Trigger Alert: Readers with Flashback issues should probably just skip ahead to chapter 50.
Oh mother, tell your children
Not to do what I have done
Don't spend your life in sin and misery
In the House of the Rising Sun
It's been the ruin of many a poor boy
Dear God, I know I was one...
House Of The Rising Sun ~ The Animals
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Summer - June 12th (Mayday - 68 days away)
So three months ago, way back in the day before Mayday.
It's my first night at the House of the Rising Raisins, stuck in the suck that is San Fall. The Raisins have finally laid down their weary little heads and tuned out for the night, leaving me to my own vices. I take a moment to sit still and try to find my zen. But my thoughts are too random and chaotic from the forced relocation of my existence, that I cannot think straight.
For the second time in my life, I feel like a total tourista. Just another hapless traveler, ignorant of local customs, hungry, thirsty, and more than a little weary of the hostile locals. Personally, I hate visiting distant and exotic lands like Northern California. Getting scammed by people with unpronounceable names speaking in tongues and contracting deadly diseases from their rainwater. I think of travel agents with the same degree of excitement as I think of morticians. If you have to go bro? Okay, I guess it's that time. But if you do not ...then naw not on that noise!
I should be way wiped out from the terror flight up from the south. But instead, I am wide awake staring around my father's old room at my memories. In the house, that he never lived in, in a room he never slept a night in. It's not even something cool like his ghost haunting me, no it's all the quiet that is killing me.
The deathly silence of San Fall is just another reminder that the ever-present background noise of my life is long gone. I never realized just how noisy the place I grew up in was until I lay on these mattresses under the window in not-my-father's old room.
At the beach the houses are stacked so close together, I can hear my neighbors take a shower. Not to mention, the constant cacophony of partying, banging, fighting, and music blaring that is life at the beach. Here in the crypt in which I sleep in now, no babies are crying, no dogs barking at harmonica playing transients, just walking down the alleys between bars to panhandle along their nightly quest for oblivion.
There are no jets coming in off the ocean on their final landing at the plane station place. No helicopters overhead vibrating past on their way to another unnecessary shooting fatality or a freeway chase. No Harley's roaring own distant streets setting off a chorus of car alarms, just for the hell of it. No Swine sirens chasing the Harley's, with News helicopters in tow, just hoping for a fatal freeway chase ending in someone getting shot to death by the killer cops.
To me, San Fallcon has the feel of a really sad cemetery. A lonely place where no one ever comes to visit the beautiful bones. Just the profound sound of silence of the graveyard in the valley of death. Save for all those bugs making their bug noises in the dark. Probably just waiting for the next corpse to fall to the feast.
The only thing I can barely hear through the wide open window is the nighttime bugs bugging, like they own the place. Every now and then the distant whispers of water sprinklers breaking the law. It's California, so drought is always around with its water restrictions. So outlaw night watering is apparently the thing to do in San Fallcon. This being the very bottom of wine country the vines come first not the green grass.
The other thing more irritating to me besides the oppressive silence is the dirty air here. At home by the beach, we have the constant ocean breeze of clean sea salt spray. Combined with the fragrant scent of brine mixed with rust oxidization. But here in San Fallcon, the air just smells dirty to me. Not like smog or Santana fire winds, but just like dirt smells ...that earth dirt smell.
Worse yet, when the still wind does decide to twitch a little from time to time? I get a hint of what I can only assume is the stench of cow crap through the open window. I think that maybe somewhere out there, some Raisins must be keeping hamburger cows captive for milk pets or whatever?
For the first time since the bad years after my father died, I am having trouble sleeping at night again. My old night terrors have come back with a vengeance. Just when I am beginning to drift asleep, a get a shock feeling like I am falling into the silent void. By three o'clock in the morning, it's clear to me as winter water that my old friend Mr. Insomnia has returned to me, to take up his forlorn watch.
After I watch the moon set over Mount Diablo, I get up to go to the bathroom. But one step out into the hallway and I make an instant discovery about the Raisins old-time alarm system. Every panel of the wood flooring between my room and the bathroom feels the need to betray me with a violent creek. I can already tell it's going to take me at least a week to learn how to silently ninja my way across this nightingale floor to the bathroom and back, without waking up the Raisins.
