Holladay Spirit

by rashod berkley

“Rush me,” he spoke in a dry whisper with his head titled- imagination tilted. His nose spilled over the arc of his upper lip that was coast to an abundance of knotted hair, clumped together, dry from slides of snot that hardened over time. From beneath his tongue ascended bubbles that bred and eventually grew to a strong foam that spilled and cruised along the cleft of his chin and dripped to his chest. His throat swollen and his belly glutted. The blood in his feet washed to solid and his veins clustered with solidity as well. He leaned back in the pew, and an aggressive resonance from the organ erupted, and the sound rushed him strong and his back arched, then cracked as the notes feathered his spine and rubbed his pelvis sensitive. He leisurely opened his eyes and a slit of brightness shot into his pupils, and he felt them melt. The song quietly died to a sudden silence and everything grew dark, and the beat of his heart rose strong and thick, but eventually slowed smooth and silky until its last thump, and he gave a shallow exhale.

…

She was told raw eggs would balance the weed and the alcohol. She slept on her stomach. She stressed an uneven pillow. She bathed underneath the light of the moon too often. She bumped into too many rails, walls, people. She would only feed for one, love for two, and live for none. So when Holladay came out, she sunk in, and stared blank at the brightness of the hospital light with her head tilted and throat swollen.

…

Greenwood Park, Sorroe Avenue. Beneath the stroller, Daddy put the stereo which played tranquil tunes of “Summer Madness” that soften their eardrums and sprung smooth sound waves into the baby’s bottom. There were the trees that edged the sidewalk, and the leaves of an aspen leaned over and softly kissed the leaves of another, and behind them lumbered a bulky oak with its leaves spilled all over the walkway. Holladay gazed at the scene and for the first time witnessed jealousy. When they strolled by, he reached out with sympathy for the oak but his arms weren’t mature enough to reach. With toys, he learned that biting and pulling would rip them apart, and later Daddy would come back with ones even better. He stuffed his hand in his mouth and bit down on the ridges of his knuckles. He screamed.

“Hungry?” said Daddy.

…

Abrupt grunts and desperate moans broke out from Daddy’s door and stampeded down composing resonant echoes in the hallway.

“Son,” Daddy barked.

He walked into Daddy’s room, and the transformation from ceiling light to just the light of the television stunned his eyes.

“Yes, Daddy?”

He laid flat on the bed with the cover clustered on one leg and his chest and forehead slick with sweat.

“Hand me that jar. Yeah, that son-of-a bitch right there,” he said with his eyes closed not even directing to any particular place, and a white ball of thick spit shot out from the edge of his lips and onto Holladay’s hand. Holladay pointed.

“This one?”

“Yeah, hand that over here,” his voice so soft and raspy, making it hard to understand. “That’s right, son.”

Not knowing whether to leave or not, Holladay stood there flicking the edges of his long uneven fingernails, awaiting a response. Daddy’s eyes rolled a little and he reached down for his pants, as if Holladay had never walked in. His breathing became more apparent as he drained himself into the jar. The smell ricocheted against base of the jar and up toward his nostrils, inhaling the stingy yellow scent.

“Fuck,” he softly grunted. “Here son, take this,” he said with a foul squint. His lips looked a little swollen, as if he had just waken up, but it was mid dusk, and Holladay had heard him earlier in the day fumbling for one of the few straight spoons left in the kitchen.

The boy grabbed the jar, warm and fresh, and walked to the bathroom to flush the pee down the toilet, then headed back to his room.

“Boy, bring me back that goddamn jar,” Daddy bawled.

He rapidly went to bring back the jar, but only to find Daddy limp with heavy eyelids.

…

The sun had barely hovered over the distant mountains a ways east from the park. The peak of the tallest stabbed the sun from underneath, and its shine seeped out the wound and smoothed the edges of the ridged rock. The unmarked air of a new dawn was the designated time for it, so they dodged the endings of mournful nightmares, waking up early, oblivious that what they were doing would only revamp these sinister images. When Holladay ate them at home, they were a little round at the top, a little lighter in color, a little more innocent. When he ate them with friends, they always looked smashed, always dark, always risky-nasty.

“Feel it yet?” Matt asked.

“I don’t know. I think so,” Holladay wondered. He kept trying to convince himself it was happening, but once it happened, he tried convincing himself it wasn’t. He palmed his stomach as it began to slightly swirl with nausea.

“You think the laundry mat’s open?”

“What do you have to wash?”

“… Nothing.”

Rows of glass circles spun abundances of loose colors that relaxed the tense veins in their eyes.

