Cursed
by
Steven D. Bennett
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Steven D. Bennett
Published by DeadLife Books
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Also check out "Trace the Dead Eye"
and "Humor of the Gospels" on Amazon.com
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He was cursed from the start.
He didn't think so. The guys didn't think so. The girls certainly didn't think so. And I was so jealous that to even consider he was cursed was a joke.
From the time I first saw him, way back in fifth grade, I knew he had it all. Looks--girls would lose their breath when he walked by. Brawn--he had a compact, strong body, not tall but dangerous. Rip your head off or lift two guys easy. Brains--well, he did okay. Good enough to get by. Cool--man, he was cool. The walk, the talk. Didn't strut, didn't fake. He was plain cool. The kind of cool that said, I'll let you alone to be whatever you want, but cross my path and you'll feel like the fox at the short end of the hunt. He'd hound you by his presence. You couldn't get away.
Cursed.
We'll call him Hank. Don't matter. What's a name, and that one ain't his. Hank.
Hank was cursed, God bless him. Waltzed through junior high while the rest of us fought off acne and body odor, becoming the high school football star later on, setting the county record for touchdowns. It figured. His girl friend was the head cheerleader, prettiest girl in school. Right down the line, boom, boom, boom, everything in order. That's where we pick it up, when he had everything in order.
It was a different time, not like now. It was the mid-70's, and those of us who grew up then smile and call them the Good Old Days. They were far from that--the smile is there for the things we remember and don't tell you--but it was a time when we were all younger and maybe that makes those days better.
But not necessarily.
He lived two houses up, and back in the early years we'd find time to play after school now and then with the kids in the neighborhood, mostly just him and me. His dad had long gone and his mother was always working so we had a run of the house. We had a time, no matter what we did; throwing around the ball or racing in the street or riding bikes or playing ping-pong in his back patio. That's the way it was with Hank. Just being around him was fun in itself.
Come high school we drifted and we did different things. I'd see him now and then walking to football practice or getting dropped off by some girl. Sometimes he would come by to borrow my brother's bong. These were Other Days, remember, when the smell of the Devil Weed was all too familiar on our block in a hundred different garages. A few pipes and bongs lying around wasn't uncommon. I preferred less socially acceptable stimuli myself, like books, but there was never a shortage of fumes from our side of the street. So Hank would bop over, borrow a bong and maybe score a stick, then go on his cloudy way. I never thought it odd since everyone was doing, although I've wondered since why he of all people needed an extra push. But he was the cool one.
This one week things were the same as always. I had a crush on a beautiful, long-legged, blue-eyed blonde in my English class named Lisa who, naturally, didn't know I existed--which meant I didn't. So I moped in-between classes and checked off the hours until graduation.
Thursday night I was in my bedroom, as usual, alone, as usual, watching Charlie's Angels with the sound off, as usual, filling the dialogue with the Moody Blues. Right as the Angels were about to go undercover in bikinis, I heard some commotion from outside. My parents weren't home--probably out actualizing their Gestalt--so I got up and looked out the side window. I only saw shapes but I knew who it was. Hank and my brother Phil were wheeling a motorcycle around the side of the house. Neither of them owned a motorcycle. They were breathing heavy and talking real quiet, but serious. They got it out of sight and began walking back to the street when a car cruising down the street made them stop. Phil said something and they jumped round the corner. None too soon because a squad car's spotlight flashed up the walkway and maybe caught the heel of a sneaker. The car stopped and doors opened.
I heard more whispering and the running of feet, the squeaking of the side gate, more running, and the lumbering of bodies jumping the back fence. It was taking a chance jumping the fence and cutting through the neighbor's yard--they had two German shepherds--but compared to the cops it was an easy choice.
Steps came up to the front door and rang the bell. I turned down the stereo, took one more glance at the Angels, and wished I had some type of television tape recorder.
"Is Philip Sullivan here?" one of the cops asked me while the other shone his flashlight in the garage door window.
"Nope," I said.
"Know where he is?"
"Nope," I said.
"Mind if we look around?"
Pause. "Got a warrant?"
Pause. "What was your name?"
"Doug." Pause. "Sullivan."
"Your parents home?"
"Not until later."
"When?"
"Later."
Frown. Pause. "You know anything about your brother's motorcycle?"
The other cop had walked away from the garage and was standing near the corner of the house.
I didn't look over. "No."
"Know if it's stolen?"
"No."
"I pulled him over and he took off on his bike when I got out of the car," the cop said. "Why would he do that?"
