The Old Neighborhood

by Bill Hillmann

  “Here, you carry this,” Sy said as he gripped a guitar case, spun around, and bent down on one knee. Then, he lifted it up to me like some sacred relic. “Now you take care of this, champ.”

  “What is it?” I asked, grabbing the smooth wood handle.

  “Excalibur,” Sy declared, his eyes closed solemnly. “Now get in there.”

  I followed Rich, who hoisted a large kick drum.

  We walked down a dark hallway. The roaring yawn of a lead electric guitar spilt into the room. We stacked the instruments and amps on the back of the small carpeted stage. The long, narrow room was about half full with slouchy metal-heads—almost all of whom wore black band shirts, bleached jeans, and combat boots—and most had long mops of dirty hair. There was one black dude sitting atop a tall amp near the side of stage. His long, skinny legs dangled almost to the floor. He had a mohawk made outta finger-length spikes of frizzy hair that spouted down the center of his shaved, glistening scalp.

  I stood steadfast beside Excalibur’s case and gawked at the room. Rich stomped up with a fistful of quarters. “Here,” he said, and poured them into my cupped palms. “Go ahead.” He nodded to the large arcade in the side room. “The show won’t start for a while.”

  The game room was long and narrow like the concert room. It was filled with manic, pulsing lights. Video game machines lined each wall, and a column of games ran down the middle. It was full of racecar and gun games and crazy, themed pinball machines. I had a blast. Sy came up later and challenged me to a game of pinball. I picked Pin-Bot; it had this intergalactic robot with electricity blazing from its fingertips. Sy was all into it. He leaned in over the machine, and his wild hair splayed on the clear glass plane. Below was the bust of a lit up solar system. The green, red, and blue bulbs pulsed frantically, and the sensors rang as the ball bopped them.

  Rich poked his head into the game room. “Hey... Sy, you gonna smoke?”

  “Naw. I’m busy whippin’ this kid in pinball,” he replied without looking up.

  “Alright,” Rich said, putting his hand through my hair and disappearing back down the dark hallway.

  “Smoking,” I scowled. “That’s what gave my Da cancer.”

  “Hey,” Sy paused and looked down at me. “Well, den I never want to hear about you smokin’. Got it punk?” He slapped me softly on the back of the head.

  “I won’t, never.”

  Two blondes strolled up to us and started hanging on Sy. One wore this tight, white tank-top. It was sliced up with scissors on the sides and struggled to restrain her giant pair of plump boobs. She had on a black spandex leotard with a blue stripe running down one leg and these huge hoop earrings. The other was chunky with a loose, nylon plaid shirt on that hung down to her knees. Sy flashed his glowing smirk. I took my turn. Sy teased the ladies as they drunkenly hung on his shirtsleeve. The chesty one twisted her index finger in an oily strand of his hair.

  I focused on the pinball machine. I banged hard on the smooth, little buttons. The flippers popped the small, chrome ball and bounced it through the flickering neon lights. The ball incited the spring-loaded boppers to percolate red. When my last ball slipped past the flippers, I was up a few points on Sy. He batted the blonde’s hands away and stepped around to the front of the machine.

  “Now, ladies, watch how a real man plays the game,” he said, glancing at them. “You gotta understand, I ain’t been beaten in two years runnin’. I’m the reigning champ of Fautches,” he said to the girls as he smoothed his hair back behind his shoulders.

  He pulled the spring, let it go, and leaned over the machine. The little ball bounced and rattled. Sy squinted in a crazed focus as he banged the flipper buttons. With his first ball, he racked up some points, making the game even closer. He glanced at me as I bit my fingernails nervously.

  The next ball slipped past him.

  “Ahhhhh,” he exclaimed, and banged his fists against the thick glass. The girls chortled.

  “It all comes down to this,” he said, glaring at me. “I ain’t losin’ to this punk kid, no damn way!”

  The girls watched Sy pull back the spring on his last ball. His face scrunched excruciatingly tight, and he leaned in on the tilted glass plane. He released, and the shiny ball soared up the narrow channel. It dinged and popped and bumped the score even closer. I bounced up and down on my toes and clenched my fists at my lips.

