I havent had time to edit any of my new work cuz its all still in notebooks but i hope you enjoy the tidbits of this older story i wrote...........enjoy.
THE DEMISE OF HOWARD GORDON
BY: MLT
The clock on city hall chimes once. Its 7 o'clock now and the grasp of this cold winter night is getting tighter as night grows older. The sunlight is long gone and the snow is beginning to fall. I'm set up seven stories above the ground feeding my rifle shells, and every round that I load I can hear my father's voice echoing in my head "Make sure the safety is on you don't want the thing going off on accident," he was always the worrisome type. My weapon of choice is a .243 caliber rifle, 90 grain shells, which I have loaded five of them into the clip just in case I miss the three that I'm aiming for, and a scope that would rival only to a military issued.
There are two reasons I am set up here tonight, the first being that this is the best place in New Ogden to set up shop if you're looking to pick someone off from a long distance and make a quick escape. The second reason can simply be described with two words Scott Greenlee, and his clan of miscreants that live to make my life a living hell.
The building on which I perch myself is home to a few things. On the first floor is a mediocre coffee bar in which I never see anyone in but some how it still remains open. On the second floor a local lady teaches ballet lessons, and there are a few offices which I'm not really sure what they are used for. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth floor are matchbox sized apartments for bachelors, widows, and senior citizens. The seventh and last floor of this building holds a very significant purpose. It is the meeting place of a local organization of yuppies and the socially elite of my quite semi-suburban town. This is where I find Scott Greenlee tonight, and the reason I am perched upon this rooftop.
The river behind me is the back drop for this soon to be very bloody orchestra. It's completely frozen over which will make for a very easy escape into Canada as simple as possible. Here I will be able to hide my crimes and keep going north. My vehicle of choice is a rather old Bombardier snowmobile which will make my escape into this unknowing country as simple and quick as it possibly could be without me actually crossing the bridge. I have already crossed once earlier today and placed my car in a small abandoned parking lot. This is not some random explosion of anger that has driven me here today. No, I have thought this out to the last detail. I want this guy dead, and I am not going to screw up because of some small miniscule mishap.
The street lights below me give me the perfect shot. They seem to be lit up at this moment just for me. Just enough light for me to see what is below me, and they are lined up so all I have to do is make sure I'm on when the trigger is pulled, and the three that I'm waiting for will surely be walking side by side. So perfect that if my aim is on all it will take is three shots.
Now that my gun is loaded, the scope is sighted in, and my first shot is perfectly aligned all I have to do now is wait. Waiting has never been a very strong virtue of mine; revenge and peace of mind are the only things running through my head right now. For the next three minutes I must keep my composure because any slight mishap could throw my plans into a chaotic whirlwind. As I watch the street below me and wait another word of childhood inspiration by my father during a hunting trip echoes in my head "Always get um on the first shot, because you don't know if you will get another."
Finally some quiet. This is the only thought in my mind right peace and quiet. After an unruly nine hour shift at the store dealing with every backwards fuck up in the city I rest. Last night wasn't much help either because seven a.m. comes early when your bed time is four. Sleep. The single word repeats in my mind as I crash into my bed.
I take off my shirt and sink my head into the pillows. I close my eyes and I begin to drift off, slowly scaling the walls of a dreamland that I hope to reach. Oh god, if I could get just an hour of sleep just something to keep me up and going later in the day. Just a little shut eye. I feel myself getting closer and closer to the top of the wall. I'm almost there. The cold air rushes through my room and I pull the blankets tighter around me. It's cold, but it's comfortable, and this will aid my efforts to reach the pinnacle of this wall.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Should I answer it or just ignore whoever is disturbing me?
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The trouble with a telephone is if you don't answer it, it keeps ringing. Endlessly echoing in your head saying "Answer me, answer me now, god damn it!"
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hello," I finally say.
"Hi," answers a friendly young sounding woman on the other end of the phone "I'm calling on behalf of C.O.R." Click. These people are the worst sitting in the cubicles randomly dialing numbers, hoping to get some poor sap to take a stupid survey. I wonder if they get a kick out of annoying people? These are the type of people who call you while you are in the middle of taking care of important business in the bathroom, or right in the middle of the sweatiest, nastiest, most wonderful sex you've ever had in you life and ask if you want a complementary book of carpet samples. These are the people who make their living making you afraid of the telephone. These are the people who make the ring of a telephone sound like a death march.
