Chapter 11

Darryl Nelson

My arms ache in the best way. I’d spent the day practicing with Smit and Evan at Smit’s house. Their cache of songs was actually pretty solid, and I’d managed to improve upon the drums on all of their songs. The band name was awesome.

Methods of Dissent. The main thing I felt they were missing was some scream vocals. After spending more time than we should have, trying to teach Smit how to do it, it was decided that he would provide main vocals, and I’d step in for the screams and growls.

My mom was the queen of the guttural growl—she put a lot of male vocalists to shame—and she’d taught me the best technique.

“So, we have a couple gigs lined up soon…couple of parties and there’s a rock club which admits under twenty-ones,” Smit says excitedly. “We’re going to blow the fuck up once people hear us with you on drums, Darryl.”

I throw myself down on the sofa, which is pushed up against one of the walls, twirling my stick between my fingers. “Cool, cool.”

Evan slips his bass guitar over his head, and places it back on its stand with great reverence, repositioning his beanie so it just skims his eyebrows. His light brown hair hangs over his right eye, finishing just above his shoulder.

The guy was still really quiet, but after hanging out with Smit for a while it was easy to see how it’s easier to just sit back and let him talk rather than try and lead the conversation.

Just like now for example, Smit continues to spout on about the gigs, and the other bands, and the venues, and who else has played there in the past, and what equipment they prefer to use…the guy is an entire fucking Wikipedia page on music.

Evan sits down next to me, and I silently offer him a can of soda. He shakes his head, no, and pulls his sleeves down over his hands, fiddling with the cuffs.

Whereas Smit and I dressed quite similar—both usually found in tight jeans and some band t-shirt layered over a long sleeve—Evan habitually wore baggy pants, baggy shirts, or baggy hoodies. All the dude’s clothes swamped his slight figure.

Maybe he had an older brother that he stole his clothes from?

The door at the top of the stairs opens. “Sweetie? Are your friends staying for dinner?” Smit’s mom pops her head round the door.

Evan nods, and I shake my head. “Thanks, Mrs. Smith, but my mom’s friend is coming over for dinner tonight so I’ve gotta go.”

***

“Taylor!” Mr. McGee shuffles through the door, relying heavily on his Zimmer frame to walk. My mom steps forward, wrapping the old man in a tight hug.

“McGee! Hope you’re not causing too much trouble with those new nurses.”

He shrugs, rocking his hand back and forth. “Eh, they get what they deserve.” His watery eyes find me lurking in the doorway, and his eyebrows lift. “Is that little Darryl? Come here, boy.” I step forward and shake his hand.

“Hi, Mr. McGee. How’ve you been?”

“I’m okay…it’s all the other beggars you need to worry about,” he chuckles, and I smile back.

Mr. McGee was like another grandfather, really.

He had originally owned the record shop that my folks had met working in, and they had stayed close to him ever since.

He was half blind with glaucoma and had been in several retirement homes over the last few years, his crotchety personality causing clashes with other residents and nurses alike.

He was fast approaching his ninetieth birthday but was still with it mentally—sharp as a fucking tack.

My dad had taken on the job of taxi driver for Mr. McGee tonight, plus he was also cooking dinner, leaving my mom and Mr. McGee to sit and talk. Mom was looking especially pale and tired today, her ink really standing out against her skin.

She had taken to wearing a lot of head scarves recently, and I couldn’t help but tease her about dressing up like a pirate.

I all but tune out the conversation over dinner, letting Vinnie take the spotlight for once.

The kid hates being the center of attention usually, but Mr. McGee is one of the only people who actually understands any of the dungeons and dragons shit Vinnie enjoys, so once they get going it’s best just to let them have at it.

I catch my mom’s eyes glinting with unshed tears, my dad tightening his grip around her shoulders when he notices, and I narrow my eyes. What the fuck is going on with them?

***

Hunter presses a baggy of white powder into my palm. “Fuck yeah, Darryl! You totally bust up that guy’s face!” I block out the rest of Hunter’s rhetoric, shaking out the pain in my left hand.

The guy in question was still lying, groaning, on the floor where I’d put him down with a well-placed hook, his nose exploding on impact.

Oh well, the coke in my hand will soon numb the pain.

I nod at Hunter, gracing him with a tight-lipped smile which I hope he takes as my ending the conversation. Tipping the bottle back, I drain my beer, and throw it into the darkness, enjoying the smash of the glass as it hits the pavement.

Making my way over to the bench which was plastered with a larger-than-life photo of Smit’s dad’s face, some of the teeth blacked out with marker pen and an evil pointy goatee scribbled onto his chin, I open the baggy and scoop out a little bump of coke, quickly sniffing it back.

The initial slightly gasoline-type smell soon passes, then I start to feel the expected numbness in my nose, my throat and the back of my tongue.

The throbbing in my knuckles abates somewhat, and my head starts to feel more level; I feel more secure in my thoughts, my confidence grows as the drug continues to move through my body.

I sit, grinning to myself, for another fifteen minutes, until I feel my buzz waning and take another bump. And another. And another.

Interspersed with several more beers, my night is going fucking amazing. I wave to Hunter and the few other guys who are still hanging around drinking and getting high, and on slightly unstable legs walk home.

The fucking high curb outside our house trips me up again, and I curse loudly as I topple forwards. Once I’m lying on my back on the front lawn, I wonder what the fuck that weird sound is until I realize it’s me laughing, which makes me laugh harder.

“Darryl?” Stevie’s whisper-shout draws my attention, and I languidly roll my head towards the sound. She is crouching near me, looking concerned, wearing a pair of booty shorts and a tight vest which is clearly showcasing the fact she is not wearing a bra underneath.

“Darryl…are you okay?”

“Why the fuck do you care, Stevie?” I shut my eyes, straightening my head back up. “You didn’t care four years ago, why the fuck do you care now?”

“What?” Confusion taints her voice. “Come on, Darryl. Let’s go inside, and you can sleep this off.”

“Nah…I’m good.” I shake off the hand she puts on my arm.

“Come on, Darryl. You can’t keep doing this to your parents…your mom is already struggling with her chemo; she doesn’t need to deal with you acting like it’s only hard for you too.”

My head snaps back to her, and she flinches. I’m sure if it could, fire would be shooting from my eyes right about now. “What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Say.” I ask through gritted teeth. “Chemo? What fucking chemo?”

“Uhm…” her face blanches as she fumbles her words, slowly backing away from me like she can sense I’m about to fucking explode. “I thought…I wouldn’t have…”

I launch myself to my feet, any buzz from the alcohol and coke well and truly destroyed now, and storm into my house, not giving a shit that it is well past two a.m. The door ricochets off the wall, no doubt leaving cracks if not a hole in the drywall.

“Mom! Dad! What the fuck!?” I bellow into the silent house, vaguely aware of Stevie behind me, begging me to calm down, her hands grasping at the back of my shirt as if that would be able to pull me back.

“Darryl?” My dad appears at the top of the stairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair a halo of mess around his head. “What the fuck is going on?”

“That’s exactly what the fuck I wanna know!” My mom pokes her head around my dad’s arm, and I narrow my eyes at her.

“Why the fuck am I finding out you have fucking cancer and are already going through chemo from the fucking neighbor?!”