WE ALL FALL DOWN – PART 1 By Fat Lenny the Ocean Man 1 Brock runs a hand through his lengthy, greasy hair. A smile cracks his usually set lips. “My god,” he says. “What do you say?” Ash asks. A typical Brock-style pause. Then: “Giddy up.” --- Two minutes. Four. Five. Ash reaches for the radio. Brock slaps his hand away. “Fuck that, man. The station's gone. I'm not listening to country, sorry.” “Ah, Jesus,” Ash says with a sigh. The day is good-looking; baby blue sky, sharp sunlight, fresh smell. Beautiful girls are walking past Brock's minivan, tanned chicks in string bikinis. Ash watches them with a finger across his limp prick. They remind him of Misty. “Christ, man. Teenagers.” Brock strikes a match. “I know, I know.” “Look like fucking models. Must've spent a lot on the haircare crap and stuff like that. “I know.” Thinking of Misty hurts bad. She was nice, a nice red head with a perfect smile and a perfect ass. Hello there. His prick twitches. He glances at the radio clock. 1:23 pm. “See anything yet?” He asks, trying to steer his mind away from Misty and her perfect smile and perfect ass. No use. His prick will remind him with no trouble. “Nah. Just a bunch of tanned sluts. But damn.” Alright, Brock. Alright. I get it. They're perfect, their asses are perfect, I get it I get it. Without realizing what he's doing, Ash reaches for the radio dial a second time. --- Fifteen minutes. Thirty. Forty. “Anything?” “Nope, nothing.” “Then lets fuck it, man. Fuck it. I'm hungry and kinda horny. I need some sleep.” Brock drums his fingers on the steering wheel, shaking his head. His nose is shiny and red. It reminds Ash of a misshapen lollipop. “Nah. This was your idea, anyway. Someone'll come out, don't worry.” Brock lights another Camel, sticks it into his grin. “Climb back there and jerk it if your horny, just don't make a mess.” Ash giggles. He can't help it. “Fuck you,” he says. He closes his eyes, expecting the day to last forever and the heat to worsen and his stiff prick to explode. Fifty minutes. Fifty-five. --- Ash dreams about Misty. It isn't a major dream, but it's wet, and Ash hasn't had a wet dream since his teens. Misty is lying on her back, naked and smiling. Ash is standing over her, undoing his zipper. “C'mon,” she says. “I need to catch some sleep.” “Oh,” Ash responds. He wrestles ol' Willy out of his slumber. He tosses it around to harden it. Misty watches with a grin, playing with a strand of her fire red hair. He begins to jerk off with his head hung and his breath held; habits he has used since he first discovered the activity on his twelfth birthday. That day he came everywhere, on his blanket, his pillow, his nightstand. It felt great, but terror had crept up into his throat at the sight of the mess. “C'mon!” Misty demands. She props herself up on her elbows. “I'm tired.” No worries. The climax is close, no denying it. Just a few more minutes, Mom, and I'll be down for some cake. “A-ah,” he says, squirts. “Ah!” Misty shrieks. The thick stream lands on her chest; bullseye. Deadeye Dick. “Sorry.” He feels his face burn. “C'mo--” But Brock pulls him back into the hot minivan. --- He swats Brock's hand away with a grunt. “Wh-what?” “Bingo, man. B-i-n-g-o.” He rubs his eyes, straightens up in his seat. “What? What bingo?” Brock points out the windshield. “There.” “Oh.” --- Robbie Clart isn't old. He isn't young, either. He's handsome, wearing a tattered Pink Floyd shirt and cut off jeans. His face is damp-looking and pinkish. “Oh.” “C'mon,” Brock says. He opens his door and climbs out. The parking lot asphalt is scalding on Ash's bare feet. He gasps in surprise and walks up to Clart on his heels. Clart doesn't notice, only smiles and pats Brock on the shoulder. “Man, what are you guys up to?” “Nothing much,” Brock says. He pulls out a fresh Camel. “Hot day, but it's nice. We have nothing to do.” Clart's smile stretches. His teeth are straight and squeaky clean. “Same here. You guys off duty, then?” Brock glances behind his shoulder at Ash. He takes a puff off his Camel, the smoke dancing across his tanned forehead. “Well, we are off duty, Clart. You're right, but I wanted to ask you a few questions. Mind if we ask them in your living room, or something?” For just a moment, a second, that squeaky clean grin twitches. Ash squints at it through Brock's powder blue cigarette smoke. “Well, sure. But what for? I already answered some down at the station. And aren't you guys off duty, anyway?” “We are,” Brock assures, “we are. But we'll keep that a secret. If you don't mind.” “Well, sure,” Clart says. “The place is a mess, though.” “We don't care.” “Well, sure, alright. C'mon.” --- Looks can be deceiving. Robbie Clart was born with good-looks, but his house keeping abilities are ugly. Potato chip crumbs on the burnt orange sofa in the corner, stained pizza boxes piled high in the middle of the room, a cracked color TV at the head of the mess, giving its opinion of the place with a blank face. The smell is bad, a mixture of stale farts and body odor and rotten potatoes. “Just sit on the sofa over there, guys,” Clart says. “Anyone want a beer? Soda?” Brock swipes at the crumbs and collapses on the left side. Ash takes the right. “No thanks, Clart,” Ash says. “Just come on and sit down. This won't take long, believe me.” “A'right,” Clart says. He clears himself a space on the coffee brown carpet. “Go ahead.” Brock's up. He taps out his Camel, clears his throat. “How well did you know Morgan Cole?” “We met in the third grade, so I'd say pretty well. She had a crush on me in the fifth grade. I blew it off, I thought she was sort of gross. Stupid kid shit, you know? I had no idea how gorgeous she really was.” “But you dated her during your freshmen year? 1987?” “Oh, yep. It was my turn to fall for her, and I fell fucking hard. I