Alright, still tired, let's try this again. I'll turn the ringer off this time maybe I won't be bothered, or maybe the world will just forget about me for once and let me sleep. I bury my head into the pillows again this time I don't feel the same exhaustion as I did before I just feel weak. I feel drained. My body has already shut down so why bother recharging it, but I try anyways. I close my eyes again, but this time no drifting. No wall to climb and no dreamland on the other side. Only random thoughts and noises fill my head now. A car drives by outside, a neighbor kid yells, which in turn causes a dog to bark. All the annoyances of daytime are laughing me in my face.
A car door slams closed. God I hope it's not for me, please just walk across the street and let me sleep. Please just go away. I roll over and look out my window to try and spot this mysterious visitor, but no luck they have already managed to disappear. Maybe I'll finally get to sleep after all.
Knock, Knock, Knock. God damn it!
No such luck ever. So I throw the blankets back and walk to the top of the stairs discouraged. Frustrated that I can't sleep, and cranky because I haven't slept I march down the stairs to see who is once again disturbing my attempt at sleep.
"Who is it," I ask.
A small whisper from behind the door says "Come on Howard open up." I know that voice that whisper. I look through the peep hole to try and make light to the mystery of the unknown visitor but their finger shut that window of opportunity.
So I open the door and "Holy shit, Celia! I thought you were on your way back to New Ogden?"
"I was," she answered shyly "but I didn't think you should be here by yourself all weekend. Come back with me?"
"I don't know about that one."
"Howard you know you miss everyone. How long has it been since you have been back there?"
"Not long enough."
"Get dressed. You're coming with me." And thirty minutes later we were barreling down the highway towards the last place I want to be.
The clock on city hall chimes for a second time. The door on the first floor of the building swings open and out come my targets. They turn and proceed to walk down the street to the local diner which they frequent after every meeting of there little club. Scott Greenlee and his two cronies are about to find out what a bullet lodged deeply into there esophagus tastes like. Greenlee is in the middle and he is going to be the first to go. If I miss the next two then that's my gift to them but I will not miss him. "They sure are taking there sweet ass time," I say to myself. This almost feels like Christmas to me the anticipation is climbing up my spine and I can feel myself becoming more and more tense.
Time has turned to molasses thick and slow running. Its dark and the street lights begin to give off a dull amber glow. Everything crawls as each step those three take brings them closer to my scope. The town around me begins to breathe for the first time in my life, and just like it would be my last. Laughter from a couple leaving the diner down the street comes flying at me as if they were right behind me. The seconds tick away in my head. I can see the whole thing laid out in front of me. Squealing tires roar from below me as some hometown hero tears around the corner in some beat up Ford hatchback as shattering glass cries out in the night. The sound echoed through the air and the sounds a child's laughter raises from the street below. I hope he doesn't see this because it will surely scar that kid for the rest of his life.
This is it. The moment I've been waiting for on this dead cold winter night. Scott Greenlee is in my sites and now his sandy blonde skull is centered in my cross hairs. A light snow has begun to fall and the wind isn't blowing that much so my shot is going to be that much simpler.
Time has frozen again and the lights are a crisp white, intensifying my vision down the street. Images of her flash in my mind sending horrible chills through my body. Her arm is reaching for me just inches out of reach. Scott Greenlee's goofy ass laugh rings through my ears and my blood boils. Now is time to shut him up once and for all. The ice cold steel trigger is my delete key now and with one stroke I can erase hundreds of memories of him. In the back of my mind I hear her cry out that final time. Why did it have to come to this? Did he not get enough kicks tormenting me? That I had to handle, and that I've learned to live with. He's crushed my universe and its all over now. Fuck my education, my jobs that pays slave wages, fuck the French man I cant understand yelling at me about god damned diesel, and fuck Scott Greenlee. It's time for him to die.
My body tightens and I take a breath. I can taste the air as it fills my lungs. A wave rushes down my arm. My fingers tingle as I squeeze the trigger.
