DOOM 94 Page 12

  8

  The Junkyard, by the way, was kicked out of Villa Medem. It was probably for the best. Metalheads have to be chased off with a stick, you can’t let them gather in groups. But when I heard the news, I shivered. What if it was all my fault?

  It was Nellija — the one and only — who stopped me in the hallway and asked:

  — You going to the Junkyard this Friday?

  Like I was some kind of ignoramus. I plastered a smile across my face and said:

  — Of course I’m going. Wouldn’t miss it!

  — Me too.

  I liked it when people mocked me. I replied:

  — Good thing you reminded me. I’ll even curl my hair.

  — How come?

  An eighth-grade girl skittered past us like a spider, trampling my heart with her little boots. I decided to make my answer pretentious:

  — Because one must be dressed appropriately when one visits Villa Medem. Did you know, that the Medem family...

  — But it’s not at the Villa anymore.

  — What, really?

  — It’s at the Bunker now. You didn’t know?

  — I knew!

  The Bunker was a partially dilapidated, post-industrial building next to Death’s apartment building. Since when had the Junkyard moved there?

  — It’s in the basement. This is the first week there.

  — I know, I know. In the basement. Of course I’ll go.

  — With your friends?

  — Who else?

  Nellija gave a sniff, turned around and left.

  How come no-one told me anything? I walked to class dumbstruck.

  But I knew why. Once I sat down Kārlis asked:

  — You going to the Junkyard on Friday?

  Result!

  — But of course. At the Bunker, in the basement, down the stairs, it’s a great venue.

  Milēdija was standing right there, leaning with her butt against my desk.

  — What do you mean? Aren’t you guys coming over to my place?

  ‘You guys’ and ‘my place’? I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in my life right now. I didn’t even try to respond, but I got the urge to turn down the offer. Kārlis hurried to say:

  — We’ll see...

  That psychopath Edmunds yelled across the room:

  — Did you hairy animals find a new barn?

  Kārlis shot some comeback at him, nothing particularly funny, but Edmunds respected Kārlis and shut up afterwards. I could’ve had the wittiest comeback in the world and it wouldn’t have made a difference. But there are more important things going on. The Junkyard had returned.

  The Bunker was a long building next to the pet shop. It was Jelgava’s first-ever pet shop. One summer, some smart alec had convinced the deadbeats from the Other School that the pet shop would pay for wild newts. There happened to be a massive amount of yellow newts in the pond next to the Other School, and they were all eventually brought to the petshop downtown in bags filled with water. But the pet shop wouldn’t take the newts; they said they’d never bought newts off people. So the newts were let go right outside the store; maybe there’s still a small colony of them there to this day.

  Death, Kārlis, Kārlis’ brother, Zombie, and Pūpols all lived on the same block — which is probably why there was never any setup required for our pre-parties at Zombie’s place. At least not that I knew of. When Friday night rolled around, I let my mother know that I was going out to listen to music, and I went. I had a few tapes with me that I’d picked up at the Stocks: Winter’s Into Darkness and a few other things. I even had my own cigarettes, or a couple, to start.

  There really was something happening at the Bunker tonight. There was a group of people waiting by the door. They waved to me; it was the crazy bunch of newt-catchers from the Other School. Kačoks, Robčiks, Eižēns, Salt, and more.

  — C’mon over, you maniac!

  That’s what they called me. We huddled into a friendly circle, and a few seconds passed as we all shook hands. This had recently become the style of greeting, everyone suddenly acting like grown gentlemen. It got on my nerves a little. And all of their hair was on the short side. What if my real friends showed up and saw me with them? I mean, they were great guys, and they had a litre of ‘Magic Crystal’ vodka with them — which was colloquially called ‘The Blue Hills’ or ‘The Lizard’s Grin’. The best was when Eižens turned to me and asked:

  — Any of you ever go to the old Junkyard site?

