Bud Smith: F 250

Afterwards, months later, they found common ground, lots of common ground, when the misunderstanding got cleared up after the two ran into each other at a woods party out in the sand pits underneath the water tower with the high tension power lines humming.

Feral had this house on the lagoons and needed roommates. I, too, was on my ass after things had gone sour with Natalie. Somehow, we all wound up living together. I munched on my stale cereal unpleased with life.

“Gotta break up with Shannon,” Seth said.

“Yes, you certainly do. That girl sucks.”

“Agreed,” I said.

“What do you think is the worst thing about her?” Seth asked.

“Hard to say.”

“It might be a sum average of everything about her.”

“She doesn’t suck it,” Seth said, “That’s the big one.”

“Ba dum dum,” Feral said. “I’ll be here all week. Try the roast beef, motherfucker.”

The phone started to ring. Except the phone was actually a duck. So it didn’t ring, it quacked. Seth leaned over and picked up the duck’s body and spoke into the beak. It was Ethan. He was coming over. Seth slid the duck down on the receiver.

“That kid’s coming here?” Feral asked skeptically.

“I got his guitar,” I clarified. “He’s coming to get it back.”

I told him about my car crash, how the neck of my guitar got snapped, how Ethan had bailed us out for a show we were playing by lending one of his Gibson Les Pauls — like, a five thousand dollar guitar Ethan’s rich-ass dad had given him.

Feral interrupted all this. “Bring me your broken guitar. I can fix it, for real.”

“Nahhh,” I said. “That’s alright.”

“How hard could it be? I just need some glue and a clamp or something.”

“Glue? A clamp? Getta outta here.”

“I don’t think you could fix a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Seth said.

“I’m handy, really. I’m sure I could fix it.”

“You’re outta your mind,” Seth said. “Fix your zipper. It’s down.”

Feral snorted, “For you to start sucking.” He passed me the big book of CDs, said, “Lee, make yourself useful. Pick something. I need some music. Can’t listen to this motherfucking mouth breather any longer.”

“I’m not a mouth breather!” Seth said.

“The fuck you’re not.”

I started flipping through the book. Two hundred CDs, and I couldn’t find anything I wanted to put on.

“Sabbath?” I asked.

“Masters of Reality, please.”

I flipped around until I found it and stuck it in the player. Track two had a nasty scratch in it and skipped, so I went right to the third track.

They began playing Grand Theft Auto on PlayStation. I took a ride to Wawa to get myself a cup of coffee and a pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich.

Outside, I took a good look at the house. We were the last house on a dead-end street. Marsh on all sides, except the backyard, which faced a small lagoon that led narrowly out to the bay. Boats bobbed all down the line of bulkheads … except for ours.

It was a puke-green bungalow. There were stupid sharp red rocks on the lawn; you couldn’t walk barefoot on it. Obscuring all the dirty windows except for mine were overgrown pine shrubs with juniper berries. Up on the roof, our weathervane, a rusted rooster who Feral had loving named “Captain Cock,” spun slowly even though I couldn’t feel any wind.

Yeah, tear this place down, please.

Feral’s black conversion van, which sat in the driveway, was painted with red stripes and accents to resemble the A-Team mobile. It leaked oil into the earth, one drip at a time, feeding dinosaur ghosts.

Out back was a half-rotten deck that ran along the water. There were green head flies out there most of the time that’d land on your flesh, bite down.

We didn’t have our tiny outboard motor boat anymore. Feral had taken Trish out one night and sunk it somewhere. No-one knew. They floated back clutching onto a Power Puff Girls boogie board.

When I got back to the house, Ethan’s white BMW 5 Series was sitting in the red stones by the mailbox. Denise, his girl, was inside. She was listening to one of our demos. That was Ethan for ya. Denise didn’t have any makeup on. Her hair was pulled back instead of down. She still looked impossibly good.

I walked over to her window. She turned the music down. She had on short shorts and a low-cut tank top. All her nails were painted hot pink. Her neck was tan, a gold cross hung on a chain.

“Hey,” she said. “Sorry we left so quick from your show.”

“No biggie,” I said. “You didn’t miss much.”

She nodded. “I had to meet a kid for some stuff.” She tapped her heavenly nose. “You live here?”

“This is my place, yeah.” I pointed at my window.

“Cool,” she said, smiling. “Your own place. I still crash with my parents between semesters. It’s a bummer.”

I invited her in the house, but she said, “Aw, thanks. I’m okay out in the car.” Ethan’s orders I assumed. He was good for that kinda thing. Later on, I saw Ethan tell Denise, on two or three occasions, “Babe, wait in the car.”

I walked in the house. Ethan was sitting in the kitchen with the lights off, looking all serious and not-to-be-fucked-with as he drummed his fingers on our kitchen table.

Seth and Feral were still playing video games; they didn’t even notice he was there. (Or noticed and didn’t want to be bothered.)

“Hey, I came for my guitar,” Ethan said.

“Sure.” I got it from my room for him. He opened the case right away. Inspected the whole thing. Feral came out in the middle of this.

“Cut your hair I see, Ethel.”

There’s nothing that Ethan hates more than being called Ethel.

“Yup, that’s correct,” Ethan said. He didn’t want to talk about something so painfully obvious as the fact that he had gotten a haircut.

“Why’d you cut it?” Feral asked. “You used to be so … metal. Hahaha. Now you look like you’re in a boy band.”

“Why don’t you go take a shower?”

“You can take one with me if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll wash your back for you.”

“You’re trash. You know that? Trash.”

“Hey, man, get the fuck outta my house,” Feral said.

“Was leaving anyway,” Ethan said, scooping his guitar case up as he went through the screen door without even saying goodbye.

As his BMW peeled away, some of the sharp red rocks slapped against the vinyl siding.

“That kid’s a pussy,” Feral said.

I shrugged.

Seth said, “Maybe, but we’re going to LA ‘cause of him.”

That was the thing. Ethan had a connection. Connections, really. We thought we could get to where we wanted to go. All we had to do was put up with his babyish bullshit for just a little while longer. Then we’d be in California.

“What’s the big deal with L.A.?” Feral asked.

“I just think good things will happen there,” Seth replied.

“I’ve been there,” I said. “California is quite something to see.”

“What do they have there that we don’t?”

“They have Heuvos Rancheros,” I said.

“What’s that,” Seth said.

“I’ll show you when we get there.”

“Heuvos Rancheros…” Feral said as he scratched his chin, stoned and transfixed. He said it again, just under his breath, as if I was talking about the city of lost gold.

My room was built out of the off-kilter bookcasesand the books inhabiting them: used paperbacks, stacks of them, everywhere. Bookcases, bookcases, and more bookcases. They were my only furniture. They lined every wall. I was boxed in by gray Sheetrock that sweated recklessly.