I knew we were getting close when I saw the silhouette of the slick steel structure stretching across the St. Lawrence. Its dull red lights soaked out in the sunset. Smoke stacks loom of the trees bellowing out thick white clouds of smoke into the dark orange horizon. The trees are stripped bare and cut off of life in grips of winter. The river lay underneath it all frozen. Instead of its normal deep blue tint reflecting the banks and the sun there is a solid white abyss of frozen time. All this whizzed by and then the sign sprung up. "Welcome to New Ogden ."
Suddenly sky high fences with barbed wire spiraled around the top started to stretch down the side of the highway. Windows in watch towers reflected signs of life in the middle of the frozen fortresses. Behind all this barbed wire and concrete is the home to killers, dealers, thieves, and rapists all awaiting some bit of freedom that will never come. I can see some of them walking through the yard between buildings and I wonder how much longer they have in that hell hole.
We pulled off the highway and I looked at Celia for a second before I asked "You remember where my house is, right?"
"No, Howard," she replied sarcastically "please give me directions. Shit, I think I see your parents more than you do." I could see her as she pulled down the side street that took us that much closer.
The smell of winter lingered in my window as I tossed the remains of a cigarette out. The aroma of wood stoves struck my nose and I could tell we were back. It never seems to smell the same in Cumberland . There are no wood stoves, and the plows only run at night so the sounds of metal scraping concrete and flashing orange lights were never seen. She turned the final corner and I could see my house. The rundown red looking house stuck out like a clown at a klan meeting amidst the surrounding field of ice and snow. My father's truck was the only one in the driveway as we pulled in.
"Are you going to call me later," asked Celia as I climbed out of the car.
"Well I'm going to give Charlie and those guys a call," I replied "so I will give you a call from over there." I closed the door and began slowly creeping towards the front door. I was a little frustrated I really didn't want to come back here. Why did I let her drag me? It's Friday now and by Sunday I surely will be ready to leave.
I opened the heavy glass door to my house and walked in. Its been over a year since I've been back this way, and that's still not long enough. Birthdays usually consisted of cheesy cards and care packages from my mother. And my holidays were celebrated with collect calls to my friends and family. My father gave me a piece advice when I was just a boy "Get the hell out of this town and never look back," and those words have stuck out in my mind my entire life. So that is exactly what I did.
New Ogden is like a neurological parasite that gnaws away bits of and pieces of your sanity with everyday. Eventually seconds to minutes, minutes to months, and months to madness. I've known these troubles all to well through out my life in this inhabited ghost town. So when the chance to get out came up I grabbed a hold of it and never let go.
This house hasn't changed at all. The walls are still painted the same pale green, and have been for as long as I could remember. My mother and sister tackled that task one on a whim after watching one of those mind numbing reality home renovation shows. Who ever created those needs to be shot. The furniture hasn't moved an inch and the giant tacky tapestry of two bear cubs swatting at a stream was still strung up behind the couch. Cords, cases and video game consoles are scattered across the living room floor. Signs my brother has been here. He's fifteen now, and its like stepping back eight years to look into a mirror. His closet is full of my old beat up t-shirts of bands, and stupid catch phrases fill his closet. My favorite is "Support your local Police. Beat the hell out of yourself." He hangs out with the little brothers of all my friends, and like me spends his days cutting class and playing pointless games to nauseam. It's troubling to think he looks up to me so much. The last thing I ever intended to be was a role model, but somehow I acquired the job. My god its eerie how similar we are. Was I really that nave? Did I really believe that the world could be changed by the color of some ones hair, or by badly piece together punk music? It was a hopeless cause that he has now begun to fight for.
Pictures of my childhood hang on the wall all around the dining room. As I pan across the walls slowly investigating each one I can see the complete 180 my life made. From one year all dressed up with my letterman jacket and all my athletic pins to the spiky haired little bastard with chains and shirts to times to big for me. He is now making that same turn, but he doesn't grasp the concept that is the true key to this. Unity was always something I believed in and the bond was never stronger between my friends than during that time in our lives. We never really knew what we were doing or what consequences our actions would have, but we loved every second of it. So does this make me a hypocrite? All these pictures send mostly forgotten memories flooding back into my head. There's one of me, seven or eight years old, with a bandage wrapped around my arm and I never seemed happier. The scar from that clumsy tumble is still there, and serves as a constant reminder of a lost youth.
