Rock Candy Kisses(7)

           



       

Bryson's chest expands twice the size of a refrigerator. "Look, we get  it. You can have who you want when you want-just know Annie is off your  hit list." He pulls her in, and she's quick to sign to the two them,  angry and stiff words that I can only guess spell out I'm pissed.

Holt shakes his head at her. "We're leaving together, and that's that."  He turns toward the door. "Stay away from Annie if you know what's good  for both you and your band."

They shuttle her out the door so quick there's no time for goodbye.

That's okay. I don't plan on saying goodbye to Annie anytime soon. It's  funny how Holt had the balls to threaten both me and my band, but he had  to turn his head away from Annie to do it.

I can take her brothers. For Annie, I'd take on an entire football team.  Nothing is going to stand between us and that hot air balloon ride I  owe her.

Annie glances back at me through the window as they cross the street. It  looks like her day ended on a crap note just the way it started, only  this was one collision I couldn't pull her out of. I hate to break it to  Bryson and Holt, but they can't hold onto her forever.

I have a feeling she doesn't want them to.



* * *



The undercarriage of a 57 Chevy Impala is a thing of beauty. It's a  powerhouse like no other, and, if I had my way, this right here would be  my one and only ride. As it stands I've got a truck, newer, raised just  a touch too high by the previous douche of an owner. The  impossible-to-remove dent in the fender was also an added bonus I  acquired at purchase. It was Danny's clunker. Danny has been the Sin's  drummer for the last three years. Benji slapped the skins before that,  then we argued, and that was the end of his run with the band. Benji and  I didn't argue much, but, when we did, it always ended with a dramatic  shift in the course of our lives. The last one ended his.

I roll from under the car and pull out my phone. It's quarter after  five, practice is at eight, so I've got time to shower, grab a bite and  figure out how I'm going to find Annie again. I can't shake that girl  out of my head, and, believe me, I've tried. I think maybe this  self-imposed female drought has caused me to unnaturally latch onto her,  but, the truth is, she seems like the only bright spot I've had in my  life in months. Just one hit, just a few minutes with Annie was enough  to pump me with the desire to open my eyes this morning. I hop to my  feet and clean up my work area. I've been at the garage now going on  seven months.

Joe, the manager, heads over and I can feel my stomach twisting like bungee cords.

"You got it?" He's big and burly, always with a beer in one hand and his  palm out with the other. By it he means the rent. Benji and I split the  rent, but, now that he's gone, there's no way I can swing it.

"Nope, I don't have it man." I glance across the street at the junkyard.  Tiger, the Doberman Pincher barks up a storm at a passerby, and I  wonder which old car carcass I'll have to crawl into just to store my  shit.

"All right." He flicks his fingers. "I told you three weeks ago I'd give  you time, but now I see you're just taking advantage of me. Gimme the  keys tonight before the sheriff gets dragged into this."

"Done." I dig into my pocket and take the rusted out key off my chain as a show of good will.

"Dude, I didn't want to do it. I had a brother that died. I understand  the shit you're going through." He wipes his forehead down with his arm.  "Get your stuff out by tomorrow. I'm changing the locks come morning."  He picks up his tool bag and heads to the back of the shop. "Times are  tough for everybody. I know you're a good guy. Your brother was a good  guy, but good guys don't always pay the rent, and I've got a mortgage,  five kids-two in college. I can't go on being Mr. Nice Guy. My wife's  got my balls in a vise. She's got gallbladder surgery in two weeks. The  beat goes on. I need someone who pays the piper."

"I hear you." I wipe the grime off my face with my shoulder. "You're  still gonna let me hang out at the garage, right?" I give him a mock  fist bump. "I don't have classes, so you can up my hours if you want."

"Sounds good. I'll let you pick up Saturdays, half the crew bitches they  need the day off. No overtime, though. I have to hang onto what little  of my balls that I have left."

