by P G Loiselle
“Don, you’re absolutely right. And I always come to you when I need you, like right now for instance.”
We stared right into each other’s eyes, so close that it was almost blurry, and yet I felt totally comfortable and warmed.
“You a good man, Luke.”
“Thanks, Don. But hey, let’s talk about something serious now. How about putting in an extra-large order of the hottest wings you have. You know, the double burners.”
“Coming up, son. Coming right up.”
Friday, August 7, 1987
I wanted to pound some sense into her, figuratively. Instead, I gave in as always. How could she put me in such a predicament? Things are going to fall apart because of her, not me, and she’ll end up getting us all killed, literally.
So far, it had been a tremendous week. Don and I spent all of Sunday together, and I even let him in on our secret appearance at Rocky Point. Tuesday, during band practice, we slam-dunked the set I had orchestrated for the battle, and yesterday’s practice topped it. Above all, I slept through each night as if resting on the clouds of heaven, tranquil and deeper than a mother’s love.
When I arrived this morning, there was talk amongst the office workers that Carney was back in the office from his ten-day ‘business trip’ and that he looked to be in rough shape. All morning long, I was spared, and he never once showed up at my desk to harass me.
I set out for lunch at noon and headed to Walt’s Roast Beef for a King Deluxe to go. I wanted to get out of the office as soon as possible to avoid the boss. The plan was to eat in my cubicle in hopes that he’d stay away long enough for me to be gone before he goes on the hunt. Once back, I pulled out my stool, sat down and rolled under the desk.
‘Ouch,’ I heard. I ducked my head under the desk and saw Amy.
“You kneed me in frickin’ jaw, you twit.”
“What the…what do you think you’re doing?”
She moved in closer and put her head between my legs, right above my crotch. “I’m only in this position to talk. Don’t get any stupid ideas.”
“Stupid ideas? You being here is the stupidest idea ever. We need to get you out of here. Now.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m waiting for Carney to leave and since you blew it with the Walkman, I’ll do my own reconnaissance mission, in his office. Maybe it’ll be a three-hour lunch at the Foxy.”
“Don’t you even think…”
“Who are you talking to, Moore?” I jerked my head around. It was Carney, standing behind the cubicle wall, visible only above the neck.
“Um…nobody, sir. Just some…some gristle in my roast beef. Was cussing, you know, to myself.”
“Gristle, huh?” He rose a few inches as he outstretched his vertebrae and peeked inside. “We need to talk,” he said, “about our discussion last week.”
“Now? Can I…I mean, I’m eating lunch. Can I come after…after I’m done?”
“I’m going out for meetings. When I come back, you’re all mine whether you like it or not.” With that, he bounced off in a slow but irregular arched motion, like a warped wheel.
“Ha,” Amy said, once it was safe. “He is going to the Foxy.”
“You need to leave,” I said.
“I am…right for Carney’s office. Got your walkie talkie?”
“Why would I be dumb enough to take it with me?”
“I figured that. Keep a watch out for Carney. If he comes, dial his office number and hang up after one ring.”
“This is frickin’ insane,” I whispered. She started to crawl around my legs; I tried blocking her. “Where are you...” Before I could get out the sentence, she wormed by me and was gone.
I searched all over but didn’t dare set foot in Carney’s office. What if he caught us both in there? Harried, I bustled around the office for the next hour looking for signs of Carney’s return. When he did get back, the situation turned dire. From the east wing of the building, I spotted Stone’s car, the one that had chased me down the highway, drive into the lot and park. Him and Carney poked their heads out of the vehicle, and I bolted to my desk. Carney’s office number was on speed dial, and I gave Amy the sign, praying that she’d make it out in time. It took a while, the longest ten minutes of my life, before Carney had made it to my cubicle on his crutches. He appeared to have broken his leg and you could see a rainbow of cuts, scrapes and bruises on any patch of his skin that was exposed. Sweat flowed like estuaries out of every pore, but I concealed it well.
