Chapter 1: Eddie's Favorite Memory
—1979—
Alone in his room, Eddie plucked the worn strings of his cheap acoustic guitar along to the music playing through his stereo, learning the song by ear. Missing a few notes, he lifted the needle off the record and dropped it back in place at the beginning, but as he did so, another sound caught his attention.
Was today the day?
He raced to the door. The trailer shook as he went, rattling the beginnings of his father's eccentric mug collection hung on the wall. He threw the screen door open with such vigor it smacked the aluminum siding and wobbled on its hinges. Up the unpaved street, dirt clouds trailed a car like the flaming wings of a chariot.
The red Ford Pinto rolled to a stop in front of his home, and much to his disappointment, it was only the mail lady driving with her leg straddling the center console to control the pedals and her arm stretched across to the steering wheel, nearly running him over. She didn't say anything; she merely continued to chew her gum and motion for him to take the tiny cardboard box from her hand.
Eddie snatched it and read the label. "Maybe today won't be so shit."
She scowled. "Cool it on the cursing, kid."
He waited until she reversed onto the main road and drove away to flip two glaring birds in her rearview mirror. "Whatever, bitch." Excited to rip open his package, he shredded it down the middle and tossed aside the bubble wrap.
A gust picked up the rustling plastic.
Rocks crunched under car tires behind him.
"I can't believe it actually came," he spoke aloud with raised eyebrows. He opened the plastic casing and inspected the clear cassette, looking over the handwritten tracklist on the inside. Weighing it in his hand, he reasoned with himself, "I must not be tempted to listen to this before she–"
"Eddie!"
He nearly dropped the treasure he'd been anticipating since he met that weird old man at the flea market who swore Eddie's $5 could get him a bootleg live recording of Pink Floyd's Oakland concert from two years ago. Of course he paid and jotted down his address without a second thought.
"Eddie!" you shouted again, jumping out of the moving car because you couldn't wait for your mom to park in the dead grass next to the trailer across the street. You scooped him into a bone-crushing hug, extending your back to lift him off the ground. At least, you thought you did, until his Converse nudged your toes, firmly on the ground.
He grew another damn inch.
Cackling at your pitiful efforts, he mocked you, "That's what happens when you're gone too long."
"It was only a month," you grumbled.
Eddie wrapped his arms around you, clasping his forearms across the span of your shoulders. Holding you tighter than he meant to since he was still regaining his balance..
No. He did intend to embrace you until you laughed in his ear, telling him it hurt.
It was unfortunate; the impending societal awareness that crept into every innocuous action, every clothing choice, every decision to buy nice-smelling shampoos, or forgo them in lieu of generic deodorant. It existed in his muscles tensing you against him. It spelled trouble in his sandy blond hair darkening, and the wispy growth above his top lip thickening. No one could point out the exact time in a young person's life when it became inappropriate to hug your best friend, but he was on the cusp of discovering it with how your mother stared him down from behind your back.
Smoke billowed in front of her face. "Be back for dinner," your mom muttered around the half-burnt cigarette between her lips. Grabbing her gaudy purse and empty beer can from the dash, she used her hip to close the door, and went inside to pass out on the couch for the rest of the day.
"Whaddya get?"
"Hm?" Eddie blinked away his glare and separated himself from you, putting a significant distance between you. "Oh, ho! You have spotted my newest acquisition. Delivered by boat just this morn'."
You pulled a grimace. "Talk normal, please." Smirking, he flipped the cover of the cassette towards you. "Shit!" You covered your mouth. "Oops.." After a thought, you shook your head and relaxed your shoulders, knowing your mom couldn't hear you out here. Still, you kept your voice down out of instinct. "Are you fucking serious? I've wanted to listen to this concert for so long; I can't believe you just– Wait.. You don't even like Pink Floyd that much. You said they're too 'soft.'"
"Yeah, but you like them."
"But it's your birthday."
"Who cares?"
"Was it expensive?"
Again, he said, "Who cares?"
You scanned the rundown trailer park. "Uh, we do?"
Fluttering his fingers about, he waved off your incessant questioning. "What's with the third degree? Are we listening to it, or not?"
"Duh," you scoffed. You headed for his room, assuming you would play it on his tape deck, but of course, he had something else up his torn sleeve. You almost ran face-first into his outstretched arms stopping you from taking another step. "What now?"
