Justin Carlos Alcalá

Friends in High Places

Dad went to jail, and we went to Wrigleyville. It felt like our ninety-sixth move in three years and the latest apartment was the worst. A grubby stone three-flat with cracked bay windows strangled in pest filled ivy. Atop the roof’s east corner, the ugliest gargoyle ever sculpted glared down in resentment. On the west bend, a pillar of stone where it’s partner once mounted—taken, just like dad. 

It was Halloween week, and our Chicago neighborhood of Wrigleyville hadn’t seen a blue sky in days. I hiked the mile from middle school to my reprehensible apartment petrified I’d run into Hector Montanez. The should-be-sophomore went to some alternative school for bad teens, but frequently skipped to smoke pot with his friends under the Red Line. He welcomed me to the area by force-feeding me dumpster leftovers, then left my cheek purple for good measure. I outran his latest effort to embarrass me and was due for the beating of my life should we cross paths. 

“Danny,” yelled Pat at the first block of my route. “Why are you always running?”

“Survival,” I said.

“Hector?”

“Nothing gets past you.”

Pat was the only person who ventured to be my friend, a fellow outcast for timeless reasons—wits, uniqueness, honesty. 

“Why don’t you call the cops?” Pat asked, ginger pigtails over an anime shirt and plaid skirt. 

“Mom drove me to the station. Cops stopped by his house but couldn’t find him.”

“Early intervention prevents the onset of adult criminal behavior.”

“Thank you.” 

“So, listen, you want to go trick-or-treating Friday?” 

“Pat, we’re twelve.”

“And?”

“Eh, guess if I mask up, Hector won’t recognize me.” 

“Brilliant. We can go after school.”

“Alright, now can we like…run-walk home?” 

“It’s called Jeffing.” 

“Sure. Let’s Jeff.” 

We sped to my apartment, greeted by the gargoyle’s unapproving leer. Pat walked me to the glass framed door, staring skyward as I fidgeted with the lock. The bolt released, and we shuffled in. The porch smelled like cat piss from our landlord’s pride of felines. 

“Dude,” said Pat, “that statue is bizarre.” 

“The gargoyle?” I asked, collecting mail from our postal wall-coffin. “I know.” 

“What’s with the red teeth?”

“It’s just weathered. Acid rain and stuff.”

“Or its last victim.” 

“Hey, not that I don’t love your unique perspective, but don’t you need to get home?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s family therapy night.”

“Must be nice.”

“What therapy?”

“No family.”

Pat placed their hand on my shoulder. “Hang in there, bud.” 

Pat exited into October cold, but not before getting another eyeful of gargoyle. I didn’t watch Pat go down the block. I knew they were okay. People like Pat didn’t let the world maltreat them. Not like me with Hector. 

I squeaked up the creakiest stairs in Wrigleyville where our neighboring landlord, Ms. Schneider, donned in her pumpkin patterned Snuggy, swept cat hair. 

“Danny,” she said, a shedding calico curling at her slippers. “Your friend came by.”

“Friend?”

“Big guy. Hanson.” 

“Hector?”

“Yes, Hector.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“I truly don’t care. Tell your mom rent is overdue.”

“Sure,” I said, jingling the keys in my door. “Good to see you too.”

Our apartment never left the 80’s—wood panel and orange ceilings accented by leftover furniture from the house we sold to get by. I went to my room, flipped on some music, and stared at my self- sculpture. My art-final bore the makings of a real person— arms, legs, and a head, but none of the details to feel real. Still, even though it wasn’t due for months, sculpting a half-sized Danny kept me distracted. After toothbrushing textured hair, I shaped an aluminum foil hand, but stopped midway as a mystery along my bedroom window caught my eye. 

Four claw like scratches drew along the glass. Too big to be a bird’s work, too congruent to be coincidental, the marks left me dumbfounded. I took a closer look before examining what lay below. Bushes and stone steps only added to the mystery. Maybe spooky season, an unrelenting bully, and my solitude were getting to me. I quit molding and spent the rest of the night watching public access horror in the front room until mom came home. She lived in a state of exhaustion since dad’s embezzlement charges, so I kept it brief. School is great, trick-or-treating with Pat on Friday, and rent is overdue. Zombie mom thanked me for my report. 

***

School came and went. Pat left early for the orthodontist, so I trekked home alone in an autumn shower, changing my path like prey evading predators. Unfortunately, a Wrigley Field Hell-aween Eve event blocked my path, so I rerouted through an alley umbrellaed by the Red Line. I was a half block from home when a blow like a mule’s kick bucked me in the back. I fell face first, smashing my nose on gravel, blood spluttering from my nostrils. 

“Look, it’s Dandy boy,” said Hector as hands lifted me by my shoulders. A skinny kid with a stringy mustache and a round guy who looked like a grown man held me while Hector flicked my nose. Electric shot up my sinuses. 

