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The window is open, pale curtains fluttering in the nightly breeze. Mike sits on the windowsill, looking out at nothing. A streetlamp paints a cone of light in the darkness outside, pooling yellow on the asphalt. If Mike cranes his neck just so, the lights in the distance dot a road to nowhere.
The stale air mixes lightly with each gust of wind, brushing feathers on his neck and arms. It’s warm for a spring night in Colorado.
El sleeps on one of the twin beds, her back turned, blanket over her head. When they checked into the motel, she washed first thing and went to bed, Mike having to wait next door with the others while she changed. Nobody made a comment, not even that weirdo Argyle. There was money for two rooms only, two beds per, and someone had to bunk with El and it seemed appropriate that it should be Mike. Sharing a room, boyfriend and girlfriend, soon fifteen—some kids in high school would be doing things already. But the world is in danger, and after everything on the news—earthquake, deaths— and they can’t reach Hawkins over the phone, and El hasn’t said a word since they left the pizza shop, how could Mike think of things like that, high school things?! Even the idea of El… ugh, no. Wrong. Disrespectful.
Voices and laughter seep in muted through the cardboard walls. Mike was lucky, with a bed all for himself; the other three will have to play musical chairs. Poor Will. How is he surviving a night with Jonathan and Argyle, with their stupid jokes and questionable tastes? It smells of pot all the way to here, floating in with the breeze.
Mike shuts the window.
Such a hollow night. He’s nowhere near sleepy, he can’t turn on the TV, he’s even feeling guilty for leaving the bedside lamp on. And what for? There’s nothing to read here but a damned Bible. It’s impossible to tell if El’s really sleeping, if any of the noise and lights bother her—would she say anything if they did?
Another wave of laughter shakes the walls. What is all that commotion about? What’s so funny—and how can they be laughing with everything that’s happened and everything that’s still at stake?
He pulls his Converse on, and hesitates, hand on his blue overshirt, but he leaves it on the hanger; he’ll only be a minute.
Mike knocks on number twelve.
Will opens, big red eyes, big happy grin.
“Mike! Just who I was thinking of! You’ve come to save me from these idiots!”
Behind him the room is hazy, thick with that musty earthy smell that always lingers around Argyle. The radio plays softly, a ‘60s throwback of the Beach Boys …and wouldn't it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong… The two idiots in question are sitting on the murky blue carpet in a junkyard of candy wrappers, cans, a pot kit strewn on a torn newspaper (packet of herbs, rolling papers, mysterious tiny fluorescent orange box), Argyle trying to drink a Coke from a straw in his nose, Jonathan in a mad fit of giggles.
“Yeah, no, I was just…” Mike says softly. “Aaah, would you guys please keep it down? El is trying to sleep.” He’s talking to Argyle and Jonathan, not Will—of course Will is being respectful and considerate; it’s those two, laughing and yelling and banging on the walls.
“Sorry,” Will says.
Mike shakes his head faintly, imperceptibly. Not your fault.
“Why are you keeping the door open, man?” Argyle’s nasal voice rises, Coke frothing from the straw.
“Yeah, man, you’re letting the smoke out!” Jonathan groans.
Mike steps in, shuts the door. Rash decision. Big mistake.
“Good dude!” Argyle opens his arms, welcoming. “Come, join us in the magic circle! Taste the Devil’s lettuce and let your cares melt away!”
“It’s currently more like a line…” Jonathan says, gesturing for the cigarette in Argyle’s hand.
Mike turns to Will, who has a grin plastered on his face like a Halloween pumpkin. “Did you smoke?” Mike asks. What a dumb question—obviously, he smoked.
“I mean… they were so convincing.”
“Come, come, little child!” Argyle beckons.
Mike rolls his eyes.
“I wouldn’t normally,” Will says, “but after everything that happened, I thought, you know… Hawkins is still a thousand miles away, and I’ve been going round and round in my head feeling helpless, just…”
Those big eyes boring into Mike.
“Yeah, I know.”
Just one night. Wouldn’t it be nice to let his cares melt away? To not think, just be? Let your mind and body relax…
“Fine,” Mike says, “but you guys promise to stop shrieking?”
“Swear on my honor,” Jonathan says.
“Of which you have none,” Will says.
