Fiction: Kathy K. In The Desert

By Jack Uppling

                                   

Jackie brought some new guy to the bowling alley. I studied the dirt on his arms and hands. He started talking to me about music and told me that he loved my haircut, mentioning that he also wanted to bleach his hair. I pictured how stupid he would look. I soon learned that Jackie had told him that I’m into electronic stuff and he asked how I recorded everything. I suppose that I was flattered that she actually listened to what I said, but I was struggling trying to converse with him. He brought up that he was playing somewhere in Mexico soon, describing it as some shitty little bar with a strange vibe and a cool stage. He requested that we come, mentioning that it would be worth it to experience what it was like down there. As much as I didn’t like this guy, he didn’t necessarily give me the creeps and I wanted to do new and exciting things like crossing the border. Not long after he left I decided to go. After getting home I spent the night working on my album, with visions of the night’s events as if they had already happened. 

Jackie and I drove out with him the afternoon of the show. The heat was overwhelming and his Honda barely had A/C. The interior of the bar was the color of my mother’s lipstick. It felt as if it had a dark past and had at one time catered to much classier music. There were some faded curtains near the stage area. They were disgusting and covered in dust. Men spoke to us in Spanish and broken English, and Jackie smiled nervously and nodded as I ignored them. All of my complaining about how dull it was where we lived should’ve driven me to engage with those around us, but I just wasn’t in the mood. Most of the people didn’t seem to notice us at all.

The three of us were sitting and waiting for the night to progress when an American guy came up to us who was in the band. His face brought on a strange sensation, and I studied him much more than I would the average person as he spoke to us. His skin was scarred and burnt by the sun. I vaguely wanted to ask where I knew him from, but something kept me from doing so. He was familiar but I had no real confidence that I’d seen him before. Later that night I looked over during a local band’s set and he and Jackie were taking black pills. I’d never seen black pills before. I was angry at Jackie for being so stupid but I never questioned or lectured her about it. She was high when they finally went on, and the strange guy that I couldn’t place kept looking at me. He played guitar and he scared me. Fear was an unusual feeling for me when associated with other people. I thought I might sleep with him if the opportunity came up. I wouldn’t make an effort myself, but I was very curious to see how he would act behind closed doors. Maybe it was because of the strange new atmosphere I was a part of. The Honda guy played synth and sang. They were a three piece with a drummer whose face is nothing but a blur to me now.

I made out with the guitar player in his car outside after they were done. I felt uncomfortable but somewhat turned on and he touched me a bit. I wanted to touch him but I was too anxious. I saw a couple of locals staring at us from the front of the bar and pulled away from him. I could feel him staring at me. 

“I don’t like being watched like that.” I said. 

He didn’t say anything for a while and lit a cigarette without offering me one. When he finally spoke he said that he wanted to see me later in the week and asked for my number. I still couldn’t bring myself to ask where I’d seen him before. I gave him my number regretting it instantly and went in to look for Jackie. The lights outside of the bar were like floodlights and the surrounding area was pitch black. She wasn’t inside and I felt myself starting to stress. I went back outside and the guitar player’s car was gone. I saw the Honda but no one was in it. I found Jackie in the kitchen whining and crying while this man was rubbing her arm and trying to kiss her. I grabbed her and walked quickly out of the kitchen to find the Honda guy. I told him we needed to leave and he said he was too fucked up to drive, so I convinced him to give me the keys. His and Jackie’s pupils were huge. As we were driving home I kept my window down completely and let the hot wind rush at my face. I didn’t feel good about myself or anything that had happened. I was now even more terrified of the guitar player and upset that I had given him my phone number like some stupid adolescent. I knew I’d have to screen all of my calls for a while and change my answering machine as soon as I got home.

#

Over the next week or so he would call late at night and I always knew it was him, even though I never answered and he never left a message. Sometimes he’d call 2-3 times in a row. Luckily Jackie didn’t see the Honda guy again, and I told her how unsettled the guitar player and the whole night had made me feel. She wasn’t used to me talking like that so I think it bothered her. She’s not really into band guys anyway. She really just likes boring and nothing dudes. 

