Keep It PG
"They call me mister Noon because I'm always on time." He tipped his hat.
"Well, hi, Moon man," the bouncer said, "you're not on the effen' list."
The evening smelled like Neon. Neon doesn't have a smell itself, but a broken sign spitting sparks only smells one way. As patrons came and went from the bar, they ground the broken glass into sand under their feet, but that was a slow process.
Noon shook his head, flopped his free arm at his side. His other held a black briefcase "You know you're the first one to say Hi to that, and you couldn't help but get the name wrong."
A man in a hooded jacked inside the bar straightened up and took a step towards the door, hands in his pockets. A messy haired woman with a violin case flipped the latches on the box and turned to face the door. The bouncer stood a full foot taller than noon. He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes down at the interloper. "What?"
Noon waved his free hand in the air. "It's Noon, so you're supposed to say 'Hi, Noon" like "High noon" the time, but you said it like Moon and that ruined the joke."
The bouncer shook his head slightly.
Noon sighed. "Maybe it doesn't translate well."
The bouncer looked over his shoulder. The man in the hood shook his head. When the bouncer looked back, Noon was holding up a folded piece of paper.
"Look, I know it's King's birthday, I came to give him a present." The piece of paper was brown and fragile, like it had aged in the sun for weeks. "I spilled my coffee on it this morning." said Noon. "Don't mind that."
The man on the inside began to walk quickly towards the two of them, gripping something in the folds of his jacket. Noon reached into his pocket.
"Leave it." said the woman, opening her violin case and propping her feet up on the table in front of her.
The man in the hood paused, and stepped forward more slowly, drawing out a pair of glasses. Without turning, the bouncer took them from him and put them on. He took the note from Noon, unfolded it, and he began to read. After a few moments, he handed it back to Noon. "A'rite." he said. "Enter at your own risk, mate."
Noon stepped into the bar, glass grinding under his feet. It was a clean coat, in contrast to the bar and the people in it. A girl in a blue hoodie and a gas mask quick stepped up, hopping to the side of the bouncer without a word and fell in behind Noon. "I'm with him." she said.
"She's with me." said Noon.
Noon came to a stop in the middle of the bar and looked around.
"You look like an idiot in here in the cowboy getup." said the girl. The denizens of the bar all wore black, mostly shirts with the logos of bands and they only knew what else on them. Noon wore a brown leather coat and hat, a bolo tie, and high leather boots. The bartender and the woman with the violin case both watched the two of them.
"Shush you." said Noon.
The two of them stepped towards the table of the woman with the Violin case.
As they stepped forward, the girl wrapped her hands around something in the pocket of her hoodie.
The woman at the table held up a finger. "Stop."
The two of them stopped.
The woman reached into the violin case, and the two of them tensed. The girl began to pull out her hands, and Noon shifted his weight and held the briefcase in front of himself in both hands.
The woman pulled out a violin.
The two of them relaxed.
The woman set her bow to string, but before she could play her first note, a middle aged asian man with bleached blonde hair opened a door to the side of her table. "Oh, Noon, don't let her keep you, she just likes to hear herself play."
Noon tipped his hat, and the girl chuckled.
"Much obliged" said noon.
Moments later they sat in King's office surrounded by a dozen or so similar looking band posters and a single poorly hand written note written in Khmer and framed. King wore a black shirt with no logo on it, and tight black jeans with a chrome chain looped from one pocket to the belt. He was built like a brick wall. His jacket barely fit him. He sat on his desk rather than behind it. "So what's the occasion?" he asked, smiling.
Noon set his suitcase on the desk. King smiled, slow and wide. "You brought me something I can make some money off of?"
Noon opened the case and King shook his head, clicking his teeth. "It's pure?"
At that the girl narrowed her eyes.
"Pure as anything you find on the trail's going to be." said Noon holding up a clear white stone. "Found it out on a hike, and knowin' it was your birthday coming, I figure'd you'd like it."
