So I took a couple years off from this blog thing. I'm deployed to Afghanistan now and have a few months left before we're done with the year and go back to Germany. Maybe I'll actually start doing this regularly, but don't count on it.
This is something I wrote back in 2007 for one of my senior Creative Writing workshops at Binghamton University. I usually write violent cyberpunk so this was an exercise in writing about "normal" people in the present day.
Max sat on Linnea’s bed, intently watching her feed a live baby mouse to her pet Chinese water dragon. She held the white mouse by its pink tail squirming less than an inch from the lizard’s head. The water dragon ignored it and closed his eyes.
“C’mon, Dog, eat the damn thing,” Linnea coaxed, shaking the mouse.
“Why the hell did you name it ‘Dog’ again?” Maxed asked. She turned around and tossed her brown hair.
“I told you. Because my dad wouldn’t let me get a real dog.”
“Yeah, well, you’re dad’s a douche-bag.” Linnea waved her hand dismissively and turned back to the terrarium. Dog was still ignoring the mouse. She sighed and dropped it on the gravel where it crawled around the cage futilely seeking an exit.
“He’ll eat it later, I’m sure,” she said.
“I’m sure.” She hunched over his iPod, switching the selection to Shivaree’s “Goodnight Moon.” Ambrosia Parsley’s haunting, sensual voice poured from the attached compact speakers.
Max was in Syracuse for a Zao show when he met Linnea. The show was at The Furnace, and it was good. Zao was the headline act, of course, and their opener was a shitty local act that Max could never remember the name of. The other three bands were good, and Zao was incredible. Max and Darryl met Brett and Jonas at the back of the venue after Zao finished their set.
“Fuckin’ badass,” Brett said. Jonas just nodded, his big arms crossed over his bigger belly.
“Yeah it was,” Darryl said.
“Oh yeah, so there’s this party in South Onondaga in like an hour,” Brett said. “You guys wanna come?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “We don’t have work tomorrow.”
“Sweet,” Brett said.
In like an hour, after collectively eating a tremendous quantity of Tully’s Tenders at Tully’s, Max and Darryl followed Brett and Jonas to the party house. The drive included a shortcut through the Onondaga Reservation, where Max joked about the “red trash” and their run down houses and rusting cars.
Max pulled his ’73 Challenger into the driveway behind Brett’s ’02 Prizm. Pounding dance music from the white ranch house was clearly audible from the front walk.
“Nobody calls the cops?” Max asked.
“Nah, the only neighbors are the old deaf couple right there,” Jonas said, pointing at the blue two-story next to the ranch house. “Nobody else lives for a few miles around.”
“Cool,” Max said. “Who lives here, exactly?”
“Some bitches we know from high school,” Brett said. “Amy and Bri Cresskill. Sluts, but hot as hell, and they throw fuckin’ good parties. Parents aren’t home, obviously.”
The four guys walked into the Cresskill house. A large group of teenagers and twentysomethings yelled at each other over Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” blaring from oversize speakers in the living room.
“It’s the hardcore boys!” Amy violently hugged Jonas and then Brett. “Who’d you bring with you?”
“This is Max and Darryl,” Brett said, gesturing over his shoulder. “These losers are from fuckin’ Binghamton.”
“Weak,” Amy said with a brilliant smile. She tossed her reddish curls. “Welcome to our house, boys.” She drew the last word out into a purr, arching her back to accentuate her Wonderbra cleavage.
“Yeah, where’s the beer?” Darryl asked.
“The keg’s, this way,” Amy said, making an exaggerated ‘come this way’ gesture to match her dramatic pause.
Within ten minutes Amy was desperately in heat with Darryl, and Max wandered off in search of other options. He watched two loud, belligerent overweight girls playing beer pong against a slim Asian girl and her jock boyfriend. Another girl was watching the game intently, and Max immediately gave her his full attention. His eyes were first caught by her round, pretty face and shiny brown hair, but his gaze quickly wandered to the rest of her. A Led Zeppelin angel was stretched almost unrecognizably across her large breasts. Her thick waist, rounded stomach and wide hips did nothing to deter Max’s attraction. He moved around the table to stand next to her.
“Are you playing next?”
“What?” she looked slightly shocked. “Oh. Um, yeah, I think so.”
“Who’s your partner?”
“Um, my friend. But I think she’s upstairs with some guy.” She only gave Max the briefest of glances while she spoke, her eyes otherwise staying on her plastic cup of Coors Light.
“Okay, cool. So we’re on after these guys are done.”
“Um, okay. Sure.” Her smile was dazzling.
“By the way, my name is Max.”
Linnea lay on her stomach, watching Dog do nothing and the mouse squirm around the bottom of the terrarium. Max loved the way she bit her full lower lip when she was watching something, the way her long eyelashes curved up from her eyelids.
