Rules for Werewolves (2 page)

—What’s that sound?

—What?

—Something just woke me up.

—Did it sound like some asshole calling out, “What’s that sound?” ’Cause I just heard it, too.

—Stop it. You guys are freaking me out.

—It was probably just the new kid, Bobert, trying to find his way around.

—He doesn’t sleep in the den with the rest of us. Bobert sleeps in the pantry.

—How do you know, Susan? Did you go looking for some sugar?

—Shut the fuck up. I think someone knocked on the door.

—You sure?

—The sun’s not even up yet.

—How would you know when the sun comes up?

—It leaks in around the edges of the curtains, like over there, by the stereo.

—There’s the sound again. It
is
someone at the door.

—What should we do?

—Be quiet. Maybe they’ll go away.

—Shhh. It’s cool. It’s cool. It’s cool.

—I don’t want to get caught squatting in these people’s house and get sent to jail.

—I don’t wanna get sent home.

—How many of us do you think there are right now?

—I dunno. Maybe twenty. Maybe more.

—Who cares?

—’Cause we can probably take ’em, unless they have twenty on their side, too.

—Who do you think it is?

—How should I know?

—Let’s just be quiet and wait and eventually they’ll go away.

—The house is empty.

—Except for us.

—Why would anyone knock on the door?

—It could be the paperboy … or a girl … selling Girl Scout Cookies.

—It’s too early.

—Or it could be a neighbor with a gun who wants to protect his home from an infestation of us.

—Go up and look through the peephole.

—Fuck you. You go do it.

—Both of you—shhhhh!

—It’s probably the cops ’cause you were screaming so loud last night.

—Malcolm started it.

—Let’s go out the back door and over the fence and disappear forever.

—If it was the police and they knew this wasn’t our house they would’ve shouted at us by now.

—And then kicked the door in.

—If it’s not the police, then it’s probably not anybody who knows we don’t really belong.

—So?

—Go answer it and say you’re the Baxters’ cousin. Say they asked you to house-sit while the place was on the market.

—The Baxters’ was the last place.

—Find a piece of mail or something that says whose house this is.

—Say you’re the niece on summer break from Wesleyan and you needed a place to stay for a couple of days with a few friends and Uncle Baxter told you it was all right.

—Some of us are a little too old to be on summer break.

—You can be a grad student.

—And what am I?

—There’s too many types of us to all be from the same lie.

—Whoever it is isn’t going away.

—’Cause they can hear you talking.

—This isn’t what I wanted.

—You don’t even know what it is.

—I wanted to live with my friends.

—We’re your friends.

—In a different way. I thought we’d have more to offer. To one another. I thought we could be an example of how to live without working by being more in tune with the earth.

—Take off your clothes.

—Why?

—That’s why you couldn’t answer the door right away—you just got out of the shower.

—I wish Doug was here.

—Don’t move.

—I’m gonna go look through the peephole.

—Angel, don’t.

—Don’t be such a quivering shit.

—Angel—

—It’s Malcolm. It’s just Malcolm—

—I thought Malcolm was upstairs in the master bedroom with Tanya.

—Now he’s out on the porch. Should I open it?

—What’s he doing out there?

—Bleeding. From his face.

—What happened to you?

—Does it look bad?

—Your face is bleeding.

—Let me see.

—Ow.

—Shhh.

—Go in the kitchen so everybody else can keep sleeping.

—What happened?

—I got hit by a car.

—We’ve gotta get out of this neighborhood.

—Not yet.

—Someone musta seen it.

—A dog, maybe.

—They know we’re here and everyone in the neighborhood hates us.

—What were you doing out so early?

—I felt like it was getting time to move so I thought I would do us all a favor and go scout a new area. It wasn’t in my plans to get run over.

—What kind of car was it?

