We then returned to our regularly scheduled programming.
*****
Fourth of July Eve tradition decreed Jon help himself to a bounty of his dad’s restocked stash of fireworks. He grabbed roman candles, sky rockets, and mortar shells, wheels, fountains, and spinners. Then, in the dead of night, we prowled the sleeping towns in search of our prey.
I’d roll up alongside a parked car or van. Brad would get out and recon the area for spying neighbors before checking the vehicle’s doors. If it was unlocked, he’d give us the thumbs-up and dash back to my car. Meanwhile, Jon would jump out, light one or two pieces of artillery, and toss them into the chosen vehicle. Upon his return, I’d take us to the end of the block, pausing there so we could witness our handiwork.
The fireworks would ignite gloriously inside our marks, producing a bottled spectacle of rainbow-colored crosettes and chrysanthemums, palms and peonies, stars and strobes. Within seconds, the smoke and flames would overwhelm the magnificent pyrotechnicalia, our cue to flee.
The final time we pulled this off, we lit up a dozen vehicles across five towns. The last car nearly proved our undoing. After we’d sparked a Catherine wheel in a Cadillac, we rode up the street, where we were greeted head-on by a police cruiser. I just kept driving past him acting all calm and casual, though I was shitting my pants. I turned the corner and as soon as the pig was out of sight I punched the gas. We sped through a maze of side streets away from the scene, then navigated our way to the turnpike. We went home and hoped we had not become wanted men.
The following days I anxiously scanned the local paper and watched the TV news. Plenty of stories about robberies and house fires and domestic violence, but nothing about our wave of vehicular vandalism.
We had gotten away with it.
*****
The Verdusky twins died at home together at age 17.
Since our bygone days of crank calling—we’d lost touch after we started going to different junior high schools—the brothers had established quite the reputation for themselves and their wayward behavior. They’d racked up a sundry criminal record, charged with multiple counts of indecent exposure, grand theft auto, grave desecration, etc.
Their preferred activity by far was setting fires to anything that could catch fire. They began with the wooded areas beside the parkway. They then moved up to the contents of mailboxes and dumpsters. Once, at the Sacred Shores Church, they burned several hymnals in a pile on the altar, and one of them climbed up the king-sized crucifix and charred Christ’s nose with a lighter. Ultimately, they torched their own bedroom, with them still in it, and perished in the blaze.
Everybody thought their fate suited them. Everybody seemed glad they were gone.
I felt a little sorry for Larry and Greg. They couldn’t control themselves. They were clearly sick, at the whim of their mental defects. For them, it wasn’t about having fun. Their deeds were compulsive, an addiction. I wondered if they knew this and had sacrificed themselves to be free of the demons in their DNA. Maybe they realized they could never deny their degenerate natures, that they would never have a choice.
Me, I can stop myself anytime I want.
*****
It was our final night of summer vacation before we began our senior year. We puttered around the nearly deserted roads in the Deathmonger, stereo blaring Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” while we yakked about the cool movies we saw, the bitchy teachers and snotty girls and dumb jocks we knew. People who needed to be reckoned with. We’d made a list.
Jon, wearing his snug Charles Manson T-shirt, announced he was hungry. I was a little hungry too. I spotted the 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts nestled in a strip mall between a dry cleaners and a drug store. I pulled into the lot and parked in front of the shop.
We shuffled in, my cowboy boots resounding off the tiles. A plump, grizzled hostess, coffee-stained apron tied about her waist, stood behind the counter, wiping it down with a damp washcloth.
“Good evening, boys,” she welcomed us.
Brad plunked himself in the nearest booth while Jon and me ambled up to the cash register. Jon smiled at the gallery of pastries, then stopped smiling when the hostess thought he was smiling at her. I ordered a plain cruller and a milk. Jon got a cinnamon roll, warmed, with butter. Brad didn’t want anything.
There were only two other customers in the shop.
A scraggly old man in a rumpled beige sports coat sat alone at the rearmost booth, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. He chatted aloud with an invisible companion as he sipped a cup of black coffee, a stubby unlit cigar pinched between his fingertips.
A youngish woman with strawy hair, yellowed teeth, and big boobs was perched on a stool at the counter, the paleness of her skin and the scabs on her face accentuated by the fluorescent lighting. Hands trembling, she chewed on her fingernails, glancing all around her, nervous, suspicious. Her foot tapped the floor to an imagined beat.
Jon and I joined Brad at the table and started eating our food. The shop door swung open. Two cops entered and approached the hostess. She discreetly pointed out the twitchy woman. The officers, solemn and imposing, advanced upon her.
“Excuse me,” one cop said.
She did not react.
“Are you feeling alright, miss?”
She stared down at the countertop, then at the clock on the wall, then out the window. Eyes darting everywhere but on the stern figures towering over her.
The other cop—the Bad Cop—spoke more authoritative. “You’ll have to leave now. You can’t stay here all night.”
“We’re sorry, miss,” Good Cop added.
No response.
“We can cite you for loitering, you know that?”
“C’mon, miss. Please.” Good Cop gestured for her to get up and go.
