Not Far From Golgotha

by Richard Futch

  So what are your demons, boy?

  He let this thought escape into the cosmos. Perhaps, drifting out, it would find its mark, and then come back to him with sufficient answer. Ebenezer readily believed the truth of reality hid itself well within the tapestries of dreams and impulses, making the only true impossibility lack of imagination.

  He hoped Billy would come back before he left. Ebenezer wanted to take a more studied stab at the boy; he wanted to see if he could shake loose some dirt and find what lived (albeit extremely uneasily) behind those young eyes. He became so deeply involved in this wandering state that to anyone passing by, it would appear as if the old man slept with his eyes open.

  Chapter 32

  Billy held the phone cradled to his ear. Even though well past the point of expecting anyone to pick up, he still held out that Elizabeth would come in and answer. “Shit!” he spat violently, finally clunking the receiver back. He checked his watch.

  8:32 p.m., Thursday night. Nothing to do, nobody to see. Jesus, was he out of touch? But so slowly he’d not completely realized until lately, when he’d also realized the irreversible damage as its aftermath. He didn’t have to work tomorrow, but so what? He sure as hell didn’t feel like sitting at home, but now that he’d found Elizabeth was unavailable…(yeah, but how many nights lately you left her in the same position? the goddamn voice prodded.)

  “No, no, no,” he said loudly, angrily. Not that shit again. Not tonight. Billy stood up and looked around, setting his chin for action. He would not sit and be tortured by his conscious, endlessly questioning this move and that. It just wasn’t gonna happen. “Fuck it,” he said strongly.

  He kicked the footrest of the old recliner back into place (it had a tendency to sneak out after you’d stood up, perhaps hoping to catch a shin in the dark) pleased to see it stuck this time. Fine, he’d take good omens anyway he got them. He swept the beer can from the side table and slugged back what remained. Tepid, but not bad yet. He backed up and his foot crunched into a Pringles’ can, spilling the crumbs into the carpet. He bent down and picked up the can but left the chips to make their way into the sizeable, practically microscopic sub-structure embedded in the depths of the pile. He tossed both the beer can and the crushed Pringles’ cylinder toward the garbage, going for the bank off the wall, surprising himself when both found the mark. Two for two on the omens!

  He cracked his knuckles, turning to the old Akai receiver, vastly out of date in the fashion department but still admirable in terms of efficiency. It was the goddamn CD player that gave him fits lately, and that thing wasn’t quite a year old. Some days, no problem; others, it refused any bribe, just as cantankerous as an oyster fisherman with a hole in his boat. Or especially aggravating on the infrequent days when the laser danced around aimlessly on whatever disc it chose, turning the music into a garble of incomprehensible bullshit. Billy inserted R.E.M.’s Monster and hoped for the best, nudging the cabinet at just the right moment because that sometimes seemed to help.

  His good luck continued and he turned up the volume several clicks, starting for the bedroom, picking up forlorn articles of clothing along the way. One shirt possessed a particularly rancid halo, and the over-turned glass close by still held the vague reminder of milk from a late-night double feature last week. Probably the night TNT had played those two 1930’s horror flicks. Not many people still knew (and Billy suspected far less cared) but Lon Chaney, Jr. was the best film monster, ever. Period. Billy snapped his fingers, trying to remember…yes, House of Frankenstein; that was the one with Bela Lugosi, the first Dracula, instead playing Mary Shelly’s awesome creation. Billy’d read somewhere or heard on the TV Lugosi had been buried in full vampiric garb. Now how was that for morbid?

  But the House of Frankenstein. Billy’d never forget the end of the movie: the castle caving in from its own weight and the weight of the snow while the monsters continue their fight to the death, heedless of the destruction raining down around them. My God, that had fascinated him as a child. As Billy stripped off his shirt he tried in a voice fairly cracking with age, “When the wolfbane blooms, and the moon is full and bright.” The old gypsy fortune teller had seen Larry Talbot's fate in the depths of her crystal ball inside the roving trailer, and what she’d seen had come true. Talbot had been a cursed man; all the powers of the universe suddenly set against him for some unknown reason. But despite this he’d maintained nobility. That was most important.

