by Rob Rufus
Nat sat on the side of my bed.
“Nah, fuck that. I was waiting till you got home. What did the doc say?”
“They said it’s all good and they penciled my surgery in, for a couple days before you leave, actually.”
“Damn. Weird.”
“Fuck it. I’m glad. The sooner the better. I’m ready to get done with this bullshit.”
“Me too, man,” he said.
I reached for my glasses.
“Okay, motherfucker, let’s see this tattoo.”
“Well, be quiet. I’m trying to put off Mom’s shit-fit as long as I can.”
Nat held out his right arm. The entire thing was Saran-Wrapped. He slowly peeled it away as bright puddles of blood and ink pooled on the plastic.
He held the arm toward me.
A single tattoo covered nearly his entire arm, wrapping around above the elbow, all the way down to his hand. The front of his arm was the midnight sky, the same one above the mountains surrounding us, and the sky was full of dark clouds and lightning. Near his elbow was a single star—it was bright red, like the ones on the map in the basement.
I took hold of his wrist and twisted his arm to see the inside.
The dark clouds broke open. Thick rays of yellow-orange light blazed through. A white-winged bird flew free above the storm. Around it were the words Brothers Forever.
The tattoo was huge, impossible to miss. The statement was simple and permanent. There, through the light and through the darkness, was a promise rendered fucking unbreakable.
SEVENTEEN
Skeleton Crew
1
The days came faster and faster. It was life on autopilot, a blank cycle of summer days and nights—every hour seemed to rush toward something more important than the present moment.
The band doubled up on rehearsals. From eleven until six, they played their setlist over and over. They played it backward. They played it in the dark. Nat obsessed over that nine-song, thirty-minute set.
His huge tattoo gave him some new punk rock authority over Brody and Doyle, who now looked less like equals and more like a half-assed entourage. They would practice for as long as Nat wanted. They would dress however he asked. Whatever it was, they would concede.
And dumb as it sounds, the tattoo on his arm gave me a sense of security. When he strummed his guitar and the ink hit the strings, I felt like I was still part of the music, still present.
Of course, my mom flipped out when she saw it. She was convinced he’d finally thrown his life away, and took it as some sort of personal insult, like Nat got tattooed just to spite her. All of a sudden, Mom got on his case about everything.
But Nat said it had nothing to do with the tattoo. He thought Mom was mad because he would be on tour while I had my surgery in Indianapolis.
But if she was upset about it, she never let it show around me.
I didn’t see what the big deal was. Why did Mom care if Nat was in Indy? Did she expect him to rush into the operating room and help with the surgery? I mean, we all knew how fucked up everything was—one more person in a waiting room wasn’t going to help anything.
But I had no idea what Nat thought of our situation. We never talked about it anymore. Not the surgery. Not the cancer. Not even the tour.
Now we only talked about the future. Our summer was nothing but a means to an end. All that mattered to us was the after.
2
Fourth of July was the last day that we were all together.
We went downtown to watch the fireworks. Just Nat, Paul, Ali, and me.
It felt like years since I’d gone down for the show. I remembered skateboarding down Fifth Avenue, weaving through honking cars and crowds of patriotic hillbillies and miners.
But this year, we walked.
Ali wore faded jean shorts and a Springsteen T-shirt. A couple of drunks chanted “Born, in the U-S-Ayeeee” as we passed by. Small, shifting groups of people inched slowly down the sidewalks. Crew-cut families in cutoff shorts bought snow cones and piss beer from vendors. We were all headed down to the river.
The streets smelled like gunpowder. Streamers hung off lampposts in blue, white, and red. Fat children ran shirtless, holding burnt-out sparklers and cheap little American flags.
Most of the crowd was already gathered on the muddy banks of the river. A few climbed on top of the flood wall—a chick tossed a bottle to the train tracks below. The crowd stretched for blocks. Families hollered impatiently, ready to see fireworks.
They were all idiots.
The best place to watch was the bridge.
The Robert C. Byrd Bridge stretched right over the river—from downtown Huntington into Ironton, Ohio—any folks with half a brain walked onto the bridge to watch.
The four of us scored a place right against the dirty railing. I looked down at the water below.
It was almost dusk. The sun reflected off the catfish water in a way that made me feel homesick, although I didn’t quite understand why. A barge loaded to blow was anchored in the middle of the river.
* * *
The first firework came without warning.
There was a sudden, high, whistling sound, and then . . . BANG!
Each explosion was louder than the one before it. The smoke and sulfur were heavy in the air. We yelled and clapped, first jokingly, then not. We howled over the bridge like animals, trying to outdo the cannon fire.
Everything was beautiful.
Even Huntington looked beautiful, frozen there in the glow of that fire. Everyone was smiling. Engines hummed free on the bridge behind us. The river curled in brightly colored waves as the sky exploded both above and below us. I was somewhere in the middle of it all, the whole world on fire and me untouched.
It was a summer night in Shitsville, and everything was fine. I knew it then, as sure as I knew anything—it was almost over. I was going to be just fine.
