The two of them busted up as they walked away. Their laughter came from the gut, bellowing genuine glee. The slaps of their high-five echoed off of the lockers as they headed to practice.
―
Night. Home from school. Done with practice. Done with the day.
I stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out and my fingers turned to prunes. The heat helped the pulsing ache that was building in my neck and shoulders. The first practice back was always the worst, and Dad had pushed us harder than usual. My legs were as stiff as tree trunks as I stepped onto the green bathroom rug.
I toweled off, and then combed my close-cropped hair to the side, like Steve McQueen. I slid on my red pajama pants and a fresh white tank top. Steam drifted into the dark, empty hallway as I opened the bathroom door.
Momma and Dad were in bed. Roy was already asleep. I flipped off the bathroom light and moved blindly toward my bedroom as quietly as I could.
I shut my door, locked it, and then stepped onto my bed. I stood on my tiptoes, arching until my fingers pushed up the ceiling panel above me. I stuck one hand into the opening and felt around until my fingers grazed the handle of my stashbox. I pulled it out carefully and then stepped down off the bed.
In my hand was a yellow Rocky & Bullwinkle lunchbox.
Inside was the arsenal of tools I’d used to get through my brother’s death.
I opened it and took stock of my supply—a ziplocked bag of grass, rolling papers, a half-smoked joint, and three magic mushrooms I was too afraid to eat.
I took the roach from the lunchbox, then put it back in its hiding place.
After the box was secured, I crept down to the kitchen and went through the rarely used side door that led into the garage. I locked it behind me.
I didn’t turn on the light in case someone came down for a midnight snack. Instead, I felt my way through the garage, stopping when my hands touched aluminum. Then I squatted and lifted the garage door up as quietly as I could.
Moonlight poured in. I turned toward the car.
God, she was sparkling. Even in the dark.
Bruce’s 1962 Chevy Bel Air, baby blue with a 409 mean-machine engine. His car had been the envy of the neighborhood kids. It was the sort of car you waved at when it passed you by. She was real fine, his 4-0-9, indeed.
I opened the passenger door and slid into the middle of the bench seat. I pulled the keys from the driver’s side visor, where Bruce had left them. I put it in the ignition—I turned it one click, just enough to get the battery going.
The dashboard lit a dull-green color, like a beer sign with a blown bulb. The light blended with the moon and cast the interior in an airy radiance.
I flipped the radio on.
Aretha Franklin sang “Chain of Fools” through the ghostly waves.
I ch-ch-charged the dashboard lighter, and nodded my head with the beat.
Once it heated up, I pulled it from the cradle and lit the joint. It sizzled when it touched. I brought the joint to my lips and inhaled steadily.
I stretched out my neck, and then rested my head on the back of the bench. I closed my eyes and held in the smoke. I listened to the music. I reflected on the day.
I couldn’t get Stink and Marty out of my head.
Why’d they have to talk like that? Why’d they have to be such assholes?
As a Southerner, I’d been taught that refusing to participate in bigotry was its own type of rebuke. But as a seventeen-year-old, I was beginning to question that logic. Obviously Milo was too, since he shot back at Stink and Marty even though they could cream him without breaking a sweat.
But he still spoke up . . . and I didn’t say shit.
I never fought as hard as I could. Or should.
I exhaled hard enough to push that bummer of a thought from my head.
Smoke filled the cab. The DJ faded up the first bars of the next song.
—boom, ba-boom, boom, ba-boom—
—boom, ba-boom, boom, ba-boom—
It was then that I heard my brother’s voice.
I knew it was my imagination. I knew it was the weed.
But I swear I heard him in the static, drifting out on the back of a song.
“Tell me, loyal listeners, what does become of the brokenhearted? Well, it’s hard to say, baby, even for me, but when Jimmy Ruffin does the askin,’ the question sounds oh so sweet.”
God, Bruce loved that song. “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted” had been the crown jewel of his Motown collection.
Jimmy Ruffin sang about the heartbroken world, belting out painful visions in his sad, soulful way. I took another toke and reached for the dial. I cranked the volume up, then exhaled into the green-lit dark. The air suddenly became three-dimensional, a thick, green haze of jungle smoke.
I leaned back in the seat and I thought about my brother and I thought about the war and I thought about hate and rock-n-roll and nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing at all.
Then I whispered to the radio, a hollow reply.
“I have visions too, man. I have visions, too.”
three
Crack the Sky, Shake the Earth
The first few weeks back at school flowed in a forgettable stream of monotony. Class, practice, work, home—there was no big news, no big deals. Even the news from Vietnam was tame; nightly newscasters made it clear the war was on its last leg. Rumors of peace talks loomed, and it really looked like President Johnson might decide to end the war, after all.
So for the first time in a long time, my thoughts drifted to normal teenage things—like the fact that I still hadn’t met the new girl. I saw her only in glimpses, usually through the window of Dad’s Studebaker as he drove me to school. She walked with Milo in the mornings, but he hadn’t offered to introduce me. When I finally asked him what she was like, he just said she was “sorta intense.”
I had no interest in adding any intensity to my current state, so I didn’t go out of my way to meet her. I let school days stay boring old school days, and weekends be nothing but mindless shifts at the Royal Atlantis, the movie theater where Milo and I worked.
There were only three viewing rooms, so the theater wasn’t as majestic as it sounded. But it was the only theater in town, and it had a neon-green sign bright enough to double as a lighthouse beacon. I was the ticket taker, which was the easiest job in the joint. Milo, however, was the projectionist and pro-bono repairman (he could fix everything from the aperture plate to the popcorn machine.) He did any and every task happily because movies were his passion. He wanted to be a director, or a cameraman, or . . . well, anything, pretty much, as long as it had to do with his obsessive passion for motion pictures.