Shrug.
Dissatisfied silence. "Let's go."
They walked back to the car and took off slowly. I gave them a second before sock-footing it to the sidewalk. They were cruising down the street, searching with a spotlight. I ran into the house and laced my sneakers and took off running the opposite direction.
I didn't know which way Phil and Hank had gone, but North was the high school and South was the main drag and both were too well lit. So either East or West, and East was toward the better part of town. I jetted West and caught up with them soon after.
They were making no attempt to hide themselves, sauntering down the middle of the street, talking loudly, laughing. I huffed up to them and grabbed my side.
"Hey, it's Doug," Phil said. "Bro, what'cha know?"
Hank said nothing. They smelled of musty smoke. I gave them the low-down on the cops. "What are you going to do with the bike?"
"Leave it," Phil said carelessly. "Mom and Dad won't notice and it'll be gone by tomorrow."
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"From a friend."
"Stolen?"
"Nah," he said, which meant yes.
"We're going to a party," Hank said, finally speaking. "Come with us."
I hesitated, looking at these two red-eyed blunders. Normally I would have said No and high-tailed it back to safety. Afraid, afraid, always afraid. But I considered the carbon-copy evening I had waiting for me. Why not? I reasoned. If I hung with Hank nothing would happen to me--right?--and wherever he was lots of girls seemed to congregate. It wouldn't hurt my reputation to be seen with him.
So off we went, though I threw countless looks back over my shoulder as if danger lurked behind.
There's always one part of town you never go in. Partly because there's nothing their of worth, partly because nobody you know (or would want to know) lives there, partly because it's the most run down. I found myself being led closer and closer to that very area while Phil and Hank stumbled on ahead. There were less lights on the street and more cars parked on oily front lawns. In the distance I heard honking and yelling, and as we got closer I could pick out its place of origin. A particularly dumpy house that looked like it didn't have any doors or windows. Light blared from inside and so many bodies packed inside it looked like some sort of fraternity initiation. Kids on the lawn, in the garage, on the fence. Music vibrating the shrubbery. Phil and Hank veered across the lawn and made for the front door. I followed.
Once inside you got a hint of what Woodstock must have been like, with less dirt. Guys, girls, groping. Anybody, anywhere, anytime. But they were all stoned so it didn't count.
I was wrong about the music, however. It wasn't a stereo like I'd thought, but a real live band, with drums, bass and lead. No rhythm, though. No talent, either. Heavy on the volume. They were playing "Kashmir" by Zeppelin...the long version. Ahem.
Hank drifted into the arms of some girl, Phil made for the beer. I stood and watched. Ancient Rome, right before my eyes. There was a guy sitting by himself in a corner shaking his head and laughing to no one. There were six couples engaged in heavy...uh, conversation. There was a guy I knew from last year's Biology class stoned out of his mind and talking to a cute girl who was obviously straight and laughing hysterically. There was a girl dancing near the band wearing pink hot pants and no shirt. I didn't notice that at first but when I did I got real nervous. I turned quickly away and walked with my gaze downward until I came to a wall. When I looked up again I was in the kitchen.
Sanctuary.
I leaned against the counter, breathing heavily, wondering how to walk through that room again and go out. What was so scary about a half-naked girl? I asked myself over and over. I knew I should go in and enjoy the show, but I wasn't that mature yet. So I gripped tile.
"Hey!"
I jumped and spun around. It was my brother.
"Where have you been?"
His eyes were glassy and he had a joint between his fingers. "Floating." He offered the joint to me.
Floating now, I thought, waving him off. Tomorrow he'd just be crabby.
He started opening cupboards. "Any food in this place?" He found some Ritz and started munching. "Gonna stay in here the whole night?" he asked, spitting crumbs.
"Nothing going on out there."
He giggled, stuffing in another. "Go down the hall, second door on the left."
"Why?"
"'See the showwwww!'" he sang, ala Greg Lake.
"What show?"
He made an obscene gesture with both hands. "There's a girl down there. Look for the line outside the door."
I felt a trickle of sweat run from my right armpit down my side. "So?"
"So?"
"Did you?" I countered.
"Scared?"
"I've already had my quota for the week."
"Yeah, one. Yourself. Go on."
He turned. I swallowed saliva and followed.
The shirtless girl, thank God, was not in sight as we walked through the smoky room. People were still groping for something to hold onto. They wouldn't find it there. We mushed our way to the hallway. There was a sheet tacked in front as a barrier to the bedrooms. I pushed it aside and walked into darkness.
