the train seems to become a husk—not something we ever rode in on or that ever traveled, but a static piece of the background, a painted-in part of the scenery. We feel our way to a staircase in the dark, your one hand at the back of my neck, the other in the air. I see a railing in the moonlight, and we follow it down.
The train doors do not close behind us. The train does not move again.
There was never any going home.
III.
NORTH
THAT FIRST NIGHT IN NOVEMBER A YEAR AND A half ago, in Richmond, the kid, dead Casey, still sputtering in the field behind us, we walked back to campus together, toward the dorms. That was it—we’d stood next to each other in the gathering outside after the show, we decided we’d had enough at the same time, and we’d walked to the show from the same place—all it took was space and convenience.
As we moved across the parking lot away from the crowd, you skipped into pace beside me, as if this was not your usual rhythm, you were used to moving faster—it was an obvious metaphor right out of the gate. “So…what did you think of the show?” you said.
“It was good! It’s refreshing to hear punk rock with a Southern accent.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty great. I can’t believe we got them to drive up all the way from South Carolina for this dinky little show.” I’d gathered that you had something to do with the planning of the show, which wound up being one of the last either of us went to in Richmond proper—their performance had been in the works for a long time, but the turnout was bad, as it usually was those days, the few and the proud; it was clear by this point that the center of whatever flimsy scene once existed in Richmond had slumped away, everything had changed. Six months ago there had been shows every week, regular series, there were “up-and-comers” and “mainstays,” no longer.
I was walking with my hands shoved into my pockets, empty except for my school ID and room key. I’d raked at the interior fabric until it was on the verge of disintegration. I was still in my ascetic phase, the aftermath of the gun—the weird impermanence, the sense that anyone or anything could disappear or materialize at any time—and it was comforting, the reassurance that I wasn’t carrying anything but my clothes, a head I shaved every day, and the devices necessary to gain access, generally, to the facilities where I was housed and fed. It was part of what kept me at the local punk shows despite the way the community was fizzling out, despite what I had done to expedite this—there were bands, or figures in bands, or had been bands in the past, who subscribed to the same kind of lifestyle, which felt like deprivation or abnegation but carried a moral weight. Proudest moments, I told myself I was aspiring to some higher code, that my vision would be clearer and starker than anyone else’s.
This was during your blue mohawk period, which I learned during our walk had been initiated a couple of weeks prior; it would stay this approximate color until summer break, when identifiers tended to change. Much later, on the bus to the city, maybe in the spirit of scrapping the past, you told me that during this year—and possibly the year or two preceding it, many eras ago—that you were trying to be “basically Tank Girl.” The delivery of the remark was casual, but was followed by a silence that gave it a peculiar gravity, the air of a deep and long-held secret, a confession of precedent, that you aspired to this kind of fantasy, maybe some part of you saw yourself plowing through apocalyptic deserts in war machines you fabricated yourself, a copied haircut and patches with British slogans. (If you’d asked me at the time, I would have called my student ID a “tag”—as with anything, it went both ways.)
“You seem nervous,” you said, as we walked.
I shrugged—the movement was probably imperceptible because we were in motion—and, to be sure, waited a few more steps before responding. “I like to make sure that everything is consistent,” I said, slowly and very deliberately, stupidly implying something vague that I hoped you’d question (yet which was impossible to question in its vagueness), as if I was some dark reservoir of mystery and sadness.
You scoffed, laughed a little at me, which made sense, because it had been all of ten minutes and here I was in my melodrama making inscrutable and dire pronouncements at someone I was trying frantically to impress. “What does that mean?”
A laugh sputtered out of me—a laugh!—acknowledging the ridiculousness of what I’d said (or maybe acknowledging that it might sound ridiculous to someone who wasn’t attuned to my deep inner torment), and I said, slightly shamed: “I don’t know.” I kicked the ground in a way I wanted to read “unconsciously frustrated” and almost tripped. I saw myself as if from a distance, acting this way: my self-involved tragedy seemed comic. The brick buildings of the college were coming into view—we’d changed from the gravel alongside the road to the sidewalk on the campus proper. I asked, “Does it ever burn you out, to be a part of the punk scene in a place like fucking Richmond, Indiana?” I was still implying a lot, but at least this time my sentence was answerable, had clear ramifications to respond to.
“Constantly,” you said. “But I grew up here”—I’d insulted her town—“so I’m experienced with the burnout. You get used to the energy expense, you know what wears you down and what you can stand—it’s a pattern. You know when you just need to give up and go someplace else for a while. Indy’s not so far away. You?”
“I’m from Dayton.” This meant nothing except a different state, but apparently the answer stood on its own.
I experienced a moment of panic after I answered, a couple of seconds delayed, a body-wide chill of realization that, though to my knowledge we’d never met before—and how had I never noticed you? how had I failed to map such a crucial person?—our set of friends and acquaintances, our familiars must overlap in some substantial way: what were the chances that you didn’t know August, didn’t know Candace, weren’t aware of some rumor of what I’d done? In the thick of the blooming night I saw all of this unraveling before it even started, the destructive path of revelation twined with the perfect vision I suddenly had of our future together, the kind of fantasy a crush spins hopelessly into infinity. I would spend the rest of my life under this fear of discovery. I tried to bury the feeling by talking over it—to disguise my past steps with forward momentum—and gestured around us, the smallest canvas. “Where do you live?”
“Brinkman.”
“I’ll walk you there.”
“How chivalrous.”
In a few minutes we came to the most visibly decrepit of the dorms, a three-winged concrete block on the far eastern edge of the tiny campus, no more than five hundred feet from my dorm. Nine months later, we would move into an apartment less than two miles from here, and then we would stop paying. “Did you know,” you said, at the door, “that this dorm was designed by a prison architect?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yep. Stand next to the staircase on any given floor and you can see straight to the end of every hallway in any direction. Every inmate accounted for.”
You stepped away and swiped your ID in the reader to unlock the door—the lack of analog technology for this was briefly startling, like a moment out of time, a reminder we weren’t living in the ’80s—then turned back. “See you in the pit.” You did a two-finger salute, and you were gone.
And that’s it; born in fire.
*
We