Mike plops on the floor, back to the wall, knees up, a safe distance from the idiots but not so far as to be rude. Will sits next to Mike, leaving Argyle on Mike’s right.
Argyle produces a half-smoked cigarette out of nowhere and lights it again, inhaling deeply, exhaling into his nose in a reverse waterfall, then puffing out the smoke from his nostrils like a dragon. After this unnecessary demonstration of dutchie-blazing prowess, Argyle smacks his lips and asks, “Alright, who’s turn is it?”
Jonathan nods at Will.
Mike watches with horror as Argyle takes another huff, cups Will’s mouth with two hands and exhales in the tunnel between his palms.
“He’s a wuss,” Jonathan explains, psychotically staring at Mike, “can’t stand the burn in his throat. It goes down softer this way.”
“Yeah, I’ve been sacrificing myself with a double dose for this dude’s transcendence. Want one?” Argyle lifts his fists with meaning.
“Nooo, no.” Mike shakes his head. “I’ll just, ah, do it the normal way. Thanks.” He pulls the joint off of Argyle’s fingers. Jonathan passes Mike the ashtray—a whiskey glass with a wet piece of TP on the bottom.
“Deep inhale, try to hold it in your lungs for like five seconds,” Jonathan instructs as Mike pulls onto the cigarette, smoke scorching his throat raw; Mike winces, trying to keep it down but it’s like a cat stuck in his throat, scratching its way up, trying to escape, and he launches in a coughing fit, Jonathan and Argyle giggling, Will passing him the nearest can of Mello Yello. When he can finally breathe, Mike takes a sip, sweet citrus popping in his mouth, mixing with the sage smoke of Purple Palm Tree Delight into the weirdest flavor he’s ever tasted.
“You are now officially an adult! Congratulations!” Argyle offers a fist bump.
“That’s not how it works,” Jonathan says.
“It’s a rite of passage,” Argyle says.
Mike scowls at the fist still offered to him. “That was vile.”
“Rude, man, rude.”
Mike bumps Argyle’s fist.
The joint has somehow found his way to Jonathan; he takes an experienced inhale, semi-professional, closing his eyes in languid pleasure. When did that happen? Jonathan used to be so… mild. Three years ago, when Will disappeared, Jonathan was Mike’s age. To little Mike, the teens—Nancy, Jonathan, annoying Steve—looked so grown-up, not in a wise and adult way, but wholly in this other world of romance and drama, and trying to be cool and popular, and acting so self-assured as if the sun spun around them. Now here’s Mike, at that same age, going through the same ridiculous shit and knowing for certain that Nancy and the others had no idea what they were doing, as much as they tried to pretend otherwise.
And now Will, tiny Will, quiet and soft, has come into this almost grown-up body, better-looking than spindly Mike. More confident than try-hard Mike, still honest, still kind, still himself. What about three years from now—will he be expertly huffing doobies like Jonathan, maybe slinging beers, having girlfriends… No, not Will. He’ll focus on his art, he’ll be so good at it—he already is—gearing up for NYU, focused on his dreams.
With a sharp strum of guitar, “California Dreamin'” comes up on the radio, Argyle nodding his head, tapping hands on his knees as the joint fumes between his lips. Will hums. I’d be safe and warm, if I was in L.A.… California dreamin' on such a winter’s day…
It’s Will turn to smoke, Argyle offers the joint to Mike. “You can help out your friend, two stones with one bump.”
Heat rises up Mike’s chest, like a flustered damsel in a silent movie. “Ah, no, thanks—” Mike throws a millisecond glance at Will, who sits calmly, as if chiselled in stone “—I’ll ruin it, I mean I can barely hold my own.”
“It’s fine, I’m way too high already anyway,” Will says.
“Nah, little child. There’s no such thing as ‘too high’.” Argyle gives Will another generous shotgun.
The cigarette is in Mike’s fingers again, smoke rolling in slow whisps.
If I didn't tell her, I could leave today… California dreamin' on such a winter's day…
Mike freezes. What would El think if she saw him right now?
“What’s wrong?” Will asks.
“What if El smells this on me?”
“Oh, she should totally join us!” Argyle nods enthusiastically. “I’m sure her chakras will open to like nirvana level, and like she’ll transcend to godhood or something.”