  Billy whistled lightly, and threw the handful of clothing onto his unmade bed. He tossed the shirt with the milk stain into the corner, and dropped his pants and underwear where he stood before crossing to the bathroom to run a hot tub of water. It was hard to hear the music over the pouring faucets, but he eased back and waited for the tub to fill.

  He would definitely hit the town, by God.

  *

  Fifteen minutes later he stood naked in front of the sink, carefully combing his hair as he dried it. He liked his bodies’ trim, muscled ripple, and figured it had to hold some attraction for women he didn’t yet know but would like to. When’s the last time you got laid? a taunting voice questioned. He thought back, his brow furrowing. Bethany, he knew, but when? End of March? Hell, here it was late October. Too damn long for the hand dance. Summoned, his dick stirred with the fleeting image of Bethany’s full, naked breasts moving in the darkness, and he unconsciously reached down and grabbed it. However, after a few brief, and half-hearted tugs he let it go again; the image had faded and the harsh bathroom light did nothing to sustain anything else. Not tonight; tonight it would take the real thing.

  Or nothing.

  He hurried into his room, picked through his stuffed closet for the least wrinkled shirt and pants, finally satisfying himself after a long search. He put them on and studied himself in the mirror. Not too bad; he’d walk the wrinkles out by the time he reached the Quarter, he hoped. Because ironing was out of the question. He did have a steamer that worked with a little bit of salt but any shirt over a microgram thick was a complete waste of time.

  Thirty minutes later, after once more trying to get in touch with Elizabeth after praying his mother wouldn’t answer, he left, closing the door and double-checking it with a crisp tug. Then he started off into the night.

  Chapter 33

  Elizabeth was not home because she’d been called to a party in Slidell by an old friend, Mary McNamara. She’d decided to go because the thought of another lonely night cramped up in her bedroom, waiting for tell-tale signs of nausea or wrenching aches did not sound good. Besides, she’d done well this day, no episodes of vomiting or dizziness, and from her experience (although short) with these matters she’d grown to expect the rest of the day would be all right. Besides, getting out of the house would help to clear her head of the disquieting figures and phantoms that persisted in their continual hauntings. She remembered what she told Billy a few days before, on the levee outside Cooter Brown’s, and how she’d been determined then to make a mighty show of confidence. There were memories to be made, she’d said. Only thing is, the hard part proved believing it.

  She’d taken several hits from a joint she’d gotten off the guy at the corner drugstore (an acquaintance from high school who’d apparently never chosen to stretch himself too thin. But at least he was manning a cash register and appeared, at least outwardly, happy), carefully blowing the foul-smelling smoke into the alleyway outside her bedroom window as the queasiness evaporated in her stomach. Of course she had a strong and confident will, stronger than most she presumed, but there were times when will power folded under pressure, and pure animal instinct begged satisfaction.

  She wanted a man.

  It’d been the dreams the night before. Who was that? His face remained unclear; perhaps a mishmash of previous lovers all rolled into one, but that prick! No one she knew, that much was clear! When the fiery images had finally driven her into wakefulness (face flushed and nipples as hard as tiny diamonds), she could still practically feel his tremendous size ins
ide her, his hair in her face as she’d moaned in pleasure.

  She’d come too, gasping for air, chest heaving. Her panties soaked. At first confusion had thrown her off guard but gradually the intensity of the dream pulled back, allowing her to collect herself. The dream-man was gone but the memory was not. And although wakefulness had made her heir to an uncomfortable guilt (as if someone had been secretly watching), the itch remained.

  Closing her eyes she’d vainly sought him, succeeding only in a mild approximation. However, that had been enough for the moment. Shedding her nightshirt and pulling away the panties in a frenzy, she’d begun massaging her breasts, panting lightly as the tension (which had abated somewhat), began building again. With her other hand she’d worked herself, fingers glistening beneath the cover until her hips bucked and shook. She’d finished in a rush, her legs straightened like cables, had even in fact, finally rubbed her own juice across her reddened breasts in rapture, not wanting the feeling to end. To hold on to as long as possible.

