by GX Knight
My response was calm and demure on the outside. On the inside I was frothing, and my froth was threatening to get out, “And why the sudden interest in my evening?” I asked, “I believe you have to be up early for work in the morning. Besides I have plans.”
“You never have plans.” Dad shot back with acute and painful accuracy. It was bad enough my social life sucked, but worse to be called out on it by my Dad.
I leaned over and gripped the chair back across the table from him. My fingers curled into the wood, my knuckles turned a lovely shade of death. Over the years, Dad has taken an unofficial rule upon him to say as little as possible about his flights of fancy. I was daring him to break the unspoken vow, “And you have something you want to tell me?”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m already there.”
He got a little defensive, “Just because I want to hang out?”
“Because I know you really have no interest in spending time with me, you’re trying to keep me from something.”
The intensity flamed between us, and we both physically felt the sting over the truth of that last statement. We really didn’t spend quality time together anymore, and it was something both of us regretted. Each knew it, yet, we never did anything about it. That was true sadness.
There is something to be said about the “dramatic pause.” Dad and I shared one such moment across a scratched kitchen table that hadn’t seen a placemat or actual place-setting in twenty years. It gives you time to consider your next verbal movement. It also becomes something of a stare down as each combatant waits for an opening salvo in an effort to be that final man standing with the infamous “last word.” Usually the first to speak loses, not always, but it was a good rule of thumb. I waited. He budged by breaking his rule to keep the quirky stories to himself, only this time, there was no joking or pretense. He seemed serious. Deadly serious.
“There’s what I believe to be a mob-like underworld Purie conglomerate using a traveling expo at the fairgrounds as a front to forcibly enlist new slates into the dwindling Amalgam population. There is almost always unexplained tragedy to kids your age whenever they visit a new city. They choose people like you because you are at the peak physical and emotional state to handle the changes such Amalgamation would construe. These guys don’t ask to take your young. Like heartless Pied Pipers, they just take.”
Now if I wrote that particular statement on a piece of paper and posted it for the world to see, there would be nobody who could understand what that spewed jargon actually meant.
When I was young and I thought Dad’s stories were cool, I realized that if I ever wanted to tell other people what he told me, and get them to like it, I would have to simplify and explain. Dad did not spare the techno speak. So I used to stand in front of a mirror and talk to myself and imagine translating what he would say to those who would be conversationally lost. I had hoped that it might bring some friends to our lonely life. It never did. I learned quickly that nobody shared my Dad’s appreciation for fantasy. Apparently when all was said and done, neither did I.
The three words you have to understand the translations to are: Purie, Slate, and Amalgam.
Let’s look at everyone’s favorite creature of the night, the Vampire. Purie is slang for Pure Blood. So it would be a Vampire born of two full blooded Vampires through the good old fashioned “bumping-uglies.” Easy enough.
Slates are just plain old humans. They’re called Slates because there is a genome in the human DNA that makes a person an imprintable “clean slate” host, which in turn allows other genetically dominant creatures to turn that human into something that resembles their race. That’s why in stories humans are always being turned into creatures like Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies, etc; and that’s why he calls them, or should I say us… Slates. Again, that’s according to my Dad.
That brings us to the Amalgam. So Pure Bloods are almost all but gone, and so to keep the species going they do their thing to the Slate turning it into a creature that shares their racial DNA, but that person is not “pure” because there are residual human elements that coexist within the genetic amalgamation, thusly they are “Amalgams” a combination of human and non-human DNA. It should also be noted that many Amalgams can’t handle their new abilities, and so they go insane. Why do you think these creatures are always cast as bad guys in movies, TV shows, and books? Those stories are based on a real lore involving good people who simply couldn’t handle their new existences as Amalgams.
And so, what my lunatic father had just seriously conjectured, is that there were a number of people visiting my town who work for an unknown Pure Blood, and they are taking teenagers and young twenty-somethings by force and turning them into whatever species that Pure Blood happens to be. He says this is happening at the fairgrounds where there is a much-anticipated one-night-only racing demonstration. I had been thinking about going to see it, but I had decided not to drop the dollars on it. That was until the aforementioned emotional volcano bubbled to life.
My boss at work often tells me to shut-up. I talk more than any guy I know. Not that I have an array of friends who I just jabber on the phone with, but if I did, I would possess the capacity to spend a great many hours in single conversation on just about anything. However, staring at my Dad in that dank kitchen, watching sweat form into beads along his temple while palpable fear held his eyes wide, I fell somewhere between irate -at what we had become, and frightened -that he might actually be insane and in need of some real psychological intervention. I could not form words for what felt like an eternity. All I could do was allow my emotions to simmer over.
There are different levels to my angry mode. Sometimes I explode loud and obnoxiously. I get it out, and within minutes we’re all laughing. There are other instances when I walk away, hit something, and swear using such poetic profanity the wallpaper literally begins peeling itself from the wall. That’s always expensive and time consuming because after I calm, I have to replace a closet door, or mend the Swiss-cheesed sheetrock motif in which my fist redecorated my bedroom. This, however, was something else.
