Sex, Thugs and Rock & Roll

We All Come from Splattertown by Hugh Lessig

I am surfing the edge of a Friday night drunk as Angelo arrives. He comes to the end of the bar, hooks the rail with a steeled toe.

He whispers, “You want to play some paintball tomorrow?”

“That sounds good to me.”

My stare slides away. You never look directly at Angelo because he’ll take it the wrong way, even with me.

He gets a beer, takes a swig. When he says nothing else, I add the rest of it.

“You want to bring Benny too? He’ll get pissed if we don’t call him.”

A smile crawls up one side of Angelo’s face. The cobra tattoo on his neck uncoils in rhythm.

“We can call him, if you insist. He loves his paintball. But he’s not you. You taught me everything I know, brother.”

We tap fists. Angelo takes a backseat to few men, but he defers to me on paintball issues. It’s funny how that works. I am not big or strong. I don’t shave my head or have angry tattoos scrolling across my back that speak of white power. I don’t wear black boots with red laces. But I can move through the woods and pick my targets. I am a calm shot with a paintball gun. I can plan strategy. I see things happening ahead of me.

Angelo thinks this makes me some kind of warrior. He thinks I’ll come out and shoot jigaboos with him when the United States breaks out in a race war. Except I don’t call them jigaboos, I don’t hang out with his comrades, and I don’t give a flying fuck about his race war. I just like nailing people sometimes. Yeah, I pretend it’s killing, and I talk about it when the beers start going down-about how I could really kill people. But it’s just talk. Angelo and I became friends in grade school and we’ve woofed on shit since then. The thread of our friendship has stretched thin through these strange and empty years.

He asks, “What is it you study again?”

“I’ve told you a hundred times. You don’t need to bust me about it.”

“I’m not busting you. Do you like it?”

“It’s interesting.”

Angelo laughs. “It could some in handy sometime, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Handy how?”

He claps me on the shoulder, throws down a five. “You call Benny, and then call me. We all go up together.”

He leaves without another word. The conversation rewinds in my head. Something sinks in my gut and leaves a terrible hole.

Two months ago, I enrolled in Carbon County Community College to study mortuary science.

I want to be a funeral director.

Why would that come in handy?

Benny wants to drive, so the three of us pile into his Jeep and head up to Splattertown, which is on a mountain five miles outside town. The coal was played out there years ago, and this guy from Jersey bought the land for a song and dance. He put up some pallets and plywood towers, and he configured battlefields with names like Maze City and Killer’s Kanyon. It costs thirty bucks to play half a day.

Benny is hard-wired today. He is a skinny kid with a caved-in chest who barely comes up to my nipples, but he acts like he’s ten feet tall, thanks mostly to the video games he plays.

“You guys are in for trouble. I’m playing point this time.”

He swings the wheel as he talks. The Jeep veers onto the shoulder, and then returns to the road. The three of us went to high school together, and for a moment we are invincible and the road is clear and no one lurks in the mirrors.

“Whatever you want,” I say.

I’m in the backseat and Angelo rides shotgun. He stares at nothing in particular, or at something the rest of us can’t see.

There isn’t much to paintball, really. You get a gun with a CO₂ cartridge that shoots little plastic balls filled with fluorescent paint. You rent the guns, the ammo, helmets, goggles, and gloves, pretty much everything you need. I have my own gear, but Benny and Angelo still get theirs by the hour.

You play in a group, and the three of us are teamed with a bunch of high school kids from Aliquippa. They have rental gear from top to bottom. We board a couple of Hummers for the drive into the woods. The high school kids are giggling like six-year-olds, and I’m thinking I’ll have to lead this group.

The first game is Capture the Flag-eleven on twelve, the three of us playing together-and we win easily. Most people try to skirt around the edge of the battlefield and get caught in bad angles. I lead a group up the middle and get the flag, which is just a piece of red cloth attached to a barrier.

The last game we play is Run and Chase. We pick one kid from the group to take off through the woods, and the rest of us go after him. The Aliquippa kids had someone singled out-some little dude who played football and could run like the wind-and we spend a good thirty minutes chasing him through the trees. Then the referee blows his whistle, a signal that everyone should stop. I figure the game is over, that someone finally nailed the kid. Instead, we find the referee frantically punching numbers into his cell phone and standing over Benny, who is face-down on the ground with the hilt of a knife protruding from the back of his head.

The state police separate us for questioning, and I pretty much tell the truth.

