Short story writer living in Washington, DC.
Email:
christopherwilliamchandler@gmail.com
Instagram:
@christopherwilliamchandler
Short story writer living in Washington, DC.
Email:
christopherwilliamchandler@gmail.com
Instagram:
@christopherwilliamchandler
Raging Behind the Soundwall
Two naked torsos swayed in the shade beneath the dingbat overhang. Heat radiating from the cracked asphalt singed exposed skin. Now and then a car came down the drive, finding parking between the poles beside them or beneath the mirroring olive apartments. As one came, the unfettered light of the southern California sun glanced off its surfaces, casting shadows across their muscular frames.
Clang, the sound of cast iron against steel—thin rails shuddering as they received the weight. The bodies rotated, orbiting their charge. One's firm back arched away from the cool vinyl bench, then settled. Its hands found their places along the symmetrical notches of the barbell, while the others were outstretched in case of failure, their calloused palms up as if to be read. A sudden jerk freed the weight from its earthly bounds. Allowed to fall, it came within an inch of the flexed chest before being pressed at the last moment toward the ceiling.
Rising, Younger, the weaker of the pair, sauntered into the sunlight, shivering as the rays struck his pale skin. He massaged his inflamed upper body, feeling its bulk. His eyes, in the brightness, huddled beneath their lids, two gray pearls. Younger’s expression was one of remote satisfaction: a half-grin beneath a vacant stare. Furrowing his brow, he looked skyward, taking in the vast cyan streak between the buildings. He stood perfectly still, perhaps sinking in that ocean—only to be beckoned back by a call from ashore. Turning, Younger saw his partner Older hauling a metal plate with a gyrating mouth. As he headed back into the shade, Younger ran his fingers across his buzzed blond head, toweling it in the windless air.
Older secured the weight he had added and laid flat on his back, positioning himself. Younger found his place behind Older’s head. Face to face, Younger met dark eyes—irises indistinguishable from pupils over sharp white. He quickly averted his gaze, casting it outward past the pointed canines, the stubbled angular jaw, down the neck to the bulging pectorals, through the crease of the segmented abs, and in time to see a green sedan park across the way. Indiscriminate pop music emanated softly from a speaker standing against a nearby support beam. Younger perked his ears up with a frown, seemingly needled by its rhythms. Distracted, he nearly forgot his duty.
It’s May in Los Angeles—more specifically Silver Lake, up on a hillside looking at what fraction of the city is visible through the haze. Two years have come and gone, or have more passed? My cousin’s old dog is balled up behind me on the green sofa before a wall of books, not going anywhere. I take in the familiar smoggy air of my former prison, haunted—the echo of the baton clanging against the cell bars. But that's why I have come—to reckon with these memories. Days will pass before my cousin returns from his shoot in Europe. His belongings in my care, I have no other responsibilities. Only time to kill.
The day diminishing, the pair leaned against the railing of the shared balcony overlooking the communal pool, sipping animal protein from clear glasses. Two kids of uncertain age splashed each other in the water as their guardian lounged on a lawn chair in a true red bikini.
"Boy, I'd like to get at her," said Older, scratching his neck. "I've passed her a few times coming and going. She just moved in. We talked the other day."
"About what?" Younger asking, glancing nervously at the woman.
"Don't remember. I felt pretty good about it though." He bared his teeth but suddenly frowned.
"She always seems to have those brats around... A bit annoying." Younger quit nursing and downed his drink.
"Anyway, what will you do now?"
"Try to catch her between shifts, I suppose. Maybe I need to borrow some sugar."
"For work, I meant. Now that the movie’s over."
"Oh. My buddy has a gig at this photography company. I’ll pick up some shifts there." he answered, still eying his prey.
"Photography company?"
"Yeah. They send crews to ritzy parties out in Malibu to set up booths for guests to have their picture taken. You get all dressed up." Older took a big swig of the brown liquid. "I could ask about you." The woman shifted her posture and appeared to look in their direction, though it was difficult to be sure due to her tinted sunglasses. Older waved casually, and the woman waved back, her dark brown hair caressing her shoulders. Younger looked out at the distant palms manning the freeway.
"Thanks, but that’s not really for me. Plus, I need all my energy for writing."
"Too bad," Older said, finally looking at Younger.
Though I thought I was above it—the bigshot artist—I needed money, so I let my cousin get me a job as a production assistant. "Pay your dues," I remember him saying. He knew this cult horror filmmaker from his own PA days, a legend of the scene—always under budget, always turning a profit. Not making anything good, mind you. I showed up determined not to belong. Too proud to ask for directions, this was but another sidestreet to find my way out of.