“Let’s go,” he said. I dropped in behind him and felt like I was walking down death row. He ordered me to open his office door, and we both entered. Stone was there, sitting in one of the chairs across from Carney’s desk. I froze, and my eyes skimmed the room; there was no sign of Amy.
“Mr. Moore, it’s been a while, thirteen days to be exact. Your lucky number?” I didn’t know how to reply and stayed mute.
“Speak,” Carney said, himself frazzled.
“Sorry…I.”
“Say something,” Carney yelled, “and go sit down.”
I edged my way towards the seat next to Stone, dragging my feet. “Yes, you won, Mr., I guess. No gigs at the Showroom, recording called off…”
While I stuttered through the response, Carney hobbled over on his crutches to sit at his desk. The swivel-chair wasn’t tucked under the desktop as usual. Before Carney could even attempt to sit, Amy, who was holed up in the desk cubbyhole leapt up and, with a burst of raw animal power, heaved the desk into the air. The mahogany workspace catapulted forward and crashed atop Stone. In turn, he fell backwards on his stool and was pinned down by the heavy piece of furniture. The swivel chair was still wedged between Amy and Carney; she rammed it into him so hard that he vaulted backwards several feet onto his ass. To finish the job, she grabbed one of his crutches and jammed it into his sternum to knock the wind out of him. All this happened within seconds, and she seemed to move in double-time, whereas our actions played out in half-time. The room was a muddled display of chaos arising from both the buckshot of flying objects along with the tumult of whirling clamor coming from us.
“Amy,” I screamed as she sprinted towards the exit. Still holding the crutch, she rammed me in the stomach. I toppled back, landed on the desk and smacked my head.
“Get off me,” Stone yelled. “And lift this thing up.” I rolled away and with all my might, helped Stone get out from under the desk and up on his feet. Within seconds, my knees weakened, and I became dizzy, so dizzy that I fell to the ground and blacked out.
As I was coming to, another, all too familiar voice could be heard within the room. I was groggy and lay still with my eyes closed.
“What do we do with the kid?”
“Leave him, Herbert,” Stone said. “She struck him hard, and he dropped like dead wood after coming to my aid. Our boy, Luke Moore, seemed as shocked to see Miss Almeida as the rest of us.”
“And Carney?”
“Leave him too. I’ll send in the fixer.”
As soon as they were gone, I escaped home. My brain felt like a drumhead worked over by Dale, and I took refuge on the couch. I must have napped for hours and the final sliver of light fading from my bay window startled me awake. At first, I was confused, wondering why I was home and had been sleeping. Until it dawned on me that Amy had pulled the stunt of all stunts and I had no idea where she was or whether she was ok. I needed to talk to her. Not trusting whether they might have bugged my house in the meantime, I escaped into the garage and parked myself in an old, fold-up garden chair that was ready for the heap. After an hour of trying to reach her on the walkie talkie, she finally buzzed me back.
“If you expect me to say sorry, I’m not.”
“What did you think would happen, Amy? You could have screwed up everything.”
“Waiting time is over. If I can’t get results out of you guys, I’
ll take it into my own hands.”
“Just calm down. Let’s think logically about this.”
“There’s no more calming, Luke. I’ve already frickin’ snapped.”
“If you want to win, you got to be smarter than them, not just more desperate. Tomorrow’s the battle at Rocky Point and after that, we’ll do what we need to do. Please, Amy. Hold on just a little longer.”
“How much longer?”
“A little. We’re not going to win anyway, so next week there will be action. I promise.”
“Not the kind of action I want. Good luck, Luke. You will win,” she said and hung up.
Battle Point
Sunday, August 9, 1987
The big day slithered upon us with an abrupt onset that felt almost unexpected. Between practices, the infinite pleasures of the daily office grind, Amy’s foolish attempt to break into Carney’s office and more shuteye than I’ve experienced in eons, there was no space left for anticipation.
