April
The
Din
by C.J.
Henderson
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
The din continued, unabated. It was, of course, the same car.
How could you ask? thought John. How could you think different? Obviously
it's the same car. It has to be the same car because it's always the
same car.
The vehicle in question was an old Chevy, a rattling junker held together
more by its owner's prayers than any kind of physical adhesion. John's
annoyance was not directed at its age or make, however. That was reserved
for the car's security system.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
The old Chevy's alarm was one created before automobile anti-theft
devices had gone through their Renaissance. In other words, it did
not play a variety of tunes, interchanging one electronic bit of nerve
chatter for another ...
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
And, after some decent interval, say three, five, or even ten minutes,
it did not shut itself off.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
No, the old Chevy would not go quiet, not on its own. Not until its
owner came to it and forced it to behave. Or its battery went dead.
WOOOOO WOOOOO
Or, snarled John's growing discomfort, until someone just blows it
the fuck up.
John sat at the dining room table, trying to work. Trying to read
the seemingly endless columns of figures and make sense of them. Trying
to finish the assignment he had taken home with him for the weekend.
Trying to prove that he deserved the next departmental promotion,
trying to carve out a better life for himself and his family, trying
to put away the things and attitude of a boy and grow into whatever
came next.
WOOOOO WOOOOO
It was not working. The summer heat was baking the city, boiling the
ocean, sending waves of dragging humidity through the streets. The
windows had to be open--all of them--merely to allow survival.
We had to buy a hundred and fifty year old house, thought John. No
central air conditioning for us. So there's no way to air-condition
anything but the bedroom--who cares? We work all day in air-conditioning.
Who needs it at home?
John and his bride had not considered weekends in their formulations.
Had not considered that eventually they would stop spending all their
free time in museums and coffee shops and pool halls. Had not considered
that eventually they would feel the necessity to take responsibility
for their lives and settle down, start to save money and plan for
the future and have a baby and move to the same street with an ancient
Chevy that howled its single forlorn note every time it was jostled.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
"Fuck it," John snapped. Blind hate slapping aside learned
behavior, the sweating man growled, "I can't stand any more."
Throwing his pen across the room, he headed for the front door. Anger
bubbling throughout his body, John had no idea why he was heading
for the front door, or what he would do once he was on the other side
of it. He was merely responding to the siren call of the rusting harpy
wailing madly across the street.
Eyes popping, he threw open his door and stepped out onto the front porch. Sweat running out of his hair, over his forehead, stinging his eyes, he stared across the baking asphalt at the hated beast.
WOOOOO
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
John's fingers clenched and unclenched. One by one he could feel the
rules of civilized behavior being stripped away. Why did he have to
stand by and do nothing? Why? The damned thing had been wailing its
dismal, plaintive note for more than a half an hour. John's eyes flashed
to his watch again--the fifty-third time in the last ...
"Thirty three minutes!"
The words were a burst of astonishment. Even though John was all too
well aware of how long it had been, still he was forced to announce
the total ... not of how long the alarm had continued to keen, but
of how long he had stood by and allowed it to do so. Helpless.
Thirty-three minutes. Soon to be thirty-four. How long do I just stand
here? How long do I take this? Aren't there laws against this kind
of noise? Shouldn't someone do something?
Like what? asked another part of his mind. He had no answer. He'd
talked to the Chevy's owner once when he had seen the man getting
into his car. The owner turned out to be a Russian immigrant who could
care less about John's complaints.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
He had tried the police next. After an hour a patrol car had drifted
by but done nothing. Several hours later a different car had come
along and one of the officers had paused from his ruthless pursuit
of the city's crime long enough to put a ticket under the Chevy's
windshield wiper. John had smiled through every ear-shattering second
as he watched from his window. The next morning on the way to work
he had noticed the ticket--torn in half and lying in the gutter.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
John's fingers curled up into fists once more, but this time they
refused to unclench. In the back of his mind, somewhere beyond the
red boil sloshing through his brain, he heard the ancient count-off,
struggling to hold his growing anger in check.
