Chapter 2
Function
Santa Cruz, California
March 8, 1987 (Sunday)
Before 4 p.m.
The typewriter was an 1978 black IBM Selectric, it was a graduation gift. The sound of the keys from the printer
ball was just as soothing as the Pink Floyd LP (The Wall) that played on the stereo in the living room. The
weather was beautiful, sunshine and 80 degrees. It was picture postcard weather. The slight wind made the
long white curtains fan out. You didn't need to be in a stale air-conditioned room with the gentle ocean breeze a
few yards away. Yeah, he made money, he really didn't care, the only thing that Hyde slightly cared about was
finishing his article for the 'zine , that was only half of the reason why he could afford a place like this. The
smoke from the Lucky Strike burned in the green tartan patterned beanbag ashtray as he was on his 4th beer
before 4 p.m. He didn't want to think about it. It was 10 years ago today. He put his hand over his bald head to
shoo away a bee. His Indiana Jones-esque hat, a gift from those same people that bought him the typewriter,
hung on the rack by the front door. He hated when he couldn't concentrate on his writing. He finished the beer
and threw the bottle into the small blue recycling bin that was on the deck by the sliding glass doors. The sun
was bothering him so he put on his shades and went inside the house, but not before putting the ashtray down
on his stack of papers that were in a small wooden outbox as a makeshift paperweight. It was unacceptable to
catch himself sometimes still waking up to his own sight of his hands in the cuffed position and his ankles
crossed over.
Still.
Ten fucking years later.
He knew he came out of this with PTSD, as did his best friend. He didn't need a shrink to tell him what he
already knew.
Those that survived traumatic events always were treated to some after lingering effects.
Shit happened.
He needed to feed his dog; an eight year old German Shepard named Sid Vicious. This dog would never eat out
of a standard pet bowl or anything labeled 'dog food'. There was a whole set of china in the cherry wood hutch
that was probably all for the dog, because the rest of it was never used. Just like the 3 bedrooms in this house
were never used. Sid was a gentle giant; he'd never harm anyone, which may not have been the quality one
looked for in a guard dog, but as a pet, and a companion he was the best. Unfortunately, his water dish had to
be a bowl, but at least it was made out of the finest crystal. The dog knew it was time for supper just by the
sound of the stove clicking on, he jumped up and licked his owner's moustache and ran to his chair at the table.
He was more like a person than a dog. The answering machine that was mounted to the wall had the number
10 in red LED display blinking. One of his favorite pastimes was turning off the ringer and keeping the answering
machine on, but at such a low volume, he'd never hear who was calling. He knew who the 10 calls were from, he
felt he could only call one person back tonight, he never wanted her to worry ever again, especially since she
was alone now. So apart from that obligation no one else was going to get a call back. Was it cruel? Maybe.
After all they were victims as well, but he just couldn't deal with the back-and-forth banter from HER and HIM.
They were a couple now so let it be done. He gave them his blessing; he broke up with her before that. HE had
nothing to do with it. Why did they need to involve him in the day-to-day matters of their existence? He just
wanted to them to get on with things and live their lives.
They were all given that chance.
Hyde hadn't seen anyone in 8 years not since he broke up with HER. He tried not to think about how during that
time he was so worried about any harm coming to her and promised that his life would be different if he
survived. But then two years later, they were out of each other's lives. It's not like he didn't feel guilt about not
seeing the people he cared about. After the daughter's body was found, he knew, Red would never be able to
survive long after that. Hyde never forgot how he broke down in the kitchen when he had tell him the news.
They all wanted to believe that that scum lied, but when they found her luggage set in her closet that façade
was gone. You think he'd have put his pain aside, but he couldn't.
He was a selfish prick.
Red didn't have any verbal taunts in him, he was broken, as they all were. What was funny just wasn't anymore
and them moving to Florida with a settlement check from Red's lawsuit v. Pricemart for being wrongly fired didn't
change a damn thing. You could move to the moon and like a dog trying to bite its tail, it was for naught.
The ache was always there and when combined with the guilt all of the alcohol in the world couldn't numb the
hurt that he felt.
He did call Kitty every so often, just as he would tonight, but he couldn't hop on a plane and go to Florida. It
wasn't about the money, it was about the awkwardness, the scabs that never healed, and whoever said that
time healed all wounds was a complete and utter dillhole.
Time healed nothing.
If it weren't for the elder man, they'd all be dead and this is how he repaid them? This was how he honored his
father's – the man he always would consider his father – memory?
And of course, it was 10 years ago today, people forget happy milestones like the day you had your first kiss or
the day you were able to sneak out of the house and not get beat up by your Mom's latest boyfriend du jour.
The dog whimpered as Hyde went back to breaking the hamburger up with a fork and ignoring the messages on
the phone.
He didn't want to talk with anyone.
Did he ever want to talk with anyone?
When he took the dog out for his after-supper walk, he was going to go the tattoo parlor and get a third one,
this one on his upper left arm. He had an anchor on his right arm and a Red Cross logo next to it. The last artist
forgot to put the small ampersand between the two. He didn't know what design he wanted; he just wanted to
continually alter himself. Smoking a pack a day for 8 years gave his voice a slight raspy quality and he liked it that
way.
Even his professional name was changed just a smidgen, because he wasn't that face, he wasn't that person.
He should be one of the dead.
No, that wasn't right.
He should have been the only dead one.
Being on the road with various bands was a temporary fix and he knew it. The occasional groupie sex was cold
and only satisfied the physical part of his urges. He put the ground up meat on the mint green plate with the
white gold rim and went to get two bottles of non-sparkling bottled water out of the stainless steel refrigerator.
No way would the dog get tap water on his watch. He was not in the mood to eat today as he poured the water
into the crystal bowl.
They were worried about him; he wished that they would just leave them alone.
He was one of the few survivors in the worst 4 months of their lives. It wasn't his fault, but he carried that
burden around as if the opposite were true. He took another beer out of the fridge and knew he was the one
keeping the dog company and not the other way around.
Unheard message #8:
Jesus Christ. You want to close everyone off for 8 years? Fine. But I didn't want you to read about it in the newspaper
or see it on the TV.[10 second pause] Jackie [tears] committed suicide today and I'd have told you this in person but
no one has your address. If I didn't snoop in my Mother's address book, I wouldn't even have your phone number. I
don't suppose you'll attend her funeral. You didn't come to my Father's. [frustrated noise] Our Father's. You are such
a jackass. You weren't the only victim.
Fuck you, Hyde.
It was 10 years ago today when Steven Hyde was face to face with himself.