Danger Zone.
Just Let Go.
“Doesn’t it feel great to just… let go?” Bert asks, slurring the last few words. I mumbled some garbled gibberish in return. I really wasn’t paying attention, I was light-headed and I was loopy and honestly, I wasn’t sure what was going on. The bright Utah city lights whirled past me in a surreal and distorted cloud. It took me awhile to realize that my head was hanging out of Bert’s dumpy car and we were headed back to his equally dumpy apartment.
Tonight was magical, in more ways than one. I just… let go. I let go of all of my beliefs, all of my worries, all of my morals and found freedom. Freedom was drinking, drinking and drinking some more with some greasy, high school drop out while he traced his bony fingers along your spine until your entire body was frozen over. He whispers in your ear, “That’s a good Branden.”
And I was a good Branden; if good meant totally obeying every command that this sleazebag spit at you.
“Here it is,” Bert smiles crookedly, killing the engine. A wave of memory hit me, and I could recall sitting on his mismatched couch, listening to Jawbreaker and totally binging on crap food that Jepha had brought home from his shift at the 7-11, while Quinn sat on Bert’s lap and attempted to match the guitar chords on his own cream colored one. The simple days… we were all so young, I was maybe 19 at the time. Then the unthinkable happened; we broke out of Utah, and we gained hundreds of fans with each passing day. We had made 2 CD’s together until Bert came back into our bunk area one day and said, “You’re out.”
I glowered at Bert, my teeth grinding furiously inside of my mouth. September 12, 2007. It was practically my band, and I was devoted. Just because I was straightedge was no reason to kick me out. Okay, that wasn’t the definite reason that they kicked me out. They had actually never given me a reason why I was no longer part of The Used. Maybe their heads were too big, or they were sick of me, but I had never missed a beat or a practice. But, whatever, after they had kicked me out, I had gotten the chance to live my dream – joining my favorite band, Rancid.
I guess things have a habit of working out for the best in the end.
“Ah, apartment 10L,” I reply, unlocking my seat belt and doing the same for the door, and I step out just as a gust of autumn air hits my bare face, cooling it from the hell-like depths of Bert’s metal deathtrap. He smiles again, his teeth the color of the sun from the packs and packs of cigarettes he smokes, and mouths something. I eye him oddly, my dark eyebrows knitted together in a fashion that screamed confusion. He ignored my questionable stares and led the way through the revolving doors.
“Let’s walk,” he suggests, opening the emergency exit door that lead to the metal stairwell.
“Up 10 flights of stairs?” I ask, but it comes off more like an agitated groan. He nods and says that he needs the exercise desperately, so he’s been walking upstairs. Not wanting the bridge of friendship to collapse beneath me, I say fine, and follow him. And this is when I realize that I’m really more out of shape than I remembered, and I decide maybe I should take a walk or two around the block around the block from now on. By the time we reach 10L, I’m panting heavily and globules of sweat are racing down my fiery skin. Intense walk, I mumbled, dragging myself over the threshold. I inspect the room, and hell, Bert had really let the place go. Ashtrays and empty cartons of cigarettes littered throughout the room along with food and dirty clothes. In short, it looked like a tornado had blown through there, as my mother most often said about my bedroom when I was younger.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bert says, breaking into my thoughts, as he takes a drag on a cigarette that seemed to appear out of thin air. “And yeah, my mom made me keep my room so pristine when I was younger, the psychopath that she was, and once I got my own place, I just let go.” Not true, I want to say, this place used to be 75% less messy, but I don’t, because it really doesn’t matter.
Justletgojustletgojustletgo. It’s the phrase of the day.
“So,” I say, feeling intensely awkward. Bert kicks me out of the band, and then randomly there’s a message on my answering machine urgently telling me to call him back. So I did, bada bing bada boom, I’m in his shitty apartment, standing, while the filth engulfs my feet. So, he says back, pulling a woven chair across the hardwood floor. The leg of the chair scraping the floor is almost unbearable and I flinch at the sound. Sorry, he laughs softly, then points to the seat, here, sit down, I’ll make coffee.
