The Sonic Rendezvous of David Trowbridge
by Perri Pagonis

 The rich kids who attend my public high school, either for their family's political or media-profile visibility reasons, are all exactly alike. They are, down to the last of them, sadistic marshmallows with insufferable, egocentric attitudes. And sixteen year old David Trowbridge, the acknowledged leader of their non-inclusive clique, is a singular, plutocratic scumbag who considers himself, and his ilk, human demigods on some higher order of earthly existence.

His self-assurance and certainty of the Trowbridge's elevated status on the world’s stage appears to be nothing less than ironclad. Hence, his twisted personal thinking processes have transformed him, in his own mind at least, into an untouchable, mercurial entity, who is somehow above the ordinary folk who happen to inhabit the same geographic land mass as he does.

Which makes this adolescent being, in my personal rating system of the human condition, something of a wretched, solipsistic douche bag.

David's hi-tech wizard father, Dr. Alan Trowbridge, created the technology systems for the slam-bang, over-the-top, particle-beam killer-satellites during the Reagan-era Star Wars defense program; ergo he’s what my mom refers to as, "one of the big enchiladas."

Dr. Trowbridge has a forehead approximately the size of full-grown honeydew melon, and anyone who listens to the national news can tell you he is one of the most serious, top secret clearance carrying, sci-fi hombres the Department of Defense has ever had under contract. He’s probably as smart as a human being can actually get in this life, but is this man who splits neutron-irradiated protons all day in a government laboratory some kind of fleshly demigod? I suppose it is a minute possibility in the cosmic sense of things, but I don’t really think so.

The Trowbridge family is as secretive as the dog star, and appears to like things maintained that way. Each morning a chauffeured car leaves young David at the school’s entrance and remains there at the curb, waiting for him to emerge in the afternoon after the final bell has sounded. I’m not any kind of expert in labor management operations, but I’m forced to believe that that kind of service is hard to find these days at any price, no matter who you might happen to be in the global brouhaha.

David, although he is undeservedly over-recognized and overcome with himself, has the ability to act like a reasonably normal person some of the time; or as normal as a teenage multimillionaire who attends an American public school can be, anyway. He completes his homework, or has it done for him by his dad's minions, and turns in classroom assignments on a regular basis. He tends to be overly polite to the faculty and staff, but is practically invisible in the cafeteria or on school grounds, only associating with his selected coterie of hand-picked buds during class free time.

His sole physiological flaw, and it is a big flaw indeed, is a speech impediment that makes him seem something like an escaped mental patient to the average viewer. He begins each sentence that he speaks with an ultrasonically high-pitched 'eeeeh' sound, that occasionally reminds the disconcerted listener of a shrieking, maniacally over-pressured steam whistle being blown by an industrial air compressor. I feel confident in reporting to you that a more eardrum drilling, nerve-grating sound has never been heard by human ears.

David’s seventeenth birthday is coming up soon and he’s announced to his people that he is having a gathering at his home to celebrate the occasion. This upcoming event has been the favorite topic of discussion for the nouveau riche kiddies during school lunch periods for the bulk of the week, and has reached a fever pitch of excitement among their exclusive ranks.

The social climber girls in our class are flirting with David like genetically defective farm animals for his attentions, in hopes of gleaning an invitation to the party. However, I’ve heard from my friend Syd, that he’s extremely selective about who comes to the yearly affair, and sometimes only invites a single guest to come to his home.

A couple of days ago, while I was attempting to do some free throws on the basketball court, David walked up behind me and placed his hand solidly on my shoulder. I was mentally unprepared for his sudden touch, and my shot sailed over the net’s backboard and accidentally bombed some unsuspecting junior varsity drill team girls who were playing with their school emblem semaphore flags and multicolored pompoms.

He looked squarely at me, and held my gaze in a firm but cordial manner. His countenance seemed inquisitive but sincere. We’d only talked to each other one time before, something about trading unwanted sandwiches at lunch time, and the situation was becoming a tad uncomfortable; especially for me. The whole personal interaction-thing had a bad vibe to it, and a feeling of dark anxiety seemed to cloud the conversational proceedings.

He inhaled loudly, and began trying to tell me something of interest, but the unfortunate, ear-splitting tone emanated from his mouth like a fuel-injected flute note and made us both jump from fear. It was an unnerving experience; a scene practically on the red-line level of situational bizarreness. He seemed terribly embarrassed by his inability to control the wild fluctuations of his voice, and crimsoned in personal chagrin from the aggravating outburst from his larynx. Afterwards he gained a bit of control over his vocal apparatus and creaked to me, "come to my party, 2 o’clock Saturday, please. I’ll send a driver to pick you up, thanks so much. You’re a friend."

Genuine shock and surprise from his humble invitation to visit his domicile hit me in the face like a wave of ice water. Then, after a moment of recovery, a sense of absolute curiosity came over me.

Why would he want me, a complete nobody, to come to his palatial home?

I could not imagine why he didn't ask some of the red hot uber-babes or steamy cheerleaders to attend this function. They were always on the verge of tearing the clothes off his body, just to get him to smile their way. My fascination grew with each passing hour that afternoon, and before classes were dismissed that day, I stopped him in the hallway, and told him I’d be pleased to be his companion on Saturday for the celebration.

