The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

  The window shades were pulled down and the blanket that kept the light from the kitchen from penetrating the living room, or Dex's bedroom, was closed tight. Dex snuffed out the cigarette in ashtray made out of a melted AC/DC’s High Voltage album that belonged to Warren, his best friend, that Barry decided to take a lighter to and create his own form of messed up sculpture. Dex exhaled, took a sip of water and plopped down on the second-hand couch he called his bed and wrapped himself up in the thick blanket his mom had made him. Relishing the comfort of the warm, worn cushions and soft blanket, Dex let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and looked forward to the next twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Best laid plans.

  “Your face or mine, baby?” From the stairs below, Dex heard the slurred words and drunken laughter of his brother and a couple other voices that sounded like women.

  Goddammit. Dex muttered into the warm fabric of the blanket. He covered his head and hoped it was all a bad dream.

  He was wrong.

  The door whipped open, bringing with it the stench of booze, cigarettes, pot smoke, sex, and the promise of no sleep.

  “Rise and shine, brother. Sleepin' is for old folks, pussies, and asshole. I come bearing party favors.” Barry cackled as he entered the apartment.

  Dex didn't move. He hoped by playing dead, his shit-faced brother would lose interest and take the skanks into the bedroom and turn his attention to them.

  “Hey, sweetie, you got a ladies’ room around here? Sheila needs to tinkle.” Dex heard one of the favors squeak and prayed for an end to this endless parade of failure.

  Barry giggled and said, “Sure, darlin', right through there and hey, ya might as well drop your linen and head in through the door to Che' Lee. I'll be in there quick-like.”

  Dex felt a harsh boot to his thigh. Gritting his teeth, he let the pain go. He knew damn well he couldn't give in to his brother. If he relented, any chance of sleeping would be lost for at least three days. A trip to the city usually meant a week supply of cocaine and other distracting influences.

  He let out a low groan but didn't move.

  “Come on, ya pussy. You can sleep when you're dead. Don't be such a little bitch. We have booze, blow, and broads. Get your ass up,” Barry slurred loudly. He sneezed and coughed.

  Many minutes passed as Barry kicked, pushed, and prodded Dex to get up. Finally, the drunk relented and staggered away.

  “Get up, ya homo. These chicks are fine, dude. I'll let ya have one if ya want.” His belligerent brother accentuated the statement with a punch in the stomach. Dex fought the urge to jump up and knock his obnoxious brother on his ass, but he knew that wouldn't end well. So, he swallowed the pain and continued playing possum, hoping Barry would get bored and leave him alone.

  “Fuck ya, then. I'll keep `em to myself. Don't come bitchin' next time you haven't got any in a while, dickhead,” Barry slurred, giving Dex one last boot to the side.

  Go to sleep, asshole, Dex thought.

  Suddenly, one of the girls in the bathroom puked and called for help. He shook his head, grateful that his brother would finally leave him alone. He felt guilty about not checking on the girl but figured it was Barry's deal. He'd address the whole mess in the morning, or afternoon. After all, it wasn't like she was the first chick to get pie-eyed and hurl in their crapper. Right now, he needed sleep.

  Pulling the blanket up tighter over his face, he enjoyed the comforting scent and let sleep take him.

  That was until the other girl yelled and joined her sick friend in the bathroom.

  4.

  Box of Rain

  The WSMF 95.1 Radio Studio-

  Monroe Ave. Rochester, NY.

  April 1, 1985.

  “No sleep for the wicked, bro.” Capt. Allen Weizmann sat in his wheelchair and chortled into his Ass, Gas, or Grass, Nobody Rides for Free coffee mug. As he calmly watched as the entire station staff was in a flurry of panicked activity, through the safe confines of his studio glass.

  Gary Newhouse, the newsman for the morning show, ran back and forth from the newsroom to the broadcast booth and Capt. Al could swear the lanky news peddler was going to burn a hole in the damn hallway carpet.

