Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

  “Ro and I swam with sea horses last week.”

  “Where?”

  “The Great Barrier Reef.”

  “These are real sea horses, though.”

  “They look exactly the same. I see them through glass here”—she shakes her iPad—“and we’ll see them through glass at the aquarium.”

  “That’s completely different, Margot.”

  “It is and it isn’t.”

  “Real sea horses will be in real aquariums.”

  “My real phone contains real images of real sea horses really swimming. It’s six of one, half dozen of the other.”

  Bob turns his attention to his youngest, asking, “Buddy? Aquarium tomorrow?”

  Brent furrows. There’s brown fro-yo smudged on his cheek. He says, “Only if I get past level seven before then.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Text,” he says.

  “I’ll text.”

  Bob walks back out of his light gray house. He notices the front lawn is getting a little shaggy—better get the gardener in line or the HOA will no doubt pelt him with belligerent emails. They pounced quickly when Coffen hung that bird-feeder a few months back without proper consent. How might his neighbors feel about the decorative contraption? wondered a passive-aggressive note sent from the HOA’s commander-in-chief. What if everybody wanted to hang an unapproved birdfeeder out in front of their homes? Should such a slippery-sloped precedent be employed? One day, it might simply be birdfeeders, but what eyesores lurked around the corner? Pornographic statues? Could such a gamble possibly benefit the subdivision’s greater good? A zero-tolerance policy had to be maintained.

  A meteorologist might call the conditions getting windier.

  Coffen’s phone rings. The caller ID does not identify anyone he knows. Normally, he doesn’t answer these mysterious numbers because rarely are they anything but veiled hassles, but he needs a friend—even a pesky solicitor, or a receptionist reminding him of an impending appointment, or a local delegate hoping to win his vote, whatever. He picks up on the second ring and says, “Bob is me?” not intending for it to sound like a question, but it does.

  “What are you doing?” says some guy.

  “Who is this?”

  “This is a handsome member of the clean team.”

  “Ace? How’d you get this number?”

  “You people have to remember that the clean team has access to everything. We don’t only dump the trash. We have keys, alarm codes. We can get into every cranny. We know where you bozos hide your passwords and who has the best snacks tucked in desk drawers.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m gonna go back to the office to hang out before the big gig,” Ace says, “if you want to meet me there.”

  “Okay,” Coffen says, excited to spend some time away from Schumann.

  “If you’re still feeling the effects of the rum, drive slow,” he says. “Drunk drivers usually get popped for speeding.”

  “I’m not drunk driving.”

  “Exactly. No way would you. Remember to go slow. Before Acey settled down and joined the clean team, he might have wriggled on the wrong side of the law occasionally.”

  “Your glory days.”

  “Boy, were they.”

  “Right now my life feels like the opposite of glory days.”

  “We’ll see what some rock and roll has to say about that later tonight,” says Ace.

  Bob has Schumann swing them by Taco Shed for an afternoon Mexican lasagna. They pull into the drive-through and Coffen almost tells him about Tilda’s shady business venture, but he decides to keep her secret safe. She seems like a good person, and Bob wants her to make all the extra money she needs.

  He does not, however, expect Tilda to be working the day shift, but he recognizes her voice right off. Apparently, one of the other workers is on maternity leave and the extra shifts have been disseminated amongst the remaining Shedheads.

  “Hi, Tilda, it’s Bob Coffen,” he says from the passenger seat.

  “Bob who?”

  “Last night. With Otis.”

  “It’s not ringing a bell.”

  “The cop.”

  “Still no.”

  “The capitán of Mexican lasagnas.”

  “Ah, yes,” she says. “How many would you like?”

  “Three.” Coffen feels the urge to talk to her alone. He wants a couple minutes without Schumann here to chat. Bob truly enjoyed their time together last night, chomping Mexican lasagnas in the parking lot. He whispers to Schumann, “Give me a minute.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “Hark the herald angel likes to watch TV in his birthday suit,” Schumann says, smiling, parroting the magic words to get into Tilda’s erotic speakeasy.