“You know it’s the way it’s gotta be,” Max said. Linnea grunted. Max laid his right hand on her wide, round ass. “I know it’s gonna be hard, but you have to do it.”
“I know I do, babe, but I’m scared!” Max began to gently massage her shoulders. She sighed contentedly. “Look, he’s finally eating it!” Dog had suddenly seized the mouse by the head and was shaking it violently. He bit down and then stopped moving.
“Is he just gonna sit there with the mouse in his mouth?” Max said.
“It looks like it. Stupid Dog.” She bit her cuticles and frowned. “You’re gonna have to drive fast.”
“You know I’m all over that,” Max said with a smile.
Max hit the gas and power-shifted into 3rd as he pulled out of the turn, tires squealing. The thunder of the engine and the smell of racing alcohol was intoxicating. He could see Damon’s lime-green rice burner in his rear view mirror, only a car-length behind. Now that he was on another straightaway he could press the advantage of his turbocharged V8. The brown Chevelle lurched as he slammed the clutch and shifted up. The Triptych, Demon Hunter’s latest album, was in the CD player. “The Flame That Guides Us Home” pounded from his stereo. This straight portion of 26 was only a couple of miles, but it was enough to put four more car-lengths between him and Damon.
That clown's going to learn that there is not, in fact, any replacement for displacement, Max thought.
The track shifted to “Not I,” and Max thought of Linnea as he took another turn, grunting the chorus along with Ryan Clark. She hated Demon Hunter and all of Max’s favorite heavy bands. Fortunately, she liked enough of Max’s other favorites – Shivaree, Flogging Molly, Del Castillo and Zeppelin – that the difference in musical tastes was acceptable. Oddly, she made an exception to her “no hard music” rule for Eluveitie.
Damon was almost hopelessly far behind when Max came to a screeching, swerving stop at the Mobile. Darryl and Linnea were sitting on the hood of Darryl’s dark green Jeep Cherokee. Max exited the Chevelle and received a warm, soft embrace from Linnea. Darryl punched him on the shoulder.
“Good job, son,” he said. Max patted the Chevelle’s hood and turned around as Damon’s Civic rolled to a stop beside him.
“Motherfucker,” Damon said. “Here’s your hundred.” He shoved five wrinkled twenties into Max’s open hand.
“Thanks,” Max said.
“Whatever. I know I can beat you, Goldman. And what’s more, I can kick your ass any time!” Damon pointed his finger at Max like a gun. Darryl stepped forward, a dangerous half-smile on his face.
“You plannin’ on backin’ that up, dip-shit?” Darryl grated.
“Fuck both of you,” Damon said. “Any time, okay?”
Max saw Darryl’s muscles tense and laid a hand on his shoulder. His calm gray eyes met Darryl’s wild blue ones and Max shook his head slightly.
“Go home, Damon,” Max said without a hint of anger. “And don’t offer merchandise you can’t deliver.” Damon muttered under his breath, flipped them off and got back into his Civic. Dust and gravel kicked up from the asphalt as he peeled out and sped back down Route 26.
“You did great, babe,” Linnea said, sliding her hands into Max’s pockets and pressing against his chest.
“Thanks. Let’s go get some food.”
Max began massaging Linnea’s lower back, his strong hands kneading and relaxing her tense muscles. She groaned approvingly. He began to work his way lower, moving over her buttocks. She started to squirm, and a moan escaped her lips as his hands slid between her thighs. Her eyes were pure heat as she rolled over and sat up, pulling Max’s mouth to hers. She began working on his belt, and then the two of them frantically helped each other undress. Linnea pushed Max onto his back, and bent her face to his pelvis. He hardened quickly, and she lifted her head and flashed her gorgeous white smile.
“I love you, babe,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
“I love you too.” Max found it easier to say than he had thought. Linnea leaned over him as she lifted her hips. One of her big hard nipples filled his mouth as she slid down on him. His back arched as he thrust upward in sync. On shuffle, the iPod began playing “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.”
“Hey douche-bag, Tony said that you guys needed an extra hand over at the Hughes job.”
“Yeah,” Max replied into the phone. “Come over as soon as you can.”
“Roger,” Darryl said.
Darryl walked into the Hughes house, stepping over pieces of cut drywall. The sound of screw guns was almost drowned out by Styx’s “Blue Collar Man” blasting from Gary's battered boom box. Gary nodded to Darryl as he drove the last drywall screw into a massive piece of sheetrock on the ceiling. Darryl returned the nod with his characteristic Roman salute. He kicked the stepladder Max was standing on and grinned at him. “Nice kitchen you guys got here, huh?”
“Something like that,” Max said, wiping sheetrock dust onto his jeans. “Me and Gary are having a hard time getting these sixteen-footers onto the ceiling by ourselves.”
