Part 5: Gas Station Refugees 

The nun didn’t know it was God who let us in. Probably why she looked frightened. These figures all in black, coming towards where she stood at the altar. Up between the pews and stomping. Carriers of dead leaves and shoe mud from all our bush hiding. The seat of my pants torn from fence jumping.  

Godless beasts that night. All four of us. Before coming here, nothing but lowly gas station crouchers. Curled up beneath the cash register. The last hiding space that would still have us as the whole neighbourhood came running out of their doors. As if they wanted to tear us to pieces. Fed up with our foul language and not finding our kind of mean things funny. Reminding us there were some streets we had to behave on. And to get ourselves back to the Townhouse if we were going to be those kind of kids. 

For hours we hid. The kindly gas station attendant, whose feet we sat at, occasionally reporting down to us that he could still see them out there. Waiting for us. Hiding in the trees. Said he could see their eyes in the shadows. The lit ends of their cigarettes being smoked impatiently. And that if we were scared we could stay there as long as we needed, even though we knew we couldn’t. That eventually we would have to start running again. 

And so that's what we did. Thanked our new friend and shot out the door as quick as we could. Discovered how much faster we were than all the adults. Leaving them far behind us. Soon finding ourselves all alone on the late night streets. Walking and walking and walking until we were in this place. Inside this enormous castle of a church, before any of those bad thoughts could return. In this place we didn’t belong. At least not me. That scared nun looking directly at me as if I was the reason she had to believe in God.

Part 6: ...And Then God Tasted Me, Went Yuck, and I Was Forsaken 

She stood there not backing away. A tiny body holding an armor-plated bible out in front of her. Hoping to ward us off. Me and Critty and Mensy’s and Little Mikey. Waiting until we got close enough to see we didn’t have the faces of Nun-Killers. Hardly old enough for such things. And only then softening. Putting down her bible and inviting us to sit down and talk with her. 

But not just her. Also Jesus and the Virgin Mary, who at first we couldn't see anywhere, but who she would point at watching from the walls. The two of them everywhere, I guess. That’s what she told us, smiling and very old and seeming to know things we didn’t. And so I looked up at the ceiling and they were there too. Making me not want to say anything, but got Critty and Mensy’s and Little Mikey talking. Got the ceiling and the walls and this nun listening real close.  

As the three of them confessed to what we had done that night, she only smiled and held out her bible again. But this time not to frighten us away. This time for us to kiss. She insisted it was the only way to be sure we could stay out of Hell after everything we’d told her. Said we could still be saved, even though I knew there were still things we had kept from her. Like the kind of words we yelled at that little girl standing in a driveway. Or the parts of our body we flashed at her father as he got out of his car and started running after us. Maybe the kind of things that made us unworthy to kiss anything. 

The voice of the nun was very pleasant, and in a kind of trance I watched each of my friends take their turn leaning over and pressing their mouth against the cover of her book. Not sure what I should do, and waiting to go last. Thinking I wasn't allowed to do the same thing as them since I had lied about believing and knowing this place knew more than it was letting on. That it had also seen me in the only other church I had ever been in. Years ago. Me screaming as my mother splashed holy water down the collar of my shirt. Maybe more than just a kid who knocked on doors and ran away. Maybe the devil himself. 

“Kiss. Kiss. No germs. My bible is always clean, even when kissed by boys who haven’t washed” 

As the nun laughed, I did just like all my friends had done. But I found it cold against my lips. Almost like it didn’t want me touching it. That it was turned off. That maybe it was no longer working and didn’t do anything to save me after all. Not like it had my friends, who now looked different and were no longer interested in running as we left the church to go home. Who just wanted to talk about God, as I walked ahead of them. Certain I was still being hunted. If not by the mob that had chased us all night, then by something inside of the church that had come out. That now knew what I tasted like. 

(Oh my god, please don't google image search "belly rub".  Ffffuuuck....)
 

