Deathskull Bombshell (6 page)

A drunk man slurred together a string of
obscenities as one woman sobbed and another woman yelled. The smash
of breaking dishes. A baby started crying. A few more people showed
up, and the fighting increased in volume. The red and blue police
lights flickered on and off.

Fucking ghetto. Parker hated the neighbors
and their bullshit arguments. It was fine when he was a kid and
didn’t know any better. Most of his neighbors were rednecks back
then, but gentrification happened over the years. Lately it seemed
like everyone was armed and on drugs. If the rent wasn’t so cheap,
he’d get the fuck out, faster than anything.

Nick tossed the pillow aside and flung his
shirt off, pulling Parker’s body close. Their stomachs pressed
together, warming each other despite the cold autumn air that blew
in through the window. He could feel Nick’s erection through the
soft fabric of his pajama pants, hard against his thigh.

The sirens were a few blocks away by now. The
rubberneckers were probably gone, but it was hard to know, really.
You were never alone in the sticks.

Sticks, ghetto. It was all the same, anyway.
Too much Midwestern weirdness, well-meaning religious folk and nosy
crack addicts crammed in the same small studio efficiencies and
duplexes. Their house was one of the few that hadn’t been paved
over to make room.

Parker waited there, breathing hard in the
dark, his pulse racing like a rabbit, waiting for any sort of sign
from Nick, whether he should keep going or give pause, erring on
the side of conscientiousness.

No luck. All quiet.

Whatever. Fine. Parker lifted his face up,
fearless, about to go in for the kiss.

Nick began to cough violently. He rolled off
Parker and sat up, hacking and wheezing. Parker patted his back
until he calmed down. Poor guy.

“My heart’s trying to kill me,” Nick
complained. He massaged his throat, looking annoyed.

Parker leaned back in his sleeping bag,
trying to calm down. Well, fuck. He should have been a woman. They
were so lucky, no boners.

“I’m going to bed.” Nick got back into his
own sleeping bag and rolled over on his side, away from him.

A few hours passed. He listened to Nick’s
breath, ragged in his throat. Sometimes he worried Nick would die
in the middle of the night. He’d read stories about guys with bad
lungs. Sometimes they just died.

Well, everybody died, that was part of
it.

Suppose Nick died. Then he’d be all
alone.

Parker remembered reading someplace that
otters slept in the water, holding paws. They did that so the other
otter wouldn’t float away in the middle of the night. He felt like
that. Nick was, like, his other otter and he had to protect him
from death. Maybe it was an arrogant thought, but it wasn’t wrong.
Not really.

The tree outside looked like a skeleton,
black bony fingers tapping on the glass.

He shivered in the cold October. The window
was open a crack, and the breeze blew in, fierce and cold. His
thoughts freaked him out, trapping him with dire repetition.

All he wanted was to screw his boyfriend.

Either that or get some sleep.

He looked over at Nick. The moonlight shone
on his face and hair. Even asleep, he looked worried.

“Are you awake?” Nick murmured.

Parker hesitated. “Maybe,” he said
quietly.

He looked out the window again.

The glowing moon shushed him. It’s not even
Halloween yet, the moon said, stop being so creepy.

True. He was probably too romantic.

Parker heard the sound of a sleeping bag,
slowly unzipping. A pair of hands grabbed him in the darkness,
messing up his hair, scratching up and down his back. Nick kissed
him, over and over. Parker moaned into his mouth. He didn’t try to.
It just happened.

Nick pulled a fistful of his hair and bit his
ear. Parker dug his nails into Nick’s back. He moved his hips,
arched his back. Everything moved really fast. His head kept
banging into the floor.

It was a crazy sort of affection they had
with each other. Not unkind. Just crazy.

After waiting for so long, it was confusing.
His body felt hot. He knew Nick wouldn’t make fun of him if he
fucked up, but his hands felt clumsy. Shaky. The condom felt
sopping wet and slippery in his hands, like a fish, and he dropped
it on the floor.

“Use another one,” Nick whispered, panting.
“The box is over by the bookshelf.”

