Читать книгу The Old Neighborhood - Bill Hillmann - Страница 9

CHAPTER 4

QUARK

MY BROTHER RICH was a racist, but he was one of the few individuals in the world who actually almost had the right to be one. He was the victim of a terrible hate crime.

It happened earlier in the same summer as the fight. Rich, Nancy, and another friend of theirs named Garret were walking through some alley in Rogers Park looking for a basement party they’d gotten bad directions to. It was about midnight, and they passed a liter of Old Style amongst themselves. The neighborhood streets were quiet. Suddenly, two black men burst out of a gangway behind them. The first brandished a heavy, muck-covered lead pipe. He surged toward Rich, hefted the pipe over his head, and swung it down hard, nicking the side of Rich’s skull and planting deep into his collar bone. Rich’s knees buckled. The other one rushed at Nancy and grabbed hold of her shirt. She screamed, instantly reached up, and gouged at his eyes with her nails. Rich staggered and leapt at the one who’d grabbed her and thudded his fist into the guy’s head.

“Go!” Rich shouted. Garret yanked Nancy free, and they ran. The pipe finally found its mark over the back of Rich’s head, and he flashed out like the streetlights had been shut off, but Nancy said he never hit the ground. The heavy-set ex-cons snatched him up, blabbering something about guard brutality in Statesville and how they were ’doing this for dem brothas in Statesville.’

The two men dragged Rich into an abandoned basement and ripped his clothes off with their incredibly strong hands while they muttered, laughed, and grunted.

Nancy and Garret ran down the alley screaming for help. Then, they cut onto Clark and ran right out into traffic, waving their arms. The cars swerved and screeched around them. Nancy screamed, “Rape!” then, “Fire!” and a light clicked on.

Rich’s mouth filled with blood. Some slid down his throat, and it gargled there as he begged for mercy.

Finally, a police squad swerved up to Nancy and Garret. They jumped in and surged into the alley, where they frantically searched for the gangway. They found it thanks to a red hand smear on a wooden garage siding. When they got down in the basement, the men had Rich’s pants down to his knees. The shirtless one was hovering above him, stroking his own semi-hard cock hanging out of his undone pants. The cops pulled out their firearms.

The ex-cons said it was consensual—that Nancy just got jealous. The cops were reluctant to arrest them, and Rich didn’t pursue it, so they let them go. The cut on the top of Rich’s head wasn’t bad enough for stitches, and the bruises eventually healed. Nothing else ever did.

•

MUSIC DOESN’T MEAN MUCH when you’re a little kid; it’s just sounds and the emotions they produce. None of your identity is aligned with what you listen to. You’re a clean pallet.

I was on my way upstairs to my room when I heard laughter booming out of Rich’s open bedroom door. My head still ached from the fight. I reached up and felt the soft lumps along my forehead, now all purple and blue. I could hear Rich over Pantera’s fast, rippling metal.

“My baby brother, he was fighting with twenty little niggers at once,” Rich roared, his voice all high, squeaky, and excited. “I came up and saved him and beat the shit out of a few of ’em myself. But, man, I’m telling ya, twenty of ’em!”

“OK, Rich. Fuckin’ superhero over here. Where is that little rascal, anyways?” I recognized the gravelly voice. It was Sy.

I reached the top of the stairs. It was early evening, and a bright yellow light radiated out of his doorway. I peered in to see four guys lounged on his little bed. All of them had long dirty hair and ripped-up jeans. Rich stood with his back to me and his arms flailing around as he recounted the fight. There was an American flag tacked to the slanted ceiling that hung with the pitch of the roof. A large Iron Maiden poster hung on the wall near the window that showed the skeletal Eddie the Head in a straitjacket with three chains attached to his iron neck collar. It secured him inside a padded room, and his fierce eyes screamed out at you. It read “Peace of Mind” at the bottom.

Sy’s hair was a greasy, dirty blond tangle that hung down past his shoulders. His beard was mangy and had a tint of red in it. He wore this threadbare, black Metallica t-shirt, bleached white jeans with rips at the knees, and some white high-top Reeboks. I peeked my head in through the door.

