Page 28 of Little Dark Deeds
“He always makes you feel a little bit better, no matter what kind of day you’re having, doesn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Post Malone.”
“I had no idea you were a fan of his music.”
“I’m a big fan.Harvey put all his songs on a playlist for me.I listen to it a few times a week, or more.His words, they’re good for the soul, kinda like that young lady ...”She snapped her fingers.“Shoot, I can’t think of her name just now ...Bettie or Billie something.”
“Billie Eilish.”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Where are we going?”I asked.
“You’ll see.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“Now listen, I know you’re not one for surprises, but every once in a while, don’t you think it would be nice to relax and allow someone else to plan something for you?”
The mere thought ticked my anxiety up a notch.
“It’s been a rough day,” I said.“I just want to go home, open a bottle of wine, and quiet my mind.”
“And you will ...afterwe stop at a fun little place first.”
Looking out the window, we were getting farther away from Cambria, which meant I wasn’t going home any time soon.
Another fifteen minutes, and my mother pulled to a stop, parking in front of a business called Shatterdays.
“Where are we?”I asked.
“We’re in Morro Bay, of course.”
“Yes, I know what city we’re in.What is Shatterdays?”
My mother grinned, eyes glistening as she said, “It’s a rage room, a place people go to smash the living hell out of things.You ready?”
I’d heard of places like this, where people went to vent their frustration, work through their anger, or just indulge in a bit of fun.I wasn’t sure I was up to it.Whether I was or not, there was no way she was letting me sit this one out.
We exited the car and entered the building, choosing the “Break for Two” package amongst the list of choices.It was a ten-minute experience that would allow us to smash and shatter plates, cups, wine bottles, and even picture frames.We were handed a couple of baseball bats and bags containing face shields, hard hats, jumpsuits, gloves, and boots.Then we were escorted to our own private room.
When the door closed behind us, my mother said, “Time starts now, better get smashing!”
I stood a moment, taking it all in, still feeling unsure.
“All right, then,” my mom prompted.“How about I start us out?”
Wielding the bat over her head, she walked to the other side of the room and unleashed on a series of wine bottles, sending shards and fragments everywhere.Witnessing the pure bliss she was in, I burst out laughing.
“That’s the spirit!”my mother said.“Now put some of that inner rage to the test and show me what you got.”
What started out as an activity I felt forced to participate in soon become an exercise I couldn’t wait to get in on.I took aim at a set of plates, smashing them to pieces, thinking about Tiffany and the killer, the plates representing his face.
It was like an addictive drug.
The more I smashed, the better I felt.
