The Old Neighborhood by Bill Hillmann Read Free Book Online Page B

semi-hard cock hanging out of his undone pants. The cops pulled out their firearms.
    The ex-cons said it was consensual—that Nancy just got jealous. The cops were reluctant to arrest them, and Rich didn’t pursue it, so they let them go. The cut on the top of Rich’s head wasn’t bad enough for stitches, and the bruises eventually healed. Nothing else ever did.
    â€¢
    MUSIC DOESN’T MEAN MUCH when you’re a little kid; it’s just sounds and the emotions they produce. None of your identity is aligned with what you listen to. You’re a clean pallet.
    I was on my way upstairs to my room when I heard laughter booming out of Rich’s open bedroom door. My head still ached from the fight. I reached up and felt the soft lumps along my forehead, now all purple and blue. I could hear Rich over Pantera’s fast, rippling metal.
    â€œMy baby brother, he was fighting with twenty little niggers at once,” Rich roared, his voice all high, squeaky, and excited. “I came up and saved him and beat the shit out of a few of ’em myself. But, man, I’m telling ya, twenty of ’em!”
    â€œOK, Rich. Fuckin’ superhero over here. Where is that little rascal, anyways?” I recognized the gravelly voice. It was Sy.
    I reached the top of the stairs. It was early evening, and a bright yellow light radiated out of his doorway. I peered in to see four guys lounged on his little bed. All of them had long dirty hair and ripped-up jeans. Rich stood with his back to me and his arms flailing around as he recounted the fight. There was an American flag tacked to the slanted ceiling that hung with the pitch of the roof. A large Iron Maiden poster hung on the wall near the window that showed the skeletal Eddie the Head in a straitjacket with three chains attached to his iron neck collar. It secured him inside a padded room, and his fierce eyes screamed out at you. It read “Peace of Mind” at the bottom.
    Sy’s hair was a greasy, dirty blond tangle that hung down past his shoulders. His beard was mangy and had a tint of red in it. He wore this threadbare, black Metallica t-shirt, bleached white jeans with rips at the knees, and some white high-top Reeboks. I peeked my head in through the door.
    â€œGet over here, you,” Sy said, waving me in. “The champ himself!”
    He reached out, grabbed me, and threw me in a head lock. I smelled pot and liquor, but I didn’t know what the smells were then, and I recognized ’em as Sy’s scent. He let me go and stood there. I could feel them all staring at my forehead and eye.
    â€œNow what happened, Joey?” Sy asked.
    I took a deep breath. “Got in a fight,” I said quietly.
    â€œWell, I can see that,” Sy replied, grinning. “Did ya win?”
    â€œDidn’t get to finish,” I said, and glanced over at Rich, who watched me with his arms folded over his chest.
    â€œWell… Did you get any good punches in?” Sy asked.
    I paused, looked down, and scratched my chin. I riffled through my memory—the haze of punches and shouts—then I remembered Leroy on the pavement, and I looked back up.
    â€œYeah!” I exclaimed. They broke up.
    â€œSo he’s coming out tonight, huh?” Sy looked over at Rich.
    â€œYep, Ma even said it was alright,” Rich confirmed as he reached over and messed up my hair. “I told her what happened and said it might cheer him up to hear some metal.”
    My mind raced with wild excitement of where we were headed. I was sure it was some dark pit of dragons and snakes, smoke and roaring noise.
    We piled into Rich’s rusty Bronco, and the back was stacked to the roof with large black amps, guitar cases, and a drum kit.
    â€œSy, what’s the name of your band?” I asked as we squished in the back seat.
    â€œThe Dead Rat Society,” Sy growled. “Got a problem with that, kid?” He glowered at me. Metallica