XV: I Met Frankenstein
Two years ago
By all intents and purposes, I'm not supposed to be here. It's a Thursday night; and instead of hanging out at a friend's house or walking around the streets like a punk, which seems to be my typical routine - I'm in the city, about eighty miles away from my suburban town.
Not that I necessarily stick out, with my buzzed hair and Doc Martens. 88 is printed in large, white letters on the back of my jacket. But the kind of social outings that I usually attend consist of two, three other people, a bag of weed and sitting on the side of convenience stores.
I ended up in a punk club tonight. Well, I suppose it's not really a club, it's more like the basement of a local pizza joint. Upstairs, people are smoking and drinking beers by the keg full, and down here, there's about two hundred kids in black and spikes, angrily moshing along to the band on stage.
Less than an hour ago I was chilling in Jeremy's room, drinking mountain dew and playing his newest wrestling video game on Xbox. I had stopped by his place after school, backpack brimming with crumpled papers and plastic baggies. I used to sell him his daily hits, but he's been spending time at a rehab center and they have been reduced to me fronting him the occasional line.
Jeremy just got a QP handed down to him. He figured that the best place to sell it was in the city, so he spent two hours on the phone trying to hook up deals. It was more of a struggle trying to find a sober driver, which turned out to be Jeremy's bar buddy. They both did lines on the dashboard the entire way up here.
This shitty little punk rock club turned out the best place to sell. There are no cops, no narrow streets and sitting in unfamiliar driveways. There are just kids, booze, and weed.
Jeremy's lost and drunk by now, just another body in the endless crowd. He sticks out like a sore thumb in his dirty work jeans and John Cena t-shirt. But despite his outsider appearance, he's already made a name for himself here and sold close to two ounces. There's six hundred dollars in his pocket.
I'm a little worried because I think that we're going to get jumped at the end of the night. Even though Jeremy's friend who drove us up here used to be a bouncer, muscle and strength means next to nothing when it's staring down the barrel of a gun.
Part of me wants to go find Jeremy, pry him away from whatever slutty girl might have sunken her teeth into him. It's not that Jeremy has poor self-control, as he's always a gentleman around me, but he has the kind of personality that girls just wanna make love to.
Anyways, the other part of me is transfixed on this punk band, and the members that are dressed up like the Misfits.
The guitarist, the one clad like Doyle Von Frankenstein, is someone I plan to meet tonight. His chest is bare, toned, and his devil lock half shadows his face. But I am able to see a flicker of blue eyes, and suddenly I can't look away.
He sings backup vocals for the song Skulls, voice shattering through the small club like a bomb of glass shards. I can tell that he's rude, destructive, and everything that I am. He can't be a day older than nineteen.
I navigate around the mosh pit as best I can, and as soon as I'm close enough to someone impressively tall, I ask him to lift me up. He smiles; a safety pin is pierced through his bottom lip. He picks me up by my legs and hoists me into the air, so for a brief second I'm about five feet above the top of the man's head. I come crashing down into the sea of hands like a freight train, and the people I initially land on at first struggle under their surprise to keep me afloat.
But I am rapidly pushed to the front of the crowd and nearly smack against the barricade.
I scramble to my feet and climb up on stage, just as the song changes to Helena.
The singer, Mr. Danzig, breaks out into a drunk slur and Michale Graves impersonation: "If I cut off your arms, and cut off your legs, would you still love me, anyway?"
Once he sees that a small skinhead girl has clawed her way on stage, he is unable to hide the gigantic grin of pride on his face. However, he is not the one that I came to see.
Doyle's scowl lightens a hint of a shade once he realizes that my interest is in him. I stumble over, obnoxiously singing along. I put an arm across his shoulders, and can feel the muscles flex as he continues to play his guitar.
He looks over at me in pure disbelief. I'm not sure if he's going to kiss me or punch me in the face.
But my mission is now accomplished; I managed to get this boy's attention.
As quickly as I hopped on stage, I flip off the crowd and jump back into them.
"Everybody wait a fucking minute. Hey Anthony, hold up." Doyle says into the microphone. He unstraps himself from his guitar and climbs down into the mess of kids.
He finds me. It must be fairly easy, as I'm in the middle of the pit and still staring at him. As he walks over to me, one of the kids around slaps him on the back and hands him a beer.
"What's your name?" Doyle yells over the commotion, once he is close enough for me to hear.
"Parks." I reply.
He opens the beer and it begins to fizz out of the can. But he hands it to me, and smiles once I accept it. "I'm Doyle, and you're getting drunk with me tonight."
My eyes are red and swollen and I'm sure that he's able to smell the weed on me. But I chug the beer, and the audience around us cheers. It's like something out of a movie.
"Don't disappear on me." Doyle says, smirking.
He pushes his way back up to the stage and I throw the empty beer can into the mob behind me.
I'm as light as air, about to float into the clouds.
Jeremy scoops me up before the set ends. It's almost two in the morning, and he wants to get out before everyone else. We're trying to stay bullet hole free.
"Here, how much do I owe you?" he questions. Now that we're safely locked away in his friend's car, he pulls out the wad of freshly made cash.
It doesn't really matter to me, so I pull a number from the top of my head. "Around fifty."
He chuckles. "We'll call it a hundred." he hands a Benjamin to me from the passenger seat, and smiles. "I'll give you the extra fifty for being cute."
My stomach squeezes in nervousness.
But Jeremy's friend grunts from behind the wheel and starts up the car. "You're a diddler, man."
That compels Jeremy to burst into laughter. He's almost twenty six, and I'm a week past sixteen.
I try to hide the red in my cheeks by staring out the window beside me. But the girl's initials on Jeremy's shoulder compel my giddiness to turn into a deep-seeded anger.
I've been around the block before; I've had my share of relationships. But all of that seems trivial. I know that Jeremy is the only one I want. He's perfection and imperfection. Simple and fucking fucked up. Twisted, perverted, and undeniably unreachable.