Falls Street (13) “I don’t really feel like fighting,” I said. “Okay,” Crash said. “But, if you do, make sure you piss off a bunch of people, because if we’re going to see a fight, I want it to be a big fight with lots of spin kicks. Can you do a spin kick?” “I could try one on you before he shows up,” I said. “Sure,” Crash said. “No, you guys,” Ray said. “Don’t blow this for me. Act real cool, and don’t do anything weird.” “All right, sir,” Crash said. “We better hurry, though. The place just won’t be kickin’ if they don’t get their ice tea flavored beer.” “Maybe, we should leave that in the car,” Ray said. “No way,” Crash said. “It’s funny.” “Yeah,” I said. “Besides, we could always just sneak it into the refrigerator when no one’s looking and wait to see if anybody’s stupid enough to drink them.” “All right,” Ray said. “Whatever amuses you two that doesn’t get us tossed out on our ass.” We got out of the car, but I held still. They turned back to look at me. “Are you chickening out?” Crash asked. “No,” I said. “We have to make a pact right here, before we go in there.” “Oh, come one, Jason,” Ray said. “Don’t take this so seriously.” “That’s the problem, Ray,” I said. “We’ve taken this all too seriously. Let’s just agree that above all else, tonight, we’re in there to have fun.” “Yeah,” Crash said. “Sure thing.” “Right,” Ray said. “It’s a party. What else would we do?” “Okay,” I said. “All right, rock star,” Crash said. “If you’re so big on fun. You ring the doorbell.” “As long as I don’t have to carry the ice tea flavored beer,” I said. And we were there on the porch, laughing and waiting when the door opened. *** Oddly enough, I just realized I’ve been telling a story. I don’t know how I feel about stories. They always leave stuff out. I’m sure I did, too. And the choices most storytellers make are awful. Right at the good part, they change perspective or something, and the whole thing gets dropped. People who write books are always coming up with these creative ways to reveal things to make them seem more suspenseful. In real life, nobody pauses in his thinking. Nobody skips ahead or goes backward just to make some event seem all the more interesting. It just shows that the writer isn’t all that good. Otherwise, he’d plow straight through and make it come off without a hitch. Here I am, though, trying to tell a story after all, and I don’t want to leave the important stuff out. I don’t want to jump ahead. I really don’t want to pull some kind of trick on everybody in order to make this whole thing sound more important. Yet, I’m finding that I don’t want to talk much about what happened at that party. It all happened in so many different stages, too. It was like passing through seven or eight complete stories in one night. And oddly, I’m not sure about the impact it has on my one story. I know I was there. I know it was an official part of my life, but something about it doesn’t seem to click with the rest of my life. After you’re out of that place, you escape the aura of it. You go back to your life, your room, and your things. Physically, your world hasn’t changed. Life continues, and it’s nothing more than your interaction with the stuff around you. It can’t be much more than that. That night knocks everything out of the past and puts one big mark in my personal history. Behind that mark, it feels like nothing happened. Ahead of that mark, it feels like nothing happens. The strangest thing has been the silence. I barely sense anything, except coldness when it gets dark. I’ve been lying on my back, not even listening to the world. I’m just resting in some kind of snapshot, frozen in a moment. And days went by, and I forgot what the date was again. I forgot what month it was, too. Peace made it hard to remember what I ate for dinner or if I even came down the stairs that day. Unintentionally, this became a story. That means I shouldn’t skip ahead just because I’ve decided not to think about that party. I’ve been waiting for a time when it would just flow out of me. I’ve been waiting to find the right person to tell the whole thing to, but it hasn’t happened. I can’t think of anybody. So, anything I say about the party is just going to be forced. It’ll sound all messed up. I’ll be jumping around, and if any of you have been bored or patient enough to stick with me through this, you may consider leaving yet. I know I haven’t addressed you all that much before, but if this is a story, you do exist, and that means I have a responsibility to let you know all that happened. I really wish I wasn’t telling a story. I wish instead that it were just a bunch of shit that happened by