by Dan Cummings
Staubach peeled a few notes from his gilet. ‘You got any Blue Dream left?’
Grainger grinned like a proud salesman. ‘That’s the good stuff, a beautiful marriage of genetics.’ His hairy-knuckled paw slid the retail price across the table and pocketed it in his khakis. ‘At this rate I should just pay you in grass.’
Staubach scratched his chin tuft. ‘It’s just as green as dollar.’
Over the dull wall-throbbing bass next door, the pelting of rain on glass was distinct. Grainger shoved his Cuban back in his mouth and went to the window. Occupying the belt of wasteland surrounding the ugly hacienda was a cluster of trailers under lock, key and armed guard. ‘Let’s take a trip to the candy shop.’ Noakes and Staubach followed him to the side door to collect their party supplies.
Chapter 11
In the converted attic bedroom turned rock and roll altar of Sam’s house, several hours and one pillaging of his dad’s exhaustive beer supply later had turned the atmosphere loud and fuzzy. Neil was fighting with Matt over which songs to add to their ever-expanding playlist, trying to pretend like everything was normal, but eight beers in and Neil still quietly battled with the unsettling skate park occurrence, and it seemed that no amount of alcohol could put a spin of false courage on the unwelcome return of the visitor. Why now, after five years? The whole situation offered all the more reason to grab hold of this moment with both hands and drink until he reached a protective blackout. It was just a temporary lapse…somehow, nothing more.
‘If you want to listen to all that new wave shit then that’s your problem, don’t make it ours. Back me up here, Sam,’ Matt called to the judiciary whilst engaging in some merry slap fighting with his DJ competitor.
Sam was too deeply immersed in fighting off a five-star wanted level on Grand Theft Auto V, engaged in a heart-stopping car chase with impeccable skill and coordination for somebody so intoxicated. However, the engrossment of his one-man crime wave wasn’t enough to plug the empty hole in the back of his thoughts, widening exponentially as the night drew nearer and nearer to a close. What he wouldn’t give right now for the comfort and peace of knowing that there was some sweet bud to crumble and light up before bed to elevate him from the small, cramped ball of anxiety he called his life. He focused on his playing, wishing he could shut his pining thoughts up for five minutes. ‘Keep the classics on,’ he said, mowing down several more SWAT members in a freeway stand-off.
‘See,’ Matt showed his devil horns, tongue lolling out in jest, ‘keep your little punk-murdering scene stealers to yourself.’
Neil looked flustered. ‘One song. The Cars are pretty awesome.’
‘Fuck the Cars. Synth is for pussies,’ Matt giggled, double clicking Judas Priest’s Breaking the Law.
Neil shook his head like a wet dog. ‘But male bondage is for pussy magnets?’
Sam finally got gunned down by a police helicopter, making a daring Hollywood-style escape from the ’hood across the beach at sunset on a motorbike. He held the controller up to them, his voice just as dead as his avatar gangster said, ‘Matt, you’re up.’
Matt swigged his beer and held a warning finger at Neil. ‘To be continued. I got to take care of some stuff over here.’ Neil flipped him the finger.
‘Thought you were never going to die. How long did you last?’ Matt asked, dropping down on the edge of the bed.
Sam checked his phone, pointlessly hurting himself with the knowledge that he couldn’t possibly text Sticky about scoring a bag. He glumly settled for another beer instead, trying to stay positive. ‘I stopped counting. You won’t top it though, you know I’m like John Wick when it comes to this game.’
Matt rode up on a wave of drunken confidence. ‘I don’t know, you know I get sick with Trevor Motherfucking Philips.’
Having broken his monosyllabic trance in front of the TV, Neil saw Sam’s missing smile rear its head. ‘Good to see you’ve cheered up. See, you don’t need to be high to relax and enjoy yourself. Spending five years getting couch-lock every day isn’t good, it’s just wasting your life.’ Seeing the squint of impatience on Sam’s face, Neil heard his well-meaning words buzzing between his ears, so boisterous and full of drunken purity that it lacked the delicacy of sobriety. He quickly got on with the course correction, wanting to emphasise the silver lining before Sam felt like he was being bashed. ‘Tomorrow, we’re going to party the fucking shit out of Halloween 2016.’
