Every Song's About Death
Page 2
rich Polish guy invites the entire bar onto his yacht that’s taking up an awful lot of river less than a mile away. On the way out the door, Benny sees Frank standing across the street looking like the well-dressed homeless girl she is. As the bar surges past him into their taxis and tiny cars, he grins and shrugs her over. A limo slides up beside him with the Lithuanian twins calling his name and he opens a door for Frank and she runs across the street and dives into the car.
“Who is she, Burnhard?”
“My boss.”
“Shut the fog op!”
“Do you like Burnhard’s songs?” The Lithuanian cocks her blond Elke Summer head to one side with her lips strangled into a what-the-fuck glyph.
“He’s fucking amazing.”
“Yes. He is focking amazing.” The twins and their host all start singing “Take the Long Way Home.” Frank and Benny’s voices are loud and crackling with joy.
The yacht is a big let down. The harbor cops are all over it so Benny and Frank and the twins walk away from the whole thing. The Twins are tired. They go back to the bus. Frank stands there with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her brandless hoody. They lean over the stone wall of a bridge looking down into the slate grey water. It’s cold as all get out but they don’t care.
“I didn’t call Syd on you.”
“Who the fuck did?”
“Zilch.”
“Aptly named.”
“I hate our music.”
“Me too.”
“Every song is about death. In that bar tonight, you sang all these songs about life—for free.”
“Hoover Factory is really about the Hoover Factory so that one might not count.”
“Moi-St writes songs based on the colors of a corpse.”
“She’s a fucking graver, whattaya expect?”
“I just didn’t know—I didn’t know we’d be a brand.”
“Yup.”
“You don’t even argue about it.”
“Don’t need to. You are a brand. But shit, so was Led Zeppelin and David Bowie and Elvis the C—all brands. Doesn’t mean dick.”
“Moi-St says a song has to conform to a grid pattern of--.”
“Jesus fuck. Trying to explain music is like trying to feed yourself by spelling food.”
She cracks up. They walk down the road by the river. They talk about Europe, how old the houses are. They find a bar miraculously open. They drink port and eat cheese and Benny scores some weed so she gets high for the first time. They end up on a couch in a bar called Alexandria. He falls asleep with his drink halfway to his mouth. She stares at his face, drunk, high, zooming on the physical cool of hanging out with the living. She touches his face and he wakes up, slips his arm around the small of her back and pulls her up off the couch into a kiss so fresh and sincere she forgets to breathe. They race back to toward the hotel trailing laughter and cannabis behind them, stop in an alley to catch their breath. The bakeries and the garbage men are their only audience.
“I should be upset because you make me think my band is full of shit.”
“Your band is full of shit.”
“And you got me high.”
“Distinctly not guilty. You got you high.”
“And I think we’re gonna.”
“Really?”
She balls his shirt in her tiny fist.
“Really.”
“Then we should definitely get back to the hotel while we’re stoned and not responsible for our actions.”
Her grin is lascivious, solicitous. A voice from the end of the alley calls after them in the international font for shut up. Benny tells them to grow up, they walk around the corner when a pipe slams into Benny’s leg. A couple of Polish guys are walking up fast.
“Hey, dude, we don’t need any trouble.”
“Zrobił wy mówicie mnie zamykać?”
“What?”
“To jest trzema w ranie, idiota!”
Benny looks down at Frank.
“Fuck—I think--”
She doesn’t listen to him. She picks up the pipe and as soon as the first guy is close she lays it into his face. He hits the ground like a sack of hammers. The other guy pulls a glock out of his coat and shoots her in the eye, blows the back of her head all over Benny’s jacket. The Polish guy shoots Benny in the leg and runs off. Benny screams, hits the cobbles, scrambles backward into a garbage can. He stares at Frank, head flattened like a rotten cantaloupe in the street: all the way from Knoxville, Tennessee for this shit. A door opens up down the alleyway and light cuts into the scene like a knife. Benny looks up, starts to say “Dude”, but his heart explodes.
–30–
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About the Author
Bull Garlington is an author and syndicated humor columnist whose work appears in various literary magazines, including Slab, Bathhouse, and the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. He was the humor columnist for Chicago Parenting, New York Parenting, Michiana Parent, Tulsa Parent, Birmingham Parent, and Carolina Parent. He is co-author of the popular foodie compendium, The Beat Cop’s Guide to Chicago Eats. Garlington’s features have appeared in newspapers and magazines across the nation since 1989; he won the Parenting Media Association’s Silver Award for best humor article in 2012. His book, Death by Children, was a 2013 book of the year finalist for the Midwest Publishers Association, and was named 2013 Humor Book of the Year by the prestigious Industry standard, ForeWord Reviews.
Other books and stories by this author
Bullfighter
Largemouth Bass
Many Boats on the Night Ocean
Reliquary
Gone
Jenny’s Parents Are Cool
Out
Birdhouse
Lucky Jim
Chaste
The Beat Cop’s Guide to Chicago Eats (with Sgt. David Haynes)
Death by Children–I Had Kids so You Don’t Have To!
Connect with Bull Garlington
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