  I was the only one. I told them about it with an air of dignity, without embellishments, without superfluous information. I could feel myself growing taller. They listened raptly. I was of an older, more real world. Someone passed me the bottle out of turn, and I took a swig worthy of my status — but a little too big of one. Some of the vodka went down the wrong pipe. And up my nose. My entire body convulsed. This was neither the time nor the place to throw up on myself. I willed myself to keep it together and decided that I could get by with a macho loogie-hacking. I started to gather the mess in my mouth into a gob.

  Then a guy I didn’t know, who was standing next to Salt, said:

  — Why hasn’t someone started a sort of newspaper for metalheads?

  It was a good question, but at that moment I was leaning forward, preparing to spit. The guy I didn’t know continued enthusiastically:

  — And hell, why shouldn’t we...

  He moved as he spoke, swinging his arm out into the centre of our huddle in a classic gesture of someone making an announcement. He did this at the same time I had leaned forward far enough to release the contents of my mouth. Gravity did its thing, and the massive gob of saliva, et al, puddled right into the middle of the guy’s hand.

  It was an accident. I froze in shame, in fear of what would happen next on this night that had started out so well. I looked up at the guy’s face, ready to take what I had coming. But what I saw wasn’t anger, just surprise and humiliation. He had only wanted to say something constructive, for the good of the cause, but instead this authoritative character had spit right into his hand (the guys from the Other School didn’t know my nerdy past; to them I was just an old metalhead). I closed my empty mouth and said:

  — I didn’t mean to.

  I may have also said ‘Sorry!’, but it wouldn’t have been heard because the entire group burst out laughing. Eižēns was howling and wheezing, and Salt was doubled over. They all thought it was the funniest thing. Only the guy and I stood quietly. He wiped his hand off on his pants.

  If you think about it, though, it was a little funny.

  We could’ve stood there for another year at least, but a group of people passed by on the other side of the street and called out discreetly:

  — Stay brutal!

  They were here — Kārlis, Kārlis’ brother, Death, Zombie, Pūpols and Sammie. I childishly ditched my friends from the Other School, maybe said a ‘See you inside!’ and ran across the street without really understanding where I stood — was I a member of their great brotherhood or a puppy that came obediently when called, a cocky punk or an emotional wuss. Once across I jumped and crawled up the snow bank only for Zombie and Pūpols to grab me and wrestle me to the ground. I thought — maybe it doesn’t matter; maybe this path of constantly doing stupid things is my destiny, and see, my friends love me no matter what. Eventually, they helped me to my feet and handed me a more than half-empty 0.7-litre bottle of Merkurs brandy, and Sammie offered me half a sausage sandwich (that’s how he got his nickname — he almost always had a part of a sandwich on him).

  — Let’s go in! Go!

  And we went inside.

  At the entrance we found the first bit of proof that the old Junkyard had been better: there was a one-lat cover charge here.

  But it was amazing. A set of steep iron stairs led us deep underground, where we came to a bunker door with a large circular doorknob like on a submarine. There was even a TV inside, in case someone wanted to experience a little bourgeois hominess.
The TV caught my attention; it was showing an endless collection of sex scenes with detailed close-ups. Movies like this weren’t that easy to get to back then. The people organising the Junkyard wanted their guests to have the best of everything. You couldn’t hear the apparently German dialogue and moans, though, because of the two giant speakers filling the underground room with flowing metal. This was an old bomb-shelter, one that had never been used for its intended purpose. Now it was a shelter for us from the silence of the outside world. The narrow cement space felt even more packed than the duke’s ballroom had, and the clouds of cigarette smoke made it seem like a paradise beneath the surface of the earth. I think they were even selling beer here, in the event someone was dumb enough to forget to bring something along. Like me, for example. But I had friends. And there they were. The two brothers were slamming their foreheads against a metal wall. They were only pretending, of course, and were making the sound by kicking the wall, but their technique was so refined that it looked real. Pūpols took Sammie’s last sandwich. Zombie and Sammie had turned their attention to the TV screen. Death was storming the deejay’s table. I surveyed the room — who else was here? And there was Nellija, with that offended expression she always had. I looked at her as if to say:

  — Do you see? These are my friends. We are forever eternally stay heavy stay brutal, but you’re just a bookbag.

