Ache

Ache

Book One

of

The Punk Series

Copyright © 2013 P.J. Post

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One: Clay – A Prologue

Chapter Two: Once Was
Play

Chapter Three: Brainwashed Zombies Unite

Chapter Four: First Chances

Chapter Five: Secrets Unshared

Chapter Six: The Laundromat Girls Cometh

Chapter Seven: Second Hand Chances

Chapter Eight: The Underground

Chapter Nine:
The Ritual of the Tribe

Chapter Ten: Black Light Prelude

Chapter Eleven: Parking Lot Blues

Chapter Twelve: The Compassion and the Fury

Chapter Thirteen: The Dream

Chapter Fourteen: The Café from Hell

Chapter Fifteen: Memories

Chapter Sixteen: The Rise and Fall of the E
lm Street Scorpions

Chapter Seventeen: In the End

Author’s Notes

Dedicated to the music that changed my life.

Summer, 1980

I’m shit-faced and pissed.

I turned sixteen today, but that doesn’t make tonight special, it’s like any other and I’m looking for trouble just because I can.

I swiped a six-pack from the Holiday Lounge earlier, after the manager invited me to leave, and pounded it on the walk over to Kyle Turner’s place.  He’s the richy-rich All-star quarterback for North and word on the street has it he’s having a graduation party tonight.

I don’t exactly go to that school and I wasn’t exactly invited to this party, but then I don’t exactly give a shit.  I’m wearing a loose fitting black suit, white oxford, a black skinny tie and my purple
Converse tennis shoes.  My long hair is tucked up under my tweed fedora.  I’m just another kid in a badly tailored suit.  I should remain invisible long enough to cop a few beers and then, when I’m done fitting in, I’ll just have to see who I can piss off first.  It shouldn’t take long.

I stop at Maple Street.  Ivy covered walls with big bronze letters that spell out
Sterling Hills
stand vigil.  I make a mental note to come back on the Fourth of July with M-80’s.  The street beyond is lined with large, brick, two-story homes, some with porticos and circle driveways.  Smooth sidewalks stained with hop-scotch boxes rest under a canopy of trees that enclose the expansive yards.

It’s all an illusion, a front to conceal the lie of normal suburban life, the perfect hard-working white-collar father, the always manicured and coif
fed wife, two-point-five kids and two new cars — they all get together and wash them on Sundays, splashing in the water while the family dog frolics about the yard like they are in some goddamn television commercial.

I stop and look up at the first house, the one with the hop-scotch boxes out front.  A light goes out behind the curtains of one of the upstairs windows, but the lights are still on downstairs. 

I wonder about little Suzy up there, or whatever her name is.  The same little girl who is always so happy to wash the cars and splash around on Sundays with the family.  The same little girl who was playing hop-scotch only a few hours ago out in front of this seemingly perfect home.  The same little girl who raises her little hand to show her father the tooth resting there while he explains how the Tooth-Fairy will be visiting her tonight, and I wonder if Mom is watching the late-late movie nursing her second bottle of Chardonnay while she pretends not to notice what good old Dad is up to.  How can she pretend not to hear her daughter’s pitiful cries?

If not this house, I know it’s happening somewhere in this neighborhood.

God, I hate people, especially
these
people.  They have everything, every opportunity.

Ungrateful, malicious fucks and yet they judge me.

Journey begins blasting from down the block and brings me back, fucking
Journey
.  I doubt these straight-legged conformists have ever heard of The Heads, Generation X or XTC, but then thinking for themselves isn’t part of the program.

New Mustangs, Camaros, pick-ups, 280z’s and other status symbols line the street, many blocking driveways and more than a few are parked over the curb leaving ruts in the manicured lawns.

I scowl and finish off my last beer.  This is already the kind of party I want to fuck up; spoiled brats with no clue about reality sitting around getting drunk and no doubt, whining about why they didn’t get into Princeton or Harvard or Yale, or why they have to go to work for their daddy’s company and why life is just so hard — how it’s just not fair.

