The Rise and Fall of the Gallivanters

by M. J. Beaufrand

  He’d be back.

  THE DAY AFTER SONIA SCARRED MY NOSE, when Crock, Ev, and I were eating our soggy tuna sandwiches in the school cafeteria, Sonia and Jaime came trotting up to us.

  Sonia banged her tray on the table so hard everyone’s food jumped.

  “That was awesome!” she said. Then, in her dad’s cheesy TV commercial voice, said, “‘Do you know how much that little punk cost me? We had to sell our condo in Sun Valley to pay your tuition. Stay away from him.’ I’m thinking about telling him we’re engaged. So, what does Jojo call that place where we’re rehearsing? We have to cut the demo in a couple of weeks, right?”

  “The Maxi Pad,” Evan said, picking onions out of his sandwich.

  Sonia’s smile got bigger. “Sounds disgusting. I can’t wait to tell my father. Hey, are you gonna eat that?” She pointed at the pickle on Ev’s plate.

  “No,” he said, pushing the entire tray across the table. “Here. Take the whole thing. I’m not hungry.”

  Evan was rarely hungry these days. Usually he didn’t eat at all on the days his skin was red, which was about once a month.

  He had some name for it. Derma-blah-blah-blah.

  I still didn’t understand why a rash would affect his appetite.

  Sonia just about had a seizure when she uncovered Jojo’s drums. “Oh my god! Are these Ludwig Vistalites? Hi-hat! Floor tom! Snare drum! Crash cymbal! Rototom! Bongos! Goldfish!”

  Sure enough, the floor tom was filled with water and there was a goldfish swimming around in it.

  “That’s Castaneda. He’s on a higher plane of existence. Here ya go, fella.” Jojo lifted the lid and sprinkled something in the water that could’ve been fish flakes or could have been weed.

  The bottom of the snare was lined with really round rocks, some of which had strings attached to them.

  “Jojo,” I said, “what’s that floating on the bottom of the snare? You know, underneath Castaneda?”

  “Probably cherry bombs.”

  “Defused, right?” I said.

  Jojo thought real hard. “Hey, anyone want a doobie?”

  All through this exchange, Ziggy sat on the window-sill, flicking cigarette ash into the muggy air. “Right,” he said, flicking the butt out to the street. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

  That first week we mostly rehearsed the campy pieces I’d written: “Pong Warrior,” “All the Best Aliens Land in Cleveland,” and “Volkswagen Madonna.”

  Jaime thought it was hilarious. Sonia had to explain it to Crock, who hadn’t been there when I busted my nose.

  “The song’s about Jaime? Running red lights in nothing but a bra and miniskirt?” Crock said. Apparently his skank sonar was intact. Honestly? I’d forgotten he was even there. He came and went a lot. Filling out paperwork for us, trolling the Acropolis Tavern for watery beer and trashy women, and helping Jojo in the store.

  Now he was practically slobbering on Jojo’s alpaca carpet. Over Jaime. I didn’t like it one bit, but before I could say anything, Evan did.

  “Shut up, Crock. And stop staring at Jaime’s tits. Can we get back to work, please?”

  Thank god for Ziggy. He was always there when we opened the frosted glass door of the Maxi Pad, always in the same spot: staring out the window, smoking, cool in a thousand-dollar suit.

  He knew exactly what my songs needed and wasn’t shy about telling me. He would pull me out onto the landing and say, “Those songs are fine for a warm-up, lad. But it’s not going to be good enough to get rid of the Marr at its source.”

  I would tell him thank you.

  He would grab my shoulders and say, “I know you understand the severity of the situation. You’re up against an evil that can’t be taken on directly. If you don’t give this everything you have, more girls will disappear. Evan will disappear completely.”

  Once or twice I tried to pin him down: What exactly was the Marr, other than a black cloud that consumes everything in its path, and has decided to settle here?

  “Best think of it as a curse, son. It feeds on living tissue. No regard for how healthy or old you are. It picks its victims at random. Jurgen has found a way to feed off it, god knows how. We have to stop him. In order to do that, we have to get into the PfefferBrau Haus.”

