Bad Scene, Everyone's Fault

I went to a party last night. Familiar beer, comfortably skunked. Older, recognizable faces – they were from Scudders Mill Elementary or Holy Family CCD or sitting by some uncontrolled fire beside the Atlantic. Getting close to our fourth decades, and they were still making out on mismatched living room sets, watching bootleg footage of a band who didn’t have the same lead singer anymore, forget about the bass player or a record deal. Doc Martens and torn up Chuck Taylors dragged from the kitchen’s burn-stained linoleum to the cigarette ashes on the cement patio out back. I heard mid-evening, drunkening boasting: one guy became a bike messenger in the city because it was the only thing he could be; one girl dropped out of art school – it was facist and constricting.

Down the hallways, sidelong glances, my eyes avoiding questions. Too many were possible. Six years or more since I’ve seen a lot of them, heard this chatter, these accents. I was rarely alone anymore and last night I was. Liberation anxiety. Ran headlong into this guy I knew, hadn’t seen in years. Randy Luongo. Junior high and high school together. Never would call him up but we’d always talk when we’d see each other. The kind of guy you forget you like. He nodded toward the kitchen and I followed.

Fluorescent lights made the pink and green walls clear – the color of the fat shoelaces I had in third grade. A ceramic pig held the homeowner’s cookies. Which girl was it who lived here again? Either the one lying on the recliner or the one perched on the ottoman, narrating the television glare. The fridge had one sign: IF YOU DIDN’T BUY IT, DON’T DRINK IT. Randy flipped off the icemaker and yanked the door open. One for me, one for himself. Half a tall boy and for the first time fluorescent light felt warm. I wasn’t just watching from a distance anymore; I was out for the night. My need for guilt ceased.

Hilary spent last night at home. Television couldn’t calm her. She watched anyway – serial detective mysteries for the aged. That’s how one spends a night alone all to yourself. She stained her teeth with black coffee and wine. Couch’s arm comfortably in the back of her neck, she settled.

Barely an hour since I had left for the party, and she was back on her feet again. Yarn, clay, hot glue, Shrinky Dinks. Crafts distracted. Scrapbooking. A pastime and psychotherapy bound up together. She would have to look at the pictures, the pictures she didn’t want to see. She knew she had to at some point. She had known for a while. She was indistractable last night, so it was as good a time as any. Four shoeboxes from the top shelf of my closet, stacked neatly on the kitchen counter. Scissors, paste, heavy stock paper and she was set. All she had to do was pull the lid off of box number one.

Six-pack of tall boys down and this guy starts bitching at us. You gonna replace those? I was drunk enough to tell him to relax. For some reason, he obeyed. I felt good enough to drop a howsitgoing on anyone who walked by, risking all kinds of awkward conversation. Randy lowered to the table and I found a chair beside him, resting my cheek on the tabletop’s cold tile. He looked me in the eye. I hoped he didn’t ask questions, he’d just let me forget. He let me know some bad shit had happened to him. He said his girl had dumped him but was there with another guy. He didn’t know about me. I was safe with this guy for the night. The crowd swelled around us, a solid mass from front lawn to back fence. We powwowed under a canopy of swinging elbows and nodding haircuts.

The whole situation with Randy and his girlfriend was bad news. He still liked her. It felt good to feel bad for this guy. My toast was to his dedication, his caring. He gave me back a touch of aluminum and a knowing nod. Almost a year he was with this girl and she meets some fucking guy at a show. Worst thing was he played guitar. She told Randy it was inevitable. He had no idea. All I could say was why is it always like this? I squeezed his shoulder. Either you’re too mean or you’re too nice.

Twenty-second exhale, all nostrils – he was with me. He tried to talk and nothing came. I just let my head wag – commiserating disbelief. I toasted comraderie. Catching my eyes he leaned in, the beer in his lungs noticeable but not yet stale. He said, “I even cooked her breakfast.”

Those photographs bore an enormous stress on Hilary. She never even considered that she didn’t have to look at them, nobody was requiring her flip through them. It’s strange that she thought she had to, considering that we were never the type to display our wedding album. We never lamented not catching our baby’s first steps on video. Maybe she wanted to eliminate the question. Maybe that’s why she burned them. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone. But I think the irrational is sometimes the best thing when you’re not right. I think she needed a night of freedom to act.

She never lifted a single shoebox lid. The scissors she replaced to the high drawer and the paste on the shelf above, assuring the cap was impossibly tight.

