Christie Road

"Just get the fuck off my back!!" bellowed the furious young man, dragging his fingers through his spiky blue hair. He charged down the hall toward his room, leaving his bewildered mother standing behind him in the living room, his crumpled report card in her hands. She winced as she heard the door slam shut, nearly knocking it off its hinges.

Sighing, she turned back to the kitchen and wiped her hands on the frayed dish towel. There was a puddle of root beer in the middle of the floor, errant streaks dripping from the refrigerator and cabinets. She wearily retrieved the mop from the pantry and began swabbing up the sticky liquid, her tired back aching after a full day of waiting tables.
It was far from the first time she'd had to clean up after his explosive temper.

Despite her throbbing headache, she didn't ask him to turn down the thundering stereo he had cranked to near full volume. He and his sister were the last two of her children remaining at home, and she had learned through long experience to choose her battles carefully. But it had come at the expense of her nerves, and more recently, her second marriage.

Andy, her first husband--and truth be told, her only real love--had been much more tolerant of their children's chaotic behavior. He was, himself, a musician, and used to erratic schedules and the steady din of jazz music. As each of them had grown old enough to hold a pair of drumsticks, he had guided their little hands to the toms while he held them in his lap, his foot thumping away at the bass. Their delighted shrieks would always make her laugh as she stood to the side, snapping dozens of pictures of her babies with their adoring father.

Now his recliner sat empty, and the drum kit in the den hadn't been touched in some time. Billie Joe, the sullen occupant of the bedroom down the hall, had instead focused his attention on the baby blue guitar he'd been given just before...

Well, that was a time she'd rather not dwell on. No use reliving all the terrible memories--it was better to think about the happy years they had together with the children. He had been a loving, doting father, making each of them feel as if they were his favorite.

It had been different when she married Stewart, and she supposed she was partly to blame. They weren't his own children, and maybe it wasn't realistic to expect him to treat them as if they were. Still, it had disappointed her how harshly he spoke to them and how annoyed he got over the smallest things. Billie Joe had taken it the hardest, seething with resentment not only over losing Andy, but especially with the overbearing stranger who had dared to try to take his place.

Now Stewart was out of the picture, living somewhere in Oregon with a girl fifteen years Ollie's junior, and she had to say she didn't really miss him at all. But she was living with his legacy every day, the aftermath of the screaming matches and stormy fights that had been a daily routine when he lived under her roof. The dents in the doors and patched holes in the wall were mute witness to the turmoil he had left in his wake.

She sighed again. Why was she always cleaning up someone else's messes?

********************************

"Stupid fuckin' teachers don't know what they're doing. How the hell do they expect to be able to teach us anything when they don't know it themselves?" Billie was grumbling under his breath as he sat cross-legged on his bed, strumming his beloved Blue. The guitar wasn't plugged into an amp, but he enjoyed the way it whispered quietly, lending a soothing backdrop for his swirling, raging thoughts.

He was so tired of the bitching. School was a pointless waste of time, and one that consumed so much precious time that he could have been spending practicing with Mike. What was the point, anyway? He knew he wasn't ever going to be anything but a musician--knew it in his bones, as certainly as he knew his own name. There was nothing else that he could stand getting up every day to do, so why pretend that school was going to do him any good?

Try telling that to his mother. She still clung to the mistaken notion that he might give up his "silly dream," as she had put it, and buckle down to some boring, soul-draining, life-sucking nine-to-five early grave.

Just like she had done.

Okay, maybe it was mean-spirited to say it, but he'd seen her dead eyes when she came home after a particularly rough day, and he knew the physical toll it had taken on her lean, graceful body. She had been beautiful, and to him, she still was. But the spark in her had dimmed, exhaustion sapping her fire and sass, and he knew it was having to cater to all those whiny, complaining customers and keeping her insatiable boss happy that had done it to her.

Not him, though. No way would he play their game and let his mind and talent be wasted so some greedy bastard could make a few dollars from his sweat and blood. If anybody was going to call the shots, it would be him.

The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, and he felt like a caged animal, sitting in this 12 X 12 box. He stared at the softly glowing numbers that read "4:15...4:16...4:17" Does time move faster on an electric clock, he wondered?

Finally he could take it no more. Thumbing the lock on the window, he shoved the casing up as far as it would go and climbed over the sill, lowering himself as far as he could before dropping to the ground. His feet took the distance between the house and the woods quickly, and as the cool darkness closed around him he felt the tension begin to ebb slowly from his body.

