Topomancy

After long days at the hospital giving sponge baths and changing bedpans, I began to frequent a local Taco Bell where the same two long-haired stoners blasted Kreator, Vixen, or myriad other bands through their cell phones’ tinny speakers as they worked. Now that I had left my live-in boyfriend, now that I had moved 1,000 miles southwest from my home, from my friends and family, I relied on metal—heavy metal, speed metal, black metal, doom metal, New Wave of British Heavy Metal—to orient me, to get me through the upheaval. Metal made me feel less dusty: it blew across the embers in my chest to bring back fire. It was a secret life inside my life. 

“Y’all ever see King Diamond?” I asked the stoner kids one night, the “y’all” foreign on my tongue. I had finished eating but was delaying the return to my empty apartment. 

“No, man, you?” the taller one said. He was playing Abigail from an iPhone with a cracked screen.

“Yep, not that long ago.”

“Was it cool?”

“It was amazing.” I drew out each syllable. “You have to go when they tour again.”

He nodded. I couldn’t tell if they liked me or thought I was some strange old lady since I always showed up in scrubs and clogs and was probably a decade older than they were.

“OK, well, have a good night.” My hand still on the counter, I told my body to move. “I guess I’ll probably see you tomorrow,” I said, a stupid smile on my face. 

“We’ll probably be here,” the other guy said, his eyes miles away. 

I stood an extra few seconds, waiting for the next beat of a Midwestern goodbye, but they had turned away, attending to a customer at the drive through. Loneliness emanated from my skin. What were you expecting? I asked myself as I walked to the car, the desert cold cutting through my thin, cotton scrubs. 

When my relationship failed, I used topomancy to set course and ended up 6500 feet above sea level on the front range of the Rocky Mountains. I was an outsider in the West, a birch tree deracinated from rich Wisconsin loam and transplanted into the arid soil of the Rockies. I soon learned that when a forest person moves to the mountains, they feel overexposed. So much open space. So much sky. So much stone and sun. I hid inside metal shows, inside crowded rooms full of men and, thankfully, more and more not-men. Still, people pegged me as an outsider. My uniform was slightly different than theirs. I wore t-shirts of Midwest punk and metal bands no one out West knew: RazorFist, Code 13, Weaving the Deathbag. I wanted to belong. I did not share my former boyfriend’s ethos, which was never to belong, which was to remain outside of the outsiders. He would never bend the knee; he would never take the bit. Finally, it was either him or me, and I chose myself. 

Taco Bell was close to the hospital, cheap, and never busy at midnight. There was something else, too: the restaurant looked warm in the dark—a familiar beacon. And wasn’t that the point of corporate chains, to make you feel welcome wherever you were? After I had been going there regularly for a month or so, the stoner guys turned up the music when I arrived. They gave me free chips with my bean burritos and recommended local bands, writing the names on napkins. They called me by my name, Elise, which I rarely heard except on the tongues of the ill. And I called them by theirs—Dave, the taller of the two who had straight, dyed black hair made to look permanently greasy by his light roots, and Mateo, whose long dark curls were always pulled into a pony tail. Both of them wore buttons affixed to their work shirts, something I’m sure they weren’t supposed to do. 

“Did you guys go to the High on Fire show?” I asked, leaning on the counter, eating my usual.

“Nah, couldn’t afford it,” Mateo said. “Fees on top of the tickets.”

“Did you?” Dave asked. 

“Yeah, it was great. Matt Pike was in good form, even sans toe.”

“Was he wearing a shirt?”

“Nope, it was all hanging out.” 

They laughed.  

“We mostly go to local shows, smaller bands.” Dave pushed a mop around behind the counter. “Now that the Dungeon is closed, there’s like no good venue in town.”

“This town can never keep anything going. You gotta go to Denver for anything cool.” 

Ours was a smallish city, not without some clubs and draw, but it was also a college town, which meant people came and went through their punk and metal phases—but like me, my Taco Bell friends were lifers. 

“Fuck Denver,” Dave said.

“I told you—sometimes you have to make things happen,” Mateo muttered. “DIY or die, dude.” 

I was about to ask him exactly what he was thinking, but a customer sidled up to the counter, displacing me. 

On one of my few days off, I sat in the window of my apartment, which was on the sixth floor of a new complex. It faced the mountains, and I listened to King Woman and slowly sipped whiskey as fog rolled over the peaks, as I stared at their rocky faces, hoping they would acknowledge me. Birds raced across the sky; I wondered how far they had traveled to be here. I heard my ex-boyfriend moving around the apartment, though he was states away. I imagined him viscerally: his soft, dark hair, his pale blue eyes. I wondered if he believed I’d never come back. I wondered if I believed it. Leaving him, my friends, family, and Wisconsin was the hardest thing I had ever done. 

