Shoot Club

Shoot Club: All Our Pretty Songs Part Two: Tell All The Angels This Could Take All Night

Tom Chick | 13 Dec 2007 17:00
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Part Two: Tell All The Angels This Could Take All Night

We get out and lock the doors. We set out in the same direction we were driving. We figure if we keep going forward, we'll find a convenience store or gas station built for these subdivisions. Because going back the way we came is a long trip through miles of nothing to the freeway, which is more miles of nothing. It's forward or lots of nowhere, which is what forward might be anyway.

We walk along the yellow line, ready to flag down a car if we see one. We don't see one.

"We should have brought water," Trevor says from inside his big jacket. "Or coffee. I could use some coffee."

"I should have brought a jacket. I didn't know we'd be outside. It's freezing."

"We can trade off my jacket. You can have a turn when we get to the top of that hill up there."

"I don't even have socks on. I'm supposed to be finishing Crysis."

"But you said it sucks."

"I can't just stop playing because I don't like something. It's my job."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm supposed to be playing Rock Band by now. I hope they didn't sell out. Of the game, I mean. Look."

It's a big sign for Valley's End, announcing "New Phase Release". It promises stylish homes, up to five bedrooms and 3% broker co-op. There are "special incentives available". At the bottom of the sign, in italics, it says, "It's your time to come home!" Out here, in the dark and stranded, it all seems insidious. What special incentives? Could "come home" mean "die"?

There are rows of houses behind the sign. They have dirt where the lawns will be planted and no glass yet where the windows will be. Their door-less front doors gape obscenely.

"Let's go look at them. Just for a second."

I sigh loudly again, but Trevor goes up to the nearest door-less front door. He peers into the shadows.

"Come on," Trevor says, plunging in.

"They probably have security guards for these," I muse, looking around before I follow him. I'm expecting someone to yell, 'Hey, you kids, get away from there.' I'm 34 and I still expect to get yelled at for doing things I did when I was 14. "We shouldn't be in here."

"I bet this will be the dining room. This would be the entertainment room. The TV here. Plenty of room for Rock Band. You could even put a computer here so you could work while you watch movies."

I hate looking at nice houses, because I don't have one. Some of my buddies have bought nice houses. I don't want to see them. It just makes me hate where I live. At least this place isn't finished. It has no personality. It smells of new stuff, that reeking cusp between construction and being lived in. Who would want to live here? Besides me, I mean.

I go out onto where the porch will be and sit down, looking at the row of dark houses. Their gaping window and door sockets look back at me. From the second story window, Trevor leans out and points over the hill. "Hey, I can see a gas station. We're saved."

We do a fast walk/jog over the hill and down towards someplace called GaSmart, all the way into the bright lights bearing down from its blue and white overhang. But there's no one here.

"Fuck a duck."

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