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by Mark Suder Massey | 21 Nov 2007, 12:50
Fifteen minutes later we slipped through the school's perimeter fence. We were on a soccer field on the far side of the school. Two hundred yards across the dark field I saw the silhouette of a playground, backlit by the traffic lights on Ross Road. Dim, fluorescent lights were placed sparsely across the school, giving it an underwater look, and a chilly breeze whisked over the wet grass. From across the field chains clanged forlornly against the tetherball poles. I felt the ghost.
"Let's just throw our stainbombs and get out of here," I said, shivering.
TayTay glanced around, stepping closer to me. "For real."
"No way." Max looked at me from under his eyebrows. "Before we can throw a single stainbomb we're going on a ghost hunt. Anything else would be pussy."
For thirty minutes we snuck around the school, speaking rarely and only in a whisper. First we paced the soccer field, then the baseball field. We circled the school twice, looking in every window and behind every wall. At the playground we went down the slides and crawled through the tubes. Finally we stopped by the teacher's parking lot.
"OK," Max said, his normal voice sounding very loud after so much whispering. "I think I'll stainbomb the—"
"Oh shit," TayTay mouthed. "Oh shit." Mouth open, hands limp, his stainbomb bounced onto the concrete.
When I looked where TayTay was looking I felt my spine go cold. "Oh my god."
"Get behind the bushes!" Max hissed.
We scrambled behind the bushes, lying on our stomachs in the gravel.
At the other end of the school yard a figure wound its way through the tetherball courts. In the darkness it was darker. It moved slowly, arms out and to the side, torn fabric dangling from its wrists, black tuxedo tails hanging from its waist. It's lower face was long and deformed. Barefoot, hulking, it turned to face us.
"Jesus Christ that's creepy." Max was whispering again.
I couldn't blink. "Do you think it sees us?"
TayTay slid lower in the gravel. "I don't know but I wanna get the fuck out of here."
We lay there like that, barely breathing, until the figure disappeared.
I rubbed my eyes. "Where did it go?"
"Over toward the playground," Max said.
"Nah," TayTay said. "I saw it in the trees by the soccer field."
"This is some spooky shit," TayTay said, wiping his forehead. "Think that was real?"
"Of course it was real." Max propped himself up higher on his elbows. "We saw it. It's not a ghost, though. Probably just a crazy old man who escaped from the attic."
I shook my head. "No, Max. That was a ghost. I could feel it."
"What makes you the ghost expert?" Max was scowling.
Looking away I said, "I just know about ghosts, all right?"
TayTay hopped up. "Ghost or not, I'm gonna stainbomb the first thing I see and get the hell out."
As we strode past the cafeteria, TayTay tossed his stainbomb at the main walkway and drawled, "Who needs lopsided biddies?"
"Perfect hit," I said. "I'm saving mine for the principal's office."
"Very appropriate," Max said. "And I'll stainbomb his crony caretaker. It's on the way."
Max, TayTay, and I tiptoed along the sidewalk outside the caretaker's apartment. A low, C-shaped brick wall separated the apartment from the rest of the school. Through the cracks in the caretaker's blinds I saw orange light, moving shadows. Music, muffled by the thick walls, leaked out. It was moody, with high pianos over a deep voice. Above the door was a dim, aquatic light.
Max yelled, "To the end of imperial pawns," and threw his stainbomb at the caretaker's door. In the still night the beer bottle erupted. Glass rained down on the concrete as the cap spun off down the sidewalk. Fluid, viscous and shiny, seeped down the caretaker's door.
And then the door swung open and the ghost lurched out.
Instead of running the three of us were paralyzed. My stomach dropped. The singer completed the phrase, "Who killed Mr. Moonlight?" and then the song abruptly stopped.
Standing in the doorway in a ragged tuxedo, the ghost stared at us, his pockmarked skin a mask of pure fury outlined by a thick beard.
I had to piss, bad. Beside me Max was gasping. I heard TayTay chattering, "itsaghost itsaghost itsaghost."
"Ghost?" it shouted. "What kind of stank ass cocktail did you just throw at my door?"
He was the caretaker.
The caretaker held my stainbomb with two fingers. "And where was this one going?"
"Not your place," I said.
"Sure."
"For real," TayTay offered. "That one's for the principal's office."
His nose curling up in disgust, the caretaker shook the stainbomb. "What in hell is in this?"
My mouth went bone-dry. "It's, uh, it's hamburger. Raw."
TayTay stifled a laugh and looked down, his eyes wide.
"Well I can see that," the caretaker said. "Maybe I should call Hazmat, huh? Maybe this thing's gonna come to life?"
"Hazmat: cool band name," Max whispered to himself.
"Oh I like names, too." The caretaker pointed at me. "First and last," he barked. "You first." Pen in hand, he furrowed his brow and stared at his clipboard.