“Sweet. Let’s do it.”
At six they stopped working and left the Hughes job to go to Darryl’s apartment on Front Street. Beer and pizza emerged from the refrigerator and Freedom Fighters slid into the PlayStation2’s load tray. They took turns playing the single-player missions, Max beating “On Thin Ice” on his second try.
“I hate to say it, but you’re good,” Darryl said.
“I’ve beaten this game at least three times on the PC, which is better, by the way.”
“Uh-huh,” Darryl said. He finished his Miller High Life and opened another bottle.
“How do you know when you’re in love?” Max asked, popping the cap off a Saranac Pale Ale.
“Where’d that come from, kid?” Darryl raised one eyebrow.
“Just thinking about it.”
“You think you’re in love with Linnea?”
“I’m starting to feel that way.”
“I dunno, man.” Darryl scratched his balls reflectively. “I guess I’m in love with Shannon. You just know.”
“There’s gotta be some way to know for sure.” Max took a bite of his pizza and chewed slowly, tasting the generous measure of Frank’s Red Hot that was the only thing rescuing the day-old Nirchi’s slice from the abyss.
“Look, you’re the deep-thinking college boy. You tell me.”
“I don’t know if BCC really counts as college per se.”
Darryl snorted. “’Per se,’” he said in a nasal, lisping voice. “Stop using those gay-ass words.”
Max shook his head. “Like, I think I’d do anything for her, and I feel like I could live with her for the rest of my life. Does that count?”
“Sounds about right. Drink your goddamn beer!”
Max climaxed with a deep grunt, and Linnea’s moans rose to a high-pitched crescendo as she followed him, seconds later. Linnea collapsed beside Max, resting her head on his hard, hairy chest. They lay there silently, covered in a sheen of sweat, breathing heavily.
“Wow,” Max finally said.
“Yeah,” Linnea said. She smiled again.
“I mean, God. That was good.”
“Uh-huh.” Neither of them said anything else for a few minutes, “Bullwinkle Part II” by The Centurions the only sound. Linnea sighed and sat up. She picked up her 38F bra and slid the straps over her arms. Always self-conscious about her oversize breasts, Linnea had never actually known what her cup size was and just tried to squeeze them into the smallest bra possible. Max checked it using methods he learned on a website (deriving no small pleasure from the process) and found that she was wearing two cup sizes too small. A trip to Victoria’s Secret in the Oakdale Mall fixed that.
“Oh look, Dog finally ate the mouse – or at least the head.” Max sat up and looked. Dog had his eyes closed again, but the mouse’s body now lay decapitated in front of him. Max pulled his brown Maylene & The Sons of Disaster t-shirt over his head, then donned his boxer briefs and jeans. He squatted in front of the terrarium and poked at the glass.
“Good job, you little fucker,” Max said.
“So my dad’s coming home in half an hour,” Linnea said softly.
“You know he might get violent.”
“I mean, he’s never hit me or my mom and sisters, but Donny always has bruises after every argument with him.”
“I’m fairly confident that I can handle it.”
“I know you can. But please don’t hurt him.”
“I’ll try not to.”
After their first two dates (not including the quick, rough drunk sex in the upstairs bathroom of the Cresskill house) Linnea had Max over to her house to meet her mother and three younger siblings – Amanda, Megan and Donny. Her family took to him quickly – although he was laconic he had an indefinable magnetism. Linnea had never wanted Max to meet her father, but wouldn’t really explain why. He soon learned the reason about three weeks after meeting most of her family (and visiting several times in that period). After finishing a living room job in Endicott he had driven up to South Onondaga to pick Linnea up for the weekend. She was skipping her senior prom to be with him.
When he got to the house on Makyes Road, he saw a late-nineties white Ford Ranger parked in the driveway. Unless Donny had gotten a new car, he figured it must be Linnea’s mysterious father. The doorbell rang, and Max heard someone coming down the front stairs two at a time. Linnea burst out onto the porch and shut the door behind her.
“Oh my God, Max! My dad got home early from work.”
“That’s cool. Now I’ll get to meet him.”
“But that’s not okay!”
“Are you sure you’re not overreacting?”
“I’m sure,” Linnea snapped. She was starting to say something else when the door opened. Gil Turner nudged his daughter aside with his shoulder as he stepped out onto the porch.
“Who’s this?” he asked. His voice was calm, but something in the blankness of those green eyes was menacing.
“Daddy, this is Max Goldman. Max, this is my father Gil.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Turner,” Max said with a slightly forced grin.
“You too,” Gil said back, still blank. “Linnea, can I speak to you for a second?”
“Dad, we’re about to leave.”
“Just a second.”