  The Drop Zone was in the middle of a long commercial break and Capt. Al, which was his on-air persona, grabbed his aching head. His temples were on fire. Acid rolled in his stomach. Sleep had been a long-lost wish as he sipped his coffee, laced with just a splash of Black Velvet. He'd been the overnight guy for the past five years, and while he likened himself a night-owl, there were far more entertaining things he'd prefer to do at 3 am on a Tuesday night; morning, whatever you'd call it. About an hour ago, he'd finished his shift and looked forward to meeting an old poker pal of his down at the Sideways Lounge for a few beers and cards before heading back to the Cadillac Hotel for some much needed hours of shut-eye.

  Those plans changed when the news came across the wire that militant religious, nutjobs had detonated bombs in many of the world's major cities. No, sleep would be a long forgotten luxury Al realized, and that's when he began to down the black coffee like it was going out of style.

  So, the Vietnam vet had to suck it up and stay on the air and cover for Uncle Lenny, who hadn't answered any of the calls from the bosses.

  “Hey, man, we really appreciate you sticking around. I know you must be beat.” Tony Trout, the program director, patted Capt. Al on the shoulder, flashing his well-practiced, cardboard smile he was well use to by now.

  “No problem, bro. This is a walk in the park, man. Besides, there's some shit hitting the fan, and I'd rather be here to spread the word to the listeners, ya know what I'm saying, man?” Al was well-trained in dealing out the bullshit after his years in the Army and working at WSMF. You always say what the Man wants to hear, plain and simple. Besides, Capt. Al kind of liked Tony. He'd gotten stoned with him a few times and didn't hassle him too much when he'd play Ina-Gad-Da-Vida so he could hit the head a few times. Even though the dude's porn-stache freaked him out most of the time.

  “Well, I'll make sure we have a fresh pot of java flowing to you, my man,” Tony said, walking, briskly away toward the offices.

  Capt. Al raised his mug at the fleeting program director, added more whiskey, and said,” Right on, man. Right on.”

  A harsh shriek came from the newsroom, and Jenny Adams rushed out. “They hit New York City. Oh my God. They set a bomb off in Grand Central Station.”

  Capt. Al shook his head, drank his coffee, and said a silent prayer to Christ, the Buddha, Krishna, Mohamed, Jerry Garcia, whatever deity was on duty that morning.

  “Back on in five, big guy.” Roxy “Hot Fire” Fires, his radio sidekick winked at him, placing her headphones back on.

  Capt. Al wheeled to the desk, donned his headphones, and pulled the microphone down to his mouth, but not before ducking low and lighting up a joint he'd tucked for safe keeping in his American Flag bandanna.

  “A little early, ain't it Al?” Candy joked, looking out for the suits.

  “Early, Rox? Hell, I'm still working on last night. So....No.” Capt. Al inhaled a deep toke and chirped out a giggle.

  Roxy stealthily reached over the console and winked at him. “Right on. Don't bogart that sucker, man.”

  Capt. Al palmed her the joint, and they both smiled. He let out the magic mojo smoke, took a sip of coffee, and turned the dial and spoke into the microphone.

  “Rise and shine, brothers and sisters. Hope you're safe and doing groovy this crazy morning. This is Capt. Al, and you're listening to the Drop Zone on 95.1, WSMF. Lordy, lordy, do we have a lot to cover. Baton down the hatches, my friends. It's gonna get bumpy.”

  Just then, the entire news staff rushed in and, judging by the tears in their eyes and the thick stacks of papers in their shaking hands, Capt. Al knew bad things were about to turn into a world of horrible nightmares.

  5.

  SCHOOL’S OUT

  Arcadia Falls Junior, Senior High School


  Mrs. Brickland’s English class-

  Arcadia Falls, New York.

  April 1, 1985. 12:10 pm.

  Warren Brennan sat at his desk, drawing ideas for his next comic book he and Marc Pennington had worked on since seventh grade. His notebook held more drawings and story ideas than notes about the themes in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men and Moby Dick. While Warren enjoyed most of the books Mrs. Brickland had them read, he found making up his own worlds much more fun and fulfilling.

  He couldn't wait to for the bell to ring. He'd tried to put the fight he had with his dad in the back of his mind, but he found it pretty damn hard. There wasn't much about the domineering old man that Warren liked. Yet, he felt bad. Guilt was another one of his ever-present demons, and it took the rousing laughter from his friends shook him free from his self-loathing.