On the upside at least this will give me something to do for the next couple of hours. So I drop down on all fours and start slowly crab-crawling down the hallway towards the bathroom ...one slow yoga inch at a time. The slow crab crawl to the los baños and back to my-not-fathers room takes up about an hour of my nighttime life.
As the rising sun gloams the underside of the dry sky I start to drift out, just as the heat of summer starts to roll into the San Fallcon valley in ever dryer waves. Instead of the clean smell of the salt ocean roiling I smell the dry dust dirt, as the prevalent cow crap smell only seems to get worse in the heat.
At home, the first of the dawn patrols will be rolling out of bed and hitting the sands. The Old Timers with their longboards, and the wild Riders with their sharp razor sticks and tricks. The legion of Gidgets and Grommets doing paddle practice in the soupy shallows. All just another great summer day in Sunset Beach. Today is the day that Grommit and the other Setter kids will start their first day of summer lifeguards, where I should be...but I am not. I am in hell, and in the one day and night I have been here ...it's already been an entire lifetime.
SCREEEEECH!!!! CRASH! BANG! ...BANG! BANG! BANG!
I heave awake to the angry to the sound of crashing thunder. I know in my pounding dark heart something has gone terribly wrong. The Kiddie Pimps are attacking my house and I need to fight or die! I launch off the floor beds, rip the ancestral baseball bat off its stand, and slide into my combat stomping boots. My heart is rage ripping through my sweaty chest, and my eyes are wide with adrenaline-infused crazy hate. I am Set to go to start taking out Kiddie Pimps and their Swine ninja minions, or Taliban terrorist, or whoever the hell has started this war. I glare red rage towards the closed door waiting for whoever The They sent after me to come bursting in. Cause I am not going down without a fight, it's time to Ride or Die.
"Irish? Are you okay?" My grandfather guy yells down the hallway from his bathroom. Oddly I can hear the unmistakable amusement in his gravely old morning voice.
"Yes Aces, I'm quite fine thank you." The Irish Antichrist who claims she is my grandmother, singsongs back from the kitchen. "Breakfast is almost ready in five."
"Alright Irish, sounds like a plan." Aces bellows back down the hallway past me closed door.
I try to shake off the redrum rage and focus on what's important in the moment. All the strange oldness of everything around me.
I am in a foreign place?
This is not my room...
This is not my home...
This is not my life...
This place is way too nice?
"What the hell kind of Insanistani Leave it to Beavis nightmare have I fallen into?" I drone, swaying my head slightly to the side, causing the warchild braids to splay and the shells on the ends to clack softly. I blink around the unfamiliar room, scouring my cryptic surroundings for a clue as to where I am.
I am not where I am supposed to be, and this is not my spot. This is not my life ...this is hell?
Then it all comes crashing back on me in an instant. That no thanks to Donna Momma's latest dumb drunken choice, I am trapped in the House of the Blazing Ancients ...for the rest of the summer. So of course, the mornings are the worst in The Ancient House, when corpses find out that they are still alive again against their will.
All this washes through me while I stand heaving hard and sweating. It takes an epic effort to relax my death grip off the ancestral Louisville baseball bat. Okay, so it's not Kiddie Pimps and their Swine ninja minions invading the House of the Blazing Raisin's. Apparently, it's only my grandmother, the Irish Antichrist waging war in the kitchen.
"Is Darren up yet?" The Irish Antichrist seethes from the kitchen.
"I'll check on him when I am finished reading in the bathroom." Aces yells back down the hallway. As if I could possibly sleep through this horripilation of raisin racket.
"Blaze me." I sigh.
I slip back out of my boots and toss the baseball bat back on the mattress. Because even if I wanted to join the ancestral cudgel back in bed? There is no way I am getting back to sleep, now that the Irish Antichrist's daily war against silence has officially commenced.