  But it hadn’t been enough.

  As she laid there, breathing the musky, alluring scent of her sex, she’d known what she had to do. She’d almost forgotten how powerful subtle needs could grow when left untended by distraction, and was in sudden awe of her bodies’ demand. Suddenly there were no pains in the armpits and groin, no dull throbbing behind her eyes. Only a deep, utter peace.

  A deep, utter, momentary peace.

  Because as the orgasm’s initial elevation threaded, the old phantoms began stirring restlessly, as if aggravated by this damning interruption. They had crept at her slowly but the sweet essence of the fantasy had clung steadfast, she realizing this small triumph wrested free as she’d clutched back desperately. Later, when she got the call from Mary, it’d seemed like Providence.

  *

  As Elizabeth fixed her hair the pain surfaced again for air, but she turned the suddenly-induced grimace into a seductive pout without too much worry. She even cursed it out loud. Even though she wasn’t much on profanity, she had to admit she felt better afterward. In fact, her smile broadened, eventually giving birth to full-bodied laughter remembering a female comic she’d seen on HBO. Something about guys hoping to get laid when they went out versus the fact that girls already knew. It would hold true tonight if she had any honor to uphold.

  By the time Billy rang on the first of several attempts, Elizabeth had already been gone twenty minutes, speeding across the Causeway to Lake Ponchartrain’s north shore with Mary.

  Chapter 34

  Billy decided to try the Funky Pirate first. It had a good central location on Bourbon Street, and the blues which floated through the perpetually-open doorway were a gentle blend of both smooth and compelling textures; every note crisp, the steady rhythm of the drummer tapping a strong heartbeat against the backbone bass, so charged and alive it went straight to the stomach. And the wailing guitars! My God, there were actual wizards made flesh!

  Though it was still early, hardly a quarter of eleven, the Pirate was on. People spilled out all over the street, crowding the door, stumbling into the gutter. Billy sandwiched through the crowd, finding it easier to breathe once past the door. Then he threaded his way to the rectangular bar just to the right and up a short three steps, put there Billy guessed to sprawl drunks on less crowded nights. He shouldered his way up close, managing to get an arm strategically placed with the five-spot in plain view. The buccaneered waitress quickly got him a Dixie, and he faded into the melee to soak in the soul-cleansing remedy he so direly needed.

  Two hours later he pushed his way to the street. The growing throng inside had become too much, and the air in the Quarter was a cool blessing. Claustrophobia was not his bag. He walked to the corner and leaned against a building, feeling the rough-edged bricks take on his weight grudgingly. It’d probably leave some dirt on his clothes as a reminder. He slammed the rest of his beer back in a swallow, and pushed away. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. Almost.

  There was one more place he wanted to hit before calling it a night. About a ten minute walk, off Bourbon, but still deep in the Vieux Carre’. Billy hurried along stopping to get a 16-ouncer on the way.

  Chapter 35

  About the same time Billy was leaving the Funky Pirate, Elizabeth danced the ancient rhythm in the strange bed of her new-found lover. She’d been right about knowing. He was a fine, lightly tanned boy of nineteen with a sparkling smile, prodigious strength between his legs, and control beyond his years.

  They coupled at his parent’s house, or more accurately, around back in a converted garage that served as his apartment. Their own bag of potato chips had already been knocked to the floor in their abandon. Elizabeth had told Mary earlier she wouldn’t need a ride home, and Mary had only been slightly surprised but understandably lusty too. She’d had her own guy, a husky stud with an affinity for boisterous talk followed by a lot of booze. Elizabeth wouldn’t have been able to get past that, but Mary hadn’t seemed to mind.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Elizabeth had told her, holding Thomas’ hand and winking slyly. The returned wink was knowing, even though a glaring edge of intrigue shone through because in all the years Mary had known Elizabeth, Elizabeth had never been one to run off with a guy she’d just met. There were many other friends Mary would never even think twice about, but with Elizabeth it was different. She’d wondered until a hand searched across the small of her back, squeezing gently as it worked its way down. Soon thereafter Elizabeth’s actions had no longer been of Mary’s paramount concern.