All the years of frustration, pain, and embarrassment boiled over into what felt like a tangible liquid that oozed from a deep growling voice that seethed from me, though I still am not quite sure it was mine. A demon’s, maybe? But certainly I was not capable of making such smooth guttural words of hatred, especially toward Dad, whom I really did love. “You paranoid and insane mother…” I was able to stop myself before continuing, “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ve had it. My entire life has suffered because of your delusions. I used to think your stories were some latent creative desire to entertain that never quite made it to fruition, or maybe even a coping mechanism to help you deal with what happened to Mom. Whatever, however, you have officially gone too far. I’m not dealing with this anymore. I’m moving out as soon as possible. I will be better off without you and your delusions. I finally understand why Mom left. I won’t stay here to become like you… a poor, crazy, nobody who couldn’t keep his wife, and who has now lost his son. I’m going to create a new, successful, and grounded life. I won’t be the failure you’ve become. Never.”
A child should never say things like that to their parent. At least not to a parent as good as my Dad was to me. You can’t take back words as much as you might like to do. No matter how many stars you wish on, how many magic lamps you rub, or how many crosses you kneel before, once something is said, it’s there forever. It’s written on invisible stone that cannot be erased. A man’s account is held to what he says as true. You can apologize, but it doesn’t undo the damage. Nothing can.
I would have gone to the crossroads and sold my soul for any kind of deal that could have undone the hurt in Dad’s face as I berated him. I could only stay for a moment as tears welled in his eyes. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. It was as if the sky had opened and a mantle of failure was rest upon his shoulders. With but a few words I had crushed my fathe
r’s spirit, something decades at a measly thankless job, living in substandard housing, and losing the love of his life had never done.
I don’t know about Puries, Amalgams, and Slates, but as I caught a glance of my face in the mirror by the front door, as I left the apartment with my weeping father crumpled at the kitchen table, my reflection proved there was such a thing as monsters, and I had just seen my first one. Perhaps Dad wasn’t as crazy as I thought.
VIPERS
The trip across town to the fairgrounds was as they say, “The best of times, and the worst of times.” My car was not simply running on fossil fuel alone, but on an unending supply of rage and guilt. So while I pulled off some amazing combat driving maneuvers that would have made any Sunday race day highlight reel, I managed to piss off half the town, and I was hailed into the fairground parking field by a chorus of angry horns, followed by flocks of flipped middle fingers. I didn’t care. I was a man on a mission. I should have turned around and slunk back home after crawling on my belly across miles of broken glass for what I had said to my father, but the angrier, and more prevailing part of me, decided that not only was I going to check out this supposed Amalgam-creating-mob-conglomerate-fronting-expo, but I was going to get in behind the scenes and prove to Dad once and for all that he truly and deeply needed help.
The expo was amazing. A racing team called the Street Vipers performed the sickest demonstrations of car handling. You name it and they did it. They drifted in formation through hairpin turns, they jumped through fiery rings, one guy, even did a crash demonstration where he ran his car into a brick wall at over a hundred miles-an-hour. He was flung through the shattering windshield and was hurled across the track and over a fiery moat. He landed safely into a large pile of hay bales to applauding cheers of “Oh’s” and “Ah’s.”
I lost track of the time and the number of popcorn buckets I went through as I sat mesmerized by the thumping techno music and never ending pyros that burned so hot, even where I was up in the nose-bleeds, I could feel the heat from the rolling balls of flame before they disappeared up into the night. A couple of times during the show they would take a break for a buttery voiced announcer to come in and advertise some new car part the team was using, give a PSA to the drooling high school kids about staying off drugs and “Saying No” to underage drinking, but also he would mention that the Street Vipers were always looking for new blood, whether it be to drive, do mechanic work, or even handle security. He mentioned often that everyone likely had a skill needed to keep the Vipers on the streets and he regularly insisted that anyone interested in seeing the world as a Viper stop by the booth after the show to fill out an application.
The fight with Dad and my reason for being there, while still hot and prevalent, suddenly felt secondary. All I could think about was joining their team, getting out of this stupid town, getting away from my dead end job, and finally being able to see the world for what it was, and not as some hokey vision of falsehood. I didn’t care what I had to do for them. I figured driving was out of the question, and doing anything mechanical was laughable considering the only time I tried to change my own oil it resulted in me needing to buy four new tires, a new distributer cap, and I still haven’t gotten the smell of burnt peanut butter out (don’t ask, because I’m not telling). But, there had to be something for me to do. After all, the announcer said there was, and I could feel every word he slipped into that microphone flutter into my ears like cool feathers on a breezy day. At the end of the show I could barely remember why I was mad at Dad. All I could reason in my head was that I had to join the Street Vipers.
