I don’t really sleep anymore. When I do, I have nightmares about Brian with black eyes, missing fingers, and teeth that appear longer and sharper with each consecutive dream. I spend the nights in his bed, under the covers, and breathe through a small opening in the blanket. I often wish for a snorkel. I keep the lights on. Sometimes I hear scratching through the wall. It comes from my own bedroom.
Every time I have to piss feels like a mission of survival. There’s the leap from the bed to the floor to dodge whatever’s under the bed. Then the dark of the bathroom, and the split second it takes to wrap my arm around the doorframe to turn on the light. That second, reaching into the void, could cost me an arm. I’m sure of it.
I take three breaths and make the leap. I stop at the foot of the stairs. There’s a light on in the family room.
Dad sits in front of the TV. The TV is off.
A trunk sits between the two-foot rests. It looks like he’s praying over it.
“Jason. You’re up. Come here. I want to show you something.”
I forget about pissing. The pressure on my bladder is replaced by a sour stirring in my stomach. My dad wears an open bathrobe; his once-powerful chest has shrunk into a concave cup holder. His belly is large and distended. I can’t remember the last time I saw him without a shirt, but the transformation seems sudden—the effect of an extended illness. I stand frozen in the doorway to the stairwell and clutch the frame, try to sink my nails in it.
“Come here.” It doesn’t sound like a request anymore. He waves me over like he’s trying to catch my scent. Trying to determine my taste. My hand slides off the frame. “That’s my boy!” he shouts. He pats the space next to him and bounces on the cushion. A bottle at his feet tips over. Glass against hardwood.
I sink in with him.
He knocks on the trunk in front of us. The wood is painted dark green; it’s adorned with faux-leather straps. Two tarnished latches keep the trunk sealed. The thing smells like mold.
“You and that Ally girl are pretty close, huh?”
“Dad.” I feel my cheeks burn.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he says. He opens another beer. Foam spills over and drips down his knuckles. He licks them clean. “She’s not bad.” He tightens his lips into an approving line. “Don’t really know her parents, but they seem like good people.” He pulls another beer from between the couch cushions and wrenches the cap off. “Here. Take this.”
I hold the sweaty bottle out in front of me. My elbow makes a right angle.
“Go on,” he says. “It’s yours. It’s okay.” He takes a swig from his beer and motions for me to do the same. The bitterness makes me retch. I hold the liquid in my mouth until it gets warm and then swallow. It has a faint taste of rotten bananas.
“Good, huh?”
I nod.
“Let’s chug.” He sees my hesitation. “All you do is open your throat.” He strokes the stubble on his neck—it almost connects with the chest hair splayed out of his yellowed undershirt collar. I place the bottle to my lips. “Ready?”
He tips his beer back and a series of air bubbles float to the top of the inverted bottle. I do the same. I throw my head straight back and the beer falls down my esophagus without touching my tongue. After three gulps, I move to take a breath. Dad puts his fingers under the bottle so I can’t put it down.
“Almost there,” he says. “Chug. Chug. Chug.”
My stomach puts an embargo on liquid entering. It tightens. Beer fills my throat, spills over into my windpipe. The bitter liquid flows out of my nose. Dad takes his hand away and pats my back while I sputter.
“Nice work.”
My head becomes light, my vision blurs. A dumb smile spreads across my face. Dad beams.
“Now!” He says it like he’s announcing medieval royalty, all hands in the air. He does a drumbeat on the trunk with his palms. “For the main attraction.” He flips the latches on the trunk open and flings the top like he’s throwing a barrel over his head.
Inside, there are rows and rows of black VHS tapes.
“My stash,” he says.
I bend over the cartridges. They all have a white strip displaying my dad’s handwriting: Debbie Does Duluth, Bang Plane, Penetrating Gazes, Slippery When Wet (vols. I-V), The Return of Debbie. So many tapes with names that seem bootlegged from a dream on the verge of becoming a nightmare.
There’s a tape with my parents’ names on it.
In the corner, there’s one tape without my dad’s penmanship: King Kong Video’s copy of The Lost Boys. I pull it out, and the row topples slightly, like dominoes.
“How long have you had this?”
He doesn’t look at the tape. “I haven’t opened this thing in years.” He leans in close and whispers: “Vintage. They don’t make them like this anymore” The tape feels hot in my hand. I drop it. “Go ahead, pick one out. They’re all pretty good.”
“Dad, I’m not really in the mood. I’m kind of dizzy.” It’s not a lie.
“Don’t be silly.” He traces the length of each row; his finger bounces over the slight ridge of each tape. “Eeny meeny miny moe.” He stops on Back Ally and claws it out from the rest. He taps the title strip and laughs. “Get it?”
Everything separates into twos. I close my eyes to stop the spinning. When I open them, Dad is at the TV, fidgeting with our old VCR. A horrible whirring sound leaks out of the machine. Static rolls down the screen. The picture kicks in: an office setting, blurred by years of analog deterioration. The colors jump out of their boundaries, making everything look like it’s on fire.
A woman sits in the office, writing with a pencil on a single sheet of paper. The set design is just a clock and a globe. A door opens and a handsome, rugged deliveryman enters, hoisting a five-gallon jug of water on his shoulder.
“Where do you want it?” the deliveryman asks.
“Anywhere you can put it,” the woman says.
“Great dialog!” My dad cracks up. “Back when they used to have stories.”
The woman navigates the table separating them. She takes off her top.
“Au natural,” says Dad.
A line of static breaks the picture. For a second, I swear I see Ally and Brian in the park. The porn floods back in.
The woman’s mascara runs down her cheeks. The man’s grunting sounds like a gorilla. I close my eyes and listen. The grunting speeds up, slows down, sounds submerged underwater. The joy of analog.
I open my eyes and she’s bent over the desk. They’re both so hairy.
Again, the tape cuts out. Brian’s black eyes fill the screen. The analog screams. I put my hands over my ears.
Back Ally returns. It’s a close-up. My eyes cross involuntarily, pinks swirl together. It looks like gore. My stomach heaves the beer.
I spray vomit all over my dad’s tape collection.
“Oh. Hey!” My dad picks me up under the arms and rushes me into the bathroom where I throw up the rest of my beer. “I’m sorry, bud. Just let it all out.” He pats me on the back. “Didn’t know you were such a lightweight”—he chuckles—“You’ll get a taste for it.”
I stand, and he shakes my hand. He congratulates me on my new manhood.