  The ball arced down the slow tilt of the plane, slashing through the colorful planets. Sy tapped the ball with the tip of a white flipper, and it arced up slowly like a pop-fly. Then, it came down, and he just barely nicked it. He let out another long groan, and the girls leaned in and smirked at his agonized face. He whiffed with the flipper, and the ball panged into the black vault.

  “Damn it!!! This machine’s broke! I want a rematch!” Sy yelled, squeezing his hands around the machine and jolting it savagely.

  “He beat you?” the girls sighed and clapped. “Who is this young, sexy little man?” The big-boobed one bent down to my height. Her flimsy shirt drooped, so her milky breasts poured out of her tight bra. “There’s a new champion in town isn’t there?”

  I smiled up at her large, green eyes. She smelled like a whole lotta strong perfume.

  “He’s so cute,” the other one chimed in, gliding her pudgy fingers through my hair.

  “Aye, he’s all mine,” the one with the big jugs declared, smacking the other girl’s hand away. Then, she smooched her puffy, wet lips against my cheek. A thick film of lipstick clung to my skin.

  “Get away from my little brother, ya skank!” Rich said as he and the rest ambled in through the back hall. “It’s showtime, baby brotha.” Rich’s eyes were bloodshot, and his breath smelled like a musty skunk. He hoisted me onto his shoulders.

  Sy and the rest climbed on stage. Rich jogged with me out into the crowd, and by then, the room had completely filled. Sy slung Excalibur around his shoulder; it was a cherry red Stratocaster with white trim. He flicked one of the chrome strings with his pick and it roared. Sy stepped to the microphone.

  “You scumfucks ready for this?” he screamed. He leaned out over the crowd and spit out a small, white glob that arced out into the mass of long-haired domes. The crowd spit back, and a barrage of half-crushed beer cans clanked onto the stage.

  “We’re the Dead Rat Society,” he muttered. The music exploded from the speakers. There was more order in this roaring, racing sound. I had a clear view of everything as I sat perched on Rich’s shoulders. The front of the crowd immediately twisted into a torrent of thrashing arms and legs. The black punk jumped off the amp and into the pit. The spiral widened into the room. Sy rambled through cutting, indecipherable lyrics, and every few words, the whole crowd would shout a garbled phrase in unison with him.

  Rich stayed back where it was calmer. The crowd began to sway. A big circle twisted in the mass of shadowed bodies. Then, another circle opened in the center of them like the eye of a tornado. This circle kicked their legs out savagely, following each other like a Comanche war dance. Their grins morphed into howling scowls.

  After a few songs, the front door opened and several guys with pale white shaved heads stepped in. They all wore white t-shirts with red suspenders and had fierce, cold grimaces on their muscular faces. They glared at everyone who didn’t look away, until they did.

  I’d seen skinheads around before, and I had a vague idea of what they were all about. They slid their way into the chaos, passing us with sly smirks spread across their faces and eyes lit up like they were about to pull a prank. They pushed to the edge of the slam-dance circle, and then they suddenly erupted with forearms, head-butts, and punches. I caught a flash of one of their maniacal faces as he slapped his fist into some tall kid. The kid’s long mop of hair exploded in a big swoosh like he’d stuck his finger in an outlet. By the time that song ended, most of the crowd had quieted. It was only the skinheads smashing each other. The kid bled profusely f
rom his nose, and I strained my neck to see a couple girls help him to the bathroom in back. The black guy with the mohawk had stopped moshing. He leaned his back along the wall, nervously, with his arms folded over his chest. His eyes darted around the room.

  “This’s our last one,” Sy said as sweat dripped off his brow and glistened in his light beard. “I want to thank you for being so fuckin’ polite.”

  The crowd screamed. The drums rattled. One of the skinheads threw an empty whiskey pint that just missed Sy’s head and broke against the fake wood-paneled wall behind the stage. A couple fat-faced bouncers at the front door pushed into the crowd. Their bulging, neon-green shirts sliced through the darkly clad bodies as the room erupted into high-swung fists and beer sud-bursts. A girl screamed, but the roar swallowed it. The crowd surged backward. Rich staggered into the arcade with me clung to his head and took me down from his shoulders.