  Most days I flipped him off, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Never mind, Noah,” he reassured me. “Just keep practicing. It’ll come.”

  He was right. My breakthrough came on a Saturday night. Our demo was due at the PfefferBrau Haus that Monday.

  We had just put the finishing touches on “6:00 Curfew,” about Evan’s mom always calling the Maxi Pad and wanting him home to rest. (Jojo really liked that song, probably because we thrashed so hard we practically shredded his instruments into matchsticks. “Whoa. You guys are gonna rock the joint. Speaking of joints, anyone seen my doobie?”

  “In the kitchen cabinet. By the spice rack,” Jaime said.)

  We all felt good, and we wanted to be rested for the next day, when we cut our tape. Everyone was already packing up their gear and cleaning kung pao chicken from Jojo’s plates, when Ziggy whispered, “Now’s the time, lad, if you’ve got it.”

  I still had my guitar out and was strumming random chords.

  Okay, then, I thought. Here goes.

  I took a deep breath. “Wait,” I told everyone. “I’ve got something else I’ve been working on. I want you to hear it.”

  There was lots of groaning. Jaime slammed the silverware she’d been cleaning in the sink with a giant clatter. “Come on, Noah,” she said. “We’re tired. We’re good enough. Even Jojo says so.”

  “I know what I’m asking. Please. Give it just one listen. It won’t take long. And if you don’t like it, we’ll save it for later.”

  I looked at Evan’s face. It was one of his starved, sunburned days. I didn’t need Ziggy to tell me that he was running out of later. We only had now.

  Before I could change my mind, I played the opening progression of “Disappearing.”

  Your picture’s everywhere

  The ink fades, images fall

  I still see your outline

  As you melt into a wall

  I see your pain

  Tacked to the board so long

  Colors fade

  But yours are strong

  I stopped. I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes until I opened them and Jojo was standing over me. Before I knew it, he wrapped me a bear hug. Which would have been really nice if it weren’t for the pot smell. It was kind of like being hugged by a frizzy-haired, middle-aged bong.

  He stood back. It looked like he was crying. But then again, he could’ve just been stoned. “All those girls,” he said, shaking his head. “All those families not knowing . . . that’s an awesome tribute, Noah. You guys better get it right.”

  “Tribute? Tribute? Aren’t you forgetting that people are still hoping to get their girls back alive?” Jaime said. “That song isn’t a tribute. It’s a funeral march.”

  Evan unstrapped his bass and stalked off into the stairwell, slamming the door behind him.

  He knew the song wasn’t about any girl.

  I ran after him and nearly tripped over his scrawny carcass seated on the top step. He was bent double and running his fingers through his dreads.

  “Don’t, Noah,” he said without looking up.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Say or do anything. Just don’t.”

  I stood over him in silence for a few minutes. He wanted me to leave him alone, but I couldn’t. He was here. And as long as he was, I would be too.

  “Jaime didn’t know what she was saying,” I finally said. “She thought I was talking about total strangers. They all did. Nobody knows you’re sick.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie. Jaime kind of knew, and the others may have guessed.

  Evan said nothing. He hugged himself as if he would fall apart.

  “It was a bad idea. Let’s just forget it and go home,” I said.
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  He whipped around and glared at me. “Who says I want to forget it? It’s a good song, Noah. I’ll be back in. Just gimme a sec to get out from under this black cloud.”

  I backed away, knowing that it wasn’t any regular black cloud he was dealing with. This one was chewing at him piece by piece.

  • • •

  Ev was as good as his word, and we stayed through the night, putting the finishing touches on “Disappearing.”

  The sun was coming up, and our demo was cut by the time we dribbled out of Jojo’s in the morning.

  To get to my car, we walked past the Fish Grotto, and the same homeless guy with the tinfoil hat was slouching against a wall. Jojo knew him. Said his name was Terrence. And he slipped Terrence singles whenever he walked past.

  That day, Terrence wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t really awake either. He stared at nothing and muttered something that sounded like “Blah blah blah should’ve seen blah blah blah.”

