Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

“I was maybe six, Mom.”

“I remember things from when I was six.”

“You think you do.”

“The neighbor boy did magic tricks. He could make bottle caps disappear.”

Dad died of cancer. He smelled like medicine. From pictures Mom has, I know he played golf and rode a motorcycle. The car on TV spins out, and the driver makes a run for it. I want a drink. Not desperately, but a beer would be nice, and if I had a twelve-pack, I could bullshit with Mom all day long. She changes to a talk show, and I go to my room and read more comics.

MY BROTHER’S HOUSE is about a mile away. Paul. I walk over. He’s in his garage when I get there, working on his truck. I’m three years older. We’ve never been particularly close. He’s surprised to see me.

“Mom didn’t call?” I say.

He shrugs. We stand side by side, looking down at the engine. The fan belt is loose. All the men in the neighborhood took him under their wings when we were kids. He could catch a ball, swing a hammer. They loved him more than they loved their own sons.

His wife, Kelly, comes out. We’ve only met once before. Her dad owns the plumbing company Paul works for. I didn’t know she was pregnant. She asks the questions Paul won’t. I like that.

“How long are you staying with her?”

“It’s kind of open-ended.”

“Are you working?”

“Nah, taking some time off.”

“She must be so jazzed. She talks about you constantly, wondering why you don’t come see her more often.”

“She’s lucky she has you guys so close.”

This is a dig. Mom’s already told me they never visit. Kelly gives me a dirty look and goes back inside. I hold a flashlight for Paul while he tightens the belt. All his screws are sorted by size and stored in baby food jars. His tools hang on the wall above his workbench, each outlined in Magic Marker. I think he’s happy. He seems happy.

“Is that how you’re going to play it this time, that you’re visiting?” he asks.

“There’s some stuff to do. The house is in bad shape.”

“Good a place as any to dry out, I guess.”

I can take it; I’m a man. I ask him for some weed, a little something to smooth the rough patches. He still smokes — I know he does — so what’s with the disgust on his face? What’s with the sigh? He wipes his hands on a bright red rag before walking into the house. Growing up, I tried to be a big brother to him, but he wouldn’t have it. He scorned my advice, denied my wisdom. I never trusted him, either. We turned on each other all the time.

I’m playing with a vise mounted on the workbench when he returns. I put my finger in it and tighten it until it hurts. He passes me a film canister containing a fat green bud.

“Atta boy,” I say.

I STAYED AWAY those first few years, made all kinds of excuses not to come home. Acting in the movie finally gave me something to talk about, though, so I told Mom she’d see me on Christmas Eve. I don’t know why; we were never any good at holidays, Mom, Paul, and I. All the things you were supposed to say and do — one of us would invariably crack under the pressure.

Dinner went fine. Paul had a girlfriend over, and the three of us used her to keep our distance from one another. She was delighted by the attention. I’d stashed a bottle in the mailbox, and Paul and I took turns sneaking out to hit it.

Cheap whiskey makes me boastful; it always has. By the time we sat down to unwrap presents, I couldn’t shut up about myself. I said I was close to getting a TV series. I said I could see dolphins from the balcony of my apartment, when the truth was I’d been sleeping in my car for a week.

For gifts, I gave both of them one of my head shots, framed, and a funny little IOU I’d drawn up that promised something more when my money situation improved. They were unimpressed.

“Next time you’re going to cheap out, let me know,” Paul huffed. His present to me had been a beautiful leather wallet and silver wallet chain.

“Maybe next year we’ll get the Cadillacs,” Mom said with a smirk.

I snatched the photos away from them. I tore up the IOUs. “This family is fucked,” I announced.

Paul went off, and the tree got knocked over. Mom threw me out. I drove a few blocks, parked in a cul-de-sac and finished the whiskey, then fell asleep listening to carols on the radio. In the morning my battery was dead.

I START WITH the gate. It’s falling off its hinges. Mom has a hammer and nails, so I straighten that out and then tack up a few boards that have come loose from the fence. The backyard has been invaded by the kinds of plants that creep in when your guard is down. Ivy spills over the retaining wall, and morning glory climbs the trees and chokes the rosebushes, flashing sickly purple blossoms. I wade in with hoe and pruning shears, and by noon the flower beds have been liberated.

Mom brings me a sandwich and a Pepsi. I eat at the picnic table. The neighbor’s orange cat watches from under a bush. I dangle a shred of bologna and make kissing sounds, but he’s not buying it. There’s dried blood on my knuckle. I lick it off and reopen a little cut. A thorn must have hooked me. The birds are going crazy, talk, talk, talking among themselves.

“Hey, stranger,” Boots yells out the sliding glass door. Her rings catch the sun when she waves. Boots is Mom’s oldest friend. She taught me to sing “Folsom Prison Blues.” She and Mom are going to the movies. Every Wednesday it’s that and a cheeseburger at Carl’s Jr. “Don’t let her work you too hard,” Boots says. “Lincoln freed the slaves.”

I mow the lawn and edge it. I prune the skeletal peach trees and grapevines. The trimmings fill the trash can. Used to be you could burn this stuff. I remember flames snapping and smoke in my eyes. Was it Dad who lit the match? Two Mexican kids watch from across the street as I sweep the sidewalk, the driveway, the gutter. The fat one wrestles the little one to the ground, letting him up when he screams. The sun is setting by the time I uncoil the hose and wet everything down.

THE SHOWER NEEDS to be caulked and the faucet leaks. I should start a list. I dry off, then wipe the fog from the mirror with the edge of my hand. A good shave isn’t in the cards, though — my razor’s for shit. I wouldn’t say I’m vain, but the web of tiny wrinkles around my eyes depresses me. At least my gut’s holding up.

Pork chops for dinner. Milk gravy. Mom tells me about the movie. “It was sad, but good sad. He loved her so much. Boots cried and cried.” I’m doing calculations in my head, tearing down walls. I could turn this house into something sweet. Mom agrees to give me the money for paint and linoleum to fix up the bathroom. She grabs my hand and presses it to her chest. “You’ve been sad, too, haven’t you?” she says.

I’m embarrassed. I pull away. “I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t get all worked up.”

REED AND SUE Richards of the Fantastic Four have a son named Franklin. Dr. Doom steals the kid, and they go to war. My mind wanders. I toss the comic and close my eyes. Someone once taught me a Buddhist chant to calm myself, but I forgot it a long time ago. I slide my hand down my pants. That’s a bust, too.

Mom’s asleep in front of the TV when I sneak out the door. I wait until I’m around the corner to light the joint. It’s been a while since I smoked. By the second hit, I could tell you everything you need to know about the neighbors simply by analyzing the cars in their driveways. It’s so obvious. The high intensifies, though, and turns creepy. A dog snarls at me. A Toyota makes a questionable left. And my heart. Man! It’s racing like a sonofabitch.

THE KICK CAME out of nowhere, catching me square in the mouth. I almost swallowed my teeth. That’s what you get for fighting in bars. A few years had passed since that Christmas mess. Mom gave me a little attitude but finally said I could stay with her awhile. I had to get out of Hollywood; I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.