  *

  Now, several hours later, their frenzy was still not spent. Yet. Somewhere in the moonlit darkness coming through the blinds (throwing slants across his face and body), Elizabeth saw Thomas’ orgasm building. As he tensed a moment before his hips bucked, an animal cry issued through his clenched teeth, and before Elizabeth had the chance to tell him any different, he pulled out of her. Caught in the middle of her own orgasm, Elizabeth grabbed him with both hands and pumped savagely, keenly aware of her own juices speeding the rhythm. His back arched savagely as he shot wild and hot across her belly and breasts. Some even made it to her chin and rested there like warm honey.

  She continued squeezing him as he collapsed upon her, trembling. Finally she released and wrapped her arms around his broad back. “You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s safe.” A manly, musky scent radiated from his sweating skin.

  “I wasn’t sure,” he gasped. “I didn’t wanta do something I shouldn’t.” He looked into her face and even in the darkness it was hard to miss the kindness set deeply in his cheeks. Elizabeth stretched to kiss him. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised and she smiled silently, not wanting to tell him she’d come too. Not with the surprised stirring she could already feel against her thigh.

  “Already?” she asked.

  A satisfying grin spread across his face. “Soon,” he answered. They kissed and whispered into the others’ ear for a few minutes more, after which he raised himself above her. It would be slower this time. Elizabeth pushed her head deeper into the pillow, feeling her nipples harden pleasurably. “Yes,” she whispered as he began the slow dance with her again. “So alive,” she whispered, not sure her mouth had found the words or her body made them.

  Chapter 36

  Billy heard the raucous music well before he reached the deceptively bland light-blue door. Stenciled in a cryptic scrawl at eye level were the words: The Blue Crystal. A vibratory uneasiness slithered past this doorway, lingering malevolently in the street like a bad dog sick with hunger. Billy paid the door fee and the punk-rocker (his face a mirage of intricate tattoos) accepted the money emotionlessly as he marked Billy’s hand with the light-sensitive stamp. Tonight it read very simply, in a smear of faded red: Kill.

  Billy registered the invitation and slipped his wallet into a front pocket.

  He made his way into the loud club, squeezing past a log-jam in the doorway to find a multitude of others huddl
ed and bunched along the crawling walls lining the bar, the air buzzing as if from a hive of bees. Wild hair, pink, red, white, partied side-by-side with other seemingly more sensible souls in Hilfiger shirts and dirty Oxford loafers. Any mixture of sickness and depravity abided well here, which was why many came to get it.

  Billy, hyped by the alcohol racing through his blood, muscled his way to a seam near the bar and waited until a harried barkeep could bring him the Wild Turkey. On the occasions he came (which was seldom), he always had the same. Straight up; no mix. The drink was handed across, miraculously without spilling a drop, and Billy left the change from the five, half out of the hassle of waiting any longer for change, and half in hopes the drink-pusher would remember for the next one. Taking a large swallow Billy continued pushing toward the dance floor.

  The Misfits always intrigued him. The strange of the strange.

  He anchored himself in a corner, out of the main flow of traffic, but eye-on to the happenings on the littered dance floor. The heavy whiskey was a poultice against the techno rage blasting from the speakers, but the rush of noise still fucked with his equilibrium. The night disciples were in abundance: the beyond-description, the lost, the diseased, the beaten, the tired; all manner gathered together to writhe like snakes. Take the girl near the stack-amp: draped in gothic black replete with lace and kick-boots, gyrating in semi-consciousness; or the male face streaked in tears and black mascara, railing, conjuring demons only he would see in his private corner. Billy understood. He knew these demons because he could feel them also, moving in the air. This cornucopia of temptation and abandon drew them like flies.

  However, tonight it was two girls affected him most. Wild and hardly four feet away near the edge of the floor, they stood locked together in a scorching embrace, their tongues down each other’s throat. Billy watched hungrily as they ran their hands along the many curves each one offered. Both dark-haired and young, separate from all those around them.