He Walks Backwards Down the Stairs Now 

(postponed until my grandfather is resurrected from his grave) 

Part 2 - Haunted Heartache

They needed a good and proper place to put their voices. Because they made a sound when they sung that made them happy. That reminded them they were in this together. Were sisters. Always mishearing the same lyrics and being sure to mumble at the same time when they didn’t know the words at all. Somehow hitting all the wrong notes in unison. And laughing together as they sung, but also as they listened back to what they’d recorded. Their nights singing together in the living room.  

To help, they had a machine that made the singers go away. The ones that had been in the song long before they got there. I didn’t know where they got such a machine but could not imagine they made it themselves. Not with those short little fingers of theirs. Not with nothing but hair elastics and old batteries and sunflower-seeds spit into ashtrays to make it from. But like magic they had their little metal box that did these impossible things. Took away the voices. Put Willie and Conway and Skeeter and Connie someplace else. Left a space for them. Got these sisters singing on the floor with their mouths close to a tiny microphone. Lips close to each others lips when singing together. Putting their voices where maybe they didn’t belong. 

I sometimes wondered where the voices they took had been put. If they were still singing somewhere else. Somewhere I hadn’t looked in our apartment. Of if they had stopped as soon as they realized they had been taken from their song. Too angry to sing. Or worse, crying because they no longer knew where they were either. Somewhere no one could hear them anymore. Maybe in one of those closets we didn’t use outside of keeping our cat. Maybe in a drawer filled with dirt. I sometimes expected to open something and hear them in there. Asking to be put back where they came from.  

But since I didn’t know how to use their magic box, I never wanted to find them. Would have rather just left them wherever they were, even though I thought of them often. These voices I couldn’t help. 

Sometimes when my mother was not surrounded by her sisters, she would hand me the microphone. I didn’t know many words yet but knew the ones in songs. At least a few. At least those in It’s a Heartache, which my mother would play again and again and again, and that I couldn’t help but listen to with some worry. Listening to it closely, trying to remember the sound of that voice. Knowing that soon enough it would be taken away too. Surprised when I realized it was going to be up to me to replace it.  

That night I sat on the floor singing. Just like I had seen my mother and sisters do. My mouth close to the microphone. Knowing most of the words and mumbling when I forgot some. Only able to continue because I could see it was making my mother happy to hear me sing. I guess I was good. Maybe even sister-good.

Or maybe something very bad was happening. My mother suddenly became worried. A shadow had flickered past the kitchen doorway, even though no one else was supposed to be here. She told me to sing quieter. Listening for a clue to who was in there. Asking me if she should go and look. 

But I think I knew the answer as the song continued without any voice at all. I had seen the shadow too. Thought I had seen a big head of hair on top. Just like the woman on the cover I was looking at while I’d been singing. Probably the ghost of that dusty taken-away voice, now listening to me next to the stove. Next to the refrigerator. Maybe about to scream as it heard what I was doing to its song. A scream that might have even been in tune. That knew all the words I thought were right were wrong. Especially in the second verse. My mother stopped recording. And I never sang again. 

Part 4: VIVALDI BURNING ON A STOVE 

My grandmother kept music in the kitchen with her, so I knew she knew what it was. She was the one who turned the radio on. Always classical music playing as she cooked. The sound of my grilled cheese getting burnt. Of mysterious ingredients in the spaghetti sauce she said she didn’t put there. Always at the table with a pen and a crossword, acting like there wasn’t any music on at all. Not moving or smiling or commenting on a moment of it. Not smelling the soot stink of my lunch rising up from a blackened pan. Not hearing the stranger sneak into the kitchen to add the things to her sauce that I would soon be complaining about.  

Sitting there with the radio on all day. Never turning it off. At least not unless someone dared to sing. Could not stand the sound of voices. The sound of humans. Of someone noticing that there was any music at all in the room with her. Or that it could get them to do something so ridiculous as sing out loud.  

Such a weakness of character she would never fall prey to. Quickly turned it off. Made everything silent but for the sizzle of the pan. The sound of my food poisoner’s footsteps sneaking away. No more music allowed until she had waited long enough to be sure the singing had stopped. Then turning the radio back on once it was safe to start listening and ignoring it all over again. 

