by
Charles Sheehan-Miles
Copyright 2013 Charles Sheehan-Miles
Your personal effects (Crank)
“Your personal effects.”
The red-faced, surly, rounded cop behind the desk slid a thick brown envelope across to me. I opened it. Inside I found my wallet and the belt loop chain it attached to, along with my belt and shoelaces. The room had the hard reality of a hangover. I’d been through this routine once…or twice…before.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
The cranky cop gave me a sardonic grin. “Have a nice day.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes. The other cop pointed to the door; I heard a buzz then pushed my way out, my laceless boots flopping around my feet with every step.
Julia stood up when she saw me, her long auburn hair falling in loose ringlets around her shoulders, her blue-green eyes fixing on mine. In this setting, the lobby of a urine-smelling jail, she looked out of place, a flower in a field of manure. But appearances can be deceiving.
“Are you okay?” She raised her right hand to tentatively touch my cheek. “You’ve got a black eye.”
“Yeah, it’s fine, babe.”
At that, her eyes narrowed and the hand tenderly touching my cheek slapped me hard on the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“What is wrong with you?” she asked.
“What the hell did I do?”
“Just come on, we’ve got to pick up Sean and Carrie.”
She turned and marched out the front door of the jail. Not a kiss or an, “I’m glad you’re okay,” or anything. What the hell? Sometimes I didn’t understand her. I loved her. She was my life, but… Christ, this summer had been frustrating as hell.
My car was parked across the street. A mint, cherry-red 1968 Ford Mustang convertible with a white racing stripe and a silver skull in place of the Mustang logo on the front. I’d gotten a deal on the car in LA, provoking one of many arguments with Julia while we were on tour. What the hell did she care if I bought a car? Especially a car that rocked? But no…apparently my buying a car warranted fourteen days of discussion.
I felt around in my pockets for my keys, but of course I didn’t have them, and then she was unlocking the driver’s side and getting in while I stood there, a cold wind from the bay biting through my thin t-shirt.
“Wait… I’ll drive,” I protested.
She gave me a wry look. “Are you sober enough to drive yet?”
I brought my eyebrows together and thought about it. I felt sober enough. But… It wasn’t worth the fight. “Fine, you drive.”
I got in the passenger side and slumped into my seat. She cranked the car, then hit play on the stereo. Puddle of Mud’s She Hates Me blasted out of the speakers. I winced. I loved loud music, but for fuck’s sake, it was six in the morning and my head hurt.
She put the car in gear. I stared out the window. It was getting light outside, and soon it would be Saturday morning in San Francisco. I loved what little I’d seen of the city since we arrived yesterday morning, but part of the frustration of traveling on tour was a tight schedule. One city started to look like the next, one hotel like the next, one argument like the next. It had all run together, colorless.
“How’s Sean?” I asked.
She gave me a sour look. “How do you think he is, Crank? He’s stressed and upset and worried about you.”
“Well, it’s not like I went out and intentionally got arrested, Julia.”
“No, you just beat someone up right in front of the cops.”
“He was a prick.”
“No, he was a member of the media.”
“Same thing.”
She shook her head. “Stop acting like a child, Crank. There’s a hundred bands out there wanting to be where you are. You want to kill your career right out the door, keep this attitude up and keep pissing off the press. Let’s go get your brother before he has a complete meltdown.”
“Fine.”
I winced as she took a corner too fast, and then she was driving along the waterfront toward our hotel. I could see glimpses of the water through the buildings, tourists, and tourist traps. I kept my eyes out there, trying to relax just a little.
Okay, look. I get it. She was right. I could’ve kept my cool. I should’ve kept my cool. But lately it seemed like we couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without having reporters shoving their cameras in our faces. We were going through a pack of them, and lights were flashing, they were shoving at us, and I could hear the tone in Sean’s voice as he started to lose it. So I lost it for him. Shoot me already.
Basically, the bad news was, everywhere we went, we had reporters and paparazzi dogging us. And the good news was, everywhere we went, we had reporters and paparazzi dogging us. Seriously. That doesn’t happen unless you’re a success. And increasingly, my band, Morbid Obesity, was just that.
Being perfectly modest, it was because the music freaking rocked, but also because we had an amazing, talented manager in the form of my girlfriend, Julia. Julia, who helped find every opportunity for our band to be successful. Julia, who had become almost a big sister for my brother, Sean. Julia, who I absolutely loved.
Julia, who lately wasn’t happy with me at all.
Could I blame her? It’s not like I hadn’t been a complete dick over and over again. But then again, she was no saint either.
Whatever. We had a nice, five day drive ahead of us, all the way across the country. A chance for us to relax and calm down. A chance for us to remind each other why we loved each other. To leave behind the stress and distractions of the tour.
A chance to be us again.
Botulism? (Crank)
When Julia got me out of jail, my head was splitting. By the time we picked up Sean at the hotel and were on the road to the Richmond neighborhood of San Francisco, it was nearly noon and the pain in my head had progressed to excruciating. I needed a drink and then some lunch, in that order.