The woman let out an exasperated sigh, clenching her fists. “Fuckin’ bullshit,” she spat, scowling. She mumbled something else at them as she sprang from the stool and stormed from the shop. Only then did I notice she was not wearing shoes. The bottoms of her feet were dirty, almost black.
The hostess thanked the officers. They both requested large coffees, and Bad Cop asked for a cheese danish. The geezer in back remained absorbed in his fantasy conversation.
Finishing our meals, we made a swift exit, avoiding the scrutiny of the snacking, slacking lawmen. As we got into my car, Jon saw the woman hoofing it down the turnpike.
“Let’s follow her,” proposed Brad.
I nodded. Jon laughed.
It was something to do.
*****
None of us possessed much skill with the opposing sex. Brad largely acted disinterested, maybe because they confused or intimidated him. And Jon wasn’t handsome or hunky enough to attract the kind of girls he was attracted to. I told him he should lower his standards, but he liked what he liked. I couldn’t fault him for that.
I was, in comparison, the luckiest with the ladies. Every few months I’d manage to score a date. And I scored poorly. They were generally one-off affairs, each typified by a combination of banal conversation, awkward silences, and drifting eyes.
Once, though, I experienced a fantastic night out with a girl named Jessica. I met her at the record store where she worked as a sales clerk. She dug the music I was buying, and I dug her strawberry blonde hair and jade green eyes. She gave me her number. I called her the next day and we made plans to get together that weekend.
I picked her up Saturday night and took her to one of the nicer Greek diners in the county. I bought her dinner, a moussaka casserole, while I ordered the stuffed flounder. We talked and laughed with ease. Afterward we went to the canal where I got us both Italian ices. We ate them at Captain Bob’s Fish Market while goggling at the live crabs and eels. Last we hit the arcade. I gave her five dollars in quarters for the machines. For most of our two hours there we played games against one another, side by side, her arm sometimes around my waist.
Best first date I’ve ever had.
On the
ride back to her house, she became deathly quiet, hardly saying a word no matter how much I wheedled her. Then, upon dropping her off, she confessed she still had feelings for her ex. She couldn’t be with me until she figured out things with him. She told me she was sorry, she had a great time, she’d call me if her and Aaron were definitely over. We said goodbye and that was that.
I’d spent $23.85 on her and I didn’t even get a kiss.
Years later I found her again.
This time I made her pay.
*****
The barefooted woman had wandered onto a branching road of duplex apartment houses, walking on the right side sidewalk. I caught up, coasting my car alongside her, and honked the horn twice. She didn’t, or wouldn’t, acknowledge our presence. I judged she was pushing thirty, maybe younger, maybe older. She carried no bags or purse, was dressed in a pink tank top and blue jeans with a gaping tear up the thigh. Tiny beads of sweat clung to her brow.
Brad rolled down his window. “Need a lift, lady?”
The woman’s pace quickened.
“Hey,” I blurted, leaning over Brad’s shoulder. “Those cops had no right chasing you out of there. It’s a public place.”
“Yeah,” Brad played along. “You weren’t doing anything wrong.”
Our feigned support worked to win her wary trust. She halted.
“They always do that,” she said, scratching the bridge of her nose. “It’s ’cause those sonsuvabitches don’t like me ’round if I don’t buy shit from ’em.”
“Cops hassle you a lot, huh?” Brad asked.
“I’m fuckin’ broke. I don’t even know where the hell I am. What town is this?”
“East Milford,” Brad answered.
She didn’t seem to recognize the name.
“Any of you got a cigarette?”
None of us smoked.
“We’re on our way to get gas,” I said. “You can come with us and get cigs there, if you want.”
She was visibly reluctant, teetering from one foot to the other.
“Where are you off to?” Brad asked.
“I’m tryin’ to find the Department of Social Services.”
“Why?”
“I’m lookin’ for a job. Heard they can help me.”
We offered to take her there, despite none of us having a clue where the Department of Social Services was located.
To my surprise, the woman was willing. She hopped into the backseat next to Jon. The stench she brought in with her was incredible, a b.o. bomb of near nuclear proportions. It must have been even worse for Jon. He slid away from her as far as possible, positioning himself so the wind from his open window would blow in his face.
We stopped at the Mobil gas station to fill up. Brad purchased from the Pakistani attendant a pack of menthols for the woman, no doubt a manipulative token of generosity. Without thanking him, she eagerly popped a cigarette from the box and stuck it between her quivering lips. She touched the tip with a match. Took a deep, desperate drag off it.
I volunteered to dial 411 to get the address for the Department of Social Services. She pleaded for me not to bother. I tried to reassure her, insisting I’d only be a minute.
“Probably thinks you’re gonna call the cops on her,” Brad whispered into my ear.
“I’m just calling Information,” I told her. “That’s all. I promise.”
I ran over to the pay phone by the gas station’s garage. While they waited for me, I could see the woman shaking and sucking on her cigarette, and Jon breathing through his wide-open mouth, his entire face jutting out the window. A minute later I returned to the car.
“It’s on Whaleneck Avenue,” I said as I shifted into gear. “In Elkhurst.”