  Arnie VanLaken absently toyed with the gold crucifix around his neck and Jack Gibbs swung the keys to his beloved Oldsmobile Cutlass around his finger impatiently, both stared at Warren.

  “Attention all students and staff. Due to some very unfortunate events, we have decided it is best to issue a district wide early dismissal,” the monotone voice of Mr. Stubbins droned on. “All bus riders wait in your classroom until your bus number is called. Drivers, you’re immediately dismissed.” The roar of the kids leaving the classroom drowned out the final message.

  Warren was grateful to have the attention off of him. He always hated the way people judgingly looked at him and laughed. He finally caught his breath from yet another nightmare. He listened closely to the announcement.

  Arnie and Jack both wore devilish grins from ear to ear and whispered something to each other. Warren knew exactly what they were planning. Who cared about some ‘very unfortunate events’? A free afternoon, with all its glorious possibilities, lay ahead.

  Mrs. Brickland barely got the words of dismissal out before the entire classroom erupted in a crazy blur. Warren's prayers were answered. He let out a relieved breath.

  The hallways were madhouse, filled with excited students rushing toward their freedom. Warren saw brief flashes of Jack and Arnie as they ran on ahead down the long hallway and disappeared in the crowd of kids making their way past the main office and the gym until it ultimately ended at the exit doors to the main parking lot.

  Halfway there, Warren caught a group of people gathered around a locker to his right. He stopped, his shoulders went slack when he figured out who was in the middle of the crowd of jocks.

  Ronnie, he thought. Not again.

  As he got closer, he saw that it was certainly Ronnie Richards. A kindest, most caring guy he knew, but due to bad-luck genetics and a galactic-astigmatism that forced him to wear thicker Buddy Holly glasses than Warren had to, meant that poor Ronnie was constantly chum in the water for the muck-farming jerks of Arcadia Falls High School. Most of the time, Ronnie's frail face was smashed into the door of his locker. Warren liked him a lot. He wouldn't have passed the last three years of math if it wasn't for Ronnie's saint-like patience and relentless tutoring.

  Warren caught Arnie stop and look back. He had that what the hell you think you can do expression on his broad face, but Warren couldn't just stand by again and watch those Neanderthals push poor Ronnie around.

  Not this time.

  Fresh blood ran down Ronnie's face and onto his pale blue button-up shirt.

  Warren's fists clenched and he forced himself to breathe.

  There they stood: Mike VanSlyke, Terry Yonkins, and the biggest dick of them all, Tab DeRueter. All of them were football players the size of steroid-pumped oak trees and all dumber than a box of rocks. They were easily twice the size of Ronnie. Blood throbbed in Warren's temples as he watched the privileged youth of Arcadia Falls go to work.

  Through the wave of motion, Warren could see Arnie visually begging for him to just keep walking and forget about those jerks.

  “What's wrong, Ronnie, can’t see the numbers, again?” Tab, baby-talked while pressing Ronnie's face into the locker door and Mike snatched Ronnie’s glasses off his face and waved them around like they were a cheap item sold at Spencer’s Gifts.

  His moronic henchmen laughed and bounced around like a couple of trained gorillas.

  All Ronnie could do was bleed, and wipe the blood on his worn plaid, polyester slacks. But he didn’t cry. Ronnie never cried. Warren admired his bravery.

  This same, senseless, cruel scene had played out with the same cast since they were all in elementary school. Warren would always play the role of the guilty, gutless friend who dreamed of stepping in and beating the hell out of the brainless bullies, but he could never break the role. Type-casting at its best, he always scolded himself. Coward was often the other name he'd call himself.

  Then, it happened without thought. The words escaped his mouth as if he were possessed.

  “Hey, looks to me like the village has lost all three of its idiots,” Warren said. The words flew out like obvious secrets on the breeze.

  The hallway was thinning out, but seemed to shrink, and Warren took a reflexive defensive stance.

  The two clowns said nothing but stepped back.

  Tab DeRueter; the leader of the Douchbag Bully Squad, as Warren and dubbed them, slowly, dramatically, let go of Ronnie and turned toward Warren with a wide, white smile that promised violence, spreading across his square-jawed face.