Behind me there is a tap on the window. Meet my father. A short, stalky, bald man with an aged grey beard is now waving at me through a pain of glass. He's a surprisingly nice guy, a little ill tempered at times but overall kind. It was rare to catch a crack in his stone cold demeanor so to see him with that crazy smile plastered across his face was a bit surprising. He must have found some sort of deal on E-bay or at some flea market. I can see him saying something to me but I can't really make it out through the window. So I make my way outside, and there he is standing there, rifle over shoulder standing at attention, with empty beer bottles clustered around the ground by his feet. "Check this sucker out," he stuttered with a bit of a slur "only cost me 300 hundred bucks, and I can pick off a moving target 400 yards away." He's like a little kid when it comes to guns, and my feelings about them and hunting are a bit skewed. So I play along anyways like always. The scope glistened and the greased barrel flashed the dull rays of over head porch light. My father is a serious gun collector and has enough of them to arm a small militia. One thing I've learned about guns from a collector stand point is that they are like baseball cards but lethal.
We shot the shit for about an hour discussing how he came to acquire his new toy, the trouble they've been having with my little brother, and other family matters that were really nothing more than gossip. After all that he finally popped the question "What brings you back to these parts?"
This is the same question I have been asking myself since I left Cumberland , and I knew that I couldn't tell him "well Celia dragged me back here." So I put on my best poker face and tell him "Needed to come back and make sure you're behaving yourself old man."
"Where's Celia," he asked.
"She dropped me off and was heading home."
"Well it's good to have you home again," he added as he patted me on the back. He lets out a tiny chuckle as he points behind me to the car tearing around the corner and says "You must have sent up some kind of signal." Ray is hanging out the window screaming obscenities and I knew now that this was a car full of the few people I still call friends that live in this town.
I shook my head in disbelief and said "I'm going to get going." I started walking towards the ancient Chevy Corsica and I yell "See ya later."
THE DEMISE OF HOWARD GORDON
BY: MLT
The clock on city hall chimes once. Its 7 o'clock now and the grasp of this cold winter night is getting tighter as night grows older. The sunlight is long gone and the snow is beginning to fall. I'm set up seven stories above the ground feeding my rifle shells, and every round that I load I can hear my father's voice echoing in my head "Make sure the safety is on you don't want the thing going off on accident," he was always the worrisome type. My weapon of choice is a .243 caliber rifle, 90 grain shells, which I have loaded five of them into the clip just in case I miss the three that I'm aiming for, and a scope that would rival only to a military issued.
There are two reasons I am set up here tonight, the first being that this is the best place in New Ogden to set up shop if you're looking to pick someone off from a long distance and make a quick escape. The second reason can simply be described with two words Scott Greenlee, and his clan of miscreants that live to make my life a living hell.
The building on which I perch myself is home to a few things. On the first floor is a mediocre coffee bar in which I never see anyone in but some how it still remains open. On the second floor a local lady teaches ballet lessons, and there are a few offices which I'm not really sure what they are used for. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth floor are matchbox sized apartments for bachelors, widows, and senior citizens. The seventh and last floor of this building holds a very significant purpose. It is the meeting place of a local organization of yuppies and the socially elite of my quite semi-suburban town. This is where I find Scott Greenlee tonight, and the reason I am perched upon this rooftop.
The river behind me is the back drop for this soon to be very bloody orchestra. It's completely frozen over which will make for a very easy escape into Canada as simple as possible. Here I will be able to hide my crimes and keep going north. My vehicle of choice is a rather old Bombardier snowmobile which will make my escape into this unknowing country as simple and quick as it possibly could be without me actually crossing the bridge. I have already crossed once earlier today and placed my car in a small abandoned parking lot. This is not some random explosion of anger that has driven me here today. No, I have thought this out to the last detail. I want this guy dead, and I am not going to screw up because of some small miniscule mishap.
