The Last Good Thing About This Part of Town

The kitchen was hot and crowded, and Patrick was not interested in partaking of the keg stand challenge with Pete. However, when he wandered back into the living room and saw his best friend and the girl he wanted to be more than friendly with trading spit and rubbing against each other on the dance floor, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to vomit or run into the kitchen and let Pete funnel the alcohol into his mouth until that image was out of his brain. He chose to turn around and march back into the cramped, noisy kitchen where Pete and a dozen other guys were chanting and counting for their friend who was raised over the keg, his feet up in the air, as Pete and Chris’s friend, Brian, pumped beer into him. Patrick did not know why this particular party game was fun, but he did want the exorbitant amounts of alcohol associated with it.

“Back so soon, Trick?” Pete’s eyes lit up as his young friend joined him again, but his smile quickly faded when he saw the frown on Patrick’s face and the hard set of his jaw.

“Fill me up, Pete,” Patrick pulled a red cup off the stack on the counter and held it out to his friend. Pete’s brow wrinkled, his eyes darting from Patrick’s face to the cup in his hand then back again, but he filled the cup from a second keg near the counter. The teenager immediately threw back the alcohol, grimacing at the vile taste of the amber liquid, and drained nearly half the beer in one gulp. Pete stared at the underaged boy, unsure whether to be concerned for Patrick or to just let him do what he wanted because Pete had spent the better part of the year trying to get him to loosen up sometimes. Now here he was, gulping beer like a champ and holding the cup out for Pete to refill, which he did.

“Take it easy, ok, buddy?” Pete patted his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t need you to get alcohol poisoning or something tonight. Your mom would kill us all.”

“Who cares?” Patrick was already slurring his words as he tipped his cup back again but only took a small swig this time, still screwing up his face as he forced himself to swallow the bitter alcohol. “She’s making out with Joe and the band is falling apart so I might as well just give it all up now. Surrender to the fact that I’ll be stuck in his hell hole living with cats and playing pop covers at the bowling alley on the weekends.”

“Yeah, ok, come on, Trick,” Pete grabbed the strap of Patrick’s overalls and pulled him out the sliding glass door onto the backyard deck. The house lights over the deck illuminated the small, fenced-in yard. There was no one around to hear the conversation Pete and Patrick were about to have. Pete pushed the shorter boy against the siding of the house so there was something solid to support him when the alcohol inevitably caught up with him. Patrick’s back hit the wall harder than intended but maybe it would knock some sense into him. “What is your deal, man? You’re not making any sense right now, and you’re definitely not acting like yourself.”

“She’s in there….dancing with Joe. I saw them kissing. Wh-what about me? Why doesn’t she like m-me? Why does Joe always get the fucking girl!” Patrick stuttered, his voice cutting through the quiet night and sounding too loud.

“Are you talking about Julianna?” Pete clarified.

“Yeah. I thought she was into me. She kissed me that one night, and now she’s all over Joe? Slut!” Patrick wailed drunkenly.

Pete’s hand came up to cover the teenager’s mouth as he sternly shushed his officially drunk friend, but Patrick fought against his confinement, turning his head and pushing Pete’s hand away, glaring, before taking another long drink from his beer cup.

“First of all, I don’t think you actually mean that last part. And I’m not going to even try to reason with you right now, Trick. You are drunk and obviously mentally impaired.”

“No, Pete, I’m fine!” Patrick protested loudly, rolling his eyes, but he was wobbly on his feet and holding a now-empty cup. “I need more.”

“I don’t think so, buddy. Two beers in you and you’re plastered. I should’ve known your tiny body couldn’t handle much alcohol, ya lightweight.”

“I’ve never had beer before,” Patrick frowned down into his cup, eyes glazing over and cheeks flushing as the alcohol warmed his insides. “It’s not good, Pete. It’s gross. I don’t like it. Why do you drink it?”