The ongoing feud with the da Silva clan almost ended Friday with Amy’s near capture, which would have ended in a domino-effect of human tragedy. The only positive outcome was that Stone let me go and may have concluded that Amy’s working solo. I figured that this was the last weekend before the all-out war with our nemesis, and I better make it a good one no matter what the outcome of the battle is.
Armed with rye toast and coffee at the breakfast table, I glared out at my sun-filled backyard through the sliding glass doors, cup held steady to my bottom lip while the aroma of the steaming brew enveloped my olfactory glands. Only that present moment seemed real and an assuring sense of joy overcame me. I felt good for a change, and it didn’t seem possible for anything to go wrong on that Saturday. The skeptical side of me, however, expected the worst so as not to be disappointed.
We concocted an intricate logistical plan so we wouldn’t be deterred by anyone or anything. The equipment would be hauled up to Rocky Point Park by two of Piano Mike’s warehouse staff, who also served as our roadies and potential bodyguards. They’d collect everything from the practice space, deliver and set up as best as they could. The fine tuning would be left to us once we got there. The plan also called for the five of us to travel together to the concert location without getting spotted. It would have been unwise to openly congregate at a public pickup spot, so we gathered in secret.
The rendezvous was at the Lincoln Mall in a VW camper van that Dale borrowed from a crony in the used car racket. His Uncle Rick, Mr. Magic Car himself, agreed to be our chauffeur. We’d all drive separately to different corners of the mall parking lot at various times within the hour, take a leisurely stroll through the building and when we were sure the coast was clear, slip out of a little-known outlet at the end of a long corridor, near the public restrooms. The vehicle would be waiting close by, and once inside, we’d be concealed by the van’s tie-dyed curtains. It was tight with the five of us crammed in the back, but we had all the comforts of home: a soft bench, a kitchenette and a foldout table to sit at.
Once on the road, we blasted the stereo as loud as Uncle Rick could bear and sang our favorite rock anthems with glee during the half-hour trek. Everyone joined in; we all seemed to be on the same high. Upon arrival at the park’s artist entrance, security did a quick check before allowing us to drive up to the outdoor stage area. We were already wearing our masks, each of us the same clear plastic kind that gave your face a neutral appearance. Uniform black wigs from a local costume shop, faded blue jeans and old concert t-shirts completed the look. We were escorted directly to our own isolated backstage area to hold out until the battle began.
“Man, I’m boiling,” Dale said and ripped off the disguise as soon as the coast was clear.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to sing through this slit,” I said. “I can barely even breathe through it.”
“Same for me,” said Piano Mike. “I need to cut a bigger hole in this thing.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s wait until right before showtime.
“Check out this spread,” Tommy said.
There were all sorts of yummy appetizers, breads, cold cuts, cheeses and other goodies to munch on. There was also a cooler chockfull of cold beer, soft drinks and a half-dozen bottles of assorted wines arranged nicely on a silver tablet, garnished with fresh strawberries, mint leaves and radish roses. We dug into the food and drink right away so we wouldn’t need to perform on full stomachs. Like always, we went light on the booze, enough to get buzzed but not enough to get crocked.
Officially, it started at eight, right after sundown, with Fast.Fun! taking the stage first. Prior to countdown, there’d be a pre-bout interview with both bands. Carolyn Fox and Rudy Cheeks, the WHJY morning crew, would do the honors as Masters of Ceremony. Dale, our politician in the making would be spokesperson during the interview since my voice might give us away. Mike, Tommy and Stevie would stay out of it. After eating, we each killed time with our own individual warm-ups and pre-stage rituals until they directed us to the broadcast booth for the interview. Dale didn’t have a script; we thought he should play the cool guy and be funny, especially at Fango’s expense. Dale, as ballsy as it comes, took that as a challenge to make it personal and entertaining.
