settled and done." Arnie looked at the principal's shiny forehead and said nothing. "Now, seeing as you live within six blocks of the schoolhouse, the rules allow that I can send you home as a disciplinary measure in accordance with what's laid out as appropriate for this situation. Can I send you home, Arnold?" The principal leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. Arnie sat up straight. He looked around, then looked at the principal and nodded.
When he walked out the door and far enough on that nobody was watching, he decided he didn't want to go home. He wanted to see his dad, and to sit in the car, and to hear the few words of advice he knew his old man would have about this. "Bullies are like balloons," his old man had said before, "they look real big until you pop 'em." Well, he'd popped Tanner Edwards, now what? Arnie walked along the dirt path towards the automotive factory. He knew where there was a part of the fence to climb over, and the big bay doors that were always open during the day. He knew where to find his old man.
The factory floor hummed with machinery and the sounds of labor. Pounding engines running and stamping sheet metal forms, pneumatic this and that whistling and the staccato shot of spot riveters all came together in a kind of harmony that made Arnie's young heart lift up with joy. He sat down near the door and looked at the grassy field and the sun-filled sky outside, and then to the working men and the enormous machines, the sparks and motion that lay further in, every part of it alive with rhythm, with purpose. He wanted to be a part of it, to make this music every day. That was it, he thought. He was through with school. He'd had enough of school.
Arnie walked to school and sat up at the front, because he wasn't much of a reader and it helped to keep close up. He was doing a times table and counting up sixes on his fingers when something struck him in the back of the head. He yelped with surprise and forgot his math problem.
"I saw that!" said Mrs. Carver. "Now you get up here, and you give me that pea shooter!"
Tanner Edwards stood up slowly and walked over, glowering.
"You're sitting in the corner for the rest of the day, mister." She walked over to Tanner's desk and began moving it towards the wall.
Tanner looked at Arnie like it was Arnie's fault Tanner had shot him. Arnie looked down, at his workbooks, at the numbers. He tried to think of how many times to add sixes together to get forty two. The numbers blinked out as Tanner's fist crashed into the side of his head. Arnie jumped out of his seat and tackled him.
Mrs. Carver turned around, pushed her cat-eye glasses up to the bridge of her nose, and sighed at the fracas.
The principal looked at Arnie, who sat fidgeting, counting the tacks in the fringe of the leather-upholstered armrest. Arnie counted 'one, two, three' in his head, 'one, two, three' so many times he didn't know how many.
"I've called your father," said the principal, "but there's no answer. His work number, as well, to no avail. Hard to get a working man on the line, it would seem. Foreman doesn't think it's fair to use up his break minutes before their time." He touched the corner of his moustache. "Look at me, Arnold." Arnie did as he was told. "Mrs. Carver tells me you hit that Edwards boy. Bloodied up his nose. And I know he hit you first, but that doesn't mean I can just call it settled and done." Arnie looked at the principal's shiny forehead and said nothing. "Now, seeing as you live within six blocks of the schoolhouse, the rules allow that I can send you home as a disciplinary measure in accordance with what's laid out as appropriate for this situation. Can I send you home, Arnold?" The principal leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. Arnie sat up straight. He looked around, then looked at the principal and nodded.
When he walked out the door and far enough on that nobody was watching, he decided he didn't want to go home. He wanted to see his dad, and to sit in the car, and to hear the few words of advice he knew his old man would have about this. "Bullies are like balloons," his old man had said before, "they look real big until you pop 'em." Well, he'd popped Tanner Edwards, now what? Arnie walked along the dirt path towards the automotive factory. He knew where there was a part of the fence to climb over, and the big bay doors that were always open during the day. He knew where to find his old man.
The factory floor hummed with machinery and the sounds of labor. Pounding engines running and stamping sheet metal forms, pneumatic this and that whistling and the staccato shot of spot riveters all came together in a kind of harmony that made Arnie's young heart lift up with joy. He sat down near the door and looked at the grassy field and the sun-filled sky outside, and then to the working men and the enormous machines, the sparks and motion that lay further in, every part of it alive with rhythm, with purpose. He wanted to be a part of it, to make this music every day. That was it, he thought. He was through with school. He'd had enough of school.
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