“Oh, hey Hector,” I winced. “Good to see you.”

“You met my bros?” asked Hector, looking at Thin and Stout.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “The number ten, right?”

Hector’s fist thrust into my stomach, stealing my breath. 

“I visited your shit apartment like you made the cops do to mine,” said Hector. “You’re going to pay me as an apology.” 

“Sure,” I said, “you want it in singles or a whole Lincoln?”

“Fifty-bucks a week,” said Hector. “We’ll start today.”

“Jeez, Hector,” I said,” I’m kind of short at the moment.” 

“Then you get another,” Hector pounded me in my guts again. This one was nastier, projecting cafeteria pizza out of me. 

“Gross,” said Thin as they tossed me down. 

“Tomorrow is Halloween,” said Hector. “I’ll be looking for my money. Get anyone involved, and it’ll be fatal.” 

Rain swelled as I curled in blood and vomit. It took ten minutes to get up and limp home. I reached the three-flat drenched, fighting oppressive belly pains as I dug for keys. By accident alone, I looked up, noticing the chimpanzee sized gargoyle. The winged devil’s horned head didn’t stare back as usual. Instead, it tilted ever so slightly over its shoulder at the empty pillar where granite feet without a body mounted. The gargoyle’s four clawed hand pointed in its absent partner, and its shark toothed jaws glowered.  

“No way,” I groaned. “It’s the beating I took.”

I hobbled up the stairs, where Ms. Schneider taped a witchy kitten cling to her door. 

“Danny, you better be close and lock that entrance,” Ms. Schneider hissed. “Tobias is missing.” 

“I promise, Ms. Schneider,” I said, gripping my stomach. 

“What happened?” 

“Hanson.” 

“You’re weak, boy.” 

I didn’t respond, instead shuffling to my door and pushing inside. Lightning flashed through the empty unit. I didn’t flip on any lamp. I just flopped into bed, tapping rain my only comfort. Sleep gave respite to my agony. I don’t know how long I lay damp in my bed until a scraping like a fork on a bottle intruded my slumber. My room was pitch black. I thrashed through floored clothes and dodged an errant swivel chair which thirsted for shins, leaning over my desk to tilt my face on glass. Another flash of electric, and a crack of thunder revealed a grotesque face staring back, nails scratching at the panel. 

“Holy,” I leapt backwards. 

I couldn’t tell if the monster lingered through the obscurity, and I second-guessed flicking on my nightstand lamp. In an act of stupidity, I did, and the repugnant gargoyle face persisted. I don’t know how long I stared, but it must’ve been significant because the grisly statue took initiative, directing its talon at my self-sculpture. 

“Fan of art?” I blurted. 

The creature snarled. 

“Dumb question,” I said. “Not sure what you want, but I’m totally scared right now.” 

The creature focused its gaze upwards to the west corner of the building, the same spot where its missing partner once resided. 

“Oh, um, okay. You want a replacement?” 

The creature beamed like the devil at crossroads. 

“Sure, I could do that. Just need time.” 

The gargoyle nodded, then instead of absconding in flight, clawed back up from which it came. Dumbfounded was the understatement of the year. I locked in place, no idea what to do. So, with stomach throbbing, I followed my instincts and began altering clay Danny. 

***

Morning came with hurried indecency. It was Halloween. I checked out my room. Scars remained on the window, and my sculpture bore a new pair of bat wings. I grabbed my clown mask from under the bed and hurried to eat breakfast. Mom left another working late note topped with a poorly drawn pumpkin. I missed her. 

Halloween made the school day tolerable. We read Poe, studied Samhain, and worked on pumpkin geometry. By final bell, it didn’t hurt to breath, and the prospect of trick-or-treating delayed the aftershock of battery victimization and demon appeasement. Pat and I met up in front of school and hit the ground running, storming every house with an open door or decorations. After an hour, our bags were filled, but our ambition still yearned. 

“Man, people are generous this year,” Pat the green haired Oompa Loompa ogled their bloated pillowcase. “Your house is close. Let’s dump this candy.”

“Uh,” I recalled last night. “Maybe we could stash it in bushes?” 

“Yeah, right,” said Pat. “Come on, we’ll give that gargoyle our Butterfingers.” 

“Eh, okay. Let’s hurry. Looks like rain.” 

We tried our luck at North Halsted, a street crammed with parents escorting costumed toddlers and employees returning home. To my chagrin, we nearly ran directly into Hector and his goons at our intersection sharing a beer. It was too late to turn around without raising suspicion, so I pulled my mask down and tried to act natural. Clueless Pat bobbed along humming Thriller. Hector’s glazed eyes followed me, but as we passed, he just kept drinking his Heineken. 

“Holy crap,” I said after a few feet. “That was Hector.”

