Hipster Death Rattle by Richie Narvaez

Author:Richie Narvaez [Narvaez, Richie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books
Published: 2019-03-11T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Black Martin’s car smelled like French fries, beer, and feet cheese. But it ran fine.

It had taken Kirsten and Gunnar four hours to drive to Pennsylvania. Things were smooth until New Jersey, as expected. Traffic and shitty drivers from end to end. And they had taken a while to get started because Gunnar always took forever to decide what to wear. And then he wore all black again anyway.

Gunnar was typically quiet during the ride. He never said much, her Gunnar. But that’s not what she liked him for. She’d met him at a bar in the East Village, where his band Franzbrötchen was playing what they called “death metal rap-folk.” Kirsten couldn’t give two shits about the music either way, but she loved the way he held his like a giant cock.

He’d come over from Germany to find himself, i.e., to find a band to play in. She’d heard the same story a thousand times over as a bartender. But Gunnar was a big man. And he liked strong women. And she liked big men who liked strong women.

Patrick had been different. Very different. He liked a strong woman. But he was frail, almost feminine. They grew up together in Allentown. She was his first lay, and, as far as she told him, he was hers. They came to New York to NYU and journalism school. After a year of school, she’d run out of money and interest. But Patrick had hung in there, got his degree. Had to give him credit for that.

Too bad he turned into such a weasel.

When they saw the exit for Allentown, Gunnar asked her if she wanted to visit her family.

“Nope,” she said. “We have to stay on mission.”

She knew why he had asked. Eight months together, living together. He probably wondered if she was ashamed of him. He had written several songs to that effect. He was a sensitive one, that Gunnar, under that curly ’stache. But he had nothing to worry about. He was her man. Her right arm. She wasn’t going anywhere without him.

Not for the moment anyway.

When she pulled into town, she looked back on all she had left behind. The trees, the wide open sky, the used car dealerships. So green. So boring.

They pulled up to a picturesque orange-and-red brick corner house on Whitehall Street, with a little chimney, a matching garage, and guarded on two sides by perfectly trimmed hedges. Only two blocks from the cemetery.

“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Stoller,” she said. It had taken them ten minutes of Kirsten’s buzzer-pressing to open the door. “It’s great to see you.”

They stood in the doorway, as American Gothic (sans pitchfork) as ever.

His father spoke up first. “Can we help you, Kirsten?”

“Well, hello. It’s so good to see you guys again,” she said.

They said nothing, just looked down at her, which made sense since she was on a lower step, but still it made her feel like they were looking at her like dog shit on their driveway that they had to walk around and would have to clean up later.

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