  “Stay back. It’s OK,” Rich said, putting himself between me and the chaos. “Fuckin’ skinheads.”

  Two of the bouncers broke through the crowd. They held one skinhead by both arms, and the fatter bouncer clasped him by the nape of his neck. They dragged him out the front door as he fought to break their grasp, and the rest of the skins giggled as they trailed behind.

  “It wasn’t him. It was that fuckin’ nigger,” one yelled.

  I glanced though the back door of the arcade and saw a black figure stumble down the dark back hallway.

  The crowd unleashed an exalted cheer as the Dead Rat Society finished their set. The guys started to break down their equipment, and I followed Rich up to the stage. Sy hopped down and crouched to my height.

  “What’d ya think, kiddo?” he asked as sweat dripped off his burly face.

  “It was awesome!”

  Sy was the coolest. He just had a knack for making the best out of anything. He smiled and combed his sweat-dampened hand through my hair.

  I lugged Excalibur and followed Rich out the back door past the bathroom. There was blood smeared all over the white-tiled walls and a dark pool in the sink. As we passed, the guys saw it and burst into laughter. Outside, I noticed two long, skinny legs sticking out of the bushes that lined the cinderblock wall. The black combat boots attached to them crumpled inward on each other. I walked over, stooped down, and peered into the narrow crevasse.

  “What,” Rich shouted toward the bushes. “Can’t hold your liquor?” He set the amp he carried down on the stones and opened the truck’s back hatch.

  It took a second for my eyes to adjust—it was the black dude with the spiked mohawk. He sat and clutched his stomach. A smear of dark red blood covered the white Dago T. His eyes stared blankly into the bushes.

  “You alright?” I asked. I reached out and touched his ankle.

  Sy walked up next to me, still chuckling at what Rich had said.

  “He’s hurt,” I said, glancing up at Sy.

  Sy bent down and looked.

  “Oh shit! Call a fuckin’ ambulance!” Sy yelled as the other guys scrambled back inside.

  “Shit, man! You OK?” Sy crouched down. The guy looked at Sy and started to say something, then his head just slumped to the side, and he passed out. His thin torso began to slide down the wall. Sy pushed the bushes back and reached in, grabbing him and holding him up.

  “What?” Rich asked as he sauntered over.

  “He’s fucking hurt, Rich!” Sy shouted. “Call an ambulance!”

  “Oh shit,” Rich laughed. “Them skins got him.”

  “Wake up, man,” Sy said and slapped him lightly on the cheek. The guy seized. A line of yellow ooze slid out of his lips, touched the stones, and then slurped back before just dangling from the corner of his mouth. He started to shake violently, and his legs jerked and kicked up the stones.

  “Man, leave that nigger where he lays,” Rich said, laughing.

  “What the fuck, Rich?” Sy yelled. “Are they calling or what?”

  “Come on, Joey,” Rich said as he put his arm around my shoulder and led me to the truck. The fat bouncers rushed out of the club.

  We left after the ambulance got there. I was in back, scrunched next to Sy.

  “Think he’s gonna die?” Rich said as he turned slowly onto Peterson. The red and blue ambulance and police strobes spun and spilt onto the crowded street.

  “Shit, I don’t know,” Sy answered. “He looked bad, didn’t he?”

  “He came to the wrong fucking place,” Rich said.

  “That guy wasn’t doing nothing to nobody, man,” Sy said as he slammed his fist into the pleather headrest in front of him. “He was just slamming like the rest of ’em.”

  “Had the wrong skin tone is all,” Rich drawled as one of the others chortled.

  “Richard, would you quit that shit already?” Sy sighed. “What the hell they ever do to you?”

  “Ahh, they hate me just as much as I hate them,” Rich laughed. I thought about Jan’n’Rose and wondered if they really did hate each other. It sure seemed like it sometimes. My mind drifted as we drove home along Peterson, and I thought of the black punker and hoped he’d be OK. Why do people hurt each other so bad? I felt the bumps along my forehead. Why can’t we get along? I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing as the wind howled in my window. The Assyrian floated in a black haze. His eyes were closed, and his arms were folded over his chest in some ancient burial pose. Why’d you have’ta die? His mouth opened, and he whispered, “I ain’t dead,” then he smiled and vanished.

