Peeling off my jacked, I stripped down to my boxers. The heater in our trailer was shit, so my room had a lingering chill that only my mom’s tattered wool blanket could cut. I turned my radio on low volume and fell onto my bed.
Outside I could hear our neighbors arguing in Spanish and a baby crying. Far off in the distance there were police sirens and the sounds of breaking glass. The interstate was just on the other side of the fence from my place, so the sound of speeding cars was endless. For many years this had been the place I called home. I had a hard time falling asleep in total silence after years of noise pollution to rock me goodnight.
I was dozing off when I heard the loud thump of my dad closing the recliner with his legs. The trailer shifted under his heavy footfalls as he made his way down the hallway to my room. I braced myself for the attack when he plowed through my bedroom door. A dim light lit the space when he flipped the switch. I silently wished he’d just do it in the dark. That way I didn’t have to see his fists coming for me.
“Where the hell you been? Did you take money out of my wallet?” He stared down at me with drunken, red eyes.
I didn’t respond. There was no need to deny taking the money. He didn’t care whether or not I took it; he just wanted a reason to hit something. I knew the feeling all too well. I curled up and protected my face and stomach. His fists invaded the flesh on my arms and occasionally made it through my shield to my face. There were a few hits to my ribs until, finally, he was satisfied and left. Thankfully, he was drunk. He was weaker and slower with a case of beer under his belt. Usually the beatings were worse, but I never fought back even though I could easily whip his ass.
It wasn’t fear that kept me from beating him within an inch of his life. It was a promise I made to my dying mother. Every time I thought about lifting my fist and putting it through his face, I’d hear her soft voice asking me to let it go.
“He’s a good man and he loves you. He’s just got a lot on his plate right now,” she’d say as she iced my face.
There was once a time when she took the beatings, but when the cancer came he transferred his rage to me. I was glad to take it—better me than her.
Bruised ribs or black eyes were such a natural occurrence for me that I hardly even noticed them anymore. It was shitty to think I could get my ass kicked once a week and it was nothing, just another day.
I fell asleep with blood on my pillow from my nose and aching ribs.
The next day at school I sported a black eye. I was always fighting, so no one paid any attention to my shiner. It wasn’t that I started fights purposely, but people pissed me off easily. Usually my fights took place after a run-in with my dad. I knew deep down it was my way of fighting him back, except it wasn’t him I was fighting; it was a football playing jock, or some shitfaced old guy at The Pit.
“I hope his face looks worse than yours,” Chet said. He leaned his head back and made smoke rings as he exhaled.
“Do you doubt me?” I lifted a brow in question.
“No doubt. I’ve seen you in action, bro. I bet he’s unrecognizable. Anybody I know?” He flicked his cigarette at Principal William’s parked car.
“Nah, just some asshole from my neighborhood.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and leaned against the light pole. “We practicing at Finn’s place tonight?” I changed the subject.
“Yeah, Finn’s got some new shit he wants us to work on. He said around seven.”
Finn, the lead singer of our band, Blow Hole, was older than the rest of us by four years. We all knew him; he’d failed school so much that he was only a year ahead of us before he finally dropped out. He still lived in his mom’s house. The junky garage became our hangout and we called it the Blow Hole since you could walk in and score a line of coke at any given moment. The name somehow transferred to our band and that’s what we’ve called ourselves ever since.
Somehow Chet and I had managed to make it to senior year. We were both a year behind where we should be, but we were still there. I wanted to quit, but staying in school was another promise my mom had managed to pull out of me with her dying breaths. So come hell or high water, I was at school every day. Whether or not I went to class was a completely different story.
Later that night, we practiced an extra hour at Finn’s house. We were three days away from our gig at The Pit and we’d added a new song to the mix. Mostly, we covered songs to get the crowd going, but every now and again we’d throw in an original track.
My fingers ached from playing the guitar so hard for so long. I had to admit we sounded badass. Chet was on the drums and Tiny could play a bass guitar like his life depended on it, but it was Finn who ran the show. He was one hell of a front man and our name was slowly spreading.