by R. D. Tarver
DEEP WELL DOOM
1
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months as Hell Patrol adhered to a rigorous practice schedule. They were beginning to hold their own, and even won a small cash prize at the Macomb Springs High battle of the bands. Once they stepped foot on that first stage, there was no going back.
Jesse was all in.
They used the prize money to start a fund for new equipment to continue their momentum towards bigger stages and, more importantly, bigger crowds.
Jesse’s parents had renovated enough of the old ranch house to allow the Lynn family to move out from the trailer. The empty double-wide provided a dedicated practice space that allowed the band unfettered access to hone their chops. The occasion also presented the opportunity for Jesse to have his own bedroom, which subsequently allowed he and Mal to spend more time together.
In support of their collective musical aspirations, Rust dropped out of school to “Focus on the important things.”
All the stars within Jesse’s universe were caught in Hell Patrol’s gravitation pull.
Even family.
In a rare break from his hermitage, Rick ventured out from behind his books and lps to lend his industry experience, artistic skills, and encyclopedic knowledge of all things heavy metal to the effort. A vast repository of pop culture accumulated through years of solitude and escapism, Rick’s mind was put towards the task of furthering the band’s creative development, to which they responded by promoting him to manager.
“I’ll give you six months of my life to make something happen,” Rick had said. “Try not to blow it.”
Finally, in an unforeseen development to further the cause, Alex had somehow managed to convince his parents to decommission one of the old, beat-up Ford economy vans from their church fleet.
The band had its first set of wheels.
The name Vanzig surfaced accidentally during a heated argument between Rust and Rick, who were debating the artistic merits of Danzig (solo) versus the Misfits. Rust’s slip of the tongue stuck, and a compromise was reached, allowing him to fashion a devil lock from a horsetail wig that dangled from the loudspeaker over the windshield—much to Rick’s chagrin.
Overall, the band seemed to be more excited about the functional loudspeaker mounted to the roof of the vehicle than its ability to transport gear.
Armed with space, artistic direction, and the means to travel, the Hell Patrol rock ’n’ roll, ride-or-die, heavy metal machine was lurching into motion.
Encouraged by Rick’s newfound lust for life, Jesse’s parents pitched in by installing a wheelchair lift on the van so that Hell Patrol’s manager could attend the handful of small community-driven shows the band had managed to generate.
These early performances were mostly relegated to talent shows, diy gigs at the local American Legion Hall, and even a failed one-off church-sponsored fundraiser at the Macomb Springs community theatre, hooked up by Alex’s parents, where Rust had bitten the head off a fake rubber bat.
After having the plug pulled on them at the community theatre, the band vowed to focus their efforts on playing to the right crowd, particularly one that could appreciate an homage to the Prince of Darkness himself.
2
Rick had booked the band at The Deep Well—a local country-and-western dive that had recently put out an ad in the local paper calling for “fresh live talent.”
As they finished loading up Vanzig, Rick was giving the group a pep talk to prepare them for their first true live experience—one in which alcohol would be served to people of legal drinking age.
“Don’t be put off by the vibe of this place. I’ve made some calls and mailed out some flyers to some of my old street crew to spread the word among our own kind.” He folded his hands underneath his chin and bowed his head, almost regally. “Rest assured, Rick the Prick is on the job.”
“What if they check our ids?” asked Jesse.
Rick reached into his chair caddy and produced four envelopes that he distributed to each member of the band. “If anyone asks, you are twenty-one. If they ask a second time, I’ve taken the liberty of forging notes from your parents, granting each of you permission to play as minors.”
“Deception is the most formidable weapon in the rogue’s arsenal,” Mazes said, looking over his shoulder as he slid the forgery into his tunic.
Rick lined up his chair with the side-door lift. “I’ll take care of the venue management, you guys just focus on destroying the stage.”
“I’m ready to rock,” Rust announced. “Let’s go.” He jogged in place and slapped himself in the face a couple of times.
Rick turned over his shoulder towards the group. “One more thing…do not, under any circumstances, actually destroy the stage. We don’t have the budget for any Ritchie Blackmore antics.”
3
Still a ways off from racking up the requisite funding for new gear, Hell Patrol embarked on the pre-show ritual of stopping off at the local RadioShack in order to keep their rag-tag backline of second-hand amplifiers limping along.
Vanzig thundered down the narrow one-way streets of the Old Downtown retail hub, music blaring out its open windows.
Rust promoted the show to many an innocent bystander over the loudspeaker as they headed towards the Plaza on Main, a recently developed strip mall near the North End sprawl. For Jesse, the Plaza consisted of only two shops: RadioShack and Camelot Music. The rest of the businesses within the Plaza could have sold gold-plated dog shit as far as he was concerned.
