The Last Horror Novel in the History of the World (6 page)

“Shooting,” says Blue, “at what?”

“The kids,” says Manny.

“Why?” asks Blue, “I thought they weren’t doing nothing.”

Old Burt looks at Manny, and Manny looks at Tyler, and the three look at each other.

“It was complicated,” says Old Burt.

“Yeah,” says Manny.

“You had to be there,” adds Tyler.

“We should go looking,” says Mindy, then the room looks at Mindy. Mindy shakes her head, “For others, you dumb shits,” and then everyone nods.

“I’m down,” says Blue, “but we should take a cooler.”

“Why?” asks Tessa.

 “Don’t know what else is out there,” Blue says, “and if I gotta die, I’m dying drunk.”

Most others agree with him. Only Old Burt shakes his head disapprovingly, “Rock bottom waits for all drinkers,” he says.

“Don’t be such a fucking buzz kill,” says Mindy.

Then Tyler says, “And a hypocrite,” says Tyler.

“Hypocrite?” says Old Burt. “I ain’t drank in twelve years.”

“No,” says Tyler, “but you got blunted earlier.”

Old Burt laughs. “Smoking ain’t drinking,” he says, “marijuana maintenance, we call it. Not everyone in the program’s down, but, it’s like the coins say, ‘to thine own self be true.’”

“Exactly,” says Blue as he puts beer in a Styrofoam cooler.

We take the streets meekly.

We knock on doors that go unanswered.

Through trash swept yards, we tarry.

We seven drunkards and Old Burt shaking his head at us as we sip ourselves sillier.

Jokes are told.

Blue Parson:

A man, a woman, and a turtle go into a bar. Bartender says, “What can I get you?” Man says, a less ugly baby.

Tyler:

A fag goes to see a doctor because his dick’s turned purple. Doctor says, “I’ve seen this condition, but not in a blue moon.” The fag contemplates this, says, “Well, Doc, I guess you’re cute enough. Get me some paint and bend over.”

Tim:

Mom walks in on her son who’s jerking off to a picture of Dick Cheney. Naturally she’s disgusted. “Boy, you need help,” she says. The boy looks at the picture; he looks back at his mom. “I appreciate the offer,” he says, “but you’re not really my type.”

Mindy:

What do you call a lesbian with no tongue and no fingers?

A waste of fucking time.

Tessa:

A man’s on trial for rape. He tells the judge he’s guilty but that the judge should be lenient on account of how small the rapist’s dick is.

“The size of your dick doesn’t matter,” the judge says, and the rapist says, “Sorry.”

“Why?” asks the judge.

“Because,” the rapist says, “you’d only say that if you had a small dick too.”

Old Burt:

What do you call a black guy who’s never met his father?

A black guy.

Rob:

What do you call a Mexican who can run fast and jump high?

Manny:

Let me guess: a wet back?

Rob:

I didn’t say that Spic could swim.

In and out of cars and trucks we climb, looking for keys, but every time we find a keyed ignition, we can’t get the engine to turn.

In empty homes, we lift phones from their housings, place our ears to receivers, but hear nothing emitted. No dial tones, no static.

Back in the streets, we call out names of friends and relatives:

Terry, Sally, Cindy, Tex, Guillermo, Tio, Chuy, Sebastian, Mikey, Maisy, Georgia, Molly, Andy, Sandy, Richard, Bob, Melissa, Lilly, Becky, Bailey, Victor, Jimmy, Hunter, Tom.

Nothing.

No one answers.

No one comes.

“This is creepy,” says Tessa.

Above, the sky’s black fades to gray, the light of coming morning, muting out the certainty of night, whispering on the paleness of day.

“I’m tired,” says Blue.

“Me too,” says Mindy.

“Let’s go to the tree house,” says Rob.

“Might be the safest place,” says Old Burt, “good vantage point, I suppose. In case anything else is coming.”

We all agree, and stumble to Blue’s. Climb up the ladder. Pick corners to flop in. Distribute blankets we’ve pilfered, pillows and bedrolls.

In the dark.

In the quiet.

Our minds wander.