"Got it," I say walking out of the grease pit where I'll be spending the rest of my days. "Appreciate it."                       
       
           



       

Appreciate it. I shake my head at the lie. I'd give anything to have  turned in my monkey wrench. How did I go from a business major to  college dropout groveling to work on weekends? A patch of dark clouds  moves overhead unnaturally quick, and I can't help think that the  world-all of time-is speeding by too fast for me to feel safe anymore.  I'd work seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day just to have five  more minutes with Benji. First thing I'd tell him is to stay off that  damn bike.

I kick the tire on a Harley on my way out.

"Watch it!" Joe shouts from behind, but this time I don't apologize. I  head upstairs and throw all of my crap, and that of my dead brother's,  into six oversized trash bags and toss them in the back of my truck just  as the rain lets go of all of its pent-up grief. By the time I make it  to downtown Jepson, the back of my truck looks like a swimming pool.  There's a metaphor in there somewhere that I'm too lazy to pick through.

Jepson is one of the fastest growing metropolitan cities around, and,  like any metropolitan city, if you make enough left turns, you'll end up  in the hood, AKA the crap neighborhood I honed most of my life skills  in.

There it is, the clapboard bungalow I once called home. The lights are  on in the tiny two bedroom stacked house that's more vertical than it is  horizontal. The houses on the street are so narrow it's become a haunt  for modern day hippies, the artsy fartsy type that sit out front getting  stoned all day, looking to the sky for inspiration. Pops is sort of old  school around here in that he bought the house with his first wife. She  died of ovarian cancer, and he's stuck his head in a bottle ever since.  Enter AA and that's where poor unfortunate soul number two comes in-my  mother. She was his AA leader and, apparently, not a very good one. She  hooked up with Ronald Daniels, dreamer extraordinaire, until death  chased her down two years ago through an untimely stroke. It was a freak  thing, much like her marriage to my father. And now she and Benji are  together in the hereafter. I'm not sure why I find so much comfort in  that other than the fact they don't have to worry about things like rent  anymore or whether or not to risk the band's only big break by taking a  sweet girl out in a hot air balloon.

I make a face at the tired looking house with its chipped paint and  broken screen as I head on in. Not locked, no big surprise there.

"Pops," I shout. A cigarette burns in the ashtray on the coffee table.  That seems to be a decorating staple around here. It's a wonder he  hasn't long since burned the damn place down. The living room is stifled  with smoke, and I fan the air trying to catch a decent breath.

"In here," he grumbles from the hall as the toilet flushes. "What the  hell you doing?" He sputters and coughs as he stumbles out of the  bathroom. He's thinner than he was just a few weeks ago, granted we  don't see each other but a few times a year. He's aged decades the last  few years alone. His hair is all but gone, long and gray on the sides.  He's shirtless, his chest sunken and sickly looking. His eyes are ringed  with dark circles, his lips purple and bloated. He's a walking corpse,  looking as shitty as I feel.

"Just dropping a few things off if you don't mind."

"Try again. I don't need any more of your mess. I've got a boarder. A man named Jeff. Decent guy. Pays rent, too."

"Relax. I'm not looking for a place to stay."

"Good"-he barks as he passes me by. His body odor smothers me, ripe as  an onion with the welcome hint of vodka begging to sanitize the air.  "Because you're not going to get it. I've got enough trouble without  having you on my back."

I head over to my old room and crack open the door. Bunks are still  intact. Both made. A pile of dirty clothes sit in one corner. An older  laptop sits on the desk, and it draws a frown from me.

"Out!" He picks up a broom with half the bristles missing and jabs me in  the ribs. "I know what you're up to, and it ain't happening. Once you  turned eighteen you weren't my problem anymore. You got that? You see  that crack you just crawled in from? You're welcome to crawl right back  out."

I pause a moment looking right at his glassy eyes. "You're wasted. I can  smell the booze from here. Don't bother calling to apologize tomorrow.  It's already forgiven." I head for the door. "So about the shed."