by Bryan, JL
“That’s not an emergency, Mom. You could’ve left me a voice mail.”
“So you could ignore me more easily?”
“I’ll just go,” Big Ted said in a stage whisper.
“No, wait, Ted, this will just take a second—” Cassidy began.
“Lunch break’s almost over, anyhow. Gotta head back for the afternoon shift.” Ted stood up and reached for his shirt. “I can come back Monday to finish up. Same time?”
“Yeah, sure...no, wait.” Cassidy grabbed her bulging black appointment notebook. All the extra papers crammed inside it—business cards, sketches she’d drawn, and Post-Its and notes jotted on scraps of paper—spilled out and fell into a scattered snowdrift on the floor.
“Fuck!” Cassidy shouted.
“Cassidy!” her mother admonished over the phone.
“Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Ted. Um...” Cassidy dropped to her knees and began sweeping the scattered pieces of paper together with her hands. She opened her notebook and flipped through it, trying to find her Monday appointments. “I can’t, sorry,” she said into the phone.
“Monday’s no good?” Big Ted asked.
“No, Monday’s fine,” Cassidy told him, still looking for the right page. “I think.”
“I didn’t ask you to come Monday, I told you to come tonight, Cassidy,” her mother said.
“Mom, I can’t! Peyton is spinning at the Red Door tonight—that’s a five-hundred-person venue, the biggest chance he’s had in weeks.”
“Oh, goodness,” her mother replied. “For a moment I was troubled that you weren’t spending enough time getting drunk in bars and nightclubs.”
Cassidy rolled her eyes, then nodded at Ted. “Monday’s fine.”
“I didn’t invite you for Monday—” her mother began again, and Cassidy felt like ripping out her hair and screaming. It had been that kind of day. Her cheapo coffee maker at home had developed a crack and leaked coffee all over the counter, and she’d somehow ripped the little plastic tip off one of her shoelaces.
“Monday lunch break.” Big Ted nodded, then pulled on his thin T-shirt with sweat-stained yellow armpits. Then he added a dress shirt, tie, and a brown coat that matched his trousers, and suddenly he was no longer Big Ted the tattoo collector but Teddy Rutkowski, certified public accountant, without a hint of ink on his face, neck, or hands.
“Thanks, sorry, bye.” Cassidy patted Ted on the back as he shuffled away to the tattoo parlor’s front door.
“Don’t you hang up on me, Cassidy!” her mother snapped.
“I wasn’t. Look, I can’t make it tonight, Mom, but maybe sometime—”
“We haven’t seen you in months,” Cassidy’s mother interrupted. “You do not live on the other side of the country, Cassidy. It’s a twenty-minute drive. You have no excuse. Kieran and I never see you anymore.”
“I doubt Kieran really cares,” Cassidy said.
“Of course he does.”
“He’s a sixteen-year-old boy. All he cares about is chasing girls. Trust me.”
“You’re a wise woman of the world now, are you? At age twenty-two?”
The glass front door, covered in cave-painting-style depictions of rams and deer, opened and brought in the harsh July sunlight from outside. The interior of the parlor was always dark, because it was painted black and because of the thick paint on the front windows—the place was called Neolithic Tattoo, and the mostly-absent owner had gone with a cheesy cave theme, including clusters of papier-mâché stalactites in the upper corners. Whenever the door opened, the afternoon light was a blinding blast, especially in the summer.
A young woman entered, and Cassidy recognized her. She worked at the fitness center three blocks away, and Cassidy had sketched a hummingbird for her approval. The girl wanted it etched on her hip. Cassidy waved and approached the front counter to greet her.
“I have another customer here,” Cassidy said. “I have to go.”
“You’re coming over tonight, then?” her mother asked.
“I told you I can’t. Peyton—”
“That boy is no good. Why can’t you meet anybody nice?”
“I don’t have time for this whole conversation again, Mom. I’ll call you back, okay?”
“Kieran’s not sixteen, he’s seventeen. You missed his birthday last month.” Cassidy’s mom hung up.
Cassidy felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She had forgotten Kieran’s birthday, though she suddenly had a vague memory of her mother’s voice mail about it several weeks ago. Cassidy had gotten drunk and forgotten about the message, and she must have deleted it, too. Now she felt guilty, a victory for her mom.
