dissonance. (a Böhme novel) (8 page)

A half hour later we were back on the road and heading to the Böhme.

“Are you going to respond to Brecken?” Karl asked.

“Yeah, I will. But I don’t know how I can top that song,” I said and smiled as I thought of how funny she was.

“Why do you need to top it? Can’t you be honest with her?” he asked.

“Well, when you put it that way, yeah I should be honest with her, shouldn’t I?” I pulled my phone from my pocket while we were stopped at a light. It began to change, so I handed it to Karl. “Go ahead and respond to her for me and say this—
Apology accepted. What are you doing later?
Then send her a cartoon video.”

He laughed, “A cartoon? Why?”

“Just do it—preferably something with He-Man. Send her the first one you come across,” I said as I turned onto the last street.

He laughed to himself as he sent the message. “Okay, here you go,” he said as he handed my phone back to me.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Nothing," he said with another laugh. "There’s a spot right over there by the back entrance,” he said, pointing toward the alley next to the building that housed the Böhme. The familiar mural on the side of it reminded me of Wynn. He was always at this place after his mother died and since he was here, I was too.

Farther into the alley from where I parked, a young kid dressed in dark shorts and tall black socks leaned against the wall. He pushed a skateboard back and forth in front of him, as he leaned onto the wall behind him. It was the same kid from last night. When he saw Karl, he perked up and came toward us.

“You need help Karl?” he asked.

“Yeah, thanks Mason, go ahead and grab any of them. We’re taking them up to the main room for the showing tonight.”

“Oh okay, cool.” The kid turned to me with his hand outstretched. “Name’s Mason Wallace.”

I took his hand to shake and let out a chuckle, “Hey man, Blake Lawson. You were the kid I talked to last night outside Henley's, right?” I asked.

He let go of my hand and stacked two of the boxes together with a nod. “Oh yeah—the car guy, you said that wagon was sexy. You an artist too?” he asked as he kicked the door of the building open with his foot and held it to let me pass with my own boxes.

“No, not me—I’m not an artist. Unless you count roofing as art,” I said.

“Don’t let Blake fool you. He does wood carvings, but he doesn’t think it’s art. Wynn and I’ve told him he needs to bring them in sometime,” Karl said.

“They’re just a hobby. It’s not art.” I kept my face neutral, not wanting to share that they were more than a hobby to me. They were a way for me to slow down and think.

“I beg to differ mon frère,” Karl said as he pressed the button to call the freight elevator. “We can stack them on here, and then head up with them at once,” he said as he opened the elevator and set his boxes on a cart.

I turned to head back to get more boxes when my phone buzzed with another message.

Brecken McNett: I’m going to an exhibit tonight. Why the hell did you send me that shitty-ass video of He-Man singing What’s Up?

I scrolled back to my original message and laughed. “What the fuck Karl,” I said to myself.

I sent my reply as Mason came up behind me to grab more boxes. “Ah, you talking to Brecken?” he asked with a smile. It was creepy that the kid was looking over my shoulder at my phone, but I ignored it. There were always odd people hanging out here.

“Does everyone here know her?” I asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked with surprise.

“No hidden meaning, just asking because everyone knows her but me.” I shrugged.

“Well, it looks as though you’re working on that. I don’t know her,” he said absently as he grabbed more boxes. “But I do know
of
her. Karl mentioned her. I saw her show last night.” He shrugged and turned to go back in the building.

Once we loaded the elevator with the boxes, we went up to the gallery.

I leaned on the stack of boxes as the freight elevator began to rise and nodded to Mason, “So how old are you, Mason?”

He put his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and shrugged, “I’m eighteen. I started coming here a couple weeks ago. I moved to town after my birthday. I was ready to get out of my house.”

“Cool. Where do you live?” I asked.

“I’m staying with Pike now. I came in here one day and we got to talking. We have similar histories and I needed a place to stay, he offered,” he shrugged as he looked to Karl. Karl absently stared at the ceiling of the elevator. He looked as though he were solving a puzzle within the patterns of the grated ceiling.

“Pike’s a good guy, and it sounds as if you guys have a house full then when Karl’s there,” I said as the elevator stopped and Karl opened the gate to exit.

“Yeah he is. He’s trying to help me with things,” Mason said hesitantly as he lifted three boxes off the top of the stack.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, hearing Pike laugh around the corner. We walked farther into the gallery and found Pike sitting in his usual spot.

Since he retired from his day job of being a mechanic, he was here most the time. Pike and Sid were two of the originals at the Böhme and over the years it has grown to a larger group of non-cons as I call them—short for non-conventional.

Pike stepped away from the desk and gave my back a pat. “Blake. How you doing, man?”

“I’m here, still trying to wake up, but I’m here. And you?” I asked.

“I’m living the dream,” he said with a nod and raise of his eyebrow. Then he began to twist the braid that formed his long beard. Pike was a big guy who always wore overalls and a muscle tee under them. He was awesome.

Pike turned to the kid. “Mason, my boy. You never cease to surprise me at how good a teenager could be. The world is full of lies when it comes to young people. You, my boy, are a sign that we might be evolving and not devolving.”

Mason gave a shy laugh and turned away, trying to ignore the compliment. “Where do you want us to put these Pike?”

“Go ahead and put them in the room with the stage. We’re going to have a band bringing their stuff through here,” Pike said.

“Oh yeah?” Mason asked.

“Yeah a folk band or something I think. Karl wanted music, but nothing on an MP3 player or record even. He said it had to be live.” Pike leaned in closer and put his hand to his mouth as if he could hide what he was saying from Karl. He kept his voice at the same loud tone, “Karl is letting his first showing get to his head and he’s turning into a prima donna.” He winked.