The street lights below me give me the perfect shot. They seem to be lit up at this moment just for me. Just enough light for me to see what is below me, and they are lined up so all I have to do is make sure I'm on when the trigger is pulled, and the three that I'm waiting for will surely be walking side by side. So perfect that if my aim is on all it will take is three shots.
Now that my gun is loaded, the scope is sighted in, and my first shot is perfectly aligned all I have to do now is wait. Waiting has never been a very strong virtue of mine; revenge and peace of mind are the only things running through my head right now. For the next three minutes I must keep my composure because any slight mishap could throw my plans into a chaotic whirlwind. As I watch the street below me and wait another word of childhood inspiration by my father during a hunting trip echoes in my head "Always get um on the first shot, because you don't know if you will get another."
Finally some quiet. This is the only thought in my mind right peace and quiet. After an unruly nine hour shift at the store dealing with every backwards fuck up in the city I rest. Last night wasn't much help either because seven a.m. comes early when your bed time is four. Sleep. The single word repeats in my mind as I crash into my bed.
I take off my shirt and sink my head into the pillows. I close my eyes and I begin to drift off, slowly scaling the walls of a dreamland that I hope to reach. Oh god, if I could get just an hour of sleep just something to keep me up and going later in the day. Just a little shut eye. I feel myself getting closer and closer to the top of the wall. I'm almost there. The cold air rushes through my room and I pull the blankets tighter around me. It's cold, but it's comfortable, and this will aid my efforts to reach the pinnacle of this wall.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Should I answer it or just ignore whoever is disturbing me?
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The trouble with a telephone is if you don't answer it, it keeps ringing. Endlessly echoing in your head saying "Answer me, answer me now, god damn it!"
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hello," I finally say.
"Hi," answers a friendly young sounding woman on the other end of the phone "I'm calling on behalf of C.O.R." Click. These people are the worst sitting in the cubicles randomly dialing numbers, hoping to get some poor sap to take a stupid survey. I wonder if they get a kick out of annoying people? These are the type of people who call you while you are in the middle of taking care of important business in the bathroom, or right in the middle of the sweatiest, nastiest, most wonderful sex you've ever had in you life and ask if you want a complementary book of carpet samples. These are the people who make their living making you afraid of the telephone. These are the people who make the ring of a telephone sound like a death march.
Alright, still tired, let's try this again. I'll turn the ringer off this time maybe I won't be bothered, or maybe the world will just forget about me for once and let me sleep. I bury my head into the pillows again this time I don't feel the same exhaustion as I did before I just feel weak. I feel drained. My body has already shut down so why bother recharging it, but I try anyways. I close my eyes again, but this time no drifting. No wall to climb and no dreamland on the other side. Only random thoughts and noises fill my head now. A car drives by outside, a neighbor kid yells, which in turn causes a dog to bark. All the annoyances of daytime are laughing me in my face.
A car door slams closed. God I hope it's not for me, please just walk across the street and let me sleep. Please just go away. I roll over and look out my window to try and spot this mysterious visitor, but no luck they have already managed to disappear. Maybe I'll finally get to sleep after all.
Knock, Knock, Knock. God damn it!
No such luck ever. So I throw the blankets back and walk to the top of the stairs discouraged. Frustrated that I can't sleep, and cranky because I haven't slept I march down the stairs to see who is once again disturbing my attempt at sleep.
"Who is it," I ask.
A small whisper from behind the door says "Come on Howard open up." I know that voice that whisper. I look through the peep hole to try and make light to the mystery of the unknown visitor but their finger shut that window of opportunity.
So I open the door and "Holy shit, Celia! I thought you were on your way back to New Ogden?"
"I was," she answered shyly "but I didn't think you should be here by yourself all weekend. Come back with me?"
"I don't know about that one."
"Howard you know you miss everyone. How long has it been since you have been back there?"
"Not long enough."
"Get dressed. You're coming with me." And thirty minutes later we were barreling down the highway towards the last place I want to be.