I was involved in the game. Everyone ran around trying to find this one kid. I didn’t see Benny. The helmets cover everyone’s face and the rental gear all looks the same. Benny is your basic skinny kid. He could have been next to me and I might not have known it.

The cops get my contact information and Social Security number. They drive me back to town. I catch a glimpse of Angelo in the parking lot. He’s sitting down and the cops are dusting the soles of his shoes.

Benny’s murder makes the front page of the Sunday newspaper. According to the story, the police have no “immediate suspects” but are working on “a couple of leads.” It says Benny went to play paintball with “a few friends,” but the story mentions no one by name.

There isn’t much to say about Benny himself. His dad moved away when he was young and his mom died in a wreck several years ago. The story says he is survived by a sister and an aunt who raised him.

Monday passes and nothing happens. On Tuesday, I go to my 9:00 a.m. class. Afterwards, someone yells my name as I walk to the parking lot.

I turn around as a girl runs towards me, her breasts bouncing in rhythm. She has dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. There is something familiar about her. She sticks out her hand.

“Hi, I’m Beth.”

“Hey. Harold.”

“I know. We were in advanced bio together.”

I look around the parking lot. “I’m not taking advanced bio here.”

“No, no. Senior year at Trolley Tech.”

Trolley Tech is what we call my high school because it’s in Trolley Township. Now I seem to remember someone who looked like Beth. She sat behind me. She might have been my lab partner, but her hair was different and she sure as hell didn’t have those knockers.

I ask, “Eighth period? You were in Mr. Bower’s class?”

She gives me a wide smile. “You remembered. You helped me out so much back then. I hoped you might be able to talk about what happened.”

Oh, shit.

Beth Weiss. Beth is Benny’s sister, the smart one who skipped a grade and caught up to the rest of us.

“You look different, Beth. Your hair is longer.”

Her hand touches her forehead. “I let it grow out. Listen, could we go for coffee somewhere? I’m all strung out over this weekend.”

The student union building has a cafeteria. We get big coffees and grab a corner table near the window. Our knees touch as we sit down.

Beth wants to be an accountant, but she doesn’t have enough money to attend a four-year school, so she’s getting her associate’s degree first. She lives with her aunt-a different one than Benny lived with-and she’s basically on her own.

“You were always so smart,” I say, “always with your head in a book.”

Her laugh sounds like tinkling music. “I took advanced bio against my better judgment. I got a B, but it took a lot of work. I decided being a doctor wasn’t for me.”

“That’s not for everyone,” I agree.

Beth stares into the swirls of her coffee. “Benny was into gambling. I assume you knew that much.”

“Can’t say that I did.”

“Well, he was. He always liked sports, but he let it get the best of him. He liked to gamble on football mostly.”

My breath comes in short spurts. I bite down on my back teeth to keep calm. “He liked gambling on football?”

She sips her coffee, gazes out the window. “He owed a lot of money. He wouldn’t tell me how much, but it was four figures. He came to me two weeks ago, wanting to borrow some. I blew him off. I said it would serve him right if he got beat up, because we’re poor and gambling is stupid.”

I’m trying to think. Angelo runs a sports book. Sometimes he even carries his tip sheets into the bar. Fuck me. I should have seen it coming.

“Is something wrong, Harold?”

“This person Benny owed money to-did he say who it was?”

A hand goes over her face. The tendons and cords stick out and the knuckles go white and the tears bleed through.

“You know damn well who it was,” she says.

“I do now.”

“I don’t even want to say his name.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

Beth and I spend the next couple of days together. We eat lunch on campus and go out for dinner and beers. She drinks just enough to redden her cheeks and get her thinking out loud.

“I told the police about Angelo,” she says. “They already suspect him. Do you think they’ll arrest him?”

“For the one hundredth time, I don’t know. It may take a little time. They always want to be sure.”

Her hand slides over mine. We’re at this coffee shop just off Market Square, trying to avoid the bars where we might see friends. Angelo knows half the people in town, and the fact that Beth and I are hanging out makes me hinky, but I can’t help it. Her eyes go straight through me and it feels so good.

She squeezes my hand and talks in a small voice. “I’m scared. I can’t go on like this. This town is too small. At some point, I’m going to see him. What will I do then? How will I act?”

She asks very good questions. The fact is, people can rehearse stuff like that, pretend they’ll behave a certain way, but they are clueless until the moment comes.

Beth agreed to babysit on Saturday night, so I head to the bar and find my regular seat. I don’t care if anyone shows up or if I get hammered. I just want to think about Beth and how I can inch closer to her.