“Get over here, you,” Sy said, waving me in. “The champ himself!”

He reached out, grabbed me, and threw me in a head lock. I smelled pot and liquor, but I didn’t know what the smells were then, and I recognized ’em as Sy’s scent. He let me go and stood there. I could feel them all staring at my forehead and eye.

“Now what happened, Joey?” Sy asked.

I took a deep breath. “Got in a fight,” I said quietly.

“Well, I can see that,” Sy replied, grinning. “Did ya win?”

“Didn’t get to finish,” I said, and glanced over at Rich, who watched me with his arms folded over his chest.

“Well… Did you get any good punches in?” Sy asked.

I paused, looked down, and scratched my chin. I riffled through my memory—the haze of punches and shouts—then I remembered Leroy on the pavement, and I looked back up.

“Yeah!” I exclaimed. They broke up.

“So he’s coming out tonight, huh?” Sy looked over at Rich.

“Yep, Ma even said it was alright,” Rich confirmed as he reached over and messed up my hair. “I told her what happened and said it might cheer him up to hear some metal.”

My mind raced with wild excitement of where we were headed. I was sure it was some dark pit of dragons and snakes, smoke and roaring noise.

We piled into Rich’s rusty Bronco, and the back was stacked to the roof with large black amps, guitar cases, and a drum kit.

“Sy, what’s the name of your band?” I asked as we squished in the back seat.

“The Dead Rat Society,” Sy growled. “Got a problem with that, kid?” He glowered at me. Metallica erupted as the sputtering engine started, and the Bronco sped down Hollywood.

The show was at a place out on Peterson Ave. called Fautches. I remembered Jan’n’Rose said they had all-ages house music on Friday nights, and they’d even convinced Ma to take ’em a few times. Fautches was a wide one-story converted office space with tall windows that spread across the entire width with tan, vertical track blinds that were always drawn shut. There was a glass door in the middle for the entrance, and the building had a narrow, empty lot beside it that was covered with white stones and garbage. A few bushes lined the club’s cinderblock side wall. As we approached Fautches, Rich swerved right, and suddenly the Bronco barreled over the curb and sidewalk. Everything in the truck sprung up airborn, then it all fell downward on the creaky shocks as the truck bounced. The instruments and amps wobbled. The truck tires rumpled over the stones and stopped near the back of the building next to a steel door.

“You’re one crazy motherfucker, Rich!” Sy shouted as we piled out.

Rich got out and swung the rear hatch up. Miraculously, the mountain of equipment didn’t avalanche out.

“Here, you carry this,” Sy said as he gripped a guitar case, spun around, and bent down on one knee. Then, he lifted it up to me like some sacred relic. “Now you take care of this, champ.”

“What is it?” I asked, grabbing the smooth wood handle.

“Excalibur,” Sy declared, his eyes closed solemnly. “Now get in there.”

I followed Rich, who hoisted a large kick drum.

We walked down a dark hallway. The roaring yawn of a lead electric guitar spilt into the room. We stacked the instruments and amps on the back of the small carpeted stage. The long, narrow room was about half full with slouchy metal-heads—almost all of whom wore black band shirts, bleached jeans, and combat boots—and most had long mops of dirty hair. There was one black dude sitting atop a tall amp near the side of stage. His long, skinny legs dangled almost to the floor. He had a mohawk made outta finger-length spikes of frizzy hair that spouted down the center of his shaved, glistening scalp.

I stood steadfast beside Excalibur’s case and gawked at the room. Rich stomped up with a fistful of quarters. “Here,” he said, and poured them into my cupped palms. “Go ahead.” He nodded to the large arcade in the side room. “The show won’t start for a while.”

The game room was long and narrow like the concert room. It was filled with manic, pulsing lights. Video game machines lined each wall, and a column of games ran down the middle. It was full of racecar and gun games and crazy, themed pinball machines. I had a blast. Sy came up later and challenged me to a game of pinball. I picked Pin-Bot; it had this intergalactic robot with electricity blazing from its fingertips. Sy was all into it. He leaned in over the machine, and his wild hair splayed on the clear glass plane. Below was the bust of a lit up solar system. The green, red, and blue bulbs pulsed frantically, and the sensors rang as the ball bopped them.