“To be honest, sometimes I don’t know, little dude,” Pete reached out and grabbed the cap off Patrick’s head. The boy’s sweaty hair fell around his ears and stuck to his forehead. “But you gotta warn me next time you convince me to let you do something destructive. I’m all about corrupting you, but not at the expense of our friendship. I can’t let you go home like this, Trick.”

“S’okay,” Patrick mumbled to the ground, “I sleep with you, Pete.” He looked up at his friend through half-lidded eyes and sagged back against the wall, unable to support his own weight anymore.

Pete chuckled softly and ran his hand across Patrick’s forehead to move the thin blonde hair out of his face, “Not with me, buddy, but you can crash at Andy’s and my apartment.”

Just then, the glass door slid open and Joe and Julianna appeared at Pete’s side. Patrick’s frown deepened, his baby face lined with as much anger as his drunk self could muster.

“No! I don’t wanna see you. Go away,” Patrick vehemently pointed at his peers. He did not like how loud his voice sounded in the still, cool night air, and his friends were looking at him like he was a sight they had never seen before.

“What the hell did you do to him, Pete?” Joe turned on the older man. Pete held his hands up, palms out.

“It was his choice, man. I’m not his mother.”

“Pete’s a good friend,” Patrick slurred. “Not like you and you.” He shook his index finger in his friend’s faces and shrugged off the hand that Julianna had placed on his shoulder.

“What are you talking about, Trick?” Julianna squinted her eyes at him, confused. “How much have you had?”

“I saw you—,” Patrick began, but Pete quickly covered his mouth again.

“Nope, we talked about this, little dude. Shhhh.”

Julianna and Joe looked at each other, probably thinking their friends had gone off the deep end, then faced Pete again.

“What is he talking about?” Joe asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Pete brushed it off, “he’s drunk and crazy. I’m gonna take him to my apartment. You’re invited to crash there too, if you want. Let Andy know I’m leaving, and Joe, if you could call Mrs. Stumph and tell her some half truth about her son so she doesn’t worry about him all night, that would be great.” He wrapped an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and slowly lead him around to the front of the house where Pete’s car was parked in the street near the short driveway.

“Why are we leaving?” Patrick’s brow wrinkled as he stumbled alongside Pete. When they reached the car, Pete opened the passenger side door and helped his friend inside, guiding Patrick’s head to make sure he didn’t hit it on the car. “Where are we going?” Patrick asked sleepily when Pete got in the driver’s seat and closed the car door.

“We’re going home, little dude,” Pete answered patiently, starting the car and pulling out into the street.

“No, I can’t go home, Pete,” Patrick protested loudly. He wasn’t drunk enough to not think about what his mother would do to him if she saw him stumbling into the house in the middle of the night.

“Yeah, I know, buddy, I’m taking you to my home.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Patrick passed out against the window during the ten minute drive to Pete and Andy’s apartment in Wilmette. Pete shook him awake, much to Patrick’s drunken chagrin, to walk into the building and up to their small apartment on the second floor. Pete’s English Bulldog, Hemingway, greeted them excitedly at the door, jumping up on Patrick’s legs and licking at his hands, but his inebriated state made him stumble and fall against Pete.

“Down, boy,” Pete gently swatted at his big dog, bracing himself against Patrick’s dead weight to prevent both of them from tumbling to the floor.

“Hey, Hemmy!” Patrick reached for the stocky dog and almost took a face dive to the floor, but Pete had one arm around his waist and the other crossed over Patrick’s chest to hold him up. The bass player was surprisingly strong for a little guy.

“Okay, Mario, let’s just get you to the couch,” Pete tapped his palm against the teenager’s chest and all but dragged him to the big, soft, black canvas couch in the main room of the apartment. Hemingway followed at his owner’s heels, barking happily, hoping their company would be willing to play. “Quiet, Hemingway, he’s not here to see you.” Pete deposited Patrick on the couch and bent down to show some love to his dog, briefly scratching behind the dog’s ears and down his neck. Hemingway wagged his butt, excited to be getting attention from his owner, and licked at Pete’s hand and face. Pete laughed when his dog’s wide, pink tongue swept across his nose and cheek, then he straightened back up and turned to Patrick again.

