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Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

Page 54

by Sweany, Brian;


  “I’m telling you ‘Song and Emotion’ by Tesla was a tribute to Def Leppard guitarist Steve Clark.”

  “Bullshit,” I say. “You just love Tesla because they remind you of that sappy mixtape you made for my wife.”

  “Fuck you, Hank!”

  “Okay, boys,” Beth says from the backseat. “Let’s settle down.”

  “When do we eat?” Claire asks..

  Hatch turns the car off, reaches for the door handle. “You guys have got to get it together.”

  “What are they gonna do?” his wife snaps back at him. “Arrest us for being hungry?”

  “Just bring the volume down is all.”

  “That’s hilarious,” I say.

  “What?” Hatch says.

  “You asking someone else to watch their volume.”

  A few words about Journey and Def Leppard. Like many adults in their thirties and forties, I regard these bands as two of our generation’s touchstones. I associate songs from both their catalogs with various determinative moments of my youth. Journey’s weepy ballad “Open Arms” reminds me of two things. One is the night I first got my hand up a girl’s shirt during a slow dance. Her name was Molly Alden, my favorite partner in our sixth-grade evening cotillion class. I snuck my hand up the back of her sweater to “Open Arms,” and my hand stayed there for both Neil Diamond’s “Heartlight” and “Up Where We Belong” by Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes, the latter of which, just as an aside, never fails to induce a flashback of Richard Gere boning the shit out of Deborah Winger in An Officer and a Gentleman. The other event I associate with “Open Arms” is when I snuck down to my grandparents’ basement to watch The Last American Virgin on HBO just because it was rated-R and had virgin in the title. I woke up the entire house crying when Diane Franklin’s character ends up back with the asshole that got her pregnant, while the sweet-natured nerd who loved her and nurtured her through her abortion is left broken and defeated just as the movie ends with both his tears and the credits rolling in parallel lines down his face. Saddest ending to a movie. Ever.

  “Wheel in the Sky” reminds me of my Uncle Mitch’s peach and custard pie.

  “Any Way You Want It” reminds me of the first time I saw Caddyshack.

  “Send Her My Love” reminds me of my seventh-grade girlfriend’s breasts.

  “Only the Young” reminds me of Linda Fiorentino’s ass.

  “Separate Ways” reminds me of bad tank tops.

  “Don’t Stop Believin’” reminds me of Dad’s smile.

  Where to begin with Def Leppard? The first time I ever got stoned was to a scratched LP of High ’n’ Dry, which I still consider to be the band’s best album. I got my Pyromania Velcro wallet as a Confirmation gift—oh, the irony—and later that year for Halloween I wore a white scarf and sleeveless Union Jack T-shirt and dressed like lead singer Joe Elliott in the “Autograph” video. The morning after the Hysteria concert—Tuesday, October 27, 1987, to be exact—at least half of Empire Ridge’s student body showed up to school with Def Leppard concert tees reeking of sweat, tobacco, and pot. Beyond that, however, Def Leppard was bigger than any single moment. While ostensibly more meaningful bands like The Police, Talking Heads, or U2 vied for a mere sliver of my memory, I was hard pressed to remember a day in the eighties when I didn’t hear at least one Def Leppard song on my radio or cassette deck. Whether in my car playing air guitar with Hatch or in my room masturbating to Dad’s Playboys—the volume always surreptitiously turned up to mask my moaning—the arena rock kings from Sheffield, England, defined my teenage years. Okay, co-defined. Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet album was a big fucking deal, too.

  I stopped listening to Def Leppard in the nineties, partly because Steve Clark died, but mostly because the band became incapable of making music that didn’t suck. I ostracized friends who thought Adrenalize was anything more than a steaming pile of shit, with the exception of a girl I had sex with several times—her name escapes me at the moment—who included “Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad” on a mixtape she made for me.

