* * *
Russell sat cross-legged in the cubbyhole of his oversized dormer window. In his lap he cradled a Guild acoustic guitar, which he strummed disinterestedly while Apollo, his yellow Great Dane, watched from his berth between the bed and window. Russell looked at his dog and felt an urgent upwelling in his gut.
He quickly broke eye contact with the Dane and scanned his room. Rock stars on the walls, mostly heroes of a bygone age. Robert Plant stood frozen in time next to Jimmy Page, who was captured mid-solo, sublime in an opiate-induced oblivion; Slash from Guns N’ Roses loomed in profile, backlit, back arched in rock and roll ecstasy; Angus Young, with his Gibson SG guitar slung way too high yet way too cool, gave Russell Whitford the old devil horns from the vicinity of 1978. And above the mahogany headboard of his bed, in the seat of honor: a group portrait of the mighty Red Hot Chili Peppers. There were others he couldn’t see from the eaves under which he sat, but they were there, tacked onto the angled ceiling with white pushpins: Stone Temple Pilots, Jane’s Addiction, The Kinks, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jimi Hendrix, David Bowie, Black Sabbath, and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
One more year to go, he thought, plucking the harmonic A-note that kicked off the Stones’ "Angie." His last year at Trentmont High began in three short weeks, and, truth be told, he was more than a little happy to be shucking off that archaic, cookie-cutter institution in under a year’s time. He happened to know for a fact that every teacher there was either a hick, a hypocrite, or both. While those purveyors of knowledge preached the importance of higher education, restraint, and community values to others, they themselves could be—and often were—spotted at Damien’s Ice House, a rather sordid little dive, on the weekends, boozing it up with the same students they were supposed to be providing a beacon of light for. No, Russell wouldn’t miss his teachers one bit. When he thought about it, he didn’t think he would miss his so-called peers, either. Yet a nagging thought buzzed inside his head: a mosquito that couldn’t be swatted and refused to go away. What happens next? It was the big question and, as far as he was concerned, the only question that needed addressing. The answer was simple, though: college. Yeah, but which one? And what will I major in when I get there? Sometimes Russell wished he could be more like Pete. Pete had his future all figured out. He finalized his college plans early in his sophomore year. And I haven’t even taken the goddamn SATs.
And what about poor old Pete. The memory of his best friend taking a punch to the stomach made his heart sink even lower. But he deserved it, his mind retaliated. No, his soul said, it doesn’t matter how much Pete may have been egging Hector on, he didn’t deserve to be treated that way. The strong weren’t supposed to pick on the weak. It was their duty, for Christ’s sake, to look after the little ones. What’s that Bible verse? Something about shepherds and lambs. No, the meek…yes, the meek inheriting the earth. Russell didn’t hold much stock in the Bible—thought it was a boring read—but he knew that much of it to be true. All of a sudden, he yearned for the hammer of justice to fall down hard on Hector. The sooner it happened, the better. He knew how to swing that hammer, too. Sheriff Price lived next door. All he had to do was make one quick visit and whisper a secret or two about Hector Graham into the Good Sheriff’s ear. Besides, it wasn’t as if the fat slob had a future, and he had done some bad things. Some very bad things.
"Oh Apollo—come here, boy," Russell cooed, tossing the guitar onto the bed.
Apollo’s ears perked at the sound of his name, and he lifted his massive blonde body off the hardwood floor. Ambling toward his master, his tags jingled with his long, purposeful strides. When he arrived at the dormer, he lowered his giant head onto Russell’s lap and peered up at the human with deep, mocha-colored eyes.
Russell stroked the Dane’s strong neck and kissed the top of his perfect head.
"What would I do without you, boy?"
* * *
Under the broken roof of a sinking house, Mike O’Brien lay stretched out on a soiled mattress, shirt off, Fruit of the Loom briefs on. Curled up next to him, a freshly hosed off Huey panted softly, trapped by the naked arm thrown over his chubby body. The window shade was drawn. A sliver of evening light peeked through the bottom of the sill.
Mike slept soundly and dreamt of dogs