Bad Citizen Corporation

by S. W. Lauden

  “Sup, Ricky?”

  “Did you drop your phone or something?”

  “Nope. Just driving.”

  “Hope you’re going hands free. I heard you can get busted for that these days.”

  His best friend chuckled. Greg didn’t join in.

  “I’ll chance it.”

  “I’m calling about sound check.”

  Greg punched the steering wheel. He’d completely forgotten about the gig.

  “I don’t know, dude. It’s been kind of rough today. I might have to bail.”

  “No way! This show’s gonna sell out and most of them are coming to see your ass. There’s gonna be a full-blown riot if you no show.”

  Greg knew it was true. This is what he got for only performing a couple of times a year.

  “Yeah, whatever. What’s the deal?”

  “Show starts at nine. We’re on at ten thirty. Junior wants to open doors early, so we have to be done with sound check before eight. I want to make sure we have time to run through all the songs you’re gonna sing.”

  “Cool. See you at Eddie’s.”

  Greg flung the phone across the bench seat after he hung up with Ricky. It was strange how much some things had changed over the years. There was a time in his life when sound checks and punk shows were the only thing he looked forward to. These days they felt a lot more like a twenty-year high school reunion stuck on repeat.

  He flipped the turn indicator and sliced across three lanes. Once he was in the fast lane he reached down in front of the passenger seat and fished a CD case from a pile on the floor. The letters BCC were written in Ricky’s block letter handwriting across the cover. He slid the disc into the stereo and listened to his own voice screaming at him from across two decades.

  The compilation contained just seven songs, a few from each of the albums Greg’s band Bad Citizen Corporation released in the nineties. None of the songs were longer than two minutes, and all were played at a break neck tempo that seemed impossibly fast to Greg’s middle-aged ears.

  Willowy palm trees lined the freeway that sliced through South Central. He was making good time in the early afternoon traffic when he spotted the green Impala again. It was two lanes over and a few lengths back on the right. Even at that distance he could tell the conspicuous car was trailing him, and doing a bad job of it.

  Greg never understood why people in LA indulged their road rage when imprisoned in their cars. Still, if this were twenty years ago he knew he would have pulled over and gotten out to fight. Nothing made him feel more alive in those days than driving his fist into another man’s face. He pressed his foot down on the gas pedal instead.

  He hit repeat on the CD player and sang along as he followed the transition from one freeway to the next. Jumbo jets barreled into LAX every couple minutes, their expanding shadows swallowing up the endless line of cars. Heading south on autopilot, the exit came up fast. He had most of the lyrics committed to memory as he rolled down the window and headed toward the glistening Pacific Ocean. It was easily twenty degrees cooler on the coast than in Virgil Heights.

  Greg caught a glimmer of green from the corner of his eye as he veered for the off ramp. It didn’t take a police badge to know this was about more than just road rage. Turning onto Bay Cities Boulevard, he stayed in the right lane. Eddie’s L Bar was only a few blocks away. The green Impala stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of SUVs and European sports cars.

  Greg pulled into the last spot in the small parking lot in front of the bar. His heart almost beat through his chest as he threw the car into park and killed the engine. She sputtered a couple of times, and gave a slight shudder. The green Impala crawled by, taking its time to let Greg know that they had spotted him. He had the feeling they wouldn’t be heading back to Virgil Heights any time soon.

  ›

  Eddie’s L Bar occupied a small mini-mall that only had one other tenant—a beauty shop called Junior’s. Both storefronts shared a parking lot that faced Bay Cities Boulevard, a four-lane affair that cut through an old industrial district a few miles inland from the beach. Junior’s was a small square space with barely enough room to fit three chairs and a wash station. It was the same space where Greg’s brother used to run a punk rock record shop back in the day.

  Eddie’s wrapped around the salon, sharing the side and back walls. The long wooden bar was situated near the front door while the small stage was all the way at the back of the L-shaped room. In between were a couple of small pool tables and a handful of tall tables ringed with stools. On weekends Junior would close the salon a little early to run a punk rock club called “Eddie’s HELL Bar.”

  Greg rubbed his face a couple of times to clear away the cobwebs. He swung the car door open and headed for Eddie’s.

  “Dude, are you Fred Despair?”

  Greg was caught off guard because they’d used his stage name. He was never very comfortable playing the rock star, but knew it wasn’t cool to ignore the kids who liked his music.

  “You guys here for the show?”

  He barely got the words out before the first kid tossed his phone to his friend.

  “Dude, get some pictures or nobody will ever believe this!”

  He had his arm around Greg’s shoulder and flashed a series of hand signals, one after the other. The most Greg could manage was an awkward smile as the camera on the phone mimicked the sound of a shutter clicking. Then the two kids traded places. The posing and clicking went on for another minute before Greg finally pulled himself away.

  “Cool, guys. Need to bail. See you at the show tonight.”

  The starstruck twenty-somethings went inside the bar. Greg hung back, waiting until they were gone. He was checking email on his phone when a shirtless stick figure flew through the door and landed at his feet. His friend Junior came barreling into the parking lot right behind, all balled fists and murderous eyes. Ricky came next. He was trying hard to diffuse the situation, but failing miserably. Greg knew that Ricky was no match for a furious Junior. Nobody was.

