Goths Anonymous

October opens its doors at precisely midnight.

Down a hallway lined with cobwebs, past a skeleton wearing a name tag, twelve former goth kids sit in a circle of folding chairs.

Dead leaves gather in the corners. A cold draft slips beneath the door. Somewhere, a clock has stopped ticking.

The coffee is black. The curtains are black. The dress code is business casual.

“Welcome back, everyone. Remember, this is a safe space.”

A woman in khakis stands.

“My name is Jennifer, and I’ve been goth-free for twelve years.”

“Hi, Jennifer.”

“I have two children, a minivan, and a successful career in accounting.”

Polite applause.

“Last week, I bought a cardigan.”

Enthusiastic applause.

“It was black.”

Disappointed silence.

Next comes Dave.

“I haven’t worn eyeliner since 2006. I mow my lawn every Sunday. I even joined the PTA.”

“That’s wonderful, Dave.”

“But yesterday, I heard Bela Lugosi’s Dead at the grocery store.”

“And?”

“I abandoned my cart and started dancing in the produce aisle.”

Someone whispers, “Was it the full nine minutes?”

Dave nods.

“Pulled something in my hip, too.”

A woman in the corner raises her hand.

“My daughter found my old photographs. She asked if I was in a cult.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That it was a phase.”

The group gasps.

“I KNOW.”

A man in orthopedic shoes leans forward.

“I wore fishnets last Tuesday.”

“That’s okay, Richard. We all have setbacks.”

“Under my compression socks.”

Someone pats his shoulder.

The woman beside him sighs.

“I went to a funeral last week.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Overdressed.”

Nobody asks for clarification.

Jennifer raises her hand again.

“I bought a pumpkin spice latte.”

The group applauds.

“That’s wonderful! Embracing seasonal traditions is a healthy step forward.”

“I only bought it because the barista said it tasted like autumn.”

“And?”

“I thought she meant death.”

The meeting leader checks her watch.

“Well, that’s all the time we have. Remember, October is a difficult place for people like us.

The whole world starts wearing black, decorating with skulls, and celebrating the things we spent years pretending we’d outgrown.”

She closes her notebook.

“Any final thoughts?”

Dave raises his hand.

“Does anyone know if Hot Topic still exists?”

A dozen heads turn.

Nobody speaks.

Finally, Richard whispers,

“There’s one at the mall.”

A pause.

“Next to the orthopedic shoe store.”

Then a scream comes from the hallway.

“They’ve put up the Christmas decorations!”

Someone looks at the calendar.

“It’s October third.”

Chairs overturn.

Coffee spills.

Someone hisses.

Jennifer tears off her cardigan.

Underneath is a faded Siouxsie shirt.

Dave produces eyeliner from his orthopedic shoe.

The leader removes her glasses, lets down her hair, and reveals a faded Joy Division tattoo.

“Fuck it.”

She turns off the fluorescent lights.

Outside, the leaves are dying.

Inside, nobody is.

Meetings resume November first.