Forever Autumn

by Christopher Scott Wagoner

  He scribbled a bit on the notepad before him, though most of the other attendees were using laptops or tablets. He sketched out a picture of a knight astride a mighty steed, steam blowing from its nostrils. He added a big-busted maid staring up at the knight with adoration, her gown possessing a plunging neckline. Phillip was starting to flesh out her body with some sketchy lines when he felt a hard slap on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Picasso!” came a loud voice at his ear. He lifted his head, blinking in confusion, as most of the people at the table were making their way out the door. Phil had become so engrossed in his drawing, he had not even noticed that the meeting had come to an end. He turned his head to regard the speaker, a young man of about his own height but possessed of a more muscular build. His hair had been dyed platinum blond and was lightly frosted, gel holding it up in a disarrayed pattern.

  “I’m hardly an abstract artist, Rich,” he said, “so calling me that isn’t appropriate.”

  “Whatever, dork. What are you drawing anyway?”

  He snatched up the notepad, slapping Phil on the back of the hand when the bespectacled man tried to intercept.

  “Nice tits,” he said, tossing the pad back onto the table.

  “Thanks, I suppose.” Phil gave him a narrow-eyed stare.

  “So what are you doing tonight?” Rich stared out the window at the street four stories below.

  “Got game, then maybe we’re gonna sneak in a practice,” said Phil quickly, “so I’m pretty busy.”

  “You’re such a nerd.”

  “Not everyone spends their Saturday night getting blasted and trolling for skanks, Rich.” Phil patiently gathered up his papers and stowed them in a briefcase.

  “Oh, c’mon,” said Rich, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand. “We had to work on a weekend, for fuck’s sake. That almost demands a night out drinking and whoring!”

  Phil rose to his feet and fixed the other man with a glower.

  “We had a meeting, and it didn’t even last very long. You literally have the whole day left to do whatever you want.”

  “What I want is to get laid tonight. Something that will never happen to you since you sadly like to spend your time pretending to skewer dragons on graph paper.”

  “Unlike you, Rich, I don’t base my entire worth as a human being upon my ability to get pussy.”

  “How else do you measure it?”

  Phil didn’t answer, just kept moving down the hallway. They reached a row of three elevators and he pushed the down button as Rich continued to drone on.

  “You’re a hard guy to get a lead on. I mean, you’re in a band, which normally would have you rolling in pussy, but you play Dungeons and Dragons, which makes chicks avoid your pecker like it was made of uranium.”

  “Uranium isn’t dangerous in its raw form,” said Phil as the metal door slid open. “It only becomes radioactive after it’s been refined.”

  Rich stared at him for a long moment, finally wrapping his muscular arm around the other man in a headlock. He gave the bespectacled man a vigorous noogie, messing up Phil’s carefully combed hair.

  “Nerd! NERD NERD NERD—”

  “Ow, cut it out, asshole!” said Phil, extricating himself and shoving the other man in the chest. The doors slid open just as Rich’s back hit the wall of the elevator. Shooting Phil a grin with a wicked gleam in his eye, Rich allowed himself to slide down to his bottom.

  “Ow!” he said in a plaintive voice, drawing raised eyebrows from several of the people waiting to ride the car. “Why do you always have to pick on me, you big bully?”

  “Yeah, keep your hands to yourself,” said a cute young woman in a skirt suit. Her eyes bored into Phil as she moved past him to help Rich to his feet.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think I might have some swelling…”

  With a grunt of frustration, Phil tore out of the elevator and stormed across the office building’s foyer, not stopping until he was on the street. He angrily waved down a cab and went through the frustrating and grueling process of imparting his destination to the non-English-speaking driver.

  Thus, he was in a truly dark mood when the cab pulled up outside a two-story house in Queens. He looked outside at the brick and mortar structure, a short driveway leading to a garage that had been converted into an apartment. After paying his fare, he walked up the concrete path, stepping over an oil slick, and banged on the door.