Sometimes when he called I’d leave my place and go drive by this house where this woman was killed. The cops left a bathroom light on after the body was taken away, but some nights it was off, and then I’d come back and it would be on again. I thought about forcing myself to go try all the doors and look in the windows. The thought of it froze me with fear and I loved it. I brought Jackie one night and she nearly lost it as soon as I parked, begging me to drive away. She couldn’t stand looking at the house and when I told her about the inconsistency of the bathroom light she started honking the horn and screaming. I couldn’t help laughing as we drove away. She didn’t speak to me for a few days. Mostly I would just go during the day by myself on foot. People don’t take walks where I live and I was often watched through various windows. A cop pulled up behind me once while I was zoning out in the heat, staring at the front door. He asked me if I knew what had happened there recently. I replied that I did and he asked why I would be hanging around. I said nothing, turned and walked away. I could feel his stare on my back until I was out of sight. I went back the next day ready to defend myself but he never showed up.

Going back to the bowling alley was underwhelming after our night in Mexico and my visits to the house. Jackie took one of those black pills again in the bathroom; I could tell by the look on her face and her eyes as she stared at the carpet. The carpet there always did something for me and I understood the desire to get lost in it. There’s something nostalgic and intriguing about all the faded purples, yellows, and reds. As we were both transfixed and staring at the ground, I tried to picture if we would be friends later in life. I knew it wasn’t likely. It didn’t make me sad, necessarily, but I could see myself worrying about her even after she’s no longer around. Someone asked if I wanted to bowl and I declined as I always do.

#

Weeks later I had a somewhat complete demo tape. It sounded rough and unprofessional but in a way that I enjoyed. I was especially fond of the way it hissed. I made a last minute decision to go to a punk show, and there was a guy that just screamed over his recorded synths and drum machine. He was covered in sweat by the time he finished and the veins in his neck were red and swollen. I was absolutely taken in by the performance. I knew immediately that this was the path for me to take. I didn’t want to deal with a band and enjoyed doing everything myself. Vicente was a slightly older regular that I tolerated at the bowling alley. He wrote poetry and sang in bands off and on. It seemed as if he was going for a Jim Morrison type of a thing. He had seen me at the punk show and I mentioned that I couldn’t get enough of the person screaming over his own music. He told me how easy it was to book a set there as long as you had a demo tape that wasn’t completely awful. I went home and remixed all of my songs for hours on my 4 track before completing a new tape. 

It’d been days since I’d seen Jackie. I called her place and left messages but hadn’t heard back. I was concerned but thought it likely that she was just pissed at me again, for some asinine thing I didn't even realize that I said or did. I tried to spend as little mental energy as possible on her and drove to the venue to drop off my tape. I listened to it one more time obsessively on the way over to make sure there was nothing wrong with it. It still sounded properly shitty and listening to it while driving eased my anxiety about going. The club was centered in an empty dirt parking lot across the street from a run down taco stand. I rewound and put the cassette in the case carefully, making sure my homemade sleeve fit into the plastic. It was black and scarlet covered with hand drawn prehistoric-type faces. I had written my number on the inner sleeve. As I was walking in I saw the guitar player staring at me through sunglasses from the inside of his car. I knew he saw me glance at him but I kept walking. He was smirking. I tried to calm down but the anger was too aggressive. Luckily the anger overtook my anxiety, and when I dropped off the tape to the man inside I believe it made me look somewhat confident. He seemed nice enough and told me he’d give me a call. When I walked back out the parking lot was empty. I decided to go to Jackie’s place. She wasn’t answering the door so I sat outside studying the guitar player’s face in my mind, trying to understand my reaction. I wondered if I’d ever really seen him before. His energy was so familiar but nothing distinct came to me. I gave up quickly and headed home so that I could blast my music and record my screaming before it got too late. I had gotten a few complaint letters from my landlord which I ripped up and partially burned, pinning them to my walls. Screaming was a release. The sun was beginning to set and I visualized everything that was bothering me. I screamed bloody murder until the pain in my throat forced me to stop. 