Rich poked his head into the game room. “Hey... Sy, you gonna smoke?”

“Naw. I’m busy whippin’ this kid in pinball,” he replied without looking up.

“Alright,” Rich said, putting his hand through my hair and disappearing back down the dark hallway.

“Smoking,” I scowled. “That’s what gave my Da cancer.”

“Hey,” Sy paused and looked down at me. “Well, den I never want to hear about you smokin’. Got it punk?” He slapped me softly on the back of the head.

“I won’t, never.”

Two blondes strolled up to us and started hanging on Sy. One wore this tight, white tank-top. It was sliced up with scissors on the sides and struggled to restrain her giant pair of plump boobs. She had on a black spandex leotard with a blue stripe running down one leg and these huge hoop earrings. The other was chunky with a loose, nylon plaid shirt on that hung down to her knees. Sy flashed his glowing smirk. I took my turn. Sy teased the ladies as they drunkenly hung on his shirtsleeve. The chesty one twisted her index finger in an oily strand of his hair.

I focused on the pinball machine. I banged hard on the smooth, little buttons. The flippers popped the small, chrome ball and bounced it through the flickering neon lights. The ball incited the spring-loaded boppers to percolate red. When my last ball slipped past the flippers, I was up a few points on Sy. He batted the blonde’s hands away and stepped around to the front of the machine.

“Now, ladies, watch how a real man plays the game,” he said, glancing at them. “You gotta understand, I ain’t been beaten in two years runnin’. I’m the reigning champ of Fautches,” he said to the girls as he smoothed his hair back behind his shoulders.

He pulled the spring, let it go, and leaned over the machine. The little ball bounced and rattled. Sy squinted in a crazed focus as he banged the flipper buttons. With his first ball, he racked up some points, making the game even closer. He glanced at me as I bit my fingernails nervously.

The next ball slipped past him.

“Ahhhhh,” he exclaimed, and banged his fists against the thick glass. The girls chortled.

“It all comes down to this,” he said, glaring at me. “I ain’t losin’ to this punk kid, no damn way!”

The girls watched Sy pull back the spring on his last ball. His face scrunched excruciatingly tight, and he leaned in on the tilted glass plane. He released, and the shiny ball soared up the narrow channel. It dinged and popped and bumped the score even closer. I bounced up and down on my toes and clenched my fists at my lips.

The ball arced down the slow tilt of the plane, slashing through the colorful planets. Sy tapped the ball with the tip of a white flipper, and it arced up slowly like a pop-fly. Then, it came down, and he just barely nicked it. He let out another long groan, and the girls leaned in and smirked at his agonized face. He whiffed with the flipper, and the ball panged into the black vault.

“Damn it!!! This machine’s broke! I want a rematch!” Sy yelled, squeezing his hands around the machine and jolting it savagely.

“He beat you?” the girls sighed and clapped. “Who is this young, sexy little man?” The big-boobed one bent down to my height. Her flimsy shirt drooped, so her milky breasts poured out of her tight bra. “There’s a new champion in town isn’t there?”

I smiled up at her large, green eyes. She smelled like a whole lotta strong perfume.

“He’s so cute,” the other one chimed in, gliding her pudgy fingers through my hair.

“Aye, he’s all mine,” the one with the big jugs declared, smacking the other girl’s hand away. Then, she smooched her puffy, wet lips against my cheek. A thick film of lipstick clung to my skin.

“Get away from my little brother, ya skank!” Rich said as he and the rest ambled in through the back hall. “It’s showtime, baby brotha.” Rich’s eyes were bloodshot, and his breath smelled like a musty skunk. He hoisted me onto his shoulders.

Sy and the rest climbed on stage. Rich jogged with me out into the crowd, and by then, the room had completely filled. Sy slung Excalibur around his shoulder; it was a cherry red Stratocaster with white trim. He flicked one of the chrome strings with his pick and it roared. Sy stepped to the microphone.