Angelo arrives around midnight. He finds an empty seat at the other end of the bar and starts dropping whiskey shots into his beers. He smiles at no one in particular, acting like he has no worries in the world.

I pay my tab and walk over to him. “Hey, Angelo.”

“Hey.”

“Long time no see. Hear anything more about Benny?”

He fiddles with an empty shot glass. “It was muddy around where they found the body. They took prints of my shoes, the cops did. I been in twice for questioning. Got me a lawyer from Pittsburgh.”

Angelo is lubed up. His eyes twitch from something other than beer.

“There was another game in the general vicinity,” he continues. “Some other paintball dudes. One of those kids could have migrated over to our field. That’s what the cops said-‘migrated.’ Two of those kids from Aliquippa have juvenile assault records. Fucking niggers. Maybe Benny pissed them off. He can get like that-trash talking and whatnot. But they took my shoe prints and I got a lawyer from Pittsburgh.”

“You said.”

He orders another shot and beer. His hand slides towards the empty mug. “So, you been up to much? Haven’t seen you around.”

“I figured you were busy.”

He slowly shakes his head. “Harold, Harold, Harold. How is she, man? I mean, really? How is she?”

“How is who?”

“The Jewess.”

“Who do you mean?”

“You been down to the coffee shop with her, holding hands and shit. She’s crying on your shoulder. Making goo-goo eyes. You slamming her yet?”

I jam both fists into my pockets. “She goes to community college. We have a class together.”

“But are you slamming her? Are you having hot Jew princess sex? Is she spreading her-”

“She’s upset, Angelo. It was her brother. Wouldn’t you be upset if it was your brother? You’ve got that much of a heart, I assume.”

He catches the hint of a challenge. He brings the empty mug to my chin and holds it there, ever so softly. “You’re not with her tonight. How come?”

“She’s babysitting.”

“Are you sure?”

Tap-tap-tap goes the mug against my jaw.

I get out of there as fast as I can.

Beth doesn’t answer her cell phone, doesn’t return a text. Of the two hospitals within driving distance, St. Gabe’s is the closest to her apartment. I call the main number and ask if someone has been admitted under the name of Beth Weiss.

The phone clicks and there is the sound of breathing.

“Hello?”

“Beth. It’s Harold.”

“I was going to call you. It’s okay, really…”

I slam the phone and get down there.

Two guys with hockey masks dragged her into the alley behind her apartment building as she left for her babysitter’s job. They pulled down her pants and finger-blasted her, smacked her hard enough to raise a welt below the right eye, and broke a finger on general principle.

The ER was going crazy that night because of a three-car wreck on Interstate 80. When Beth said she fell down the stairs, the doctor took her at her word. She tells me the real story as I hold her hand in the room.

“You need to call the cops. This was a sexual assault. They can put those guys away for years.”

“Thank you. I’m aware of what happened.” Her eyes turn dark and empty. “They know that I blabbed about Benny’s gambling debts. They have a friend on the police force, some white power guy. They said I should keep my mouth shut or they’ll come back and do worse. They said the same goes for my boyfriend.” She smiles weakly. “I guess that means I officially have a boyfriend.”

“Congratulations. See what it’s gotten you?”

We share a long, quiet moment. Beth gives me the look of someone who has an unspoken question.

“We can’t trust the police,” I say.

“What will we do?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

The planning takes a week or two. We talk over the phone and text each other, but we never meet face-to-face. Towards the end, we drive separately into Pittsburgh and hang out in a bar and stay in a Motel 6, going over the details. We fall asleep on the cheap bed, and in the morning I want her so bad that it hurts. But I know what those guys did, so I just kiss the top of her nose and tell her everything will be okay.

I imagine the old light in her eyes has returned. It belongs to the type of woman whose future holds babies and big dogs, who scours the bushes for lost toys and smiles because the happiness is so wide that it hurts. It is a pure, clean look, and I need to look towards it every chance I get.

Two weeks from the day that Benny died, we walk into the mountains, to the spot where Angelo always drinks beer late at night. Like everything else outside town, his drinking spot is old coal lands. I have seen it during the day, so I feel comfortable leading Beth up here at night. It is nothing but a small clearing with a shaft that runs into the ground. It was apparently dug years ago by bootleg miners who wanted to steal coal from the mining company. I say “apparently” because you never know how these stories get started. Anyway, it’s a good place to drink because you can toss an empty bottle into that shaft and never see it again. I’ve done it myself.

Beth and I step on the flat rocks so we don’t make noise, but it doesn’t matter because Angelo’s headbanger music drowns out everything as we get closer.

