Rules for Werewolves (4 page)

Maybe a party is a mine shaft, too. I feel like I can find a vein of fun and dig it out of anybody. Everybody. I’m the one that gets a gang of four or five boys doing shots. Or I can find the girl who wants to dance but is just waiting for somebody else to start dancing. I like slamming some baggy-jeaned fuck’s beer on the table and yelling “SUCK IT!” so he has to if he doesn’t want to get covered in foam. I have a talent for flipping through the bullshit CDs on the rack and finding the one song that’s perfect for that moment on earth. That sort of thing. It’d be my calling if the world really rewarded that kind of talent. But above all, I love to drink and I can find the liquor. If we’re squatting in a new house I can tell which baseboard the sixteen-year-old hid his Southern Comfort behind. I can tell which high cabinet Mom keeps the sherry in. I can think in the mind of the member of the household who hides the hooch. Every time.

Back to this one party, the party where I met these guys I squat with. This was a few months ago. I’d broken away from who I was with before and drifted off alone into the night. I wandered into this party and just got loose. I was wild on some sangria they were letting us scoop out of a huge bowl with a huge clear plastic dipping spoon. The spoon had a really odd long curve to it and it rattled nicely in the bowl when you dropped it back in. I don’t think the sangria was on the up-and-up. I think there might have been some Everclear in it, or some sappy-sweet Boone’s Farm or some fortified bullshit. I don’t remember the taste. It got me totally unhinged, though. I remember deciding to take that spoon and use it to break every wine glass in this big china cabinet. A couple of guys thought that was funny and started throwing beer cans in support of my effort. Full cans of beer were whizzing past me and breaking shit in the china cabinet all around me and I was swinging that spoon like a sword. A couple of full beer cans hit me in the back and somebody nailed me in the back of the head and eventually I realized I was just holding the handle of the spoon. The bowl of the spoon and most of its curve had broken off.

Later I remember falling down into the open fridge and laughing my ass off about it on the kitchen floor. I remember the owner of the house, some dude in a white polo golf shirt, yelling at me and slapping me. I told him I didn’t care and he slapped me harder. And I remember pretty clearly this moment in which he realized I
really
didn’t care and he could slap me as hard as he wanted. It became a sort of science experiment. I have a crystal clear memory of it. This young man who wasn’t even angry anymore in a white polo shirt and tan shorts who had been given permission by a certain amount of wicked sangria and broken glass and the chanting of the crowd to hit a woman as hard as he wanted. He got into it in a way that was a lot more dangerous than anger. And then I remember some other big bear of a partygoer coming in and just flattening the polo shirt in one punch and pulling me out of there.

I woke up on the lawn. This giant bear on top of me. I knew he had at least
tried
to fuck me. I had a little bit of hope he had passed out before he could manage to come. I started wiggling out from under him and I was almost away when he grabbed me by the ankle. He grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me back. It was six in the morning. We were on some really soft-grassed suburban lawn. I kicked the bearman who had saved me and now wouldn’t let me go with one of my bare feet, but he just grabbed me more tightly. The more I kicked him the more he woke up and the tighter he held onto me. He rolled over so I could see his face and he was fucked-up. He had a big scab on the corner off his mouth. I don’t know if it was some sort of cold sore gone wrong or an actual injury he maybe got at the party that was starting to go bad. But it wasn’t the sort of face you want on somebody who you’re pretty sure has fucked you. He started pulling me back by the ankle and then put his other arm around my hip and he had a good hold on me. So I stabbed him with the handle of the spoon. I still had the plastic handle. That was a major lesson for me. Hold on to your weapons. I stabbed him over and over again until he let go. And then I ran. I ran until I couldn’t run and then I walked. My feet were fucked-up. And all of a sudden somebody called out to me. It was someone standing in the living room of a house with a
FOR SALE
sign in the front yard. All the windows were open and he was saying, “Hey come ’ere.” He recognized me from the party. There were about eight or nine of them in there. One of the girls noticed I was leaving bloody footprints
on the carpet. They had a kit with first aid in it. The guy said he was just telling a story about me, about how wild I got last night at that party. He was telling them about all the stuff I broke with that spoon. I held up the handle to show him that I still had it. Then I asked him if I could borrow his pillow. He was holding a black nylon cylinder that looked like some kind of couch cushion. He said it was a sleeping bag. I said, “That’s fine.” He said, “Let me ask Malcolm.” I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And that’s it. That’s that story.