By early evening, I was out of booze and itchy to get out. I pulled on a heavy denim jacket and traversed the lit-up streets of downtown. I bought a fifth of Jameson at the first liquor store I saw, then walked until my hands were stiff from the dry cold. In the bars, people laughed, smiled, ordered fresh pints. Everyone belonged to someone.

I hadn’t eaten all day, and I needed something to offset the alcohol. I headed to Taco Bell, though I usually never went on my days off. On the way, I picked up a six-pack of Coors. Fuck it, I thought. Those guys will have a beer with me. I did not allow myself to think it was strange to bring alcohol into my new friends’ workplace or wonder if they were actually 21. I did not allow myself to think at all. I was in the middle of a long, intense scream, and I simply gave it space. 

“What’s up?” I said, walking through the doors. 

“Hey dude,” they greeted me, looking at the pins on my jacket, at the Christian Mistress t-shirt I sported beneath. 

“You off today?” Mateo said. 

“Sure am. Y’all drink?” I said, holding out the six pack.

“Not usually at work.” 

Dave laughed, and I ripped two beers from their plastic collars.

“Still cold,” I said. 

They looked at each other. Mateo shrugged. 

“It’s just a beer,” Dave said. “No one’s even in here anyway.”  

He grabbed the cans and Mateo grabbed two large paper cups to pour them into. I perched on the counter, nibbling chips and sipping Diet Coke with Jameson. They drank the beers, and cars cruised intermittently through the drive-through, ordering bags of hot near-Mexican food, each one full of laughing teenagers or self-loathing middle agers. 

“Hey,” Mateo said, “do you like to…” He made the universal sign for smoking weed.

The truth was I didn’t, but I was drunk and decided I didn’t give a shit about anything.  

“Meet me out back.” 

The back of Taco Bell smelled unholy – sour garbage, grease, gasoline. Mateo had pulled on a leather jacket with a Municipal Waste backpatch, the front pimpled with buttons. I considered telling him about the first time I had seen Municipal Waste, which was many years ago. A friend of mine, Tyler, had gotten their first LP and was obsessed. There was a phone number on the back, so he called it. He befriended the singer, and Municipal Waste played a show in Minneapolis with his band, Death First, a crusty outfit from Menomonie. I still remember how I felt, how everything inside of me spilled out as I circled the pit, alternately throwing elbows and arms around my friends’ shoulders. But Mateo was probably a kid when that happened, so I kept my mouth shut, took the joint from him, and pulled flower into my lungs. 

The night cracked open, the sky lowered, and Orion’s belt wrapped itself around my shoulders. The part of my life already lived became tangible again. I remembered what Mateo had said to Dave the other day. Sometimes you have to just make things happen. And before I knew what was coming out of my mouth, I said, “Have you ever thought of having a show here? You know, since that place, the Dungeon, closed?”

Mateo was silent for a second and then started giggling.

“I’m dead serious,” I said. “Totally not joking.” 

We went quiet as a raccoon appeared on top of the chain link fence that separated Taco Bell from the apartment complex next to it. The animal lumbered along, its eyes glowing in the dark, its small hands bringing scraps to its mouth.

“I mean, it could be a short show. One and done. It would be over so fast no one would notice.”

“You’re crazy,” he said. 

“Am I?” I said, passing the joint back. “You should respect your elders.”

The raccoon paused, looking up at us. Mateo hit the joint and laughed.

“Elders?”

“I said what I said.” Maybe they didn’t see me as a weird old lady. “Just indulge me. We find one good local band. We spread the word quietly—no flyers everywhere or social media. Just word of mouth. It would be an ‘ask a punk’ situation.” 

“There are cameras here.”

“That doesn’t stop you from drinking and smoking weed.”

“Still…”

“Aren’t one of you a manager?”

“Dave is.”

“Then can’t you turn the cameras off? I mean does anyone actually watch that footage anyway?”

“No, not unless something happens.” He paused. “And not much happens.”

“There you go.”

“You might be onto something,” he said. “You’re all right, you know?” 

“You are, too,” I said. Our fingers touched briefly as we passed the joint between each other. The raccoon disappeared over the fence. 

“Wait – was that a raccoon?” Mateo said, gesturing toward the fence.

We started laughing all over again. Strands of his hair came loose from his pony tail. He was close enough to me that I could smell his hair, and it smelled like lavender, a comfort in the dark. For a second, I thought of taking his sweet face in my hands and kissing his cheeks. I thought, Thank you for saving me in this moment. But touching him would have ruined everything. 

“Raccoons and Taco Bell metal shows,” Mateo muttered.

Just then the back door opened and Dave appeared. 

“Dude,” he said, “there’s a backup in the drive through.”

“Fuck it. We have an idea,” Mateo said, smiling at me. 