“You scumfucks ready for this?” he screamed. He leaned out over the crowd and spit out a small, white glob that arced out into the mass of long-haired domes. The crowd spit back, and a barrage of half-crushed beer cans clanked onto the stage.

“We’re the Dead Rat Society,” he muttered. The music exploded from the speakers. There was more order in this roaring, racing sound. I had a clear view of everything as I sat perched on Rich’s shoulders. The front of the crowd immediately twisted into a torrent of thrashing arms and legs. The black punk jumped off the amp and into the pit. The spiral widened into the room. Sy rambled through cutting, indecipherable lyrics, and every few words, the whole crowd would shout a garbled phrase in unison with him.

Rich stayed back where it was calmer. The crowd began to sway. A big circle twisted in the mass of shadowed bodies. Then, another circle opened in the center of them like the eye of a tornado. This circle kicked their legs out savagely, following each other like a Comanche war dance. Their grins morphed into howling scowls.

After a few songs, the front door opened and several guys with pale white shaved heads stepped in. They all wore white t-shirts with red suspenders and had fierce, cold grimaces on their muscular faces. They glared at everyone who didn’t look away, until they did.

I’d seen skinheads around before, and I had a vague idea of what they were all about. They slid their way into the chaos, passing us with sly smirks spread across their faces and eyes lit up like they were about to pull a prank. They pushed to the edge of the slam-dance circle, and then they suddenly erupted with forearms, head-butts, and punches. I caught a flash of one of their maniacal faces as he slapped his fist into some tall kid. The kid’s long mop of hair exploded in a big swoosh like he’d stuck his finger in an outlet. By the time that song ended, most of the crowd had quieted. It was only the skinheads smashing each other. The kid bled profusely from his nose, and I strained my neck to see a couple girls help him to the bathroom in back. The black guy with the mohawk had stopped moshing. He leaned his back along the wall, nervously, with his arms folded over his chest. His eyes darted around the room.

“This’s our last one,” Sy said as sweat dripped off his brow and glistened in his light beard. “I want to thank you for being so fuckin’ polite.”

The crowd screamed. The drums rattled. One of the skinheads threw an empty whiskey pint that just missed Sy’s head and broke against the fake wood-paneled wall behind the stage. A couple fat-faced bouncers at the front door pushed into the crowd. Their bulging, neon-green shirts sliced through the darkly clad bodies as the room erupted into high-swung fists and beer sud-bursts. A girl screamed, but the roar swallowed it. The crowd surged backward. Rich staggered into the arcade with me clung to his head and took me down from his shoulders.

“Stay back. It’s OK,” Rich said, putting himself between me and the chaos. “Fuckin’ skinheads.”

Two of the bouncers broke through the crowd. They held one skinhead by both arms, and the fatter bouncer clasped him by the nape of his neck. They dragged him out the front door as he fought to break their grasp, and the rest of the skins giggled as they trailed behind.

“It wasn’t him. It was that fuckin’ nigger,” one yelled.

I glanced though the back door of the arcade and saw a black figure stumble down the dark back hallway.

The crowd unleashed an exalted cheer as the Dead Rat Society finished their set. The guys started to break down their equipment, and I followed Rich up to the stage. Sy hopped down and crouched to my height.

“What’d ya think, kiddo?” he asked as sweat dripped off his burly face.

“It was awesome!”

Sy was the coolest. He just had a knack for making the best out of anything. He smiled and combed his sweat-dampened hand through my hair.

I lugged Excalibur and followed Rich out the back door past the bathroom. There was blood smeared all over the white-tiled walls and a dark pool in the sink. As we passed, the guys saw it and burst into laughter. Outside, I noticed two long, skinny legs sticking out of the bushes that lined the cinderblock wall. The black combat boots attached to them crumpled inward on each other. I walked over, stooped down, and peered into the narrow crevasse.

“What,” Rich shouted toward the bushes. “Can’t hold your liquor?” He set the amp he carried down on the stones and opened the truck’s back hatch.

It took a second for my eyes to adjust—it was the black dude with the spiked mohawk. He sat and clutched his stomach. A smear of dark red blood covered the white Dago T. His eyes stared blankly into the bushes.

