Rumble (28 page)

to come away swinging, I guess.

Ten seconds ago, I just might have.

I wanted so badly to hurt Hayden.

Not to maim or scar her for life,

just make her beg for mercy a little.

Instead, I turn my back on her,

and I probably need to credit Dad

with saving me from lockup tonight.

You all right, now?
he asks.

“Well, sure. Let’s see. The girl who

I’m in love with turns out to be

a bullshitting bitch. But that’s okay

because she just broke up with me,

after confessing how she’s manipulated

me for over a year, not to mention

the fairly substantial part she played

in my brother stretching his own neck.

Before that, my father outed himself

quite publicly as a two-timing adulterer,

and the best part about that was when

I found his and his paramour’s respective

underwear having boxer-panty relations

on the bedroom floor. Don’t worry,

though, I didn’t sniff! Oh, yes, it’s been

quite a day, and not just any day,

but Valentine’s Day, one I’ll surely

remember. How was your dinner,

by the way? Looks like it’s frozen crap

for me, or maybe I’ll splurge on McD’s.”

You finished? Because self-pity sure

looks poor on you. Just so there are no

unpleasant surprises, Lori is staying

the weekend. I’ll take her home Monday.

Sounds Like a Great Reason

To get wasted

and stay that way

right through Monday

night. A red, white, and blue

way to celebrate dead presidents.

I climb into my truck,

try to ignore the empty

passenger seat, start down

the main drag, headed for home.

Maybe I can beat Dad, hit the booze

cupboard before

he can try to stop me.

But there on the sidewalk,

tottering in heels, is a nymph,

too splendid in emerald green, and

I’m ecstatic that she

has to walk a mile home

on her toes. And I’m leveled

to know I’ll never again pick her

up at that house, with her prick father

peeking out from behind

the window blinds, promising

my best can never, ever be enough.

I Arrive Home First

Pilfer a tumbler of Jack.

Dad will probably miss it

sooner or later, but I don’t give

a shit. What’s he gonna do,

make me give it back?

I go take a piss, hope

I don’t have to do it

again when Dad is grunting

over that woman. Lori.

Is that what he always

called her? Is that what

her husband called her?

Are three syllables

too difficult to deal with?

I swear, I’ll never call

Alexa “Lex” again.

In my room, I exchange

my good clothes

for comfortable flannels,

down a couple of Martha’s

little helpers, suck

in Jack Daniels as I turn on

some tunes. Judas Priest,

in honor of my little brother,

whose taste in music

skewed toward metal,

maybe to make himself

feel a little less gay. Did

Luke realize Priest’s lead

singer was also gay?

I sit on my bed, waiting

for the hallowed buzz

to descend, eyes closed

in thought about this

evening’s revelations.

I think about calling

Vince, but what would

I say? “Hey, buddy,

I know it’s been almost

a year since I talked

to you, but I just found

out you were telling me

the truth all along. Sorry

I didn’t believe you, but . . .”

But What?

But this: I needed someone

to blame, and he was the logical

choice, if you can even attach

the word “logic” to the emotional

battle I found myself embroiled

in. Still, why would I assume

someone I’d been friends with

forever would have betrayed

my trust in such a horrible way?

I certainly never assumed

my loving-but-considering-

breaking-up-with-me girlfriend

might have been involved,

even if she didn’t mean to. Like

who wouldn’t know telling

Jo-ce-lyn anything is tantamount

to announcing it to the world?

Dave Holland launches his epic

“Painkiller” drum solo and K. K.

Downing joins in on lead guitar.

And now Rob Halford’s crazy

lyrics—
half man and half machine
—

make me want to kill my own pain.

One More Pill

Could only help,

right? Down it goes

with a hot gulp of

whiskey. Ga! Nasty,

but likely to do the trick.

I turn off the light,

embrace the cool hug

of darkness. In spite

of the frenetic music

in my ears, my body

relaxes and my brain

begins a slow whirl.

We’re such different

people.
That’s sure

the fuck true.
Love

isn’t enough.
Maybe

not for you.
I think

it’s for the best.
Right.

Screw you.
So sorry.

Kind of late for that.

You were with me

when . . .
My choice.

Guilt.

Blame.

A Crash of Cymbals

Wakes me. Cymbals? Shit!

Judas Priest in endless loop, all

night long? I’m probably brain

dead. I yank off the headphones,

sit up in bed, or at least try to.

There’s more than drums pounding

in my head. There’s a goddamn

sledgehammer! The air reeks

of Jack Daniels and nightmare

sweat, though I can’t remember

dreaming. Probably a good thing.

Now yesterday reincarnates,

good, awful, and hideous—bikes,

breakup, and ball-bashing

confession—in quick succession.

Two years ago, my life wasn’t

perfect, but it was a cakewalk,

compared to what it’s become.

All because of who Luke was—

a fluke meeting of sperm and egg—

and some people’s animalistic need

to exploit perceived weakness

in others. Wonder which instinct

is stronger—survival of the fittest,

or the hunger for sex. Speaking

of that, I suppose my dad and Lorelei

are sleeping off their own appetites.