‍

They did most of the work – they had the friends and connections. As their metal elder, I put up money for the band—a new speed metal group from Denver—which was barely anything. It was a late show, and people rode their bikes, took busses, and walked to avoid filling the parking lot with cars and drawing unnecessary attention to the restaurant. The band parked a dilapidated van out back, and Dave and Mateo helped carry their equipment as I took donations at the front door. People of all ages streamed in, everyone vibrating with excitement, until the place was nearly full. No one looked at me like an outsider. 

The band set up their scaled down equipment in the front window, where Dave, Mateo, and I had cleared a space for them and lowered the window shades. Someone brought a cheap smoke machine and LED lights, which were strung up haphazardly. About 30 minutes after the show was supposed to start, Dave dimmed the lights, and I was closing the front door, when a cop car rolled slowly into sight. 

“Hang on,” I whispered to Dave. “There’s a cop.”

Dave signaled the band to wait, and Mateo pushed past me, a garbage bag in his hands. He began changing the front garbage meticulously like he actually cared. The cop stopped, rolled down his window, and Mateo approached the cruiser. They talked briefly, Mateo leaning forward, blocking the cop’s view of the restaurant.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Dave whispered, but I was sick to my stomach. I had no idea how many people in the room were underage, and I did not want to get pegged for supplying minors, even though I hadn’t given anyone anything. A collage of horrible images materialized in my mind: me in the backseat of one car, Dave and Mateo in another, them unceremoniously dismissed from Taco Bell. All of us unemployed and broke with court dates on the horizon. Bile crept up my throat. 

Mateo returned, smiling but nervous. 

“The 7-11 got robbed. They’re doing extra patrols tonight.”

“Fucking great,” Dave said.

“Let’s get this started before they have a reason to stop again.”

The three of us looked at each other. Mateo nodded, I nodded, and Dave gave the band the go ahead. Mateo was right; it was time. Still, I kept my eyes trained on the road, waiting for the cops to return.

“Taco Bell, are you ready to party?” the singer growled, and cheers rang out. Her leather jacket shone in the dim light as she strummed her black Les Paul and messed with the tuning. “I said, TACO BELL, ARE YOU READY TO FUCKING PARTY?” she screamed. 

“YES!” came the resounding answer as arms raised and whistles found their way into air. 

“That’s what I thought. Let’s fucking gooooooo!”

And then the band was off, a pack of wild horses thundering across the plains, as all of that greasy restaurant banged their heads, creating a tornado of boots, patches, denim, and leather. With the music ringing out, my mind went blank, and I joined the oversoul. Together, one raging thing, we moved to the chords and drums, the screaming vocals. When the first chorus sounded, a sea of raised fists punched the air. 

You are not lost

Come from the shadows

You are not lost

Come from the dark

You are not lost

‍

Tears sprang into my eyes, giving way to an intense calm. My whole body vibrated for the rest of the set, the lyrics stinging my lips. It was over much too soon, and when the last chord stilled, everyone demanded more. 

“Thank you very much, y’all! Come see us next week at the Hi-Dive with Matriarch,” the singer said, disrobing herself from the Les Paul, her long black hair a mess around her neck, her shoulders. She waved, and everyone erupted into cheers and whistles again.

Thank you, I mouthed, and she smiled, then gave me a high five. I blushed, thankful for the darkness. 

After the place cleared out, Dave and Mateo started cleaning, and I helped. There was very little collateral damage—just a couple of broken chairs and, of course, some missing food and soda. 

“That was fucking awesome,” Dave said.

“I don’t actually care if we do get fired,” Mateo said.

I shot him a look. “You aren’t going to get fired.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mateo said. “If she says it, it must be true. She is our elder after all.”

“Fuck off, fetus,” I said. 

“Do you want to go with us to the Hi-Dive next week?” Dave said. 

Relief welled inside me, my cheeks heated again, and it took me a second to respond. 

“Hell yeah,” I said, “let’s do it.”

As they cleaned, I took out the garbage, walking back through the kitchen, past the vats of Grade D ground beef, refried beans, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. I walked past the bulletin board studded with the schedule, flyers about labor laws, and a caricature of an employee I had never seen and into the crisp, dark night. I posted up against the wall beneath the weak glow of the overhead light. The garbage odor had faded or maybe I just couldn’t smell it anymore. I breathed in and out, holding my breath at the top. I drank the bitter dregs of my beer. 

A raccoon reappeared walking the fence, its eyes fierce in the night. I remembered what I knew about raccoons: they can live anywhere – forests, farmlands, wetlands, cities, suburbs, warm and cold places alike. They eat fruit, birds, nuts, turtles, grains, eggs, fish, even carrion. They are related to weasels. They have five digits on their front and hind paws, can climb trees effortlessly. They frequently change dens and generally operate alone. 

I crept toward the animal, and we stared at each other knowingly as I sunk my can in the trash. I held his gaze another moment, then nodded at him before he took to the ground. I returned to the bright light of the restaurant, where an opening riff was reverberating through the steel kitchen.