—You guys’ll do anything he tells you to, won’t you. That wasn’t even a meeting. It was just Malcolm fucking bossing us around.

—You cuss too much, Angel.

—Fuck you.

—I don’t wanna have any more meetings.

—Then how are we gonna decide what to do?

—Do whatever you want.

—We should elect a leader.

—Fuck voting. Voting is just a fist the majority uses to beat up on minorities.

—Yeah, fuck voting.

—Then what are we gonna do?

—I say we write down every single thing we can think of to do, forever, and we put all those ideas in a hat and then every morning we pull an idea out of the hat and then do whatever it says.

—What if we write “Go lie in the sun” and it’s raining outside?

—First of all, who’s gonna write “Go lie in the sun,” Susan? Why not write “Live inside a fucking Chevrolet commercial.” And second of all, fuck the weather. If we do write “Go lie in the sun,” I’m not gonna ask
the weather if it’s all right if I live my life. I’m gonna go lie in the sun no matter what it’s like outside.

—This is perfect. This is totally perfect.

—What if I write “Fuck the hat system, let’s vote on shit.”

—Then that’s what we do for that day.

—This is perfect. I’m gonna write “Go home and go back to the way you used to live.”

—Shut up. Listen. Fucking idiot. I wanna go home sometimes. But the hat is perfect because I don’t want to go back permanently. I just wanna go see my little brother. Just for one day. Make sure he’s all right.

—If you go back home, Bobert, your mom is gonna tie you to your bed and bring in a psychologist to ask you why you want to live like an animal.

—I got away once. I can get away again. My family isn’t a kind of trap that can keep me locked up forever.

—Leave him alone.

—What are you two, Susan? A fucking “mated pair”?

—Leave ’em both alone.

—This is cool. I say let’s do it. The hat. Just for one day.

—All in favor, raise your hand.

—Ow. What was that for?

—Fucking raising your hand. We’re not voting. We’re just doing it. Don’t do it if you don’t want to.

—All right.

Scribble. Scribble. Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.

—All right. Now someone pick one.

—This is so cool. I’ll pick one.

—What’s it say?

—“Go steal a bunch of beer from the Speedy Stop and get drunk!”

—The hat is a god!

—Let’s do it.

—I don’t know if this a good idea.

—Don’t be a fucking coward, Bobert.

—You’re just as bad as Malcolm, Angel.

—You’re just as bad as a soap opera, Susan. Mooning over your little boyfriend. Staying behind to protect him.

—I’m not staying behind. It sounds cool. But if Bobert wants to stay then let him.

—Bobert?

—I’m staying here.

—Suit yourself. But the hat is a god. It’s going to punish you if you don’t do what it says.

—I think I’ll be all right.

—We’ll see.

—Where is everybody?

—You don’t want to know.

—If you know, Bobert, tell me.

—Don’t get all bossy on me.

—You don’t mind me getting all bossy on you when I find a new house. When I find a stack of video games. When I find you a TV.

—I was playing that.

—Sorry. I accidentally turned your game off. But I wanted to have a conversation. I wanted to know if you knew where everybody was. Don’t answer. The reason why I ask is because I know where everybody is and I want to know if it upsets you that they left you behind.

—No, I told ’em I didn’t wanna do it.

—Didn’t wanna do what?

—I thought you knew.

—I do. I’m just trying to make conversation.

—You have no idea where everybody is and you’re trying to get me to tell you.

—Everybody else is out in the fresh air. Everybody else is getting their exercise. While you sit and rot playing these infernal games.

—Stop fucking with me. My whole life is people fucking with me.

—This is a baseball bat.

—So?