On the opposite end of the parking lot, the bloated Macomb Springs Church of Christ blotted out the setting sun, casting a gaudy shadow over the newly constructed retail utopia.
“Back in five,” Jesse said as he jumped out of the van. Given his proclivity for electronics, Jesse was nominated to run into the store with a short list of audio components that would imbue their sonic implements with the spark of the divine.
Upon entering the shop, Jesse recognized the familiar visage of Mr. Agostino, who stood waiting at the counter in the otherwise empty store. The hirsute guidance counselor gave a nod of recognition as Jesse made his way to the component aisle in search of precious amp-prolonging technology.
Jesse marveled at the long rectangular cabinets, each filled with all manner of noble metals arranged according to their alchemical significance in one of the finest exhibitions of order he had observed within his seemingly random universe. He pulled out his shopping list and began grabbing slow-blow fuses and vacuum tubes from the roll-out drawer cabinets.
An unfamiliar voice called out to the guidance counselor from the back stockroom. Jesse craned his neck to watch as the clerk wrangled a stack of boxes from a pallet.
“I took the liberty of springing for the Russian-made seismographs. I figured you wanted the best, and they invented the damned things.” The clerk chuckled to himself as he continued unpacking the boxes. “The old man is going to blow a gasket when he gets the bill.”
“Thank you,” Agostino said. “I appreciate you going the extra mile.” He nodded again to Jesse and offered a polite smile.
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s gonna be your head when they tally up the equipment expenses for this op—not that we had much of a choice. You and I both know that hq would still be waiting on the approval routing from the one defense contractor that will still return our calls.”
Agostino laid down a crisp stack of bills on the counter. “I’m sure your supervisor will not mind the extra business.” Agostino waved Jesse over. “Please apply the young man’s purchase to my bill as well.”
The clerk emerged from the storeroom and hoisted down the pile of boxes on the counter with a hefty thud. He eyed Jesse warily as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you find something?”
Jesse tried to avoid staring at the deep scar that ran down the right side of the clerk’s face. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, maybe older—far too
old to be sporting the dense bowl cut that rested above his ears. His muscular frame was barely contained by the comically undersized RadioShack t-shirt. The clerk’s nametag simply read customer service rep.
“Is Danny off today?” Jesse couldn’t recall the last time he had not seen the gangly teen behind the counter.
“Danny?” asked the clerk. He exchanged a puzzled look with Agostino. “Oh, you must be referring to another employee of this establishment.” The clerk’s mouth produced a smile that his eyes audited. “He was transferred to another one of our fine locations, elsewhere.”
Jesse eyed the tower of parcels that lined the countertop. “You building a radio tower or something?”
“Something like that,” Agostino said. He looked at the components Jesse had selected. “If I didn’t know better, it would appear that you are beset to embark on some sort of sonic adventure, yourself.”
“We’re about to play a show at some country-and-western dive downtown.” Jesse rattled a bag of fuses. “Our guitar player’s amp blows a fuse if we play for more than five minutes.”
“In that case, best of luck.”
Jesse held the door as Agostino carried out the stack of boxes.
Rust called out over Vanzig’s loudspeaker as they exited the RadioShack. “Attention Macomb Spring High students! Would Jesse Lynn please report to detention after final period? It has come to our attention that Mr. Lynn is unable to refrain from touchin’ himself and must be placed under observation for further study.”
The van shook with laughter.
Jesse felt his face turn red. “Just ignore those jerks.”
He helped Agostino load up the parcels into a souped up Ford Bronco outfitted for off-roading. Jesse noted the array of loudspeakers and high-wattage lighting that lined the roof of the vehicle.
“What time is your set?”
“I think we go on around nine p.m.”
“Very good. I wish you the best of luck.”
“Thanks again for the parts. See you around, I guess?”
“Absolutely.”
Rust threw his cigarette butt into the parking lot and banged on the roof of the van from his perch on the passenger door.
“Whenever you ladies are done, we have a show to play,” he said.
Agostino smiled at Rust.
“Anything I can help you with, professor?” asked Rust.
“Just guidance counselor will suffice.” Agostino smiled. “And I could not help but notice the Baphomet-inspired logo on your t-shirt.”
Rust pulled down his shirt to inspect the logo. “It’s a band, dude. They’re called Venom—not that you would understand.”
Agostino reached into his tweed jacket to retrieve a handkerchief. “And what, pray tell, is your favorite Venom album?” He cleaned his glasses without looking up.
Rust shrugged. “I like ’em all, man. What do you —”
“Personally, I do not like to pick favorites either, but I believe their most important album was Welcome to Hell, due primarily to its influence on early metal subgenres.” The guidance counselor donned his spectacles as he continued. “You will no doubt agree that Venom was very influential to the American thrash scene, particularly the Big Four—Metallica, Anthrax, Megadeth, and Slayer—but it is also often cited as a progenitor of underground subgenres such as black metal and death metal.”
