The Deathday Letter

by Shaun David Hutchinson

  “Screw you!” I shout so loud that my voice cracks. Shane and Ronnie drag me down the hall and out the door. The bouncer behind his little counter just laughs and laughs. “Asshole!” I yell at the top of my lungs.

  Ronnie and Shane toss me out into the sun and I shove them off as soon as we’re clear of the door. “Get off me.”

  Shane holds up his hands. “We’re just trying to help, man.”

  “What was that all about, Ollie?” asks Ronnie. “We can try another strip club.”

  I cover my face with my hands to keep them from seeing me cry. “I don’t want another strip club. I want this strip club.”

  “You don’t want this strip club,” says a voice over my shoulder that doesn’t belong to either Ronnie or Shane. “The girls here are mean. And lazy.”

  “Who are you?” asks Shane.

  I uncover my face and wipe my eyes and nose on my arm. I turn around and see a girl sitting on the hood of an ancient green Beetle. “Dru,” she says. “I’m Dru.”

  Here’s the thing about Dru: She’s not pretty at all. Her nostrils are too big, cavernous really, and her eyes are sleepy, and her whole body is out of proportion, but she’s so wrong she’s right, like a bacon and banana sandwich. And the way she’s sitting on the hood of her car looks vaguely dirty.

  “Well, Dru,” says Shane. “We’re kind of having a private discussion here.”

  Dru smiles. “It actually sounds like the cute one with the black eye here was having a bit of a hissy fit.”

  “I was not—”

  “Yeah,” says Ronnie. “You kind of were.”

  “Well excuse me for dying.”

  Dru perks up. “You’re dying?”

  “I got the letter right here. . . . Oh, shit.” I pat down my pockets and realize that the letter is still sitting on the counter inside the strip club. “I left it inside.”

  Ronnie sighs. “I’ll get it.” She turns around and goes back inside. Shane and I stand around awkwardly on account of neither of us really knows what to say to this crazy girl sitting on the hood of her antique car.

  “So, are you a stripper here?” asks Shane.

  “Didn’t I say the girls here are dirty? Are you trying to imply that I’m dirty?”

  I shake my head. “No, you called them mean and lazy.”

  “So then you’re implying that I’m mean and lazy?”

  Only Ronnie’s return saves us from having to commit ritual suicide. She holds out my letter to me and I unfold it and show it to Dru. “See. Deathday Letter.”

  Dru grabs it from me and studies it. “Sad.” She hands it back. “So your dying wish is to hang out inside The Velvet Underground? I mean there are better-looking girls working at Starbucks.”

  “Except that they don’t take off their clothes,” I say, and put my letter back in my pocket.

  “Not always true,” says Dru. “But that’s neither here nor there. Calvin’s a stickler. Without an ID you won’t get inside. He wouldn’t let his own mother in without an ID.”

  “Well, thanks for that information,” says Ronnie. “But we actually have stuff to do.”

  “What kind of stuff ?”

  Ronnie looks to me and Shane for help but I got nothing.

  “Yeah, what kind of stuff, Ronnie?” asks Shane.

  “Well, I don’t know. Stuff.”

  After watching Ronnie squirm long enough I say, “So why are you out here?”

  “My sister’s a bartender.”

  “Maybe she could—,” I start to say, but Dru shakes her head.

  “Not a chance. Remember what I said about Calvin? I’m not even allowed in.” Dru fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “But I have some friends that might like to meet you.”

  Shane looks at her warily. “What kind of friends?”

  Dru’s loopy grin spreads across her face like butter. “The kind who might let you smoke some of their weed.”

  Shane shrugs at me, turns to the girl, and says, “You could be a cop or a kidnapper or something.”

  “What makes you think you’re worth kidnapping?” asks Dru.

  “I don’t know,” says Shane. “You could be trying to sell me into the sex-slave trade.”

  Dru nearly chokes on her laugh. “You caught me. So, do you want to come or not?”

  “What do you think, guys?” I ask as we put our heads together. “It’s obvious we’re not getting in here.”

  Ronnie looks like she can go either way. “Could suck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We could try a different strip club,” says Shane.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “This is the last time a stranger we just met in the parking lot of a strip club is gonna ask us back to her den of iniquity to get high and do who-knows-what else.”

