Kick Drums in my Chest, Guitars in my Brain

Photo by Vu Huynh on Unsplash

1990. Two teenagers, bored, hormonal, neither one with a healthy relationship with their parents, looking for they-don’t-know-what in each other’s arms. Dr. Feelgood giving them a prescription they’ll never be able to untake, oblivious to the change they’re making in their lives. But right now it doesn’t matter because they’re alone and it’s quiet except for the pounding of the drums and the scream of guitars coming from the speakers. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter bounce on the bedside table from the vibrations, waiting for them to finish. Thirty years later, this will still be my mom’s favorite band.

1993. On the floor, there isn’t a lot of room, but more than there was before we switched bedrooms with our parents. My dad is wearing shorts for once as he sits cross-legged on the edge of his bed, just a mattress with blankets on the dingy carpet of the century-old house, so his feet are on the floor. The body of his guitar sits nestled against his thigh, cradled in his muscled arms. I can see the pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his worn t-shirt. The smoke from the one in his mouth drifts around the ceiling alongside the Smoke On the Water coming from his fingers. My brother with a binky in his mouth pats his little legs beside me, trying to match the beat but he’s falling asleep. Our sister lies between Dad and the pillow, already out, her tiny fingers curled, mirroring his. But I’m not sleepy. I just sit there, staring, watching his fingers slide along the frets. Twenty-seven years later, I’m still not good at playing music, but I remember that this is the first riff he teaches us.

1998. I have to sit in the middle of the backseat to keep my siblings from fighting. We should have car seats, but we don’t. Our legs are warm from the mass of blankets over them. Ollie, our English Mastiff, moves his big brindle head and licks my hand. Drool trails from his jowls onto the blanket but I pet him anyway and his tail thumps against my sister, who shifts in her sleep. I look up to see Dad lay his hand mindlessly on the center console, reaching out for his Fat-Bottomed Girl, as the radio starts up that familiar drum beat. Mom smiles and takes it. I can see the impact of our two-day move on their young faces and I agree. I’m tired, too. The mountain roads make me queasy, and my ears hurt, but I think I’ll try to take a nap anyway. Ollie licks my hand again and lays his head down on it. I pat him with my free hand along with the beat as my eyes close, hoping he won’t barf on me. Twenty-three years later, this song still gets blasted every time it comes on.

2001. It’s Hard To Be around my siblings all the time, but we haven’t started going to school yet. I mean, I’m used to us moving around at this point, but we always got back to school pretty quick. I don’t know what’s keeping us from doing that now, but I’ve done this math book three times already and I’m bored. Not that Mom’s soap operas are any less boring. I think I might get a challenge from the back third of the book, but Aunt Tiff cut a section out to hide her cigarettes in high school, so I’ll never know. I stretch. My back is stiff and it hurts. Stupid boobs. Stupid puberty. Stupid homeschooling. I finish the math and go upstairs to our room, where the radio sits on the floor. I flip the cassette over in the tray and push play. My head bobs to the trumpet as I climb up to my bunk. Twenty years later, I still have the tape.

2005. It’s a relief, knowing why I’ve been different all these years. It doesn’t explain everything, but I at least know why I’m the Minority in the family. Kind of. It’s not complete, like there’s a part of me that hasn’t been categorized yet, but it’ll have to do. I don’t have the words to explain the other space yet, which is strange because I know a lot of words. Apparently my father’s name is Steve. I don’t know where he lives. All I know is that they got together in high school briefly and then broke up before I was born. He’s married and has a son that’s almost the same age as my brother. Still, asking about it got Mom to stop bugging me. I mean, it was just an excuse. I was just having a bad day. Can’t a person just have a bad day? Does there need to be a reason? It’s quiet in the house between us now. I put on my headphones just for some noise, and lie there, eyes closed, dancing my fingers to the drums and my head to the guitar, mouthing the words of rebellion and confidence, and try not to think about it. Fifteen years later, my relationship with her isn’t all that great, but I still have this album.