The remainder of the week went by as if it were being played on the slow-motion setting of an antique video-tape player. My formerly unknown name had been instantly picked-up by the school’s upper crust grapevine, and an instant celebrity status had been bestowed upon me for being chosen to attend David’s fete. All the A-team clique members imparted to me that they wanted to have detailed reports of the inside of his home, personal habits, private interests and other accounts of his lifestyle.

I ignored all of their requests like a societal fugitive, and was branded as a stuck-up, non-compliant outsider by the elitist, teen dirtbags. Which, in the larger sense, made me feel like the happiest little party-crasher in the whole U.S.A. I could never in a million years be part of their privileged ranks because of my modest economic situation and immigrant family background. However, I could withhold the delicious information that they so desperately desired, making me a power broker of the first water, with discretionary powers over the dissemination of intelligence data that they could never access themselves. It was a great feeling to experience. There could be no doubt about it.

On that momentous Saturday, the anniversary of the birth date of David Trowbridge, a private, unmarked ambulance arrived outside my house at exactly 2pm. The first thing I saw upon climbing into the ride was a dirty, homeless man strapped to the vehicle’s interior gurney. He was completely unconscious, and his skin was the same bloodless hue as a sheet of notebook paper. As I tried to exit the vehicle, the door was slammed shut by the orderly, and the machine took off like a shot.

The long coach’s tires squealed and smoked like demented nightmare machinery as we fishtailed away from the curb and onto the public streets.

The enormous attendant with a face like a hog held me with manacle-like strength with one hand, and informed me to keep quiet, or I’d need to be "put to sleep for a while," like my companion on the gurney. With his other hand, he discreetly pointed to the man on the stretcher with a large hypodermic syringe- loaded, undoubtedly, with high grade sodium pentothal or some other powerful barbiturate. I immediately complied to his request out of sheer panic, fear and bewilderment, as anyone else in my position would have done.

In short order we were at the Trowbridge’s voluptuous home and taken to the rear entrance of the estate; the attendant and driver swept me and the poor hobo into its basement like trained SS operatives and slammed the rear door behind us as we were whisked through a series of long, poorly lit halls and connecting rooms.

When we arrived at the final destination, David Trowbridge, the birthday boy himself, was there and waiting for us in the room. He was strapped by the legs, arms and forehead to a stainless steel hospital table, with a look of wanton, lustful anticipation pasted on his face. A fistful of colored wires protruded from a wide gash in his throat. The cables were connected to what looked like an endless series of flashing diodes and radio wave modulation components which were meticulously placed on a second metal cot.

The unfortunate man who was with me in the ambulance was rushed to an adjoining bunk and crude, surgical preparations were made on him for the upcoming procedure. After some few minutes, Dr. Alan Trowbridge, the singular engineering-genius of the satellite-age, swept into the room like a modern-day Viktor Frankenstein. He quickly moved up to an instrument cluster of active controls, threw a console switch, and untold amounts of amperage, wattage, ohms and perfectly directed electricity ripped through the electronic viscera of the baroque-looking apparatus and into the bound man’s body. The overhead lights of the place fluttered madly, and several of the long, fluorescent bulbs burst into jagged fragments from the force of the massive, galvanic charge running through them.

I cried out in clean terror as the destitute man’s eyes peeled wide open. He began to squeal uncontrollably, like an unsuspecting, electrified animal as the medieval-looking, unspeakable operation took place. The hot wires which had been planted in the side of his neck flopped about like agitated diamondback snakes; thick, gray smoke and the smell of burned hair, flesh and skin permeated the air of the enclosed place. After several agonizing moments of the appalling deed, the patient was disconnected from the infernal device, rushed out from the confines of the room, and taken to another location within their grandiose home.

After roughly one hour, David Trowbridge was awake and speaking to me without any noticeable difficulty. The high-pitched screeches that had once plagued his introductory conversational words had vanished completely. He seemed relaxed and affable, despite the horrific events which had taken place only a short time before. I asked him, while trying to suppress my remaining panic, why I’d been invited to view this incredible horror show in the first place.

My host casually rejoined by saying, "my dad thinks it’s always a good idea to have a back-up receiver for my annual voice-modification procedure. Sometimes things, go…well, a bit off track. For instance, that guy’s head could have detonated into goulash from all that unregulated current going through it. It’s only happened once before though, so the risk to me was minimal. Ergo my friend, we might have needed you for… how shall we say it, replacement parts. But only if things had gotten, you know, out of hand. However, everything’s cool now. No problem whatsoever. So, let’s put all this business aside and have some cake and ice cream. It’s still my birthday party, you know."

©2003 Perri Pagonis

Perri Pagonis is the author of two previous pulp-culture novels set in the Northern Virginia Area. Blood and Popcorn, which is a literary tour de force portrait of 1980s mallrat life, and the infamous Raw Power, a novel literally bursting with hormones; femme fatales; large caliber weapons; moonshine; jaw-busting bad guys, and three very evil re-animated pit-bull terriers. He has worked as a day laborer; secretary; cashier; part-time college lecturer; retail book shelver; record store stooge; temporary office clerk; summer school writing instructor and telephone sales solicitor. He earned his M.A. in Literature from George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia in 1994, and now lives in Athens, Greece, where he tries to forget his former occupations. Please feel free to drop him a note with questions, comments or just to say "hi"- E-mail: iwasateenagewerewolf@yahoo.com