Something that I have also come to realize too late is that unlike me, these damn Dean's are of the tribe of the rising sun ...aka "morning people". As in up at the ass crack of dawn, the early bird gets to slice the worm's throat. Yeah, those kinds of morning people. The ancient folk that wake up happily to start their day with a nice nutritious breakfast.
Unfortunately, that also apparently entails the Battle of Breakfast, with the Celestial kitchen demons known as Eugi. Turns out the Raisins brought a bunch of Chinese kitchen demons back with them from Aces last War Plane Brigade posting in the Orient. Personally, I think that the Irish Antichrist must have pissed off the Egui demons so bad back in their ancestral homeland, that they followed her back here in order to bring the war home to her house. Sad to say, but my money is on the Irish Antichrist that keeps claiming she is my grandmother.
I pull on a Mr. Zoggs Sex Wax tank top and I take a deep calming breath. Before opening the door to the hallway and sliding barefoot down the narrow hall and into the galley kitchen. Where the Irish Antichrist is standing at the old stove lording over her latest victory over the Egui, in her never-ending war on sunshine sleep.
"I hope I didn't wake you with my cooking?" My grandmother bares her yellowed feral fangs at me almost innocently. Then holds forth an offensive cast iron skillet of scrambled eggs in front of her to take the blame.
It seems inconceivable to me that one little old lady could make that much noise. But then again when Irish Antichrist is in the kitchen, she is in a constant war with the Egui and the demons that do battle her are legion. I can completely understand the Celestial Egui demon army for their hate of all things Irish. So I can't really blame them for fighting back the best they can.
In the day since I have arrived here in hell, I have learned that my grandmother Irish hates Egui. That she has been in a constant state of warfare with them since the Raisin's left the Orient over a decade ago. The Irish Antichrist is quick to blame Egui for everything and anything that goes wrong with her cooking. And trust me when I tell you, that those poor Chinese kitchen demons take a lot of blame. Which is probably while the eternal war with the Egui starts up again, every blazing morning at the crack of dogdamn dawn.
"Blazing Egui?" I grumble my response to this in passing on my way to the ancient coffee urn for my caffeine transfusion.
"So how did you sleep with the heat, Darren?" Irish seethes at me in passing.
"Coffee?" I scowl back at her.
"Full pot in the urn." She nods to the ancient silver torpedo machine of her raisin folk.
"Cool." I nod and move to the morning.
Upside, I guess kids with "Ride or Die" tattoo's necklaced across their collar bones and mothers in rehab don't get any, "Oh and you're a caffeine addicted too? Well, isn't that just lovely?" bullshit. Instead, the Irish Antichrist is going to go to her new special hate place with me.
"Well your hair is certainly ...interesting." I can easily hear an unmistakable note of critique in her tone.
"Yeah, so is yours." I counter evenly, pouring a large cup of dark wake up juice into a yellow mug with a happy face.
I easily translate her "interesting" from Ancient lingo to mean "otherwise embarrassing to me". But shrug this off as yet another irrelevant observation on my life by the Irish Antichrist who keeps claiming she is my grandmother person.
The dark voices in my head are daring me to smash the smiling mug right into her smug face. But I remind the voices in my head that hitting chicks is totally wrong under any circumstances ...even if she is the Antichrist. Needless to say, the dark voices in my head and I are not in total agreement on this issue.
Before yesterday, I last saw the Irish Antichrist seven years ago at our traditional Denny's parking lot drop off slash Christmas party. Since then her hellfire hair has gone from Lucille Ball's blood scarlet to snow white. She is still whipcord thin with a degree of outdoorsy spryness, the belies a willingness to bar fight with broken Bourbon bottles. But up close she shriveled some from all the sun age piling on her face. Most telling are her angry green eyes, that haven't lost any of their luster. Yep, still mean, green, and full of angry judgment.
The Irish Antichrist always reminds me a little of Lucille Ball's mean older sister Bust'ur Balls. Like if you look up harridan on the Wiki Dic, you'll see her pic. An opinionated mean old lady, with a dash of harsh "just telling it like it is" bluntness. Cause ol' Iris Irish Dean is old school mean, like in traditionally mean. Because she is always right, about being righteous and mean and everything else.