One ... two ... three ... four ...
He strained to find some formula that might allow him to step away
from the path he found himself being drawn down, praying for some
way to turn back the ape--
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
Five ... six ... seven ...
It was no use. Seconds split into eternities, each fraction of time
suggesting a thousand things he could do to the Chevy. Clubbing, scratching,
beating, bombing, tearing, shattering, smacking, bending, burning
... against such a sea of intensity, the fragile notion of being a
good neighbor was buried and lost, rapidly being relegated to sitting
on the shelf and waiting for someone who still gave a damn about antiques.
WOOOOO WOOOOO
Eight ... nine ...
John held his eyes closed tight, no longer praying for a reprieve,
ready to allow the simian voices crawling up from the bottom of his
soul free rein to do as they pleased. Knowing that the Chevy had but
a single moment to live before he destroyed it in a thousand gruesome
ways.
WOOOOO
Ten.
John stepped to the edge of his porch. His hand grabbing for the metal
pole his wife used to beat the rugs, his fingers were less than a
foot from the freshly christened weapon when a new noise caught John's
ear. Looking up, he saw his neighbor from across the street standing
on his own porch, just letting his door shut behind him.
Damn, thought John. Damn, damn, damn.
Although a small part of him was relieved something had come in time
to break off his destructive mood, a larger part cursed the intrusion.
John stood frozen for an eternal moment, his clenched hand showing
him the way to relief. Rationality, however, reminded him that the
club he was gripping so intently would be a relief only of the moment,
one that would be followed quickly by police and fines, court and
judges and lawyers and who knew what else. Criminal suit--mental damages,
what? Perhaps even reprisals against his own car, his home, his family.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
Cursing his helplessness, John turned and went back inside, his feet
dragging against the admission of his impotence. What, he wondered,
was going through his neighbor's mind? Had he been thinking the same
things, contemplating the same forbidden justice? Had like demons
whispered in his ear as well, dragged him as relentlessly forward?
Or, had the man simply noticed him on his porch? Had he come out to
see what John was up to--to play supporter or witness?
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
Trying to go back to work, John poured himself another ice tea. Plopping
down in front of the same pile of papers, he attempted nobly to focus
on his work, but he could not. Everything annoyed him. The way his
seat was still wet from the sweat he had left behind. The way the
snaking heat had already made his drink taste more like water than
tea. The way the small print strained and stabbed at his eyes. The
way the humidity made the air too thick to breath and everything else
too slimy to touch. The way he had bought a house for beauty and charm
rather than practicality. The way he had abandoned his youth and his
dreams for a job and a routine. But above all ...
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
The greatest annoyance was the way the damn Chevy simply would not
stop.
WOOOOO WOOOOO
Would not stop.
WOOOOO
Not stop.
WOO--
"Goddamnit!" roared John, throwing himself and his chair
backward. The high back smashed against the hutch cupboard behind
him, shattering one of its glass doors. "Goddamnit to Hell!"
Not noticing the damage he had done consciously, filing it in his
mind as just another crime to lay at the feet of the Chevy, John bounded
forward out of the dining room, headed for the outside. He threw open
his front door, panting, staring forward unblinking at his hated enemy.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOO WOOOOO
And then, faster than the last time, before he could even move out
onto the porch, his neighbor's door open more. Again John felt civilization's
lecturing, wagging finger being brandished against him, holding him
back, shackling his desires. Without knowing why the man had come
outside, John could feel some of his hate for the Chevy being redirected
against his neighbor. Suddenly the man was a symbol of repression--a
police car parked along the interstate with its speed cannon out,
a mother with crossed arms, another sneering signpost erected by the
finger-waging nanny-mood of the my-nose-in-your-business state dictating
yet another No to this or that natural desire.