"Kyle Sanford." I itched my ear.
TayTay coughed dryly and muttered, "Randolfo Tagolos." Despite being his real name I'd never heard it pronounced.
"Mick Eubanks," Max said evenly. Shocked at his skillful lie, I glanced over at him.
Without moving his pen the caretaker looked up. "Your real name, dickhead."
"Mick Eu—Eubanks," he said.
The caretaker threw the pen at Max's chest. "If you can pick that up, dust it off, and tell me your real goddam name in less than nine seconds I'll hold off on calling the police until I get a better chance of checking out the mess you made."
Max swallowed and turned his feet in. "Maxwell Stephenson." Then he picked up the pencil, dusted it off, and offered it back to the caretaker.
"And you," the caretaker said to TayTay. "You think looking like an Ewok and giving me that ahh-shucks face is gonna somehow hide the fact you mumbled some Filipino sounding name I have no hope of spelling?"
"Dang," TayTay said. "How'd you, like, know I was Filipino?"
"I look white to you?" the caretaker said. "I'm Chicano on my dad's side, Filipino on my mom's. Pinoy pride for days, but spell your island ass name."
Grinning, TayTay spelled his name. "Chicano and Filipino? Hot mix. Got any sisters?"
The caretaker's face was totally serious while he wrote our names. Narrowing his eyes at me, he said, "What's your gimmick? Mr. Straight Arrow, huh? Polite, shy, never tell a lie?"
I shrugged, already blushing, and did my best Jack Nicholson voice. "I'm the criminal genius of this outfit."
The caretaker yawned. "Is that a dime store Nicholson, or Pauly Shore with asthma? I can't tell. I can tell you this, though. Get a new gang."
Ears burning, I put my hands in my pockets. "I was just trying to lighten things up. We're busted anyway."
"It's all just a big joke to you, isn't it?" The caretaker crossed his arms. "If pranks and hyjinxs don't work, try sarcasm, huh?"
None of us said anything.
The caretaker started massaging his nose bridge. "Oh I get it. Believe me I get it. You just don't give a shit. Not if you break something that cost hours of someone's life to buy. Not if you ruin someone's day by making them clean up a mess they didn't make."
None of us said anything.
"Come with me," the caretaker said, backing up toward the door of his apartment.
None of us moved.
"Come here," the caretaker snapped. "Sit on the wall." He pointed at the brick wall around his apartment. "All three of you."
After looking at Max and TayTay for a few seconds, we all walked over to the wall and sat down.
The caretaker stood on the sidewalk about five feet in front of us, feet wide apart. His hands, clasped at his belly, held the stainbomb, and the clipboard was tucked under one arm.
"I'm gonna let you in on something." He squeezed the stainbomb absentmindedly. "Everything is real."
None of us said anything.
Tilting his chin back, the caretaker said, "Yeah, I know what it's like being thirteen. Everything feels like a game. No consequences. Just trying things on. But listen," he said, squeezing the stainbomb so hard I thought it was going to pop. "This is the real thing. Everything you do now will echo with you when you're twenty, thirty, shit, seventy. You know what I'm saying? Just because you don't take life serious doesn't mean life isn't serious."
For several seconds he stared at each of us.
I swallowed. When the caretaker met my eyes I looked down and nodded.
The caretaker shifted his weight.
TayTay coughed.
Max cleared his throat.
"I've seen consequences like no man's business," the caretaker said, his voice softer. "And now I'm supposed to sick them on you."
None of us said anything.
"When I see you guys, I see myself at your age." The caretaker lowered his hands and stared off over the front parking lot. "See things I wish I did different. Doesn't seem so long ago. Really doesn't."
Sighing, the caretaker gestured at his apartment. "So you came here to see the ghost, huh?"
Grinning nervously, TayTay shook his head. "Nah, that's cool."
"I mean," Max said, sitting up straight. "It's not like we really believed it."
The caretaker threw his head back, his laugh rich and loud. "Oh but you can't say you came all the way to Arollo Vista without seeing the ghost's lair!"
The caretaker's apartment was cluttered with low ceilings. A funky antique lamp with long, sinuous arms lit the room, its orange bulbs giving the room a funhouse quality. The stereo, old and massive, was made up of mismatched components. In the narrow kitchen I could see dirty dishes, open cans of store-brand tomato soup, and a pot on the stove. If the air wasn't so thick with incense I might've been able to smell the soup. The apartment wasn't scary, just sad.
Max, TayTay, and I were sitting on a dingy cloth couch. About forty five degrees to our left and closest to the door, the caretaker sat in a rose-colored Lazy Boy stuck permanently in recline.
"Which of you assholes H-bombed my door?" he said, reaching forward to set the clipboard on the coffee table.