  Her eyes said:

  — I don’t believe you.

  I got flustered and looked away. Standing next to her was that other girl, a curious being with bright yellow hair and brown eyes. Ser wasn’t saying anything to me with her eyes; she wasn’t even looking at me. Nellija leaned over to her and shouted something into her ear. It really was loud in here.

  Once in a while Ugo got a hold of the stereo and put on one of his punk songs, but the majority of what we heard was pure metal: a little thrash, a little doom, but mostly death metal. The biggest hit back then was Cannibal Corpse’s ‘Zero the Hero’.[ 2 ] As soon as it came on, everyone rushed to the stage (there wasn’t really a stage) to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and headbang. Some people even did so with an arm around each of their neighbours’ shoulders. It was a brotherly gesture, but also made it easier to stay upright. I joined in with the headbanging, though I’ve never been one to hug, or half-hug others. This time, the guy to my left with his arm around me had an open drink in his hand, which kept sloshing in my face in rhythm with his movements. I said nothing out of tact, instead whipping my head along with him, clearly feeling my poor little brain ricochet around my skull and the world become a jumble of strange thoughts — I’m here, I feel good, I don’t need anything more than this, I love how compacted our world is. I thought about Milēdija and thought out to her — see, you’re not here and that’s great. I’m not thinking about you. See, even Kārlis is here, and not with you. I thought about composing a sonnet or a miniature right here and now. But what do we need tender words for when metal is thundering all around us? Each time the next song started up, Death and I would identify it loudly:

  — Carcass!

  — Entombed!

  — Bolt Thrower! (I’ll admit that I didn’t recognize every third song or so and let Death shout out the answer alone; he wouldn’t hear me in this noise anyway.)

  — Konkhra!

  — Brutal Truth, I mean, Brutality!

  — Sepultura!

  — You nuts? It’s Brujeria! (He could hear me after all.)

  Nellija and her friend were standing right near us, and I hoped that they could hear at least part of our discussion. I watched them and shouted into Death’s ear about the new music I’d picked up at the Stocks, and he yelled back for me to lend him the tapes sometime. No problem, I have them with me, in my pocket! But where did I leave my jacket... Somewhere here, right, in a safe spot on the floor by the bathrooms.

  As I walked to the bathrooms, I suddenly stumbled forward as the floor pitched under my feet. But it wasn’t the floor, and not even the considerable amounts of Merkurs and Lizard’s Grin that I’d had. The crazy brothers had kicked the wall sectioning off the bathroom so many times that it finally just collapsed — just toppled and fell over. It was a pretty shoddy partition for a bomb shelter. The wall fell with a loud crash, revealing several surprised-looking metalheads lined up at the urinals. They all hastily pulled their pants back up — except for Zombie, of course, who rushed out in wild enthusiasm to jump around with everyone else just as he was, with his pants around his ankles, and no-one, male and female alike, averted their eyes, instead throwing their arms around him and joining in. It stung me a little that people could only be moved by things like that.

  I took a deep pull on my cigarette and tried to see where Death had gone, but he was lost in the crowd; I spotted Edmunds and that fat-ass Čiriks, who were hanging out right by the door. I looked away haughtily, smoked my cigarette down to the filter and went to find an ashtray. I didn’t need to find one, but I felt like being fancy, and someone had just introduced the concept of a ‘Latvian ashtray’: a plastic cup with a finger’s-width of liquid in it. Someone around here must have one. I found Nellija’s friend holding it, standing calmly in the eye of the storm. I went over to her, smiled, and dropped my cigarette butt in the ashtray. I didn’t hear what she said because it was so loud, so I just smiled; what could someone so pretty say that was bad? Her brandy-coloured eyes went wide like when explaining something to a small child, and she lifted her cup — it wasn’t an ashtray, but a regular plastic cup, almost full with some kind of fancy drink in it. I’d walked up to a girl I didn’t know and had thrown a cigarette in her cocktail.