How can you not be as upset as I am? wondered John, staring at the
unmoving figure. How can you not hate that fucking thing as much as
I do?
John stood framed in his doorway, trembling. His fist passing before
his eyes, his vision focused on his wristwatch. Fifty-nine minutes.
Fifty-nine minutes of his life, wasted, stolen, gone forever, turned
into sweating misery by the Chevy and the heat and his inability to
do anything about either of them.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
And then, his eyes were caught by the look etched into his neighbor's
face--by the cramped set of his shoulders and the misery in his eyes.
Suddenly John realized they were but common sufferers, tortured by
the same monster. John could feel himself relaxing, his tension melting
simply because he had found someone to share his burden. And then,
another front door opened.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
A woman neither man knew personally poured out of her door, hair plastered
to her head and neck, baseball bat in hand. Her eyes went straight
to the Chevy, her hate drawing her toward the howling thing, dragging
her forward. Then, her internal radar forced her to note the two men
watching her. Her hand swayed, her anger pulled back by her fear of
being noticed as something other than tolerant and civilized.
"No."
John spoke the word calmly, watching the woman's intent drain away,
feeling his own softening but not willing to surrender it again. As
the lunatic note sounded endlessly on, he reached once more for the
rug beater, commissioning it to a new level of usefulness. Hefting
the reassuring iron, he walked forward, laughing louder with each
step.
Across the street, the other man moved as well, a broom in hand. As
they reached their front gates, the woman bolted forward, no longer
caring about image or consequences or abstractions ... caring about
nothing except the caterwauling nightmare growling in the gutter.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
None of the trio was ever certain who struck the first blow. Glass
shattered, metal folded. Besides, after each of them had struck only
one or two blows each, another door opened, and then another. Others
moved forward out into the heat, weapons in hand, banding together
to destroy a common enemy.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
Hammers and tongs and wrenches struck out, axes and bricks and two-by-fours
crashed. Three became five became eight--twenty became legion.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
Those without the strength or the anger to attack brought out chairs
so they could watch. Others brought iced drinks for their champions.
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
Men wheeled barbecues out to the street. Woman abandoned their wash,
children left off their studies. Music came from somewhere in the
crush, and suddenly, people were dancing in the heat, laughing and
singing, clapping the beat.
Chanting--
"Kill it, kill it, kill it, kill it--"
WOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO
Electricity shot through the crowd, passing from body to body, moving
through the mob until it reached those on the front lines, cheering
them, renewing them, pumping strength to their arms. Spreading smiles
across their faces.
"Kill it, kill it, kill it--"
WOOOOO WOOOOO
Then the final blow was struck. For a moment, the warriors did not
notice, caught up in the moment--intent on slaying the monster and
nothing else--their ears were overruled by their passions, dismissing
the final bleat of the terrible creature that had held them in thrall
for so long. But, some moments after its death, a child shouted--
"Listen--listen!"
And, as they did, one by one the crusaders realized the foe had been
vanquished. Screams of joy echoed throughout the hills and canyon
walls of the neighborhood. People grasped each other's hands firmly,
their laughter wild and triumphant. With bar and bat and axe they
had won the day.
Wiping his brow, John stood back from the carnage he and the others
had wrought, admiring their handiwork. The Chevy was battered and
twisted--all its windows shattered, all its tires flat. The doors
were broken and useless, the roof pounded down to the seats. The hood
had been ripped away, the motor destroyed. Myriad fluids had flowed
from the beast at first, but they had soon slowed to a trickle, then
finally stopped.
Hefting his wife's rug beater, John heard the music splashing through
the streets. Turning into the crowd around him, he marveled at the
revelry. As someone handed him a golden pork chop dripping with fat,
he nodded his head in thanks and bit into it. The trees lining the
street began to rustle, their branches caught in a relieving breeze.
John smiled.
Good meat, he thought.
And then the metal bar in his hands slipped away as he threw back
his head, laughing, and joined the dance.
