He drove in a daze, sipping the Jack from the bottle. Autopilot took him out of the complex, out to
Church Street Memorial Drive
He remembered nothing until he pulled into the driveway of the old house where Jeff rented an “efficiency” apartment, really a room with a kitchenette and a toilet and shower tucked into what seemed an oversized closet. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come here.
He’d met Jeff at 13, when they were both freshman in a high school system that threw them in with 18 year old seniors. They’d learned quickly that two little punks standing together were less inviting to older kids than one alone. Together they’d learned to fight, drink, smoke, get laid and do dope. They were as close as the brothers that neither of them ever had.
This place was a dump, too. Worse than Kerry’s. He assumed that it had been quite a nice mansion when it was built in the twenties, with a side portico through which a brick driveway ran and dormers with round windows, the whole gingerbread package. But urban blight had started a few miles farther east in the city and was creeping along this main street like gangrene up a vein. It looked as though no one had maintained it since the fifties and now it was just huge and dilapidated.
It was divided into three apartments, two efficiencies and one regular. Jeff’s was on the left, Ailey lived on the right, and the larger apartment in the middle was rented by what Rat claimed was a lesbian couple. But then Rat viewed almost any female that wouldn’t sleep with him as a lesbian.
Bottle in hand, he walked around the side and saw Jeff’s 58 panhead Harley in the side yard. Jeff was home or the bike would be gone or inside.
Giving a cursory knock, he walked inside. Jeff was sitting on the couch reading a motorcycle magazine.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” he asked looking up.
Doran sat on the coffee table facing Jeff. He said nothing until he’d taken a pull from the bottle and handed it to Jeff.
“She’s dead. Killed herself, fucking killed herself.” He sounded like he didn’t believe himself.
“Huh? Dead? Who?”
“Kerry. She…she…” he stammered, motioned for the bottle back from Jeff and took another drink. And then he started talking, told Jeff the whole story pausing only to light a smoke and have another drink. He pulled the suicide note out and handed to Jeff who read it quickly.
“Holy fuck! You ain’t kidding? You sure she’s dead? And what the hell’s she talking about trees and caves for?” he asked as he read the note again, more carefully this time.
“That’s Nietzsche. And, oh yeah. She’s dead, all right. Not breathing, no pulse, getting cold and a little blue around the lips. Sound dead to you?”
“Sounds like it to me. You cleaned everything up?”
“Yeah,” Doran sighed.
“So where’d you call the cops from?” Jeff handed the note back to Doran who stuffed it back into his pocket.
“Cops? Oh, shit. I forgot,” he stammered through the fuzzy warmth ofTennessee
He got to his feet and wavered a bit. Jeff stood and steadied his friend. “C’mon, man. Probably don’t wanna’ use Ailey’s phone for this. We’ll ride up to the store,” he said opening the door.
Doran stumbled unsteadily on the threshold. Jeff took another look at him and at the bottle still in his hand, and shook his head. “Go on back in. I’ll make the call. You stay here and drink. And read something useful like a bike rag. Maybe learn how to fix your fuckin’ shovelhead.Reading
“Good idea. Thanks,” Doran replied without arguing. He turned, went back in and fell into the couch. He heard the Harley roar to life and felt the bike’s percussion coming through the walls as Jeff left.
Again he sat thinking. The whiskey had slowed his mind down so he was able to make some sense out of his thoughts now. Kerry was twenty-six years old but dope and booze had her looking older. She’d always chased the next buzz, yeah. And she’d laughed and lived hard while she was doing it, always seeming to have a good time. But that far away look was always there, waiting for a quiet moment to show itself. He’d seen it before. Sometimes at 2:30 in the morning at the Keg. Once, last summer at Stuart’s place they’d had a big barbeque. She’d spent an hour sitting alone in the grass in the back yard. He’d finally brought a beer out to her. She’d taken it without a word and turned away, clearly wanting to be left alone. She’d had that look then.
He figured that look was why she never slowed down. She wasn’t chasing after a high. She was away running from a low. It was hard to tell the two apart.
He remembered sitting at the bar at the Keg one Saturday afternoon. He’d been trying to explain to her how it felt when he’d caught his ex cheating, how anger and betrayal and insult had all converged in his gut. Frustrated, he’d finally given up, saying “Most experiences are unsayable.”
“They happen in a space that no word has ever entered,” she finished.
“Too fuckin’ true” he’d said startled. He decided to push it. “OK, so what about ‘My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach?”
“I bet Whitman never shut up. He was probably a real pain in the ass to hang out with. How bout just saying some shit’s just too hard to explain?”
They laughed, tapped their beers together and the conversation moved onto something else. But that was when he realized that there was much more to her than she ever showed the world. “What the hell was someone who could quote Rilke doing at the Keg? Or recognized “Song of Myself”,” he’d wondered. They had a bond after that, but nothing changed in the way they interacted. He just liked her a little more.
Now, as he was pondering that same thing again, he realized something, what she’d been talking about. None of the other boozers, bums or bikers that hung at the Keg even knew who Ranier Maria Rilke or Walt Whitman were. Hell, he was always saying something that seemed to just fly right over those clowns’ heads. But not her. She knew.
OK, so, big deal. He was aware that he knew more STUFF than those other assholes. But knowing more stuff doesn’t necessarily equal smarter. If he was, he’d be somewhere else. Doing something else. Still, he knew that he was different from them.
But what about her? She was too, right? Yes. So what was the difference between the two of them? What always made her run way past that line between just plain wild and downright fucking crazy?