“Thanks,” and I sit down and twiddle my thumbs and tap my foot and all of those things that you do when you feel alone and nervous… and somewhat, scared. I had this premonition that something would go wrong. A fire, a tornado, anything – I couldn’t quite put my finger on it though. He returns moments later with the steaming mug. Thanks, I mutter, taking a sip and immediately regretting it. It’s salty, I tell him.
“Really?” He asks, feigning surprise. “I’d make some more but I’m all out of coffee grinds,” he takes a sip and mumbles, “Christ, that is salty. Sorry.”
“I can deal, thanks,” I say, sipping at more of the hot, salty liquid. Fast forward 13 minutes and my eyelids feel like rocks and my eyes burn to be opened. My mind tilts and I’m suddenly dizzy and frenzied and but mainly sleepy.
“What’s in this?” I ask, eyes rapidly switching between open and shut. And hell, did they burn. I stifle a yawn, demanding yet again what was in the coffee.
“Gamma-hydroxybutyrate, a popular club drug which makes you euphoric and then sleepy,” He checks his watch, “and you should be out for the next two hours or so.”
“What?” I ask excitedly, heart thudding to the point where I’d think my ribcage just might shatter, not quite understanding what he meant.
“I am going to kill you,” his smile is gentle and deranged as my eyelids drop shut for the final time and I’m out like a light. I could swear I heard him coo “just let go” before I passed out, but it might have just been part of the dream. My dreams are quick, fast-paced and filled with confusing colors and shapes that don’t mean anything. Or maybe, it wasn’t a dream. It didn’t seem dreamlike; it was just a clouded haze in the back of mine that was inescapable. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. What my subconscious was trying to tell me was the least of my worries at the moment.
When I wake, head spinning and body achy, I’m roped to the brown woven chair and the icy barrel of a gun is glued to my temple. How cliché.
“You bastard,” I growl lowly, fidgeting in the seat.
“Branden,” he begins softly, “haven’t you ever been to the movies?”
“Yes,” I tell him slowly, not sure where he was headed with this, “loads of times.”
“Then you should know that you don’t talk back to guy with the gun in his hands.” Another crooked smile, a joker smile, and he’s laughing. Laughing like his threat was some hilarious pun. I chew on my lip furiously, not sure how to answer that.
“But … why?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Because, when we kicked you out, you posted all of your little blogs saying how much of an asshole I was and Bert’s fucked up this and Bert’s fucked up that. You wanna know how many devoted fans we lost because of you, Branden? You wanna know how many kids came up to me after the show asking ‘where’s Branden?’ and ‘why’d you do that to Branden?’? It drove me up a fuckin’ wall.”
“So you’re going to kill me to try and prove that you’re not an asshole?” I ask, fighting another laugh.
“Yup.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yup,” he smiles again, taken out his cell phone. The green glow reads 11:10. I was planning to be back at my house 10 minutes ago. My skin is salty; soaked from the unstoppable tears and sweat. My heart is racing and I’m numb, but I know that it’s all downhill from this point.
“Please,” I beg, swallowing hard, “I’ll do anything, Bert.”
He’s silent for a moment, considering my offer in his head. Before his baby blue eyes lock on mine and he spits, “no.”
And even though I know that I’m locked in here, I still wiggle and struggle likes it’s going out of style. I keep trying and trying and I think of how bad it’s going to hurt.
“I’m only 28,” I whine.
“So?” Bert cackles, “Infants die before they’ve had the chance to live. Be lucky that you’ve lived 28 years.”
“Are you insane?” I ask finally, unable to keep the question inside me much longer. This was just about the stupidest reason for murder, ever. Hands down. Case closed.
“Maybe,” Bert replies, removing the gun from my temple. He blows his hot, sticky breath on it and wipes it along his red, thermal sleeve. “Or maybe not.”
My fingertips are numb and feel like they’re filled with sand. I’m losing circulation. Pins and needles. “Ow,” the words tumble out before I can stop them. See also: word vomit.
“Oh, don’t worry Branden, it’ll hurt worst in-” he stops mid-sentence to check his illuminating cell phone again. “20 seconds.”
I strain to peer at the time and gasp softly.
“You’re killing me at 11:11?”
“Yup, some people wish on 11:11, I get my wishes on 11:11.”
