House of the goat
The pickup truck headed south on Highway 158, its lackluster green only manifest in flashes of light from the utility pole lamps it passed beneath. Buddy's gorilla-sized hands sat loosely on the steering wheel. Night-weary eyes strained to make out the silhouettes of landmarks blurring past.
To his right a field of electrical structures that looked much like a giant erector set stood tall, giving power to suburban and rural towns alike. They were invisible to the four boys seated in the truck bed beneath the camper.
Brothers Robbie and Dillon sat catty-corner of each other: Robbie with his back to the wheel well hump, Dillon against the cab. Mike and Daniel, cousins, sat likewise, save Mike leaned on the other hump and Daniel against the tailgate.
Dillon tore the cellophane wrap off his cassette case and stuffed it inside the Wax Records bag at his side. He opened the case, removed the insert and unfolded it to read its barely visible lyrics.
“What tape did you get, Dillon?” said Robbie.
Dillon held the unfolded insert cover-side forward for him to see. “Queen.”
“You mean, Queer?” said Daniel.
“Shut up, man. Queen rules,” said Dillon.
“Bunch of fags.”
“Yeah? Well what did you get? Willie Nelson?”
“Hell no. I got Judas Priest. What about you, Rob?” said Daniel, gaze shifting to the older brother.
“Black Sabbath and Blue Oyster Cult,” said Robbie.
“It stinks that we have to drive to Virginia to find a record store.”
“Or arcade,” Dillon said and returned the insert back in the case after finding it impossible to read in the dark.
“Hey, Mike. What'd you get?” Daniel asked his cousin.
Mike was preoccupied, having spent the better of the last half-hour meticulously packing and rolling a joint in the long rectangle of moonlight coming through the sliding side window, a task made more difficult by the uneven road.
“Hey, man. Didn't you hear me?” Daniel said, nudging Mike's side with an elbow.
With an accomplished smile Mike flicked the lighter's flint and watched the tall flame ignite the end of his momentary masterpiece. “I got Mary Jane,” he said and took a toke.
He held it in for as long as possible, then exploded with strangled laughter. Out of a sort of perverted generosity he offered it to the younger Dillon, but not before inspecting Robbie's eyes for any objection and discerning none.
Dillon frowned, though he expected as much. “I’m alright,” he said.
Mike offered the joint to Daniel, who hesitated after observing Dillon's rejection. As his cousin had, he too glanced at Robbie for any objection.
“It’s cool. He won’t tell,” Robbie affirmed and threw an intimidating glance at Dillon, who replied with a nervous smirk.
Daniel took a deep hit and proceeded to cough for half a minute.
“Don't bogart it, man,” Robbie said and took the joint.
He took a toke, ignoring the look of disappointment on his little brother's face. He knocked on the window of the cab. After a moment the tiny window slid open.
“Got a present for ya,” Robbie said, laughing.
Buddy's hand emerged from the window and grabbed the joint, then disappeared from view for a moment before returning the joint.
“Did you like the present?” said Robbie.
The hand returned and with a single finger beckoned for Robbie. He leaned towards the window when a funnel of smoke shot through like a genie escaping its bottle and enveloped his face.
As he clumsily waved the smoke away, his head bobbing in virtual slow motion, everyone burst into laughter, except for Dillon, who now lay on the floor of the truck bed. The noise of the truck's engine, the wind outside, the vibration of the bed as the tires ran over every bump and crack in the highway, all had lulled him to sleep.
“Man, that was like three hits,” said Robbie and handed the joint back to Mike.
After a second toke, Mike pointed at Dillon. “What's on your brother's shoe?”
Robbie leaned over to see, but was at the wrong angle. “I don't see it, man.”
Daniel took the joint. “It's a dragonfly.”
“Dead dragonfly,” said Mike, and laughed. “Looks like a helicopter. Your brother stomped on a helicopter like Godzilla.”
Daniel took a second hit. “It's like the locusts in the Book of Revelation, man.”
“Everything's like the Book of Revelations for you,” said Mike.
“I can't help it, man.”
Robbie took the joint and puffed it. “Aren't your parents Mormons or something?”
“Hell, no. We're First-Born Christians,” Daniel corrected him.
“What's that?”
“God chose us before he made the world. We're the ones who inherit the earth.”
“Where's that leave the rest of us?”
“Screwed, blued and tattooed. You'll take the Mark of the Beast and turn on the rest of us.”
Robbie tried to hide his laughter. He knocked on the cab and waited until Buddy took the joint.
“You guys are related. Does that make you one, too?” said Robbie.
“My parents are religious and all, but not that religious,” Mike answered.
“So what's up with the dragonflies?” said Robbie.
“Locusts,” Daniel corrected him again. “In the Book of Revelation, the locusts are helicopters.”
“What do locusts have to do with dragonflies?” said Robbie.
“Nothing, but that's what he does,” said Mike. “He makes everything relate to the Book of Revelations.”
“Fine. I won't talk about it then,” said Daniel, looking aside.
“Nah, it's cool,” said Robbie. “Half the metal we listen to is about the Book of Revelations: Iron Maiden, Ozzy, Crue, all of it.”
“I got a book at home that explains it all,” said Daniel. “They have metal breastplates like iron and their wings sound like chariots of horses--that’s a helicopter blade. And they have tails like scorpions--those are machine guns.”
“That’s cool. My grandfather talks about that stuff.”
“Did he say they were helicopters?”
“Nah, he just reads it to us and says, `What do you think this means?’ Man, how the hell should I know, you’re the preacher!”
“They’re helicopters man. I told you. I can prove it. I got a book.”
“Yeah man, helicopters,” agreed Mike. “Like on the beginning of MASH, when you see those helicopters full of patients flying in and landing on the field for Hawkeye and Radar. Yeah man, I can see it. Helicopters. Hella-cool helicopters!”