  “Hank?” Beth says. She grabs my hand as we walk across the parking lot toward the amphitheater. Claire and Hatch are about ten yards behind. Claire is mad because Hatch didn’t let her bring the other joint into the concert. Hatch is mad because it’s an hour before the show and his wife is already a puddle.

  “Yeah, babe?” I say.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nicole Chase!”

  “Who?”

  “An old summer fling, back when we were kids. ‘Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad’ was our song.”

  “That’s a beautiful story, Hank,” my wife says.

  “Sorry, I just couldn’t remember her name.”

  “Why did you need to remember her name?”

  “Because of Def Leppard and sweet potatoes, of course.”

  “And now we’re back on sweet potatoes. Great.”

  “You think this is about Lang?”

  “I see you staring at her calves.”

  “Well, at least you acknowledge that she exists. That’s a big step for you.”

  “We’re not going to be friends, and, no, you’re not getting her in our hot tub.”

  “This isn’t about Lang at all,” I say.

  “Good,” Beth says.

  “It’s about feeding giraffes at the zoo.”

  “Uh, how much dope have you smoked?”

  Hatch is shouting in the middle of “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’”—and he’s pissed off. “Who the hell is that? Where the fuck is Steve Perry?”

  Our seats are in the lawn. Claire proceeded to smoke the joint by herself before Journey even came on stage. She’s passed out right now, fetal and sweaty at her husband’s feet.

  “You know, Hatch,” I say, dry-humping my wife—because come on, “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” demands that you dry-hump the closest available female with a grindable ass. “For being sober, you’re a real fucking idiot sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Perry hasn’t been with the band since like the late eighties. That’s Steve Augeri up there. Looks and sounds just like Perry.”

  “That guy looks nothing like Steve Perry.”

  “You’re both wrong,” Beth says into my shoulder. “Perry rejoined Journey for some reunion gigs in the nineties then left the band for good in 1998, which is when he was replaced by Steve Augeri.”

  I smack Hatch’s arm with the back of my hand. “See, I was right. That guy up there is—”

  “Is not Steve Augeri,” Beth says, preempting my boast. “He dropped out of the band before this tour with some chronic throat problems. That mop-headed guy up there on stage sounds like Perry and Augeri, but he doesn’t look anything like them. His name is Jeff Scott Soto.”

  “Who the hell is that?” I ask.

  Hatch smacks my arm with the back of his hand. “Journey’s lead singer, dumbass.”

  I convinced Hatch and Beth to leave before Def Leppard started into their encore. Being thirty-five years old, I hate bad traffic more than I like a good show. With the exception of Guns N’ Roses’ original lineup reuniting or Roger Waters fronting Pink Floyd again, there’s no band on Earth that justifies me stewing in a car for two hours at the mercy of rent-a-cops and traffic cones.

  “Who’s ready to party?” Claire shouts from the backseat. She was unconscious for the entire concert. Hatch had to carry her over his shoulder back to the car. About halfway back to Empire Ridge, she woke up. And she’s ready to party.

  Claire offers me the nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam. I wave it off. “Not all of us napped for the last three hours, Claire Bear.”

  “You’re no fun, Hankie,” she says to me in her usual shamelessly flirty tone.

  Beth picks up on the tone. “Claire?”

  “Yeah,
Beth?”

  “Shut up.”

  Claire found an old New Year’s bottle of unopened champagne in the back of the refrigerator. She’s cornered Jack in the kitchen with booze and estrogen.

  “Mrs. Hatcher, I really don’t think I should.”

  “Oh poo, Jack, have a sip. And call me Claire. When I hear someone say ‘Mrs. Hatcher,’ I look around for my mother-in-law.”

  “Lay off the kid,” I say, stepping between them.

  “The kid can handle himself,” Hatch shouts from the living room.

  “It’s not the kid I’m worried about,” I shout back. “Hey, Claire, go torment your husband instead of my seventeen-year-old son.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s still so weird to hear you call him that.”

  Claire exits the kitchen. I hand Jack a couple twenty-dollar bills. “How were the kids?”