“You alright?” I asked. I reached out and touched his ankle.

Sy walked up next to me, still chuckling at what Rich had said.

“He’s hurt,” I said, glancing up at Sy.

Sy bent down and looked.

“Oh shit! Call a fuckin’ ambulance!” Sy yelled as the other guys scrambled back inside.

“Shit, man! You OK?” Sy crouched down. The guy looked at Sy and started to say something, then his head just slumped to the side, and he passed out. His thin torso began to slide down the wall. Sy pushed the bushes back and reached in, grabbing him and holding him up.

“What?” Rich asked as he sauntered over.

“He’s fucking hurt, Rich!” Sy shouted. “Call an ambulance!”

“Oh shit,” Rich laughed. “Them skins got him.”

“Wake up, man,” Sy said and slapped him lightly on the cheek. The guy seized. A line of yellow ooze slid out of his lips, touched the stones, and then slurped back before just dangling from the corner of his mouth. He started to shake violently, and his legs jerked and kicked up the stones.

“Man, leave that nigger where he lays,” Rich said, laughing.

“What the fuck, Rich?” Sy yelled. “Are they calling or what?”

“Come on, Joey,” Rich said as he put his arm around my shoulder and led me to the truck. The fat bouncers rushed out of the club.

We left after the ambulance got there. I was in back, scrunched next to Sy.

“Think he’s gonna die?” Rich said as he turned slowly onto Peterson. The red and blue ambulance and police strobes spun and spilt onto the crowded street.

“Shit, I don’t know,” Sy answered. “He looked bad, didn’t he?”

“He came to the wrong fucking place,” Rich said.

“That guy wasn’t doing nothing to nobody, man,” Sy said as he slammed his fist into the pleather headrest in front of him. “He was just slamming like the rest of ’em.”

“Had the wrong skin tone is all,” Rich drawled as one of the others chortled.

“Richard, would you quit that shit already?” Sy sighed. “What the hell they ever do to you?”

“Ahh, they hate me just as much as I hate them,” Rich laughed. I thought about Jan’n’Rose and wondered if they really did hate each other. It sure seemed like it sometimes. My mind drifted as we drove home along Peterson, and I thought of the black punker and hoped he’d be OK. Why do people hurt each other so bad? I felt the bumps along my forehead. Why can’t we get along? I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing as the wind howled in my window. The Assyrian floated in a black haze. His eyes were closed, and his arms were folded over his chest in some ancient burial pose. Why’d you have’ta die? His mouth opened, and he whispered, “I ain’t dead,” then he smiled and vanished.

We pulled up in front of the house, and Rich double-parked. He got out and walked me toward the house.

“Now you know you can’t tell Ma or Dad or anybody what happened tonight, right?” Rich said, rubbing my shoulders. “Or else you won’t be able to go with again, OK?”

“OK,” I said, and started up the front stairs.

“Alright. I’ll see ya later buddy,” Rich said.

“OK. Thanks, Rich,” I went through the front door and didn’t tell a soul.

Rich was like that. He could be really good to me sometimes, and he could be a miserable son of a bitch, too. It all depended on his mood that day I guess. But to be honest, when I look back on it, I could see that he really loved me. He even really loved Jan’n’Rose, too. He was just all mixed up and living in a fucked-up world out there—almost getting raped like that. I mean, that could radicalize anyone. All those crazy radicals out there, all of ’em had either something horrible happen to ’em, or some kind of mental illness, and Rich had both. That made it rough for him, and it was only gonna get worse.

He needed a guy like Simon around. Sy had sense. He could make sense of the world for these guys. He made them feel like what they were going through mattered and had meaning. That respecting each other and being there for each other was what mattered. The whole North Side knew Sy, whether it was because of his bands or just that he was always around the metal scene back then. People just latched onto him. He knew everyone, and everyone loved him. Sy had a sense of right and wrong, too— something Rich had lost somewhere along the way. Without Sy around, I think Rich woulda been doing way worse shit out there in the neighborhood. In fact, I’m sure of it.