When I saw Older, he was smiling, his fangs glistening somehow in the lowlight of the set. Chimp-like, I thought—submissive. Unlike me, hauling buckets of fake blood until my forearms screamed, the same muted expression resolutely adorning my lips. But I couldn't help but notice how he drew the others in—cast and crew like moths to a light. This despite his low hierarchical status, one equaling my own. My confidence faltered. Was it simply beauty, that which he had in spades? It was hard to say. Almost unaware, I too felt the pull. Concerned, I avoided the threat, sentinel-like in observation. Of course, this way, I was always watching him.
Yet my guard couldn't be up forever. One day I approached my beat-up sedan and there he was, changing his shirt out of his open trunk. We exchanged words and, before I knew it, I was following him down the freeway to North Hollywood, protecting the space between our cars from would-be lane-changers in snarling accelerations.
We came to his place, the workout equipment like a dead tooth in the submerged mouth of the building. Our bodies stretched out beneath paned eyes. That was the summer—all I can seem to remember of it anyway. Day in, day out.
The sun sets in the west over the Pacific. The rich palette is one not found in my hometown. I'm nauseous here, I find, but not so much that I can't think. I sometimes wish the nausea would just overwhelm me, eclipsing everything for a moment. All up, I could finally face the putridness, staring at it until it ceased to be so.
Younger walked from wall to wall in his West Hollywood studio, rapping his fist half-heartedly against the plaster. On the painted blue desk the cursor blinked at him. Light streamed in from the open window reflecting off scattered kitchenware on the counter. He flopped onto the bed which shook but held. Eyes on the white ceiling, he took his shirt off and began to masturbate, but quickly threw his hands up as if in surrender. He vaulted from the bed to the desk with a grunt. Sitting, he typed a few hurried sentences, deleted one, then collapsed on the keyboard, cupping his shaved scalp in his hand.
At a noise, he lifted his head, the light on his face from a gleaming pan interrupted. Perched on the sill was a tawny cat, a stray which he had dubbed Bill who would sometimes visit. With a swish of his tail, Bill leapt from the sill onto the counter. He maneuvered over the cluttered implements and onto the stove, stretching his furry body toward the overhead cabinets, kneading them with his untrimmed claws. Younger got up and made his way over to the kitchenette, brushing the cat aside. Bill retreated, lowering his large head, watching Younger through slitted yellow. Younger opened the cabinet and got out a tin of sardines which he too opened, unleashing a fishy stench that filled the apartment. Pausing, he suddenly held the tin up to his nose, taking a whiff with his eyes closed. Bill meowed impatiently in the background. Younger breathed out sharply and opened his eyes. He drained the tin in the sink and set it on the counter, but Bill did not budge. Younger returned to the desk. Only once Younger was away did Bill approach his meal, promptly devouring it, his eyes darting from time to time to Younger as he ate.
Younger watched the cat's convulsing body which seemed to require all of its components to ingest the sardines. Younger turned to the computer. The beating cursor and the clinking tin almost harmonized for a moment when Bill, tonguing the tin clean, flipped it accidentally over the edge of the counter. It crashed onto the floor, and, spooked, Bill shot through the window like a bullet, barely getting enough traction beneath his frantic legs.
Younger turned off the computer and retrieved the oily tin. He used a wet paper towel to wipe up the grime, tossing it in the trash. The sun had gone behind a fig tree, so he turned on his bedside lamp. He picked up his copy of Camus' The Plague from the nightstand, revealing his phone which he had stashed beneath the book. He lied down, his eyes darting from time to time to the phone as he read.
I tug on the leash, the dog's head buried in a thicket of wildflowers. I wonder whether I can be trusted. After all, we are our own most biased observers.
We go down the arid path, him running ahead of me kicking up dust. The sun beats ceaselessly on my neck. I think it’s a wonder that anything grows out here. Indeed, I speak from experience.
Money again. After the movie, I took a remote job writing copy for a company selling reheatable health food in "microwave-safe" plastic trays. Trying the product at the behest of my employers, it became easy to track what I ate. Older had his own schedule, so I improvised home workouts, hanging bed sheets over doors, dragging my body back and forth along the floor with my hands in my shoes. Shirking my responsibilities, I did math, calculating what it would take to reach infallibility.
I was a picture of contradiction: nutritious but sick, aesthetic but ugly. In my free time I stayed in to "live with the work," but wrote nothing of consequence. I once overheard a local barista boasting that their screenplay had been optioned. Catching the title, I found a synopsis online in an article announcing pre-production. "What rubbish," I thought, satisfied with myself.
