Unrequited love brings out our most poetic instincts.
But when the words don't come, it's best not to let Phil Collins do the talking.
But when the words don't come, it's best not to let Phil Collins do the talking.
Say Something ... Anything by Eric Beetner
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“He’s back.” Rebecca inched aside the curtain
with a single finger, trying to see but not be seen.
Her husband pounded the floor with bare feet
on the way into the living room. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.” He showed
no fear of being spotted as he jerked back the curtain to get a good look at
the kid in the driveway next door. He could hear the music now, the same damn
song.
“Seven days in a row,” Rebecca noted, her
voice more fear than anger.
“I don’t even think she’s home,” Paul said.
Rebecca shrank away from the exposed window.
She pulled her arms in tighter around her body as she watched the young man in
the trenchcoat performing his nightly ritual, the boom box high over his head.
Paul let the curtain go and furrowed his
brow. “This has gotta stop.”
“I spoke to Diane in the driveway day before
yesterday,” Rebecca said. “She’s scared.”
“It’s fucking creepy.”
“I’m
scared.”
Paul turned to his wife and saw the fear in
her eyes, her posture. This had to end. Tonight.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Paul went to the garage. He turned sideways
to make it between the car and the bikes and stepped to the storage closet he
assembled from Ikea just after they moved in. He turned the small key he left
dangling from the lock, opened the flimsy door and reached in past the half
rolls of Christmas wrapping and the old Halloween lights. He brought out his
hunting rifle.
“Paul, what are you doing?” Rebecca called as
he passed back through the house and out the front door.
“I’m gonna scare him off.”
Paul felt the cool dew on his bare feet as he
marched across his lawn to where the kid stood freakishly still with his arms
in a V above him, the tiny speakers on his box cranked high until they
distorted. Always the same song. Always In
Your Eyes. The more he played it – sometimes forty times a night – the
creepier it got.
Paul remembered the kid’s name from one night
when Diane yelled at him from her bedroom window, telling him to knock it off
and go home. He just stood there until the tape ran out. A continuous loop of
Peter Gabriel.
“Lloyd, it’s time for you to go.” He kept the
gun down low, as unthreatening as a man with a rifle could be. It was a long
range gun. A scope, barrel half the length of Paul’s arm. Made to hit a buck at
a hundred yards. But it was all he had and a sensible man would be scared off
by any gun.
He turned to face Paul, the music now
blasting directly at him. Paul saw his eyes. Dead eyes. Black. The kid’s face
was a blank, a sculpture in stone. And the eyes didn’t show anything.
“You gotta . . .,” Paul had to swallow, the
creepy kid’s stare unnerved him. “You gotta get out of here, Lloyd. She’s not
even home.”
The song hit the familiar chorus. Lloyd
continued to stare.
Rebecca yelled from her porch, an edge to her
voice that cut through the crackling speakers. “Paul, get away from him!”
“Come on now, Lloyd,” Paul said. He lifted
the gun a few inches as Lloyd took a step toward him. Paul edged back, then
remembered he had the gun and stood his ground. Wind kicked up the kid’s trench
like fluttering wings. The song got louder as Lloyd took another step.
“Go home,” Paul demanded. “Get out of here.”
With each step Lloyd took closer, the gun
barrel raised another inch until it was even with Paul’s hip. To look through
the scope now would be a waste. Lloyd was so close he’d only be a blur.
Rebecca screamed Paul’s name behind him. It
got lost in the buzzing song growling from over Lloyd’s head. The dead black
eyes moved closer.
“Get the fuck away from here,” Paul said. The
silent stalking continued. Lloyd was on Paul’s property now. Shooting him would
be fully justified.
“For fuck’s sake,” Paul said. “Say something.
Say anything.”
Lloyd stepped off the grass and onto Paul’s
driveway. Too close. Paul pulled the trigger and Lloyd bent at the middle, but
the boom box stayed up. Paul fired again and Lloyd fell.
The box slid out of his hands as he hit, face
down. The tape warbled, then continued on at a weird half speed. Slowing and
speeding up, matching the uneven rise and fall of Lloyd’s chest. Then the kid
went still, but the music played on.
Paul felt the cold in his feet. He heard the
crying behind him from Rebecca on the porch. He listened to the warped song
star over, the loop unfinished for the night. The worst part, Paul thought, that
used to be our song.