mistake. Now, I’ve made it sound like I thought everything out, like I’ve been in control, like I’ve had my mind working the whole time. I didn’t. I was just bumbling around, fucking up, and complaining after the fact. All the times I said I had great schemes in the works, I had shit. All the times I thought I understood something, I didn’t. I was just building up these walls, making my world stronger, making the distance seem all right. I can’t believe how well I sleep now. I can’t believe how many hours I can let slide. In all of it, I’ve been in danger of over-thinking the concept of happiness. I’m trying not to wonder how I feel. All I know is that I can spend time just listening to my breath. I can spend time just staring at the ceiling wondering what it’s like to live up there. When it gets dark, I don’t even go to the window to see the sun go away. I watch shadows form and shred. I can smell summer, but I don’t hear anything. The world is softer than it’s ever been. And when the phone rings, I don’t really notice, except for the faint sound of a click when my mother or father hang up. *** Chapter 9 – Blood on Falls Street Crash and I were on the porch of his house, being extremely quiet. That’s when we heard the window break. His father came outside spitting black stuff on his green sleeveless shirt. He was wearing his work boots, but they weren’t tied. He held a baseball bat over his shoulder, but he wasn’t looking like he wanted to hit anyone. He just looked like he happened to have it in his hand. When he talked it was like an earthquake had started. It wasn’t worth running. The sound was everywhere. “What’s wrong with you?” he said dropping the bat on the porch. “Dad, I’m sorry,” Crash said. “We were just gonna go out and play some basketball.” “Do you think I’m stupid, young man,” he said. You could smell it all over. It was like the house was an open bottle. It was on him and on us, and my vision was all messed up. Every couple seconds I forgot where I was and decided it must be a dream, but catching glimpses of the broken glass all over on the porch, I sobered up a little at a time. “No, sir,” he said. “I just thought you were asleep.” “What are you doing out this late?” he asked. He leaned against the doorframe looking back into the house. “I went to that party, remember?” he said. “Of course I remember,” he said. “What are you standing around here for? What do think you’re doing?” “Going upstairs to bed,” Crash said. “You’re not getting out of it that easy,” he said. “Your mother’s going to hear about you going out at all hours of the night. Your mother’s….” And he just started coughing into his hand. He was huge, filling the doorway with smells and sounds. He scratched at his chest and the scrape was like metal on metal. I held still and kept looking down, wondering if I could run. “Where is she, Dad?” he asked. “Where’s Mom?” “Don’t you worry about that,” he said pointing a huge finger at us. He had all these gray lines on his knuckles. His nails were smooth and yellowish. “It never bothered you.” And then, he saw me. “Who the hell are you?” “Jason Holmes,” I said. “I’m drunk.” I didn’t mean to say that, but I did. “You’re drunk, are you?” he said brushing his wet black hair back. He didn’t look like he was losing his hair, but when he ran his big finger threw it you could see his pale skull shining through. “That’s just great.” He sounded like he was just too tired to be mad. Otherwise, I got the feeling he might kill us. “Do your parents know about this?” I tried to think of an answer, but I couldn’t. “Well?” he said. “What’s the matter with you? And where the hell did you get that shiner? It wasn’t from this kid over here. He can’t throw a punch to save his life.” “I’m fine,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “What have you boys been drinking?” “Beer,” Crash said. “Just beer.” “Where is it?” he asked stepping away from the door. “We don’t have…,” Crash started. “Go get it,” he said. “Get it now.” Then, he grabbed Crash by the shirt and pushed him back. Crash put one foot back and caught himself so he didn’t fall down the porch steps. “You, too,” he said pointing at me. “Get your ass off my porch and go with him. I want to know where you’ve been hiding it.” I stood still, but Crash walked down the porch steps. “Come on,” Crash said in a loud whisper. “Let’s go.” “What?” I said stepping off the porch. Then, I heard a funny noise behind me. When, I looked back over my shoulder, I saw Crash’s father go back into the house with his baseball bat. Crash didn’t say anything until we were standing in the road.
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