  Junior lunged at the man on the floor and caught him in the ribs with the tip of a boot.

  “I told you to quit dealing drugs in the bar, you scumbag!”

  He rolled onto his back, trying hard to laugh through the pain. Greg recognized his old band-mate Marco. He had aged a few years since they last saw each other. His gaunt face was pasty and dark circles ringed his filmy yellow eyes.

  Greg took a step forward to shield one friend from another. His kindness was rewarded with a straight arm to the jaw. The blow rocked him backwards and sent him toppling over Marco. He was flat on his back and dazed as Junior advanced again.

  “I’m gonna fucking kill you, Marco!”

  She was wearing a Black Flag T-shirt that almost stretched to see-through around her hips. A plaid skirt clung to her thick thighs, stopping just above her white knee-high stockings. Her straight blonde hair was cut into an angular bob that perfectly framed a Kewpie doll face contorted with rage. She fell onto Marco and started wailing away, her blue eyes almost glowing with anger. Ricky finally managed to stop her with a flying tackle that sent them tumbling across the parking lot.

  Greg jumped up and pulled Marco to his feet.

  “Thanks, bro.”

  “You need to get out of here, like right now.”

  “That crazy bitch is just lucky I don’t hit girls.”

  He said it loud enough for Junior to hear. She immediately got up on all fours. Ricky caught hold of her ankle before she could pounce.

  “You’re lucky he’s holding you back. Your fat ass hasn’t seen the last of me.”

  Greg grabbed Marco by the shoulders and shook him hard.

  “Dude, bail!”

  Marco took a couple of hesitant steps back and sprinted around the side of the building. Greg waited until he was out of sight before making his way to wher
e Junior and Ricky lay. He noticed the green Impala idling across the boulevard and jogged toward it instead.

  Ricky was right behind Greg as the car lurched forward and merged into traffic. The back window rolled down and a hand emerged holding a blue baseball cap. The two friends stood side-by-side watching the car disappear into the distance. Ricky broke the silence.

  “What’s up with that?”

  “Just some asshole I cut off on the freeway. No big deal.”

  Greg knew it was a lie, but didn’t have the energy to explain. Whatever they had planned for him had nothing to do with any of his friends. They walked over to where Junior was still sitting in the middle of the parking lot. Ricky reached down and helped her up.

  Junior slapped his hand away once she was standing. Ricky lifted the trucker hat from his head and ran a palm across his shiny black spikes. His beer belly looked like a beach ball stuffed under his black T-shirt as he grimaced and groaned. He bent forward and made a half-hearted attempt to touch his toes. The letters BCC and a line of four stars stretched across his back.

  Junior laughed at all of his huffing and puffing.

  “You’re getting too old for punk rock.”

  “My back felt fine until you went crazy on Marco.”

  “He’s lucky you guys were here or I swear he’d be dead right now.”

  “You just hate him because he isn’t afraid of you. And for your information my back’s screwed up from lifting fifty-pound bags of concrete all day long. Whatever. Want to get a bite to eat before sound check?”

  Junior turned to face Greg, running her fingers through the mop of hair on his head.

  “Sorry, but I think I need to do a dye job on ‘Fred Despair’ before the gig tonight.”

  Greg twisted out of Junior’s grip, stepping back to search her eyes. His brash high school girlfriend was still in there somewhere, beyond the small lines and wrinkles. Lurking below the surface despite the heartbreak of a failed marriage and the all-consuming exhaustion of single parenthood.

  Her son Chris wasn’t much younger than the kid in the blue hat.

  “Earth to Greg. Are we gonna do this or not?”

  He snapped out of it and made a weak attempt to defend himself.

  “It’s a just a couple of greys. You can barely see them through my golden curls. Right?”

  Greg flashed a smile that begged for confirmation. Ricky and Junior both folded their arms. He knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

  “Who cares? Everybody knows how old I am. It’s not like I have to worry about my street cred anymore.”

  “It’s not your cred I’m worried about. I don’t want these kids thinking that I book geezers.”

  “Ouch.”

  ›

  A small bell on the door jingled as he walked into the salon. He took a few steps inside and looked around at the kitschy retro decorations and exposed ceiling beams. It was hard to remember what the place looked like back when it was bursting with record racks. Felt like all he had to do was turn around to see his brother’s big goofy smile.

  Junior gave Greg a second to get his bearings before motioning to a chair near the sink.

  He eased back and enjoyed the feeling of her fingers gently massaging his scalp. It was the most relaxed he’d felt all week.

  “How’s Chris?”

  “Fine, I hope.” She frowned at the thought of her son and did a poor job of hiding it. “He’s with the neighbors.”

  “Well I guess that’s better than leaving him with his asshole dad.”

  Her fingers dug into his scalp a little as she rinsed the shampoo.

  “Chris can’t help it if his father is an asshole. That’s pretty much my fault.”

  Her voiced cracked a little on the last word. Greg could see she was fighting back tears.

