"Drive"

A short story by Emma Mooney

               In the heat of his AC-less room, seventeen-year-old Danny Dayton lays on his back. His arms are settled under the shag of his tangled brown hair as he gazes up at the white concrete of his bedroom ceiling and watches the trail of car headlights paint an artful display upon the blank canvas. At the same moment, a taxi comes to a halt in front of the rundown grey slated apartment building below Danny’s small window. The harsh contrast of LED light intrudes into the otherwise dimly lit room, illuminating the floor to ceiling wallpaper of old memories: concert tickets, polaroid film that he’s taken over the years, and torn out paper from his sketchbooks that cover every inch of the crowded safe haven. The oversized Talking Heads t-shirt he wears to sleep envelops his small body and sweat forms in the fur of his upper lip and brow as he rolls over onto his side, bed creakingunder his weight. He reaches out for the iPhone 6 that lay atop the orange nightstand he painted with his mother to pass the time.

          With a big stretch and a groan, he grabs hold of the clear case of his phone, dangling it between his thumb and fore finger as he rolls onto his back once more and lets the brown of his curls make hoods over his eyes. Taking a deep breath, the stripes of his bed linens rising and falling across his chest, he tap, tap, taps over the black of the screen, re-administering the greasy fingerprints of everyday use. The cool hue of the phone light immediately brightens the freckled constellations that trace his face, the crinkles of his Grecian nose, and the dark circles under his eyes where sleep has not made an appearance in quite some time.

*

     On the street below, Harold Dayton hands a cab driver a fistful of cash before exiting the vehicle and heading towards the musty glass entrance of the residence. He walks, staggering, with a thin woman draped in animal print clinging to his left arm. Harold walks in first, releasing the woman’s grip from his bicep as he holds the heavy door open for her to follow him inside. Together, they stomp up the long winding steps, heading for Harold’s apartment. Somewhere on the way up, the woman obnoxiously spits out her pink chewing gum and slips it under the rubber railing as Harold’s gloomy eyes remain focused on the dizzying steps in front of him—insurance, so he won’t fall.

          Impatient at the slow ascent, the woman lunges at the taller man’s throat like a savage dog, but instead of baring her teeth, she bares plump lips. Harold stops in his tracks. His arms wrapping around her instinctively so that she doesn’t stumble backwards, he ignores the feeling of her bony breasts poking him in the ribs. She jumps up, thin legs wrapping around his waist and crossing at the ankles in her effort to make it difficult to be put down.

          Harold lugs her weighted body up the remainder of the narrow staircase and lets her high heel engulfed feet drop to the warped floorboards outside of his front door. She lets out an exasperated sigh at her descent and the bubble-gum intoxicated breath wafts straight into Harold’s face, who lets out a huff of annoyance. Moving past her, he sees flashes of blonde in her raven hair. His left hand moves up to his aged face and traces over his eyelids, pressing down and rubbing, then he drops his hand to the height of his jeans pocket in search for his keys, eyes kept forward. He fidgets with the dangling copper before jimmying with the rusted lock to open the door.

*

          With impaired vision, Danny reaches for his headphones. He hears a loud thud and freezes: the opening and closing of the front door, accompanied by heavy footsteps. He drops his headphones to the floor in a fit of melancholic anger as the realization kicks in; it is 3:47am and his dad has only just now walked into the apartment.

          Wiggling his way out from under the covers, his bare legs shivering from the rapid change in temperature, he bends over to pick a sweater up off the ground and pulls it over his head as he shakes from the cold. His feet meet the flooring as delicately as he can to be as inconspicuous as possible. He creeps his way across the small bedroom, averting loose floorboards and piles of dirty clothes in a mechanical manner. He reaches the door and presses his right ear to it, closing his eyes only to hear fractions of the sounds emitting from the other side where his dad stumbles down the hall and drops his house keys onto the floor.

          Upon hearing the movements, Danny pulls the knit sleeves of his navy-blue grandpa sweater up over his wrists and reaches for the doorknob. His hand rests motionless, letting the cold steel radiate onto his warm skin. He turns his wrist slowly, but halts after he hears a second set of footsteps approaching, ones he doesn’t recognize. The clicking of high heels on the hardwood floors is a foreign sound in Danny’s ears, one he hasn’t heard in over a year.