“Okay, fine. Max, I’ll be right back.” Max saw her eyes moisten as she swallowed. She mouthed “I’m sorry,” as she followed her father back into the house. The door shut heavily and Gil began to yell. Max heard him call his daughter a filthy, lying whore. Gil tore her down viciously, telling her that if she lost some weight and wasn’t such a cow like her mother, maybe she could get a decent guy from Syracuse who wasn’t some bearded, money-grubbing Commie Jew. He wondered how she could think it was okay to throw herself at this guy, whoever the fuck he was anyway, when he forbade her to date any boy. Linnea’s replying screams were barely coherent. Max bit his thumb, hard, trying to control the temper that most people never saw. After being berated for a few minutes, Linnea began sobbing and Max heard her run back up the stairs. The door open and Gil stepped back outside. His face, while slightly flushed, was flat and expressionless again.
“Sorry, Max. Linnea said that she’s not feeling so well and doesn’t want to go out with you tonight. In fact, it would probably be better if you two didn’t see each other anymore.” Max matched Gil’s serenity and simply locked eyes with him. Gil’s calm mask broke into a scowl. “So go home. Now.” Without replying, Max turned and walked back to his car. As he started the engine, Gil spit on the porch and walked back into the house. Linnea’s tear-stained face was in the upstairs window. Max blew her a kiss and drove away.
Max wedged Dog’s terrarium between the passenger and back seat in his ’99 F150.
“That everything?” he asked Linnea as she stuffed a bulging gym bag into the bed-mounted toolbox.
“Yeah.” She wrinkled her forehead briefly. “Oh yeah, I forgot to get your iPod.”
“That’s fairly essential.”
Linnea jogged back into the house and up the stairs. Max watched her swaying hips with a smile. His smile faded when he heard the sound of a vehicle turning into the driveway. It was Gil’s Ranger. Gil got out of the truck, looked at Max and then at the F150 filled with his daughter’s belongings, and reached back into the cab. He shut the door and walked up to the porch, a short “tire thumper” bat in his left hand. “World’s Greatest Dad” was printed across his gray t-shirt in red letters. Evidently he did not see the irony.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” He brandished the bat menacingly and got in Max’s face. “I told you never to see my daughter again.”
“If you think you’re gonna just leave with my daughter–”
“Yeah, I have another thing coming, or some such cliché. It’d be best for everyone if you’d just go into the house and not think too much about any of this.” Gil’s face was now bright red.
“Goddamn it! I’ll break your fucking face!” He raised the bat again, but Max didn’t even blink. He glared steadily, his eyes glittering fiercely. He crossed his muscular arms over his wide chest and leaned against the porch rail. Gil puffed for a few seconds, waving the bat, but took a step back. Linnea thundered back down the stairs, the iPod and speakers in her hands, the pounding rhythm of The Union Underground blasting from the speakers. She froze as she took in the tableau of Gil and Max staring each other down. The song ended abruptly when she pulled the speaker cord out of the iPod. Gil looked at her, his face a mask of hate and fury. He stumbled back as Linnea shoved him aside with her shoulder, putting all of her one hundred and forty-five pounds into it.
“Don’t you brush past me like that, slut.” Gil pointed his finger stiffly at his daughter. She turned around and faced him, her nostrils flared. Her mouth opened and then shut. “Nothing to say, huh?” Gil snarled. “Of course not. You know who’s in charge here. Come back into the house right now.”
Linnea’s lip trembled, but Max put a hand on her shoulder. She looked at him, and he nodded. “Don’t you,” she began. Her father grinned as she paused, her voice catching. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that!” she blurted out in a quivering voice. “Don’t ever talk to me again!” Her father opened his mouth to retort, but nothing emerged. He turned around and walked back into the house.
“Shall we?” Max asked. Linnea didn’t answer, and they walked quickly to the pickup. Max revved the engine, popped the clutch and peeled out of the driveway, throwing gravel. Before they were even out of sight of the house Linnea broke and began to sob. As he whipped the truck dangerously onto Lake Road, she pressed her face against his shoulder and clutched his bicep. By the time he merged onto I-81 South, accelerating to ninety-five off the ramp, she had stopped crying. Her body still shook with the occasional silent sob. Max patted her knee. Wiping tears out of her eyes, she plugged the stereo’s auxiliary cable into the iPod. “South Texas Deathride” picked up where it had left off, Bryan Scott harshly screaming, “South Texas deathride you motherfuck” in the chorus.
“Why were you playing that when you came down the stairs?” Max asked. “You hate those guys.”
“I know,” Linnea said, her voice catching slightly. “But I know how much you like them, so I put it on.”
“Thanks, babe,” he said. Linnea picked at her cuticles.
“Are we gonna be okay?” she whimpered. Max gave her a quick, intense glance.
“I love you. Doesn’t that make it okay?”
“I think so, yeah.”