If there wasn’t a gun to my head and I wasn’t sweating bullets and I could feel my arms or fingers, I might, just might, have thought that that was creepily poetic. But since I did have a gun to my head and I was sweating bullets and I couldn’t feel my arms or fingers, I thought it was deranged, and I thought it was sick. And then, at our most excellent moment together, he cocks the gun and whispers, “Or maybe I am an asshole after all.”
Tonight was magical, in more ways than one. I just… let go. I let go of all of my beliefs, all of my worries, all of my morals and found freedom. Freedom was drinking, drinking and drinking some more with some greasy, high school drop out while he traced his bony fingers along your spine until your entire body was frozen over. He whispers in your ear, “That’s a good Branden.”
And I was a good Branden; if good meant totally obeying every command that this sleazebag spit at you.
“Here it is,” Bert smiles crookedly, killing the engine. A wave of memory hit me, and I could recall sitting on his mismatched couch, listening to Jawbreaker and totally binging on crap food that Jepha had brought home from his shift at the 7-11, while Quinn sat on Bert’s lap and attempted to match the guitar chords on his own cream colored one. The simple days… we were all so young, I was maybe 19 at the time. Then the unthinkable happened; we broke out of Utah, and we gained hundreds of fans with each passing day. We had made 2 CD’s together until Bert came back into our bunk area one day and said, “You’re out.”
I glowered at Bert, my teeth grinding furiously inside of my mouth. September 12, 2007. It was practically my band, and I was devoted. Just because I was straightedge was no reason to kick me out. Okay, that wasn’t the definite reason that they kicked me out. They had actually never given me a reason why I was no longer part of The Used. Maybe their heads were too big, or they were sick of me, but I had never missed a beat or a practice. But, whatever, after they had kicked me out, I had gotten the chance to live my dream – joining my favorite band, Rancid.
I guess things have a habit of working out for the best in the end.
“Ah, apartment 10L,” I reply, unlocking my seat belt and doing the same for the door, and I step out just as a gust of autumn air hits my bare face, cooling it from the hell-like depths of Bert’s metal deathtrap. He smiles again, his teeth the color of the sun from the packs and packs of cigarettes he smokes, and mouths something. I eye him oddly, my dark eyebrows knitted together in a fashion that screamed confusion. He ignored my questionable stares and led the way through the revolving doors.
“Let’s walk,” he suggests, opening the emergency exit door that lead to the metal stairwell.
“Up 10 flights of stairs?” I ask, but it comes off more like an agitated groan. He nods and says that he needs the exercise desperately, so he’s been walking upstairs. Not wanting the bridge of friendship to collapse beneath me, I say fine, and follow him. And this is when I realize that I’m really more out of shape than I remembered, and I decide maybe I should take a walk or two around the block around the block from now on. By the time we reach 10L, I’m panting heavily and globules of sweat are racing down my fiery skin. Intense walk, I mumbled, dragging myself over the threshold. I inspect the room, and hell, Bert had really let the place go. Ashtrays and empty cartons of cigarettes littered throughout the room along with food and dirty clothes. In short, it looked like a tornado had blown through there, as my mother most often said about my bedroom when I was younger.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bert says, breaking into my thoughts, as he takes a drag on a cigarette that seemed to appear out of thin air. “And yeah, my mom made me keep my room so pristine when I was younger, the psychopath that she was, and once I got my own place, I just let go.” Not true, I want to say, this place used to be 75% less messy, but I don’t, because it really doesn’t matter.
Justletgojustletgojustletgo. It’s the phrase of the day.
“So,” I say, feeling intensely awkward. Bert kicks me out of the band, and then randomly there’s a message on my answering machine urgently telling me to call him back. So I did, bada bing bada boom, I’m in his shitty apartment, standing, while the filth engulfs my feet. So, he says back, pulling a woven chair across the hardwood floor. The leg of the chair scraping the floor is almost unbearable and I flinch at the sound. Sorry, he laughs softly, then points to the seat, here, sit down, I’ll make coffee.
“Thanks,” and I sit down and twiddle my thumbs and tap my foot and all of those things that you do when you feel alone and nervous… and somewhat, scared. I had this premonition that something would go wrong. A fire, a tornado, anything – I couldn’t quite put my finger on it though. He returns moments later with the steaming mug. Thanks, I mutter, taking a sip and immediately regretting it. It’s salty, I tell him.