Our neighborhood was cold last night, wind cold. It brought about the years’ first big deposit of dirty leaves. Proper kindling. Last summer I christened our plot with nine saplings. They weren’t producing much. But maple trees on every side of our stockade kept me busy every autumn weekend. Much appreciated this year. Hilary dug for some lawn and left the little tower of shoeboxes on the patch. She went in for some warmth.

My dad’s navy parka – orange lining, gray fur around the hood – came back outside. Her hand came out of the sleeve, holding my grill igniter. Not quite a second of flicker and her fingers were dark again. Two attempts, three attempts, futilely and compulsively thirty then forty. Clicking well after the fluid drained. She left the cold behind her, returning to our impossible home.

I felt good. Having a few beers and fucking around. I suggested that Randy and I get up from the table and see who was around. Things seemed to be happening in the living room so we found it. Someone was blasting Zeppelin. It sounded good. I felt ashamed; I knew every drum fill. Probably even mouthed the words. My partner punched my arm and I stopped my headbob. He held his hand out to my grandmother’s couch, green like the backside of a grass blade.

On top of the old couch, she sat. And she was kissing this guy, unmistakably. T.V.-room-with-the-door-closed-teenage-fervor. I couldn’t resist admiring. They looked good, I mean like in love – I probably even smiled. Sipped my beer, cheers to them, and then I remembered my friend.

She tried our baby’s clothes first: bibs, stretchies, those kinds of things – all responsibly fireproof. Then she went the conventional route: two weeks of old newspapers. Little by little, pages brought outside to the cardboard boxes were lovingly applied. When she got them good and going, the flames standing up to the wind, she assessed. She knew the photos would need more help than the cardboard. I had left my lawn tools against the house. Just a few rakefuls – three maybe four – was more than enough. Her pile went up just like the ones my dad would set by the curb when that sort of thing was still legal.

She watched from inside. Up the stairs and into the baby’s room. Parka still binding her shoulders, she stuck her hooded head out the window, craned to see her work out back. It was going strong, pulling the rest of the trees’ refuse into it. The tip of her nose stung, so she shrunk back inside. Grabbing the edge of the crib, she waited.

Randy let her have it and she didn’t catch a word. The party was a madhouse. Over the coffee table and up to the couch he went. I followed at a safe distance. How could you do this? One finger jabbed at her shoulder. She released the guitarist. Now she was listening. He dropped onto the couch’s arm. You said that you needed your space. She heard that; I saw it in her red face. The new guy had no idea. Randy’s eye caught his confusion; his beer fell softly to the cushions. She made no effort to avoid the spill. Hair in hand he said he’s wearing the shirt that I gave you.

Orange and red reflected on the pink walls. Hilary knew she’d never have to look at a single photo if she didn’t want to.

Why? Why? Why, oh fucking why, are you always like this? His girl sent him to the ground; he brought the end table with him. I shrugged to her other guy. If I’m having fun then it’s breaking your heart.

No warmth came in our daughter’s open window last night, but knowing the fire was there was enough for my wife. She finally got some sleep right under the crib.

She grabbed at the poor guy’s shirt. Besides, you said I could have it. She stepped over Randy and his old shirt followed her. I thought I ought to walk out myself. It was getting late.

I wasn’t used to beer anymore – the mile and a half in the frost was a welcome head clear. At the end of it, neighbors filled my yard. I walked around back, and a line of them, east-to-west, fence-to-fence, stomped without rhythm. They left my lawn black and the air above it gray.

I heard Randy pulled the guy down on the path outside. He yanked at his shirt but it didn’t come off. Didn’t tear like in the movies. The guy just fell down. Back of his head hit the stoop.

Where have you been? they accused. I was embarrassed to answer. I smelled the burn. I heard wailing back front. That was mine. Hilary. You took it away.

The girlfriend didn’t check if her new guy was okay. She kicked the shit out of Randy. In front of everyone, on the lawn.

Mr. Heller from next door yelled right back. You could have burnt down all our houses? What the hell is going on? My wife swiped at him. You crazy whore. I grabbed her before she reached him.

Half the folks were cheering for her to give it to the drunken bastard, and the other half were screaming for the guy on the stoop to wake the fuck up.

Some demanded my help, some wanted my alibi, and a few – hidden in the descending smoke – called for my wife’s blood. I heard a single scream over all the others.

Then the cops showed up.

This story refers to the title and content of Jawbreaker's song, "Bad Scene, Everyone's Fault," from the album, Dear You (DGC 1995).