The teenager was curled up on his side with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Pete pulled the afghan his mother had made as a housewarming gift when he moved out off the back of the couch and draped it over Patrick’s legs, then tapped his own thigh, indicating for Hemingway to follow him into the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were still in the sink and there was a pile of cleaned plates and silverware sitting on the counter. Pete sighed and rolled his eyes at Andy’s half-assed effort to be domestic. The guy was by no means lazy, but it was like pulling teeth to get him to help out with the day-to-day cleaning and maintenance of the apartment. Not that Pete was a neat freak or a perfectionist, but he did like things to be in their rightful place or tidy at the very least.

Pete grabbed Hemingway’s water bowl from the kitchen floor and filled it. He checked to make sure the dog had enough food before he tiptoed back through the main room, past Patrick, and quietly shut the door to his own bedroom. He quickly changed out of his Yoshi costume and pulled on sweatpants and an old, soft Iron Maiden T-shirt, tossing the sweaty costume into the dirty clothes basket in his closet. He flopped onto his bed and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. The alarm clock on the nightstand near his head said it was a little past midnight, but Pete was not tired at all. In fact, he was kind of perturbed at Patrick for making him leave the party early, effectively cutting short Pete’s plan to get a little drunk and maybe hook up with the large-breasted girl dressed as a cute Marilyn Munster he had seen near the front of the stage during their set. He noticed her because she had not been trying to draw attention to herself or force him to notice her; she had just been dancing and singing along and generally having a good time. She had looked vaguely familiar too, like maybe he recognized her from a past Arma Angelus show or something, but he never was quite able to connect the dots. Anyway, that dream was dashed because Patrick apparently could not hold his liquor and his tongue at the same time. Whatever was going on between Joe and Julianna was not worth Patrick running his drunk mouth and pushing a wedge even further between the fragile relationships they had with each other.

Andy already seemed to have one foot out the door as far as the band was concerned because he was seriously considering going to college. Joe just could not figure out what he wanted to do in life, not that he needed to have it all planned out at sixteen. Although, Pete did not have much room to judge because he was twenty-one and still unsure of what he wanted out of life, except that he knew he wanted to make music.

He heard a light scratching at the bedroom door; dog nails clicking against the wood as Hemingway begged to be let in. Rolling off the bed, Pete landed on his feet and opened the door for his dog, who immediately bounded into the room and jumped up onto the bed. Pete chuckled softly and shook his head at the dog’s presumptuous nature. Hemingway just panted, his big tongue lolling out the side of his chops, and watched his owner as if to say ‘This is my bed but I guess you can lay here, too. You’re gonna pet me, right?’ Pete settled onto his bed again and Hemingway laid his head and one paw across his owner’s legs.

“Well, you look content, Hemmy,” Pete reached down to lightly scratch behind the dog’s ears. “I wish I felt as content as you look. I just kind of feel lost, like I’m trying to hold onto a dream that isn’t meant to be, but I don’t know what else to do.” Hemingway licked his human’s hand, grateful for the attention. Pete sighed. “Oh, who am I kidding? You’re a dog. You don’t understand what I’m saying. As long as you’re fed and given attention you’re content. I envy you sometimes, boy.”

Pete grabbed a pen and his lyric notebook off the nightstand, opening it up to a fresh page, and began to write whatever came to his mind. He was not trying to write a cohesive set of lyrics or a song. He just needed to release some pent-up emotions that he wasn’t even sure he could name, so he wrote and hoped the metaphors and words coming out of his head would translate into some kind of meaning. Maybe the answers to his questions about life and God and destiny would somehow be found in the jumble of phrases, but he was not holding his breath.