"Wait out back in our spot. I have another surprise.. And you wouldn't happen to have two double AA batteries, would you?"
After several minutes, and many, many, uses of the Lord's name in vain later, Eddie found what he was looking for in his messy closet and bolted outside to meet you. He waded through an endless sea of wispy dry weeds parting the horizon from the deteriorating trailers to the edge of the woods where the top of your head poked above the grass. You gave him time to settle in next to you before you were laying down on the slope of the withered ditch littered with remnants of previous misadventures.
"Look," he said. You opened your eyes to mostly a view of his ratty jacket overtop his Judas Priest tee. He flaunted the box over your face. "A gift from my old man. He thought I turned thirteen in June."
You gave him a look. "A gift, huh?"
He opened the blue and silver metal Sony Walkman by slicing down the middle of the hefty price sticker with a pocket knife and bounced his eyebrows. "He got it for me the day it came out while you were gone." As if it weren't obvious, he wiggled his five fingers.
"I got it, Eddie."
Clearly having a disdain for the environment, he lobbed the styrofoam trash amongst the other trash partially petrified in the mud; cigarette stubs, crushed cans, the odd broken plastic item, a bent butter knife, an old lighter, a pile of burnt magazine pages; truly random things. He placed the batteries in the Walkman, put in the tape, and scrolled the volume wheel all the way up.
Faint music played from the tiny earmuffs. He laid next to you, and without discussing it, he flipped the headphones upside down and you both rolled onto your sides, cupping one side each around your ears. Leaning your heads together to listen to the beginning chords of Pink Floyd's Sheep.
In the early golden sunset, Eddie asked amongst the calm, "How was gymnastics camp? Learn any new tricks?"
"I landed a handspring front layout into a double twist."
"I have no idea what that means, but I'm gathering it's impressive," he said, brimming with a toothy grin to match your own."
"Yeah, it's pretty good."
"Will I be getting an invite to the Olympics?"
You rolled your eyes in a playful way; however, he perceived the flicker of resentment lurking in the background, and it was impossible to ignore how quickly your smile faded considering how close your lips were to his. "Like hell they'd come to some place like Indiana, much less Hawkins, to scout talent. They go to big meets in big cities. Doesn't matter anyway, you know they don't bother with people like us who can't afford to keep the lights on at the start of the month, or whose water pipes smell like rotten eggs on the regular." Not exactly a funny statement, but he snorted at the accuracy. With a defeated sigh, you turned onto your back and folded your arms across your chest. The hem of your tattered shirt slid against your leotard, revealing the shimmery fabric under the fading sky. "Besides, they want girls younger than me, better than me."
"Damn. And I thought I was supposed to be the pessimistic one."
"You're right." You gave him an apologetic look. "I'll join the circus instead. Anyway, how was your summer?"
"Boring. We put together a song or three," he said about his band. "Third one isn't anything worth bragging about. It's still in the jamming stage. Another session and it'll be shaped into something presentable, maybe."
"Nice, can't wait to hear it."
You bumped fists and resumed focusing on the concert playing in a suboptimal manner, of which neither of you could fully enjoy. It would've been easier to stay inside and play it over the stereo, singing along to the lyrics while you sat on his bed, and he on the floor. But inside meant being reachable by phone. Inside meant parental intervention. Inside meant being controlled.
Outside sucked, too. There were bugs, the grass was itchy, and a chill was creeping in. But no one could find you out here. This sanctuary belonged to you and Eddie. No one else.
In this substantial field, there was only space for you and him. Just you and him. Like always.
Coming to life at the end of a song, you jabbed his hand holding the Walkman. "Rewind it. Play Wish You Were Here again."
"Jesus, corpses have warmer hands than you," he hissed, obeying your request and hitting the rewind and play buttons. Then, he sat up and shrugged his jacket off, being gentle where he pulled at the cuffs due to the holes he'd worn in them. He dropped it on top of you. You opened your mouth, ready to refuse, and he shook his head. "You can keep it." Keep it. Wear it often. Occupy yourself by snuggling into his warmth, because even in the pitch black night, he swore the stars would rat out his burning cheeks.
The Walkman clicked. The tape stopped whirring, at its end.
Holding shy eye contact in the sliver of moonlight, he laid back down.
Play it again.
Click.
Play it again.
Click.
Play it again.
