If my mother knew I was getting on the train by myself, she’d flip. We’ve had long talks about me going into the city, and I’m not allowed to be doing this. I’m not really going into the city, I tell myself as if it’s okay to be going as far as I am.
I hop onto the train as soon as the doors open, pushing past the people trying to get off. I find the first empty seat and slide into it. As the doors close, I pull the crumpled piece of paper from my pocket. The address is written in my mother’s elegant handwriting. There’s a phone number under the address, but it’s been scratched out, barely legible.
I watch the stops speed by and soon it’s time to get off the train. After a quick cab ride, I’m on the street scrawled on the piece of paper that I’m holding. My heart starts to pound as I find the house with the number eighteen. The numbers are on a moldy post by the front door. They’re lopsided, and the number one is barely hanging on a bent rusty nail.
I force myself to walk up the overgrown sidewalk leading to the front door. All of the shades are drawn, and there’s no car in the driveway.
I wonder if he’s even home.
I press the cracked doorbell and don’t hear any chimes coming from inside the house. Broken.
I knock loudly on the storm door, and it rattles like it’s about to fall off the hinges. It pops open, revealing it wasn’t even latched or locked. I wait a few minutes for someone to respond to my knock on the outer door and then open it to bang louder on the front door.
Still no answer.
I hear the melodic beat of drums and try to determine where the sound is coming from. It’s not coming from inside this house, but it’s nearby. I bang again on the front door, this time with as much force as I can. My knuckles sting after the eleventh knock.
I back up and listen for sounds coming from inside the house.
Still nothing.
The drums get louder, and I hear the screeching sound of an electric guitar.
Where is that music coming from?
I flip open the black mailbox hanging next to the front door. It almost falls off the wall, but I notice that it’s stuffed to the brim. I pull out a couple pieces of mail, and there’s a notice from the post office stating they are holding all mail until they hear from the resident. It’s dated three months ago.
He’s not here.
I quickly turn and walk back toward the street, wondering how I’m going to find another cab to take me to the train. This was a complete waste of time, and if Mom finds out about this trip, she’s going to kill me.
The music is louder now, and I finally see where it’s coming from. Maybe they know where he is.
I walk up the driveway, and as soon as they see me, the music comes to a screeching halt. “Hey,” I say when they all lay their eyes on me.
The guy behind the microphone with the electric guitar says, “What’s up?” He nods his head, and the rest of the band watches me intently.
“Uh. I’m looking for the guy next door. Have you seen him?”
The drummer quickly responds, “What do you want him for?” He raises his eyebrows and is suddenly suspicious.
I look to the rest of the group and shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “No reason. It just looks like he hasn’t been there in a while, and I was wondering if you knew where I could find him?” I wonder if he’s dead.
“No man. That dude is sketchy. He moved in, like, seven years ago. I think I’ve only seen him maybe three or four times.” The bass guitar player shifts back and forth and looks around to the other guys. There’s three of them in all, and they seem to be about my age. They all nod their heads in agreement.
“My mom said he went to jail,” the drummer says.