Max and TayTay both fidgeted with their hands. Eventually Max couldn't fight his smile, saying, "What's up with the raggedy-ass tuxedo?"
"Listen," the caretaker said, staring at Max. "You know how long it's gonna take to clean that goopy eggy shit you just plastered all over my door? Not to mention the broken glass? And I'm betting," he said, narrowing his eyes at TayTay, "you weren't always empty-handed, huh. Where'd you throw yours? The gym doors? The basketball court?"
TayTay giggled. "Dude, you so had us thinking you were like the ghost of Arollo Vista."
"I guess I'm not surprised that rumor's still going around," the caretaker said, scratching his chest. "You know how many ding dong ditchers I get? It's annoying as fuck. But what you guys did, with that half-assed Molotov cocktail, takes the prize. That's not funny. That's a misdemeanor. Listen, I've been to jail, and it's something you want to stay real far away from."
"Why not just call the pigs and get it over with?" Max said.
"For real," TayTay said. "I dealt with cops before. Reason I moved out here's cause I set off two M-80's in the school bathroom, back in LA."
"And here you are doing the same pranks." The caretaker shook his head. "Oh I'm gonna call the cops. Just not sure what I'll tell 'em yet. Let me chew on it for a minute. Meantime, I'm gonna tell you guys how I got here, story of my life and all that shit. And when your parents are cussing at you later tonight, I want you to think about it, all right?"
The three of us nodded and mumbled.
Settling in his chair, the caretaker folded his hands over his stomach and began. "Some people say I'm a ghost, most people say I'm a caretaker. But before I was either one of those things I was a man named David. Hopefully I still am.
"Before you talk any more shit about this tuxedo you ought to know it got me through senior prom, local fame, and jail time. They were the best three years of my life and if I'm a ghost, they're the reason.
"In high school I wasn't exactly popular. Had a few tight friends, mostly punks like you guys. Had this no-talent band. Senior year I got my first real girlfriend. Yeah, I'd dated a few chicks before that. Banged random girls at parties. But none of it added up to anything. You guys are what, thirteen? See, you're probably thinking, hey, I'd be happy just to see some tits, so why's a few nameless fucks a year not good enough? I thought that, too. Until I met Mona.
"She taught me all the good shit: how to love, how to die. If you're into dark haired girls with personalities to match, she'd be your goddess. If you're not, work on it. Picture wild black hair with a streak of purple. Picture skin like milk only the veins don't show through. Her eyes were far apart, she bit her nails till they bled. Listen to her talk and you'd swear she'd gone to boarding school but really she'd just lip-synced to all these old movies. Speaking like the starlets. Practicing in front of the mirror when her parents were asleep. A girl like that, you would've thought she was into poetry and flowers and shit, huh? Nope, not Mona. When I met her she was sleeping through second year calculus. Read Schopenhauer for kicks. Made these 3D collages out of cigar boxes and old mementos and disaster headlines and shit. So yeah, she had a dark side for days but her heart was good. Not pure, but close enough, and anyways, she soon convinced me purity's overrated. Mona wasn't a rich girl but her family was a hell of a lot better off than mine. It made things all stressful with her parents, her dad especially. She was a fighter, though, in her own quiet way. Before you die, each of you guys, make a point of dating a quiet girl, all right? No one else is as loyal. And they're the only ones really know how to communicate. Once they open up you'll understand what it's all about. Because each soul is a universe. You can believe that now and save yourself trouble. Or you can believe it too late and never really be whole. With Mona I sensed it early but believed it late, and that's how she taught me her final lesson.
"You see me now, you're probably thinking, David, what the hell was she, a girl like Mona, doing with you? At first I thought that, too. Told her so. But I guess I used to be handsome, before my troubles. People said I looked like a movie star who's name I always forget. Mona said I looked like a barrio aristocrat who'd stumbled into the wrong speakeasy and wound up heart-broken and gin-soaked on the killing room floor. Her own words, wrote that in her second letter to me. Not that looks were very important to her. She just said that to boost me up, you know? What she really liked about me was how I'd just listen. We had this tenderness, would lay on her bed for two hours just holding each other, talking. I never would've believed, before her, I could be next to a girl so long without going out of my mind to bang her. Or that I could find so many things to talk about. But suddenly everything matters. When someone really listens, crap about your day isn't so trivial. The best part, though, is talking about the deep shit. How sometimes you cry when you're alone, or that time your best friend betrayed you, or when you played doctor with your cousin. Sometimes it's ugly, but ugly's in the universe, too. Through all that I never judged her. Yeah, at first it was cause I thought she was better than me. But before long it was cause I loved her. Loved her in a way that scared me, in a way I couldn't tell my friends. Shit, I see you guys looking down all sheepish, thinking 'gross, I'll never fall in love'. But until you do you're only half alive. Me and Mona had the kind of love makes reasons irrelevant.