  After a long moment, the big jock laughed. “Ah, so the loser circus is in town. And it looks to me like they’re using Brennan’s pants as a tent. What do ya think guys?” Mike walked toward Warren, balling his big fists, the size of concrete blocks.

  “Hell yeah, man. Where’d ya get those gigundo pants, dude, Omar the Tent Maker? The stocky Mike VanSlyke chortled like a demented hyena, jacked up on Jolt cola.

  “Must have to; he’s got to cover that big ass.” to cover his fat ass.” Terry added not to be left out of the fun.

  Warren ignored the words; after all, it had become like white noise to him after all these years. Except there was always a sliver of venom that seeped through. He took a deep breath and raised his gaze to meet the much taller jock.

  “So, you trying to be some kind of hero or something, Brennan?” Tab stared down at Warren, making sure to push his wide chest into Warren's. Warren stood firm.

  “Don't you guys have better things to do than mess with Ronnie? There must be some puppies that need a good drowning out in Perry's Quarry or something?” Warren said. His body tensed, and he readied himself.

  A second of silence was quickly followed by raucous laughter, started with Tab, and then made its way through the assembly line of dumb asses.

  Then, Warren knew it was coming. He counted on it.

  He took the hit and rolled with it, as he was trained to do. Still, a white-hot shock of pain filled his jaw and his glasses flew off his face.

  He willed himself to not fall. He was grateful that his will was on duty.

  Taking a deep breath, Warren wiped the blood from his mouth, and he stood straight and looked into Tab's steaming eyes.

  “Feel better? Good. Now leave Ronnie alone. Save your Conan the Barbarian shit for the field, Mike.” He put the emphasis on the bully's name. Warren thought he was truly possessed. He didn't know whether he was going to crap his jeans or knock the moron into Mr. Harris's room.

  Mike just stared down at him. The muscles in his jaws flexed, and his face turned a bright red.

  “Ronnie, get your stuff and get out of here.” Warren couldn't see much without his glasses, but he knew where the big goon was, that was all he needed to know. He let the tension go from his body and let out the deep breath.

  He felt a soft touch on his shoulder, and he turned to see Ronnie holding his glasses. Warren smiled and took them.

  Putting the glasses on, he turned back to Tab and his crew.

  “Go, Ronnie.”

  Mike punched his own hand and grinned. The others followed suit.

  “Damn, this is gonna be fun. Looks like Brennan here
got a pair of balls for an early graduation present,” Mike said and stepped forward.

  Warren didn't move an inch, surprising even himself. What the hell is wrong with me? He thought.

  Then it happened. He felt like he was having one of those out of body experiences he saw on Leonard Nimoy's TV show, In Search Of. He watched as the big jock threw a savage right-cross at his face, and Warren didn't hesitate.

  Stepping to the side, Warren snatched Tab's wrist, twisted downward and spun his hips. The speed and force sent the jock flying into Mr. Harris's closed door with a thunderous crash that smashed the wooden door wide open.

  Warren stood there in the middle of the hallway, his bewildered gaze moving from his hands to the groaning form of Tab DeRueter lying on the carpeted floor. He blinked and rubbed his eyes because he could have sworn his hands had a slight white glow coming off them. What the hell? Then as fast as he thought he saw the light, it was gone.

  In the corner of his vision, Warren caught movement; the clowns.

  “Knock it off, you ignoramuses. Haven't you been listening to the announcements? It's early dismissal. And Mr. DeRueter, Get your ass off my floor.” The teacher's deep baritone voice matched his lumberjack-visage.

  “That goes for you as well.” he motioned to the clowns. “Get out to your cars or buses or whatever got you here. Stop wasting up good space,” Mr. Harris’ voice boomed and bounced off the green tiles of the hallway.

  The jocks knew better than to mess with the burly social studies teacher and shot Warren brutal looks as they made their way down the hallway.

  Warren turned to Mr. Harris, but before he could speak— “Mr. Brennan, I believe you and your friends know where the parking lot is.” He nodded and a small grin crept across the usually stoic man's bearded face.

  “Yes, sir,” was all Warren could muster. Ronnie was long gone, so Warren stepped lively to catch up to Arnie and didn't stop until they hit the exit doors.