The screaming wore me out so I fell asleep earlier than normal and woke up to severe pounding. I looked through the hole in my door and saw the guitar player. I was certain that I would see him standing there, and it felt as if every detail of his face and the hallway around him were part of a scene I’d created long ago. At that point I understood what he was to me. He continued to pound and I knew that he could hear me moving around, so I yelled:

“FUCK OFF!” 

He started laughing. I looked out into the hallway again and I saw Jackie behind him sitting on the stairs with her head down, her greasy black hair hanging all over her face. He started to kick the door, so I went to the window ready to jump out onto the balcony and drop down, but I soon heard Jackie whining and both of them walking down the steps.

#

I booked a show at the venue and the apprehension began consuming me shortly after. I was constantly agitated and had no one to talk to. I would vent to Jackie every now and again but she didn’t get it. I was really aggressive with her about showing up at my house with the guitar player, but she said she didn’t remember and I suppose I believed her. She did admit to spending some time with him; she wouldn’t go into it but I knew that he and the black pills were the reason she was gone for such long spells at a time. She asked me if I’d been back to that house and I found it strange that she would ask. 

“Why do you care?” I asked. 

“It bothers me.” 

#

The night leading up to my set moved along slowly with sharp, stabbing pain. I threw up periodically hoping it had the potential to make my screaming more interesting, and that having a sickly look could be helpful to my performance. I tried to comfort myself with thoughts that I didn’t have to play an instrument of any kind, and that the lyrics didn’t really matter when I was going to be screaming more often than not. I also attempted to get to my place of peace several times. Somewhere in my past life there lies a connection to this enormous, empty theater which happens to be completely red; the velvet curtains, the dark wooden floors of the stage, and all of the surrounding carpet. The seats are from another time, and underneath they’re covered in blood red plastic. Even the plates with the seat numbers are red with the numbers a lighter shade for visibility. Often I perform to no one, other times I’m the sole audience member to my own thoughts. I wanted so desperately to find a way to live there while I performed, but there was no way I could concentrate enough to make this happen. I drove around for about an hour before I was supposed to be there and smoked as many cigarettes as I possibly could. I even stopped off at the house. The panic I was cycling through made me numb to any other type of fear, so I went up to the windows and even tried the locked back doors and windows. It was dark already and hard to see inside, but there seemed to be plastic covering almost everything and stains on the floors. I wondered about the woman and anyone else who may have lived there. For a moment I saw the house in another time, bleak blue daylight filtering in between the curtains and every dark corner. The kitchen was disgusting. There was a sliding glass door leading straight into it and I saw crumbs everywhere and scattered dead roaches on their backs.

When I got to the club, Jackie was waiting and sitting on the hood of her green VW with her head down. She could tell I was freaked and showed concern like I’d never seen from her before. She tried to tell me how it’d all be over before I knew it and all this other lame stock shit that didn’t help. I couldn’t stop smoking. She could tell she wasn’t helping.

“Just take one of these. You deserve to enjoy this.” 

I knew she meant the pills before she held them out. I was so upset with her for bringing these to me knowing the state that I was in, however I must’ve taken one because I soon felt surprisingly calm. Once I got inside I drifted from person to person discussing my set time and setup. I felt the room changing right before I was about to go on. I saw Jackie in the small crowd and our eyes connected. She looked strangely unfamiliar, and didn’t smile or show any hint of urging me on like before. From what I could tell she had the facial expression of numb serenity. Then she was gone. Everyone faded away as I got to the stage and everything turned red. I was finally where I wanted to be and completely alone. My fingernails were crimson along with the microphone. I could feel my eyes go bloodshot just as I began to scream.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack Uppling is a writer and music teacher currently living in Phoenix, AZ. He graduated from The Motion Picture Institute of Michigan, and shortly after spent several years recording and performing original music in the Midwest and Seattle. His writing has recently appeared in Blood+Honey and Club Plum.