Poltergeists by Luke Campbell

Chelsea always had a cigarette clasped between her fingers.  That day she’d chosen Marlboros, courtesy of her five-finger discount.  The habit left her with the voice of a withered oracle, a fortune teller from the Old World.  Breathing deep with a dragon’s lungs, Chelsea would exhale that silver cloud and cough for days.  Nevertheless, she could belt out the words to "Still Ill" by the Smiths better than even Morrissey could.  Dragging cigarettes always marred her lipstick, which is a shame because she was very creative with it, often painting intricate designs along her mouth like lightning.  The kind of creativity you only see in those who've really spent a lot of time on their own.  She was thin, like, victim-of-genocide thin.  I could tell she hadn't been eating much, but I was unsure if it was by her choice or the bottle's. 

I'd known Chelsea for only a short time at that point - just over a year - but already, I could tell she was going through more than I was initially led to believe when first introduced to her mischievous smile and messy purple hair on that cool October night.  Now, trading her once lively personality for the morose, it wasn't hard to envision the shattered mirror slivers and eyeliner-stained tissues spread over her unkempt bedroom floor.  How many nights had she spent screaming her aching lungs out into her pillow?  How many nights had I screamed into mine?  Then again, that was just how most of us were back in those days, screw-ups, deadbeats, and burnouts stationed under the neon signs of liquor stores, foolishly attempting to bribe strangers into buying us a cheap six pack.

I remember Chelsea was always a lot braver than the rest of us.  Whenever someone came up with a dare, she’d be the first to take on the challenge.  Shoplifting was her go-to strategy of getting what she wanted in life.  From clutches to jewelry to benadryl and vodka, Chelsea’s slight hand always knew what to swipe.  I don't think I ever saw her carry a wallet; her purse was solely for stolen goods and cigarettes.  Even when the fuming liquor store clerk threatened her with a pistol, screaming at her, “Ya stupid kid, ya better put everything back on the shelf ya found it,” she still managed to sneak a cold one in her painted denim jacket.  I’d always envied her stealth and confidence in these situations.

Tonight’s target was the old country store on Maryland 77 West.  This decaying shack with paint peeling off all four walls didn’t have much, but the drink selection was good enough for a couple of reckless teenagers looking to kill time on a Tuesday afternoon.  Approaching the shanty old shop, my nerves were shot, and not just from my caffeine dependency this time.  We both knew the owner of this store kept a shotgun behind the counter, and yet here we were, outside the lion’s den, preparing to pilfer his share.  After grabbing a couple of large bottles of Jim Beam, Chelsea and I attempted to slip out of the store with the goods hidden under our coats, carefully passing through the crowd of older customers who didn’t know or care what some stupid kids were doing.  We were the ghosts of youth, poltergeists striking anywhere and anytime we wanted to.  It was as if we could slip through walls with ease.  You’re never quite as invincible as you are at seventeen. 

We were right at the front entrance when I felt the bottle slip from my jacket.  In an instant, my jeans were soaked in brown liquor and the tiles around me littered with glass shards.  Damn it, I was so close.

“You shithead little punk,” the owner growled from behind the register, “You’re gonna clean that mess up or I’m gonna kill ya!”  Chelsea was cackling at this point.

“Come on, dude, let’s go!”  I raced out the doorway to catch up with her, leaving whiskey footprints along the pavement.  My heart was throbbing out of my chest as I heard the guy pump his shotgun a few feet behind me.  As we pulled out of the parking lot, I heard him fire a shot into the air.

“Don’t you little shits ever show your faces around here again.  I know the county sheriff personally!  Goddamn brats…”  He continued to grumble as we escaped earshot.

The getaway drive was tense to say the least.  Every cop car we passed looked like it was getting ready to pull us over.  Heaven is a highway without pigs.  We cranked up the volume on the car stereo to drown out our teenage perturbation.  The Dead Boys were always there for me when I was out raising hell on unsuspecting Maryland suburbs.  I’d scream along to Stiv’s growling vocals until my voice gave out: There ain’t nothing to do, gonna beat up the next hippie I see, then I’ll be beating on you!  The music was harsh, but in our drunken haze it hit soft, like the excited family dog jumping into your lap.  The many pedestrians we sped past couldn’t possibly feel the blissful triumph we were lost in at that moment.  While they were focused on the daily chores of employment, we were living like there was no tomorrow.  Banditos rambling from liquor store to basement show, looking for the next kick.  The past and future melted away in our laughter and tears.  At present, there was nothing but the liquor in our bellies and the long road in front of us.

After miraculously making our way off the highway alive despite being more than a bit buzzed at this point, we stopped at a local park.  I’d walked through this little patch of grass and trees for as long as I could remember.  I knew how the pine trees looked covered in the white blankets of snow in January, and how all the kids would flock there like gulls from the elementary school around the corner on the first day of Summer.  This park held a multitude of memories for me.  Some were great, like the time I spent being pushed on a swing by my mother on a warm Friday afternoon.  Others I didn’t look back on so fondly, like the time those older boys beat me to a pulp at the ripe young age of nine.  I can look back and laugh now, but at the time, even a slight chortle would send a sharp pain through my sides.  We sat on a steel bench looking out at the empty soccer field.  Chelsea let her denim jacket fall down from her slender shoulders, revealing an incomplete stick-n-poke tattoo of a moth on her right arm.  I felt a tightness in my chest gazing at her against the backdrop of the sun slowly slipping behind the treeline.  She was like a pagan forest nymph with the voice of a siren, a transcendental being capable of capturing the eyes of everyone in her presence, and she certainly didn’t play coy about it either.  That’s what really lit me up, her confrontational demeanor, her venom.  Awkwardly sliding closer to her on the bench, I was aching to put my arm around her shoulder, but resisted this desire.  I never was a gambler, and besides, I wasn’t even totally sure she liked boys.

Chelsea passed me a cigarette.  I’d never smoked before, on account of my already raspy, pathetic excuse for a singing voice that I was desperately trying to save for the big stage one day.  However, on this occasion I was just drunk enough to throw these concerns to the wind and eager to impress her.  After my first two coughing fits cleared the forest, the crickets cautiously returned to their usual chirping.

“I can’t believe we got away with that,” she laughed.  “You were shaking like a tweaker back there.”  I chuckled, more than slightly embarrassed.

“Yeah, I’m not exactly used to this sorta thing, y’know?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she reassured, “there’ll be plenty of other opportunities, just takes practice.”

We both laughed and took a couple drags.  Cancer never felt so sweet.  As the sun began to set, we both spaced out over the old field and onto the pines beyond.  The orange sky illuminated the dark rings around our sleepless eyes.  Just for a moment, all seemed peaceful.  The setting sun burned away our anxieties like a forest fire.  The only sounds I could hear were the cars going by, the birds singing softly, my chest pounding in sync with Chelsea’s breathing, and the tinnitus vibrating through my skull.

“Man,” she sighed, her tone a touch more dour than earlier, “how’d another day turn out like this?”