survivor of that event, possibly a
radioactive mutant, crossed the street in a slow limp, holding a bag no doubt
filled with his liquor for the night and illuminated only by a single dim
orange streetlight. The desperate mutant paused only an at overturned trash
can to rummage through it, then soldiered on down the street and disappeared,
presumably off to scavenge the rest of the wastelands.
Yes, quite a
dead avenue. Still, one never knew when the law would finally catch on to
Patrick Mulley’s secret, so it behooved Spencer to check up on the various
parked cars along the sidewalks. There were three of them—a van, a station
wagon, and a truck—and he checked all of them for possible surveillance teams
before he finally walked right up to Pat’s front door and knocked.
The door was
made of glass and had faded stenciling on it. The lobby through the glass was
pitch-black, not a single photon of light bounced its way from the work area in
the back. He knocked again.
This time, he
heard something drop. A wrench or a crowbar clattered to the ground, and
someone hollered something like, “Hear that?” or “What was that?”
Spencer waited a
few more seconds, still humming the Blue Öyster Cult song to himself and
thinking about the first time he had heard their music. His older brother Brian
had introduced him to music of the 60’s and 70’s, back when they were still
talking, back before things changed and the family looked at the youngest and
favorite with new, terrified eyes. Back then, Spencer wore turtleneck
sweaters, pants with suspenders, and even pocket protectors. Brian had been
the hellraiser and chick-banger, and Collin his faithful sidekick and confidant.
The two of them had given Spencer his first beer when he was twelve, in secret
and for his birthday, but had forbade him to ever act out as they had. Mom,
the Christian fundamentalist, still swore that the music and that first taste
of beer had planted a seed. She didn’t comprehend or believe in contemporary
psychology, and so couldn’t understand that what happened to Miles Hoover, Jr. in
the Brownfields Elementary School library had nothing to do with taking a
single sip of beer or Blue Öyster Cult. They’re called a cult for a
reason! she had screamed while Dad sat in his rocker, backing her up by
saying nothing at all. These rock an’ roll creatures aren’t even tryin’ to
hide it! They’re proud of it! Don’t you see! Same with these Nirvana idiots!
Tryin’ to seduce you away from God! That had come about because Spencer
was way into Kurt Cobain way after his suicide.
Spencer smiled. Funny how music sends one back in time .
A light flicked in
a room at the back of a hallway, and another dark silhouette appeared at the
end of it. Spencer looked at the unknown person, and the unknown person looked
at him. The staring contest lasted a few seconds, and then the dark silhouette
approached the glass door slowly. He couldn’t see much, just the teeth of the
man in the moonlight. “Yo, dude, what’choo want?” the man hollered from the
other side of the door.
The voice was a
little different than Spencer recalled, but it was him. He reached up and
pulled the hood back from his head and smiled.
It took a second
for the black man on the other side to imbibe his image—or perhaps he was just
trying to conceal his shock—but finally he said, “Sheeeeeeeeeyyyyyiiiiiit!” It
was said with equal parts derision, surprise, humor, and trepidation. He
called back to his cohorts. “Hey, yo! I’m gonna open this doe! Naw…naw,
it’s cool, money! I know this bitch!” He fiddled with the lock a moment and
opened up, glancing left and right. “What. The. Fuck?” Patrick Mulley was
shaking his head ruefully. “We got some lazy-ass fuckin’ cops in this town
when yo crazy ass walkin’ the streets an’ ain’t none o’ them snatched you up
yet.”
“I’m like
radioactive mutant, crossed the street in a slow limp, holding a bag no doubt
filled with his liquor for the night and illuminated only by a single dim
orange streetlight. The desperate mutant paused only an at overturned trash
can to rummage through it, then soldiered on down the street and disappeared,
presumably off to scavenge the rest of the wastelands.
Yes, quite a
dead avenue. Still, one never knew when the law would finally catch on to
Patrick Mulley’s secret, so it behooved Spencer to check up on the various
parked cars along the sidewalks. There were three of them—a van, a station
wagon, and a truck—and he checked all of them for possible surveillance teams
before he finally walked right up to Pat’s front door and knocked.
The door was
made of glass and had faded stenciling on it. The lobby through the glass was
pitch-black, not a single photon of light bounced its way from the work area in
the back. He knocked again.
This time, he
heard something drop. A wrench or a crowbar clattered to the ground, and
someone hollered something like, “Hear that?” or “What was that?”
Spencer waited a
few more seconds, still humming the Blue Öyster Cult song to himself and
thinking about the first time he had heard their music. His older brother Brian
had introduced him to music of the 60’s and 70’s, back when they were still
talking, back before things changed and the family looked at the youngest and
favorite with new, terrified eyes. Back then, Spencer wore turtleneck
sweaters, pants with suspenders, and even pocket protectors. Brian had been
the hellraiser and chick-banger, and Collin his faithful sidekick and confidant.
The two of them had given Spencer his first beer when he was twelve, in secret
and for his birthday, but had forbade him to ever act out as they had. Mom,
the Christian fundamentalist, still swore that the music and that first taste
of beer had planted a seed. She didn’t comprehend or believe in contemporary
psychology, and so couldn’t understand that what happened to Miles Hoover, Jr. in
the Brownfields Elementary School library had nothing to do with taking a
single sip of beer or Blue Öyster Cult. They’re called a cult for a
reason! she had screamed while Dad sat in his rocker, backing her up by
saying nothing at all. These rock an’ roll creatures aren’t even tryin’ to
hide it! They’re proud of it! Don’t you see! Same with these Nirvana idiots!
Tryin’ to seduce you away from God! That had come about because Spencer
was way into Kurt Cobain way after his suicide.
Spencer smiled. Funny how music sends one back in time .
A light flicked in
a room at the back of a hallway, and another dark silhouette appeared at the
end of it. Spencer looked at the unknown person, and the unknown person looked
at him. The staring contest lasted a few seconds, and then the dark silhouette
approached the glass door slowly. He couldn’t see much, just the teeth of the
man in the moonlight. “Yo, dude, what’choo want?” the man hollered from the
other side of the door.
The voice was a
little different than Spencer recalled, but it was him. He reached up and
pulled the hood back from his head and smiled.
It took a second
for the black man on the other side to imbibe his image—or perhaps he was just
trying to conceal his shock—but finally he said, “Sheeeeeeeeeyyyyyiiiiiit!” It
was said with equal parts derision, surprise, humor, and trepidation. He
called back to his cohorts. “Hey, yo! I’m gonna open this doe! Naw…naw,
it’s cool, money! I know this bitch!” He fiddled with the lock a moment and
opened up, glancing left and right. “What. The. Fuck?” Patrick Mulley was
shaking his head ruefully. “We got some lazy-ass fuckin’ cops in this town
when yo crazy ass walkin’ the streets an’ ain’t none o’ them snatched you up
yet.”
“I’m like
Similar Books