Before my eyes could adjust I ran into something.
"What the--?"
"Sorry," I mumbled, and moved in back of the guy and waited. Presently there was a flushing noise and the guy moved forward. I was in the wrong line.
"What are you doing? Over here," said Phil, pulling me by the shirt.
We stood outside another door. There was no line. "This it?"
"Right inside."
I hesitated. "You first."
He chuckled, then suddenly put his hand to his mouth, swayed, steadied himself with the wall, then ran threw the tacked-up sheet. I heard distant retching and hoped he had made it to the back yard, or at least the kitchen sink.
I put my hand on the doorknob, took and deep breath, and did nothing. For about three minutes. I don't think I was thinking anything. My body poured out sweat and my hand was frozen. The choice was clear, either in or out, but nothing was working. How could I go in, I reasoned, if nothing was working?
Comes a time, I thought, and turned the knob.
It was pitch black. I couldn't hear anything over the hum of the bass line so I could have been in a closet for all I knew. I shut the door as my eyes began to pick up shapes and shadows. There was a desk in front of me, some books on top near the wall, a window beside that, a night stand next to the window, a bed next to the night stand. Something was on it.
I gulped. "Hello?"
A voice growled back. "Get out of here!"
I reached back for the doorknob, but before I reached it there was a crash of wood and the sound of shrieks and the stampede of movement.
"Cops! Let's split!"
Glass shattered and the house rocked. I fell against the wall and flailed blindly for the door, finding the light switch and flipping it on. Hank was on the bed.
He was lyingthensittingthendressingthenrunning, all in a split second. I stood unable to move, staring. The girl on the bed was blonde, blue-eyed, long-legged, completely naked. Lisa, from my English class. Her arms were straight down at her sides and she seemed to be sleeping.
I considered, then stumbled into the hall and got an elbow to the side of my head. I knelt down and put my hands over my face--I've always had this phobia about my nose being broken--and I stayed low as I juked down the hall and through the family room and out the sliding glass doors to the back yard. Kids were scrambling over fences like ants in a rainstorm. I joined the colony and made a jump for the fence myself, grabbing hold, putting one leg over and finding myself riding like a bucking bronco as the rotted posts and weight of kids had loosened its footings. I was about to throw myself over and tumble into the neighboring yard when I felt myself being lifted back off. There was a whirl of shadows and the thud of earth as I landed hard on my back. A large man standing in a starry background stood over me, faceless, mercifully, in the darkness. A cop.
"You're going nowhere, punk," he said, and reached down with huge hands. He squinted and smiled in recognition. He was one of the cops who had come to the house earlier, looking for Phil. “Maybe now you can tell me where your brother is.“
Then he was gone.
He was swept aside, and in that semi-conscious moment I thought that the Hand of God had come and taken him away. But as I staggered to my feet I was greeted by a half-dressed, grinning wild-man. It was Hank. He had given the cop a flying body-block.
"Go, man!" he yelled, and took off with a war cry.
I leapt the fence, ran through the neighbor's yard, leapt another fence, heard a voice swear, leapt the next until there were no more fences, just sidewalk, and I hit that with firm security and ran and ran and ran.
Only when I turned that final corner to my house did I succumb to the pain in my side to walk the rest of the way. The front door was still open as I'd left it, meaning my parents weren't home. I locked it behind me, went to my room, jumped into my pajamas, and fell into bed knowing that if I stopped to remember all that had happened the magic would be gone and it would be forgotten when I awoke.
The next day everything was back to normal.
Except for one small thing.
At lunch I was sitting by myself near the library, eating Ritz crackers and a banana and trying to make some sense of Dune, when Hank walked by with his entourage; a few buddies and a few girls. I looked up briefly, looked down again. It was never a good idea to stare at such a crowd for fear someone would challenge you to a face-punching after school. Afraid, afraid, always afraid. And normally they would have walked by such a leper colony as the library. But this day Hank stopped.
"Doug, dude!"
I looked up in shock. "Hank."
"Great time last night at the party."
They were all looking at me, even the girls.
"Yeah. Yeah, it was."
"This guy," he told the others, "almost got me arrested. Come with us."
I thought for a second before jumping to my feet. He put his arm around my shoulder and we--Hank and I, in front as the others followed, even the girls--continued walking as he told tale of the party and the wild women and the music and the cops and how I tried to cut in on him when he was in the bedroom.