Sitting in a chair by the window, Younger looked out under a sickle moon. A low wind rustled the roadside palms. He scanned the alleyway in the dark, making a clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Nothing moved in the alley, nor could even the bustle of the nearby boulevard be heard. All was quiet, save the TV talking softly in the background.
Suddenly his phone vibrated on the counter. Younger shot up erect in his seat, stabbing at the device. It was Older. They exchanged greetings, remarking on the long passage of time, hurling insults as signs of affection. Younger beamed in his apartment being called the affectionate "turd bird."
"Sorry I had to cancel tonight," Older said through the speaker. "I was caught up in a work meeting. The owner's got me running the show so to speak now, since my buddy quit. The money is good, but I miss going to the events already. All the pretty women—I feel a bit pent up. I'm like a spinning top at home. I've got all this useless energy. The weights aren't enough. Is this how you feel working on a computer all day?" Younger shifted, but didn't answer. "Anyway, I guess I shouldn't complain. I have been seeing this woman. And—it's wild. She's somewhat of a celebrity. I'd say who, but she's pretty private. I'm a bit skittish about messing things up to be honest. We're taking things slow, which as you can imagine is uncharted territory for me. But it’s good, you know?” He paused. “That’s enough about me! How have the ladies been for you?" Younger eyed his impeccably-made bed.
"Fine. On and off." He shook his head. "I've got to focus, you know. That all feels like distraction—it gets in the way."
"Diversion you mean." Older corrected, laughing. "You need to lighten up. Are you getting enough exercise?"
Younger fidgeted in his chair. "Sure. I don't have enough weight here to progress as quick as I'd like though."
"Hmm, yeah. I'll have you up soon once things slow down. It's a bit hectic now. Speaking of, actually—I meant to ask you. I've got an event coming up in two weeks that everyone is bailing on. I know it's not your thing, but would you want to work it with me? I think it'd be good. Like old times. And I could really use the help!" Younger gripped the skin of his neck, recoiling slightly as he snagged a few small hairs. A response came, stopping and starting like freeway traffic, tumbling out of his mouth in spurts.
"I don't know... What day? It's not—I'd have to buy something to wear—"
"I have everything you need! Don't buy anything. You'll be fine." Younger looked on the verge of saying something. His eyes narrowed, his brow contorting so that its lines encroached one another. The corners of his lips curled, forming shapes, then deflated like spent balloons. He ran his hand along his scalp. Suddenly he was relenting.
"Great, man!” encouraged Older. “I'm pumped. This'll be fun. Anyway, I've got to run. I'll send you the details when I have them. Thanks again. Love you!" With that, the line clicked. Younger stared at his reflection in the glass of the phone screen for a moment before turning it down onto the counter. Wearing a puzzled expression, he turned back to the window, resuming his post. Quiet set in again, and all was still. He squinted, fixating on a trashcan in the alley. His eyes bored into the plastic receptacle as if calling it to some action. Its black wheels, however, remained stationary. After a minute, he tore himself away, turning the volume up on the TV.
The dry season. Fires striking up across the city. Plumes above parks—smoke signals from the past…
I was coming up the 110 from somewhere. Ahead of me, billowing black clouds were being carried perpendicularly across the road by a seaward wind. I could see them from miles away. As I drove toward them, I had the sensation several times that—despite my getting closer—they seemed to be hovering the same distance away. This began to irk me, and I tried to focus on other things. As I averted my gaze, the anticipation built. My curiosity inflamed, I suddenly had to know what was burning. I didn't think of consequences—those in peril, the brave souls fighting the blaze. I only envisioned the wondrous orange glow of the fire, like a hypnotized child not knowing what should befall them were they to stick their hand in.
Looking up when I could stand the wait no longer, I saw rubberneckers clogging my exit. I blew by them without a thought, determined to get to the bottom of things. The smoke grew thicker, and I sat up in my seat, leaning forward so that my chin was almost resting on the wheel. Soon all that was left between me and the source was an obscuring overpass. I accelerated. The other cars were a blur of senseless color to my right. As I pulled out from under the overpass, however, my heart sank. The fire was completely hidden, raging behind the soundwall. I couldn't see a single flame.
I watch a movie online that has somehow fallen into the public domain. A western in which Marlon Brando stars and directs. He pursues his mentor who left him for dead, killing him in the end. Watching Brando, I recall that smoke over the 110—unseen fire, but all the signs.
I was told by an old acquaintance over coffee that Older is in the army now. Figures. We were always circling brotherhood.