Up ahead, the thinning trees gave way to a swath of gravel, and dividing the rough surface lay two shining steel rails, crossed every few feet with massive dark wooden ties, like stitches holding together a wound in the earth. Billie slowed as he emerged from the woods, and walked tightrope fashion down the rail for a time before squatting down to sit on one of them. Pulling a crushed pack of cigarettes from his rolled-up tee shirt sleeve, he lit one and took a long, deep drag. The smoke trailed from his lips lazily, and he rested his arms on his knees as he squinted toward the reddening western sky.

Sometimes alone was better.

Voices were drifting through the trees, one slightly nasal and decidedly animated, the other lower in timbre and quite a bit mellower. There was laughter, but Billie couldn't make out the words they exchanged.

He reached down and stubbed out the cigarette between the rocks. Rising to his feet, he dusted the seat of his pegged jeans and headed toward the sound of the voices.

"Hey, dickheads," he called, "where you been? Puttin' it to your mom again?"

The shorter of the two boys that came tromping through the weeds took a run at him, grabbing him around the neck in a chokehold and rubbing the top of his head with his knuckles.

"Noogies to you, BJ--it was your mom we were with, and she said to tell you it was the best thing she'd ever had!" he snorted, trying to dodge Billie's slaps.

The other boy, taller and solemn-faced, even when he was laughing, shook his head. "Hey, man, I had no part of that. Your mom's way too scary for me!" he chuckled.

"To hell with both of you--I've had your sisters, and they can't hold a candle to my mom!" He stopped, realizing how it sounded. "I mean--aw, fuck it!" he growled. "Where's the beer?"

Mike, the quiet one, lifted his backpack from his shoulders and lowered it to the ground. He unzipped the main compartment, and pulled out three cans, passing one to each of the other boys. "Tre, no bitching. It's Rolling Rock because I bought it, and I like Rolling Rock. If you don't, then you buy next time."

"It's piss, but I'll drink it," Tre said, popping the top with a swishing sound. He upended the can, drained it in one long chug, and finished by crushing the can against his forehead and emitting a loud belch.

"Jesus, man, can't you do any better than that?" Billie chided. Cocking his head back, he opened his mouth and let rip an ear-splitting burp that sent both the other boys into spasms of laughter.

"Damn, Billie, for a little guy, you make a hell of a noise!" Mike said. "So, what are you doing out here so early?"

The laughter faded quickly as Billie's face grew grim. "Fuckin' report cards," he muttered between his teeth. Mike and Tre exchanged glances--this wasn't a good topic for them, and they knew from long experience that he was apt to get wound up and spend valuable party time ranting if they didn't head it off quickly.

"Yeah, well, mine sucked too, so don't feel bad," Tre offered. "Besides, we've got a party lined up to play tomorrow night, if we can get our act together in time."

Billie's eyebrows raised, forgetting his anger for the moment. "Where is it?" he asked.

"Some girl's house out in Pinole. She's having a birthday party and wants us to play," Mike added. "Do you know Lani?"

His eyes searched the sky as he thought. "Hmmm...Lani Freeman? That blond girl that always sits over by herself at lunch, reading a book?"

"Yeah," Tre answered, opening another beer. "That's her. I don't know how many people will be there, but hey, it's a paying gig!"

"How much?" Billie asked, not really caring.

"Fifty bucks, plus food and beer," Tre said, wiping his mouth. "For me, that's worth more than the money."

"Jesus, Tre, what's more important--getting drunk again or getting this band off the ground so we can get the hell out of this town?" Billie huffed, clearly exasperated.

Tre looked at him blankly. "But drinking is so much fun!"

Mike slapped him on the side of the head. "We should have left you locked in that dumpster we found you in, you douchebag!"

While the sun slowly sank, the friends stood talking about the party, planning their set list and discussing the equipment they'd need to bring. They emptied Mike's backpack, and then refilled it with the empty cans, not wanting to leave a mess in the one place they could call refuge. Slowly they trudged toward the small crossing where the little road leading into Rodeo proper intersected with the tracks. It led to Cinelli's Pizza, where they often went to ruin their suppers with baskets of free breadsticks and a slice of pepperoni each.

They couldn't have known that another pair of eyes, hidden among the trees, was watching them as they disappeared.