The metal booth was hardly big enough to accommodate announcers plus both groups. We crammed ourselves onto the side opposite Fast.Fun!, who were already situated. Fango stood and seemed ready for a brawl while the others sat. He looked different than during our first encounter too. He had spiky hair, tamer than his earlier manifestation, with a few thin braids weighted down by plastic beads. Painted below the corner of his right eye was a single tear of grease, and his cherry red lipstick was obnoxious. He wore a frilly white buccaneer shirt, laced across his chest and covered by a black vest adorned with Peruvian embroidery. His leather pants looked stuffed with socks and a flamboyant red, side-knotted cotton sash was wrapped around his waist.
Carolyn and Rudy sat at a table on the end across from the entrance. It was as if there was an invisible border separating us from our rivals, and no one dared cross it. As soon as everyone was situated, we were on the radio.
“Welcome back to WHJY’s live broadcast of the ultimate battle of the bands at the world-famous Rocky Point fun park. And yours truly, Carolyn Fox, along with…”
“Me, Rudy Cheeks, will be providing you with our play-by-play commentary of the clash between these two local heavyweights. But, before they jump into the ring, we’ll get a chance to hear from the bands with a little pre-match mouth-off and see who can at least talk the talk of a rock and roll champ.”
“Let me get started, Rudy, because this is a first to have a band in disguise. What’s with the getup, guys?”
“I was thinking the same thing, Carolyn. Tell us. Do you want to be the next Twisted Sister? Or do you have something else to prove?”
“Carolyn, Rudy, the proof will be in the pudding,” Dale said, oozing confidence. “You see, we don’t want our extreme good looks to sway the audience, especially compared to, what’s his name? Faggo and his garage band amateurs. Our music should do the talking. That’s what we’ll be telling our new friends from Aerosmith once we sweep this thing.”
“Did you call me Faggo? It’s Fango, jerk, and you better watch your mouth if you know what’s good for you. We’ll be the ones sweeping you, off the stage like the specks of dirt you are.”
“Now, now, Faggo. Don’t be so testy. We won’t hold it against you if you suck. The listeners are used to it.”
“You’re the ones who suck,” Fango said. “And who knows what you sissy boys suck? Probably ashamed of showing your pansy-ass selves in public. That’s why the masks.”
“Ooh,” we all hissed.
“Hey, fellas,” Carolyn said, interrupting. “Let’s keep it above the belt. It’s a G rated show, or at least PG.”
“Yeah, Faggo, don’t be a fool, keep it cool. It sounds
like you have some serious envy issues. We can’t all be big, stars that is.”
“I’ll envy you right in the face.”
“Stop the heckling, fellas, and let’s get on with the interview,” Rudy said, intervening. Considering the smirk on his face, he must have been amused. He turned back to Dale. “I’m not buying the good looks excuse from you masked men. Really, who are you? You must be local, or you wouldn’t be here. But a mystery band? In this state? Wanted men, maybe? I promise not to tell anyone,” he said almost in a whisper.
“To be blunt with you, Rudy, we want to show that even without the hype, we’ve got what it takes to win, especially being up against Fat.Dumb.”
“Now, now, mystery man, play nice.” Carolyn said, butting in and turned the attention away from Dale to try to quell the name calling. “For you guys in Fast.Fun!, what makes you think you have what it takes to win?”
“A huge fan base, more than five thousand miles of touring, and our new LP, Hole and Shovel, made it to the national alternative charts. That’s real proof.” Fango must have been waiting for that lob ball. A cocky air of delight was smeared all over his face. Yet he couldn’t let go of the spat with Dale. “What about you losers? Never heard of you, never seen you, and after we kick your asses, you wannabees can crawl back under your unknown rock.”
“Dream on, Faggo. Just because your rich daddy bought your ticket for song ninety-nine on the top one hundred, Hole and Buttocks, was it? It doesn’t mean we’re not going to waste you. I can only say, you better give it your all out there. Better yet, start handing out cash for votes. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
While Dale spoke, Fango’s head wobbled atop his neck as the rest of his body squirmed. The primped-up band leader huffed and puffed, looking ready to spit fire; Carolyn and Rudy seemed like they were doing everything possible to keep from cracking up.