  “Who’s that?” Tilda asks.

  “It’s Schumann.”

  “Howdy, big fella,” she says.

  “You guys know each other?” Bob says.

  Schumann only shrugs. Tilda says, “Don’t be a prude, capitán.”

  “Can I talk to Tilda privately, Schumann?” Bob says. “Will you give me a minute?”

  “Teammates can say anything in front of each other,” Schumann says.

  “Now, Schu, play nice. Give me and Bob a moment alone,” Tilda says through the intercom.

  Schumann makes a face like this is truly an inconvenience for him, but quickly exits the driver’s seat in a huff, slamming the door. Bob crawls over the center console.

  “You okay?” Tilda asks.

  “Never better,” he says. “Except that’s a lie.”

  “I’ve been better, too. Found out one of my exes is getting lethally injected soon. Turns out he’s a serial killer.”

  Nothing from Coffen.

  “Did you hear me?” Tilda asks.

  “Why did you sleep with a serial killer?”

  “It was an accident,” she says. “He wasn’t wearing any kind of identifying badge.”

  “Cops and monsters.”

  “Now you’re catching on. Plus, he wrote poetry.”

  “What were they about?” Coffen asks.

  “Mostly they were whiny anecdotes about how he needed more love in his life. He had a crappy father.”

  “Me, too,” Bob says.

  “Me, too,” says Tilda. “The Mexican lasagnas are ready. Please pull up to the window.”

  “Before I pull up, can I ask you something?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Do you ever want to get out of your box?”

  “What box?”

  “The box you’re in right now,” he says.

  “I’m at work right now.”

  “Right, but I mean the box that our lives turn into, whether we want it to happen or not.”

  “Just break out of your box.”

  “I’m talking about being trapped,” Bob says. “My life, my job, my wife. Jesus, my kids are in a box that I created for them—they barely go outside. They are more comfortable online. They’re afraid of real life.”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” says Tilda. “My daughter is in a literal box—Roy’s car. Now that’s a fucking problem.”

  She’s right, Coffen thinks. That’s a problem. He can fix what he’s teaching his children, starting tomorrow, starting with the sea horses. They say they don’t want to come, well, Coffen’s going to make them come. He’s their father. He’ll insist, and if that doesn’t work, the bribery from this afternoon might rear its ugly head again. He has the money and if that’s the bait to get them to go, so be it.

  “If you ever fancy a change of careers,” Bob says, “I think you have a future in helping people.”

  “I do help people: Every time a guy pulls his pud while I talk dirty, that’s helping humanity.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” she says, “but why would I give up all this glamour?”

  Coffen pulls the SUV up to the window.
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br />   Tilda hands him the bag of lasagnas. He’s astounded by her muscles every time he sees them, the way she’s wrapped her heart in bulky protection. He looks across the parking lot and sees Schumann, uniform and all, throwing rocks at a stop sign. “He’s one of your regulars?” Coffen asks her.

  “That man loves him some raunch. If he wanted to take our relationship to the next level, I’d certainly get out of this box so he could get into mine.”

  “Do you like music?”

  “What kind?”

  “Kiss.”

  “I love Kiss,” she says.

  “I’m going to hear a Kiss cover band tonight. Wanna come with?”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  It hadn’t occurred to Coffen how this innocuously conceived question might be received. He meant nothing smarmy. The last thing on earth he wants is to cheat on his wife. Coffen posed the invitation to Tilda simply for the companionship, and in fact, the mere idea of an official date with her brings with it a few unfortunate images: He pictures Tilda’s naked, engorged muscles, then the likelihood that if she ever saw Bob nude, the probability of her unbridled laughter.

  “Not a date. As friends,” Coffen says.

  “Good. I don’t date prudes. But as long as we’re going as friends, I’d love to.”

  “I’m not a prude.”

  “Guess we’re adding to our list.”

  “Our list?”

  “Cops, monsters, and prudes,” she says.

