(c) Sam Skoda Trevor sat on his bed, listening to his parents fight downstairs. Those goddamn drunks, he thought to himself, they were so full of shit all the time. Sure, he was just some punk kid, but at least he had integrity. He reached over and switched on the CD player, sliding on his headphones. Reaching into the drawer where he kept his little stash he rolled a nice, tight joint, torching it up. He always felt good when he was high, all his memories faded away, caught up in the movement of the music. He'd never been able to figure out why Frank and Linda had decided long ago to adopt him anyway. It was his guess that they had been a lot happier then, more desirous to give love to someone. But that 'love', it seemed to Trevor, had stopped ages ago. Now it was only a list of 'do this' or 'don't do that' which they handed down to him, forced on him with the law of parental authority. Trevor picked at his fingernails, feeling his eyelids sink into their cottony heaviness.. "Trevor!" a harsh voice penetrated his smooth mood. He ignored it. "Tre VOR! get your little butt down here NOW!" Removing his headphones, he listened to his mother's tiny, pleading voice trying to calm Frank down. Good luck, he thought to himself. At the warning sound of footsteps on the stairs he quickly shoved his phones back on, pretending to be oblivious. The door swung open, and in strode Frank, wearing a stained tee shirt and boxer shorts, reeking of alcohol. "Goddamn it, what do I have to do to get some cooperation around here? Trevor! Take those goddamn earphones off! Trevor!" Trevor looked up and took his phones off. "Oh, hi dad," he said, smiling sarcastically. The look was completely lost on Frank, who stood swaying in the doorway. sniffing with his pockmarked nose. "What's that smell," he said looking at Trevor, his eyes focusing and unfocusing. "Is that... what.. is that.." he said, trying to complete his sentence. "That's incense, dad," Trevor said, pointing to his incense burner on top of the radio, nestled in a group of candles. Frank looked at him quietly for a minute, and then turned away. "Goddamn kids, " he swore to himself, then turned back. Frank looked at his kid, sitting on his bed wearing his black leather jacket and short dark hair... This wasn't his kid. His kid had died long ago, and now this... this freak had replaced him. "Look at these fuckin' skulls all around your room, boy.." He grumbled, his gaze taking in the manner in which Trevor had styled his room. A poster of Slayhead taped to the ceiling, dark images of Zombies taped to walls, the scientific skeleton in the corner. " You some kind of... some kind of satanist?" Frank spit out the word, trying to focus. He can't even remember what he came up here for, Trevor realized. "Yeah dad, that's it." "Don't get smart with me, boy... you're friends stopped by.. Mcarmick , Cormick... Connick. I told you, stay away from them. If I catch you fucking around behind my back again..." Trevor snorted. Once, he'd been arrested for graffiti. Sheriff Tolland had pulled him in late at night, and sat up talking with his dad. Frank always dredged up this one memory, and kept repeating it over and over. "Right, dad, I don't graffiti anymore. Now I'm into killing people." Trevor spoke sarcastically. Frank looked at him with disgust and impotency. He had given up, his bottle was all he really needed to drown out his troubled memories. I know I'm paranoid, Trevor thought to himself, but I prefer it to the bottle any day. Frank pointed at him, grasping the faded doorjamb for support. "I'm watchin' you boy, you better watch yourself..." Trevor felt a small chill run down his spine. It was just his drunk dad, but still... he felt like it meant something. When Frank eventually turned and stumbled down the stairs, Trevor pulled out his little notebook and began writing furiously. Whenever he had time, or whenever he remembered, Trevor wrote down his thoughts. For him, these little observations were important. They kept his daily world filled and active. There was always something to notice, something to take care against, to look out for. Especially as he had little or nothing to do during the day, when he skipped school. His friends Cormic and Mcguire were off working, and Frank had revoked tv and Sega rights after an incident involving the neighbors' greenhouse and Trevor's air rifle. It wasn't like tight ass neighbor Jess grew anything in the ruin, unless you counted the wrecks of old rusted roto-tillers he was cultivating. So days had been spent stoned and wandering, listening to his walkman and holing up in the abandoned trainstation, writing what he called Trev's Rules in his journal. The first entry had been carved into the layers of pages with a heavy