  “Enter,” came a cheerful voice from within. He opened the flimsy door and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A small room lay before him, dominated by two pieces of furniture: a king-sized bed with its box springs set directly on the floor, and a mahogany dinner table that had seen much better days, or at least more attentive owners. Stacks of books and brightly colored polyhedron dice were haphazardly arranged on its surface. Led Zeppelin wafted through the air from old stereo speakers set up high on the wall.

  “’Sup,” said Steve, engaged in the task of getting himself a beer. Not far from the big man was a heavyset fellow with a prominent bald spot, though his hair hung down to his back otherwise. He was wearing sweat pants and a wife beater, his hairy arms and chest on full pudgy display. He grinned a gap-toothed smile at Phil as the latter set his briefcase on the table.

  “Gentlemen,” said Phil as he sat down.

  “What?” said Steve, intently searching behind himself. “Where?”

  “I think he means us, old boy,” said the bald man with a faux accent.

  “Oh, quite right, master Rex,” said Steve in kind. “Bully day, isn’t it?”

  Phil ignored their banter, snapping open his briefcase and taking out a form scrawled with numerous notations and eraser marks. He slapped it on the table, then eyed them both quizzically.

  “Where’s Tobias?”

  “Got himself a woman,” said Steve, a touch of bitterness in his tone, “so I doubt we’ll be seeing him for game night much.”

  “Yeah,” said Rex, “until she gets a good look at that needle dick of his!”

  All three men engaged in a laugh, though Phil stopped first.

  “How does that douchebag always get a woman?” he asked with frustration. “He’s vile, chauvinistic, conceited—”

  “He actually talks to them,” said Rex. “You think I landed Becky just because I’m so pretty?”

  “I talk to women,” said Phil, miffed.

  “Chicks you talk to on World of Warcraft don’t count,” said Steve.

  “Oh, like you’re so much better,” said Rex with a sneer. “It’s been, what, a year since you broke up with what’s her name?”

  “Cathy,” said Steve, wincing a bit as he recalled the painful memory. “Thanks, buddy, why don’t you run a cheese grater on my sack and dip it in kerosene while you’re feeling so spry?”

  “Oh, go home and change your tampon, Steve,” said Rex, rolling his eyes.

  “I’d be happy just to get a date,” said Phil, sadly.

  “Oh, buck up, little trooper,” said Rex, slapping him on his slender arm. “Let’s play some D and D and forget about it.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Steve, “you have in-house pussy!”

  “Don’t I know it,” said Rex with a smile. It faded, and he put his arms akimbo and shook his head. “Cocksucker.”

  “Now you know how it feels,” said Steve with a shrug.

  “Where did we leave off last time?” Phil asked, as much to distract the men from their argument as anything.

  “Uh, think we just came across those Goblins we were looking for,” said Steve, arching an eyebrow at Rex.

  “No, that was the week before last,” said Rex. “You actually found out that the goblins worked for the Black Tusk King…”

  Several hours and many dice rolls later, the three men sat laughing loudly around the table. Steve checked his cell phone, picking it up from where it lay on the table. He stood up quickly, cursing to himself.

  “Fuck! I have to go; it’s damn near six alr
eady.”

  “Yeah,” said Rex, glaring hard at Phil, “somebody kept us waiting.”

  “Not my fault there was a meeting,” said Phil. “If you guys had real jobs, you’d understand.”

  “Ouch,” said Rex.

  “Sand in your vagina, Phil?” said Steve, shaking his head.

  Steve took his leave, while the other two men cleared the table off. Working in tandem, they moved it to an area adjacent to the bed, stowing it under a wooden staircase with numerous cobwebs clinging to it. Phil shuddered as one of the gray gossamer strands brushed against his face.

  “Quit being a pussy,” Rex said.

  “As long as there are no spiders in those webs, we’re fine,” Phil said.

  Rex laughed at his discomfort.

  “You’re what now, twenty-five?” he said. “Don’t you think it’s high time you stopped being afraid of teeny, tiny bugs? It’s not like they can hurt you.”

  “Some of them are poisonous,” Phil said.

