Bud Smith - F 250

There were too many objects crammed into the tiny bungalow. It was a claustrophobic obstacle course. To get in the front door, I had to climb over Seth’s drum kit and my amp and then snake through a maze of cardboard boxes packed with vinyl records, VHS tapes, toys, paperback books, ancient concert posters — rolled up and scotch taped.

That junk all belonged Feral. That’s how he made the legal portion of his money; he was a scavenger. He sold whatever he could at the flea market on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

Feral’s claim to local fame was that in 1998 he accidentally burnt down Commando Video, the local VHS rental shop. Back then, he rented a room above the store and passed out in bed with a joint. The curtain went up in flames. As the fire spread, he jumped out the second story window and landed on the sidewalk. All those movies downstairs melted. He’s walked with a limp ever since.

I walked out of my room, kicking one of the boxes out of my path. Some of the VHS tapes in it were half melted, remnants of that long ago fire. It didn’t matter. Feral was still trying to sell them at the flea market.

“You got too much junk,” I called through two rooms.

“Maybe,” he said.

Feral was sitting on the ripped-to-shreds love seat, smoking a cigarette and watching Twin Peaks with the sound off while listening to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports.

Lagoon House had a haunted, ethereal feel, as if time was stuck in heavy slime.

Feral waved, “Sup, sleepyhead?”

“I killed Laura Palmer,” I said.

“Don’t ruin it for me!”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was upside down, hands all wrong, but I could tell it was 2 p.m.

Feral still had about 100 stitches in his head from the first night I’d met him. He saw me looking and said, “They’re coming out soon. Then I’ll be purty again.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, I’ll be so handsome. I’ll be so suave again. I’ll even let you blow me. It’ll be great.”

“Saying shit like that to people is how you got those stitches to begin with.”

“That’s some heavy-duty wisdom, man. Really.”

“You’ll thank me one day.”

Seth was passed out on the other couch, his long legs hanging over the side. One foot had a black sock, the other foot was bare.

I checked the fridge. It made me think of Antarctica. Soulless. White. Empty. I noticed there was a box of Lucky Charms cereal on top, but the milk had gone bad. It was cottage cheese now. I poured the cereal into a red solo cup.

“Damn,” I said, realizing Seth had taken all the marshmallows out and left the crappy bits of plain, tasteless cereal. In life, marshmallows are needed.

Feral laughed at something. It could have been anything or nothing. I walked into the living room and plopped down on the filthy shag rug. Dust shot up like sparks.

Feral was shirtless, belly hanging out like Buddha with the wrong answers. He was greasy. Gap-toothed. Kept rubbing his face. He’s been up all night grinding his teeth and jaw, chewing on crazy straws with pastel stripes that sat in a pile on the table next to his green Martian bong. He was like a big stupid kid that couldn’t get out of the 8th grade. How had be made it 32 years?

“Bad news, maing,” Feral said looking up, “Johnny DiSanto came over here this morning. Pissed. Guy wanted to rumble.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Seth with both eyes closed, “You haven’t paid him rent in four months. What’d he say?”

“We gotta be out by the end of the month. Out, out,” Feral said. “Up the road, off in the distance, into the sunset.”

“Ahhh shit.”

Seth stuck his head up, “But he said that last month too.”

We nodded. It was hard to tell how serious the situation was. DiSanto, our landlord, was a state trooper who’d been kicked off the force for some kind of shady goings on. Drugs. Underage girls. More drugs.

He was Feral’s high-school buddy though, so the two of them had some kind of weird link up. Total cahoots. Pills mostly. Coke. Hash. Weed … whatever was around. DiSanto supplied, Feral sold it. I turned a blind eye.

Things were grim. Supposedly, Lagoon House was up for sale, even had an interested buyer. But the deal kept getting delayed, so we stopped paying rent.

At first, DiSanto didn’t seem to care. He’d just drop by and say, in a real stern tone, “House is about to get bought. You guys better start packing.” He’d kick a cardboard box full of VHS tapes and laugh. Then Feral would pack a bowl, and we’d all smoke out of the green Martian bong, put a record on to ease the tension, and pretend we were all friends.

But that morning brought a change of tone. Alarm bells were beginning to go off.

“We’ll be out on our ass.”

“Sleepin’ in the marsh.”

“They’ll level this house, build a three-story Crackerjack McMansion like the one across the street,” Seth said.

“Let them tear it down. Who cares?” Feral said, “We’ll rent a place that’s not such a dump. With a Jacuzzi.”

Sure we would. I had visions of winding up on Aldo’s couch again. My previous experiences had been enough. Truth is we’d probably just disband in separate directions. Seth never had money, nothing enough for rent. My attempts at getting him side cash by dragging him along to work with me had failed. He always spent it on the wrong stuff.

Seth sat up, his hair frizzy and wild.

“We’re going to L.A. anyway,” Seth said.

I looked down at the carpet. I don’t get off on fairy tales.

Feral snickered.

Seth changed the subject, tired of fighting the disbelief of the naysayers. “Talked to my bro, Mark. My aunt died.”

“Oh, sorry,” Feral said.

”Yeah,” Seth sighed.

“Kathy?” I asked. “Oh fuck… How?”

“Her heart.”

“The one with the house in upstate New York?” Feral asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s my favorite place in the whole world. Used to play with my bro there every summer. Now, I gotta drive up to her viewing on Wednesday. It’s way up, top of New York State. The Sentra is running on empty.”

Feral said, “You got gas money, bro?”

“Nahhh, that’s the thing.”

Feral reached under the bong into his metal cash box, took out some bills, passed a pathetic fold to Seth. At least it was something.

“Thanks, man.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Feral said.

I scooped my wallet off the table and gave Seth some of my pathetic cash too.

“I’ll pay you guys back. My brother Mark is flying in from Chicago. He’s flush.”

I focused in on the mess all around us. This place really did need a wrecking ball.

I’d fallen asleep early. They’d sat out in the living room until dawn, all spun out, watching TV, talking about music and which cartoon characters would give the best blow-jobs. The pros and cons to everything. The two of them could talk about everything and nothing.

It was hard to remember that they’d fought.

But most people I know back home have been in fist fights with one another at some point. If they haven’t, they should.

Seth nearly broke his hand on Feral’s thick skull. It still gave me a headache when I think about the haymaker he’d hit him with. See, Feral’d mistaken Seth for somebody else. (Don’t ask me who. I have no idea.) Outside the diner at 2 a.m., he started laying some serious shit on him. I watched Seth come unhinged, lunge at Feral, and beat the piss out of him.

That’s what happens when you say to somebody, “Your mother’s a whore,” and it’s true. They beat your ass in the parking lot. Then they go inside and eat disco fries, their knuckles all bloody and dripping on the placemat — local businesses stained red. Hands shaking, fractured. Unable to play drums for two weeks: an eternity.