handed pen, revealing somewhat the depth of his drug paranoia, the phrase, "The Mind Is Everywhere." Whenever he was caught talking too far ahead of himself at the keg parties in the woods or at someone's colonial mansion, he would darkly mumble in a serious tone his mantra, The mind is everywhere, and the crowd which had gathered about him of drunk listeners and dope giddy girls, previously having been entranced by his animated gestures and story telling, would disperse, their interest having waned in the face of this, his inevitable truth. Or so his socially injured and sexually frustrated mind and body would conjure up as real. The journal was filled with other worthies, mainly a list of that which he should at all times be aware of, different precautions. Constant notices to himself he always attempted to keep utmost in his mind. Basic ones included never sit with your back to a door. Always carry a string or wire. Only buy from a known and as trusted a source as possible. Be leery of any organizations like the church, or other cult like groups, even if they do offer free food and salvation. Always, always keep your eyes peeled for the man, because the man will always try and bust you because you are a rebel, you are fighting them and their controlling police-state system. Wear leather jackets and leather pants in case you ride a motorcycle and crash, the leather will protect as you slide along the road. Close windows during a rainstorm. When peeing in a public bathroom, choose the urinal closest to the door for when They come busting in, They will expect you to be at a more middle one because no one ever takes the real close urinal, plus you being that close will make them nervous and allow you time to react. Lock your door but never the window. It was these and other rules which Trevor carved into his journal as his 17 year old existence had decreed, had taught him to be, truths to live by. It was what he was doing, or trying to do before Frank once again slammed open his bedroom door and forcibly turned the stereo off, painfully yanking the headphones out of Trevor's ears as he yelled at him. "Here, make your self useful, bum, pay for your keep!" The drunk man tossed a video cassette onto Trevors lap, "Run this down to Larangetty's for me. Here's the two bucks for the late fee. I want this done now! The goddamn stores closes soon! Move your butt!!" The door banged shut, and Trevor heard his father stomp back down to the den where the sound of a football game drowned out the sound of Linda running the dishwasher in the kitchen. Trevor slowly got up and tucked his journal into his back pocket, grabbed the videocassette and his leather jacket and went outside. What was it he could really do, anyway. On the street in front of Larangetty's video store, Trevor gave a nervous glance up and down the sidewalk. At this time, almost dinner, there was no one out and about, the stores all pretty well closed up. Trevor glanced in at the videostore. There was only Alvin Larangetty typing the days returned videos into his computer. That was good. He didn't want to be seen dropping off Franks video. That was because it was one of Franks porno's, a film titled Bush Pilot, and it never failed to make Trevor nervous when he had to drop off a porno. First of all, if someone saw him, they would think Trevor more disreputable than he actually was, not that he cared of course but still, in a town this small, it rankled. Also, Trevor thought, as he glanced through the haze of the marijuana still strong in his sight and mind, affecting his perceptions and paranoia, if Sheriff Tolland ever caught him with pornography, it would be bad. Especially as Trevor was underage, and then Larangetty would probably get in trouble, not that it was necessarily his fault, but still that would make Larangetty mad at Trevor. Larangetty might maybe not rent Trevor any more video games, let alone the Slayhead concert films. So, he always took a little care, and taking a little care prevented catastrophe, according to one of his maxims, as recorded in his journal. Measure twice and cut once. The door chimes jingled as the door closed behind Trevor. Large Alvin Larangetty looked up and leaned over his counter, looking for all appearances like a fat carnival barker calling out the freaks, calling out -Lobsterboy, Two necked Nancy, the Human twister, and Scrawny kid Trevor!!! see them now! step right up!