The Crew

Untitled Part 3

Chapter Three

The next day, when classes were over, D.D. and I sat in his Saturn in front of my parents' gate. The hangover had faded, having been like some professional boxer tapping my skull repeatedly. I'd gone to the bathroom between classes, throwing cold water on my face. Cannon loaned me his Dead Kennedys T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans so I wouldn't look/smell like death. Being set on fire hadn't exactly made my clothes shine.

The engine rumbled. D.D. peered at me. "Man looks in the abyss, there's nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character. And that is what keeps him out of the abyss."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

He snatched a cigarette from the pack on his dash. Unknown Society was playing, barely audible, from his CD player.

We'd been here just yesterday but that was practically a lifetime ago. Being in Oxnard at the squat house and then at the show, compared to here was...bizarre. It was like going from Russia to LA.

"You'll be alright, Dog. Remember. When you stare into the abyss, you're only facing death. None of us can avoid it."

"That's supposed to be comforting?"

Shrugging, he said, "Well, no, not exactly. But true. Let go, Dog. Let the pieces fall where they may."

He extended his white pasty palm. I grabbed the hand and shook.

"Good luck, brother."

I nodded, reached behind me for my pack and got out. Before I could say another word D.D. burned rubber in reverse, careened onto Del Norte like a drunken psycho, halted for one second, blasted Unknown Society out his open window, hit the lever and absolutely exploded down Del Norte, that Back to The Future maneuver once more, like some insane NASCAR driver.

And, just like that, I was alone. Facing the gate.

Instead of taking the front way, on the winding concrete sidewalk which wound through the perfectly mowed grass and along the 12-foot-tall Bougainvillea, protecting us from the street and the lurid, lurking world, I opted instead for the garage entry. I walked down the driveway, remembering years ago, playing basketball—Horse—out here with my dad and uncle at Christmas. How innocent I'd been only two years back. Hell, one year back. Two days ago.

My hand gripped the old garage door handle. The screws were loose—had been for years—and when I lifted it the handle rose and I thought, as always, that it would come clean off. The palpable stench of fresh cut grass, old tools and gardening equipment assaulted my senses. I walked in, closing the massive garage door behind me with a heavy clang. The garage door shook. Darkness prevailed. The musty, pungent aroma hit my nostrils. I thought of D.D.'s words: Man looks in the abyss, there's nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character. And that is what keeps him out of the abyss.

Face the abyss, Jack, I whispered to myself. But my palms were sweaty, hands slightly quivering, gut thumping.

I opened the door leading from the garage into the spare room. It was empty except for a lone bed, perfectly made, and a Pointer Sisters poster, from the 80s. The room once belonged to my older half sister. It sometimes led my mind to wander the corridors of time and remember the painful things I didn't want to recall: Jason, the older neighbor kid up the street who, when I was eight or nine years old, put his father's nine-millimeter handgun into my mouth, pulled the hammer back, counted down, and acted like he was going to kill me. Or the time when my mother, unable to cope with my constantly waking her up due to nightmares, when I was seven, my father in New York on a business trip, told me to get dressed, put me in the car, and drove us across town at three A.M., dropping me off at her psychiatrist's house.