Christmas lights toggled in unison with the seconds of the big faced clock on the wall of the pancake house where Quill tapped his fork against the edge of an empty plate. The rich odor of cigarettes wafted across the room. He could feel the lonely beats of his massive heart thumping against the zipper of his leather jacket. Two weeks ago, he would have been running wild by this hour, tagging downtown walls or smashing rural mailboxes with a Louisville Slugger. Now he had little to do with his time. He spent his days skating the alleys and the industrial curbs by himself without a single companion to rough-house or tease him. Timothy Allen Teague had banished Quill by text message of all things and Clancey had poisoned his name.
A few days ago, he had dropped by the home of an older Dog Boy admired for time he served in the pen and his series of irreverent roadkill sculptures. Quill knocked on his door and peered in the dark windows, searching for any sign of life and there in the shadow of a dining room table, he could see the dude’s foot tapping the dirty linoleum. He was waiting for Quill to give up and retreat. This ostracism pained him to the farthest depths of his sanity. Clancey had called him an idiot not worth anybody’s time. Quill heard rumors that Clancey suspected him of stealing items from the house and the office and lied about him talking to reporters about Timothy Allen Teague. An unforgivable sin. Quill had dreams of wringing Clancey’s neck like a chicken and fucking the bloody vacancy.
Just as he finished counting his change to pay the bill, he heard a familiar bundle of voices enter the restaurant and looked up to see a Dog Boy named Tommy and several others soaked in beer, shoving each other across the floor where a manager was stepping toward them in pre-emptive stride. Tommy’s jaw (the one Hatchet had destroyed) now had a familiar dangle and it gave him a menacing scowl that offset his scrawny stature. Quill left through the fire exit setting off an alarm. He peeked over his shoulder through the wall of windows and saw the scantling of customers looking side to side in the soupy mix of sirens and string lighting. The overworked manager came bounding through the dining room, the fear of fire in his eyes, the storm of punk rock comedy still rotating behind him. The manager stopped in the center of the room and squinted through the windows at Quill squeezing his big frame between two parked cars. Quill heard the manager’s feet slapping the pavement behind him and the haggard commands to halt. He kept moving until a hand clasped the cold hard leather on his arm and he spun with the full force of his fist and cracked the huffing manager across the temple. He went to the ground like a toppled tree. A burst of collective laughter rang across the lot until Quill looked at the crowd of black clothed boys standing at the fire exit.
The sudden and heavy silence dove-tailed with the blank stares on the Dog Boys’ faces. He could feel their hatred pierce him like the rays of some black star flare, exacerbating whatever mutation Clancey had ignited within him. He wanted to tear their limbs from their bodies and beat them to death, destroying the source of his loneliness. Tommy called out to him, Screw you, Quill! This condemnation cooled him like steam rising from boiling water over ice. He turned on the heels of his steel-toed boots and shivered into the black curtain of night, leaving the manager broken across the thin concrete divider.
A few days ago, he had dropped by the home of an older Dog Boy admired for time he served in the pen and his series of irreverent roadkill sculptures. Quill knocked on his door and peered in the dark windows, searching for any sign of life and there in the shadow of a dining room table, he could see the dude’s foot tapping the dirty linoleum. He was waiting for Quill to give up and retreat. This ostracism pained him to the farthest depths of his sanity. Clancey had called him an idiot not worth anybody’s time. Quill heard rumors that Clancey suspected him of stealing items from the house and the office and lied about him talking to reporters about Timothy Allen Teague. An unforgivable sin. Quill had dreams of wringing Clancey’s neck like a chicken and fucking the bloody vacancy.
Just as he finished counting his change to pay the bill, he heard a familiar bundle of voices enter the restaurant and looked up to see a Dog Boy named Tommy and several others soaked in beer, shoving each other across the floor where a manager was stepping toward them in pre-emptive stride. Tommy’s jaw (the one Hatchet had destroyed) now had a familiar dangle and it gave him a menacing scowl that offset his scrawny stature. Quill left through the fire exit setting off an alarm. He peeked over his shoulder through the wall of windows and saw the scantling of customers looking side to side in the soupy mix of sirens and string lighting. The overworked manager came bounding through the dining room, the fear of fire in his eyes, the storm of punk rock comedy still rotating behind him. The manager stopped in the center of the room and squinted through the windows at Quill squeezing his big frame between two parked cars. Quill heard the manager’s feet slapping the pavement behind him and the haggard commands to halt. He kept moving until a hand clasped the cold hard leather on his arm and he spun with the full force of his fist and cracked the huffing manager across the temple. He went to the ground like a toppled tree. A burst of collective laughter rang across the lot until Quill looked at the crowd of black clothed boys standing at the fire exit.
The sudden and heavy silence dove-tailed with the blank stares on the Dog Boys’ faces. He could feel their hatred pierce him like the rays of some black star flare, exacerbating whatever mutation Clancey had ignited within him. He wanted to tear their limbs from their bodies and beat them to death, destroying the source of his loneliness. Tommy called out to him, Screw you, Quill! This condemnation cooled him like steam rising from boiling water over ice. He turned on the heels of his steel-toed boots and shivered into the black curtain of night, leaving the manager broken across the thin concrete divider.
Edit 12.10.2018