Younger stood in front of the floor length mirror, examining himself. He wore a navy suit, the coat a little too tight in the shoulders, the wool pants not quite meeting the tongues of his tan loafers. Phone in hand, he bent his body, wearing a grimace. Eventually he snapped a rushed photo which cut off his face, sending it without review. It appeared on the screen under a message from Older: "black if you have it." Younger added a question mark suddenly, tossing his phone onto the bed as if it were hot to the touch.
He returned to the mirror, meeting his own grey eyes. Under them were two pronounced bags, which he massaged slowly with the pads of his fingers. Shedding the jacket and unbuttoning the shirt, he gingerly revealed his upper half. His physique was impeccable: His shoulders were broad and rounded, his pecs wide and flat with concrete ridges separating them from flat abs. Not a fiber was out of place. He stared at himself and scowled. A smoldering crease lined his forehead. Suddenly he spun around, slamming the jacket repeatedly against the bedspread, his teeth gritted.
His phone buzzed on the bed, breaking the fit. He let the jacket fall to the floor, taking shallow breaths. He picked up the phone and read the message. The crease in his forehead deepened as he read and reread it.
"That's fine. By the way, I've got some bad news. Something came up and I won't be able to work the shift with you. I found someone else though, so no worries." A bewildered look flashed in Younger’s eyes. He typed furiously.
"If you're not going to be there, that changes things. I had agreed to go to see you." Glued to the screen, his shoulders rose and fell like crashing waves. Another buzz.
"I know, sorry! It's out of my control. But I'm really in a bind. Can I count on you?" Without hesitation Younger sent his response.
"No, sorry. I didn't want to go in the first place. I told you I don’t like this sort of thing." His shoulders smashed into the shore. He sucked air through his teeth. Awaiting a response, he stalked around the apartment, knocking down objects in his reach. Another buzz.
"Whatever, man. With time you'll see how foolish you've been." Younger’s face flushed. His thumbs thundered against the glass.
"You're manipulating me to do a job for you." Younger waited, but a response didn’t come. His anger appearing to recede, he slinked over to the bed and curled up into a ball around his device.
What did I want coming back here? To ride up to his doorstep like Brando, bandolier slung across my chest, gun holstered but ready? Violence took hold of me then. I plunged into darkness, headfirst. I was trapped within myself—like Brando rotting in Sonoran jail, plotting his revenge. I became monstrous. Maybe I'm here to see if I still am. "You're a one-eyed jack around here," Brando said. "But I've seen the other side of your face." In the bathroom I look at my profile in the mirror as I brush my teeth, unsure with which character I identify.
Older had everything I wanted. His was an authentic possession. I could sense his alien methods—ones not suited to me. And so I had envy. But like an unknown revealed, no longer to be feared, his presence disarmed me. He shined, so I looked up finally—freed from the hypnosis of my own plodding feet. Grateful, I had laid down my weapon. But, this ceasefire had conditions. Ones of which even I was unaware… Could he not see how lost I was? I put all my faith in this.
The urge to hurt, to kill—it was so close to love for me. The bastardized version of that emotion anyway. Torn apart by these extremes, I begged for apathy. To whom I begged I do not know. God, I suppose. If they were listening, I hope they at least turned away.
A few drinks deep, Younger stumbled out of his apartment complex. The night air was cool, and he shivered for a moment without a jacket. He walked down Santa Monica Boulevard with his arms tucked under his armpits. It was a weeknight and late—not many people were out. Yet most of the vacant storefronts remained lit, distorting time. He hurried down the sidewalk, watching each foot collide with the cement. Suddenly, a voice rang out to the side of him and he stopped, drawing up with a cocked head.
"Sorry to bother you," the voice said. "Could you spare some change?" Younger looked the speaker up and down. It was a man wearing a dusty brown jacket that hung to his knees. Underneath the jacket was a yellow flannel. His right sneaker had a hole in it. Slung over his back was a dirt-covered black pack. His face was obscured by unmanicured brown-gray facial hair which puffed out in distinct tufts along his chin. Up top his hair was thinner, and the scraggly strands revealed spotted skin. A set of piercing eyes like a hawk's sat above a beakish nose, staring back at Younger expectantly.
"I don't have any money on me," Younger started. "But I'm headed to this place—you might know of it. It's a sort of French strip joint, I think. Not totally sure. Pierrot's, it’s called." The man shook his head, grumbling something. "If you come with me, I'll buy you a drink. Food if they have it. Whatever." The man seemed to mull over the proposition, his mouth emerging beneath his bushy mustache, puckering to one side of his face. Younger stood waiting, his back tense. Eventually the man assented with a nod. An uneasy smile jumped onto Younger's face.