Sam looked somewhat entertained at Neil’s big motivational speech but couldn’t help but find some pretty big holes in his logic. ‘I’m very happy that the both of you have found an alternative crutch in plain old alcohol, but it’s not exactly any healthier than getting baked. Also, you just better hope that whilst the both of you are desperately trying to get laid, I’m not getting my fucking ass stomped.’ Naturally, this killed some of the happy-go-lucky spirit of the get-together.
Matt paused the game. ‘Sam, sit down. Clearly you need to get something off your chest and I’m speaking for Neil too here when I say this shit needs to come to a head. You’ve been on the rag since yesterday. What’s up?’ Feeling utterly exposed and off guard, Neil sucked back a gulp of panicked air.
A swirling brew of emotions flickered behind Sam’s eyes before he used a beer sip as an initiation to unload his pent-up frustrations. ‘Look, I just need the weed, okay? I’m not like you two.’ His daggered stare fell on Neil. ‘I’m sorry if I don’t all of a sudden think college is my way out of this town.’ Matt watched those same brown portals of bottled-up anguish land on him. ‘Or feel a sense of acceptance and contentment about myself. I fucking hate who I am. I need the weed because it makes me numb. It just makes me feel like everything will be okay. And now you guys are getting the fucking girls too? What does that leave me? An asshole mom and dad who are constantly on the verge of divorce. No future which makes sense. So I’m super fucking sorry if getting stoned is the only thing I have going on in my life.’ He raised his bottle, embarrassed that he just blurted all of that out in a drunken soliloquy of despair. ‘I’ll just become an alcoholic instead.’
A long moment of stunned silence sucked out the atmosphere of the room. Neil placed his beer on the desk, lowering himself onto the swivel chair by Sam’s laptop and paused the music. ‘Sam…this is exactly the reason why you should lay off the green. It’s horrible, the problems with your parents and all, but smoking that shit all the time is just enabling you to quit on your life. I’m going to try and get into college but that doesn’t mean I have everything worked out, you crazy? I’m fucking clueless. I mightn’t even get a place. But you’ve got to try, you know.’ He took the whole room in, Sam’s hideaway from the world, ‘You’re more than this. You can’t spend your whole life in this fucking…stasis. Shit, you’re so much cleverer than me, you should be going to college too. Remember in freshman year, you were getting paid to do homework for others and the teachers came down hard on you when they realised that about six C students were all acing A grades.’
Matt nodded along in agreement. ‘You see, I told you this. Everyone seems to see your potential but you.’ He knocked his cap off and ran a hand through his hair, resting his forearms on his knees. ‘I blame myself for this. I’m the asshole who introduced your nerdy ass to weed.’
Sam was still a lit fuse. ‘Don’t give yourself too much credit. My parents are intelligent, you’ve seen how happy they are. I just don’t think I’m capable of relaxing, I can’t turn my brain off.’
‘Still, you can’t just live in a damn pot haze the rest of your life. When I quit smoking it, it was tough at first, but trust me, after a few days, you feel amazing. No bullshit. Being stoned day in, day out, it takes a toll. You’ll feel better, believe me.’
Sam’s face was still hanging, battling with his angst and turmoil. ‘I just wish I could stop seeing the ugly side of life, but I can’t close my eyes to it. The weed made it bearable.’
Matt caught Neil’s cautious gaze but didn’t want Sam falling back on self-pi
ty. ‘Bullshit, the weed just gave you an excuse. You’re going to be fine. Life won’t be perfect, but you soldier on anyway. And you’re lucky in one way, you got us.’ He punched Sam in the shoulder, desperate to get the three of them out of this dead end conversation.
‘In a way we’re counting on you to get a white collar job,’ Neil added. ‘Matt’s going to be sleeping on couches in a couple of years.’
‘Exactly.’ Matt picked up the controller again and un-paused the game.
A faint trace of a smile formed on Sam’s face. ‘I’m just in a bad headspace. Sorry.’
‘It’s cool.’ Neil restarted the playlist. ‘Just have a beer and a smile, and while you’re at it, think of a different costume for tomorrow.’
Matt paused the game with such a jerk it seemed like his reputation had just been slandered. ‘Whoa now.’ He pointed the way Mr Sanders, the bane of math, often did to an unruly pupil. ‘If I have to go as Khal Drogo’s bit on the side, you two have to stick with your costumes.’