He remembered nothing until he pulled into the driveway of the old house where Jeff rented an “efficiency” apartment, really a room with a kitchenette and a toilet and shower tucked into what seemed an oversized closet. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come here.
He’d met Jeff at 13, when they were both freshman in a high school system that threw them in with 18 year old seniors. They’d learned quickly that two little punks standing together were less inviting to older kids than one alone. Together they’d learned to fight, drink, smoke, get laid and do dope. They were as close as the brothers that neither of them ever had.
This place was a dump, too. Worse than Kerry’s. He assumed that it had been quite a nice mansion when it was built in the twenties, with a side portico through which a brick driveway ran and dormers with round windows, the whole gingerbread package. But urban blight had started a few miles farther east in the city and was creeping along this main street like gangrene up a vein. It looked as though no one had maintained it since the fifties and now it was just huge and dilapidated.
It was divided into three apartments, two efficiencies and one regular. Jeff’s was on the left, Ailey lived on the right, and the larger apartment in the middle was rented by what Rat claimed was a lesbian couple. But then Rat viewed almost any female that wouldn’t sleep with him as a lesbian.
Bottle in hand, he walked around the side and saw Jeff’s 58 panhead Harley in the side yard. Jeff was home or the bike would be gone or inside.
Giving a cursory knock, he walked inside. Jeff was sitting on the couch reading a motorcycle magazine.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” he asked looking up.
Doran sat on the coffee table facing Jeff. He said nothing until he’d taken a pull from the bottle and handed it to Jeff.
“She’s dead. Killed herself, fucking killed herself.” He sounded like he didn’t believe himself.
“Huh? Dead? Who?”
“Kerry. She…she…” he stammered, motioned for the bottle back from Jeff and took another drink. And then he started talking, told Jeff the whole story pausing only to light a smoke and have another drink. He pulled the suicide note out and handed to Jeff who read it quickly.
“Holy fuck! You ain’t kidding? You sure she’s dead? And what the hell’s she talking about trees and caves for?” he asked as he read the note again, more carefully this time.
“That’s Nietzsche. And, oh yeah. She’s dead, all right. Not breathing, no pulse, getting cold and a little blue around the lips. Sound dead to you?”
“Sounds like it to me. You cleaned everything up?”
“Yeah,” Doran sighed.
“So where’d you call the cops from?” Jeff handed the note back to Doran who stuffed it back into his pocket.
“Cops? Oh, shit. I forgot,” he stammered through the fuzzy warmth of
He got to his feet and wavered a bit. Jeff stood and steadied his friend. “C’mon, man. Probably don’t wanna’ use Ailey’s phone for this. We’ll ride up to the store,” he said opening the door.
Doran stumbled unsteadily on the threshold. Jeff took another look at him and at the bottle still in his hand, and shook his head. “Go on back in. I’ll make the call. You stay here and drink. And read something useful like a bike rag. Maybe learn how to fix your fuckin’ shovelhead.
“Good idea. Thanks,” Doran replied without arguing. He turned, went back in and fell into the couch. He heard the Harley roar to life and felt the bike’s percussion coming through the walls as Jeff left.
Again he sat thinking. The whiskey had slowed his mind down so he was able to make some sense out of his thoughts now. Kerry was twenty-six years old but dope and booze had her looking older. She’d always chased the next buzz, yeah. And she’d laughed and lived hard while she was doing it, always seeming to have a good time. But that far away look was always there, waiting for a quiet moment to show itself. He’d seen it before. Sometimes at 2:30 in the morning at the Keg. Once, last summer at Stuart’s place they’d had a big barbeque. She’d spent an hour sitting alone in the grass in the back yard. He’d finally brought a beer out to her. She’d taken it without a word and turned away, clearly wanting to be left alone. She’d had that look then.
He figured that look was why she never slowed down. She wasn’t chasing after a high. She was away running from a low. It was hard to tell the two apart.
He remembered sitting at the bar at the Keg one Saturday afternoon. He’d been trying to explain to her how it felt when he’d caught his ex cheating, how anger and betrayal and insult had all converged in his gut. Frustrated, he’d finally given up, saying “Most experiences are unsayable.”
“They happen in a space that no word has ever entered,” she finished.
“Too fuckin’ true” he’d said startled. He decided to push it. “OK, so what about ‘My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach?”
“I bet Whitman never shut up. He was probably a real pain in the ass to hang out with. How bout just saying some shit’s just too hard to explain?”
They laughed, tapped their beers together and the conversation moved onto something else. But that was when he realized that there was much more to her than she ever showed the world. “What the hell was someone who could quote Rilke doing at the Keg? Or recognized “Song of Myself”,” he’d wondered. They had a bond after that, but nothing changed in the way they interacted. He just liked her a little more.
Now, as he was pondering that same thing again, he realized something, what she’d been talking about. None of the other boozers, bums or bikers that hung at the Keg even knew who Ranier Maria Rilke or Walt Whitman were. Hell, he was always saying something that seemed to just fly right over those clowns’ heads. But not her. She knew.
OK, so, big deal. He was aware that he knew more STUFF than those other assholes. But knowing more stuff doesn’t necessarily equal smarter. If he was, he’d be somewhere else. Doing something else. Still, he knew that he was different from them.
But what about her? She was too, right? Yes. So what was the difference between the two of them? What always made her run way past that line between just plain wild and downright fucking crazy?
No comments:
Post a Comment