  Dru cuts in with, “There probably won’t be a ‘what else,’” but I ignore her.

  “It’s your day,” says Shane. Ronnie nods her head in agreement.

  I break the huddle and say to Dru, “We’re all in.”

  15:47

  This is the place?”

  Shane, Ronnie, and I press our faces up against Miss Piggy’s windows and stare at the mellow yellow monstrosity on the corner of Willow and 151st. “This can’t be the place,” I say. “And why are we here first?”

  Shane sits back in his seat and looks in his rearview. “One, this was your idea. Two, the people who live here must be color-blind. Three, she’s a stoner. It’s not unlikely that Dru, if that’s even her real name, got lost on the way to her own house.”

  Ronnie opens her door and I clench my teeth for the screeee! “We should go in.”

  “Without Dru?” I ask.

  “Why not?” Ronnie gets out of the car and leans her head back in. “Dru said she’d meet us here and we are invited. Plus, Shane, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your AC sucks balls.”

  “Speaking of sucking balls—”

  “Sorry, Ollie, if it’s not on your list, it’s not happening.”

  I reach across the seat and punch Shane in the bicep. “Dude. Where’s my list? And a pen?”

  Ronnie snorts and laughs so hard she falls down in the grass. She stops laughing and gets up when she sees Shane hand me both items. “Guys, I was only kidding.”

  “Thirteen. Get my—”

  “I was kidding!”

  Shane spreads his hands and tries to look sympathetic, only sympathy isn’t a naturally occurring emotion for the kid. “Balls are not a joking matter.”

  “Fourteen—”

  “Ollie!”

  “Jeez, Ronnie,” I say, folding up the paper and tossing the pen back up front. “I was only playing. Can you not blow out my eardrums?” I crawl over the seat and stand with Ronnie.

  “So I guess we’re going in?” asks Shane, though it’s really more of a statement than a question.

  “How bad can it be?”

  Of course, by asking that question, I’m guaranteeing that there’s probably a giant, cleaver-wielding psycho behind that lime green door, ready to wear my skin to senior prom.

  Knock, knock, knock . . . knock.

  I hear no noise and begin to think that maybe this is all some gigantic joke.

  Shane and Ronnie aren’t even on the doorstep with me. They’re both still spread out down the weedy footpath. It’s a good strategy. If I do take a cleaver to the brain, they’ll have plenty of time to scream like girls and run away while I’m dragged inside and hooked like a side of beef. My friends are the bestest.

  The door’s open a crack when I turn back around, the brassy security chain stretching from door to doorjamb. A blue eye and some blond hair are all I can see.

  “War ist das Kennwort?”

  “Do either of you . . . ?” I ask Ronnie and Shane over my shoulder, but the absolute lack of comprehension on their faces assures me that I’m not alone in my inability to understand what the heck the guy behind the door said. “Dude, I don’t speak German. That was German, right?”

  The blue
eye blinks once. “Who are you little people?”

  “We’re high school sophomores, not escaped carnies,” calls Shane. Of course, notice that he doesn’t move any closer to the door.

  “Shut up, Shane.” I try to peek inside but the blue eye squints and the door starts to close. “Dru sent us,” I manage to say. “I got a Deathday Letter and she said you had weed.”

  The door slams shut, leaving me to stare at the bubbling and peeling green paint.

  Ronnie rests her hand on my shoulder and says, “We can find something else to do. I can call Troy Bissenger. He deals.”

  “Troy sells his kid brother’s Adderall.” I turn around to leave when I’m pulled backward and nearly lose my footing completely.

  “Inside. Now. Schnell! Schnell!”

  The door slams behind us before I’m able to reorient myself. I’m not sure whom I expected the blue eye to belong to, but it isn’t a short, ripped dude with blond hippie hair and Shane’s grin.

  “I’m Klaus.” He points at himself like he thinks we can’t understand him. “Klaus.” Then he turns and walks through a beaded curtain, leaving Shane, Ronnie, and me in near darkness.

  The cramped foyer smells like feet. There are two exits other than the door, both strung up with bead curtains.

  “Should we follow him?” asks Shane. He’s practically hugging the door.