“Assholes,” I hiss and hurl the beer bottle through the driver’s window of a sweet looking BMW.  The window explodes.  Little elitist cubes of glass fall to the pavement and leather interior.  They remind me of shattered dreams and the thought brings a smile to my face.

As I get closer to Kyle’s house, I see I’m too late.  A fight has spilled out onto the front lawn, taking the party with it.  The aftermath is obvious, ripped shirts, people standing around in huddled groups consoling one another, combatants nursing blackening eyes and fat-lips, while girlfriends pull at their boyfriends to retreat back inside the refuge of Kyle’s parent’s house.

Well, fuck me sideways.

I look around the, what I’m sure is a normally quiet but no less evil, neighborhood and figure the cops are already on their way.

I take a seat on the hood of a Trans Am and push my ass back over the screaming chicken while I decide where to go next.  I’m flicking my Zippo and lighting a cigarette when I hear a scream — a girl’s scream.  I snap the lighter closed, blowing smoke and notice a couple silhouetted against a confederate flag decal in the back window of the extra-shiny pick-up parked in front of the Trans Am.

I pocket my lighter, considering if this needs to be my problem and then I remember — I’ve never been anyone’s problem either.

And then, there’s the Pact.

I drop back down to the pavement and take a drag off my smoke as I cautiously walk around the truck until I can see through the windshield.

She looks at me for the briefest of moments, her eyes are raw desperation.

She’s leaning back against the passenger door, both arms trying to push the asshole away, but he has one hand in her hair, holding the back of her head and trying to force her down.  I can guess where his other hand is.

She’s afraid and panicking.

I’ve seen shit like this too many times to count.

He’s
so
my fucking problem now.

I toss the smoke and jerk the door open, grabbing the guy by the back of his football letterman sweater and yank his ass out of the truck.  He tumbles down, flailing his arms for balance and I take a swing at him, but my aim is off and I whiff it.  I can tell he’s surprised as he manages to dodge my punch and then loses his footing when his pants begin to fall down his legs.  I reorient myself as he gathers himself up from the concrete and suddenly realize I didn’t think this through.

He’s still my problem, but he’s huge, probably a lineman.  I look up at him; his face is twisted in anger.  He’s going to kill me, finally someone cares enough to notice and it’s this fuck.

If everything works out, the girl can make a break for it while he pounds me.  If I’m unlucky, she’ll defend him.  That should piss me off, but I’ve seen this before too and it’s just pathetic; too sad to get angry over.  We accept what we think we deserve.

But I hope I get lucky and she doesn’t even look back.  I’m not looking for anything from her, not even gratitude.  Praise for doing the right thing is a waste.  Knowing she’s okay is all I need and in some surreal way, it’s not even about her; it’s about me and this dick.

I laugh at him as he stands there clutching his pants out in the middle of the street and then I realize I’m not very steady on my feet and probably too drunk to be fighting someone like him.

“Fucking rapist,” I snarl at him, trying to refocus, but I doubt I’m terribly intimidating.

With one hand tugging on his pants, he squares off and glares at me.

Too late for second thoughts, we’re in it now.

He’s faster than I imagined.  My hat is the first thing to go when he hits me.  My hair flies and I see everything in slow motion, especially the pavement as it fills my vision.

I put my hands out and bounce off my knees.

Shit.

I’m slow to roll over and as he comes back in, I realize he’s buttoned his pants back up.  I was slower than I thought.

As he gets closer, I kick the motherfucker in the balls.

He doubles over and glares at me again.

Damn, I missed.

How do you miss kicking someone in the nuts?

“Your ass is mine,” he shouts at me.

He grabs me by my tie, hauls me back to my feet and tosses me toward the yard next to Kyle’s.  My heels hit the curb and I feel myself going over again, grateful for the grass, and then he hits me for the second time.

His fist feels like it’s the size of a Buick.

I land on my back, my head bouncing hard off the ground.

I’m going to break this asshole’s face as soon as I can get up.  I make it as far as my hands and knees when he kicks me in the ribs, spinning me over.

Maybe he was the placekicker too?