—A slow car. So I guess I’m lucky. It was at a corner. I was crossing the street and this car rolled up, real slow, as if it was gonna stop and wait
for me to cross. ’Cept it didn’t stop. It surprised me. I never expected to get hit by a car. And it just kept hitting me, almost gently, shoving me out into the intersection. You know how people say some accidents seem to happen in slow motion. Well, me, too. For real. It’s like this car was fucking with me. Just pushing me and shoving me around. The same way a big kid would pick on a little kid at school. Except it was a rich person with a fancy car picking on me ’cause I was walking around so early—there was no one around to see the two of us. I was afraid it was a set up—like this car was gonna push me out into the intersection and then some other car was gonna come along and wipe me out. I started banging on the hood with one hand. Harder and harder and harder. Then the car finally accelerated and I fell down and that’s when I got scratched up on my face like this. I guess my face hit the pavement, and my arm a little.

—Let me see you in the light.

—You smell weird.

—I’m sweaty.

—I’m worried we’re all gonna be fucked by this one little mistake.

—I was just crossing the road.

—And now we’re all fucked.

—We’re not fucked.

—I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

—I didn’t say it was your mistake.

—We need to clean this out.

—There’s still gravel in there.

—Jesus Christ, that’s disgusting.

—There’s, like, a flap.

—Somebody needs to turn into a doctor.

—I’ll do it.

—Wait.

—Shut up in there! We’re trying to sleep.

—Come with me to the bathroom.

—Wait! Jesus fucking Christ! Everybody wait for one second!

—

—I wanna show you something. Even though I got scratched on my face and my arm, I got this …

—What is that?

—Is that a hood ornament?

—It’s a lion.

—What kind of car is it from?

—That’s a Peugeot.

—What’s a Peugeot?

—It’s a French car.

—How do you know it’s a Peugeot?

—I used to work at a mechanic’s.

—You never worked at any mechanic’s.

—I did.

—Like a job?

—They gave me money and I worked.

—You might’ve got paid by a mechanic, but I seriously doubt you’ve done a day’s work in your life. You probably rolled yourself up under the car, rubbed oil all over your face, slept for two hours, then rolled back out and said, “I can’t find anything wrong with this
Peugeot
.”

—You’re supposed to tell someone when you go out, Malcolm. And you’re not supposed to go out alone.

—Last time I went out alone I found this place, didn’t I?

—What are you gonna do with a hood ornament?

—I’m gonna put it on a chain and wear it around my neck.

—You’re gonna look like some kind of ooga-booga tribe leader.

—Then, after the sun goes down, I’m gonna walk around the whole neighborhood and I’m gonna look for a car that doesn’t have a hood ornament and I’m gonna match up my hood ornament–necklace to their mistake.

—Then
what are you gonna do?

—You know what I’m gonna do then.

—No, I don’t.

—You’re not gonna do anything stupid are you? I like this place. I don’t want to have to move out.

—We have to move out, anyway.

—We should start being smart about it.

—You all know exactly what I’m gonna do when I find that Peugeot.

—No, we don’t.

—We should have plans for getting out of a house the same way we do for getting in.

—If you really have no idea what I’m gonna do when I find that Peugeot, then just keep watching. ’Cause you will. ’Cause you’re all gonna come with me.

—This is gonna be awesome.

—Oh shit.

—I’m gonna sharpen my hammer.

—First, one of you come with me to the bathroom and clean me up so I don’t get infected. That’s all y’all need is an infected tribal leader.

—Who says you’re the tribal leader?

—I’ll do it.

—Come on.

I like walking through neighborhoods and looking at all the houses. I like comparing the lawns. I want the grass to be bright green and thick even while the rest of the world is in the middle of a drought or whatever. I want a tall fence.

I’ve never trusted the idea of neighbors. When I take a walk through a new neighborhood I’m thinking about moving into, I can see ’em looking at me through the cracks in their curtains. I don’t know if it’s me or them that’s “suspicious.” I don’t know in which direction that word works best, given the situation. “The neighbors are suspicious of me.” “I am a suspicious person.” Maybe some words should come with arrows so you can tell which direction they’re meant in.