“Holy shit. Nice call,” Holladay chuckled. There was no response, but Matt’s head lightly bobbled in circles and with closed eyes and mouth agape, as if his face being washed. “I gotta piss,” said Holladay.

The bathroom light was popped and the toilet looked like a dark pit, deep with no ending. He started to pee, and bubbles in the toilet started to form and grow like the eyes of raccoons and rodents awaiting the right moment to climb out and bite. He quickly stuffed his pants and panted, paralyzed at a vision of no other. He stumbled out and back to the herd of washer machines, but the mood changed, and they were now throwing, flipping and tossing slushes of exotic evil colors at him- nirvana.

They witnessed a reality so beautiful they would never be able to explain. Before, there was reason for breathing redwoods and purple skies, but as vision became less ambiguous and necks began to stiffen, it became more challenging to put the right words together; only the memories held strong.

…

His hole was sore and pulsing with red dribbles of blood sweating around it. His eyes drowned in salt water. His thighs quivered, on all fours with splinters in his knees from the deep forest of Greenwood Park. His soul punctured, his understanding squeezed, and Daddy watched.

“You got the balloons?” said Daddy.

“Here, and next time I’m only takin’ cash; and tell your son, uh… it happens to the best of ‘em,” the man said zipping up his pants. He then leaves.

“Get up son, I need your belt. And did you get that spoon I told you to bring?”

…

“Matt, I have to get home. Tell her you’ll see her tomorrow,” said a tired Holladay.

“You pulled me to the side just to tell me that? Bitch, walk home then. I know where you live.”

“Matt, if I’m sleep I’m not about to open the door for you, so tell that slut-”

“Alright, alright, alright. Keep your voice down, man. I’ll tell her, just give me a sec.”

The walk would last longer than Matt’s patience. Going against the night’s wind became unbearable as they walked faces acutely down, resisting the rush of cold blows that pounded their eyes.

“Fuck man I can’t take this. Lets cut through Greenwood Park,” Matt said, blind of the horrid memories this park would revive.

“Naw man, it’s not even that bad. It’s like ten minutes.”

“Well shit, through the park its like three. What is wrong with you, you all of a sudden scared of the park woods?” Holladay didn’t respond. “You were the one in a rush, so what’s the problem.”

“Alright, we can go,” he said in defense with unsure eyes that focused at his feet.

As they approached the entrance, Holladay took a deep but silent breathe, making sure Matt didn’t hear his dread of a place where little kids stumbled in sand and where fresh couples made their first kiss. His hands began to jolt uncontrollably and his breathing began to stutter.

“You got your phone on you? It gets pretty dark once we hit the trail,” said Matt.

“It di-died like an hour ago.”

“Shit, alright well stay close. I can’t see shit.”

They could see around two feet ahead of them, but after that, a black sheet of night impeded their site. They trotted slowly with their arms erect like zombies trying to guide themselves through the darkness, and up ahead they could see a herd of lights that floated down towards them.

“Who is that?” said Matt.

“I don’t know.”

“Aye, who the fuck is that,” someone yelled from the crowd of bright cell phone lights.

“Shit,” whispered Holladay. He told himself it would be the last time he came to this park.

As they got closer, the gang shined their lights on the two, and their faces glowed blue with vulnerable expressions. They still couldn’t see who it was that had shined their cell phones on them, and they looked at each other with their blue faces. Holladay could see in Matt’s face the sorrow his eyes spoke. They heard a gun cock back.

“Who told you about the hand off,” a voice came out.

“What hand off?” said Holladay.

Matt’s breathing became heavy and scratched against his throat. His eyebrows sunk low with seriousness and his heavy breaths became deep gasps that ached his chest. He buckled on all fours, having an asthma attack, and crawled on his splintered knuckles toward the guy, reaching for his leg, then gagged and vomited on his shoe.

“What the fuck. Get off me,” he snarled then kicked Matt away.

Bow.

A sudden spark of light exploded in the mid air of the dark, and there was no longer a blue glow on Matt’s face. Holladay jumped at the sound; his chest and forehead slick with sweat.

“Get on our knees,” the guy said.

Coming out of the pitch black, Holladay saw the shine of the short barrel get closer to the spot between his eyes. A glob of spit sprang out from the darkness and onto Holladay’s nose and lips and slowly slipped down to the dirt.

Out of nowhere came the sound of feet crunching leaves that got closer and closer.

“What the fuck just happened? I take a piss and all of a sudden I hear a gun shot,” the man said.