“Hi-eee!” chirped the fitness-center girl. “Do you have my birdie yet?”
“Hang on.” Cassidy went back to her station and scooped up her notebook and its spill of papers. She riffled through them and found the folded, crumpled slice of bristol on which Cassidy had done the sketch. She’d been a little coked up at the time, thanks to Peyton, and now couldn’t really remember what the thing looked like.
“Uh, here.” Cassidy offered an apologetic smile as she unfolded the sketch, hoping it looked decent, or that it was, at least, actually a hummingbird.
“Ooh, that’s awe...some!” the fitness girl cheered.
“Thanks.” Cassidy smiled. It was a hummingbird in flight, nosing toward a blooming orchid, and she’d gotten very intense on the tiny details. It looked like a photograph. Cassidy sighed a little and let her shoulders slump in relief.
“It looks so real! I can like see its little wingies flapping, almost! It’s so pretty!”
“So this’ll work?” Cassidy asked.
“Yeah, TO-tally! When can we do it? I so want this on me! Remy will be so jealous, it’s way better than her bird.”
Cassidy opened her notebook and looked for an open time.
When she left work, the sun had already sunk out of sight, but there was enough of a smoldering red glow that the streetlights hadn’t popped on yet. She lit a Parliament cigarette and coughed.
A clump of kids sat on the sidewalk outside, wearing Doc Martins and spiky collars, their hair shaved and colored at random, faces pierced with oversized rings and the occasional safety pin. They hassled her for change, though their shoes and clothing appeared brand new. She ignored them. Sometimes she asked them for change first, just to throw them off.
Neolithic Tattoo was one slot in a strip mall on Euclid Avenue, surrounded by vintage clothing boutiques, bars, and a shop selling New Age crystals and witchcraft accessories. The Little Five Points neighborhood was a burst of color tucked among the gray corporate shells of Atlanta, full of head shops, hand-painted murals and beautiful crumbling old houses painted psychedelic colors. The area was like a garden of sanity to Cassidy.
She passed a crowded plaza, occupied by street musicians on guitar and tambourine, artists selling tiny paintings on cluttered easels, and a guy with a slightly nervous look selling hand-blown glass “tobacco” pipes. A palm reader in gypsy wear sat on a blanket, next to a sign offering fortunes for twenty-five bucks. Teenagers had gathered for the free Friday night entertainment.
Cassidy should have been working—Friday nights were busy at the parlor. She was missing out on good cash to support Peyton’s big night at the club instead.
“Are you the messiah?” someone asked off to her left. She paid no attention—it wasn’t such an unusual bit of conversation to overhear on a Friday night in Little Five, really. Then it repeated again, louder, insistent, and much closer.
Cassidy turned and jumped a little when she saw the two guys approaching her. If she hadn’t been wrapped up in feeling guilty about her brother, she would have noticed the two sore thumbs right away. They didn’t belong among the dirty but brightly colored freakfest assembled here.
They looked a couple of years younger than Cassidy, maybe eighteen or nineteen. They were clean-shaven, with preppy-boy haircuts, ties and coats, and polished shoes. They looked like bland white kids
in from the suburbs.
“Are you the messiah?” the closest one asked again, pressing a four-color pamphlet against her hand. The front leaf of the pamphlet read ARE YOU THE MESSIAH? in bold red letters.
“Uh, probably not, kid,” Cassidy said. “Move out of the way. You’re creepy.” The boys were both on the cute side, really, one tall and dark, one muscular and blond, but she didn’t trust the clean-cut and smiling types.
“The messiah has been born,” the blond boy said. “Salvation is here.”
“Oh, good,” Cassidy said. “Can he deal with my credit card debt?”
“He will forgive all debts,” the blond one replied.
“Or she,” the dark-haired one added. “The messiah has been born, but has not yet been revealed to the world.”
“Great. If that happens, I’ll know you guys were right all along.” Cassidy veered around them, walking on the very edge of the busy street to avoid them. She hoped a drunk driver didn’t swerve wide and kill her.