The recording wasn't a high grade one. It had static interference, there were loud thuds that scared the both of you the first time they happened, but.. This is where you wanted to be. Where he wanted to be. Propped cheek to fist, idly shoveling dirt with your fingers until your eyelids drifted closed. Obligations, anxieties, fears did not exist in the comfort of one another's presence.
Click.
You interrupted the sleepy cricket's song, "I guess it's time for me to go home."
"Doesn't have to be," he whispered.
"She's easier to deal with when I'm only two hours late," you said, standing up, putting on his jacket. "Wanna come over for dinner?" Your sarcasm could be detected for miles.
"I have a box of stale cereal with my name on it, but thank you for the gracious invitation, oh Benevolent One."
He performed a waist-deep bow. You curtsied.
Giggling, you walked away and promised you'd see each other tomorrow. "Bright and early, Munson! Maybe even before noon this time."
"Ab-so-lutely not!" he yelled back, biting his lip to rid himself of the widest smile he'd had all summer. How could he not smile when you were back?
In fact, he couldn't imagine a world in which he wouldn't smile this big when you were next to him.
Daring to open the creaky front door, you knew not to expect the savory waft of cooked food, but the sting of alcohol in your nose was stronger than usual. More powerful than the usual rank mildewy smell of dust-covered garbage. The TV was blaring. Your mom was slouched into the corner of the couch; an opened six pack beside her and a bottle of spirits tilted in her hand. Her glazed over eyes were watching the news, though you suspected she was taking none of it in.
Your senses were on high alert. If you were quiet, meek like a mouse, you may be able to–
"Uh-uh." Your body responded to her voice on instinct, closing the refrigerator. "No dinner. Not until your sets of fifty." She snapped repeatedly and pointed at the middle of the floor where normal families had a coffee table. "Crunches, sit-ups, push-ups, whatever else Coach said. You looked sloppy next to that Level 10 girl, and it won't happen again. Now."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And take off that jacket. It smells like pot. People will get the wrong idea about you."
"Yes, ma'am."
—1985—
As if your heart wasn't in your throat already, your stomach churned and sank the moment you saw the Forest Hills Trailer Park sign.
Broken out in cold sweat. Wet palms struggling to turn the thin steering wheel towards the set of two trailers across from each other at the end of the lot. Shaking to the brink of exhaustion. You ran on black coffee and the pure adrenaline of almost hitting enough deer, it made you think twice about crying when Bambi's mother died.
The car engine purred as you sat there thinking about why you were here again. Not a nice purr of a kitten, more like a sickly lion locked a zoo that needed to be put down a year ago.
Sucking in a breath, you decided to get it over with. You grabbed the white envelope in the passenger's seat and stepped out into the sun, squinting. The stairs to the front door were concrete. An upgrade from the weathered wood they used to be. The screen door was missing–ripped off its hinges, so you knocked on the main one; it sounded hollow and metallic. Nostalgic in a way.
The knob turned.
"Oh, God," you exhaled at the peephole.
When the door was replaced by someone other than the person you were expecting, you assumed your face painted in dread did wonders to alleviate his equally confused expression.
"Boy, I haven't seen you in a long time, Girlie."
"Mr. Munson!" You brightened upon seeing Eddie's uncle. Relieved, actually. "How have you been?"
His grayed mustache lifted at the corners, showing off his teeth in a rather innocent way despite his gruff exterior. "Could be better, could be worse." There was a deep grog to his voice, having just been disturbed from sleeping off his night shift at the plant. "You lookin' for Eddie?"
"Yeah, is he here?"
He rocked his head back and forth as any guardian would when speaking about their miscreant nephew with a twinkle in their eye. "He should be in summer school right now, which is to say, he's probably out getting into trouble. At the Hideaway, maybe? Or getting high with one of his friends, but don't ask me where." He sucked his teeth and crossed his arms.
"School?" you lead, an airy warble of optimism present in your voice.
Sighing, he delivered you the bad news upfront and honestly. "High school. He failed senior year.. again."
Any hope he meant something different died. "Ah," you said. "Well, uh.. Could you give this to him in case I don't run into him?" You handed him the white envelope you spent far too long writing Eddie's name on.
"Sure can."
"Thank you."
"It was good seeing you, again.. If you do run into him, I.. Well." He paused to organize his thoughts. "Now, I don't know what happened between you kids, but I hope you do find him."
Taking his parting words as rather ominous, you nodded and hopped back in your Ford Pinto, beginning your search for Eddie.