  “But most of ’em aren’t,” Rex said.

  “It’s not the danger they present,” Phil said. “It’s all those, those legs. And the shape of their bodies. I don’t know, it just triggers something primal in me.”

  The two men dragged amplifiers out from behind the staircase, straining with the burden. Rex went back one more time and returned with a bass guitar. It was a long-necked, darkly stained Les Paul, scratches just above the bridge displaying its veteran status. Phil opened a cabinet a few feet from the table, squatting low to peer within. He withdrew a thick, heavy keyboard, nearly as long as the ivories on a full-sized piano. Something brushed against his hand and he panicked, nearly dropping the instrument.

  “Did you get shocked?” Rex asked, looking up in alarm as he tuned the bass.

  “No,” said Phil, carefully checking his hand for damage.

  “You thought you had a spider crawling on you,” said Rex with a snicker. “Pussy.”

  Rex’s pocket glowed a split second before the cellphone within rang. He extracted the rectangular device, hampered by the size of his hairy hands. He at last put it up to his ear and spoke.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Phil could just barely make out the voice on the other line and loudly said, “Hey, John.”

  “Did you hear that?” said Rex. “Yeah, that was Phil.”

  Rex’s eyes narrowed, and his tone grew plaintive.

  “What?” he asked. “Why? Whaddaya mean we ain’t going nowhere? I’m trying to land us a gig, man, I’m trying, but there’s so many cover—what? Yeah, I take it seriously! We all take it—”

  Rex grew silent for a time as the other voice droned on for several seconds.

  “Yeah,” he said harshly, “whatever, man, good luck with those assholes. Have a nice life.”

  Rex shut the phone off and rudely shoved it back into his pocket, plopping down heavily in a chair after he had done so.

  “Oh man, oh man, what are we gonna do?” he asked.

  “What?” Phil asked, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on? Is he not coming to practice?”

  “Yeah,” said Rex. “He ain’t never coming to practice again. Found another band that’s more ‘serious’ than we are.”

  “I never liked him anyway,” said Phil. “We’ll just find someone else.”

  “Find someone else?” said Rex incredulously. “What the fuck you mean, find someone else? Sure, John was an asshole, but he could play. Where are we gonna find a new guitarist who—” he ticked his points off on his fingers “—one, can play decently; two, will actually join our pathetic cover band; and three, can stand all of the shit we throw around the basement?”

  “Well,” said Phil, “let’s call up Sven and see if he knows someone.”

  “Maybe,” said Rex with cautious optimism, “but I ain’t holding my breath!”

  Steve put on his denim jacket, eschewing the buttons as the evening was yet warm. He stared at his face in the bathroom mirror. Though he had a bit of a five o’clock shadow, he decided to skip shaving. A brief, fleeting hope came and went that he would run into the strange woman he had met at the coffee shop. Her name had been something strange…Autumn. The memory of her deep brown eyes came to him, and on a whim he went back into the bathroom and gave himself a quick shave. He had to change his shirt because of a dollop of shaving cream, and he was running late by the time he slapped on cologne.

  As he hopped on the subway and began his rumble from the Bronx to the Garden, he knew he would not be able to see his father before the show. He cursed at himself, thinking the old man would probably believe Steve was punishing him.

  Steve slowed his pace as he approached the milling throng of humanity haphazardly lined up outside the ticket booth. He was glad he did not have to wait, and was doubly so when a booming voice echoed over the sidewalk, declaring that the tickets had sold out. A general groan rolled from the crowd. It dispersed raggedly, spilling angry patrons in myriad directions. Steve’s eyes were drawn to a sight he had not truly expected to see: Autumn, complaining loudly to the night air about missing out on the show.

  She was dressed in a knee-length wool coat, black as midnight in hue. The coat was unbuttoned, revealing a black V-neck shirt unbuttoned far enough to show just a slight bit of her cleavage. He struggled not to stare at her bustline, forcing his gaze downward to the black leather belt decorated with silver studs. It was looped through a red plaid skirt that terminated just above the knee. Underneath she had worn fishnet stockings which disappeared into calf-high leather Doc Martens. Skull earrings dangled prettily from her lobes, and a matching silver necklace hung just below her clavicle.