The clock on city hall chimes for a second time. The door on the first floor of the building swings open and out come my targets. They turn and proceed to walk down the street to the local diner which they frequent after every meeting of there little club. Scott Greenlee and his two cronies are about to find out what a bullet lodged deeply into there esophagus tastes like. Greenlee is in the middle and he is going to be the first to go. If I miss the next two then that's my gift to them but I will not miss him. "They sure are taking there sweet ass time," I say to myself. This almost feels like Christmas to me the anticipation is climbing up my spine and I can feel myself becoming more and more tense.
Time has turned to molasses thick and slow running. Its dark and the street lights begin to give off a dull amber glow. Everything crawls as each step those three take brings them closer to my scope. The town around me begins to breathe for the first time in my life, and just like it would be my last. Laughter from a couple leaving the diner down the street comes flying at me as if they were right behind me. The seconds tick away in my head. I can see the whole thing laid out in front of me. Squealing tires roar from below me as some hometown hero tears around the corner in some beat up Ford hatchback as shattering glass cries out in the night. The sound echoed through the air and the sounds a child's laughter raises from the street below. I hope he doesn't see this because it will surely scar that kid for the rest of his life.
This is it. The moment I've been waiting for on this dead cold winter night. Scott Greenlee is in my sites and now his sandy blonde skull is centered in my cross hairs. A light snow has begun to fall and the wind isn't blowing that much so my shot is going to be that much simpler.
Time has frozen again and the lights are a crisp white, intensifying my vision down the street. Images of her flash in my mind sending horrible chills through my body. Her arm is reaching for me just inches out of reach. Scott Greenlee's goofy ass laugh rings through my ears and my blood boils. Now is time to shut him up once and for all. The ice cold steel trigger is my delete key now and with one stroke I can erase hundreds of memories of him. In the back of my mind I hear her cry out that final time. Why did it have to come to this? Did he not get enough kicks tormenting me? That I had to handle, and that I've learned to live with. He's crushed my universe and its all over now. Fuck my education, my jobs that pays slave wages, fuck the French man I cant understand yelling at me about god damned diesel, and fuck Scott Greenlee. It's time for him to die.
My body tightens and I take a breath. I can taste the air as it fills my lungs. A wave rushes down my arm. My fingers tingle as I squeeze the trigger.
I knew we were getting close when I saw the silhouette of the slick steel structure stretching across the St. Lawrence. Its dull red lights soaked out in the sunset. Smoke stacks loom of the trees bellowing out thick white clouds of smoke into the dark orange horizon. The trees are stripped bare and cut off of life in grips of winter. The river lay underneath it all frozen. Instead of its normal deep blue tint reflecting the banks and the sun there is a solid white abyss of frozen time. All this whizzed by and then the sign sprung up. "Welcome to New Ogden ."
Suddenly sky high fences with barbed wire spiraled around the top started to stretch down the side of the highway. Windows in watch towers reflected signs of life in the middle of the frozen fortresses. Behind all this barbed wire and concrete is the home to killers, dealers, thieves, and rapists all awaiting some bit of freedom that will never come. I can see some of them walking through the yard between buildings and I wonder how much longer they have in that hell hole.
We pulled off the highway and I looked at Celia for a second before I asked "You remember where my house is, right?"
"No, Howard," she replied sarcastically "please give me directions. Shit, I think I see your parents more than you do." I could see her as she pulled down the side street that took us that much closer.
The smell of winter lingered in my window as I tossed the remains of a cigarette out. The aroma of wood stoves struck my nose and I could tell we were back. It never seems to smell the same in Cumberland . There are no wood stoves, and the plows only run at night so the sounds of metal scraping concrete and flashing orange lights were never seen. She turned the final corner and I could see my house. The rundown red looking house stuck out like a clown at a klan meeting amidst the surrounding field of ice and snow. My father's truck was the only one in the driveway as we pulled in.
"Are you going to call me later," asked Celia as I climbed out of the car.
"Well I'm going to give Charlie and those guys a call," I replied "so I will give you a call from over there." I closed the door and began slowly creeping towards the front door. I was a little frustrated I really didn't want to come back here. Why did I let her drag me? It's Friday now and by Sunday I surely will be ready to leave.
I opened the heavy glass door to my house and walked in. Its been over a year since I've been back this way, and that's still not long enough. Birthdays usually consisted of cheesy cards and care packages from my mother. And my holidays were celebrated with collect calls to my friends and family. My father gave me a piece advice when I was just a boy "Get the hell out of this town and never look back," and those words have stuck out in my mind my entire life. So that is exactly what I did.