The girl blinked.
Noon handed King the stone and King held it up to the light. "Very cool." he said. "I miss our Geode team." He set the stone down on his desk, and his smile slipped. "Now, we do have some business to do." he said softly.
Noon pulled a stuffed bear out of the suitcase. The girl gasped.
King and Noon both looked at the girl, confused for a second. She shrugged. "It's nothing." she said.
King and Noon both laughed. "I know your granddaughter would have thrown a real fit if I visited you and didn't leave her a present."
King smiled and shook his head. "Nah, she's a good girl. She wouldn't complain, but she'd be sad, and I'd have hated to disappoint her."
Noon nodded to the note on the wall. "She's growing up."
King threw his hands up in the air. "She's already writing in more languages than I can speak. She'll be incredible someday. Hell, she already is!"
Minutes later, Noon and the girl were out on the street again. The bouncer was sweeping up the broken glass.
"That was weird." said the girl.
"What was weird about it?" asked Noon, straightening his hat as they walked.
"That place seemed shady. You said you knew that guy from way back but he was super wild. I thought they were going to pull a gun on you."
Noon coughed violently. "Lord, girl!" he said "He's a party animal is all. King's a serious businessman!"
The girl shrugged. "Well, it also really sounded like you were about to sell him drugs in there. Like, a stuffed bear? Pure rocks? Was that another one of your puns?"
Noon stopped dead in his tracks. "For fucks sake you little cunt!" he shouted. "I stick my fucking neck out for you all this time and you think I'd sell fucking drugs in this town?"
The girl turned, eyebrows raised. "Hey keep it PG-13, I'm still a kid."
Noon shook his head and sighed. "Have a little faith." he muttered.
The girl rolled her eyes.
THE WALL
We had a tradition, in our shabby college apartment. There a single blank wall inside, stretching from one bedroom door to the next – maybe eight feet in diameter – with an ugly metal utility box to the side. We liked to hide this wall in creative ways: with a tapestry, then another, then a holiday ensemble, complete with cut-outs or wrapping paper or whatever matched the occasion.
The latest occasion was St. Patrick’s Day, but it was stretching toward mid-April. Easter was approaching. Maybe we would have time to decorate for it. Maybe not. Finals were also approaching, and we were all beginning to wear thin with the stress. Still, the wall had rapidly become an annoyance to walk by. It stood almost mocking – like a reminder of the past I was trying to forget. I wanted to take it down.
I started with the sparkly green clovers, artfully tilted together at the center of the wall. They were made of construction paper, and the first one ripped when I tried to peel it off. I carefully undid the back taping, trying not to tear the decoration further. Maybe I could re-use them next year. The decorations had cost a pretty penny, more than I could afford at the time. I didn’t regret the purchase, though.
I remember putting the whole thing up a few hours before our party was to start, with my roommate crying in her room about her latest worst-thing-in-the-world-of-the-week. She was like that. It was always one thing or the next, this or that. Right now, it was a speeding ticket. I could never understand the logic – how someone could get fed up about something so minor as a speeding ticket. I wish I had the luxury of worrying about details like did.
I went back to work, slowly taking the clovers down until only the center strip of the wall faced me. It was bruised and ugly in spots, and I remembered why we wanted to cover it up. It wasn’t so bad from far away, but close-up I could see all the dirt and stains.
My eyes trailed the pattern forehead level dents, created that one time my friend Nick drunkenly attempted to handstand against the wall. As the dents indicate, it hadn’t gone so well. I remember laughing though – genuinely laughing – unlike the forced smiles exchanged these days. No. In that moment, we were still best friends. In that moment, we were happy.
Next, it was time to rip down streamers – alternating shades of light and dark green. The streamers wouldn’t be worth storing, so I threw them away.
I remember Nick playing with them at a pre-game a few weeks earlier. Twisting them up as tight as he could without breaking the strands, then watching them come apart. I had been leaning against the wall, casually observing his work, when he turned to me.