On second thought, I was so queasy, maybe I’d skip the lunch. Julia had insisted I get a shower before we head to her parents’, which was probably best considering the opinion they already held of me, and all that steam and hot water left me more dehydrated. A drink it is.
I shifted in my seat, looking back at Sean. He had a book in his lap, a worn out 1990s edition of Off the Beaten Path, a travel guide to the obscure and weird all across the United States. He’d been asking for days about several sights he wanted to see along our route.
“You doing okay, Sean?”
“I’m well. Are you? I’m concerned about infection around your right eye. Or other complications. Have you had any changes or loss of vision?”
Jesus, Sean. I nodded slowly. “Yeah, a little. Why?”
Sean’s forehead creased. “Can you move your eyes?”
I wanted to growl at him. Instead, I looked to the left, then the right.
“No, no,” he said, “hold your head still. Look only with your eyes.”
I did, and it hurt. A lot. “All right, so what if it hurts?”
He leaned forward and grabbed the side of my head. I jerked back.
“Crank, please stay in one place,” he ordered calmly.
I rolled my eyes, but stayed still. I was nothing if not a quick learner.
He leaned close, looking in my eyes. “Your eyes aren’t leaking any fluids. If you notice any, we need to call an ambulance immediately.
“I’m not going blind, am I?” I was embarrassed I’d asked the question. Suddenly I was wishing I hadn’t hit that reporter. I was too young to go blind or get some kind of brain infection. Maybe I needed to go to the doctor now.
Julia just kept driving. We were going uphill
now, way uphill. We passed street signs for Clement and Geary, Anza, then Balboa. At least I could still read—that was a good sign, right?
I turned back to Sean. “Are you sure I shouldn’t go to the doctor now?”
“Relax, Crank,” Julia said.
“There are really no guarantees,” Sean said. “A black eye is probably the only complication. There’s a minor chance of more serious side effects, though.”
“What kind of side effects?”
Julia turned onto Cabrillo Street, shaking her head slightly as she did so. She had a wry smile on her face.
“Nothing really to worry about unless you have a severe headache.”
Problem was, I did have a severe headache. Of course I had a headache, I’d drunk a lot at the party and been punched in the face. But maybe Sean was right. What if something more serious was wrong? “What if I do, though?”
“Well, obviously eye leakage would be pretty bad. And in some cases the eye’s been known to fill up with fluid or blood. That would be bad. But it’s not the worst case.”
“Well, what the hell is?”
“Oh, well that would be a cerebral hemorrhage.”
I shook my head, but the fifty punk rockers dancing in my skull took issue with that. “What is that? Speak English, Sean.”
“That’s an intracranial hemorrhage, but what makes it special is that it bleeds directly into the brain tissue itself.”
“Special?” I cried. “It’s special? Oh, for God’s sake, Sean, knock it off. If I’m going to die, at least I can die ignorant.”
Julia burst into laughter. “You’re not going to die, Crank. You need a drink of water and some aspirin.”
“Fine. Stop at the drugstore, then?”
“We’re here,” she said.
Here was a block of four and five-story row houses. She expertly parallel parked in front of one of them, an imposing four story-edifice of blue brick and ornate stonework. At ground level was a garage door directly next to a small stoop and a front door.
Julia sat rigidly in her seat, both hands gripping the steering wheel.
“What’s wrong?”
Her eyes darted to the house, then to me, and it sank in. I knew exactly what was wrong.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “I’ll behave.”
She closed her eyes, and for a second it seemed she was trying to not cry. Then she said, her voice at a near whisper, “Come on.”
I reached out and touched her arm. “Julia?”
She took her hands off the wheel and shook them in the air as if warding off insects, then opened the door and stepped out of the car.
I looked over my shoulder at Sean. He shrugged, then said at his usual near shout, “She seems upset, Crank.”
I shook my head. “Thanks for the insight.”
Something was just off. I mean, Julia and I have had fights. Occasionally we’ve even had some really rough ones. And the way it went was pretty predictable—big blowout, followed by equally big make up. And the makeup sex was usually hot, which is a plus.
What Julia usually wasn’t was sullen. Quiet. Withdrawn. Not since the first few months I’d known her, when her walls were still coming down. To be completely honest? It was starting to piss me off. Yeah, I screwed up and spent the night in jail. But maybe be understanding for a change? She was my girlfriend, for Christ’s sake! She was the woman I loved. Why the hell not behave like it?
Christ on a sidecar. Sean and I followed her through the front door of the house. I was behind her, but close enough to her side to see it when she slid her smile back on like a mask.
She opened the door, but reached out and pressed the doorbell, then called out, “Hello!”
It seemed odd… No matter how long I’d lived away from home, I still just walked in. But Julia’s family wasn’t like mine. Not at all. Back home, Dad would be puttering around the kitchen, ready to crack a joke or pass a beer to anyone who dropped by. Not retired Ambassador Thompson or his witch of a wife, Adelina. From what Julia had told me, she’d never really lived in this house, just visited during the holidays, because the whole Thompson clan moved here when her dad retired just a couple years ago—after Julia had already left home for college.