“Really?” He asks, feigning surprise. “I’d make some more but I’m all out of coffee grinds,” he takes a sip and mumbles, “Christ, that is salty. Sorry.”
“I can deal, thanks,” I say, sipping at more of the hot, salty liquid. Fast forward 13 minutes and my eyelids feel like rocks and my eyes burn to be opened. My mind tilts and I’m suddenly dizzy and frenzied and but mainly sleepy.
“What’s in this?” I ask, eyes rapidly switching between open and shut. And hell, did they burn. I stifle a yawn, demanding yet again what was in the coffee.
“Gamma-hydroxybutyrate, a popular club drug which makes you euphoric and then sleepy,” He checks his watch, “and you should be out for the next two hours or so.”
“What?” I ask excitedly, heart thudding to the point where I’d think my ribcage just might shatter, not quite understanding what he meant.
“I am going to kill you,” his smile is gentle and deranged as my eyelids drop shut for the final time and I’m out like a light. I could swear I heard him coo “just let go” before I passed out, but it might have just been part of the dream. My dreams are quick, fast-paced and filled with confusing colors and shapes that don’t mean anything. Or maybe, it wasn’t a dream. It didn’t seem dreamlike; it was just a clouded haze in the back of mine that was inescapable. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. What my subconscious was trying to tell me was the least of my worries at the moment.
When I wake, head spinning and body achy, I’m roped to the brown woven chair and the icy barrel of a gun is glued to my temple. How cliché.
“You bastard,” I growl lowly, fidgeting in the seat.
“Branden,” he begins softly, “haven’t you ever been to the movies?”
“Yes,” I tell him slowly, not sure where he was headed with this, “loads of times.”
“Then you should know that you don’t talk back to guy with the gun in his hands.” Another crooked smile, a joker smile, and he’s laughing. Laughing like his threat was some hilarious pun. I chew on my lip furiously, not sure how to answer that.
“But … why?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Because, when we kicked you out, you posted all of your little blogs saying how much of an asshole I was and Bert’s fucked up this and Bert’s fucked up that. You wanna know how many devoted fans we lost because of you, Branden? You wanna know how many kids came up to me after the show asking ‘where’s Branden?’ and ‘why’d you do that to Branden?’? It drove me up a fuckin’ wall.”
“So you’re going to kill me to try and prove that you’re not an asshole?” I ask, fighting another laugh.
“Yup.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yup,” he smiles again, taken out his cell phone. The green glow reads 11:10. I was planning to be back at my house 10 minutes ago. My skin is salty; soaked from the unstoppable tears and sweat. My heart is racing and I’m numb, but I know that it’s all downhill from this point.
“Please,” I beg, swallowing hard, “I’ll do anything, Bert.”
He’s silent for a moment, considering my offer in his head. Before his baby blue eyes lock on mine and he spits, “no.”
And even though I know that I’m locked in here, I still wiggle and struggle likes it’s going out of style. I keep trying and trying and I think of how bad it’s going to hurt.
“I’m only 28,” I whine.
“So?” Bert cackles, “Infants die before they’ve had the chance to live. Be lucky that you’ve lived 28 years.”
“Are you insane?” I ask finally, unable to keep the question inside me much longer. This was just about the stupidest reason for murder, ever. Hands down. Case closed.
“Maybe,” Bert replies, removing the gun from my temple. He blows his hot, sticky breath on it and wipes it along his red, thermal sleeve. “Or maybe not.”
My fingertips are numb and feel like they’re filled with sand. I’m losing circulation. Pins and needles. “Ow,” the words tumble out before I can stop them. See also: word vomit.
“Oh, don’t worry Branden, it’ll hurt worst in-” he stops mid-sentence to check his illuminating cell phone again. “20 seconds.”
I strain to peer at the time and gasp softly.
“You’re killing me at 11:11?”
“Yup, some people wish on 11:11, I get my wishes on 11:11.”
If there wasn’t a gun to my head and I wasn’t sweating bullets and I could feel my arms or fingers, I might, just might, have thought that that was creepily poetic. But since I did have a gun to my head and I was sweating bullets and I couldn’t feel my arms or fingers, I thought it was deranged, and I thought it was sick. And then, at our most excellent moment together, he cocks the gun and whispers, “Or maybe I am an asshole after all.”