As Argyle blabbers, Will reaches into his brother’s jacket pocket, rummages for a bit, and throws a roll of Hubba Bubba onto Mike’s lap. Something about it is just so ridiculously funny, so absurd—a bright pink Hubba Bubba hose roll—Mike snorts, then bursts into a giggle that just keeps on going and going, Argyle and Jonathan hooting and cheering, until he keels over laughing into Will’s lap and Will nudges him upright.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Mike asks, still chuckling.
“It’s chewing gum, Mike, you chew it!” Will says, his voice a bit louder than usual.
“Oh, you mean like…” Mike opens the box, takes the gum out and takes a big bite right in the middle, his teeth marks cutting a glistening crescent in the roll.
“What the hell, man, leave some for the rest of us!” Jonathan shouts.
Will chortles. “Are you crazy!”
“I guess I am,” Mike garbles, chewing cumbersomely, mouth stuffed full of strawberry. He spits the mashed ball into his palm, and extends it to Jonathan. “Here, I can share.”
“Ugh, no!” Jonathan slaps his hand away.
Argyle has been quiet, working on a piece of tinfoil; now, he poses a tiny, sloppily folded crane onto Mike’s chewed-up gumball.
The four of them burst laughing, yelling over each other, Will shushing them, Jonathan shushing louder, and all of them giggling even louder, spewing nonsense, shooting the breeze—the sloppy crane becomes Deckard’s origami unicorn, though it looks nothing like it, Argyle says the movie freaked him out, like what if we’re all cyborgs with fake memories; Or we’re living in a computer program, says Jonathan, spooky!, It depends cause Tron for example was cool, says Mike, like we could laser blast through the motel, Will says Blade Runner was better, and Mike says yeah, but in terms of cyborgs The Terminator is maybe the best cause it’s more entertaining 'cause like Blade Runner is so bleak, and Jonathan says that The Terminator is just a dumb action movie, so macho, and Mike says no, Sarah Connor is so badass, and Argyle talks about Alien and how Ripley is banging hot, and Will says he doesn’t like Alien—understandable—and on, and on, arguing (interrupted by the radio, and the Byers dropping everything to sing “Paint It, Black” word for word, drumming maniacally on the nightstand), ranking action heroes and heroines, who would beat whom in a gladiator arena but what if instead of their actual weapons they had pizza hands but what if they could choose the toppings and had little knives stuck in the pizzas or the hottest meanest chilli pepper in the world to shove the pizza-hands in the enemy’s eyes…
“Man, I’d kill for a pizza right now!” Jonathan yawns. “I could eat my foot.”
“I could eat your foot,” Argyle says.
Will scrunches his nose. “He hasn’t changed his socks since we left Lenora, are you sure you want to eat his foot?”
“Yummy blue cheese,” Argyle says.
“Ewwww!” Mike and Will say in unison.
“Go get us food, children! Here, I have coin.” Argyle empties his pockets, coins rolling on the carpet, a few dollar bills smashed in a ball, some arcade tokens, a lighter, a spinning top for some reason…
“Stop calling us children and I might go,” Mike says.
“Little hobbits.”
“Mike’s taller than you,” Will says.
“No, he isn’t. Your quest awaits!” Argyle drops the bill and what coins he could gather, into Mike’s hands. “There’s a vending machine behind the pool.”
“Come on,” Mike says to Will, “it would be nice to get some air out of this oven. Smells like cheese and farts and god-knows what else.”
“Oh, unfortunately, I know what else,” Will says glumly, and follows Mike outside.
The motel sign flickers colorful high above their heads. There’s a peculiar stillness, a calm, interrupted only by the soft chirping of crickets, and Will and Mike’s quiet footsteps. They circle the pool, lamplight glistening golden in the water. The air has cooled; Mike’s bare arms prickle with goosebumps. It doesn’t matter. It’s so nice to be comfortable with Will again, so innate and natural. Two peas in a pod, as if the last six months didn’t happen. Hell, all of last year. Mike has been a proper jerk for trying, forcefully, to grow up; because you come at an age where you can’t just have your friends sleep over every night, and you can’t keep playing with toys and starship models, and spend your days in fantasyland with Will, and you can’t be missing that more than your girlfriend—the superhero who naïvely, stupidly chose you, who sacrificed herself for you, who came back from the dead for you, only for you to so utterly fail at being a boyfriend. It’s just not normal. But right now, it doesn’t matter, because Will isn’t judging you like that. Will admitted it himself—he missed you, he wished you talked to him more. Why would it be weird? It’s friendship, true friendship, like Sam and Frodo, to the grave, and it feels so good to just let it be…
Maybe it’s the pot.
