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Jeff says this knife is his favorite, his everyday carry. When he flicks it, the loose, chipped blade snaps open. Jeff says he has more knives at home: butterfly knives, a Bowie, several hunting knives, a USMC square tip machete which he props against his bed. You never know, Jeff says. Jeff says if I think that’s impressive, I should see what his dad has. Knives, swords, guns. A large collection of German military memorabilia. Jeff says his dad once made another man bite the curb. Do you know what that means, Jeff says.
Jeff says he’s just showing you how the pros do it. One hand on my throat, the other on my back. Jeff says it’s called the chokeslam, and that if he were to use real force, I’d be dead on impact. Do you know which pressure points can kill a man, Jeff says. I struggle to respond.
Jeff says his favorite band is Metallica. The shirt, which Jeff wears almost every day, portrays an endless field of cross-shaped headstones. I am unsure if the crust of brown around the shirt’s collar is blood or dirt or just another morbid detail of the print. Your life burns faster, Jeff says, pantomiming an air guitar. Jeff says, obey your master, master.
Once — only once, when the neighborhood is otherwise empty — I press the doorbell beside the screen door of Jeff’s house, and, after a moment of waiting and nothing, I press it again. And then I can hear it, the agitated plodding from behind the door. And, muffled through the door, I hear her. What, Jeff’s mom says, are you trying to see my tits or something? Jeff’s mom says get the fuck out of here. Jeff says even if I did see a pair of tits, I wouldn’t know what to do with them. Jeff says that’s for me to know and you to find out.
Jeff says he’s had this bike forever, it’s his older brother’s, actually. Jeff says if I think he stole it, I should just say that. Nevermind that the thin pegs on the rear rim match those of the Dyno GT that went missing from my back yard, nevermind that the poorly sprayed-on paint job has already begun to flake, and the familiar silver glint shines through. Actually, Jeff says, he found this bike in the Metroparks, abandoned in the bushes flanking the dirt jump track.
And then Jeff is gone, but the house, his parents, are not. They filter in and out of the minimal traditional sitting just beyond a yard that grows and grows. The house needs repainting. The house needs reshingling. Years pass. And then, too, his parents are gone, or leaving, rather. Stacking reused boxes inside a moving truck. I wonder which box — which boxes — contain weaponry. Jeff’s parents look normal. Tired, if anything. I try to imagine his dad kicking the back of another man’s head and can’t.
At night, when my mother lets the television news play for background noise, I listen.