  “Twins were demons, Sasha was perfect.”

  “Typical.”

  “Yep,” Jack affirms.

  “Did I hear you were going to brunch with Mom tomorrow?”

  “With Debbie, you mean?”

  “So that’s her name for good now?”

  “Well, it ain’t Mom, and she certainly doesn’t deserve Grandma.”

  “At least you’re talking. That’s a start.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You can go to bed now,” I say. “Thanks for watching the brood.”

  Jack leans in and hugs me. “Thanks for letting me…Dad.”

  The hug suddenly goes from sweet to suffocating. “Look, you don’t have to call me—”

  “Just trying it on for size,” Jack says. “How does it fit?”

  “Like a shmedium T-shirt on a fat guy,” I say.

  “Black bandanna, sweet Louisiana, robbin’ on a bank in the state of Indiana!”

  It’s approaching two o’clock in the morning. Beth and Claire are standing in the middle of the hot tub. They’re drunk, dancing and singing to the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

  Hatch plugged his iPod into the stereo and is running through his “Indiana mix”—i.e., a shitload of John Mellencamp and any song that uses the word “Indiana” in the lyrics. The mix began with Mellencamp and India Arie coming up from Indiana down from Tennessee, which when you think about it doesn’t make any fucking sense. Next up was the Jackson Five’s “Goin’ Back to Indiana,” which segued into Tom Petty telling us all about Mary Jane growing up in an Indiana town with Indiana boys and Indiana nights. I almost bailed on the mix entirely when it took a dreary turn with Melissa Etheridge’s “Indiana,” but Hatch rallied with the Dixie Chicks talking about their brothers finding work in Indiana and now the Chilis.

  There’s something melodic and soulful about the word Indiana. Four syllables flowing into one another, almost like a poem contained within a single word. The state itself might not be much to look at, but she has a beautiful singing voice.

  Beth had offered Claire a swimsuit. Claire being Claire, she winked and said, “I couldn’t possibly fit into one of your suits,” when what she really meant was, Bitch, please, I’m so much skinnier than you. With her best friend reasonably demoralized, Claire then just stripped down to her bra and panties and jumped right in.

  Hatch and I sit off to the side of the tub in two Adirondack chairs. I’m nursing a High Life, my best friend a cup of decaffeinated coffee.

  “About time to shut this down,” I say.

  “Why?” Hatch sips his coffee. “You don’t like the view?”

  It’s hard not to stare. Beth and Claire have two different body types—one petite and muscular, the other tall and lean. They complement one another very well, though, especially when half-naked and wet. I’m reminded vaguely of the lesbian sex scene between Anne Heche and Joan Chen in the underappreciated soft-core flick Wild Side.

  You would think after sleeping with the same woman for thirteen years that broaching sexual intercourse would be old hat.

  You would think.

  The hot tub dance party lost its mojo quicker than I expected. By 3:00 a.m. Hatch and Claire headed down to the basement for the night. Before she crawled into bed, Beth changed out of her swimsuit into an old shirt and cotton pajama pants, the chastity belt of middle-aged married women. But I’m not giving up that easy. Not tonight. Not after watching my wife dirty dance half-naked with the Hottest Girl I Never Tried to Sleep With.

  And so begins the dance.

  After Beth turns off the lights, she always tries to first fall asleep on her back. If that happens, then the dance is over. Posted no fishing.

  Beth rolls to her side facing away from me. Step one accomplished. It’s on!

  I slide across the bed behind her for step two, the spooning. This is the toughest step in the dance. It can make or break the deal and must be exercised with patience and care. Move too slowly, and she grabs your arm and pulls it tight around her for the all-night cuddle. Move too fast—say, go immediately for a boob squeeze or slip your hand down the back of her panties to grab her bare ass—and it’s the dreaded shutdown: not only no sex tonight, but also likely some lingering resentment that will keep you out of the T & A trade at least through her next menstrual cycle.

