Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 22: Father and Son

I tugged the key out of the transmission, locking the windshield wipers mid-wipe. The rain fell mutely on the soft-top.

"Danny?" Mom called from the kitchen when she heard me come in through the front door. "Where have you been all afternoon?"

A subtle tremor of thunder broke from behind the walls. "Nowhere, Mom," I said, leaning over, spraying my hands as I stripped the wet shoelaces unlacing my Converse. Standing back up, I ran my fingers through my wet hair, lifting the patches that had stuck to my face.

As Mom walked towards me she said, "Ok, Danny. I'm trying to be patient, and I am really happy that you and Mary are friends, but you've not yet packed a single thing and I'm not going to remind you again. The movers are starting next week and if you're not going to pack, I'll go through your room and start throwing everything out."

My gaze whipped past her as I snapped, "Don't you dare."

"Watch your tone with me, Danny," Mom fiercely replied as I began walking towards the stairs. Lightning beamed in two bright rapid flashes through the window. A tumbling thunder followed.

Mom then continued to say, "When I was putting away your laundry, I saw that you haven't even touched that plastic bag full of junk. Danny, you can't leave this until the last minute like you do everything else. And have you yet decided what you're going to do with your car? It's going to cost a fortune to transport, and unless you plan on driving, we're going to have to sell it."

With my back to her, already halfway up the steps, I barked, "I'm not selling my fucking car."

"Wh-What? What did you just say to me?"

"I said I'll figure it out."

"You watch your language with me! Danny? Danny!" Mom yelled as I rounded the railing of the stairs to my room. For the rest of the night, I turned my anger to my guitar until I fell asleep.

The next morning as the sky paled from gray to a lighter shade, I awoke the world (my house) with more screams from my guitar.

Dragging my amp across the floor, maxing out all the settings, cranking that reverb exceptionally high, I channeled my rage into the stinging notes on the fretboard. Letting my fingers unfurl onto the strings all my pent-up angst in a sloppy, directionless solo.

Razor sounds lashing out. Violently constricted to the pentatonic scale. Notes raged with velocity. No silence between the sounds. Breaking down with the full-bodied crash of a chord and a raw shout from my throat. Build up. Break down. Losing myself to sound.

I was mad at Mom. I was mad at Max. And I was so mad at Mary that I tried hating her (all these fucking M's).

My middle finger zipped down the fretboard. Moving the pentatonic pattern higher.

I wanted to hate Mary. But, I couldn't help but stop and think that I was to blame. I grabbed her and I wouldn't let go.

My fingers fumbled on a difficult chord. Slap the strings down and down until the combination sounds right. Inculcate the shape to my hand. Never forget.

What—why didn't I just talk to her? I wanted to feel what I felt in that Old Abandoned Beach House again. My lust was dangerous because it stemmed from something like my hatred for her.

Telecaster hung-low; electromotive friction against my pelvis. The memory of Mary's sweat glistened breasts flattened against my chest. Erection.

But then, in the minute I wanted to love her again, the minute I wanted to nail myself with the blame and run to her and make repentance, I ripped through a barre chord, and against my will, the image of Jim's ugly face assembled in my mind. His voice resounded louder in my ears than the feedback from my amp. "Incase they run into cute boys like you, with pretty hair." And he had the nerve to smirk.