          A shrill laugh releases into the air of the apartment and seems to shake the whole building; Danny jumps backwards, wrenching his hand away from the knob like it was set on fire. He stumbles, tripping over his own two feet. The voices outside echo across the walls. The stranger lets out another wicked laugh in her drunken haze. Danny can hear her speak, drawing out each individual word: “where is the little brat?” She holds up an old photo of Danny’s elementary school graduation to her chest and her long, bedazzled acrylic nails tap against the glass over the boy’s pictured face. The sound rings in Danny’s ears like a pin dropping in a silent room; an old memory flashes into his mind…

          Enter Danny’s mother, MARIAN, trying to steady a small silver camera in her shaky hands. She sways a little, black wedges in search of solid ground on the uneven green slope of grass. She smiles at her son; his black eye hidden from her view under the matted curls of his tree bark hair and the pound of makeup his dad forced him to put on before leaving the house.

MARIAN: Look up here, Dan!

She lets out an infectious laugh.

MARIAN: Come on, Danny, smile!

Her floral dress flaps in the wind and she brushes blonde curls away from her eyes. The sun shines, in Danny’s perspective, like it was made for her and he puts on a small grin. Danny’s dad stands aside, a few feet away from her to the left.

HAROLD: Can we hurry it up here? He shields his eyes from the sun, It’s too bright out.

          Danny snaps back into reality, eyes squeezing shut to stop the tears swelling on his long eyelashes. His chest heaves like his heart is trying to clamber its way out of his body.

          Harold Dayton lets out a huff in the hallway and snaps the picture from the woman’s hands, smashing it face down against the surface of the end table she got it from. His words are muffled through gritted teeth and hit Danny like a million bee stings, “Pay no mind to him-”, he says, “he won’t be up for hours.”

          Danny pictures his mothers disapproving gaze; her face twisted into a rare grimace at her husbands’ words. He hears the couple stagger down the hall into the kitchen and he walks out into the empty corridor. Looking towards the end of the hall where his dad has taken the imposter, Danny’s gaze drops down to the end table, pries the photograph out of the wood where his dad embedded it, and flips it over to face him. He examines the part of his mothers’ thumb that obstructs one corner of his schoolboy portrait and a strand of blonde hair that expands across the length of it. He cradles the picture like it’s the most cherished treasure he has. He drops to his knees, legs faltering under his now excessive weight. He hears a gruff voice call out to him, “Dan,” Harold slurs, “is that you?” An invisible rope wraps itself around the boys’ neck and pulls him towards the kitchen.

          Danny enters the room with footsteps of a soldier in a minefield. His hands are clasped together over his stomach, and he is instantly greeted with a stern glare from two sets of eyes. He shuffles on his feet and moves his gaze down to the linoleum floor where an ant crawls by on the hunt for fallen crumbs. Harold clears his throat, signalling for Danny to stand up right and face him. Danny does so and observes his father leaning against their tiny oven with arms crossed. The mysterious woman sits on a chair at the table, watching Harold with hungry eyes. The towering man inquires, “What are you doing up so late?” Danny’s stomach flips itself over as he parts his lips but can’t find his voice. The woman points her chin in Harold’s direction, “he deaf or something?” she interjects. The gruff man responds with a sharp, “Can it, Stacey!” His voice lifting at the end of the last word. Danny’s unblinking eyes dart between the two lighthouse figures hovering over him, caught in the deadlights. Stacey lets out a low hiss.  

          Harold turns back towards his son and asks, “you gonna answer my question or what?” His eyes scan over to the paper on the tableas he continues, “And what’s this—” he flails Danny’s grades around in the air, “I told you to clean up your mess!” Without glancing at its contents, Harold crunches the sheet into a ball and throws it across the room. Danny Flinches at the movement and Harold’s nostrils flare as he shouts, “I’ll give you something to squirm about, boy!”

          He charges at Danny whilst Stacey gives out a menacing cry. His large hand grabs hold of the loose collar of Danny’s white tee shirt poking out of his sweater and he balls the fabric up in his fist before shoving him back against the wall. Suddenly, Danny feels eight years old again in this same apartment he’s lived in his entire life. He crumples under the force of his father’s fists and swears he can hear his brittle bones crunching with every blow. The pounding stops and for a split second the young boy locks eyes with his father—recognition—before he hears muffled shouting and the two adults in front of him become beige blurs. A woman’s voice pierces through the room, ‘’that’s enough!’’ and the seventeen-year-old swears the sound belongs to his mother but is proven wrong at the sight of Stacey’s leopard coated arms grabbing hold of his father to pry him off.