  Plucking and tightening

  Half an hour later, Coffen arrives at the office with a bottle of rum, ready to return the favor and get Ace nice and buzzed. But that plan won’t work because Ace has company. Currently, Coffen’s wedged in a cubicle near his work’s kitchen, eavesdropping as Ace talks to a boy who looks about Margot’s age. Who is this mysterious lad who’s shown up with the tattooed janitor? Well, as Coffen has learned from his gutless spying, the boy happens to be the son of Ace’s girlfriend. Apparently, Ace normally lives with his girlfriend and her son. The janitor has been sleeping at the office this week since she told him to “poop or get off the pot” regarding the likelihood of a marriage proposal.

  “That was how she phrased it to me, dude,” Ace says to the boy. “Your ma talks straight from the heart, and I love that about her. But she caught me off guard.”

  Ace relates all this to the lad as they sit at the kitchen table, the very place where Coffen had plunked down and enjoyed Ace’s rum-soaked French toast. Ace has a guitar case across his lap, though he hasn’t opened it. Then he says to the boy, “I mean, I love your ma. You know that. You see us together. You see how I make her laugh, and once you become a man, you’ll realize there’s no greater feeling than making the woman you love laugh like crazy. I needed a few days to sort things out on my own, and now I clearly know what needs to be done.”

  “Only a loser would sleep at his work,” the boy says.

  “It’s a complex world, my man.”

  “My real dad has a condo in Memphis.”

  “Now that’s a town that loves its music.”

  “My real dad owns his own plumbing business.”

  “Can I talk to you honestly, big guy? Mano a mano?” Ace seems unfazed by the boy’s hostile words, which impresses Bob. It’s no easy feat staying calm in the face of being demeaned. Not always easy to turn the other cheek if you know the next smack is coming.

  Speaking of the next smack, Ace rubs his bald head, which prompts the kid to say, “Why don’t you have any hair?”

  “At your age, I had a coif.”

  “Will my hair fall out when I’m old?”

  “Did your gramps have a good set of hair?”

  “Which one?”

  “Your ma’s dad.”

  The kid looks petrified. “He was bald!”

  “Then you too shall cross this humiliating bridge.”

  Coffen cracks the seal on the rum, holds it up to offer a commiserating cheers to the humiliating bridge of baldness, and has a slug.

  Calm as can be, Ace opens the guitar case, pulls out the instrument, and lays it across his lap, loosening a string. He keeps talking, “I need to put some fresh strings on for the gig tonight. And on our way to the show, I’ll take you for some Korean barbecue before we meet up with your ma. Who knew effin’ Koreans could barbecue like kings, huh?”

  The boy says, “I hate barbecue.”

  Ace nods and keeps winding a new guitar string tight. “Dude,” Ace says, “this is an oddball world. Look around you, look outside—it’s only getting weirder. I firmly believe that we should all boogie to our own beat. I’m a firm believer in fulfilling whatever destinies we want. I don’t believe in God or any make-believe shit—sorry, I meant to say ‘feces.’ I don’t believe in any of that. Do you forgive my swearing? Your ma hates my swearing and I’m working on it because I want to be a good partner and also a father figure. What I’m trying to say is that in life we should all make up our own rules. Make a world that’s going to make us happy. I’m making up mine. I hope you’re making up yours. I bring this up for a specific reason … ”

  Ace winds the next guitar string tight, the pitch of the string getting higher as he plucks it and tightens the tuning peg.

  “My real dad thinks guitars are fucking stupid.”

  “You shouldn’t swear either, dude. Your ma doesn’t like it.”

  Plucking, tightening.

  “Fucking stupid,” the kid says.

  “Anyway, here’s the message I’m trying to send to you: I love your ma. She’s the woman for me. I never thought I’d say that, never imagined myself settled down into the calm ballad of monogamy. But we change.”

  Plucking and the note bends higher …

  Coffen has another slug of rum.