Part 6: Musical Appreciation or Rather An Autopsy Conducted Through a Closed Door 

When I sat across from everyone at tables, I had things to keep their eyes from seeing too close. My shirt and my haircut and my face glaring back at them and telling them to look away. Sometimes a handful of green peas pushed into my face by my vampire uncle, which only gave another level of protection. A layer of dripping vegetable sludge. Not a chance for them to notice anything of importance.  

But sometimes, when I was in my bedroom, and the door was closed, I knew they could suddenly see inside of me. If they crept near the adjoining wall and pushed their ear against it. Somehow heard what I was playing so quietly. 

Music was a terrible thing. A really terrible thing that would betray me if I wasn’t careful. 

There was a time I’d listen to a little bit outside of my room. I remember one time my father playing Pink Pussycat outside on a summer night. And me running around the house in circles, unable to listen to it all at once. Only getting fragments of its sound as I dashed past where he sat on the porch with the speakers. But then kept running away from it. Around the garage to the backyard where I could recuperate from its effect and run more and more out of breath before I got back to the porch and was happy to find it still playing. 

I also remember Satisfaction in a spare bedroom. The opening of Satisfaction and not knowing what that sound could possibly be. Wrapping myself in the nearest green blankets. Almost convulsing. Rolling from a bed onto the floor. Hopefully landing on my head and seeing stars. 

But my behavior in this house seemed confusing to everyone else. I started to get looks. Mostly from my grandparents, who seemed not to know what music was supposed to do. And so I soon learned maybe to keep such things in my room. Turned the volume down always low. Never moving myself too fast while whatever it was played. Pressing my face close into the place the music came out of and trying never to forget to listen for noises at my door. Any reason to quickly turn it off and cover up my insides from anymore unnecessary inspection. 

Part 8: Girl Music (Music for Girls) 

Being a girl was alright. Not so different from being a boy, really. My father in particular was interested in how this had happened. He suspected the record he heard me listening to. The one Garrett gave me. 

Because I was a girl he asked what it was about fun I wanted so much. Was it the boysmooching? Or the pink ribbons in my hair? Or the slumber parties? But I didn’t have any answer other than turning the record over and playing more of it. 

Even though he laughed at me, he shouldn’t have. Even though he flipped bottlecaps at my head, I could have flipped them back. He didn’t know but I found his records. Dumped at the bottom of a closet in a room he didn’t think anyone ever looked in. Listened to them so quietly he couldn’t have possibly known how much I was listening to them.  

I knew everything he had ever been sad about. Knew how to make him cry. Dared him to flick another bottlecap. Just stared back at him as I turned the record again. 

Part 10: My Fathers Records Come to My Room With Me 

I found them and brought them to my room. Something about the way he was living had made them all dirty. Their covers were split and torn and I could barely play them they were so covered in dust and scratches. Would crackle so loudly it seemed like gravel was being rained down on the musicians as they performed. Filling their mouths and knocking out their teeth.  

Still, I was careful when I touched them, even though they were already covered in fingerprints. Fingerprints that had the smell of terrible nights on them. From the sort of fingers that reached out for sad music like this. That I now touched delicately even though they were all ruined. 

No one knew I had been listening to them. Would always return them to the closet when I was finished so there could be no suspicion. My father had no idea I had maybe heard his secrets. Maybe all of them. That I was this good at listening.  

I played them so quiet but they would let me see him anyways. Things I normally couldn’t see. Far away in his home, in this apartment I’d never seen. Visions of him hitting himself and crying whenever he put these songs on. In bed and punching himself in the face and beer soaking into a mattress and a voice full of gravel singing something to him that he could no longer bear. 

Part 12: The Beatles Can Never Be Enough (According to Vampires) 

You have to trust the opinion of a 163 year old vampire. They’ve seen a lot. They know things. Especially loud ones. Ones who are always yelling their opinions of everything at you. Until you believe them even if they are ridiculous. Saying things that they couldn’t truly think, then tilting their head forward so you could see the eyes behind their vampire sunglasses.  A gesture to let you know they are being straight with you. The most sincere vampire eyes you’ve ever seen. Telling you to trust them. And then repeating themselves over and over again, louder and louder, if you tell them you don't trust them at all. Over and over. Louder and louder. Until you just hold up your hands and say ‘okay okay okay okay’. 

