TRVE CVLT: Choice 4
Your dad places a hand underneath your armpit and helps you to your feet, while he motions for some assistance with the mess on the floor. He’s apologizing to the congregation for the inconvenience, but all you hear is for my fuckup child. The inconvenience. The problem. The thorn in my side. The lost sheep.
Your dad isn’t the corporal punishment type of parent. He backhands you with words. The ones spoken with subtle contempt, and the worst—those that aren’t spoken at all.
You think about asking him if he’s proud of you, even though you know the answer in this moment. But at least you’d hear the words. The acknowledgement.
Shrugging off your dad’s embrace, you glance back and lock eyes with your mother whose hardened steel eyes scream, despite her indignant silence. Parishioners hem and haw, forming their own blathering choir. The last thing you hear as you take a rear door out of the sanctuary is can you imagine?
You can’t count how many times you’ve heard that phrase muttered about you—around you—but never to you. Never with you. To learn who you are. The piercings. Your musical tastes. The closet full of black shirts. The tattoos.
Can you imagine?
You don’t have to because you aren’t imaginary.
***
It’s weird that Austin called you. The last time you hung out, things got out of hand over some bullshit. It was always bullshit with Austin. Usually, it was over a disagreement about a band that he took personally. Like any difference in opinion was an attack on his personality. Everything he believed was true. Objective. There was no alternative.
You walk outside and weave through minivans until you reach your own—a mid-90s Chevy Lumina APV the color of your grandma’s lipstick—purchased not to tote around future kids, but your drum set.
Your set hasn’t been touched in over a year.
The small rectangular front screen on your phone reads: 3 Missed Calls. All from Austin. You wonder what he wants, because you know he isn’t calling to apologize. There’s a couple of bottles of water rolling around the floor. You drain one. Then the other.
You text your friend Ryan even though you’re out of monthly texts and you’re going to be charged extra for it. Talking on the phone just doesn’t appeal to you right now. All you say is, I’m coming over.
The aftermarket six-disc changer cycles to disc three, aligning with the year 1993. The year Cynic released Focus. The album that Austin called pretentious. The one he threw across his basement like a frisbee when you tried to play it for Ryan.
***
Ryan sits and smokes on the front steps of his red-brick duplex. He taps ash from his cigarette and drinks from a coffee mug.
“Want some?” he asks.
Your mouth is clammy and your breath is a fire hazard.
“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”
Ryan stubs his cigarette out on the bottom step and flicks the butt into a rusting Folgers can. He leads you inside. Someone you don’t recognize is asleep on the futon. Ryan’s tabby lurks behind his 5150 half-stack and stares. Ryan pulls a mug from the cupboard. It reads: Fuck That’s Hot in bold yellow font that slowly bleeds red as he pours hot coffee into the mug.
“Rough night?” he asks.
You laugh.
“You stay for the whole reception? You wandered away. Figured you went home.”
“I woke up in a closet during the morning service. Fucking puked communion wine and whisky all over my dad.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Why didn’t Austin show?”
Ryan pours another cup of coffee and motions toward the front door, “Let’s talk.”
***
“So he wants me back in the band?” you ask.
“He needs you. Toni’s going on her honeymoon and we don’t have a drummer. At least not one that can keep up.”
“Then wait till she gets back,” you say.
“That’s the thing. Waste Doctrine is swinging through town for some fucking reason and we’re going to open for them. Could be our shot at impressing a signed band. Maybe they’ll let us in on this leg of the tour. That’s why Austin bailed on the wedding. He’s been planning for the show. Putting some really weird shit together.”
“How so?”
Ryan takes a long drag off a cigarette, “I’ll show you. Let’s go.”
You’ve come this far. Read TRVE CVLT to descend further into the madness.