  The dude needed a shower and a nap. I knew what that felt like, so I tucked a five-dollar bill in his jacket pocket.

  On the drive home, Ev pretended to be asleep, leaning against the window. The color was slowly draining from his skin.

  He must’ve gotten tired of me checking on him at every stop light, so halfway home, he stirred himself and said, “Please. I promise I’ll tell you, Noah. Just not right now, okay? I’m really tired.”

  “All right,” I said, thinking that was the end of it.

  It wasn’t. He closed his eyes and spoke again. His voice was softer and smoother than Ziggy’s could ever be. It was like he was whispering to me from across the universe.

  “Let’s just say what I’ve got can’t be cured by Smurfberry Crunch cereal.”

  And even though I already knew it, I felt my veins thrill with frozen bile.

  Sssoooon, I heard the Marr hiss. Sssoooon.

  THAT NIGHT I DIDN’T NEED ZIGGY to command me to dream.

  It was about my dad again. All the images spewing from my brain at night were about my dad.

  It was the same day I threw all of Dad’s crap out on the front lawn. I made it to school in one piece, then trembled my way through seven periods of seventh grade. Teachers pounced on me for not paying attention. But how could I? Dad said he’d be back, and he never made empty threats. Some kids say their parents are gonna kill them for something they’ve done, but they didn’t mean it the way I did.

  Dad had a shotgun. He was pissed at me. He said he’d be back.

  • • •

  When I came home, Dad’s stuff I’d tossed out was still on the front lawn. His shirts had drifted into the neighbors’ yard, but otherwise our grass was a trash heap.

  Dad’s truck still wasn’t in the driveway, so I thought either he’d hid it or he wasn’t there.

  I tested the front door. Still locked, thank god. I took out my key and opened the door. Then I stood on the landing for a second and listened. Not a sound.

  I don’t know how long I stood on the entrance landing, between the upstairs and the downstairs, trying to decide what to do next.

  Slowly, I started to relax. I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I discovered we were low on milk, so I went downstairs to get more from the fridge in the basement.

  And that’s where I found him, sitting calmly on the piano bench, his hunting rifle pointed at, but not already in, his mouth.

  He was red-faced and crying without making a sound. If I hadn’t been so afraid I would’ve been ashamed. He was a lump of a man sitting there. The gun looked so much bigger than him.

  But I was afraid. He was here. He had a gun. He was not acting. I didn’t know what desperation was then, but I recognized its face.

  “You think you can get rid of me that easily, you little punk? Shame me in front of the whole neighborhood? Well, let me tell you something. They all know what you’re about. And if they don’t, they soon will.”

  And he pulled the trigger.

  It’s crazy what you think about in times like that. Even as I cleaned pieces of his head off the walls, I thought: Shit, this’ll never come out. Dad’s gonna kill me. I didn’t think even once that it was over, that Dad was on the floor without a jaw or a brain, because I’d covered it with a towel.

  I’d forgotten that Evan was coming by later so we could shoot hoops. I’d forgotten I’d left the front door unlocked. So I only knew he was there when I heard him say, “My god, Noah. What have you done?”

  I turned around. I was wearing rubber gloves and holding a bloody sponge. There was a bucket of water at my feet that was bright pink.

  And there was what was left of Dad.

  To this day I don’t know what Evan saw in my face. I don’t know if he changed his mind about my guilt, or if he didn’t care. He disappeared into the garage and came back with the other giant sponge and a bucket of bleach. “You’re using dishwashing liquid,” he said. “It’ll never come out.”

  And he started helping me clean.

  After about an hour, he said, “I think that’s the best we can do. I’d better get Idiot Willy before your mom and sister come home. They’re not gonna want to see this.”

  The rest comes to me in pieces. I’m sitting on the front stoop. There are police cars and ambulances all around, and someone’s thrown a blanket over me. But since Ev won’t leave me, they have to throw a blanket over both of us. Someone hands us foam cups of coffee, which taste foul but at least are warm.

  I remember Idiot Willy talking to me. I remember thinking that I’d never seen him up close, and that his gut was even bigger than I thought, and he had craters for pores.