After Pete took Patrick home, Joe and Julianna found Andy in the corner of the living room with a tall blonde girl draped across his lap. He was visibly annoyed that his friends were interrupting his time with his lady friend, but the girl just ignored them and fiddled with her phone while Joe explained to Andy where Pete and Patrick were. Julianna took Joe’s phone and went outside where it was quieter to call Patrick’s mom and let her know where her youngest son was, leaving out the fact, of course, that he was intoxicated. Mrs. Stumph seemed slightly concerned but that was probably normal for protective mothers who were actually involved in their kid’s lives.

“Just make sure he gets home by tomorrow afternoon—or today, I suppose,” Mrs. Stumph said kindly over the phone. “We’re celebrating his sister’s birthday in the evening.”

“Okay, Mrs. Stumph, I will,” Julianna responded.

“Thanks for calling, sweetie. You have a good night now, and take care of my son.”

“We will, Mrs. Stumph. See you tomorrow….or today, I guess,” Julianna flipped the phone closed and went back inside. Joe was still engaged in conversation with Andy and his bored-looking hookup.

“What did she say?” Joe asked, watching Julianna walk back over to him and slip the phone into the front pocket of his overalls.

“She’s fine with it,” Julianna shrugged. “He needs to be home in time to get cleaned up for his sister’s birthday party. Of course, I didn’t tell her her son was not coming home tonight because he is drunk.”

“He’ll be sober in a couple hours and sleep off the hangover,” Andy reasoned. “He’ll be fine. Now please leave.” The drummer inclined his head toward the girl in his lap and his friends got the hint. “Don’t worry about taking me home. I’ll find a ride or a place to crash.”

Joe entwined his fingers with Julianna’s and lead her onto the dance floor again. He did not need to be told twice what Andy’s intentions with his lady friend were, and maybe Joe had a few plans of his own. The song coming through the speakers was a slow one, another classic ‘80s power ballad, so Joe grinned and pulled Julianna close, their bodies swaying to the music.

“So what do you think got into Patrick?” Julianna asked, her large brown eyes shining up at Joe, but her dark brows were pulled together in a crease above her nose.

“Alcohol, obviously,” Joe joked, but she only gave him a small smile. He reached up with his right hand and smoothed the rough pad of his thumb over the wrinkle between her eyes, hoping to ease the physical signs of her worry even if he could not totally take away her concern. “I don’t know, babe. I’ve known that guy a long time, but I’ve never known him to be a blatant rule breaker. Maybe Pete finally wore down his resolve or he got stressed over the unknown future of the band. I don’t know.” Joe’s hand trailed to the back of her neck where his fingers played with the ends of her thick, dark hair, twirling the silky strands around his fingertips then letting it fall through his palm to flow down her back again. He liked the contrast of her soft hair against his calloused guitarist fingers, and the longer he played with it the more relaxed she became in his arms.

“Do you think he saw us making out earlier?”

“So what if he did?” Joe shrugged and studied her face. “Would it bother you if he did?”

She did not answer immediately, but Joe didn’t necessarily take that as a bad sign or an indication that she was hung up on his best friend. He was not a blind fool. He knew Patrick and Julianna had a mutual attraction or whatever right from the start, but nothing had become of it in the month that they had known each other. And if either of them were as into each other as they originally thought, Joe figured they had plenty of opportunities to make something more of it. But they never did. Patrick and Julianna, in fact, seemed to be moving in the opposite direction of each other, and after breaking up with Lindsay, Joe finally realized he was attracted to his new friend. He would even admit to himself that she may have played a part in the dissolving of his relationship with Lindsay.

Julianna shook her head then laid her cheek against his heart, “No.” Her answer was quiet and succinct; no explanation or drawn out reason. But Joe didn’t need that from her. After all, she was here with him, voluntarily dancing and kissing and holding him close. As far as he was concerned, this was the best damn Halloween ever.