  His feet propelled him toward her, and he tried to will his heart to stop beating so hard in his chest.

  You can do this, he thought to himself. Just like riding a bicycle.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling with a hint of nervousness, “it’s the guy who fucked up in the coffee shop!”

  “Hey,” he said, feeling that his voice was banal. “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling a bit wider. Then her lips twisted in a sneer. “Shut up.”

  “Shut up?”

  “It was sweet,” she said, “but it’s totally something you’d say on a date, and I don’t even know your name, so…”

  “Steve,” he said, offering his hand for a shake. She took it, and he marveled at the tiny thrill that raced down his spine. “Nice to meet you, uh…again. I take it you couldn’t get tickets?”

  “Yeah, bunch of punk ass kids, just want to go there so they can tweet OMG I’M SO INTO WRESTLING. Poseurs!”

  “I know, right? And they don’t know about guys like Bruno Sammartino and Harley Race.”

  “Oh, god! I used to have such a crush on Bruno!”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. When I was a girl, I wanted so bad to just run my hands through his chest hair.”

  “Yeah, back then men were men and steroids was just a funny word.”

  “Deathslayer is a guy I grew up watching too,” said Autumn when she finished laughing at Steve’s quip. “Damn, this might be my last chance to see him before he retires, and they’re sold out.”

  “Uhm, hey, uh…this sounds like a horrible pick-up line, but I actually do happen to have an extra ticket.”

  “Shut up,” said Autumn, punching him in the arm. “You’ll so be my hero if you really do, though!”

  “I really do.” Steve held up the foil embossed tickets. An image of his father drawn to cartoonish proportions and smashing the Empire State Building was depicted on its surface.

  “Duh, dun dun duh duh,” he said, imitating the Superman theme.

  “Cool,” said Autumn, visibly trying to play down her enthusiasm. “So are those like, nosebleeds, or…”

  “Front row.”

  “Holy shit, front row?” said Autumn, grabbing the tickets in her hand and staring at them as if they were exalted relics. “Who did you have to kill? You know what, I don’t care! I
’m going to sit front row for Battlebrawl!”

  She glanced up at Steve sheepishly, handing him back the tickets.

  “Uh, thanks, Steve. I appreciate this. Just…don’t go getting cocky, because this does not count as a date.”

  “Uh, sure,” said Steve, trying to be nonchalant, but his dashed hopes were all over his face.

  “Oh, don’t look so disappointed.” They walked toward the entrance. “I’m a pain in the ass anyway.”

  “Most people are.”

  “Yeah, true.” Her large brown eyes were shining with excitement. “But you have no idea how much more qualified for the position I am.”

  They both laughed, his own guffaws spontaneous while she joined in a moment later.

  “You been watching wrestling long?” she asked.

  “I guess you could say that I’ve been watching it my whole life.”

  “Yeah, you must be an über-fan to get front row tickets. What’d you have to do, pay five thousand bucks for them on eBay?”

  “No.” They paused their conversation while Steve handed the usher their tickets. After giving Autumn her stub, he took a deep breath and said in a rush, “My dad’s the Deathslayer. He got me the tickets.”

  Autumn stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, then burst into laughter.

  “Yeah, right! I bet that line’s a panty peeler, though!”

  Steve sighed, giving her a tired smile. “No one ever believes me, but I have his nose, and his eyes.”

  He turned his visage to her. She peered at it intently, even putting her palms on either side of his cheeks and patting them.

  “You know…I think I do see it! You have his Neanderthal brow ridges, too. And you’re a freakin’ giant…”

  “I’m only six-five. Pop’s seven feet tall. He said I got my mom’s genes; her family were a bunch of midgets by comparison.”

  Autumn put her hand on his forearm and gave it a quick squeeze.

  “I can’t believe that you’re the Deathslayer’s kid! That must have been so cool having him as your dad!”