- "Well, Well, returning another one of pops poppers!" The brawny older man guffawed. Trevor simply slid the video across to him. "Sneak a peek?" " I don't have to do that!" Trevor retorted hotly, yet glanced nervously around. The video store owners face softened a bit. "No, I'm quite sure you don't Trevor, quite sure you don't. Keep the late fee yourself." " What do you mean by that?" Trevor replied sharply. Great, another unaware adult playing mindgames with him, trying to fuck him over. Larangetty settled back, arching his hands in protest. " I mean keep the money yourself, no, wait. Don't get me wrong Trevor, I know you're a smart kid. It's true, most adults forget what it is to be young, but not me. History teaches, and I've traveled a bit to know. Events in those days had a long lasting effect on me, I try to remember. You should travel if you ever get the chance, it'll open your eyes. Other cultures remember their long histories. Here in America," and the man swept in a gesture of his hand all the hundreds of titles of films in his video store, "This is where we have our history. Don't let it become yours." The words were heavy to Trevor in his dope strained brain, and he agreed with them fully, as he agreed with most words about life when stoned. Larangetty had always treated him pretty well, and he was suddenly paranoid he had been too harsh, too out of sync with the man. "Deal, then." he muttered. But then he thought about what he'd just been told. "Say then, Mr. Larangetty, if what you say about films and movies being, like, some sort of lame history for America, than why do you own a video store?" Larangetty grinned, just like the Who song he always listened to, 'the kids are all right.' He always enjoyed enlightening youth if he could. "Because, it's all part of America's history. Why, reflected in these movies is America. Our history ensconced and warped through film, through the media's scanner darkly." "Scanner Darkly?" asked Trevor, thinking, man, Larrangetty is whacked, completely out there. He's like, some sort of Doctor guiding me to some planet. We're both on a spaceship and he knows what other worlds are like. " Ahh, it's a book by Philip K. Dick, somewhat science fiction. A scanner darkly is a mirror that is fogged, somewhat warped. It can be complicated. You should read it. Bet you'll like it, its all about drugs. And of course, a little bit more." It sounded good to Trevor, and he pulled out his notebook to write it down. He liked books, at least good books, about drugs. He'd already read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Brave new World. He finished writing and thought, hey, yeah, the library, he'd go there, and walked out the door. Larangetty watched Trevor go, too stoned to tell he was leaving without saying goodbye. Poor kid, he thought. Then smiled as he recalled fragments of his own, long ago search through drugs, and than later, through other things, many other things. Still grinning Alvin Larangetty ran the video's code bar through his computer. Another one returned safely to the fold. Trevor walked on his new found mission to the library. On the way he rolled another joint and smoked it as the night darkened. THe sun had pretty much sunk out over the sound, in the distance behind the scattered trees. He thought about Larangetty's grooving that American movies are our history. Very deep, Trevor said to himself. Hollywood is behind it all. They've got the most money. How much did that last movie cost? Tundra World? Cost like two billion dollars, most of it for the main actors makeup, probably! Trevor snorted as he walked past the cemetery. What he wouldn't do with two billion! He'd buy his own house and move out from fuckin Franky and Li'l Linda's. Yeah, he'd move to the Caribbean where dope was legal, and he'd sit out on the white beach high, swimming in blue water with a girl, and reading a good book like the ones Larangetty suggested, while listening to SLAYHEAD. An idiotic grin came over his face as he walked, thinking these thoughts. An old, strangely dressed woman suddenly walked out of the cemetery's gate at the corner of his eye. She had a sadly worn expression upon her face, pointed at the ground. She was confused, moving about as she was in a fumbling way. Oh man, Trevor thought increasing his walking speed, hope that old lady doesn't talk to me, I can't stand old people, especially when I'm like this, can't deal. If she talks to me I'm gonna just keep mute, eyes ahead, Trevor, eyes ahead. The old woman did see Trevor, and a hopeful light came to the ancient, time ravaged eyes. "Excuse me, " the decrepit form called weakly after him, " What ti.." But Trevor was already too far away. At the first look in the womans eyes that she would speak, he broke into a jog. His numbed mind imagined the lady with the thick, dirt stained dress would crumble if breath escaped her, and he had fled, lest he too breathe out the life giving air, lose his shape like the Hindenberg. Then he would crumble, and Trevor knew he was still too young to crumble. The lights of the library jogged