  “I don’t—”

  Klaus walks back in, carrying a bag of Cheetos. “Letter.” He holds out his orange-fingered hand.

  I take out my letter. It’s taken a beating but it’s still brighter than any paper out there.

  Klaus reads the letter and hands it back. “You don’t work for the government do you?” His voice drops to a whisper for the word “government” and I suspect he might be an escaped mental patient.

  Ronnie ignores Klaus and holds her nose. “So, wow, I think someone puked in here. Or is this just what hippies smell like?”

  “Klugscheiβer.”

  “Should I be offended?” asks Ronnie.

  Klaus shrugs and carries his bag of cheesy goodness through the other bead curtain. I follow without hesitation, led mostly by curiosity. Shane and Ronnie are right on my ass.

  Klaus leads us into the living room. It’s two parts lounge and three parts hippie harem. There’s no couch, just a bunch of beanbag chairs and a battered recliner. There are blankets and stained pillows spread out everywhere. There’s also a TV in the corner and the air smells of Sour Patch Kids.

  “Wow,” says Ronnie, pointing at the TV, which has Dave Matthews playing on it. “Way to be a cliché.”

  There are two guys and three girls sprawled out on the beanbags, one of whom is Dru.

  “How’d you get here?” I ask.

  Dru pushes herself up on her elbows. “Magic.”

  “Who are these lame-o’s?” asks one of the boys. He’s tall and lanky, with the brightest, orangest hair I’ve ever seen. Seriously, it’s like fire sprouting up from his skull.

  “I’m Oliver and my friends are Ronnie and Shane.”

  “What is this place?” asks Ronnie.

  “Dru,” says Klaus, “didn’t you tell these kiffer who we were before inviting them over to share our drugs?” He wanders off to sit with the others.

  An Asian girl with mean eyes but who’s definitely not wearing a bra under her baby T sits up straight. “Seriously, Dru, how could you not tell them who we are?”

  Dru chuckles and shakes her head. “He has a letter, Nariko, and he’s kind of cute.”

  I start to giggle. Ronnie punches me in the back. “Someday they’ll come up with a cure for being a boy,” she says under her breath.

  “So then who are you guys?” asks Shane.

  Dru points around the room. “I’m Dru. That’s Nariko, Pete, Gay Pete, and Hurricane. Klaus is somewhere. We’re all somewhere.”

  “I’m glad we didn’t drive with her,” Shane whispers in my ear.

  “They’re not our real names,” says Nariko. “In case you’re narcs.”

  “If they’re not your real names,” says Ronnie, “then why are you both Pete?”

  The redhead is Pete and the guy on his other side is Gay Pete. Gay Pete reminds me a little bit of Regis Philbin for some reason and I keep waiting for him to ask me if it’s my final answer.

  “We both liked the name,” says Gay Pete. “But you all can call me GP for short.”

  “I’m not short!” shouts Klaus.

  Everyone ignores Klaus so I change the subject and move on. “So why do they call you Hurricane?” I ask.

  Klaus snorts and crawls over to a green beanbag. “Because she blo—”

  “How old are you kids?” asks Pete.

  “Fifteen,” I say. “Almost sixteen. Well he’s already sixteen, but only barely.”

  “We’re not kids,” says Ronnie.

  “Right,” says GP. “Except that you are.”

  Hurricane smiles at me and I get my first good look at her. She’s not even remotely pretty. Nariko’s drop-dead, and Dru’s got her freaky so-wrong-it’s-right thing going for her, but Hurricane is just this plain girl I wouldn’t look at twice. The moment she opens her mouth though, I like her.

  “Hello, pot?” says Hurricane. “This is the kettle calling. You’re a fag.”

  GP rolls his eyes, sighs, and says, “Ha-ha. You’re so funny. On a scale of one to hilarious, you’re a bitch.”

  “Hey, I hate to be a pain,” I say, “but can we just get high?”

  Hurricane snorts so much like a pig I’m not 100 percent sure there isn’t one in the room with us. “I like a boy who knows what he wants.”

  “Hurricane,” says Dru. “You do know what jailbait is, right?”

  Hurricane eyes me up and down. In spite of her not really being bone-worthy, Jangles does a little wiggle. “I’m nineteen, not Mary Kay Letourneau.”