I slip down the hall to relieve

myself, make it all the way back

without hearing even a whisper

anywhere in the house. Then I fall

back into bed. Screw it. I have nothing

to do today, and unconsciousness

sounds better than breakfast with Dad

and his girlfriend. There’s a little

Jack left in the glass on my nightstand.

I hold my nose, drink it down, hair

of the dog, to ease me into sleep and

turn off the jackhammering in my skull.

It’s Dark

When I wake up, driven

from sleep into the velvet

black sleeve of predawn

morning by a dream so real

I’m still breathing hard

from running. I remember

it start to finish. Fade in:

Hayden and I are on a blanket

looking up at an evergreen

canopy. It’s an incredible July

day, hot but not sweltering,

and she is wearing short cutoffs

and a pink tank top. I slide

my hand over the smooth skin

of her legs, push a little farther

than I ever have before and

she sighs into her laughter.

I lean up on one arm, bend over

to kiss her, and just as I do,

my cell plays three bars

of “Back in Black,” Luke’s

designated ring tone. I almost

don’t answer, but he knows

I’m with Hayden and wouldn’t

call if it wasn’t important.

“Hold that thought,” I say to

Hayden, who stares up at me.

Expectantly, I think. I can’t wait

to see just how far she might

let me go, so when I respond

to Luke, it is semi-impatiently.

“Hey, bro. What’s up? I’m busy.”

Hey, Matt? I love you. Not

in a gay way, in case you think

I’m also a perv.
There’s more,

and I hear it, but my attention

is focused on my girl. Her skin.

The female scent of her I’m

suddenly aware of, one I want

to dive into and swim around in.

I Tell Him to Hang On

I’ll be right there,

But Hayden is here,

inviting temptation,

and I don’t pull myself

away until afternoon

fades toward dusk.

She is everything to

me in those two hours,

and even though we never

come close to shedding

our clothing, what we

do share is making me

hard right here, alone

in my bed. And I’m afraid

to reach the end of this

dream because I know

what’s on the far side

of the door, so I refuse

to hurry. Refuse to run

toward its inevitable

conclusion. Fade out:

I could have saved him.

Three Hours Till Dawn

And the comfort

of daylight, I force

myself to lie motionless

beneath a threadbare sheet

of night. One word

pirouettes round and

round the black space

surrounding me. Blame.

Blame. Blame. Blame.

So easy to affix blame

to someone else.

I blamed Dad

for his steadfast refusal

to accept what could not

be changed. I blamed

his inexplicable homophobia.

Where did he learn to hate?

I blamed Mom

for her aloofness,

for wallowing in resentment

over circumstances she sparked.

If she’d only been more present,

if she’d only opened her arms

more often.

I blamed Vince

and Doug

and Jocelyn

and her miserable brother,

who still deserves a pummeling,

along with all his bastard friends.

I blamed middle school

for being a cesspool of nastiness.

Blamed Luke’s teachers

and principal and counselors

for not doing their damndest

to protect him from harm.

I blamed the Bible,

when its words were not at fault,

only the way they’re interpreted

by those too willing

to wield them like chain saws,

cutting others off at the knees.

I blamed Hayden,

once I knew what she’d done,

maybe not as much as the others

because, one: I didn’t have

a lot of time to think about it.

And, two: I still love her.

Somehow I Avoided

Blaming myself,

at least consciously.

Funny how the brain

works. Can’t deal

with it? Shut down.

But now, every time

I look in the mirror,

I will recognize fault

in the person I see.

And he won’t be able

to deny culpability.

Now every dream

will return me to that

day, to that blanket,

to Hayden, who in

those hours was more

important to me than

discerning my little

brother’s state of mind.

And forever, I’ll know

I was all that stood in

the way of Luke kicking

over that chair. I failed

him, and he’s dead.

The Sky Pales

Coaxing me out from under

the covers. Well, that, and my empty

stomach. I didn’t eat at all yesterday.

All I did was sleep. I lost an entire

day to bad dreams and worse

certainties. But now I’m starving.

Too bad the kitchen is so disappointing.

Mom’s the one who buys groceries,

as evidenced by the dwindling staples

in the pantry and toothless yawn

of the fridge. All that’s in there is beer,

a little milk, and some wilty carrots.

There are waffles in the freezer,

at least. I scarf four, sans butter,

but heavy with the strawberry jam

I find hiding out in a cupboard.

By the time the third one hits my gut,

I’m treated to a carb-and-sugar rush.

It energizes my body, and my will.

I find the notepad and pen Mom uses

for her lists, write a note for Dad.

Any chance you might buy a few groceries, or are you trying to starve me into submission? (Not working!)

I’m going out to the range, where Uncle Jessie still awaits your promised visit. Why don’t you stop by after you drop off your girlfriend? It’s on the way home, you know. Oh, if you’ve forgotten how to get there, text me for directions.

All my love,

Your Only Son

I Consider Where

To put the note so he’ll see it.

Refrigerator? Nah. Not unless

he’s planning on beer for breakfast.

Counter? Too random. I settle

on taping it to the cupboard above

the coffeemaker, the one with mugs

for the French roast I’m sure he’ll

brew. Or maybe Lorelei will make it