PUNK PROSE: Dreaming The Gilman by Jeffrey Matucha

 The place looked like the Gilman club and it didn't. He kept staring at the crisscrossing beams of thick wood on the ceiling, trying to decide if he was in the Gilman or not.

   He stared at the ceiling despite the huge, roiling pit full of moshing punks in front of him. He could not make out any one person in the pit. It was a whirlwind of limbs, jackets, metal studs and colorful hair, as if all of the moshing punks were congealing into one violent, churning mass.

   A punk band played. All the musicians had short dark hair and plain white t-shirts. The sound of the music mixed in with the breakneck movement of the pit. He couldn't tell what the song was. 

  He couldn't recognize anyone in the pit, even though the center of the club was brightly lit. At the sides of the club, people watched the show, but but it was too dark to make anyone out.

   He swore the mosh pit started to tilt like a merry-go-round run amok.

  Something brushed up against his leg. Looking down, he saw short legged pit bulls running around his feet. He called out for Joey, but all of the pit bulls running around the club floor were too short and stocky to be Joey. Every time he called out for Joey, all of the pit bulls at his feet would stop running to stare, returning to their skittering just a second later.

   He did his best to ignore the tilt-a-whirl mosh pit that kept growing and threatening to engulf the club. Someone was standing at the merchandise table: tall and thin and dressed in all black. 

   Was it Miranda? 

   No: she was too tall, too thin. She had chubby cheeks and a button nose with hard, cold eyes. 

   “Don't you remember me?” 

   He looked at her and didn't reply. 

   “How could you forget me? You were supposed to remember me.”

   He looked at the shirts, buttons, and albums on the table. They were all blank.

   He looked back up at the woman who held out her hand. 

   “Why don't you do some speed?”

   “We can't do speed in here.”

   “Do some speed. It's not beer.”

   “We can't do speed in Gilman.”

   “Do some speed. You can't remember who I am.”

   She held up a clear plastic bag bulging with white powder.

   “I can't do speed in here,” he yelled above the music. “I don't remember you.”

   “You can't remember who I am. Now you have to do some speed.”

   He tried to make out her eyes through her hair. They were blank and white, like cotton. He looked down at the table and then looked back up at her. Her eyes had turned completely black, like a doll's eyes. Looking back down at the table, all the merchandise had disappeared. He looked up at the woman again. Her eyes were gone. Her face was a blank slate save for a nearly imperceptible mouth and small button nose.

   “Are you the one who stood on her bass? With that psychobilly band? Are you her?”

   “I'm waiting for the ice cream truck.”

   “What?”

   “The ice cream truck is coming by. My son always loved the ice cream truck.”

   She showed him the bag of speed again. 

   The woman said something, but he couldn't hear her over the music. The pit was getting bigger, spinning wildly, tilting back and forth like a gigantic top. In the pit, there were no faces, only flailing arms, legs, torsos, and hair. 

   He ran into the snack room and looked down at his hand.

   He was holding the huge bag of speed. 

--Jeffrey Matucha 

This is an excerpt from Jeffrey's new book A Long Slow Aftermath. Buy it here!