“We just caught this bitch bustin’ in on us.”

The man looked down at Holladay.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself.

Holladay looked up, and from the angle, saw that the light shined on his face dimly showed on the man that just came. An abrupt bolt sent through his body. His hole tightened up.

“Look I know this kid, just let him be.”

Matt’s blood started to seep and soaked Holladay’s knees.

“Man, fuck that,” he sucks his teeth.

“Aye, what the fuck did I just say; let him be.”

A silence grows, and thoughts behind the barrel began to shift.

“Man, get yo sorry ass up.”

The instant Holladay rose, without hesitation, the guy clubbed him over the head with the gun and a bloody knot, ripe, formed over his temple.

“Now get the fuck out of here.”

He sprinted out into the forest, bumping into one of the gang members, and dashed into the dark. He ran for about ten seconds, and then suddenly he was back on the ground, with the dark woods getting even darker as his eyelids slowly shut and his head rapidly spun him to sleep.

He woke up mid day staring dizzy at the dark leaves of an oak tree. He sat up, making him light headed, and saw a deep dent in its trunk with what looked like red syrup, sweet and oozing down to its roots. In the distance, he could see a young couple laying in the grass, sharing lips, and toddlers running and tripping over the sand in the playground. He lay back down, closed his eyes, and awaited help.

…

The clouds, flat and plated, drained a ginger tent birthed from the sun above, which stained the atmosphere of the urban city. He begged because it was all he could, but that morning, when another of his kind stole his cup, it made him careless. So he walked, with no destination, until the sole rubbed too thin for the rut of an uneven sidewalk. What were the whispers of the dry wind telling him? How would he mark value to his time, or would he chase time away and live spontaneously as he was? Amendment was what he needed and it was heard a time before that amendment came through God.

But shit I’m cravin’ right now.

The door was opened for him, and a chill from the air conditioner cooled his nature and stung the sensitive scar on his forehead. He witnessed women with widely brimmed hats howling and bawling up toward the ceiling and heard herds of people interrupting sermons with loud ruptures of hallelujahs, amens, and what seemed to be people talking to themselves. A man that glistened from his wrist, fingers, and chest spoke beneath the stained glass of naked angel characters that rested on cotton clouds and pointed toward the burst of a bright yellow star.

“Welcome to God’s house,” he said to Holladay.

He nodded and walked toward the empty pew in the back. His foul scent of what seemed like moldy nickels sent heads turning and raised the collars of little boys’ shirts to moist snot.

“Praise Jesus, praise Jesus,” he said as he walked by to create a balance for his obnoxious smell. He sat in back where the church speaker boxes were.

The church became a little less bright. His nose became less sandy the more he drew breath. His brain didn’t throb as much now and the more sober life became, the more anxiety coated his psyche. He looked around and all he could see were the backs of heads, and the eyes of the pastor wandered about.

I still got the rest of that balloon.

He raced for his jacket pocket and untied the spout. He looked up once more for reassurance that it was safe, but the church was just getting dimmer and dimmer. He hurriedly tried to dabble some of the grain on the side of his left index, but the nervousness kept his hand fidgety, and it shook onto his pants.

Fuck.

He bent over to sniff his thigh but got a little more than he had anticipated.

Jesus.

The church now became blurry and bright, and he stared at the blue balloon rested in his palm.

Oh so innocent and oh so childish you are my balloon. Oh so innocent, you wouldn’t hurt me, right?

He tilted his nose, red and tender, toward the burst of the yellow star, then held the balloon up and exhausted the rest of the grain up his nostrils. Then an abrupt sneeze sprays out and a ghost of powder shoots through the mid air floating and curling more like the dance of a white spirit. The bridge of his nose was damp with grain and tears, and in attempt to wipe it off he smeared it across his cheek.

“What in hell…” the speaker box spoke.

In hell? What in hell? I’m in hell?

“No,” he whispered. “No,” he yelled at the speaker, “No, no, no. Don’t blame Holladay,” he whined at the box. “Let me in, please let me in. Take me away from the pits of fire, take me away.”

“Amen. Someone feels the Holy Spirit,” a woman yelled from her pew.

“Praise him,” said another.

“Umm… lets take it away with a song. Brother Solomon, please,” the words came uneasy from the pastor’s breath, for it was only he who recognized.

The warmth and numbness of his high began to compress and heat up as the paralyzing death slowly rose from his feet and massaged his brain. His eyes began to close before the bright church, and his body began to slouch. The balloon dropped and his spirit commenced to lift.

“Rush me.”