Parker raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Dude. I don’t want dust bunnies and specs of
dirt contaminating my penis. Do you know how many diseases the
average bedroom floor has? There could be cockroach eggs, mouse
crap… I could get salmonella and die.”

Parker sighed, but he wasn’t going to argue.
He grabbed another Trojan from the box, but he didn’t unwrap it.
Instead he crouched over Nick’s body, bringing his mouth to his
hipbones. He kissed Nick’s stomach, lightly, then his knees, his
feet, his balls, his thighs, teasing him.

Nick groaned. “God, please.”

“What?”

“Just fuck me already.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Parker
asked, leaning over him. “I don’t want to pressure you or
anything.” His damp hair swung into his eyes, and his body felt
heavy with want.

“Yeah,” Nick said. He paused. “I figure we’ll
probably get married someday, you know? Like… it wouldn’t hurt to
do it, just once, to make sure we’re compatible.”

Parker gawked at him.

Married?

Well, that was where this was going, he kind
of figured. Eight years was a long time to date and not at least
consider the possibility of marriage. But to hear the words from
Nick’s mouth, so bold, not caring of the consequence, it freaked
him out a bit.

Flat on his back, naked on the floor, Nick
squinted at him, concern in his eyes. “Should I not have said
that?”

“No, it’s fine,” Parker said, although he was
beginning to feel like he needed a good hard pinch. Only in his
dreams did anything ever play out like this. He knew it wouldn’t
last forever. Nothing did. But now seemed like a bad time to ask
Lady Luck for a reality check. “You really want to marry me?”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “Just promise you’ll do
the dishes once in a while.”

“Every other day,” Parker whispered, bringing
his lips close to Nick’s ear.

Nick swatted a hand at him. “Liar.”

Parker sighed and kissed his cheek, laying
down beside him. “Once a week, maybe twice.”

“Good enough.” Nick cuddled up next to him.
“Should we put some music on or something? I don’t think I want
Austin and Alex listening in on us.”

“I doubt they’ll hear anything.”

Nick grinned. “But wouldn’t it be cool if we
did it listening to the Queers?”

“Oh fuck, seriously? That’s way too easy.
What about the Buzzcocks? Bratmobile? Maybe some classic
music?”

“Avril Lavigne,” Nick said.

“My boner died. Thanks.”

“Sorry.” Nick brushed his fingertips against
Parker’s leg. “You want me to hold a funeral service?”

“No. I want your dick. Stop talking.”

Nick grabbed Parker’s face, jammed his tongue
down his throat. And that was the start of their engagement.

May 2009

Austin looked over the newspaper, chewing on
a pen. He kept ruining pens that way. The empty basement aggravated
him. Too damned quiet. There weren’t enough cigarettes for
this.

Menopause.

His mother was going insane.

“Honestly, I don’t see what the problem is
with you,” she complained, throwing the basement curtains open. A
blast of sunlight assaulted Austin’s tired eyes, and he closed his
eyes to block the glare. “All these beer bottles. It looks like a
brewery in here. We have a recycling bin, you know. And why don’t
you go outside once in a while? Get a job. You look like a dead
person.”

“I have a job,” he said.

“Well, get another one.” She stomped upstairs
and he winced, leaning into his newspaper. The classifieds were
sparse and hopeless.

Nothing good.

He called his coworker, Heather. It was a
Sunday morning, but she woke up early every day so she could get in
extra hours. Heather lived for telemarketing. It was her life’s
ambition. She was constantly upbeat. Her work voice reminded him of
sweet tea and honey.

“Hello!” he said, louder than he meant.

“Hi,” she grunted into the phone. She sounded
like gravel, like cigarettes.

“It’s Austin.”

“Yeah.”

Evidently she wasn’t quite awake.

“You know anyone looking for a roommate?” he
asked.

“Maybe,” she said. She hacked and coughed,
then cleared her throat. “I’ll get back to you.”

May 2002

I was seventeen when I met everybody. My dad
finally relinquished control of the old Buick Riviera, just for the
night, figuring if I crashed it he could just murder me. It would
solve two problems – he wouldn’t have to listen to my mother
complain about the way the Buick smelled like wet dog all the time,
and he could save money on food with one less person in the
house.