2008. I sit on the floor of my bedroom, brushing away the dog fur that I missed with the broom with my free hand. My fingers are speckled with the black paint that fills my palette. My paint brush swoops along the lines of a bedpost/skyscraper as I attempt to bring the Demolition Lovers to undeath on a couple of pieces of masonite. Mom says I procrastinate too much. She’s right. I should be further along than I am, but I’m not, and there’s only a few months left before graduation. I want to go to art school. I’ve known this for years. I should have applied last year. Maybe I could still look? But I know Mom and Dad wouldn’t be able to pay for it. Not like the other kids around here heading off to college. They’ve both been out of work for a bit, since the bubble burst. I guess I’ll have to do it alone, like a lot of other things in my life. Not surprising. Twelve years later, I still feel lonely whenever I listen to this band, despite how hopeful they are.

2011. The princess lays sleeping on the sofa surrounded by pillows so she doesn’t roll off. She’s almost strong enough now to walk. Looking around the small, crowded, messy apartment, I deflate. There’s no way I can take care of all this myself. I know this. But he’ll be angry if it’s not cleaned up. Well excuse me for being alone and having to watch over an infant that could easily get hurt even if it was clean. Yesterday’s Feelings come up inside of me again and I have no way to tell if they’re still real, or if I’m just too scared of him to do anything about them. Even if I was brave enough, where would I go? I don’t have a driver’s license, my family lives in another state, I only have one friend, and he knows where she lives. Still, I know she’s willing to help, if I ask. After all, she was the one there with me when the princess was born, not him. Nine years later, we don’t talk anymore, but I still listen to the mix cd she gave me in high school.

2014. If things are better now, why am I sitting on the back step smoking? Why am I smoking at all? It doesn’t actually do anything for me and I try to get through it as fast as I can anyway. I’m happy we have our own place now. I’m happy the princess finally has her own room. I’m happy I found Somebody To Love. But I struggle to make it a home. I put out my cigarette against the concrete and throw it in the old can I have here by the door. Inside the apartment is as much a mess as inside my head. My grades are slipping. I barely sleep. I miss my partner. I don’t spend as much time playing with the princess as I should. And yet here I am, not picking anything up even though I got off work early. I wish I hadn’t gotten off early, I need the money. Instead I sit down and scroll through Netflix, looking for something I finally have the chance to watch without being interrupted by a three-year-old that still doesn’t completely sleep through the night. Nothing. Bored, I turn on Pandora and turn to the fanfic I’ve been working on the past couple of weeks just to give myself something to focus on. Six years later, the band that plays is the princess’s favorite.

2018. The best day of my life? No. One of the worst days of my life. I didn’t want to do this anyway. It was just to shut you up, you fucking overly religious bitch. I’m not here to be with you, I’m here to be with your son! Just because I’m marrying him doesn’t mean that you and I are family, okay. When are you going to get that? How did you not notice that when we told you, he’s the one that walked up to you while I just lurked in the doorway? I’m sick with stress, Nick almost got in a fistfight with some homeless dude, there are people here who you invited that I’ve never heard of in my life, let alone met, the judge got lost, we were a half hour late because apparently no one in your household except me knows the meaning of the words “on time”, I cried the whole time, and not in the happy way, my mom dig get in a fight with you, she and my sister got creepy, pervy looks from your dad, the list goes on and on. This day is supposed to make me feel like I’m On Top Of The Universe, and it doesn’t. The opposite, in fact. Why? Why would anyone ever do this? It’s not like it changes anything about the relationship. And you certainly haven’t had a good time with being married to that abusive asshole, have you? Two years later, I’m blasting my stereo in my own apartment and not giving a fuck about you or your religous nonsense.

2021. There they are, lurking over my head. The things that I need to do. That I haven’t done. There’s that procrastination again, same as it was a decade ago; except now I know it’s depression. And anxiety. So many things to do. So little energy to do them. And everyone under my feet. But I don’t want to do it all myself. Yes, I know I’m a Walking Contradiction. What of it? But it doesn’t help anyone. It certainly doesn’t help us, and I’ve lost my patience, even with my medication. So instead I disappear into the computer for days at a time, into a world that doesn’t exist, and ignore the people I want more attention from, all for that little bit of a feeling of accomplishing something. The words fly by on the page under my fingers, the tunes of my life playing in my headphones, making me feel like me again for a moment. Even now, it gets a little better day by day. Some days I’m not good. Some days he isn’t. Some days she isn’t. But some days are like today. Some days, we all sing along badly to the same song, and it’s all right.