Flashing Lights on the Ceiling

We were putting the holiday edition to bed, and a couple of makeup men and I were all that remained on the composing room floor. The presses were already rumbling with the Norwalk run—a low, rhythmic vibration I could feel through the soles of my shoes, rising from concrete stained with decades of leaked ink and machine oil.

When Kenny invited me to stop by his place as we punched the clock, it wasn’t the kind of invitation that usually came my way. I was just the kid in the baggy sports coat, but I figured why not.

I climbed into my Beetle, slapped the locks down, wound through the dark side streets on the wrong side of town, and tucked the Bug into an alley.

The house was exactly like my college dorm days at Defiance—sweet smoke, loud music, and whiskey poured into paper cups. It was a one-family allotment house built for returning veterans fifty years earlier, now holding at least a hundred people and echoing with three different languages.

The language I understood best involved friendly hands passing bottles and roaches through the semi-darkness.

One joint made the rounds of the kitchen crowd and found its way back to me three separate times. Jeez, I thought, how long are we going to share this thing? By then all that remained was ash, and my fingertips were turning black.

Later I found myself in the living room, my back pressed against the wall. At least fifty souls swayed to the throbbing stereo while my spine absorbed the pulse of the bass. My body felt pleasantly numb. My mind drifted somewhere else. A hand emerged from the smoky gloom and passed me a fresh joint.

Then came a heavy pounding on the front door.

The stereo died mid-beat.

The silence felt physical.

I blinked.

The room was empty.

Forty-nine souls had evaporated into the walls, leaving me alone on the carpet.

I reached up and opened the door.

The first thing I saw was a pair of gum-soled boots and a long uniformed leg. My gaze drifted upward to a pale face staring down at me. Behind him, a Lorain City Police cruiser sat idling on the front lawn, casting rotating flashes of red and blue across the living room ceiling.

I snubbed my smoke into the carpet and hollered, “Kenny!”

Kenny emerged from a back bedroom, casually tucking in a red silk shirt. He was smiling.

“Officer Shullick,” Kenny said, extending a hand.

Shullick took it.

“How long is this party going to last?”

“It was going all day while I was at work,” Kenny said, his smile never fading. “And the day before that, too.”

Then Kenny asked, “What time do you get off duty?”

“Three a.m.,” Shullick answered.

“See you then.”

The officer turned and walked back to his cruiser.

The room instantly filled with people again.

The music started throbbing.

And the party rolled on.

I don’t remember how I got home, but morning found me snug in my own bed.

The VW was safe in the garage, too.

Parked completely sideways.

 

Dale Scherfling is a fulltime writer/poet, creative writing instructor, and retired U.S. Navy photojournalist. A former newspaper sportswriter, editor, and photographer, he is the recipient of three U.S. Army Front Page Journalism Awards. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Chiron Review, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama, San Diego Poetry Annual, Monterey Poetry Review, and Mangrove Review, among others. He has ninety accepted publications across literary journals and magazines.