“Any of us could be him,” the dark-haired one said, pressing the pamphlet against her hand again until she finally snatched it from him.
“Or her,” the blond-haired one amended again. An equal-opportunity fanatic, that one. “You could be the messiah. Or me. Or any of us who are young.”
“Any who are young,” the dark-haired boy echoed, nodding solemnly.
Cassidy hurried away, then glanced back over her shoulders at the younger boys earnestly staring after her. They both raised their eyes quickly, as though they had been checking her out from behind, and blushed and smiled. For half a second, she felt bad for them.
“Guys, you should get out of here,” she told them. “Or somebody’s probably going to kick your ass.”
“The Light-Bringer will protect his disciples,” the dark-haired one said. He held up a black book with no title or author name, just a small gold spiral on the cover and spine.
“Or hers,” the blond boy added, naturally.
Cassidy shook her head and turned away from the two mildly-cute suburbanite weirdos. She crossed the street and ducked into a dingy, crowded bar for a strong shot of after-work relief.
Chapter Three
The Five Fingers Tavern was a narrow place, following the tradition of local bars using the word “Five” in their name, just in case you forgot what neighborhood you were in.
Cassidy wove her way through the Friday after-work crowd to reach the back and order a drink. Barb stood at the taps, pouring a Guinness, and smiled when she saw Cassidy. Barb kept her hair much shorter than it had been in high school, dyed orange this week, and she had rings in her nose and ears, but to Cassidy, she just looked like the same girl she’d known since the age of fourteen.
“Let me guess,” Barb said, her voice raised to compete against the dense crowd and loud music. “Water? No, wait. A Shirley Temple.”
“Or maybe a shot of Jameson instead.”
“Rent’s due next week,” Barb reminded her.
“Kilbeggan, then,” Cassidy sighed.
“One shot of leprechaun piss.” Barb poured, then winked as she filled the glass to the rim. “The second half is on the house.”
“Thanks, babe. I need it today.” Cassidy downed half the glass, relishing the burning sensation in her throat and stomach.
“Are there days when you don’t need it?” Barb raised an eyebrow.
“Shut up.”
“Can I get my tequila?” shouted a guy with an enormous earlobe stretched around a steel ring. “Hey, bar bitch!”
“Lick my butt rash, Vic,” Barb replied pleasantly. “I’m busy.”
“You’re still going tonight?” Cassidy asked.
“Yeah, I can sneak out of here by midnight, I think,” Barb said. “As long as Chani shows up for the rest of my shift like she promised. She’d better not dick out this time. I wouldn’t want to miss DJ Pretentious on his big night.”
Peyton’s club name was actually Doc Philosophy, and his mixes tended to be hyper-dancey on top with some weird sound backdrops drawn from obscure movies, Asian pop, or the television news.
“The Red Door is larger than anything he’s played locally,” Cassidy said.
“We’re on the list, though, right? I’m not paying a cover to see your boyfriend act like king of the room.”
“We’re on the list. Pour me some more leprechaun piss.”
“Already? You having nightmares again, Cass?” Barb asked.
“My fucking tequila, you fat whore!” the customer called Vic yelled.
“Suck it and choke, Vic!” Barb splashed cheap tequila in a glass and slid it to the loud customer without looking at him. She kept her eyes on Cassidy, clearly concerned.
“They always come back. That’s why I keep my brain strictly blotted out as much as possible.” Cassidy drank, starting to feel a little warm and unbalanced now. “Stupid brain, always on my ass about everything.”
Barb chuckled, glanced around for the manager, then poured herself a quick shot of the cheap whiskey. She grimaced. “Next time, remind me to steal a shot of something worthwhile.”
More customers pushed their way to the bar, distracting Barb. Cassidy eased back, not wanting to be pushed against the sticky bar counter.
She wasn’t sure when the nightmares had begun—she supposed she’d had them even as a toddler, or maybe an infant, but she knew they’d grown worse since the night of the Ouija board when she was sixteen.
Without chemical correction, her brain sent her dreams brimming with hellish monsters striking out from the shadows, unnatural things with horns, claws, and tentacles, their faces like misshapen animal skulls, their eye sockets hollow but still staring at her.