  We pulled up in front of the house, and Rich double-parked. He got out and walked me toward the house.

  “Now you know you can’t tell Ma or Dad or anybody what happened tonight, right?” Rich said, rubbing my shoulders. “Or else you won’t be able to go with again, OK?”

  “OK,” I said, and started up the front stairs.

  “Alright. I’ll see ya later buddy,” Rich said.

  “OK. Thanks, Rich,” I went through the front door and didn’t tell a soul.

  Rich was like that. He could be really good to me sometimes, and he could be a miserable son of a bitch, too. It all depended on his mood that day I guess. But to be honest, when I look back on it, I could see that he really loved me. He even really loved Jan’n’Rose, too. He was just all mixed up and living in a fucked-up world out there—almost getting raped like that. I mean, that could radicalize anyone. All those crazy radicals out there, all of ’em had either something horrible happen to ’em, or some kind of mental illness, and Rich had both. That made it rough for him, and it was only gonna get worse.

  He needed a guy like Simon around. Sy had sense. He could make sense of the world for these guys. He made them feel like what they were going through mattered and had meaning. That respecting each other and being there for each other was what mattered. The whole North Side knew Sy, whether it was because of his bands or just that he was always around the metal scene back then. People just latched onto him. He knew everyone, and everyone loved him. Sy had a sense of right and wrong, too— something Rich had lost somewhere along the way. Without Sy around, I think Rich woulda been doing way worse shit out there in the neighborhood. In fact, I’m sure of it.

  CHAPTER 5

  SEEDS

  MY BROTHER BLAKE was a terribly sick child. He had a hole in his heart the size of a walnut, and they weren’t sure if he’d make it his first five years. He literally could have been rushed into surgery at any moment, so Dad even stepped down from his foreman position in order to take on a Union Steward job, (basically, the Union’s eyes and ears on the site). He couldn’t afford to get laid off and lose his insurance, even for a week, and stewards worked all year round. By the time Blake was about twelve, the hole sealed up on its own. He started playing Pop Warner football with the High Ridge Chargers and ended up being pretty good.

  Lil Pat was a brutal big brother to Blake. Don’t ask me why. Sometimes, when two eggs hatch, a terrible war unf
olds within the nest. That seemed to be the force of nature at work between ’em. Rich told me that when they were little, Lil Pat would do horrible things to Blake. Things like literally holding him down and taking a shit on him, or pushing him out of a tall tree, which broke Blake’s arm. It was a long, cruel list, but Blake survived.

  Blake started out high school as one of the smallest and slightest kids at Gordon. He was a little over five foot and about a hundred and twenty pounds. He worked hard on the football field and ran the practice squad. He concocted mock defenses in order to imitate their next opponent. But then, something miraculous happened: his sophomore year, he started to grow. By the beginning of his junior year, he was closing in on six feet in height. By the end of the season, he was 6'1" and starting receiver and safety for a pretty strong Catholic League squad.

  His growth spurt had its ill effects on Rich, who’d been bigger and taller than his older brother for several years by then, though Rich could never fight a lick, and Blake could always best him. But now that the tide had shifted, so to speak, Blake recalled the brutality he’d endured most of his life inflicted by a big brother. So, he decided to educate Rich on what it was like to be a hated little brother.

  One night, the summer before Blake left for Drake, shit got messy. He’d moved into one of the side rooms in the partially-finished basement. We had a TV and stereo set up down there.

  It was about one in the morning, and Rich and Sy sat on the sofa in the basement chowing down on Italian beefs and bags of greasy fries, nodding their heads vigorously to the heavy metal that poured out of the stereo. They were drunk and high, as usual, and on the down-turn from a bright night at the Metro.

  The basement door opened. Blake rumbled down the stairs and past the TV console. In one fluid motion, he leaned down, clicked the stereo off, and continued to his room.

  “What the fuck?” Rich shouted.

  Blake clicked the light on in his bedroom, then popped his head back through the door.

  “Get out. I’m going to sleep.”