The boys started their synchronous laughter again, but just as quickly an unnatural silence settled upon them.
“This is my jam so be quiet,” Buddy's voice boomed from the cab unnecessarily.
The song's hypnotic introduction had already taken hold of them. They couldn't help but listen intently as if the most holiest of scriptures were uttered in their awestruck presence by sacred lips. Harpsichord and 12-string guitar weaved their musical magic throughout both cab and camper, demanding their unstinting devotion.
Wires ran from the cab window to two speakers resting on the truck bed. Robbie moved the left speaker next to Dillon’s head, stretching the wire as far as it would go. The boys started laughing again.
“Turn it up, Buddy!” said Robbie.
“Hell yeah, man!” Buddy said and turned the volume knob radio far right.
The speakers blared in Dillon’s ears, and still he didn’t budge. But as Horus Baker's voice intoned in melodic prose, Dillon was summoned from his sleep.
“In the hand of the usher lies
a seven-pointed candelabra.
When its emerald ends ignite,
the doors open to Casa del Cabro...”
Casa del Cabro, the classic rock anthem by '70s super-group The Bath Mats, and notably the favorite song of Dillon's relatively empty 13 years. He sat up straight, his eyes and mouth half open and his thick, long hair dented on one side from where he lay his head. He looked around the hazy cab in a twilight daze then scanned the floor of the bed.
“What you looking for, bro?” said Robbie.
“I’m hungry,” Dillon answered.
The boys burst into laughter.
“What?” said Dillon.
“Dillon's got the munchies,” Daniel shouted.
“Don't we all?” Buddy's voice boomed from the cab. “I'll pull over at the next gas station.”
The song continued, and by time the chorus came around, all five of them sang along in unison.
“Everybody's waiting for the dawn
For the One is coming, it won't be long
Everybody will dance beneath a black sun
So smile, children, tell everyone to come...”
The four boys only stopped singing when the two-finger candle came their way, joyously entertaining themselves until it burned down. Without such trivial indulgence, Dillon devotedly sang every word from the bottom of his soul.
“...In his hands our host lifts up
a golden chalice of reddest wine
All those present drink from the cup
carefully crushed from the bluest vine
But surely as metal is tried
so by such your souls this hour
only the defiled are purified
only One will rise to power...”
As the second chorus played, the truck took a left into the convenience store parking lot. Buddy eased up to the curb and turned the engine off, but left the radio on.
Daniel pushed open the camper door to climb out when Buddy stopped him. “Hey, wait,” said Buddy. “Here comes the best part.”
The song's bridge began, and in a solemn, reverent moment, everyone hushed.
“...The hell hounds gather outside the gates
War stallions are chompin' at the bits
The stars align, you can't avoid the Fates
By their design, you resign your Fate!”
“Hell yeah!” Buddy shouted and turned the key, shutting down the radio and interrupting the epic guitar solo's first bar.
He opened the door and stepped out of the truck. “Alright everyone, make it quick. I don't wanna miss the entire solo.
The boys piled out of the camper. When they stepped on the concrete walkway everyone but Dillon was blinded by the storefront's fluorescent lighting—sobriety had its advantages. Mike and Daniel lit up cigarettes and smoked beneath the canopy while the others filed in the door.
“Did you know that song is about devil worship?” said Daniel.
Mike laughed. “What?”
“Casa Del Cabro. It's about Satanic sacrifice.”
“I think you're reading too much into it, man. It's about partying, straight and simple,” Mike said and blew a puff of smoke. “I should know.”
In a minute the doors opened and Buddy emerged with a case of beer. Just behind came Robbie with two bags full of junk food.
Daniel was still expounding upon the song's deeper meaning. “And the last part is about the Antichrist. That's
who the middle part talks about being tried like metal and rising to power.”
“That's what's wrong with you religious people,” said Buddy. “You have to piss on everyone's parade.”
“Just telling the truth,” said Daniel as he exhaled his last puff of smoke.
He and Mike dropped their smoking butts on the sidewalk.
Buddy shook his head and opened the passenger side door long enough to place the beer on the seat. He looked back at the store entrance. “What's taking your brother so long?”
Robbie rolled his eyes. “Take this,” he said and handed the bags to the cousins.
The bell over the door rang as Robbie entered the brightly-lit store. Dillon stood before the microwave at the rear of the store, pressing his finger in the center of his half-wrapped, half-warmed pizza burrito.
“You ready?” Robbie asked as he approached.
“Stupid number is wrong,” said Dillon, referring to the 2 printed on the plastic wrapper.
He reinserted the burrito in the microwave and pressed 1.
“Be done in a minute,” he said.
Robbie spied the Strawberry NesQuick milk sitting beside the microwave. He took it and approached the cashier.
“Hey! That's mine,” said Dillon.
“He's got this and a pizza burrito,” Robbie told the cashier and placed the plastic bottle of milk on the counter.
In vain the cashier leaned forward on tiptoes to see the burrito inside the microwave, impossible unless he had x-ray vision. “Okay,” he said and rang the two items up anyway.
“Oh, thanks,” said Dillon as Robbie opened his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.
The microwave bell rang. Dillon removed the hot burrito and proceeded to evenly distribute the contents of several salt packets over its length.
The entrance bell rang as Buddy poked his head inside. “Hurry up, man--we ain’t got all night,” he said and disappeared.
“You almost done?” said Robbie.
“Yeah, just gotta get a little more salt on here,” Dillon answered and emptied another packet on the burrito.
He wiped his hands on a white, paper napkin and gathered up the remnants of torn salt packets. A few pieces fell through his fingers to the floor. Robbie sighed as Dillon stooped over to retrieve each piece. ...
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