Elkhurst was only about ten minutes away via the expressway, but I chose an indirect route with lots of traffic signals so Brad and I could get better acquainted with our passenger.
“Where’re you from?” asked Brad.
“Brooklyn,” she replied. “But I don’t live there anymore.”
“Where are you living now?”
“Nowhere,” she murmured.
“What happened?”
“This rich guy, some kind of lawyer, was lettin’ me stay with him.”
“Was he your boyfriend?”
“No. Not really.”
“Did he kick you out?”
“I left him… uhm… ’bout a week ago.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“He drank a lot,” she croaked. “And he was rough, sometimes.”
“He beat you?”
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
“Did he abuse you sexually?” probed Brad nonchalantly, like he was simply asking her if she’d ever gone camping or tried sushi.
I fantasized about fucking her. Us taking turns with her. Or all at once, each of us plugging a hole. I wondered if she would enjoy it, thank us for loving her, however shallow and fleeting that love may be.
“Why d’ya wanna know that?” she snarled.
Brad shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all.”
Jon checked his watch, groaned, and prayed for god to help him.
“I don’t wanna talk ’bout it,” she said.
I wondered if we could hurt her. Sure, we could go all the way with her. She was obviously mentally ill, probably homeless and a drug addict. Nobody would notice if she vanished. Nobody would care.
Nobody.
…We take the woman to the abandoned paper mill, force her into the building. It is barren inside, a forgotten place. We gag her with an oily rag, tie her to a rusty beam with bungee cords, and strip her naked. Like her head hair, her pubes are a jungly mess. We sizzle them off with a bbq lighter, then roast her clit, burn her inner thighs, and bake her lips. With a hammer we knock out four of her teeth. With scissors we snip off her nipples and sever the fingers from both her hands. We pluck out one of her eyes using the clamp of a booster cable. We take turns lashing her ass with a car antenna until it bleeds, then pour gasoline into the gashes and light them up. We drive a hot screwdriver into her pussy, then into her ass. Next we peel the flesh away from the bones of her arms and legs with a box cutter, then lay her nerves bare in three adjacent places, the nerve ends tied to a short stick which is twisted like a tourniquet, stretching the nerves, causing the woman to suffer unheard-of agony. We give her some rest, then continue working on her. With the screwdriver Brad bores a hole in her throat, draws her tongue back down through it, which looks funny as hell. Clutching the box cutter, I thrust my hand into her pussy and cut through the partition dividing the anus from the vagina. I toss aside the cutter, reinsert my hand, and rummage about her entrails, making her shit through her pussy, another amusing stunt. Next, we focus on her face: cut away her ears, burn her nasal passages, blind her remaining eye with broken glass, and scalp her. We split her belly open and apply a torch to her guts. Then Jon burrows into her chest with his pocketknife and punctures her heart in several places…
I pictured all this. But I never touched her. None of us did.
But we could have, and that excited me.
We reached the closed Social Services building at the third major intersection on Whaleneck Avenue. Next to it was a 24-hour White Castle. Their hamburgers were small, but were only 49¢ each and addictively delicious.
“Place won’t be open until nine I guess,” I told her. “I’m gonna let you off here, OK?”
I steered into the restaurant lot. Before I came to a complete stop the woman leapt from the car and beelined for the burger joint’s entrance, slipping into the brightly lit sanctuary without giving us so much as a farewell flip-off. That’s gratitude for you.
“She smelled sooooo bad,” Jon said. He recommended I disinfect my car.
I took Brad and Jon home and kept on driving, immersed in my thoughts, until it was time to go to school.
*****
A few months later, Brad almost beat his stepfather to death for molesting his sister, caving his head in with her flute case. Brad w
as sentenced to juvee for a year, then went to live with his real dad upstate. Not sure if he’s still there. For the rest of our senior year, Jon and I didn’t hang out much. It just wasn’t the same without Brad. After graduating, Jon enrolled at a college in Colorado. He only comes back on holidays. I never do anything with him when he’s in town.
I have to entertain myself these days.
Whenever I have the night off, I like going to the beach. Sitting on the sand, blending in with the darkness around me. It’s comforting. I gaze out at the water, the ghostly wisps of crashing surf appearing then disappearing on its otherwise inky surface.
I remember how I used to wonder what lay beneath it. But I didn’t dare go in. I wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
SUITABLE FOR FRAMING
I make my living aiming my lens on the human condition. What a shit show that usually is. And people want me to stick their noses in it. They crave their own stink. It’s masochistic.
I really can’t complain though. I’ve earned a respectable income photographing things most folks turn away from. Seven years ago I had established myself with my very first gallery exhibition titled Hit and Run, featuring visceral black-and-white images of roadkill in situ. Then came my breakout series, Beautiful Smiles, composed of wall-sized prints of broken teeth, cracked lips, and cleft palates. This was followed by three more acclaimed projects: Stains & Blights, The Fall of Man (pictures of neglected religious structures, recipient of the Kraszna-Krausz Book Award), and Screaming Heads.
Everyone Is a Moon Page 13