My uncle was that kind of vampire and had been around awhile and had listened to lots of music. All kinds of it. An ocean of time to hear everything. But mostly stuff from the 1970s. Mostly just America and Britain. Mostly guitar stuff. Not so much piano. 

Evan was a rock and roll vampire. He dyed his hair black and wore black shirts and black jeans and black boots. His ears were pierced. Would grab my arm when he came into the kitchen and ask what I was listening to: “Rock and roll, I hope” 

“I guess”, I would say. Already a disappointment. Then tell him all about The Beatles, while he looked back at me smirking. Thinking something I said was funny. 

“Oh, really. The Beatles....huh....and that’s it? The Beatles” 

I would tell him yes. Then would explain why nothing else mattered. Get very impassioned that there was no point in anything else. They were the best and that was good enough for me and it should have been for him too. The whole rest of the world should just stop singing entirely, for all I cared. Getting quite worked up as he kept smirking. 

“Yeah, they're good. But so are lots of people. Lots”.  

Then he started asking me what else I’d heard. Mentioning other bands he liked. That I’d never heard of. Mostly words that seemed made up. So many of them. Talked about guitarists who ate American cheese sandwiches and drooled on themselves. About other ones who tried to fuck my aunt. Some who rolled around in potato sacks. That pissed themselves and didn’t even seem to notice.  

I tried to imagine what all these different things he talked of could possibly sound like. A lot to think about. Quickly became too confused to say anything about anything. Dizzy from shaking my head at everything he said.  

“No no no no” 

I didn’t know anything. Had never heard of anything. Held my hands up to make him stop. To slow down. But eventually just saying ‘okay okay okay okay’. Yes, yes, they sounded interesting. Sure sure, they were great. Then he started laughing. Rubbed my head. Asked me if I remembered that time he smashed peas in my face. 

And of course I did. Of course I did.  

And I never threw another pea at him, because I learned.  

Just like I was learning now. 

Then he asked me to guess how old he was. Smirking. Looking at me over his sunglasses. 

Part 14: The No-Lunch Garage Sale Talking Blues 

My grandfather was already dying from car heat anyways. Like he nearly did every summer. I just asked to come along for the ride. Took no responsibility as he sweat and sighed and grumbled about how he needed his lunch. Sometimes twisting the steering wheel as he sat there, waiting. Not one to curse or really even move his face much, even when he was disgusted with everything. Especially the people he was waiting for. Who were nearly killing him on particularly hot days. 

He didn’t see any point in what we were looking for. Me going for the cardboard boxes full of music I’d find in driveways. My grandmother, for all the things she could buy for a quarter. Old coffee tins full of assorted nails and screws. Paint brushes so stiff their bristles wouldn’t bend. Smoke stained baby clothes. Christmas ornaments without any hooks.  

My grandfather thought it was all junk that we should be embarrassed to even be touching. The shame he felt as he saw the both of us covered in the garage dust of our neighbours. Arms full of their garbage asking him to open the trunk. And him asking if we could go home yet as we got back into the car, but my grandmother just pointing at more addresses she had circled in the newspaper.  

When I ran out of quarters I would sit and wait in the car with him. Realizing how hot it could get once we had stopped. Both of us now getting angrier and angrier with my grandmother and the useless things she brought back with her. How slowly she walked. How she stopped to talk with everybody. How, when we saw them shaking their heads, we knew she was trying to talk them down from fifty cents to twenty five. But eventually winning and bringing it back to the car with her, without even so much as a smile on her face. 

“What did you want that for?” 

“Can we go home yet” 

“You know it’s past lunch, right Norma?” 

But Norma just pointing at another address. My Saturday slowly disappearing and all my new records melting in the trunk. And my grandfather slowly dying, because he was old and just as delicate as those were.