EIGHTEEN
This Nightmare Place
1
Two days before I left for Indianapolis, three days before Nat left for tour, the front-page headline of our local paper read APPLEBEE’S COMES TO DOWNTOWN HUNTINGTON!
Getting a chain restaurant in our town was huge. There were fucking billboards and everything. So before we started our journey west, we stopped there for lunch on the way out of town. Nat drove to the restaurant separately, since he was staying behind.
He and I sat together on one side of a booth, and our parents sat on the other. None of us spoke. We chewed the microwaved food in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
I was thinking of Ali.
She’d stopped at the house to say goodbye. She brought me her rosary, with a crucifix and beads of hand-carved wood. I put it in my backpack with the rest of my good-luck charms—my hospital cross, my picture Bible, Ali’s Catholic shit, a Defiance of Authority button and a copy of our demo, a few paperbacks, and the first Pennywise cassette I ever bought.
I packed my toiletries, chemical mouth rinse, and two sets of clothes. I wrote FUCK CANCER on the tips of my Converse with a Sharpie before I put them in the backpack. The rest of the bag was filled with childproof prescription bottles.
Now the backpack leaned against my leg, as I sat in the restaurant waiting for someone to speak. No one did. The waitress cleared our plates. She brought the check.
It was time to go.
* * *
The four of us stood in the parking lot. The sky was overcast. Nat wore his sunglasses anyway.
Dad gave him a one-armed hug and a stiff pat. He took some twenties out of his pocket and handed them to Nat.
“For gas,” he said.
Mom hugged Nat hard. Her shoulder blades moved quickly with her breath. She held on to him for a long time and she whispered something that I couldn’t make out, kissed him on the cheek, and surrendere
d him.
He wiped her lipstick from his face. Mom and Dad walked to the car, leaving Nat and me standing alone.
We must have looked strange to the cars pulling in—a tattooed, black-clad rocker in Wayfarers and this pale, odd-looking bald boy beside him.
“Well,” I mumbled, “I guess just let me know how the shows go.”
He nodded. “Let me know how it goes in Indy.”
I nodded.
We stared at the ground. We didn’t cry. We didn’t hug. We didn’t even shake hands. We just stood there, surrounded by cars. No goodbye seemed to fit.
Dad honked the horn.
“Well, I guess see ya.”
Nat smiled sadly. “Later, bro. Later.”
2
Dad booked two rooms at the Doubletree near University Avenue. It was the nearest hotel to the hospital. We needed to be close as I was due at 7 a.m. for “pre-op.”
I was in Room 646. Mom and Dad were 648. They dropped off their bags and went for a drink at the bar. Mom told me I could get room service.
I’d never had my own hotel room before. The bed could have fit all three of us. The pillows were expensive foam. The window took up the whole wall.
I called the front desk. I ordered a cheeseburger and two sides of fries. When she said that they only served unsweet tea, I really felt far from home.
* * *
I picked at my food. I wasn’t hungry. I had the TV on—some western on AMC—I wasn’t paying attention. I kept it on for the noise. For the company.
How many people had watched this TV, slept in this bed, pissed in this toilet—hundreds, thousands? All these people passed through the same place, and there wasn’t even a trace of them left.
Businessmen. Whores. Actors. Cops. Housewives. Children. Mothers. Different people leading different lives. Each just gone with no sign that they’d ever even been here at all. . . .
I looked out the window. I leaned my head against the glass. I wanted the smudge to stay there forever. I didn’t want to be tidied up.
I thought about calling Nat but didn’t. I wondered if he was ready to go. I wondered how much film Paul packed for his camera. I hoped Doyle remembered to bring enough drumsticks.
There was a knock at the door.
It was Dad. He grabbed a handful of fries from my tray and shoved them in his mouth.
“You better eat this stuff,” he said. “The doc said no food or drink after ten tonight.”
“I’m good.”
He shrugged.
“Is Mom still at the bar?” I asked.
“Nah, we weren’t down there ten minutes before she went back to the room. She wanted to double-check your prescription lists again before tomorrow and make sure the docs here know everything you’re on. She brought all her notes and shit—you know how your mom is.”
“I definitely do.”
“Don’t let her freak you out, it’s going to go fine. You’re a lot tougher than you give yourself credit for.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, embarrassed. No one had ever called me tough before.
He hugged me and his arms felt massive around my shoulders. Or maybe I just felt small.
* * *
The alarm clock startled me awake—five thirty.
I showered. I dressed. I wondered how I was supposed to take my medication if I couldn’t drink anything.
I put on my FUCK CANCER Chucks. I said a half-assed prayer to Ali’s rosary and then threw it in the bag with the rest of my shit.
I sat on the bed in the empty half dark. I turned on the TV. I turned it off. I stared out the window. I stared at my feet.
My parents knocked. They stood in the hall with their bags. They didn’t look like they’d slept.
“Let’s get this done with,” Mom said.
I took one last look at the dark room. I sighed and followed them down the hall.