“My brain may not be working at its full capacity, but my ears work perfectly fine, Pike,” Karl said with a grunt as he pushed past us with four boxes.

My phone went off again, and I set my boxes on the table before reading a message from Wynn.

Wynn: We are running late, but will be at the showing around 8.

Me: Ok see you then.

I put my phone back in my pocket and it went off a second time.

Brecken McNett: Well, you’re correct, it more than likely is the same exhibit you’re going to, since there's only one art gallery in town. I might see you there then.

She was definitely trying to play it cool with me. No chick could be that standoffish and mean it.

Me: I look forward to the possibility.

“Hey man, good to see you before noon,” Karl said from the other room.

I heard Gabe’s laugh. “Yeah, I do get up before noon Karl. It’s just I’m usually working. It’s Saturday. I’m off work. I wanted to see if you needed help with set up this morning.”

“Well thanks, man. We’re moving the boxes into the other room,” Karl said.

“Blakey,” Gabe said as I rounded the corner to grab more boxes from the elevator. “From the lack of checking your phone constantly, I assume you heard back from your little drummer friend?”

“Okay, that can end any time now. I didn’t talk about her that much,” I said as I grabbed more boxes.

“Yeah, you did,” he said with a light shove past me. “You became fucking annoying after a while with it.”

Karl nodded. “He’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you check your phone that much.”

“You guys are assholes,” I said as I turned back to the main room.

“Oh Blake, don’t be such a baby. We only do it out of our strong male bond with you,” Gabe said with a loud laugh.

“Did you hear from Maggie?” I asked Gabe. Maggie is Hannah’s cousin and one of Gabe’s closest friends.

Gabe shifted his eyes away from me before responding. “No, but Hannah said Maggie won’t be by tonight.”

“Huh, that’s strange,” I said.

Gabe looked past me at Karl, “Hey man, how you feeling?” he asked.

“As if I’m going to shit my pants from nerves; that’s how I’m feeling,” he said with a serious expression.

Gabe laughed, “Karl, why do you seem dead serious?”

“Because he is,” I said with a loud laugh.

“You’re not seriously going to shit yourself are you Karl?” Mason asked.

“No, dipshit, I’m not going to shit my pants, but I might kick each of you in the balls before you jackasses can tell me the definition of carfuffle.”

I laughed. “That makes no sense Karl. First off, none of us can define the word so it gives you plenty of time to kick our asses. What the fuck does that even mean?” I asked.

“Well my friend, the very definition of that word can be found in the question itself if you choose to find it,” he said as he turned his back to us to finish his work.

“That guy,” Gabe said as he shook his head.

“Well, is anyone going to look it up?” Mason asked.

I pulled out my phone and searched for the definition.

Karl came back into the room and I smiled at him. “We’re in the clear. It’s a commotion, disorder, or agitation. You are so fucking weird man,” I said as I pulled Karl into a head lock, and then kissed the top of his head.

“Did you just kiss my head, you fuck?” he asked with a laugh, pushing me away.

“Yep. If you are going to use a word like carfuffle, it’s what you deserve,” I said.

The writer’s head hung low this time. Sadness radiated off their back as if this question and this painting were one of the hardest to create.

The painting began with a kitchen table, two individuals sitting on either side, and both with their faces covered by a ski mask. The table had one solitary pie sitting in the middle of it, and both individuals held a fork as if they were having a showdown. They waited to see who would make the first move.

Neither knew the other held a knife under the table, out of view. They waited for the other one to move. Both were reactionary, not willing to move forward, but waiting for the other to make the first move.

This painting held all the hope and pain wrapped nicely into it, as the writer longed for something that was lost
.

What are you hiding?

I kept my head buried in my arm as I lay on my bed, trying to avoid the stack of mail my mom had dropped off. She had been receiving mail for me for a while now. I traveled for a time and never stayed in one place long enough to justify changing my address.

One of the letters she had dropped off brought anxiety with it. The letter came to Adriana Donnelly—my mother’s maiden name. My mom had read the letter sent to her at my grandpa’s address and brought it right over to me.

When my mother showed it to me she said, “You should read this Brecken. You need to understand something.”

I put my hands up in anger, trying to block her words as if I was six years old again, not wanting to hear the truth of Santa Claus. I took the letter from her and told her to not bring it up again.

I refused to read it. I knew the letter was from the daughter I gave up for adoption eighteen years ago. She had reached out to me now that she had turned the legal age to do so, and I wished to god I hadn’t provided my mother’s information to the adoption agency. I should have given her over and not thought of it again. But I had an ache in the pit of my stomach telling me to at least put a contact name if she ever wanted to reach someone—even if it wasn’t me. Now, I regretted doing so.

In the hospital, I chose to not have her shown to me. I didn’t meet the family that took her and I closed my ears to hearing if she had ten fingers and toes. The labor was terrible, and from my hospital room I heard nurses speaking of it from the hallway as if I were a great experiment no one could avoid discussing.

The pain medicine dulled the ache in my chest, but it didn't stop my wandering thoughts.

A medical induced coma was preferable, but they frowned at my asking for one. The loss consumed me and the only thing for me to do was close my eyes and pray for sleep to meet me until it was time to go home. I wanted to escape from the noise and feelings the hospital brought. I listened to
Jar of Flies
blaring from my disc man at full volume on repeat. It still didn't block out every sound, and the silence between songs allowed my thoughts to drift to the baby’s cries from the other rooms.