At Julia’s shout, a stampede of small feet came down the stairs: four little girls. Alexandra, the eldest of the four, was thirteen now. She had golden brown hair framing pretty green eyes and looked substantially older than she had just a year ago. She was going be a knockout, and I felt an instinctive protectiveness. There was a whole world of complete dicks out there; guys like me, when I was her age, who were nothing but trouble. I wanted to shield her from it.
Alexandra hugged Julia, but the twins headed straight for me, with Sarah leading the charge. “Crank!” she shouted, launching herself from the fourth step up straight at me. Luckily I caught her before she broke my neck, and next thing I knew both twins were hugging me and grabbing at my leather jacket. Weird, because I’d only met them twice. I guess I made a good impression.
Andrea, the youngest, stayed back. She was six now and already taller than her seven-year-old twin sisters. She looked like a tiny version of Carrie, the second eldest of the six sisters. Carrie was six-two and when she walked into a room curtains smoldered and windows blew open. To be honest, she intimidated the fuck out of me. Julia was beautiful. Incredibly so. But all of us paled beside Carrie, a graceful creature who seemed to come from another planet.
I followed Julia and Alexandra up the stairs with one twin on each hip. It was a good thing I’d been eating my Wheaties. Well, I hadn’t, actually, so when I got to the top of the stairs, I found myself wishing first, that I had a cigarette, second, that I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life, and third, that I knew where the restroom was so I could go vomit in peace. Instead, I found myself easing the twins to the floor and shaking hands with Richard Thompson.
He wore brown corduroy pants and a tweed jacket. Seriously. This guy was right out of the 1970s and looked kind of like Mister Rogers. Except for his cold eyes. Something about him just freaked me out. Even when he smiled and was friendly, which was pretty much always, it never really reached his eyes. He was strangely unlike his wife, who was caustic and mean to her daughters, but at least you knew where you stood.
“Crank,” he said, “you look well.” His hands were dry and his grip firm; he looked me dead in the eye as he said the words, one eyebrow slightly raised.
I felt off balance. Even I knew I looked like shit right now. Why the lie? I blinked my eyes and pictured Julia’s father strapped to a revolving circus target thingy in a clown suit while the twins threw water balloons filled with paint at him. That vision made me smile. A lot. I returned his handshake with enthusiasm. “Yeah, I’m doing great, Ambassador Thompson, how about you? Retirement’s suiting you?”
He nodded. “Quite. I’m writing my memoirs.”
“You must have a lot to write about, with all that travel, huh?”
“You have no idea,” he responded.
“This is my brother, Sean.”
Mr. Thompson stuck his hand out to shake. This was always a delicate moment with Sean. Shaking hands is one of those customs which makes little sense to him—we’d talked about it before. “I don’t understand why it’s ever necessary,” he always said. Then he’d mount his objections. Touching hands with people, especially strangers, was unhygienic. Sean once spent two full days telling me all the various infections, bacteria, viruses and fungi which can be spread via handshake. All I could think at the time was, if just shaking hands could do that, what all could you get from sleeping with someone? It was three weeks before I could touch a girl after that.
So as Sean shook Mr. Thompson’s hand, all I could think was botulism? But Sean wasn’t interested in talking about infections right now. Because no sooner did they shake hands than he said, “Want to know something ironic? I read that in the 1980s, there were a lot of very shady dealings with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan that led to the formation of the
Taliban, and that the United States funded a lot of that. Isn’t it odd that the United States would arm and fund the very people who came back and attacked us?”
I’ll admit my eyes widened, and I saw Julia startle too. Sean had never talked about anything political in front of us before. Now he was off like a storm, asking Mr. Thompson if he knew the details of the financial dealings between the anti-Soviet rebels of the 1980s, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the State Department.
Mr. Thompson was pale. “I really can’t talk about any of that sort of thing,” he said. “I’m sure you know it’s classified.”
“But why is it classified? That was a long time ago. And it’s in the public’s best interest to know,” Sean asked at almost the level of a shout, because that’s just the way he talked.
I’m pretty sure poor Mr. Thompson, who never spoke above a low, cultured tone, had no idea how to handle this loud, monotone, strange teenager.
“Come on, Sean,” I said, because it was clear Mr. Thompson was finished with this discussion.
Mr. Thompson stepped back, not even attempting to hide his annoyance, but his words were as smooth as a raspberry lime rickey. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I can’t join you all for lunch. I’ve got an important phone call coming in.”
I’d been intimidated by Richard Thompson before. I’d been annoyed by his snobbish attitude, his disapproval. I’d been made to feel small by the way he looked down his nose at me. But I’d never felt blind rage. Not until now. Because when he said those words, Julia shrank just a little, her shoulders falling even as she gave him a counterfeit smile and responded, “No problem, Dad, I know you’re busy.”
The old bastard slinked back into his office and we were enveloped in chaos again as Carrie stumbled to the main floor and bumped into her mother, who was just walking in from the kitchen.
“Carrie,” Mrs. Thompson scolded, “watch where you’re going!”
Carrie straightened, but I could tell it was an effort. By all appearances, she was as hungover as I was—hair a mess, eyes bleary, skin pale. Last night at the after party, she’d done more drinking than was a good idea for any seventeen-year-old. Apparently she regretted it this morning.