MINDY

In the brightening light of Blue Parson’s tree house, Mindy thinks of the semester she spent at UT Austin, living in the fourth floor of Dobie, a dorm named after a Texas legend, a man who wandered the state culling folk tales and low myths, bitter and happy stories, both, that evidenced the state’s turbulent history of a place that’s been fought over. She’d only read one of the things he’d written. A queer, tall tale about a man who’d used walnut husks as body armor—or so she remembered it. She’d read the thing in a library on campus, which one she couldn’t remember. There were several, and they all had different names. These names were lost to her, with the exception of one—PCL. She couldn’t remember the true meaning of the acronym, but, as she recalled, it was the library that housed the majority of the texts relevant to those pursuing degrees in engineering. Many of those engineering students were from Asia, so the students jokingly called it “Predominantly Chinese Library.”

Mindy was at UT hoping to study nursing, but on the first floor of her dormitory was a theatre—Dobie Theatre—an independent house that showed art films, documentaries, foreign features that garnered awards, and Mindy felt called to it, spending all her money and free time there, watching stories that seemed so distant to her life’s history—a bungled existence in the depressing town of Scrape, Texas.

Beyond the movies was the boy. Alexei. His neat shaved head, his precision features.

“You come here all the time,” he told her.

“I like movies,” she said.

“Who doesn’t?” he asked.

And Mindy just shrugged.

Alexei.

Their hands touched once when he was taking her ticket.

The next time he saw her he asked, “Do you like to take walks?”

After her movie, they walked out of the theatre onto Guadalupe, the bright light of day, nearly blinding their eyes, and they held hands going south.

When they got to Cesar Chavez he led her east to Congress and south again to the bridge over Town Lake.

“You got anywhere you’re supposed to be?” he asked.

“No,” she told him.

Alexei looked at his watch. “In about half an hour, you’re gonna see magic.”

They waited. The sky grayed to dusk. Others gathered around them. Alexei said, “Don’t listen to anyone,” and Mindy looked at him, “to these people,” he told her, “to their talking,” he said, “plug your ears with your fingers. I don’t want them ruining your surprise.”

The sun sank behind them, orange light and murky sky.

Alexei pointed. He pulled Mindy’s hands from her ears, held them, “Look, look, look, look,” he said. And, to Mindy, it seemed like a cloud of smoke was wafting from the bridge beneath them, but then she realized it was something flying.

“Are they bugs?” she asked.

“Bats,” he said.

Alexei.

He could make bats magic, could make bats a surprise.

Later, he bought her ice cream. Later, they were back in her dorm room.

For weeks, they wandered with each other. To the capital building made of pink granite. To the Central Market on Lamar Boulevard where Mindy stood mesmerized, staring at produce and fish. “I’ve never seen this kind of food,” she confessed to him.

But some people’s hearts need constant change to feel happy.

“You’re doing what?” she asked him.

“A study,” he told her.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s like a three week thing,” he said, “I go in, take some pharmaceuticals. They monitor me. Make sure the drugs are working.”

“Isn’t that like, dangerous?” Mindy asked.

“Could be,” he said, “but it pays good.”

Alexei.

“I’ll miss you,” Mindy told him, the last day they saw each other.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he told her.

When he was away, Mindy’s symptoms showed. 

Some things are nothing, but nothing can’t always be forgiven.

OLD BURT

But it hadn’t been a dozen years. There was a boat ride. A deep sea charter.

AA has all these acronyms.

One is HALT: hungry, angry, lonely, tired.

You don’t want to be those things.

“One is too many,” thought Burt, “a thousand isn’t enough,” he thought, “the alcoholic’s mind is like a bad neighborhood, don’t go there alone,” thought, “this too shall pass.”

Old Burt changed HALT to SHALT in his mind: the S stood for sea sick.

He was sitting there with the salt smell heavy on his breathing, the horizon bobbing up and down, a bucket of minced mullet at his feet, the sloppy sound of the waves on the hull. He knew the trick: stare at the horizon, the stillest spot on the sea, but it wasn’t working. Every so often his vision chanced glances at the clouds that seemed to move in unnatural ways, and he thought he’d be puking soon, and he kept saying the serenity prayer, “God grant me .  .  .” But then the steward came by:

“Beers, sodas, sandwiches?” the steward asked, and Old Burt ordered three Bud Lights, chugged them like water to mask his symptoms of the churning.

It worked.

That was ten years ago.

It worked.

“To thine own self,” thought Old Burt.

But sometimes truth is the last thing you need.

TYLER