  “Let me get down to brass tacks,” says Ace. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re here together right now.”

  The boy interrupts him. “You brought me here.”

  “Of course. I meant that more metaphysically.”

  “You picked me up from soccer and dragged me here.”

  “Yes, I did. I called your ma and said I had to talk with you man to man. See, dude, I’ve been wanting to ask your ma to marry me. But only if her son approves of our union. So your ma says, ‘Poop or get off the pot.’ That’s what she’s telling me, and I know the answer clear as day.”

  Ace is smiling at the boy.

  The boy is not saying anything.

  “The answer is that Acey shall poop,” Ace says and smiles even larger.

  “Shit wherever you want. I don’t care,” the boy says. “My dad might still come back someday.”

  “I don’t have to tell you how awesome your ma is,” Ace says. “I know you’ve had a hard life with your pops moving to Memphis. To be honest, Acey didn’t exactly get the red carpet treatment himself. Look closely—that’s not a silver spoon in my mouth, dude. It’s a horse’s bit. That was how my family treated me, like a dang animal with a bit in its mouth. You don’t even want to hear about an unnamed boy named Ace whose dad liked to drag him to the racetrack with him, and sometimes the old man would get so tanked that he’d leave the boy behind, this unnamed boy named Ace, forced to fend for himself until his mom finally drove to the track to pick him up. So be sure that I know hard living. I know parents who shouldn’t be allowed to have library cards, let alone children. And your pops splitting town … Jesus H, what a bastard, not that I want to speak ill of your flesh and blood. But I feel terrible for you. Your whole world was turned upside down. You’re brave for marching on. But right this second, I have to tell you, I’m glad my path crossed with you and your ma’s. I am glad we give each other shelter.”

  “You freeload at our house,” the boy says.

  “I think of it as being the house where we all live.”

  “Then why are you sleeping here?”

  Coffen can barely stand the mouth on this smart-ass kid. He needs to get yelled at, or spanked, or water-boarded. He needs
consequences. It makes Bob thankful for the manners of his own children. Jane would never let them speak that way. She’s such a good mother. He has another slurp of rum.

  Ace says, “This conversation is giving me the strength to come out and say it. It’s important to me that this is okay with you. I want your blessing, dude. I want to know that you see this as a good thing. It’s what she wants. We’re happy. I’m good to her. Please tell me that we have your blessing.”

  Ace is plucking and tightening with another bending note moving higher. He looks hopefully at the boy, waiting for a blessing. He’s right about it being an oddball world.

  “Tonight at the show,” he says to the boy, “I’m going to call her onstage and ask her to marry me. I haven’t even told the guys in the band. I want everybody to be surprised. Except you and me. We will know what’s coming. What do you think of all that?”

  “Your band sucks.”

  “This is a lot to ingest, I know.”

  “Asking her to get married at your shitty concert is a shitty idea.”

  “I’m not trying to replace your dad, my man. I want to be a good husband to your ma. She deserves that. And I bet me and you can become pretty good friends if you decide to give me a chance.”

  Nothing from the boy. Just the stink-eye.

  “Blink once if you caught the gist,” Ace says.

  “Barry hates his stepdad. Barry says stepdads are bullshit.”

  “Sure, some stepdads suck.”

  “Why do you give a fuck what I think?” the boy asks.

  Ace still has the huge smiley face. “Because you’re important to me.”

  “Fine, ask her,” the kid says. “I don’t care what you guys do anyway.”

  “Thanks, my man. I’m thrilled to have your blessing.” He says this with no bitterness or sarcasm. He says this with sincerity. Bob can’t believe it. This kid tried everything to rattle Ace and he only wound his strings, kept his cool. Coffen needs to remember that. Needs to remember the beauty of calm discourse. Ace told the boy exactly what was on his mind, the plain, whole truth, never getting sidetracked or rattled. That’s what Bob has to do with Jane: honesty without resorting to Gotthorm cracks. Honesty without self-sympathy. Honesty without playing the martyr. Honesty without irony.