A final “Goodnight” from the symphonic host fired in my mind like a starting gun, and I was down the bleachers and across the complex headed straight toward the Vipers’ row of pimped out semi-trucks before you could say “In a trance.” The only other time I had felt that kind of compulsion toward getting somewhere was back in the seventh grade when one of the guys in my class discovered a construction wiring hole had been accidentally left open behind the gym, and through it one had a straight line of sight shot into the girls shower. For all my hormone-fueled-yearning to get there, once it was my turn in line to peep I had remembered a story Dad told me that morning about the true Warrior Knights who still roamed the world, and how chivalry and the protection of a lady’s honor, in some places, was still held as important as one’s own life. I had wanted to be one of those Knights, and so I plugged the hole with my knightly finger like the little Dutch boy had with the dams of Holland. For my trouble I was hit over the knightly head with a knightly brick from the angry guys behind me who had not gotten their turn. I awoke to the principal standing over me.
Whoever hit me called the fuzz and told him I had been the one to discover the peep spot, and to add insult to injury, they said I had been trying to extort money from the other guys for a turn at the hole. Then they said I had started a fight when someone threatened to tell on me.
I was charged with peeping, extorting, and fighting, and as a result I was sentenced to detention for the rest of the school year. I think it’s also important to mention this happened in September. Do the detention math and groan with me. After that, I was an outcast from the guys, the girls found out by malicious rumor spreading, and so they treated me like a perv. Thus I was labeled as the trouble maker by all my teachers. Seventh grade sucked. From that point on I promised not to let honor get in the way of common sense ever again.
There were no peep holes, nor any moral fetters to overcome at the Street Viper booth. I filled out a few papers, they took a quick digital snapshot, I was given a brief tour through one of the garage trailers, I was given a free T-shirt, and then I was sent on my merry way with an autographed photo of Cade Arkman, the guy who did the crash stunt. They promised that I would hear something soon if they thought they could use me. The entire process took about fifteen minutes. In that time spent with the lovely Meg, my recruiter with the chocolate hair, daisy dukes, and Viper mini-tee, I did not feel this setup was anything but what it was… a fun tour by friendly and awesome people. Human-people, I might add. And people whom I would have done anything to please.
I didn’t want to go home. I felt as though my burden to join the Street Vipers had not quite abated after signing the papers, so I meandered out of the park stopping here and there to stare at a closed stand, or an old sign. I was looking for anything that might keep me from having to go back to the apartment and deal with what I had done, even though every moment I stood free from mystical boogey men proved me right.
I was one of the last ones out as the fairgrounds emptied, and so I stopped at the edge of the parking field to admire the large Street Viper promotional poster. It was amazing. A hooded cobra with razor sharp fangs that popped off the plastic waved in the wind. Between the fangs, set behind the top and in front of the bottom, “Street Vipers” was written in words that looked like they could cut your eyes if you stared at them too hard. I smiled and dreamed of the freedom that came from being a Street Viper.
For a moment I felt like a kind-of fog lifted, and I found it odd that I had become so taken with joining them. There was something unnatural about my fascination with the team. But it settled back in as I rationalized my hope. Perhaps it was destiny? Maybe after all the crap, Life finally decided to throw me a bone? People all the time talk about love at first sight. Usually it’s in the form of a relationship, but maybe in my case it was about a calling, a calling to drive fast and be awesome? It could happen?
The night air was cool, fresh off the rain. Springtime drizzle hung like a latent mist canopy. I found an empty bench cuddled back where the trams park for the night, set my shirt and picture beside me, and there I sat, hands shoved in my pockets, feet stretched out, my head draped over the seat back. I stared up into the violet void searching the stars hoping to catch at least one. Did I go home and do damage control? Did I stick to my guns? Clearly this group was normal, and my insane father had been wrong, so at least I had that going for m
e.
You know, and I know, there is nothing like someone else’s domestic squabbling to capture your attention. You try not pry, but at the same time, like a car wreck you rubber neck at a slower speed, without stopping, because at the end of the day, we all love to see the carnage. I certainly did. Plus, anyone else’s dysfunction besides my own was like a breath of fresh air. It meant I wasn’t the only one screwed up.
I was just sitting off to the side and a little back toward a fence hidden behind one of the parked trams beside the main gate where the impressive Street Viper banner hung. I watched unnoticed as the crashing stunt driver Cade Arkman and my recruiter Meg argued while they setup a ladder to start taking down their Street Viper sign.
“We’re not dating anymore.” Cade said to whatever she was haranguing him about before they finally landed within earshot. I hadn’t really noticed when I got his autograph, but he had what sounded like an Australian accent. Though he could have been an albino Serbian who was rattling off in Mandarin, I would still likely think his genesis was the land down under. I was mildly addicted to the culture, and I have often wrongly associated people from other parts of the world as Aussie. I would like to say I had some lofty reason for that, but I had fallen in love with one too many Aussie actresses, so I assumed that the entire island/continent was swimming with smoking hot blond bikini models with amazing voices. I’m a dude, color me guilty.