Memoir

She doesn't know the specifics behind the impromptu roadtrip and she knows better than to ask. Alanna is a pale and long-limbed girl, often described as a "sweetheart," but hangs out with a group that is loud and obscene. My group. She may speak softly and seem innocent, but she keeps up, and she surprises us with her crazy side.

I know the reason for this visit is too ugly, too surreal to put into words, and even if I could explain it she would laugh and not believe me. Such is the curse of being the funny friend: no one listens. I could say something awful and they'd giggle. I could confess to murder and be very specific about the weapon, the victim, the method, only to be met with laughter and waving hands and people chortling out "Hah! You are awful! Stop stop!" Mental note: rewrite crime & punishment, include revelation of humor being the key to the perfect murder.

We drive 2 hours, until there is only desert. She doesn't read directions because I don't need them- I have made this trip before. I turn off whatever Indie/Shoegaze/Acoustic brilliance we are listening to.
"We are going to pick up a payment from Mike," I explain as we get closer. She doesn't know who Mike is and she doesn't ask.
"Well, from a place Mike often leaves them. I called yesterday and his goonies put it there."

I breathe in slowly and tell her that if they- the goonies- are there waiting for me I'll make her drop me off a block down and drive away. I tell her that, I tell her I'll meet her five blocks back in half an hour. I tell her I don't want them to see her or her car, she'll get involved automatically. I tell her if I don't come back to call the cops. She laughs and then stops when she sees my worry. Up until now the car ride has been casual and light, I'm very good at keeping things casual and light; however, the closer we get to the house the more I realize I am getting my friend in the middle of something and she needs to understand it, she needs to understand the getting-in-the-middle-of that is happening right now.

We make it to the house and I see no cars outside. I exhale and smile. I hop out of the car and run to the door, only to find there is no payment in any of the usual spots. Suddenly I'm furious and I call Mike several times. No answer. I leave threatening voicemails and scream into the receiver. I see Alanna, wide eyes and wide mouth and still wondering if she should be laughing at me. Still? Still wondering?

"Just ring the doorbell. Look inside, can you see it inside? Lets try the backdoor."
"No, this isn't a real house."
"What?"
"This house is not real, Alanna. Its a drop off point. People don't even go inside." True, except for that last part.

She stops and doesn't understand and is suddenly afraid. I am so mad, so mad at Mike for screwing me over, so mad at the stupid goonies he hires who smile and slap and smoke cigars and chuckle at aching souls, so mad at this hideous house in the middle of the suburbs, mad at the adorable lawn gnome and porch swing that make it look like someones grandmother lives here when in reality the gnome hasn't seen anything but drugs and money and scared people, people brought here to be beaten and broken in one way or another, physically or mentally or spiritually or gramatically or geographically I don't know how but one way or another you die when you accept an invitation past the calico cat welcome rug.

No answer on the phone.

Mike and his goatee and his huge mouth, exactly what I'd imagine the devil to look like. I think he worked on that, actually. Worked on looking like Lucifer. He sure had the laugh down. And the company. No answer on the phone. I have forgotten why we came there.

I run into the backyard and grab a brick. Lets burn this place down, lets break in the door, I'll show you I'll show you how broken it all is! ALANNA COME ON no no no what are you doing get back in the car COME ON COME ON Come on COME ON break it down with me I need you to break this door and smash the walls in and throw yourself at it- did you bring your lighter we can send a nice ashy message to SatanMike and his goonies, his minions, his demons ...and the houses! The sweet white houses and their innocent potted plants and beautifully cut lawn and its how all the bad houses want to look but guess what there is NOTHING INSIDE maybe a couch or two for appearances but there is nothing inside! I've been inside that house, I've been in there and I don't want you to be in there I hate THINKING ABOUT IT IN THERE AND WHAT AND HOW AND WHY IN THERE WAS LIKE THAT AND I HATE IT AND I HATE YOU

I've been in that house. I am that house. I throw the brick.