  He flipped open a tiny notebook and said, “Your mom’s on her way. I know you didn’t do this, Noah. We found a note. He blamed everybody but himself.” He shook his head. “Son of a bitch. I wish he were still alive so I could shoot him at close range. Honestly, what kind of asshole does this to his own son?”

  I stared across the street to the collection of birdhouses on Willy’s porch. They seemed so normal.

  “I need to know why you cleaned up,” Idiot Willy went on. “I think I understand, but they’re asking.”

  He jutted his chin toward the guys in uniforms coming in and out of the house. There were lots of them.

  To me the answer was obvious. “He always hated a mess.”

  Idiot Willy didn’t look at me like I was crazy, even though my answer was totally batshit.

  “That’s what I thought.” He flipped his notebook closed. Even his sigh was heavy. “At least now you’re free.”

  I didn’t feel free. I wouldn’t feel free ever again.

  But at least there was the warmth of the coffee. And Evan’s scrawny shoulder against mine as we sat under scratchy orange blankets. Both of us were scrawny. Together, we almost made one whole kid.

  THE WEEK AFTER WE CUT OUR DEMO, we wandered around the city blank-eyed and confused, like we’d woken up in some alien landscape. A really swampy one. The air around us was thick and stinky with hops, and even though it was spring, it didn’t rain, so there was nothing to wash away the boredom.

  Crock told us it was too soon for him to make Whaddya think? runs to the PfefferBrau Haus to see if we made the cut, but we went to Jojo’s every afternoon anyway. We jammed in the Maxi Pad and helped mind the store. Everyone got their homework done on time. Sonia helped us with our French (“Voilà la tour Eiffel”), and Crock wrote our personal finance papers for us. Five of them. All different, each culled from the Wall Street Journal. “Hey, I can spot a trend,” he said.

  I worried he was turning into a Republican, even though he still said President Reagan was a walking corpse.

  We threw open all the windows in the Maxi Pad, hoping the cross breeze would help with the stagnant air, but all it did was cycle the brewery smell through faster. The windows didn’t open in the store below, so it smelled like mold. Watermarks above Country Western oozed yellow goo that looked like pus.

  Looking at th
at swollen ceiling, I couldn’t help thinking it was only a matter of time until something crashed down on all our heads. And I was right.

  It just wasn’t what we’d expected.

  We were walking to Jojo’s on Friday afternoon. Ev offered us chocolate-covered espresso beans. Sonia was his only taker, and she didn’t need them since she was naturally espressoed. She decided it would be a really good idea to walk over the tops of parked cars instead of with us on the sidewalk. She didn’t break anything, but she left bootprints on people’s windshields and hoods. Thank god she didn’t try it with Ginny.

  As we walked, I couldn’t help constantly touching my nose, like she was trouncing it all over again. The packing had come off, but the stitches were still there, and they itched like crazy. Crock said keeping them lubricated was the answer, but the way he said it made antibiotic ointment sound X-rated.

  We were chatting about things that were not the PfefferFest. I don’t remember what. Something some idiot jock in school had said, how Scott Freeland’s mom and dad were getting divorced so Scott had started sneaking Jägermeister into his locker.

  I didn’t realize right away that we’d left Evan behind, and when I did, needles of terror spiked through me. Oh, crap. He’d looked fine when he’d gotten out of the car. Was he curled on the pavement with another bone-crushing headache?

  No. He was just standing a block back, staring into the distance like a zombie. “Something’s happening,” he said in a way that made me think the Marr was making a final push and we weren’t ready for it.

  I craned my neck to see what Ev was looking at. There was a small crowd in front of the Fish Grotto. Maybe a dozen people, watching something we couldn’t see that made a noise like an air-raid siren. A siren that swore. A lot.

  “Goddamn you! I’ll fuckyourshitup!”

  I didn’t think it was the Marr, because I didn’t feel cold. This was something else.

  We inched closer. I knew him by smell before I knew him by sight. Because, honestly? Without the foil hat, Terrence looked like this man-sized heap of poop.