My grandfather Aces strolls into the kitchen and give Irish a the ol' creepy raisin peck-on-the-cheek old school courting style. He skirts around her breakfast battlefield and grabs a large mug that says ACES HIGH off the rack of cups. And all I can think about this is ...if only these two crazy kids were only high? Yeah, they'd be so much easier to deal with if they were stoned.
Apparently, one of the few things my grandfather Aces and I have in common is a deep dependence for morning coffee. Something that we both learn the hard way, when we both went back for immediate refills, only to find that there was none to be had. Now the Irish Antichrist will have to make triple what she is used to making. But at least Aces is happier, not being regulated to his tradition "you know what the heart doctor said...only two cups of coffee, Aces!".
"So are you ready for your interview at the Plunge this morning, Darren?" Aces asks over his morning paper. Because killing trees for worthless local news instead of getting it on the interweb like normal people is apparently still a thing to do for Raisins.
"Yeah, sure." I grunt between slurps of inky coffee. Aces folds his morning paper down and stares evenly across the table at me.
"Okay Darren, let try this again? The man you're going to interview with is named Buzz. He's former Navy man...not that there is anything wrong with that." Aces snorts snidely, which I take to mean there is indeed something wrong with his war buddy Buzzy. "But like we talked about on the way back from the 'plane station place' yesterday? I don't know how he's going to feel about your sense of ...shall we call it ...style?"
"Then I guess will just have to see about all those buzzed feelings he has going." I counter back evenly at the old warmonger.
Before Aces can counterattack with whatever is next on his list of complaints, Irish sets the skillet down on a cutting board in the middle of the table. One thing I will learn about Irish is that while she is by no means the consummate cook. But Egui demons aside, she can make a decent skillet of scrambled eggs. Probably because she enjoys killing unborn baby chicken souls so much.
I eye the food, while the Irish Antichrist slips into her spot and begins yet another long food cooling cantor to her invisible Zombie skygod guys. When she has finished her cant and the hot food has finally cooled to room temperature, Irish picks up a sharp knife and eyes my hair.
"You now, its still not too late to get a haircut?" She smiles across the table at me. This same thing has been said enough times in the last day, that's it's become a running joke, as has my counter.
"Like I said I cut my own hair, so thanks anyways." I shrug her off.
One of the things that Irish clearly hates more than the Egui is a grandson who has hair longer than hers. I'm sure it doesn't help that my hair is plaited into warchild braids, with seashells knotted into the bottom of each braid, clicking and clacking. Every time I sway the braids pretending to think about something she asked me, I see her react like fingernails on a chalkboard. So of course, I tend to think and sway much more than is necessary. Clickity-clack and take that evil one! So far in my short time here in Hell, I have found that the hostility keeps us all honest.
"Do you know what you're going to say if Buzz has any questions for you as to why you are working here for the summer?" Aces seems almost interested in my answer.
"Yeah." I nod.
"You mind telling us?" He presses.
"Yeah." I repeat my mantra.
"Oh, and why is that?" Irish has only recently learned the art of asking me open-ended questions instead of prefacing her queries with unnecessary talking points.
"Why's what now?" I stop in mid-bite and redirect back at the Raisins.
Because I too have recently learned a trick or two about the ways of the Ancients. The Old Folk love explaining themselves, but more often than not they also tend to get lost in the mix of making their irrelevant points. Ergo the whole, "What was I saying again?" schtick.
"Don't know, something about nothing again? Why, what did you think you were talking about talking Ancient Raisin person?"
But the Irish Antichrist is not taking the bait this time. Because apparently she too has learned enough about my defensive habits since the last round of talking time to avoid this trap.
"Because I asked." She replies dryly, her eyes narrowing into mean slits.
"Oh right, we're asking questions again?" I nod along to remind Aces of our deal.
No unnecessary question about me, my life or my choices. I respect you and you respect me. But unfortunately for everyone, the Irish Antichrist only respects herself. That and being right about everything ever are her most dominant demons.