          Harold turns around and slaps her across the cheek in a swift movement as Danny’s body slides down the wall and his heavy limbs form a pile on the floor. Stacey staggers back and lands onto the wooden table and chairs with a clatter. Danny takes this opportunity of distraction to crawl back down the hall on all fours. He leaves a trail of sweat and some droplets of blood in his wake as his father calls after him, ‘’you’re just like your mother!’’

          The army-crawling boy uses his remaining strength to lift himself to his feet and screams back, his small voice booming through the whole apartment, “better to be like her than to be like you, you prick!’’ And with that, he marches his way back into the safety of his bedroom.

          Once free from the wrath bestowed upon him by his father, Danny lets his legs carry him straight to the wooden crate on the floor where he keeps his Walkman, but not before grabbing hold of an old tee shirt along the way to catch the blood dribbling from his nose. His fingers work like they were mechanically engineered to do so as they shuffle through his collection of cassettes: Billy Joel, David Bowie, Elton John, until they land on his favourite. He admires the cover: flashes of green, purple, and yellow cover red, where a vintage car is pictured beneath the words “Heartbeat City.”

*

     In the kitchen, Harold sits with hunched shoulders on a chair, looking pale. Alone in the room, he pinches his nose to soothe the headache that plagued him during his exchanging of words with Stacey after the fight. The sleeves of his worn dress shirt are scrunched up and the exposed cigarette burns that dance across the rough surface of his hairy forearms mimic the circular stains of black mold that cover the granite counters. His cheek still stings, and he is sure he could feel the craters where Stacey’s sharp nails embedded themselves into his dry skin before making her quick departure. Guess I shouldn’t have pushed her, he thinks to himself and scoffs.

      He lowers his large hands and rests their palms against the grooved surface of the table, each one on either side of a scrunched-up piece of parchment paper. Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the untanned part of his ring ringer. He sighs and drops his head in defeat, brain wandering to the piece of metal crammed into a cardboard box under the clutter of mess that is his bedroom floor.

          Harold and Marian are sitting on the windowsill of a small café in Greenwich village; It is crowded with floods of tourists and businessmen trying to scoff down their morning doses of caffeine. The once twenty-year-old Harold’s right hand is rested against the smooth stone of the sill buried underneath his clothed thigh. His left hand plays the clarinet with the fabric of his pants pocket where a purple velvet box waits patiently to be brought out.

HAROLD, clearing his throat: So. Uh. He laughs nervously and moves his hand to rub the back of his neck. Marian turns to face him.

MARIAN: So…?

Marian giggles and brushes strands of hair behind her ears, hands lingering a moment longer to set her earrings right. Harold watches her, flustered, and bolts upright before clearing the lump in his throat again. A quizzical look appears on Marians rosy face.

HAROLD: Ok—Will you marry my wife? He blurts out in a panic, Wait, shit, no!

He sighs and drops his head into the palms of his hands before jolting it back up again.

HAROLD: OH! He says, uncovering the box from his pocket.

HAROLD: H-Here, this is for you… if you want it, or—

Marion places her hands on either side of his scruffy cheeks and Harold shuts up.

MARION: It’s beautiful, Harry! She says without opening the box.

          Harold lifts his heavy head and lets out a long breath of air he wasn’t aware he was holding in. Hands gliding slowly over the white sheet, he unfolds it in front of him, smoothing it out to make the black font legible—honour roll grades make an appearance and he releases a sorrowful grunt, letting his mind flitter away again.

          The year is 2005. Harold has just put Danny down for bed and tucked him in, wrapping the boy head to toe in his woolen Ninja Turtle sheets. He ruffles his son’s hair before walking out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him. Marian stands anxiously beside the fridge in the kitchen, pacing slightly as Harold walks towards her from down the hall. They hold steady eye contact from opposite ends of the room as he enters. Harold squints and arches a bushy eyebrow, aware of the weird presence lingering about the room.

MARION, breaking the silence in the form of a whisper: I have to go.

The mans eyes become more aware and linger on the now visible bags dropped at her feet. His mouth feels dry.

HAROLD: Where? His voice croaks and he takes a step forward, bending over to meet her height.

HAROLD: Where do you need to go, Mare? You’re not thinking straight, okay? Why don’t you just come to bed and watch something with me?