My chest swelled as the mass moved and I tossed Dune and the remains of my lunch where they belonged, into the trash, as the lunch court crowd parted before us. I was in a daze, surprised he remembered, following, yet part of the group as we walked through the campus.
It didn't last, of course.
It wasn't meant to.
Lunch ended and Hank turned with a "See you guys later" and was gone, and the rest of them broke off into littler groups without a word or glance and were gone.
And I was left standing by myself, as usual.
And I never even spoke to Hank at school again. The moment was over.
But something happened because of it.
A girl, a beautiful red-haired girl I had loved from afar...far below the pedestal...took notice and spoke to me for the first time because she had seen me with Hank. And we began dating, of all things. Because of Hank.
We dated all through high school. We didn't get married and live happily ever after. We were only kids, for crying out loud. But that confidence sparked another confidence, to get a better red-head and this one was a keeper. A zoo-keeper, she reminds me when I tell people that. Funny.
Graduation came and went, a big anti-climax to twelve long years. We took our diplomas, threw our hats, and walked off the football field and past those gates one last time.
You may be saying, Well, so what? But it doesn't end there. You see, some of us spent our whole school experience wondering what we were missing. There had to be more, at least you assumed so from the way other guys talked in the locker rooms and in class...that there was always a party somewhere you were missing. But that one night I came out of my room and crossed over. I put the books aside and stepped over the line and saw what I had been missing. And not missing. And again you say, So what? But it doesn't end there, either.
We lose track right after graduation. We say we won't, we write that we'll write, but the ink on the yearbook begins to fade soon after and we move on to jobs or college--other lives. I stayed in town, got a job at a local store, found that keeper red-head who could put up with me and had two girls before I was twenty-five.
Phil moved to LA for a few years before coming to his senses and coming back home where he opened his own garage and raced stocks during the season.
Lisa, God bless her, got married soon after high school and started doing childcare out of her home. Which she does to this day, with her own daughter, now grown. Second generation.
The ten year reunion came quicker than it should have. One day opening the diploma, the next opening the announcement. Class of...is having...and so on. I went and saw old faces and heard echoes of the past. It was fun catching up on people and families. Tying all the loose ends together.
Hank? No, he didn't show up. You see, Hank didn't make it that far. I saw his picture on the board, though, along with the two others who had died in the interim since graduation. I don't know all the details, but I'll tell you what I know.
Hank lived home for about a year before moving in with a bunch of guys. That was what we all did back then: rent a house with some friends and finally do our own thing. I remember visiting Phil after he'd moved and he and his roommates were in the process of measuring out white powder into different plastic bags to exchange for that month's rent. Those were Different Days, remember. We've all grown up a bit since.
But some of us didn't get out of the drug scene right away. Some of us had trouble. Like Hank. I didn't know he was dealing. I would have thought he'd have gone on to college and an athletic scholarship, but his size held him back. Too small, they said, overlooking the fire underneath. He had odd jobs but none brought much money, so he kept dealing and was on and off and on. He even got married and that should have settled him some. But it seemed to do the opposite. Then she got pregnant and he got worried. No job, no future, no prospects. Bad times. And the pressure mounted the closer she got.
His wife gave birth to a healthy baby girl, and that same day Hank, God bless him, Hank went home and took out a gun and put it to his head and pulled the trigger.
You see, he was cursed. He had it all. But the curse was that he had it all too soon. And when school ended, disappointments came and reality changed and the few records he had in football were broken. He found himself just another face in the crowd, the way the rest of us had always been. But it's harder to be at the top and go down than the other way. Hank couldn't face it.
But it doesn't end there, no way does it end there. Because Hank lived and loved and had big dreams and big failures and was loved by everyone and feared by most, and you might possibly say that he deserved what he got in the end for falling into it and dealing it and maybe messing up some other lives along the way. Maybe. Or maybe it would make some feel better to know that there were rumors he didn't kill himself, that he was murdered because of a drug deal gone bad. Maybe. I don't know. But I know it would be a tragedy to erase him from the world for it. He left behind him memories. Memories that, even today, warm my heart. Doing nothing, sitting idle, his face will appear and I'll find myself smiling. He had that, the ability to make you feel good by his presence. When I drive by to visit my parents I'll look up two houses and still see him, uniform on, helmet in hand, going down the sidewalk to football practice, and I’ll smile.
He left behind other things, too. He left behind a wife and a daughter...who miss him and wish he had overcome that curse.