Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

Nadine got into her car. One of her friends rode shotgun, and the four other girls piled into the backseat. A couple of them looked like they were on their last legs already, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet.

Griffin and I got into my car and followed them across town.

“What do you think?” he said. “Is tonight the night?”

I looked over at him.

“You and Nadine? Hot summer night?”

I shook him off, but I couldn’t help noticing how her kiss was still right there on my lips.

We were headed west, out toward the proving grounds. Nadine turned down a dirt road, and as I drove behind her, her car kicked up a cloud of dust in my headlights. Finally, she pulled off, parking on the side of the road behind a line of other cars. As I got out, I could see the cars stretching all the way down to a long driveway. This was obviously the A-list party of the night.

“Where the hell are we?” Griffin said. “Whose house is this?”

I put my hands up. No idea.

“You really want to go in?”

I looked at him. Like, what do you think?

“I suppose we could check it out.”

We caught up to Nadine and her friends. I walked beside her. She kept brushing her hair back and tucking it behind her ears. I was terrified of the idea of trying to hold her hand. She kept smiling at me.

The house was made of logs, not a rustic-looking Abe Lincoln log cabin but one of those nicer log homes with lots of windows and high beamed ceilings. It overlooked a good acre of lawn that ran all the way down to the tree line. Next to the house sat an empty Michigan State Police car.

There were citronella candles burning every few feet to keep away the mosquitoes. There was music playing, of course. I could feel the thump of the bass notes as we went through the front door, but thankfully the volume was only turned up to nine this time. Instead of weird techno, it was good old-fashioned white boy rock music. Van Halen, Guns N’ Roses, AC/DC. There were so many people in the house, there was barely room to stand.

Nadine’s friends formed a wedge and started leading us through the house. I saw a photograph on the wall of a state trooper in full dress uniform, standing proudly next to his German shepherd. There was an open sliding door ahead, past the dining room table. That seemed to be our target.

It was just as crowded outside. There was a huge banner mounted on a clothesline, at least ten feet long and four feet wide. MILFORD KICKS ASS, in big block letters. With a drawing of a foot kicking an actual set of buttocks, in case you didn’t get the point. Right below the banner, there was a keg on ice. Nadine and her friends all grabbed red plastic cups and got in line. She handed me a cup, and I stood next to her. Then I felt a strong hand on my shoulder.

“Hot damn! It’s my man, Mike!”

It was Brian Hauser. The House himself, the senior hotshot whose lock I had opened back in the fall. Right before he and the rest of the team got trounced in the big game against Lakeland High School. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with every shade of blue and green ever invented. It seemed like he was taking a little bit of extra effort just to put his words together tonight.

“How’s it hanging, man? I’m glad you made it! Who you got here?”

He took a quick scan. Nadine and her friends. Griffin.

“Okay, then,” he said. “The party’s complete now. Hey, can I talk to you for a minute? There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

I looked at Nadine and Griffin.

“Will you ladies excuse us for a second?” he said to her. “And you, sorry, what’s your name again?”

“Griffin.”

“Yeah, it’ll just be one moment. We’re gonna step into the VIP Room here. You go ahead and hit that keg. We’ve got a few more lined up, so don’t worry if it’s running out.”

Brian led me away to his “VIP Room,” which apparently was the upper level of his back deck. There was an actual red velvet rope strung from the posts. Brian untied the rope from one post and let me through, then retied it as we headed up the steps. There was a patio table up there, with a big green umbrella and padded chairs. There was a hot tub. Two other seniors were sitting on the edge, their feet in the water. Trey Tollman, the quarterback, and another guy from the team named Danny Farrely.

“Hey, look who I found,” Brian said to them.

Danny nearly fell over himself as he came barefoot from the edge of the hot tub.

“Michael, my man!” Like I was his long lost friend.

“You know Danny and Trey,” Brian said. “From the team.”

“I want to tell you something,” Danny said. He pulled me away from Brian and wrapped his arm around my neck, the sickly sweet smell of hard alcohol on his breath. “You’re okay. You know that? You really are. You’re like an inspiration to me.”

“Okay, leave him alone,” Trey said. “You’re slobbering all over him.”

“Come over here,” Brian said, pulling me back. “You want something to drink? Trey, you got any of that punch left?”

“Hell, yeah,” Trey said. He grabbed a cup from the table and poured a tall drink from the pitcher sitting next to it. “Give this a try. It’ll fix you right up.”

I took the cup from him and tried it. It tasted like regular old fruit punch to me.

“That’s the Sucker Punch,” Brian said. “Don’t drink it too fast, eh?”

“God damn,” Danny said. “The artist himself.” He went back to the edge of the hot tub and put one foot back in. “The fucking Rembrandt of Milford. Fuck, this water is hot.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” Trey said. “You’re not going to melt.”

“I don’t see you getting in.”

“Yeah, well, if anybody’s getting naked back here, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be just us guys, I can tell you that.”

“The VIP Room! When are we gonna get some girls up here, anyway?”

“So let me ask you,” Brian said, brushing his friends aside. “You remember that day you opened up my lock?”

I nodded.

“How did you do that?”

They all looked at me intently, like they were actually expecting me to answer. I put my hands up.

“It’s complicated,” Brian said. “Is that what you’re saying? You just have to know how?”

“He’s an artist,” Danny said. “With a paintbrush or a padlock.”

I took another sip of the drink. It was sweet and it went down easy. The deck started to move under my feet. Just a little bit at that point. Not the full-blown Tilt-A-Whirl.

“So then, let me ask you this,” Brian said. “Can you open up other kinds of locks?”

I gave him half a shrug, half a nod.

“Like key locks? Can you open those? You probably need tools, though, right?”

“I bet you he can,” Danny said. “He’s an artist, I tell you.”

“What kind of tools would you need?” Brian said. “I mean, I’m just wondering.”

I didn’t have my homemade tools with me. I should have just waved him off and tried to go find Griffin and Nadine. Funny how it’s hard to change the subject when you can’t speak, though. You can’t help but be a captive listener.

“If I get my old man’s toolbox, will you show me? I think it’s just amazing that you can do that.”

“He’s amazing,” Danny said. “He’s the amazing artist of art and… something. Wait.”

“Will you shut up with that, already?” Trey said.

“You’re just jealous because you’re not amazing.”

“Here, come on down,” Brian said. “I’ll get the tools.”

He led me back down the stairs, practically towing me behind him. Danny and Trey followed us. I tried to find Griffin and Nadine, but I couldn’t see them anywhere. I was about to go inside, but Brian blocked my path as he came back out with a big metal toolbox. I started to feel a little bit nervous about this. I took another couple of sips from the Sucker Punch. Probably not the best idea in the world.