"Okay, great! Come on, it’s chilly." The two began walking side by side, the man’s shuffle in tune with Younger's lopsided gait. Younger began filling the air with questions: What was the man's name? Where was he from? How had he come to the city? The man answered them all matter-of-factly in a gruff, detached voice: Roger. St. Louis. His father had moved the family to California to find work in sawmills. While Roger spoke his eyes would dart suddenly to Younger, but avert just as quickly. Yet, he wore a slight grin as the pair approached their destination. From afar, the neon sign advertising the all-nude club stood above the street—a beacon. The two passed beneath its light, finding a less-inviting, nondescript metal door.
"I've never been here before," Younger said. He stepped forward and knocked uncertainly. They waited, but nothing happened. Younger stepped forward again, rapping the door with increased confidence. Again, no answer. He put his ear to the worn steel. Overhead, the curtained windows were lit. Roger tapped his foot impatiently against the sidewalk. Younger turned.
"Maybe they're clos—"
"Okay. How much?" Roger asked, looking down his hooked nose at Younger.
"How much...?" Younger echoed.
"Yes. How much?" Roger confirmed. "How much are you paying?"
"For what?"
"Don't waste my time. I won't fuck, and I won't do anything for less than 50." Younger opened his mouth, then closed it. Tears welled up in his ducts, but did not fall.
"You misunderstand," he stammered. "I just wanted to buy you a drink. It's not like that." He raised his hands slightly, open-fisted. Roger scowled. His eyes jumped up and down Younger. Suddenly he rolled his shoulder, repositioning his pack in one violent motion.
"Wasting my fucking time..." He turned and hobbled in the direction they had been heading. Younger watched him go, his mouth open but silent. Then Younger was running in the opposite direction, fast as he could toward home. Palms flapped their broad leaves overhead. He didn't let up. Flying through the mediterranean courtyard up the stairs and through his door, he finally came to rest, his back against the frame.
Sliding down the wood, holding his head in his hands, Younger was startled by a noise. There Bill was on the sill, pawing at his whiskers. Bill rubbed his square head and, as usual, crossed to the counter, finding his way to the cabinets. Younger rose dutifully, making his way toward the kitchenette. However, reaching the window, he had a sudden wild look in his eye, and, in an instant, he grabbed the sash with both hands and slammed the window shut. Bill, startled, tried to dart past Younger to the window, but Younger lunged at him. Bill dodged, ending up on the floor, and, seeing his exit blocked, he tore through the room, disrupting papers and knocking down wall art, until coming to rest beneath the bed.
Younger, snarling, followed—eying the cat huddled in the corner, its head down. Younger stretched out his hand, prompting a vitriolic hiss. Bill’s tail poofed in a coil as he dug his claws into the hardwood. Younger withdrew, marched over to the kitchenette, bent down, and retrieved a red oven mitt from a drawer. Returning to the bed, his hand mitted, he crouched, reaching again for the cat. Bill hissed, louder this time, flying at his red attacker, tearing at it with his claws. Younger did not meet this frenzy with resistance. However, once Bill was tangled in the fabric, Younger pressed down, pinning the squirming cat to the hardwood. Bill whined as he was dragged out from under the bed. He thrashed, but Younger's grip held. After a few more fruitless attempts, Bill quieted, seeming to accept his fate.
Seeing this, Younger carefully lowered his head. The cat's hurried breathing vibrated his hand. He pressed his head to the cat's body. The cat's heart was beating in his ear.
Suddenly, he rose, releasing Bill, who cowered where he lied, his fur ruffled. Younger's lips curled in horror. He wheezed. "I'm sorry," he said in a strained voice. Turning, almost in a daze, he mechanically opened the window. Bill remained motionless. Only when Younger stepped back, his hands visibly in the air, did Bill make a sudden dash for freedom. In one movement he bounded through the opening and scurried off into the night. Younger looked out after him, but he was gone. Looking back at Younger instead was the full moon.
It all comes out, like a flood. The levees break. How long has it been since I’ve wept? Water rushes over the land. I soak it up with my sleeves.
Flooding is so devastating to civilization, that we forget it is a natural process. Fertility, health, habitat. For new things to grow, old things are torn down. They must decompose for the new to live. For the cycle to continue. I suppose that's why I've come. To lay Younger to rest. I see him lying there in the bed. I want to lie next to him. To hold him. To stroke his blond hair—scratch his back. To tell him everything is alright. To close his lids for the last time, knowing he'll always be with me...
It’s June in Los Angeles. My cousin will be home soon. I'll tell him things went great with the dog.