Bad Citizen Corporation

by S. W. Lauden

  Bad Citizen Corporation

  This no-frills hardcore outfit from Los Angeles released two flawless records in the early nineties. The third and final release was a massive artistic departure that many fans believe was actually meant to be a solo record for brooding front man Fred Despair. The band faded into oblivion in the wake of commercial failure and personal tragedy.

  We caught up with the elusive Fred Despair from an undisclosed location in Southern California where he still occasionally pops up to play shows for the lucky locals.

  CNM:Let’s start with some of basic info for the readers who are finding out about you for the first time. How did the band form?

  FD:My brother Tim put the band together. He was a few years older than the rest of us and really into SoCal punk bands like Black Flag, Minutemen, and Descendents. Stuff like that. He wrote most the songs on our first album.

  CNM:And he owned a legendary hardcore record shop in Los Angeles, right?

  FD:Yeah, Pretty/Ugly Records. He dropped out of high school in eleventh grade and opened up this little record store that was right next to a bar in our neighborhood.

  CNM:I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but isn’t that the place where Tim hung himself after the band broke up?

  FD:That’s where they found his body. There are some different opinions about whether or not he committed suicide.

  CNM:What do you believe?

  FD:Let’s just say that Tim wasn’t the suicide type. He was pretty intense, like the rest of us were in those days, but he had way too much fun to just check out like that. That’s my opinion, no matter what the local police had to say about it back then.

  Greg folded the corner on the page and tossed the magazine across the room. He stood up and wandered into the bathroom, catching his reflection in the mirror over the sink. The dye job Junior had given him really accentuated the lines that were permanently etched into his forehead, and around the corners of his eyes. He slid a drawer open and lifted out his clippers, setting the guide to “2.” His curIy locks fell to the sink in clumps as he carefully dragged the device across his scalp again and again. His head was covered in uniform fuzz a few minutes later when the phone rang.

  It was good to hear the Chief’s voice.

  “Greg, how’re you holding up?”

  “Hard to say, all things considered.”

  “Fair enough. Well, listen. I just got a call from the hospital. The kid just came out of his coma a few hours ago. They think he’s gonna make a full recovery.”

  “Is he talking yet? Did they ask him about the gun?”

  “His lawyer got in there before we could. I wanted to give you a heads-up because I think things are going to get ugly really fast now.”

  Chapter Eight

  Greg woke up praying on Sunday morning. His head was throbbing and the shooting pains in his side made it hard to breath. He rolled over carefully to reach for the glass of water on the nightstand, but fell short. The melted ice pack felt warm against his black and blue ribcage. The red numbers on the alarm clock danced as he tried to focus on the time. He let his head drop back to the pillow and groaned as he drifted back to sleep.

  He was back in the alley. The blue hat seemed to hover as it spun in the air. Echoes from the gunshots slowly became a loud knocking on Greg’s apartment door.

  His sheets were soaked through with sweat and he was gasping for air as he sprang upright. The shooting pains made it feel like he was being torn to shreds by a great white shark.

  “Greg! Greg, are you in there?!?”

  He half growled, half screamed in response. The knocking got more emphatic and then stopped. He heard a key slip into the lock and watched as the deadbolt turned. The door swung open just before Mrs. McMillan poked her head in to look for him. Junior came barreling from behind her and smothered him with a crushing hug. She didn’t let go until he whimpered and gasped.

  “Jesus, Greg! What the hell happened to you?”

  “I had a little run-in with Barrett’s foot. Followed by several run-ins with his fists.”

  “Why did that lunatic come looking for you?”

  “I actually went looking for him.”

  He turned slightly and looked back to the door where Mrs. McMillan was still standing. There was a disapproving grimace on her face.

  “Hi Ruth. You wouldn’t happen to have any ice, would you?”

  “You’re going to need a lot more than ice, from the looks of things.”

  She shut the door softly behind her. Junior went to the bathroom sink and ran a washcloth under warm water. He could hear her rifling through his cabinet looking for something to dress his wounds.

  She came back to the bed with a washcloth, a box of bandages, and a bottle of peroxide. Greg didn’t even know he had half that stuff in his medicine cabinet.

  “Where’s your nurse’s outfit?”

  “Very funny. Are you gonna tell me why you went to see Barrett?”

  “I heard that he got into it with Ricky last week. I wanted to see what the story was.”

  “You don’t think he had anything to do with the shooting, do you?”

  “Not sure. Wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”

  “Did you find anything out, or were you too busy getting your ass kicked?”

  “We talked a little. Barrett seemed to think Ricky was mixed up in something bigger that could have gotten him...you know. Something to do with work. I couldn’t really make sense of it. Did Ricky ever mention anything to you?”

  She dabbed a small cut over his swollen eye with healthy dose of peroxide. Every muscle in his body tensed while he tried to breathe through the stinging.

  “Can you warn me the next time you do that?”

  “What’s the matter? Is the punk rock cop afraid of a little pain?”

  She giggled and continued to dress his wounds.