  “Before we do anything, I want to know what this place is,” says Ronnie. “Are you guys some kind of cult?”

  Pete looks at GP. “Can you believe they have no idea who we are?”

  “Scandal. We obviously need better PR.”

  Nariko takes my hand and pulls me down to an empty beanbag. She motions for us all to sit. Then she joins her friends. “We’re Citizens Uncovering Deathday Letter Evidence.”

  “Great,” says Ronnie. “You’re CUDDLE?”

  They all nod and put on the same goofy grin.

  “The Moriville Chapter,” says GP proudly.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We’re outta here.”

  “Aren’t you the guys who believe Deathday Letters come from Martians?” asks Shane. I notice that neither he nor Ronnie have moved yet, so I relax. For now.

  “Saturnians,” corrects Dru.

  “And that’s only the one chapter out in New Mexico,” says Pete. “We’re much more enlightened.”

  “Is that why Dru invited me over here?” I ask. “It’s not like I know anything.”

  Hurricane smiles at me and for a second it’s like it’s okay that I’m gonna die. “Every little bit of knowledge helps. Just knowing you helps us understand.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” I say, “because I don’t understand anything.”

  Ronnie takes hold of my hand and twines her fingers through mine. They’re sweaty and kind of gross, which is comforting in a wet way. “Ollie, we’re not here because they’re CUDDLE. We’re here because they have weed.”

  Shane barks out a laugh. He looks at me and then Ronnie, who’s giving him major stink eye. “What?” he asks. “It’s funny that you think the fact that these guys are potheads is somehow better than them being conspiracy nuts.” Ronnie’s still scowling at him. “Whatever. Bring on the drugs.”

  Klaus grins and crawls over the pillows to a wooden chest covered with horses. He opens the lid and pulls out a purple, flower-shaped vase with four tubes coming out of the top of the round base. “Medusa,” he says, with the flourish of a shitty stage magician. “One hit and she’ll turn you to stone.”


  Pete and GP and Hurricane clap their hands together like it’s show-and-tell and Klaus just pulled a giant Peruvian skull from his ass.

  “Klaus,” says Nariko. “Medusa’s for special occasions only.”

  Klaus shrugs and drags the largish vase thing to the middle of the pillows. “Beruhige dich. This is as special occasion.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Death? Not so special. Sad and annoying, yes, but not special.” I pull my hand out of Ronnie’s. “What is that whatchamacallit?”

  “It’s a hookah, Ollie,” says Ronnie.

  I have no clue what a hookah is, but the fact that Ronnie does makes me feel like maybe I should too.

  “Right,” I say, nodding like I know what she’s talking about. “A hookah. I knew that.”

  Shane sighs heavily, the same way he does whenever I veto his foreign language movie picks. Subtitles do not go well with Slurpees. “I’m out.”

  “What? Why? Dude, this is what we came here for.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’ve seen this after-school special before. Someone needs to stay sober to drive. Since it’s my car, I’ll do it.” I can’t tell if Shane’s relieved or disappointed.

  Hurricane grabs my hand and pulls me over to sit beside her around Medusa. Klaus opens a small plastic container and pulls out a lumpy ball of weed. I know it’s pot without even having to ask. It’s dark and mossy with tiny red tendrils sprouting out of it. He puts it in a bowl on top of the hookah and spends a few seconds playing with it.

  “You’ve been drunk before, right?” asks Hurricane. I nod even though I’ve never really actually been the Webster’s Dictionary’s definition of drunk. “Well, this is nothing like that.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Then what’s it like?”

  GP shakes my shoulder and grins. “It’s like . . . it’s like . . . it’s awesome.”

  “Wow,” says Dru. “That’s helpful.”

  “I got it,” says Pete. “You change your own oil, right?”

  “He doesn’t even have his license yet,” says Shane. He hovers on the edge of the giant circle of beanbags and pillows. Ronnie’s between Shane and me.

  Pete and GP laugh. “No,” says GP. “He’s asking if you, um, ever launch the hand shuttle.”

  “Whack off,” says Hurricane. “He wants to know if you whack off.” She rolls her eyes. “Will you boys ever grow up?”