"We also had the kind of love makes a man wanna wear his prom tux for three years. I won't get into how good prom was, or the decorations, or the pictures and shit, cause honestly, we fought half the time. You see, we'd been together four months and I was all nervous about after the dance. Hey. Get those goofy smiles off your faces, you guys. We'd been having sex for a month already. What I was nervous about was telling Mona I loved her. Cause to me, that was the last card I held, and after that my pride'd go out the window. That's never easy to do, especially the first time. So anyway the prom's going so bad she rushes to the pay phones to call her sister for a ride home and I'm sulking by the punch bowl, ignoring her. But suddenly I know if I don't tell her then, I never will. So I run over there and tell Mona I love her just as she's saying 'hi' to her sister. Mona puts her hand over her heart, drops the phone, and just looks at me. And then kisses me so hard I taste blood. You might laugh, but we didn't have sex that night. Instead we just laid on the comforter in that cheap motel room fully dressed, talking until sunrise. Of course later that morning the sex was unreal. And on the way home I told Mona I'd wear that tux for always.
"Always turned out to be three years. After high school we got an apartment together near the college. She was going for a double major in math and fine arts. But me, I got a job fixing buses at my cousin Cristobol's garage. Wore the tux under a monkeysuit. In my free-time I focused on my band, doing gigs twice a month at underground clubs. Warehouse district shit. I was the rhythm guitarist but when the lead singer quit I filled in for him. Just temporary, I thought. Pretty soon, though, everyone was saying how I was way better than him. And they loved the tux, thought it was a gimmick. Mona said I transcended the heavy metal genre and pointed toward a more dynamic and melodic sound. That's also a quote, one of her last letters. And when the shows started selling out and guys in suits sometimes came around, it felt like everything was taking off. I quit the garage. Shit, the money wasn't even as much as I made fixing buses but it was livable. I could taste the future it was so close. Gigging twice a week, working on a demo. But in the downtime, Mona being in class or the library all the time, the lows got real mean. I needed something to get through it.
"That's when Zack, our lead guitarist, told me how he'd been using junk. That same afternoon we shot up together. Imagine being back in the womb, imagine being a drop of water in the ocean. Pleasure like that makes everything else shabby. Everything. Even your one true love. Of course I had to have more. I hid it from her for about a two weeks, sleeping at different times, not showering with her. One afternoon, though, she must've suspected. It was a windy Thursday, late March. I'll never forget how the air felt. She wasn't supposed to be back until after dark. I'd gone for a walk, sober, to get ideas for a new song. Just left everything on the kitchen table. The needle, the junk. Figured I'd have a hit when I got back, as a reward. So for like three hours I walk all around Portland, taking it all in, watching the sun get lower in the sky. But as nice as the day is I just feel dull and puffy, like nothing gets through. By the time I get home, just before sunset, I'm craving a hit so bad I could tear the door open. I unlock it and run to the kitchen. First thing I notice is my gear is missing. Second thing I notice is Mona's backpack and car keys on the counter. All I can figure is she cut class to check on me. I scream her name, furious cause I think she threw out my junk. But when I get to the bathroom I see she didn't throw it out at all. She used it. All of it. She's on the bathroom floor, dead, the needle still in her arm. And you know the fucking worst part? I'm more upset about her using all my junk than about her being dead.
"That night I wore the tuxedo to jail. Junk sickness is bad, overpowering, but the loss I felt cut through it like fog lights. It's a way you don't ever want to feel. If there was something else to wear I would've taken the tuxedo off right then. Cause I felt like the worst kind of traitor. And I had this thought, then, that the damage I'd done couldn't ever be forgiven. Even if her friends and parents and sisters forgave me, how could I forgive myself?
"When my mom posts bail the next day I tell her to leave me, let me pay for my sins. But she won't. So at her house that night I bag my tuxedo up and take a forty five minute shower, crying the whole time. Three months later the case's dropped on a technicality. For taking my true love's life I only spent one night in jail. But I been doing my time ever since.
"Don't think I smiled at all for that first year. And for eleven years after that I just floated. Never sung again. Got black-out drunk every weekend. Shit jobs in towns you never heard of. Single for months or years. And when I did date women it just felt hollow. Nothing between us. Maybe I just had nothing to give, you know? So when my uncle told me about this job opening up as a caretaker here at Arollo Vista I thought, why the hell not?
"It's not so bad being a caretaker. Quiet. Lot of time to myself. Solitude can purify you. Lets you know who you really are, what really matters. And I know I'll always love Mona. Nights like tonight, when I can remember her so well, when the badness seems behind me, I love her more than ever. That's when I put the tuxedo back on. It's good to walk in it, just remembering. Sometimes she's so close I think I can touch her. It's like she's right there, walking with me. And I know one day she'll forgive me so I can forgive myself."
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