My first night with my own set of wheels
(sort of), and a Rob Zombie tribute band was playing a few towns
over. Possibly the coolest thing ever. I was stoked.

It was spring, almost summer. I saved
everything from my paycheck at Meat Hut for this concert. Gas
prices had gone up, and the cover charge was ten bucks because the
band drove all the way from Madison. Plus I needed to hit up the
drive-thru at Burger Bin. I intended to take this car out and make
a night of it. I was sick of waiting around for my life to
start.

It wasn’t that I loved Rob Zombie, not
really. But his music was almost satanic. It would make my father
mad. A kid my age should be out there playing football or baseball,
something American, not listening to faggy tribute bands or writing
poems that weren’t for an English class. I had to be a man,
man.

Dressed in my finest punk attire – trench
coat, acid-washed jeans, System of a Down t-shirt – I applied
eyeliner in the bathroom mirror. It seemed like eyeliner was
appropriate for the occasion. Davey Havok did it. Pete Wentz.
Bowie. I grabbed the pair of sewing scissors I usually used for
homework assignments and hacked at my hair. Before long I had a
genuine punk rock mullet.

I looked at my reflection. Acceptable. Not
real good-looking, but less sloppy than before. I brushed at my
shoulders and neck, trying to get the chunks of my hair off.
Nothing worse than haircut remainders.

I descended the staircase quietly, hoping to
avoid detection.

Of course, my father was waiting by the door.
He held the car keys in his thick hand, glaring at me, eyes
judgmental behind his bifocals.

“Hey,” I said weakly.

He looked at me. “Are you wearing your
mother’s eyeshadow?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what the hell is that on your face?” he
asked.

I thought about it. “Got in a fistfight.”

He didn’t say anything. I could tell he
didn’t believe me, but he was too tired from work to argue the
point. He sighed. “Well, just… be home by eleven,” he said. “And
don’t do drugs.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Especially acid.
That shit’ll kill you.”

“I won’t do acid, Dad.”

“Good.” He handed me the keys, and I left.
Thank God.

The spring air was hot and sweet with the
smell of lilacs. It was still sunny outside; the sun set so late
these days. The garage was being remodeled, as my father needed
(“needed”) more toolshed space to accommodate his new leaf blower.
Only my father would purchase a leaf blower five months before the
leaves fell. He said power tools were cheapest out-of-season. The
man pinched pennies so hard it surprised me he could still work the
remote control.

I punched the button on the garage door
opener and waited. The door scraped and groaned, echoing my
impatient thoughts. I jammed the key in the ignition, backed the
old goat out successfully, and exited the driveway. So far, so
good.

I turned the radio on. Classic rock,
“Freebird”. I know it’s not cool now and it wasn’t cool then, but I
sang every word. The highway recognized my voice, and it loved me
regardless.

The Riviera stopped and stalled, then
started. It chugged along, slowly, for a few heart-stopping
seconds, then returned to normal briefly before a low dull sound
emitted from someplace deep within. It was off-putting. Reminded me
of
The Exorcist
. I hated that movie.

Something metallic made a twanging noise.

Oh god.

I had no idea how to fix cars. And now the
old ‘78 Buick Riviera, my father’s only car, the one he drove for
years despite the wet dog smell and my mother’s constant nagging,
was dying.

The car hissed at me like an angry mechanical
cat. My father was going to kill me. I tried to think which of my
D&D buddies were strong enough to double as pallbearers. I
heard a strange ka-thunk noise.

Motherfucker, I said to myself.

This was it. I was a dead man.

I pulled the car into a nearby gas station
parking lot and popped open the hood, trying to locate the
malfunctioning part inside the thick grey cloud of billowing smoke.
Nothing made sense. It was hopeless.

I blinked through the smoke. It felt surreal,
like a painting, like I was a detective in a doomed movie at the
point when things get confusing and unsolvable, shortly before the
exciting climax wherein everybody dies and the main character is
killed by his father.

A red Corvette pulled up next to me, big
football guy in the driver’s seat. I think his name was Hector. The
girl in the passenger’s seat looked at me and popped her gum. She
had a laughing sort of look in her eyes.