“Promise me we’ll stay best friends forever,” he had said, his eyes suddenly wide and serious, without the casual laughter they had held before. He got like this when exceptionally drunk – all mushy and sentimental – and the best thing to do was humor him.
“Nothing could tear us apart," I remember replying. I remember meaning it too.
All in all, the wall took around two hours to put up and around twenty seconds to strip down. Back to where we started, just me and the ugly white. Pink splotches decorated the barren mess too, along with the handstand dents and dirt and stains from God-knows where. The whole thing was imperfect and gross; I already wanted it gone. We didn’t even own the apartment, and would probably have to pay for damaged paint or whatever.
Something about the wall bothered me though, in a dark, disturbing way. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but the disgust ran deeper than the unsightly appearance or reminder of impending paint fees. The wall looked mocking almost, laughing like it knew its stains had ruined the appearance. Like it knew just how much it bothered me.
---
I ordered a new tapestry a day later, a fading pattern to different shades of blue. We hadn’t hung blue on the wall before, and the thought made me happy. Blue was comforting. Blue was new. Blue would be here in approximately ten to fifteen business days. All I could do was wait.
Meanwhile, the wall was becoming worse. I began to avoid it, when I could. I resided on campus most of the day, or spent my time in my bedroom, with it out of sight. The hard part was the in-between: those thirteen steps from my bedroom to the apartment door. I could handle those thirteen steps, at the beginning. Each day I would wake up and prepare myself to confront the wall. It became a battle.
As the days went on, facing the white got harder and harder. Sometimes I would lose to its hateful gaze. I cowered in my room instead – terrified – while trying to think of creative excuses to email my professors.
Sometimes the problem was getting back in. I would sit in our apartment hallways for hours on end, trying to build up courage. Occasionally I’d sleep in my car.
Throughout the wait, I tried to maintain normalcy. At least, as much as I could. Because I was not crazy. I know I sounded crazy, but I was not crazy. Okay? I needed new paint, not therapy. I just needed the wall gone. At the sixteenth day since ordering that new tapestry, I called the shipping company.
I remember hearing the words backordered and I remember hearing screaming. It was deafening; wretched and terrible, filled with vulgar words –
“FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE Of FUCKING SHIT, YOU DON’T CONTROL ME, YOU –“
“Ma’am? MA’AM. Is everything okay!?”
It was only when the police rushed in that I realized: I was the one screaming.
I think the incident scared my roommates, because they began treating me like I was breakable, like they were afraid to set me off. Whispers and hushed conversations, abruptly halting when I entered the room. Hesitancy before asking me questions. Words thrown around, like “trauma” and “PTSD” and “neurotic.” Things like that. They thought I didn’t notice.
They spread the word to our friends, though, because breakdowns make for juicy gossip. More than ever, I felt alone. Nick kept his distance, too. A part of me began to hate him for that – for not defending me after everything. So much for forever. Yet, through it all, I kept my promise to him.
My mom called earlier today, a week and a half later. I had not left my room for approximately three days. But I hadn’t wanted to worry her. So, when she asked how I was doing, I told her I was great. I didn’t tell her that I was failing three classes, because then she’d worry about my scholarship. I didn’t tell her that I felt empty, that the wall was killing me a little bit more every day. I didn’t tell her about that night or about Nick and how we were slowly falling apart. Maybe I should have. Maybe things could have changed.
Instead, I listen now from my bedroom as my roommates entertain friends in the living room. They have the stereo on – some throwback songs from when we were kids. I can’t tell how many people are here, but I can hear the excited chattering, the laughter. Their happiness seeps through the walls. My chest tightens.
I’m lying on my bed, too afraid to make a sound. God, what if they don’t know I’m here? What if they do? I can’t leave my room because of the wall, and even without it my sudden presence would make the situation too awkward.