New Ogden is like a neurological parasite that gnaws away bits of and pieces of your sanity with everyday. Eventually seconds to minutes, minutes to months, and months to madness. I've known these troubles all to well through out my life in this inhabited ghost town. So when the chance to get out came up I grabbed a hold of it and never let go.
This house hasn't changed at all. The walls are still painted the same pale green, and have been for as long as I could remember. My mother and sister tackled that task one on a whim after watching one of those mind numbing reality home renovation shows. Who ever created those needs to be shot. The furniture hasn't moved an inch and the giant tacky tapestry of two bear cubs swatting at a stream was still strung up behind the couch. Cords, cases and video game consoles are scattered across the living room floor. Signs my brother has been here. He's fifteen now, and its like stepping back eight years to look into a mirror. His closet is full of my old beat up t-shirts of bands, and stupid catch phrases fill his closet. My favorite is "Support your local Police. Beat the hell out of yourself." He hangs out with the little brothers of all my friends, and like me spends his days cutting class and playing pointless games to nauseam. It's troubling to think he looks up to me so much. The last thing I ever intended to be was a role model, but somehow I acquired the job. My god its eerie how similar we are. Was I really that nave? Did I really believe that the world could be changed by the color of some ones hair, or by badly piece together punk music? It was a hopeless cause that he has now begun to fight for.
Pictures of my childhood hang on the wall all around the dining room. As I pan across the walls slowly investigating each one I can see the complete 180 my life made. From one year all dressed up with my letterman jacket and all my athletic pins to the spiky haired little bastard with chains and shirts to times to big for me. He is now making that same turn, but he doesn't grasp the concept that is the true key to this. Unity was always something I believed in and the bond was never stronger between my friends than during that time in our lives. We never really knew what we were doing or what consequences our actions would have, but we loved every second of it. So does this make me a hypocrite? All these pictures send mostly forgotten memories flooding back into my head. There's one of me, seven or eight years old, with a bandage wrapped around my arm and I never seemed happier. The scar from that clumsy tumble is still there, and serves as a constant reminder of a lost youth.
Behind me there is a tap on the window. Meet my father. A short, stalky, bald man with an aged grey beard is now waving at me through a pain of glass. He's a surprisingly nice guy, a little ill tempered at times but overall kind. It was rare to catch a crack in his stone cold demeanor so to see him with that crazy smile plastered across his face was a bit surprising. He must have found some sort of deal on E-bay or at some flea market. I can see him saying something to me but I can't really make it out through the window. So I make my way outside, and there he is standing there, rifle over shoulder standing at attention, with empty beer bottles clustered around the ground by his feet. "Check this sucker out," he stuttered with a bit of a slur "only cost me 300 hundred bucks, and I can pick off a moving target 400 yards away." He's like a little kid when it comes to guns, and my feelings about them and hunting are a bit skewed. So I play along anyways like always. The scope glistened and the greased barrel flashed the dull rays of over head porch light. My father is a serious gun collector and has enough of them to arm a small militia. One thing I've learned about guns from a collector stand point is that they are like baseball cards but lethal.
We shot the shit for about an hour discussing how he came to acquire his new toy, the trouble they've been having with my little brother, and other family matters that were really nothing more than gossip. After all that he finally popped the question "What brings you back to these parts?"
This is the same question I have been asking myself since I left Cumberland , and I knew that I couldn't tell him "well Celia dragged me back here." So I put on my best poker face and tell him "Needed to come back and make sure you're behaving yourself old man."
"Where's Celia," he asked.
"She dropped me off and was heading home."
"Well it's good to have you home again," he added as he patted me on the back. He lets out a tiny chuckle as he points behind me to the car tearing around the corner and says "You must have sent up some kind of signal." Ray is hanging out the window screaming obscenities and I knew now that this was a car full of the few people I still call friends that live in this town.
I shook my head in disbelief and said "I'm going to get going." I started walking towards the ancient Chevy Corsica and I yell "See ya later."
laceyk:
How is that harrassment?