Neil was more than prepared to argue his case. ‘Not really. You lost a bet. We just thought ours would be funny.’
Sam tentatively tested the waters of friendly dialogue, still feeling ashamed of his outburst but knowing that his friends had already forgotten such trivial matters, and the mention of costume changes sparked an idea. His light-coloured eyebrows arched up. ‘It might not be such a bad idea to consider different outfits. No doubt Trump’s level of stupidity and ignorance will be the scariest thing at the party but maybe we should wear something with a bit more anonymity. Just in case those dicks do show up.’
‘You’re not talking about the Daniel Larusso shower curtain are you?’ Matt asked cautiously. ‘Because I love that movie but it’s a totally impractical costume.’
Sam smirked. ‘Not quite, but if we go full rubber mask on your sexual suicide mission we should be able to blend in easier.’
Matt dropped the controller on the bed after being gulped by a great white shark. ‘You believe that? Almost got away from the po-po only to get my ass chewed up by Jaws.’ As he inspected his empty beer bottle, his thirsty quest to continue drinking made him glance over at the empty cardboard six pack holders and the equally empty shopping bag. ‘Sam, you still got that bottle of vodka?’
‘Yeah, hold on.’ Sam’s hand reached under the bed’s valance into the secretive world of teenage rebellion and experimentation. His tactile memory morosely patted aside the now useless trinkets such as his bong and other marijuana paraphernalia, finally slapping on the half-full bottle of Smirnoff. ‘You’ll have to drink it straight,’ he warned.
‘Let me worry about that.’
‘You better not puke again.’ He gave him an admonishing look.
Neil smirked at the memory of Matt’s last dabble with the antiseptic throat corroder. Matt grabbed the neck of the bottle with a cocky sneer. ‘In case you forgot, I had smoked like four joints and downed six beers that time.’
Sam stood up from the bed, deciding to check out any last minute costume alternatives. Matt unscrewed the red cap off the vodka. ‘What do you guys think of Deb?’
Sam blew a raspberry while typing in the search bar. Neil pointed at Sam. ‘Yeah, pretty much that. I mean she’s not the worst person in the world but she gives off grade-A, weaponised bitch vibes. On the other hand, she did seem a bit more tolerant around you.’
Matt’s eyes watered, breathing out searing fumes. ‘I know, that’s the thing. It’s fish in a barrel but I’m just wondering if it’s worth the hassle.’
Neil waved the bottle over, clasping the glass neck as a shimmer of Frogmore danced in the rain on the warehouse roof. Blinking it away, he said, ‘You mean after she finds out you’re a thirty-second hero?’
Sam switched off from the topic, always feeling awkward and misplaced when talk turned to the fairer sex, causing him to reflexively wonder whether he would remain a virgin forever. After several coordinated mistakes on the keyboard, Sam managed to begin his perusal of Google’s results.
Matt returned a patient smile at Neil. ‘I mean because she’s not like any of the stoners or rock chicks. She’s all…academic and shit.’
‘You thinking she might make you solve algebraic riddles to remove her chastity belt?’
‘You think she might grade my performance?’
Neil snickered, ‘D minus.’
‘That’s probably the best grade I’ve ever got.’
Sam elbowed Neil to get his attention. ‘What do you think of these?’ On the screen, a new window showed the catalogue pages of the Masquerade fancy dress shop. Matt leaned in too, accepting the bottle of vodka from Neil. On screen was a Baseball Furies costume complete with a small make-up kit but unfortunately, sans bats. The three of them nodded in sync, not so much to the pneumatic head-banging music but the choice of attire.
‘I can dig it.’ Neil was mentally running through the money he had saved up in the bank from his part-time shifts waiting tables. The costume’s sale price was more than affordable. ‘Can you guys afford one too?’ By “guys” he really meant Matt.
Matt’s wide grin said yes. ‘Why didn’t I think of that costume?’
The square skylight suddenly creaked sharply, splintering the atmosphere.
‘The hell was that?’ Matt asked.
‘Probably just Ollie. Asshole cat,’ Sam dismissed. ‘It says they have a bunch in stock.’