  I wasn’t well versed in etiquette, but I understood that I’d made a mistake. I said the same words I’d spoken only a few hours earlier that night, but again no-one heard me. I staggered backwards away from them, hoping that I looked more drunk than I really was. My feet got tangled up in some sort of rag. It was my jacket. I probably should buy the girl another drink, but I’d spent my last lat getting into the Junkyard. I put on my jacket. Maybe I could give her one of my tapes? Not Winter, it was the anthem for the season. Not Tristitia, either. I had only recently started to really understand this epically strange album. This music was the real deal, and would be played only for me, me who is destined to only do harm unto others, to be nothing but an evil clown. I’ll hole up in my house by myself and listen to my tapes.

  Suddenly the music stopped. It had been shut off. Someone was shouting:

  — But listen, why aren’t you listening to me, I’m serious...

  This was probably intended to be spoken privately to someone into his or her ear, whispered at a volume relative to the surrounding noise. But now everyone heard it. I was afraid to look up, afraid to lock eyes with the guy from the Other School whose hand I’d spit into, or with the girl with the bitter-coloured eyes. Then the lights came on, leaving me like a puppy in a spotlight. Then some policemen stepped into the middle of the room. Real policemen, around ten of them, in black uniforms and carrying batons and guns.

  I’m afraid of dogs, and of people in uniform. I wanted to clutch the beautiful elbow of the brown-eyed girl, but I resisted. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

  One of the policemen shouted:

  — Everyone line up with your hands against the wall!

  But no one listened to him because our ears were still ringing from the music, and what’s more, police officers here are treated like devils or imps that everyone can see, but no-one believes in. I heard the policeman clearly, and I really wanted to obey his order. But I couldn’t do it. At least, not until everyone else had. Or at least someone.

  The policeman kindly repeated what he’d said, and then started to re-explain through actions. No-one pushed me; I turned around on my own. They also made us stand with our feet spread apart; I didn’t like that at all and my legs were shaking, but I could feel that something amazing was happening. They frisked all of us, looking for who knows what. Later I got used to these kinds of searching, tentative pat-downs, b
ut back then at least one person was already used to them and shouted loudly:

  — Hey, I’ve got an Uzi down my pants! Check my pants, you’ll find an Uzi!

  The police didn’t find any Uzi. After conferring with one another quietly, they left. Now we felt exactly the way we needed to feel. Everyone looked at everyone else, and burst out laughing as if they’d been holding it in for too long, and shouted: ‘No fucking way!’ Something had finally happened, just like in the old days. Death hurried back to the empty deejay chair. But the hosts said that the party was over. They unhooked the equipment and started winding up the cords.

  It was freezing cold outside, but it wasn’t snowing. I looked around; the city stood secretive, it knew everything. I noticed some dark stains in the snowdrifts by the door. Droplets, splatters, chunks. I asked like an idiot:

  — What is that?

  And Kārlis answered:

  — Blood.

  Sammie said:

  — Someone always gets theirs.

  Death thought for a moment:

  — Who got theirs last time?

  — When was the last time?

  — At the Villa...

  — Did someone get theirs then?

  — Maybe not...

  — I don’t remember.

  They had absolutely no memory of the thing that I’d been obsessing over this whole time.

  I didn’t know who’d gotten theirs that night. By Monday rumour had it that Čiriks’ gang had been pulling metalheads out of the Junkyard just to beat on them. Others said that when the police had shown up and then left, they’d struck anyone who had been standing by the door. But why were the police even there?

  There’s an old Irish legend about a princess named Deirdre, who one day sees a raven pecking at a bloodstain in the snow — and she falls in love with the scene. Black, white, red. Something hot, something cold, something that can fly. The same happened to me. It wasn’t my blood, or Deirdre’s. We just wanted to see it. That’s what we royal descendants are like.