  To avoid this confrontation, you move to step three, the foot test. While fully spooned and your hand placed casually on your partner’s waist or the side of her thigh, you slide the top of your foot lightly against the arch of her foot. There’s potential for disaster even with this innocuous move. Tread too lightly, and by the time you’ve mustered the courage to move to step four, she’s in full REM sleep. Tread too aggressively, and you end up tickling her, which annoys her and sends you back into the whole lingering resentment shame spiral.

  Beth pushes gently back on my foot. Green light!

  The foot push isn’t a guarantee, so it’s usually best to go to step four just for confirmation. There are a couple options. One, slide the hand under the shirt and do a finger swipe beneath her breasts. Or two, slide your hand inside the back of her panties and give a light brush of her butt just below her panty line. I’m an ass man, so I think I’ll—

  “You going to do me any time this century?” Beth says.

  “You’re awake?” I ask.

  “Kind of hard to sleep with your erection stabbing me in the back.”

  “But you put on PJ pants. I thought that meant you didn’t want to—”

  “I didn’t.”

  “But now you do?”

  “I could easily be talked out of it.”

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  “You want something that starts with a P.”

  “You’re a cruel woman, Beth.”

  “A cruel woman with an awesome rack.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “And I noticed.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “You looked at me in the hot tub.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “No, you looked at me instead of Claire.”

  “I did?”

  “Hank, I love Claire to death, but we both know she sucks the air right out of a room. You had tunnel vision tonight, and I just wanted to say I appreciated you appreciating me.”

  “So we are having sex tonight?”

  Beth reaches down, pulling her PJ pants and panties down to her knees. She reaches her hand into the slit of my boxers. “Would you prefer an all-night cuddle?”

  “Only if it involves my dick inside you.”

  “You almost don’t deserve to get some after that pickup line.”

  “Hey, you’re the one with my dick in your hand.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  Chapter ninety-eight

  Lila and Chris broke up, again. Lila is still in New York, living right now with a friend from work in the West Village. I’m in town for a week of meetings at the Bertel
smann building, so Lila asked me to meet her at Sweet Revenge, a cupcake, beer, and wine bar on Carmine Street.

  Lila is already at the bar when I arrive. I can tell something is up the moment I walk inside. She stands up, kisses me on the cheek, and exhales right when we hug, as if she’s been holding her breath for just that moment.

  “Hey, girl,” I say, kissing her back. “Everything okay?”

  Lila smiles. “It is now.”

  We order a couple peanut butter cupcakes, which our waitress advises to pair with a glass of Malbec.

  I reach over, squeeze Lila’s hand. “You up for some red wine this early?”

  She squeezes back. “Already a glass ahead of you.”

  I nod to the waitress. “Red wine it is, then.”

  I’m on my second glass, Lila her third. The cupcakes—peanut butter cake with a ganache center and peanut butter fudge frosting—were so decadent that we ordered two more.

  “Sorry to hear about Chris,” I say, taking a bite of cupcake.

  Lila reaches over with her napkin, dabbing at the frosting on my upper lip. “What’s to be sorry about, Hank?”

  “I know you loved her.”

  “I loved the idea of her, but let’s face it—Chris was an exhausting girlfriend.”

  “True, but still, you two were a couple for a long time. That’s not something where you just turn the page and move on.”

  “Who’s turning the page?” Lila says. “I walked in on her doing a nineteen-year-old Columbia coed with a strap-on. That’s not an image I’m forgetting anytime soon.”

  “Wow. I-I’m sorry.”

  “Oh shut up, Hank.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You didn’t have to say anything. I can see it in your expression.”

  “What can you see?”

  “Your conscience wrestling with whether or not you should be sympathetic or turned on.”

  I hide my guilt in an aggressive swallow of wine. I place the empty glass on the table. Lila smiles. I smile back. “You ever wonder what would have happened with us if our parents never got together?”

  “I don’t follow,” Lila says.

  “I don’t know. It just seems like, well, we’ve always been so compatible.”

 

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