I have studied Angelo’s nightly drinking routine, sneaking up here after saying goodnight to Beth. I know when he arrives, when he leaves, how much he drinks. I didn’t tell Beth because she would have worried about me coming up here alone, but I figure this is on-the-job training. The best funerals are pre-planned.

My heart hammers a beat to the angry music as we move through the fingers of white birch trees.

The moon is high and full, the sky cloudless.

Angelo’s shaven head is visible through a stand of mountain laurel. He sits cross-legged next to a cooler of beer, near the mine shaft. The boom box is next to him. CDs are spread among the sharp rocks.

I have my paintball rifle and Beth has a can of pepper spray.

Angelo nods his head to the music. The cobra on his neck twitches. Next to him Fat Norman, one of his skinhead friends, yells about mud-colored bitches and swarthy immigrants. He likes to get up and stretch, which he does right now.

“Here we go,” I whisper. “Are you ready?”

Beth holds the pepper spray like a time bomb. “I’m scared, Harold.”

“We discussed this. Go, Beth!”

“God forgive me.”

She moves into the light. She wears tight track pants and a sports bra and her running shoes.

She waves her hand like I told her. Norman eventually sees her standing backlit against the moon with those breasts and that ass curving into the night like nobody’s business.

By now, Norman is so drunk that he can’t even speak. He tries to say something and it comes out sideways.

Beth backs away and starts to disappear down the hill. Fat Norman lumbers after her, just like we planned. Beth ran track in high school and there’s no way Norman will ever catch her. She will lead him down the mountain and lose him. The pepper spray is just in case something goes wrong.

Angelo says nothing as Norman disappears. That’s how it is when you’re drunk. You see things and simply accept them for what they are.

I break cover and walk straight towards him. He takes a second to recognize me.

“Harold,” he says. “What gives? Good to see you.”

I move the barrel to his face and pull the trigger. I don’t even think about it. That’s what you do in paintball. You decide when to move and you just go.

Angelo screams. It is a terrible, high-pitched noise, and he rolls on the ground, clutching his right eye. Rule number one in paintball is to always wear goggles.

The next step requires me to push him into the mine shaft, but he rolls towards it and falls in on his own. He screams for a second or two; then comes a whoosh of breath and the tinkle of glass as he lands on a generation’s worth of broken bottles.

I drop the boom box and the cooler down on top of him, and sprinkle the collection of CDs into the hole.

Later, halfway down the slope, I come across the body of Fat Norman. His misshapen head rests against the hard ground. It’s as if his face has begun to melt into the earth. Part of it looks caved in. His arms are all twisted underneath him.

Beth holds the pepper spray and a flat rock. Her eyes stare at nothing in particular. Her breath comes in spurts of excitement. “He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t moved. It’s fucking over.”

“Beth…”

“He’s chasing me, right? Then I stop and hide behind a tree. When he comes up, I’m out there with the pepper spray. It blinds him. He screams like a little kid. I can’t believe you didn’t hear it, Harold.”

“I was dealing with my own screams.”

“I let him roll around, let the pain sink in. He ended up on his back, hands over his eyes. I brought the rock down on his nose. He had talked about my nose, about how big it was, and I wanted to pound it back into his skull.”

“He talked about your nose? When?”

I knew the answer as soon as I said it. Fat Norman was one of the guys who dragged her behind the Dumpster.

She is not listening. The string is finally unwinding and it’s got to come out.

“I felt the cartilage break. It was like in advanced bio when we dissected that fetal pig. This guy has a pig nose too.”

She goes on and on, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking about how to get Fat Norman up that slope and into that mine shaft, how to hide the drag marks, if there is blood on the ground. I’m thinking of the satisfaction of knowing that he will never be found.

It’s true what morticians say: funerals are not for the dead. They are for the living.

“You hit more than his nose, Beth. Are there, um, pieces of him elsewhere?”

“I dunno. I dunno. All I know is this. When you hit someone and break a bone? That’s a totally different sound than when you get hit on the playground. It’s like cracking ice in a tray.”

The police will assume Angelo skipped town to avoid arrest. It’s safe to say there won’t be any AMBER Alert for Fat Norman. And me? I’ll get rid of my paintball gear just in case. Angelo’s body has fluorescent paint from where I shot him, and if the police question me, I’ll just say Benny’s death left a bad taste in my mouth and I didn’t want to play anymore.

I reach out for Beth, my anchor of light in the falling darkness, but she is among the bushes now. Chattering about this and that, she scours the ground for lost pieces of the monster that we must try to bury forever.