He’s shouting and swearing at me, but I’m not coherent enough to understand.  Little black spots are clouding my vision and everything sounds like I’m under water.

I see the girl from the pick-up in her matching yellow and white, short-set grab him by one beefy arm and scream in his face.  Hey, she didn’t run away — chalk one up for the unexpected.

The guy I now think of as
Meat
screams back.

I can see the fight crowd looking over from Kyle’s place and then a few bystanders start to walk over as my awareness returns.

“Fine,” Meat says looking over to Kyle’s.  He leans into to her face and points at me.  “He can have you, you teasing bitch.  Tell this dweeb I’ll kill him if I see him again.”

And then he stomps off.  I suppose he’s getting too much scrutiny under the circumstances from his buddies, scrutiny that requires explanations.  Kicking my ass is one thing, but explaining that he was about to rape the prom queen or whatever she is out in front of Kyle’s house is a tough sale under the best of circumstances.  I’m worried that I just bought her some time.  She’s safe tonight, but the look in Meat’s eye said that he’s not done with her yet.  And I know there’s nothing I can do about that right now.

“Cocksucker!” I try to shout through bubbling blood.

I lay my head back down in the cool grass, mission accomplished, but I would have preferred to get a lick or two in.  I tilt my head and spit out a wad of blood.

I look up at the tanned girl.  She’s blond with long bouncy curls, like she was attacked by a curling iron.  She’s wearing a lot of make up and jewelry.  She looks both older and younger than she probably is.  I assume she’s a S
oshe
.  Her popularity didn’t save her tonight though, wrong place, wrong time.

She smiles at me, looking bewildered and concerned.  She’s cute.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Did I win?” I ask.

She glances back at Meat.  “You rescued me, so yeah, if that was the plan — you won.”

I nod and drop my head back down.  “Cool beans.”

She kneels down in the grass beside me and looks confused about what to say.

“You okay?” I ask, laying one hand on her knee.

“Yeah, thanks again.  Are you okay?”

“Not really, but I’ll live.”

She looks at me with concern.

“Anyone coming this way?” I ask.

“No.”

I sigh.  “Give me a hand up?”

She stands and then reaches down and grabs my hand.  She has a firm grip and is stronger than she looks.  I carefully stand and then stagger back and lean against a huge tree.  I brush off my suit and notice my pants are ripped, my knees skinned and bloody.

A small price to pay for giving her a second chance, because even though they come few and far between, everyone needs second chances.  I can’t imagine what she must be feeling.

“I’m sorry about your suit,” she says.

“Yeah, looks like I’m going to need new pants, but it’s all good.  What was that all about?  He looked like he was trying to, did he try, to, you know?”

“No, not really.  I mean, I don’t know.  He scared me.”  She looks across the yard after him and wraps her arms around herself like she’s cold, even though it’s still in the mid-eighties.

I lay one hand on her shoulder, she’s short.  She’s also trembling.  “Are you sure you’re okay?

She nods.  “He’s never been like that before.”

“What’s he usually like?” I ask sarcastically.

“We went out for a little while, but I’ve been trying to break up with him for the last month and he won’t let go.  He’s so possessive, you know — this was the first time he got like — like this.  But he’s just drunk.  I’ve known him since the third grade for God’s sake, he’d never hurt me.  Not really.”

“Lot of that drunk thing going around tonight, but that’s not really an excuse.  I just think he’s a good old fashioned asshole, and take it from me, God has nothing to do with it — he will hurt you.  You should steer clear of him.”

She looks at me sideways with frightened eyes and then back to the house and hugs herself tighter.

“Yeah, I will,” she says quietly.

I look around the tree to see Meat and his buddies exchanging high-fives while he glances back at us.  My opinion of this crowd was overrated.

When she looks back, her expression has been downgraded from fear to just serious.  “I’m glad you came by when you did and did what you did,” she says.

She leans against the tree next to me and brushes my face with her fingers, she’s still unsteady, but trying hard to conceal it.  I don’t know why she thinks she needs to be so brave, so strong, but I respect her for it just the same.