with his breath as Trevor ran up to the big double doors, to automatic opening arms of safety. He stopped to get his wind back and compose himself, running a hand through his black hair. Ok, Trevor get a grip, that wasn't age coming to sap your bones, just an old dame seeing her friends in the ol' marble orchard. You're stoned, you're on drugs. Its nothing new, so look, just chill, just stay calm. Inside, he gazed at the book name written somewhere on this piece of paper. No, that was an old hall pass. Ahh, he found it, but had trouble discovering the writing on the paper amongst other notes he had made. PK Dick, fiction under 'D', what else did he write growing, exploding! what the hell did he write that for? Cool at the time, but Trevor would just throw it on his pile called 'dope wanderings'. In that file, stuck in a box under his bed, were many other equally drugged out, trip induced sayings. Trevor kept them because one day, he told himself, he might need them. Anyway, here he was in the library with a book to find, but the huge rack of magazines caught his eye first. Huh, they didn't have 'High Times', he thought, looking all over for it. Hey, what's up with that, he wondered, projecting in his mind a little fantasy number... what would Miss Phelps, the bitch librarian say if he went up to her with his fake cartoon accent, and said "Hey, Missuz P'elps, why dontcha got dat one mag' High Times', huh, whyncha ya got it den, huh! It'z a magazine! You'se a' liberary ain'tch ya? Huh?! HUH?!" Oh man, she would wig! Just wig! The image made Trevor snort with a stifled laugh, loudly. He caught himself quickly, but it was too late. Oh, oh Trevor groaned, you attracted her attention. What would it be this time, telling him to read only the books in the young adult section! Like he wasn't old enough, he'd already read books from the Adult Section. Jesuzz, tight bitch. As some sort of controlling, hold-back Trevor entity, the librarian was always cold with him, seeing his hatred against her restrictive, information controlling world. She now called him to her desk. "Trevor, Trevor Lerhnem, come over here please. I wish to have a talk with you." Each word came out clipped and short. Commanding, her tight lips pursed, Trevor knew he had no choice, they still saw him as a kid and sometimes the weight of that threw him into it, such that he became one again. " Hey hey Ms. Phelps, what did I do this time?" "Trevor, " she replied, looking at her computer screen, "You have a book overdue one week." "No, I turned them all in, I know, I don't have any at home. " He leaned forward to see the computer screen. Ms. Phelps smoothly turned it away from him. "We know you have one overdue Trevor, Mnemonic Resurrection, by Chakra Dali, phd." "No I don't, Ms. Phelps, I don't even know what Mnemonic is, The computer made a mistake I, I don't got it!" He shrugged his shoulders like the smooth street talkers in those old forties movies. Trevor was in acting mode now. I mean, I could have the book, he thought to himself, maybe I just checked it out, never read it and returned it with the others. Don't recall it though. But I did return all the others, I remember cause when I came home from the library, mom said that Jess the tight-ass neighbor had wanted his lawn mowed, so, yeah, he did turn in all those books. He was sure of it. Ms.'s Phelps sharp yelp brought him out of his smokey circling thoughts. "Our records are exact, Trevor. The book was about memory. Maybe.." and she turned away from him to some other paper pushing subject upon her desk and spoke to him out the corner of her mouth as if with sharp lips, which he imagined forming larger jaws in a cartoon way and reaching out with razor like word teeth to chomp his ear, "... you just forgot to look. I suggest you look again, and look harder." Trevor threw up his hands. So much for that mission, so much for that new book. He stuck his hands into his pockets and stomped out. He headed to the convenience store to spend those two dollars. Maybe he'd buy himself a porno mag. Outside on the streets Trevor noticed a seemingly confused man wandering about in a dark suit, clutching an old battered briefcase. Is there some kind of old-folk convention he wondered, sticking to shadows, never wanting to be noticed. It seemed to Trevor, that the man was on his way somewhere, but not knowing where to go exactly, or how to get there. Or perhaps, where he had come from. He climbed up on the old cemetery fence post and sat for a few minutes, intermingled in patterns and hidden by low slung branches, breathing the cool night air into his abused lungs, staring at the sky and trying to forget.<<< back to more Stanislaus I. Skoda! |
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