I can feel my heartbeat rising. I pick out Nick’s voice from the rest. It hurts. Here all my once friends are, going about life like I never mattered in it. Maybe that’s harsh. Maybe it was my fault –
(Promise me you won’t go to the police. It was a mistake. If you care about me at all you’ll keep this to yourself. Please)
– maybe I should have been selfish. Maybe I should have never agreed to keep my mouth shut. Oh No. Maybe I never should have told Nick I’d keep my mouth shut.
I can feel my pulse through my throat. My hands are shaking and I feel trapped – I feel trapped and the world is closing in – my chest feels light and my head feels heavy and I can hear them joking outside my door, joking and having fun and it’s all too much and I can see him, I can feel the too long glance and that brush of cracked fingertips and I can see myself brushing it off like nothing at all –
Somehow I end up on my hands and knees. The world is silent except for my breath and the beating music of the pregame on the other side of my door. Don’t Stop Believing is on. I can hear the room singing it.
Don’t Stop, Believing, they chime. Hold on to that feelin’ –
It’s the end of the song, a crescendo to the final notes. Everyone is off pitch. I fall to my side, rolling to face the ceiling.
Streetlights, I hear. peopleeeeeee – they hold out the word, changing keys. It’s the last line, and then the room goes silent. I hear them shuffling around, gathering their things before heading to the bars. I continue to stare at the ceiling.
Ceilings are nice, I decide. They don’t get messed up and spilled on by people. They stay blank – the perfect white. Untouched by our human messes. Walls let us ruin them.
I feel calm, after they leave. Detached, almost. There’s a heaviness in my bones, like the apartment itself has faded into nonexistence. Like it all was just a dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. This was real. It was all so fucking real.
Mechanically, I feel myself standing, and I feel my blood pounding in my fingers. There’s ball in my chest, slowly churning hotter and hotter.
I walk over to the kitchen cupboard, and pull out a toolbox. My mom insisted we keep one, though we never used it. There’s a hammer inside, and I feel the weight of it in my hands.
I think of Nick. I think of our promises.
(Promise me you won’t go to the police.)
He’d been the one to find me. It was his house, after all.
(Promise we’ll be best friends forever)
Best friends. That’s what he introduced me as – his best friend. I remember the elation of hearing him say it. I had never had a best friend. But that’s what he told his dad we were. Best friends. I had a best friend.
I turn and face the wall. It truly was hideous. I look. I feel the hammer. The wall cracks like lightning, before I realize what I’ve done. The hammer lies on the floor.
It feels good, I realize, and then suddenly I’m attacking the wall, and metal is hard and adrenaline is flooding in and I can’t stop, I can’t stop I cantfuckingforget because I see them in the wall – I see Nick’s dad and I see him lock the door and it’s all so wrong and I see Nick and his face when he realizes what his dad did and I see those terrified eyes – itwasamistake it was a mistake please don’t tell the police it was a mistake –
(Take it, that's right, just like that, baby)
(Stoppleasestop PLEASEFUCKING STOP)
(SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND TAKE IT YOU GOD DAMN SLUT) –
And somewhere along the lines I’ve dropped the hammer because it isn’t enough and I need to feel this - I need him to feel this.
The wall is turning red on the edges of where I hammer it so I grasp onto a cracked part and rip because this fucker is coming down and there’s so much red – God, there’s so much red but I need to keep going I can’t stop going –
And the world begins to blur. I steady myself, and I blink. The apartment is silent again. The wall is a scarring of browns and cracked white, a midsize hole tinged with the scarlet. I can feel myself fading.
Through the hole, I see my bedroom. On my desk is a mirror, and I catch sight of my reflection. I see my features, the light hair, dark eyes. The too big nose. Somehow, these parts don’t add up to me. To who I am. I don’t recognize this reflection. I can feel something wet drip on the edge of my nails.
Maybe this is who I was once. Before Nick. Before the wall. But this girl is dead.
I feel a pull, dragging at my conscious. I close my eyes, and let it take over.