‘Nice. Then all bets are off. I’m not showing leg tomorrow night.’
Neil’s eyes lingered on the cold, wet skylight and at the moon’s glowing sickle for a few moments longer. ‘Seeing as how it was only a gentleman’s agreement I’ll let it slide this once.’ He sounded distracted. ‘We’ll have to sort them out tomorrow first thing, in case they sell out.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ Sam glanced at the unattended PlayStation then nudged Neil, ‘Your turn?’
‘Nah, I’m done.’ He checked the clock on the bottom of the computer screen and turned to Matt. ‘You walking down?’
Matt took a final mouthful of vodka and nodded. Sam looked surprised. ‘It’s only early.’
Neil lowered the volume of the music, not really sure why since Sam’s parents were always coolly indifferent to the presence of their only child and his friends getting plastered at the top of the expensively decorated house. ‘Save some energy for tomorrow. Head to Masquerade about ten?’
Sam appeared a little lost, the evening’s end just another small disconnect from his insulation of the real world. He suddenly felt stranded with a fresh wash of panic lapping at him; the notional fear was about to become a reality, no joint to tip him over into the realm of the blissfully numb. He began to pick and scrape at the skin around his thumbnail, his attention flicking between the remainder of the vodka bottle and his happy friends, envious of their apparent confidence and control.
Matt already had one wobbly foot hovering over the attic’s staircase when he caught the look on Sam’s face. ‘You’re going to be cool, okay.’ He didn’t want to be too soft with him.
Neil slipped his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket and saw that same anxiety lurking behind Sam’s eyes. Neil patted him on the shoulder with a wry smile. ‘Tomorrow will be sick.’
Sam forced a brave smile and nodded. ‘Pick you up at ten.’ Sam watched them descend the wooden steps, then cast a long, saddened look around the room. Slowly he moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge. Restless, unable to switch off the exhausting nattering of problems both real and imagined, the five-year routine took hold and he reached under the valance and pulled out the box of paraphernalia. With hollow interest he pawed through rolling papers, his grinder, plastic lighters, hoping that by some divine intervention a bag of weed would be hidden or at least enough flakes to constitute a small joint or bong hit. Nothing. His desperate eyes darted to the bottle of vodka, his mind needing a substitute for oblivion. Maybe alcohol was better. All it required was his fake ID.
Shit.
Still, it was affordab
le and easier to get hold of, and it didn’t require dealing with volatile or unreliable guys like Staubach and Noakes. Fuck, he thought with a slowly congealing dread. Even if they’re not at the party, how am I going to get through the rest of the year without bumping into them? Have I left it too late to turn my grades around? They’re not that bad, still average. I probably should go to college. Get out of this shit fucking town. Away from the Shit Storms of the world. Go to college. Turn this mess around. Maybe one day get married, slowly start to hate each other, let a kid add further pressure, get divorced. But there’s always vodka.
As he lay on his bed, his fists had become hard as rocks. Yeah, fuck weed. Get drunk. He sat up in anger, stomped off the bed and snatched the bottle from the desk, glugging a hot slug. The skylight creaked again. Fucking cat.
*****
The stars shone like frosty glitter above Frogmore’s perch, watching his old dear friend Neil and another boy attempt to walk in a straight line along the tree-lined flags of the slumbering neighbourhood. He couldn’t believe how tall Neil had grown in the years since their imposed divorce. A curious cat, black and stealthy, stalked along the damp peak of the roof’s gable, attracted to the strange olfactory delights which wafted from a patch of seemingly unoccupied space at the edge of Sam’s roof. The damp, swampy odour continued to lure the cat closer and closer. After a few more tentative steps the feline crouched low and began to hiss, just as the empty space shimmered like ringlets in water. Frogmore, still weak for the moment, became visible in this frightfully dull plane of existence. But he couldn’t complain, finally being sprung from the incarceration of that dark void between worlds. This was a momentous occasion. Surely a celebration was in order.
The stray continued to display its dominance at Frogmore’s stout, tweed-coated back, breaking his train of thought. Slowly, gently, he proffered a pacifying hand to the small creature, watching how its sharp little fangs receded and its black hackles smoothed out. Its pink nose sniffed at the webbed hand facing palm-up in submission.