“Hector?” Pat shouted. “Where?”

“Please, shut up.”

“Well, we know where he is. Let’s just go the opposite way once we drop our candy off.” 

We turned the seven-minute walk into four, and soon were in front of my three-flat. Mrs. Schneider stood on the porch stairs, grasping a can of tuna. 

“My Church is missing?” she sobbed. 

“Well, what’s your denomination?” asked Pat. 

“It’s a cat,” I said, lifting my mask. 

“Have you seen him, Danny?” Mrs. Schneider grabbed my jacket. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Schneider,” I said. 

“I’m afraid something terrible happened to him,” she looked down at the steps, defiled with what looked like bits of sausage and cherry pie. 

“I’ll keep an eye out,” I said.

“Useless boy,” she said as distant thunder rumbled. “You better lock that damn door.”  

I hurried inside while Mrs. Schneider made the pspsps sound, but I knew it was for naught. Pat and I hurried to my unit and emptied our bags inside my kitchen. 

“Okay, I need to tell you something,” I said.

“You don’t need to apologize for her.” 

“No, not that. It’s about the gargoyle.”

“Atop your roof?”

“Pat, I swear what I’m about to tell you is true. Yesterday when you went to the dentist, I got my assed kicked my Hector again. I hid in my room that night until something came scratching at my window. It was that gargoyle. It wants me to sculpt it a partner.” 

“Well, let’s cancel Halloween and make us a sexy monster statue.” 

“Come on, I’m serious. I think it’s killing the cats.”

“Did Hector give you a concussion because you’re talking loco?” 

“Okay, this was a bad idea. Never mind.”

Pat chewed their lip. “I’ll tell you what. If we go out there and the gargoyle is scarfing kitty, I’ll believe you. But if it’s still there, promise you’ll go to Mr. Gildiner?” 

“The school counselor? Fine. Now come on.” 

We left the three-flat into the beginning of a brisk thunderstorm. Mrs. Schneider must’ve gone back in because all that was left was the can of tuna. 

“Well, at least your crazy landlord is gone,” Pat said. 

“Dang, I’d better close the door before—” Something pressed the back of my neck like a vise, sending pain through me. 

“Think I didn’t see you, Little Dandy?” said Hector as he squeezed my collar. Thin blocked the sidewalk from onlookers while Round moved pressed against Pat. 

“Hey, let him go,” said Pat. 

“Look, Danny’s dating the Joker,” said Hector. 

“I’m an Oompa,” Pat stopped themselves. “You know what, I don’t have enough crayons.”

Round shoved Pat to the ground. 

“You got my money?” asked Hector, peeling off my mask. 

“Listen, I know you think you’re a contemporary gangster—” I said. 

“Contemporary?” asked Hector. “Speak English, Dandy.”

“Eh, it doesn’t matter,” I sighed. “I’m not paying you.”

“Oh, but you are,” Hector balled his fist. “Or I’ll beat you and Joker’s faces in.” 

“Please leave Pat out of this,” I said. 

“Eat shit, dude,” said Pat before Round kicked them. 

“Alright,” I said as an odd thwap echoed in the downpour. “We have two bags of candy upstairs and one of my mom’s beers. Will that buy us another day?”

“Holy shit,” Hector snorted. “You hear that, Dave? Candy?”

But Dave didn’t answer. Collectively, friends and foes alike looked to Thin-Dave blocking the sidewalk. He was still obstructing the pavement, but more in the traditional sense. His body lay on the pathway, pooling in blood. Round hurried to his side as a blaze of lightning blinded us. When our sight returned, Round’s body drunkenly danced about, a clean red stump where his head should be. The body fell atop Thin-Dave’s as thunder rolled.  

“Yo, what the hell,” said Hector.

“The gargoyle,” I shouted. “Everyone inside.” 

I helped Pat to his feet then we hurried up the stairs. Hector forgot how to think, eyes locked on his dead friends. We shut the glass framed door just as a graphite-colored shadow of the horror descended along the miniature front yard. Hector awoke from his trance, hurrying to the door. But as he pounded on the pane of glass, I looked to Pat, who nodded. My fingers went to the deadbolt and secured it. Hector frowned before his face smashed into the glass. A streak of red burbled from his lips before his body whiplashed upward towards the roof. 

***

On a wet rooftop where it lived bones of three boys lay. Days piled into weeks, but no one mentioned Hector or his friends. Pat and I lived a blithe life, free to walk through Wrigleyville wherever we wanted. As for my sculpture, it finally has all the details to feel real, and will look great on the three-flat’s roof. Meanwhile, mom said she missed me too and stopped working overtime. And even though she worries about rent, I tell her not to. The world might not be fair, and it might not be right, but sometimes problems like rude landlord take care of themselves. You just need a good friend to get by.