Sometimes I steal a dog so it looks like I belong. Actually, I’m not sure if “steal” is the right word. I open the gate and let the dog come out if it wants. I take off my belt and use it as a leash. Not to control the dog and drag it toward dead ends and cul-de-sacs, but to protect it from dickweeds in Peugeots who refuse to stop for people they consider suspicious.

For that one motherfucker in that one Peugeot I’m willing to move out of “suspicious” into whatever word lives next door. If suspicious means you think I
might
be so dangerous that you need to run me over, I’m gonna move into a place where you know for sure, where you’re gonna regret not doing a better job of keeping me down. If suspicious means I think I might
be
capable
of doing something rotten, I’m gonna go ahead and become talented at some really awful skills. Bumping me with your car like I don’t exist? Like I haven’t been put on this earth to prosper, motherfucker?

I like walking through a neighborhood with a newly loosed dog as my scout. I like comparing the colors of paint the different husbands and wives have picked out. The colors tell you so much they practically sing. I can hear in the tones which colors were picked by compromise and which colors caused fights. I can hear the pigheaded husbands insisting on off-white or green or whatever. I can hear ’em saying, “If I’m gonna be doing the painting, I’m gonna be picking the color.” I like to guess which reds and purples were picked by wives who wouldn’t even listen to suggestions. “You can’t even choose a tie to go with your fifteen-year-old blazer when we go out to eat once a month. Why would I let you pick the color of a house we have to wear every day?” Then there are the compromise colors: pale yellow, pale blue, slate gray. There’s gay colors, too. And lonely, old single colors. And widowers. And brick.

If the dog likes a house I take note. I want to live in a house where a whole pack of us will feel comfortable. I want a big backyard. I wanna have cookouts and grill, and a pool would be nice. We haven’t found a pool yet. I’m gonna tell everybody the Peugeot hood ornament is a good omen because “Peugeot” means “pool” in French.

That’s a lie. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know what “Peugeot” means. It sounds like it could be a foreign word for “pool.” It’s probably just some normal Frenchfuck’s name. But I still think it’s a good omen. I was walking with a sweet dog when I got hit, like a little chocolate pit bull. The dog didn’t get hit. While I got hit I was pounding on the hood with one hand and with the other I was pulling the dog out of the way. I musta dropped the leash when my face hit the pavement and the dog got away. That means I’m out a good belt. I gotta get another one before anyone starts to change on me. A good belt is a big part of everything we do. But when I let go of the dog—I caught a lion. So, maybe, in a way, the dog still helped me pick a good house. Because when we find the Peugeot, that’s gonna be the house the dog picked out.

I like walking through a new neighborhood with a dog and imagining what the inside of each house looks like. In the morning when a mom or a dad leaves for work, or when one of the kids runs out to catch the bus,
the door is open and you can take a quick peek down the front hallway. The morning is the time when the doors are opened the widest, in my experience. But in the early evening you can see through all the windows of the houses when the lights are on. Usually about 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. there might be nothing down a whole block but the lights of the TVs shining out the windows. If you go out on a big TV night, like when there’s a premiere of a long-running action drama or the finale of a reality show, then all the TVs are in sync and you get a kind of light show—all the windows down the block turning the same colors in unison. GREEN, then RED, then YELLOW: that’s the field and then the helmet and then the decal on the helmet of some fucker during the Super Bowl. On those nights the whole neighborhood glows in isolated unity. Except maybe that one house on the corner. That one house that has to be different from everybody else. That one house that wants to watch some news show. That one house that likes to read. That’s always the house we pick. Because that house has the least contact with its neighbors. Or it’s the house that’s empty. The abandoned house. The house that wouldn’t sell. We live in a lot of for-sale houses. In this market, that’s a safe place to live for a long time. Usually we can stay a week or more until some Realtor shows up and calls the cops. Then we grab what we can carry and go over the back fence and run. Once we get busted in a neighborhood, that’s it for that neighborhood, and we go off looking for a new house. I’m trying to stay one step ahead of that. You can lose people when you get busted and everyone scatters.