They’ll Hear My Clothes
PJ’s Firebird slowly made its way towards my house. Van Halen played from the 8-Track as we came within a block of my house, meandering back and forth across the quiet road like a drunkard trying to find a keyhole. It was sometime after 4AM as I remember seeing someone stand on a table with their pants down screaming “last call”. Last call was 4AM in New York. I sat in the back seat with the side of my face pushed against the car window, feeling the cool glass on my cheek. I could feel all my pores against the glass. I looked at the passing porch lights as they arced and swirled around their point of origin. They were beautiful. My street was beautiful. I lived on a beautiful street. This was a beautiful trip down my street.
My head jerked away from the swirling beauty as Marcus cranked up the volume. He was riding shotgun, concentrating on tuning PJ’s equalizer to the perfect set of sounds. Finding a perfect blend of balance, treble and bass, Marcus started waiving his hands around, watching the arc of his movements. Trails flowed everywhere. We asked PJ to slow down so we could look at Marcus’s hands. Rainbows of color followed them as he swung them back and forth. Though impressively drunk, PJ kept driving, ignoring our request. “You’re going to fucking kill yourself with that shit,” he warned. “Fuck off firehead! You’re a fucking alcoholic,” screamed Marcus to the redheaded PJ. “Chill,” I suggested.
It remained quiet for a few moments as Marcus and I stared at PJ’s hair, staring intently. I began to wonder… was this a hallucination or was it real? Small flames began to dart in and out of his hair. “Did you see that?” I whispered. “There. Look. Awesome, man, that is awesome.” Without speaking or even looking at each other, Marcus and I began to try and touch PJ’s hair. He freaked, pulled his red head away from our grasping fingers and slammed on the breaks. “Get the fuck out of my car!”
“Dude,” I warned, “your hair is on fire. I can see it.”
He ignored me and lurched the car forward, chirping the wheels and proceeding down the block. He missed my house and pulled into the Zuckerman’s driveway next door. Close enough.
“You guys want to come in? I am freak’n out! My dad’s friend from some fucked up place like Tennessee or Arkansas and his family are staying with us and I don’t want to see them alone. If they’re awake there is no fucking way I can talk to them like this. Come with me; we can get some food. Come on. Am I talking? Can you guys hear my voice?” Marcus rubbed his head first slowly, then faster until both hands created a blur around his skull. “No. No. No. Your old man is in there. Negative. I am staying right here with fire head.”
PJ shook his head, “Dude, the last time you invited me in I went downstairs to the basement to pee and puke and I passed out and you fuck’n forgot about me. You left me in the dark. You turned all the fuck’n lights off and went to bed and left me passed out in the bathroom in your basement. You forgot about me, man. I fell off the toilet and passed out and could have died. And you forgot about me.”
Before he finished I opened the car door, “Yeah, I don’t remember that. Besides, you passed out, not me.” I stood up and watched as the car slowly backed out of the driveway. PJ misjudged the curve and backed over The Zuckerman’s garden and bushes, dropping hard off down the curb. I stood in rapture as the car and its accompanying trail of lights accelerated down the road. Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.
I turned to the house and became aware of the sound my clothes made when I moved. I was wearing black leather pants, a wife-beater and a Clash tee shirt. My clothes made a huge noise as I walked up the front path, creeping up the stoop stairs to the front door. My clothes were so fucking loud. I stepped up on my toes to peek in one of the three little windows at the top of the door to make sure my father wasn’t sleeping on the couch. It was worse than that. “Fuck! I can not fucking believe this. Those rednecks are sleeping on the living room floor in fucking sleeping bags. What the fuck! Don’t they like beds?”
As I wondered if they had beds in Tennessee I continued to stare through the window. As I stared Christmas trees slowly began to appear, slowly at first then spouting up between the sleeping guests. “What the fuck,” I whispered. “I’m fucked. How do I get through there? They’ll hear my clothes … my clothes will get stuck on the trees. Fuck.” I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. What to do? I looked behind me to see if any of the neighbors were watching me. At 4AM they were nowhere to be seen.
Slowly, I began to undress, removing my noisy clothes. Once naked, I stood on the stoop and practiced moving. No noises. Complete silence. Becoming distracted I went through a series of imagined King Fu moves. All were greeted with silence. After some time I stopped and wondered how long I had been here, naked, on the stoop in front of my house. I had to pee and, thinking I was incapable of operating a bathroom inside, I turned and began peeing off the side of the stoop. My pee sparkled and glittered as it arced into the peat moss below. Beautiful. Just beautiful.
I gathered by clothes and opened our never-locked front door. Pushing with my shoulder the door dislodged with a “click.” Upon entering I crouched to avoid the trees. They seemed to be breathing and I was mindful of avoiding the ends of their branches. Slowly, naked, I crept over the sleeping bags and slipped up the stairs towards my room. I slid into bed, naked, and felt the most wonderful feeling of warmth and love. “This is what it must feel like in the womb.” I slipped back towards reality via sleep.
“Breakfast, Beasley and KJ,” my mother yelled up to me and my brother. Realizing I was alive and safe I jumped out of bed. My brother, in the next bed, turned over and yelled, “Get some fuck’n clothes on you fucking malfunction. I don’t want to see your shriveled dick.” I put on sweatpants and a tee shirt and went downstairs, KJ right behind me.
Guests and family were seated at the dinning room table as my mom and Mrs. What’s-her-name-from Tennessee began trooping in breakfast from the kitchen. “How did you guys sleep, last night?” my father asked the guests. The mother and father looked at each other; he responding, “Fine. Couldn’t be better.” Their littlest son looked up from his plate and barked out in his southern accent, “I had a dream there was a necked man standing above me! Dad said it was a dream but he looked real ter me!”
KJ burst out laughing and pointed at me with a one word judgment, “Nice!” My father dropped his butter knife and simply stared at me, quietly whispering, “What did you do, you goddamn idiot?” I shrugged, “Sounds like a beautiful dream, Hector. Beautiful.”
“Perhaps, tonight we’ll take that guest room,” said Mrs. What’s-her-name-from Tennessee to my father. My father just glared. Hector squinted, scanning me, I imagine trying to figure out if it really was me he saw last night. Unless he reads this story he will never know.