remember getting an awful but sort of good feeling in my stomach whenever she said my name. Sounds cheesy and gay, but what the fuck. It's the truth.” “When did you break up?” “Senior year, 1990. She broke it off. Said I was too goddamn needy and clingy. I went to shit, my grades went to shit, I almost didn't graduate. I was a wreck, and the fucking bitch knew it. Still, she walked the halls with Scott Clortflield. They passed me almost everyday and never noticed me. Man, I was a wreck.” Brock takes out a steno notebook and a fountain pen. He has to flip through a collection of decent doodles to get to a fresh page. “Scott Clortfield died in 1993?” “1994. Stabbed to death. Got into a bar fight, one thing led to another, that kinda shit. So I'm told.” Brock stops recording, nudges Ash's knee with his own. Finished. You're up, buddy. Ash clears his throat. “Did you talk to Morgan the morning she died? The night before?” Clart sighs and twists a finger around a piece of carpet. “Nope. I still beat myself up over that. We broke up twelve years ago, and I couldn't put it behind me. I talked to her last Christmas, though. She sounded good and happy.” “She didn't mention anything out of the ordinary?” “Nope.” “Do you have any idea who could've killed her?” “Nah, man. Not one.” Clart sighs heavily and dry scrubs his face. “I wish I did, though. I'd fucking kill him myself. Morgan was the nicest girl I've ever met. I'm shit without her, man. Fucking useless.” 2 Brock sets his burger down on its greasy wrapper. “So,” he says to Ash, who is struggling to digest his own Triple Terror, “what do you think? Clart telling the truth?” “Probably. His alibi checks out.” “What did he tell them down at the station?” “He was working late at the factory. We asked his colleagues and they remember seeing him.” Ash takes a massive bite. A mayo coated pickle slips down his chin. “He said he came home around eleven, checked his answering machine. He got the news from another third grade buddy. Roger Felb. People call him Rex.” “I mean, I don't think he was lying. He's a nice enough guy.” “Yeah. I don't think twelve year old jealously is a strong enough motive to kill.” “Yep, yep.” The conversation tappers off, and in the meantime, Ash watches another tanned beauty cross the Burger Barn parking lot. This one is another Misty look-a-like. Worse complexion. Bigger ass. “She looked like a nice girl,” Ash finally says. He gives up on his Triple Heart Attack, crumples it up into a greasy ball. “The Cole girl.” “Real pretty,” Brock says. “Damn shame.” --- Ash is lying on his motel room mattress, studying a Polaroid snap of Morgan Cole. Real pretty, yeah. I'm shit without her, man. Fucking useless. He turns the snap over. Morgie, Virginia Beach, 2000, written in a sharp scrawl. Real pretty. A bathing suit clad Morgan is stuck in time with a goofy smile plastered on her face. Her hair is wet and stringy, sticking to her neck and shoulders. Blonde hair. Not like Misty's. Fucking useless. I still beat myself up over that. Ash turns on his stomach and reaches for the motel cordless. His fingers find the seven numbers before his brain kicks in, before his mind refuses the idea. One ring. Two. Three. “Hey! This is Misty!” “Misty? Hey, this is Ash-” “I can't come to the phone at the moment, but you should leave your name and number. I'll get back to ya. Bye!” Click. Silence. Ash drops the cordless between his legs. The Polaroid is lying forgotten on the floor, Morgan in her black and white two piece and that goofy smile. “Shit,” he tells the stale smelling motel room. After awhile, he props himself into a sitting position and turns on the tube. --- Morning. Another diner, another greasy sandwich with bacon and cheese. Brock finishes and fishes in his breast pocket for a fresh Camel. “Brock? You remember Misty?” He thinks, striking a match. “Misty Waterflower? That Misty?” “Yeah. The red head.” “Yep, I remember her. What about her?” “I tried to call her last night. I haven't talked to her in, fuck, years. I got her machine. I didn't even leave a message.” “It's that Cole girl, isn't it? She reminded you of Misty, didn't she?” Ash doesn't say anything, only stares down at his soggy french fries. He thinks about Morgan Cole in her black and white two piece. “Christ, Ash. How long ago was that? Ten years ago?” “I-..I don't know.” “Just try to call her again.” Simple but impossible. What in the hell would he say to her, anyway? “Maybe.” He picks up a fry. “I'll try.” “Good.” --- The minivan is cool, but a sour smell is drifting up from the back cabin, fooling with Ash and his full stomach. The radio is blaring golden oldies. Brock lights his last Camel. “Maybe I will give her another call,” Ash says. The scent of the powder blue cigarette smoke is mixing with the mystery smell. Ash cranks his window down despite the chilly morning breeze. “You should,” Brock says. “Maybe I'll even give her a call. It's been...what? Ten years?” “About ten years. Yeah.” Maybe I'll give her a call...ten years. Just this one sentence cracks the ol' memory dam in Ash's brain. Brock, Ash, and Misty; lying in Eltman's Field, Ash wanting to touch Misty's hand, but too afraid. Feeling anxious and fluttery. Ash and Misty; making out in Eltman's Field two weeks later. Misty pulls away after a good minute, runs a finger down Ash's stubbly chin. You taste like peppermint strawberries, Ash says. Then they're at it again. Misty and Ash; inside a dark movie theater. The Shawshank Redemption is playing, but neither are watching. Ash is tasting Misty's lips, Misty is running her hands through Ash's shoulder length hair, and the good times are rolling. “Yeah,” Ash says to Brock in the cool minivan. “Maybe you should call her.” --- Good? Bad? Drop me a comment at stevekingscary@yahoo.com. Part 2 is on it's way!