  “We don’t have to talk about this right now, Junior.”

  “I agree. Let’s talk about you. How long is it gonna be before word gets out that Fred Despair is the cop that shot the kid in Virgil Heights?”

  “Let’s just get through tonight.”

  “Sounds like a plan. So what color are we doing?”

  “Any color, but blue. Not like I have to be at work on Monday.”

  Chapter Four

  The portly bartender climbed up onto the wobbly barstool. His bulbous gut bubbled out from under a Hawaiian shirt as he strained to stand. He was looming above the loud happy hour crowd, his head dangerously close to the whirring ceiling fan blades. Sweat dripped from the ends of his graying mustache as he made the announcement.

  “Last call for alcohol!”

  Most of the regulars dutifully flagged down the other bartender to get one last drink. Others pulled their wallets from baggy shorts to settle up. Three young guys pushed their way to the bar. They looked like a boy band lost at a Jimmy Buffet concert. The one standing nearest to the bar was acting like the lead singer. He ran his hand lightly over a carefully crafted coif and tried to get the bartender’s attention.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Does this bar always close at six-thirty on a Friday night?”

  The young guy doing all the talking flashed a charismatic smile that gleamed like something from a toothpaste commercial. The bartender returned a blank stare that didn’t reveal any of his own yellow teeth.

  “We have live music here most Friday and Saturday nights, so the bar closes at seven o’clock for sound check. We open up again at eight-thirty, with a cover charge. Now that we cleared that up, can I get you something to drink?”

  “Well, where are we supposed to go between now and then?”

  The smile was back. This time the bartender responded with a grimace.

  “I bet you guys work at one of those computer companies popping up around here.”

  The three young men traded condescending smiles.

  “We all work at software companies in the lofts around the reservoir.”

  “Well, my name is Eddie. I probably own the warehouse your software company leases. Just like I own this place and half the buildings around here. The next time you want to go slumming in the local dive bars, maybe you should figure out the lay of the land before you start shooting your mouths off. Oh, and by the way, you’re cut off.”

  “What the hell? Screw you, old man.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when a few of the locals jumped from their stools. Eddie watched with a blank expression as the three hipsters got dragged outside. They were in for a painful lesson in manners, and a long weekend of licking their wounds.

  Eddie headed back to where his friends were sitting. The conversation had completely changed in the couple of minutes he was gone.

  “I’ll be really surprised if there aren’t a few riots.”

  Roger was short and round with pursed lips and heavy eyelids. He was seated on a barstool next to another regular named Bill, who had his elbows on the bar. Both were retired and spent most weekdays sipping beer and shooting pool at Eddie’s.

  “The hell are you talking about? People get shot all the time in LA.”

  “This is something different. The news said that the kid didn’t even have a gun.”

  Eddie walked over and set a beer down in front of Roger. The glass hit the bar with a loud thunk. Foam started oozing from the neck of the bottle as Eddie joined in.

  “If you two knuckleheads are talking about that bullshit out in Virgil Heights, you can take it somewhere else.”

  “Calm down, will you? It’s on practically every channel around the clock.”

  “That don’t mean I want to hear about it in my bar.”

  Junior walked in just as most of the happy hour crowd was leaving. She wandered back toward the bar to see how ticket sales were going. Eddie’s weathered face lit up in a smile as she approached.

  �
�How’s it going, sweetheart?”

  “Pretty good, Dad. I think this is going to be a big show tonight.”

  Eddie had always wanted a son, but changed his mind when his daughter was born. What he didn’t change his mind about was naming his first-born child after himself. A heated debate with his wife finally convinced Eddie that he should at least drop one of the Ds. Edie didn’t become Junior until she was old enough to help out at the bar on weekends.

  “Phone’s been ringing off the hook. Everybody wants to know what time Greg goes on.”

  Her father winked when he said it, but it was hard to deny the concern in his gaze.

  “Can I get you something to drink, sweetie?”

  “No thanks. It’s a little early for that.”

  Roger and Bill chuckled at her response. Eddie flashed them a dirty look and urged Junior to ignore them. He grabbed her arm and pointed to the empty end of the bar.

  “Have you talked to Greg about what happened out in Virgil Heights? A lot of people around here are starting to chatter about it.”

  “No, but I probably should. I was kinda hoping he would be the one to bring it up.”

  “We both know that’s never gonna happen. He’s hanging out in the store room, if you want to talk to him now.”

  “I think we should just get through the show tonight. Besides, we just…”

  Junior let her response trail off. She never liked to tell her father when she and Greg spent time with each other. It always got his hopes up that the two of them would get back together someday.

  “You ‘just’ what?”

  “Nothing, Dad. I have to make a call before all the crazies show up.”

  Every TV screen in the bar was playing the news. A pretty reporter was standing outside an alley in Virgil Heights. Protestors were waving signs in the background, demanding justice for the boy who was shot. The caption at the bottom of the screen said that the officer involved in the shooting had been put on leave, but didn’t mention Greg by name. At least not yet.

  Eddie brought the remote up and the screens went black one by one.