—I’m trying to put your behavior in context.

—Leave me alone.

—This baseball bat—this simple, stupid piece of wood—is what games used to look like. A lot of people call the baseball bat the first Nintendo. They do. It used to be that if people wanted to play a game they had to pick up one of these.

—They woulda called it the first Atari or the first Nimrod. Nintendo wasn’t the most ancient video gaming system.

—You know a lot about this stuff.

—It’s what I’m into.

—It’s good to have a hobby. I do.

—Fine. We both have hobbies. Now, let me get back to mine.

—You didn’t ask what my hobby is—

—Get out of here.

—You know, I bet that’s where everybody is. They’re all at the park and they’re playing “catch” with their “mitts” and “caps” and other bullshit words from the 1830s. They’re probably having a “tourney.” That’s the way things were in the good ol’ days. And people say our generation never gets any exercise?! They say all we do is hide in the dark and play—what is this? Legend of Zelda! Is it good?

—Stop.

—I just want to know if it’s good.

—You know I like it.

—I know.

—Then let me have it back.

—Tell me about it.

—No.

—I’m not going to let you alone until you tell me about it.

—Fine. Zelda is a princess who’s been captured by Ganon, that’s the bad guy’s name. Zelda is beautiful and good and Ganon is manipulative and bad. And the person playing the game is named Link. I think it’s because you’re the “link” between this world and Hyrule, which is Zelda’s world. Basically, the whole game is just wandering through the forest looking for the Triforce pieces, which are courage, wisdom, and power.
These pieces give you the strength to turn Hyrule into a good place and get Zelda back and make her happy. And that’s it, basically. But there’s like seven different versions of the game so far. So little stuff changes in each version. Like sometimes Link has a partner.

—And because of this game they think you’re such a dork that they didn’t invite you to the park to take part in their “three-legged races”?

—I just want to stay here and play this.

—You know why they call them “three-legged” races?

—When you guys move on. I’m not going with you. I think I’m gonna go back home for a while.

—You’re not gonna be invited to go with us when we move on, Bobert.

—They practically begged me to go with them. They said if I didn’t go I would be disrespecting their god.

—Who’s their god?

—That hat.

—That’s my hat. I’ve been looking for that hat.

—It’s Susan’s hat.

—Are you in love with Susan?

—Just leave it alone.

—Fine. I won’t touch it. But I do wanna explain to you the reason they call it a “three-legged” race. The way it works is they release one person, like you, and that person is known as “it,” and then everybody else chases that person, trying to get him, and while everybody is running, trying to catch you, they’re all getting sweaty and worked up, and sometimes, one or two of the dudes will get an erection from the excitement and that’s why they call it a three-legged race.

—They’re at the Speedy Stop.

—No. They’re at the park. I know it. That’s why there’s no ball. There’s no gloves. Just this bat.

—They’re gonna try to lift some beer and get drunk.

—I don’t know how to bridge the divide between you and them. How can I get some sort of conversation going between a bunch of old-world, conservative, fuddy-duddies who want to play baseball in the park and a cutting-edge, cyberpunk kind of guy like you who wants to stay home and play video games? How can I get this bat to interact with your TV? The TV that I found for you? Maybe I should try something like this—
Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash.

—What are you doing?!

—Oh hey, you’re back. Bobert and I were just talking about you guys.

—This is why everybody thinks you’re a dick, Malcolm.

—Everybody thinks I’m a dick because that’s my hobby.

—You’re good at it.

—I’m just glad you got home safe.

—And we brought beer.

—For the whole house.

—Give me one.

—Fuck off, Malcolm.

—No. Give him one.

—This is good. What kind is it?

—Read the label.

—I can’t. I’m too busy looking after all of you.

—We’re the ones that got beer.

—What did you pay for it?

—We didn’t pay anything.

—We don’t have any money.

—Then I guess you have to pay in Zeldas and TVs. That’s what it cost you. But that’s cheap. It could have cost you this whole house.

—We didn’t get caught.

—Yet. But you know they have video cameras in those stores.