"And because Buzz is a buddy of mine." Aces turns suddenly serious challenging the "My business is mine - your business is yours" rule. So I keep my silence and I eye hard him to see where this is heading.
"So whatever it is that you have to say today, I will have to live with?" He counters cooly. "Like that rocket jet ride at the Supermarket parking lot, where you were going to get me that job when I come visit you at the beach next summer? After I get those plaits glued on my dome and learn to talk right."
I remind myself to start keeping a watch out for Aces during talking time, as clearly he is not as dull a blade as I first thought. But I do consider his request, because truth be told I can somewhat see the validity of his point. The Hall of Heroes for the Veterans of Foreign Wars is apparently where Aces is cool. So whatever I say to his warmonger Buzzy buddy could potentially impact his cool kill standing with all the other warriors down at the Hall of Heroes and Foreign Legion of Warmongering.
"Okay." I smile slowly. "I need to make some money to buy a new ride for my mom."
Aces nods, and Irish of course rolls her eyes. Truth is I'm here because my mother is in rehab...again. For her third DUI, and what's even crazier, we don't even own a car anymore. The last crap car we owned got impounded on DUI numero dos. Then auctioned off after she never bothered to pay the impound tow charges. Then again it was kind of a piece of junk, so those impound charges might have been more than the car was worth anyway? Ergo, why the whole buy a car for my mother is funny ...well at least to me anyways.
"So that's the story you're sticking with?" The Irish Antichrist goes on the offensive.
"Yeah. So anything else you want to know? Specifically?" I eye her back.
"What are your qualifications for the job other than our referral?" Irish is quick to counteract on the attack.
"I'm more qualified, with more actual practical experience, than any other person they could hire. Oh, and I have all the certs to prove it." I scowl out at her. "But on the off chance that I'm not the best? Then they should hire the other guy, it's definitely the smart move."
"And if Buzzy has someone else in mind for the job?" Irish eyes blaze back on the attack.
"Please, there is no way your Buzzed buddy can hire someone that has my level of education and experience." I wave away that thought. "Least not for minimum wage anyway."
"You seem rather sure of yourself." Irish comments pointing the butter blade in my general direction.
"Most people that have stolen more than seven verified lives in the sea are either sure of their skills. Or so lucky it wouldn't matter at that point." I counter-attack right back.
"There is such a thing as humility." Irish deflects evenly.
"Hu·mil·i·ty?" I taste the word in an exaggerated manner and turn around to face her down. "Never heard of it. Sounds a lot like humiliation. What's it do for you?"
Irish rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but Aces perks up noticeably.
"Yes Irish, please tell us all about what The Hu-mil-ity has done for you?" Aces over exaggerates my beachy cadence for effect.
"Well I married you, didn't I?" Irish counters evenly and actually makes a decent joke for once in her life.
"That's my humility girl." Aces burst out a good chuckle and even Irish smiles.
After the funny ancient moment is over Irish is right back on the attack.
"Well, I've always thought it was a good idea to have a question ready for the person you're interviewing with. It shows you've put some thought into the job ahead of time." Irish offers unhelpfully. "Do you have something in mind that you'd like to ask?"
"More money?" I shrug her off stupid and pile more eggs on my plate. "Or maybe what kind of alcoholics name their kid Buzzy? That's like a stripper like naming her daughter Destiny, and then sending her to kindergarten in clear heels to make new friends. There's just some karma should not be tested."
"Buzzy is a childhood nickname." Aces informs dryly, clearly not liking the strippery reference.
"Yeah, I'm guessing he probably didn't pull that one out of the boneyard on name day." I shrug off the inconsequential and resume eating.
Based on the sweet silence that follows it seems that we have now run out of things to talk about. Even the Egui demons are slightly confused by the sudden silence of the Irish Antichrist, who has run out of things to say. So this what has become of my life now? Sitting around with these two blazing raisins, waiting to play twenty questions about a bunch of stuff I don't care about.
Oh yeah, just another banner day here in hell at the house of the Rising Raisins.
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