“The vending machine is there.” Will points to the corner wall: the machine hides behind a column, between the bathroom signs that say MEN and WOMEN. “I bet it’s empty, only the lamest stuff left, like Fruit Wrinkles and a pack of mints…”
“Nougat,” Mike says.
“Yeah.” Will makes a half-smile, half-grimace. “I’m so hungry…”
“Hey, remember Halloween ‘82 when Dustin ate so many 3 Musketeers he vomited in the bin in front of my house? And it was so loud and nasty that Mrs Volkwitz thought it was a bear?!” Mike chuckles.
Will laughs. “Remember when Lucas ripped his suspenders that he wore because his costume was too big, and he had to hold on to his trousers all the way home, and we kept throwing him things trying to get him to let go?!”
“Remember—” Mike chortles “—remember how your Wolverine claws got stuck so only the middle one would pop out?”
Will’s laughter rises with Mike’s, the two of them howling in the night.
“And you wouldn’t stop complaining cause you’d wanted to be Green Lantern, anyway…” Mike adds, grinning.
“Man, those were the good days,” Will says.
“The best days.” Mike smiles. It’s true—everything was simple, innocent, carefree, and all their adventures were made up, and it seemed like it would last forever.
Mike’s chest tightens for a second. The pot must be affecting him. He takes a few deep breaths.
“Are you OK?” Will says, and the worry in his eyes is irritating, almost unbearable.
“Mhm. Yeah. That Purple Delight is strong, I had, what, four or five bumps? My head is—whooo—spinning.”
“Yeah, you should have something to eat. Fresh air and food and caffeine is what Jonathan says. Not like he ever wants to go sober, though, so he’s just talking.”
“Well, it’s the freshest air we’ll find around these parts—”
“Yeah, freezing.”
“And there’s Mello Yello in the room. So all that’s left is—”
“Food.” Will grins.
The vending machine is in front of them, not quite as empty as Will imagined, chips and crackers and chocolates and, yes, mints—who’d ever want these?! Maybe someone who’s been smoking doobies behind his girlfriend’s back, while she sleeps off a telekinetic throwdown with an all-powerful mind-flaying villain who nearly killed her.
Will examines the selection, wide-eyed, jaw slack, breathing heavily. Stoned as fuck. “What shall we get? A little bit of everything?”
Mike stabs his finger on the glass. “Hey look, they have Nilla Wafers! We have to get those!” It was Will’s favourite when he was a kid.
“Since when do you like them?” Will asks, amused.
“Oh, well, I’ve always liked them. Yeah, let’s just get like one of everything.”
“All that Argyle’s money can pay for!”
“And let’s eat all of it on the way.” Mike grins, shoving coins into the machine.
“Nah, they shared the pot. Let’s leave them a chocolate or something.”
“One skittle.”
“Each.”
“OK, each.”
“Yeah, get the Reese’s,” Will says as Mike loads bags and boxes into Will’s arms, stuffs packs into Will’s jacket when his arms can’t hold any more. Will’s smile is childlike and sweet—crooked, and toothy, and pure.
Clutching their loot, they head back to the motel, walking briskly as mist rolls off the pool and draws their breath in white.
Back in the room they’re aflush with warmth, with the pungency of pot, sweat, dirty socks, a syrupy tinge from the Mello Yello and Coke cans perched open on the carpet, the nightstands, the TV. They drop the haul onto the floor, in the middle of the Magic Circle.
“Yeah, healthy food.” Argyle nods approvingly while Jonathan rips open a bag of Munchos.
Will sits cross-legged on the floor, Mike leans his back next to him against the bed, skinny legs sprawled. The Velvet Underground plays under the plastic rustle of wrappings being torn, lips smacking, chips crunching. Mike isn’t hungry. He’s oddly at ease. Will’s knee pokes into his thigh, and for once Will’s touch doesn’t burn, instead it’s a nice, necessary warmth, and if Will were to move, it would feel empty suddenly. Mike relaxes. Body and mind…
…Sunday morning, and I'm falling… I've got a feeling I don't want to know…