Harold stretches his arms out towards her in a comforting manner. Marion mistakes it as an attack and shoves him backwards. Her frantic manner makes Harold feel uneasy as he stumbles, hip meeting the back of a chair, creating a small bruise.

MARIAN: You’re out to get me, everyone’s out to get me—let me go!

She raises her voice in exasperation as she frantically grabs the handles of her bags trying to flee the room. Harold catches her small wrists, making her drop the leather bags to the floor and wraps his arms around her waist, trying to calm her down so his son won’t hear. His force on her turns her pale skin black and blue.

HAROLD, pleading with his wife: What are you talking about? Marian, please just calm down!

His eyes become watery as he fights against her strength. She’s relentless for five minutes and then flops onto the floor in defeat.

MARIAN, battling cries and slurring: You’re all out to get me, you’re all out to get me! She chants like a prayer. Her voice sounds vacant, like she’s not even in the room.

HAROLD: No ones out to get you, Mare, please just come to bed…

He leans down to meet her on the floor, laying next to her curled-up form on his back. He rests one hand across his stomach and uses the other to reach out and stroke her cheek.

HAROLD, in a soothing voice dripping with hurt: Where are they, Marian? Where are they?

Marian uses her hair as a blanket over her face, hiding from her husband. The kitchen sink gurgles and grumbles from the recent use of the garburator. He shuts his eyes, picturing the empty orange container.

     Harold regains his composure and looks at the fridge before his dark eyes flutter around the room and land back on the white sheet of paper in his hands. He sits, huffing puffing heavily from the memories intruding into his brain. Pushing his chair back with his heels, he stands up abruptly, walks towards the fridge door, and

 hesitates.

     With a rapid movement, he averts his course to the right, and opens the cutlery drawer. He closes his hooded eyes and shoves Danny’s grades towards the back of it before slamming it shut. Harold’s broad shoulders remain still as he makes no movement to flip the white light switch off as he storms out of the kitchen. On his way out, feet pounding against the cold floor, he unknowingly steps on a small ant, its frail body twitching where it lay a few centimetres away from a breadcrumb.

*

     The altercation rewinds and plays eight times over in Danny’s mind like a broken VHS tape as he stares at the cassette he’s tapping beneath his fingertips.

An ant scuttles across the linoleum floor

     On the hunt for crumbs

A young boy watches from the door

                                 His father calls him in, an alcoholic hum

          He pulls the tape out of its resting place and delicately sets it onto his lap, legs crossed where he hunches on the floor.

On the hunt for crumbs

                                    He watches the woman with hungry eyes

His father calls him in, an alcoholic hum

                              He thinks to himself, this is my demise

          He sees the look on his fathers face over and over and over again, I can’t believe I said that! He—he’s gonna kill me! He sniffles, using the back of his arm as a tissue.

He watches the woman with hungry eyes

                           The man gets angry and calls him out

He thinks to himself, this is my demise

              Danny Dayton wants to shout

          The cassette spills out of his shaky hands, his sweat making him lose his grip each time he tries to pick it up again.

The man gets angry and calls him out

                           A young boy watches from the door

Wishing he was braver, he hides a pout

                                  An ant scuttles across the linoleum floor

          He catches the slippery box with both hands and opens the case. Pulling out the clear rectangle, he handles it delicately before pushing it easily into the slot of his Sony machine. He slides his body under his bed, tucking himself out of view before clicking play and stuffing his fallen earphones into his ears. He lets the sounds of the Fairlight CMI synths overpower him until they are the only things he can hear. Suddenly, a mellow, breathy voice washes over him…

     Who’s gonna tell you when
     It’s too late?
     Who’s gonna tell you things
     Aren’t so great?

…a wave of nostalgia hits, filling his mind with flashes of his infancy: his mothers’ eyes, the way she used to dance to this song, her over joyous laugh—his heart stammers, yearning to hear it again.

          His mother sways across the room, moving like Jennifer Beals in “Flashdance”: a movie he and her would watch every time it came on the television. The music on full volume, she holds a ten-year-old Danny’s hands in her own and leads him through an expressive dance. The pairs arms sprawl out into the air in flowing movement along with the song.

MARIAN: C’mon, Danny Boy, she spins him around, let loose, kid!

Danny grins from cheek to cheek, looking up at Marian with wide eyes. She looks down at him and sings along with the lyrics, a bright smile painted across her face.

MARIAN: Follow my lead.

He stands on her feet as they dance together for three minutes and fifty-four seconds.