* * *
After I checked in and put on my gown, the nurse led me to my hospital bed. The sheets were freezing. She began my IV. The nurse injected two syringes into the tube, some heavy-duty shit that she promised would help me relax. I wished she had given some to my parents too.
The nurse left us. I started to feel the injections kick in.
Relaxed isn’t the right word for how I felt—detached, maybe. I felt like I was nervous somewhere inside, but the medications had mercifully muted that part of my brain.
* * *
Dr. Redding came down the hall to greet us.
He looked rested and confident. He rehashed the procedure briefly and then left to go prepare. My parents said he was a nice man.
A nurse came with paperwork. They wouldn’t let Mom sign anymore, since I was eighteen. I tried to read it. The words blurred together, but I signed the papers anyway.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they came for me.
Dad and Mom leaned over the bed and hugged me. They both said they loved me. I took off my glasses and handed them to Mom. She bent down again and kissed my bald head.
“Call Nat and tell him how it goes,” I told her.
She nodded. She didn’t say anything more.
Strangers in white wheeled me away.
* * *
The operating room was as huge and bright as a movie set. I counted ten people inside, all sheathed in full-body suits made of blue paper. A giant light hung on a movable arm above the center of the room. There was another bed beneath it. The operating table, I guessed.
The orderlies lifted me from my bed and put me on the table. It was cold. They wrapped an extra blanket around my legs. Then they had me lean up so they could undo my gown and lower it down to my chest.
It wasn’t until that moment that I actually considered the fact that there was a tangible thing inside of me. The drugs and the side effects were one thing—but this wasn’t as simple as an illness. All of a sudden, I understood that I was about to have something hard and real and living carved from the middle of my chest.
My heart rate increased. Someone gave me another injection.
Dr. Redding asked me how I was feeling. Fine, I said. I couldn’t read his expression through the face mask. Another blue-paper person fitted an oxygen tube into my nostrils and a clear plastic mask over my mouth.
“Okay, Robert, just count backward from ten in your head.”
I nodded—okay. I started counting.
Ten, nine, eight . . .
(Soon I would be able to breathe again . . .)
. . . seven, six, five, four . . .
(Soon this horrible thing inside me would be . . .)
. . . three, two . . .
(Gone.)
3
I scream when I wake, but there is no sound.
The scream is inside my head, a high-pitched panic like twisting metal. There is a pressure in my throat—somethingsomeone is choking me!—I bite down and realize something has been shoved into my throat. I shake my head madly, gagging on the object.
Panic envelops me.
I try to cough it up but only swallow the object deeper. I claw at my mouth—there is a wide, ridged tube stuck down my throat.
I pull at the tube wildly, gripping and thrashing like I’m trying to strangle it. Pain fills my body as the tube rips up from deep in my guts, through and out my throat. I pull it from my mouth. Bloodspit flecks spill onto my chest.
I gag. Everything is white and out of focus.
Alarms and buzzers sound. My eyes roll around in my head. I can’t see or understand what is happening. I sense others near me, but they are blurred ghosts.
Just as I sit up, I feel two pairs of hands behind me, pushing me back on the bed. My arms are pinned back. I look down.
For the first time I see myself—this time when I scream, I can hear it perfectly.
Panic.
Now I am choking for real, inhaling empty, useless breaths of air. People move all around me.
“Can’t you do something? Can’t you do something?” someone shrieks. I know it is my mother, though I don’t recognize the voice.
She leans over me, clutching my bedrail. Her eyes are bloodshot red and blue. She grabs my hand. Her nails dig into my skin.
Someone injects me with something. I try to breathe, but I can’t.
The tension in my body grows weak. My hand goes limp inside my mother’s hand.
She fucking howls.
“They took your lung!” she yells, unable to control herself. “Ohgodjesuschrist oh nonono! They took it they took your heart they took your lungs oh no ohgodgod!”
“Shut the fuck up!” I hear my father scream. She is pulled away from me with such force that the bed moves with her.
My consciousness begins fading from the room.
Mom is just confused. She didn’t mean me.
Shadows of people move all around me. I can see sunlight, glowing somewhere through a window behind them.
Then nothing.
4
I am scared and lost. I hurt in a hurt that I never knew was possible.
I wake in short, distorted pockets. The first thing that registers, every single time, is the tube still jammed down my throat. I don’t know what it does or why. I don’t know where it goes.
Other tubes go under the blanket of my hospital bed. They must attach to me—my body can’t feel enough for me to know.
Whenever I stir, they inject me. I don’t ever wake for long.
Consciousness is a relative term in this nightmare place. I feel like I’m not even truly here. I am cut up. Ripped up. I don’t understand what happened to me, or this constant pain—only that drugs keep it farther away.
So they keep me doped up. Thank God I am doped up. I know there are others like me in rooms like mine. I heard screaming earlier, though it may have been inside of a dream.
No part of me cares that I am still alive.
* * *
It is daytime when they remove the tube from my throat. The tube was breathing for me, they say. Now I must breathe on my own.