Alex’s jaw hung open as Rust slid back into his seat. A bout of laughter exploded from all Hell Patrol members except Rust.
“Fuckin’ squares,” Rust mumbled.
4
Hell Patrol arrived at the venue an hour before showtime, per Rick’s instructions, and began to unload their gear.
The Deep Well was located at the south end of the Old Downtown strip, surrounded by an interconnected row of tightly grouped businesses. Each were uniformly red brick and connected by turn-of-the- century, Old West inspired façades that lined both sides of the one-way street.
A simple neon sign flickered above the front door of the venue, illuminating only the first three letters of the word beer.
An intrusive wash of sunlight preceded the group as they entered the dark space.
Inside, a small triangular-shaped stage was wedged into the back corner of the bar near the restrooms. A shuffleboard and pool table stood opposite the stage separated by a raised dance floor that peeked out from the surrounding polished concrete. The room smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke, which hung in patches of thick, blue-grey clouds beneath the low-hanging light fixtures.
Rick wheeled up to the bar. After what appeared to be a heated negotiation with the manager—a thick-necked hoss sporting a handlebar mustache and a felt black Vietnam-veteran cowboy hat—Rick returned to the group and motioned for them to follow him back outside.
“What’s going on?” asked Jesse.
“Yeah, what gives?” asked Rust. “We loadin’ into this dump or what?”
“Okay, couple things. First off, I think the outfits gave us away.”
The group looked each other over in the denim and studded leather battle vests that Rick had designed.
“Yosemite ’Nam in there wasn’t too thrilled to learn that we were the band that responded to his ad in the paper.”
“I thought we were already booked?” asked Alex.
Rick nodded. “Despite the fact that he referred to the band as ‘long-haired faggots,’ I managed to talk us into playing a half-hour set for fifty bucks.”
“We get fifty bucks for just doin’ a half hour?” Rust asked. “Right on.”
“And that brings me to the next item of business,” Rick said. “We have to pay fifty dollars in order to play on his stage for half an hour.”
An audible sigh was collectively uttered by the band.
“I know it’s not ideal, but that’s the best I could do under the circumstances.” Rick peered over his glasses. “Also, they double-booked the show tonight, but have agreed to let us open for the headliner before the regulars show up.”
Rust kicked an empty beer can against the side of the building. “Fuck this. We don’t have fifty dollars to waste on these hick assholes.”
“Look. I don’t like this pay-to-play bullshit any more than you guys, but this is how all the greats started out.” Rick pulled out a handful of quarters and a black, spiral-bound phone book from his chair caddy. “Only truly great art comes from suffering. You guys set up. I’ve got some calls to make.”
“Fuck it. Let’s do this,” said Jesse.
“He’s right. We gotta start somewhere,” added Alex.
Rust looked up at the flickering neon sign. “I guess it beats playin’ during the intermission of Our Town.”
“For glory,” Mazes said.
5
As the band finished setting up on the cramped stage, Yosemite ’Nam approached the band stroking his long, handlebar mustache between a pair of yellow-tinged fingers.
“All right boys, I guess we’re gonna do this.” He pulled out a tactical flashlight from his belt. “When I shine this light, that means you’re bein’ too loud. If you’re too loud, that’s gonna run off my customers. If you run off my customers, that’s game over, and you critters vamoose off my stage and crawl back under whatever godforsaken rock you crawled out of, comprendo?”
Hell Patrol nodded in unison.
“All right then. When that clock strikes Coors Light, you start your set.” He pointed to the neon wall clock that featured an array of beer brands denoting each hour. “When it hits Coors Light-thirty, get your asses off my stage.” He sauntered back behind the bar and opened a beer for himself and a squat man in overalls who sat propped up on a barstool.
“Who’s got the setlists?” asked Jesse.
“Right here.” Rick wheeled up and handed out four copies of the setlist from his chair caddy. “All right, we got twenty minutes until show time. Guitar, bass, make sure you guys are warmed up. Rust, how are the pipes? Feeling good? Did you do your warm-up exercises?”
“
I’d feel better if I didn’t think I was about to get my ass kicked by everyone in the fuckin’ bar,” Rust replied.
Rick gave a thumbs up. “That’s good, use that nervous energy. Make it work to your advantage.” He pointed towards the entrance. “I’ll be over at the merch booth if you guys need anything.”
“We have merch?” asked Alex.
Rick shook his head. “No, but if anyone asks we tell them we already sold out—creates cachet.”
Jesse hopped off the stage and followed his brother over to the empty merch table. He looked over his shoulder to make sure his bandmates were out of earshot.