In one of her recurring nightmares, she ran through an overgrown copse of ancient oak trees, every path cut off by tangles of enormous knotted limbs, her feet weighed down as if by iron weights while something crashed and snarled through the woods behind her, close enough that she could feel its foul breath searing the flesh on her back. In another, she stood naked in front of a class in high school, trying to read aloud a paper that her eyes couldn’t decipher. She would look up and see all her classmates dead and rotten at their desks, their skulls sagging inward like pumpkins two months after Halloween.
If she went a few days sober, the nightmares could begin to bleed into real life. She would see phantom bugs, like strange insects resembling scorpions with dragonfly wings, feeding on people around her, or bristly worms burrowing in and out of their flesh. Sometimes people would seem to decay right in front of her.
And so she drank, and she took any passing drug that might have a chance of negating her brain activity.
“Cassie!” a girl squealed. Cassidy didn’t like the nickname—Cassidy or Cass, please, she wanted to say, but she knew that Kit, the girl who had greeted her and was currently hugging her around the waist, Kit, wouldn’t listen. Kit was one of Barb’s gang of friends she’d picked up from working at the bar. Kit had just arrived with several others. Kit was dressed in a holey halter top and wore ultra-pink lip gloss, and she usually acted girlish in a way that annoyed Cassidy. “We can’t wait to see Peyton tonight!”
“Oh, good, you’re coming?” Cassidy asked.
“Everybody’s coming!” Kit’s voice turned to a stage whisper. “Barb said she’d break our arms if we didn’t.”
“That’s nice of her,” Cassidy said, and Kit pealed out laughter, though Cassidy hadn’t really intended it as a joke. The girl was probably high. Cassidy wondered whether she had anything good to share—then again, it probably wasn’t worth hanging around with Kit to find out.
More of Kit’s crowd closed in, guys and girls in shabby-sexy clothes who were all artists, actors, writers, or musicians, or at least claimed to be when making conversation at bars. They babbled around Cassidy and sometimes at her. She confirmed three times that Peyton was spinning at the Red Door that night. Conversation with this group tended toward the ridiculously repetitive, but Cassidy made sure to thank
every person who was coming to support her boyfriend.
Then she drained her whiskey and made her way out the front door.
Cassidy smoked as she walked down the street, soaking up the warm summer night in the city, beautiful in the alcoholic lens of her vision. There was much she didn’t like about Atlanta, but one thing she’d always loved was how the wilderness broke through the city everywhere. Many streets were lined with centuries-old trees, and the sidewalks bubbled and cracked above their roots. There was hardly a crevice in the asphalt or brick without some sort of weed or wildflower growing out of it. She imagined the trees and green life of the city whispering all around her, quietly conspiring to turn all she saw into overgrown ruins.
She ambled half a mile along the tree-shadowed sidewalk of McLendon Avenue toward her house, which faced the grassy green of Candler Park across the road. It was one of many attractive old houses in the area, and like many of its neighbors, it was crumbling and rickety enough to rent out to groups of poorly-paid young people.
The house was canary yellow, two stories plus a basement, with a broad front porch that wrapped around one side of the house, heavily shaded by the mossy old trees in the small yard.
Cassidy clambered up the creaky front steps and through the front door. Inside, the lights were dim and the music was loud, repetitive thudding house music. Her roommate Allie sprawled on the threadbare sectional couch between two guys, both of whom Allie considered her “boyfriends,” and she was engaged in some pretty heavy petting with both of them.
Cassidy snorted a little as she climbed the steep, sagging stairs to the second floor. She liked an occasional tab of ecstasy, but Allie was a religious disciple of the drug, constantly trying to get everyone around her to take it.
The house had four bedrooms. Cassidy and Barb had the two upstairs rooms—when they’d first moved in, they’d had little money and shared one room. Barb eventually landed the bartender job and rented the second upstairs room for herself when a former roommate moved out.
Downstairs lived Allie, the ecstasy princess, and Stray, who was a drummer and spent most of his time down in the leaky, dirty basement doing band rehearsal with his friends—which typically involved getting drunk and smashing out incoherent sounds that rattled the house for hours each night, until the band members started passing out.