  “I never trusted Barrett much, but I got the feeling he was telling the truth.”

  “Officer Bob won’t be happy when he hears that you’re investigating this.”

  “Guess I’ll find out when I go visit him at the station tomorrow. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”

  “I’m not sure I’m up for it with everything that’s going on. It’ll feel a little weird without Ricky there.”

  “Well, you know what he would say.”

  “Yeah. He was always up for a party.”

  “Come on. It’s probably better for us to be around each other right now anyway.”

  The Sunday barbecues at Junior’s house were one of Greg’s favorite traditions. It started when they were both still in their twenties and Junior was renting a place with a big backyard. Back then Greg and Ricky would go out deep sea fishing all day. A crowd of people would turn up at Junior’s in the afternoon to feast on whatever they caught. Those Sunday barbecues turned into some late nights when Greg was still hitting the bottle. These days it was usually just Junior and her son hanging out in their backyard with Eddie, Greg and Ricky on a lazy Sunday night.

  Junior finished cleaning Greg up and headed off to the store to buy provisions for the barbecue. He walked her out to her car and gave her a reassuring hug before she drove away. He saw Mrs. McMillan watching them through the open gate as he headed back toward his apartment. She yelled at him across the backyard as he opened his door.

  “You would be stupid not to marry that girl.”

  ›

  Greg woke up sometime in the late afternoon with the magazine face down on his chest. He thought about finishing the CoreNoMore article, but he was already going to be late for the barbecue. Standing up still hurt and he was afraid of what he would see when he looked at himself in the mirror.

  He felt much better than he had that morning, but he was still moving pretty slow. The thought of a shower and getting out of the house for the first time
all day were the only things that kept him going. He just hoped there would still be some food left at Junior’s when he finally arrived.

  Getting clean was a painful process. He couldn’t twist and bend easily to wash himself so he let the running water do most of the work. Toweling off presented the same set of problems, so he went to the barbecue in slightly damp clothes. He was thankful to skip the socks all together in favor of flip-flops.

  Greg chased two Extra Strength Tylenols down with a glass of tap water before venturing outside. He shuffled across the backyard and tapped on Mrs. McMillan’s patio door to check on her before he went out. She pulled the French door open just as he was ready to give up. He could see the TV on in the background behind her. She was watching the local news.

  It felt strange for Greg to see his own face on the screen.

  “Sorry, Ruth. I wanted to tell you myself.”

  She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He let his own arms dangle, sure he was unworthy of her sympathy. His mind was racing and he felt like he might throw up. He wanted to kick in her TV screen. Destroy the memories that were eating him alive. She held on tighter as his body shook with fear and rage.

  “You don’t owe me any explanations, Gregory. I’m just sorry you have to go through this.”

  They stayed like that for a few endless moments before she finally released him. Her tired eyes glistened as he mumbled an awkward goodbye and shuffled to his car in a daze. He couldn’t remember a single thing about the drive over to Junior’s house that afternoon. His mind was too busy replaying the shooting over and over again, like waves crashing on the beach.

  Junior lived in North Bay, not far from Eddie’s L Bar. The house was a small three-bedroom building that was set back from the street. A white picket fence lined the sidewalk at the edge of her enormous front lawn. Chris’s bikes and balls were scattered all over the yellowing grass. The barbecue was on one end of a long, faded deck that ran along the front of the house.

  Greg pulled into the driveway with Social Distortion’s “Mommy’s Little Monster” blasting out the windows. He was expecting to see the familiar tailgate of Eddie’s truck. He was greeted instead by a vanity license plate that read: BCDVLPR. It was mounted on a brand new European sports car—with a frame that read Bay Cities Developer, along with a helpful 800 number. He backed out of the driveway and found a spot on the street.

  He let the car idle while considering the situation. Any thoughts he was having about himself were obliterated by the sound of Junior screaming from inside.

  The fastest way into the house was along the side of the garage and in the through the kitchen door. He gritted his teeth and attempted to jog. That only lasted for a few steps before he settled into a rapid hobble. The unmistakable sound of dishes shattering against the wall greeted him as he charged in.

  The door hit Junior’s ex-husband Mikey in the back, causing him to jump forward a few inches. He turned his head to see who was sneaking up on him and threw his hands up in disgust. Greg could see Eddie holding his daughter back on the other side of the room, her bright red face twisted into a vicious snarl.

  Stoneware shards were strewn across the tile floor like tiny shells on the beach. Chris poked his head out carefully from behind his grandfather, flinching every time one of his parents screamed. Greg stepped inside and slammed the door shut. That got everybody’s attention.

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  “I don’t know, Greg. Why don’t you ask that crazy bitch?”

  Eddie wrapped his arms tightly around his daughter’s broad shoulders. She still managed to drag him a few steps into the kitchen. Greg stepped around Mikey and gave Junior a look that said “chill out.” He waited a moment for her to calm down before he turned to face the wiry man standing behind him. Greg noticed for the first time that Mikey was wearing a pinstriped suit complete with a bright yellow pocket square. A ridiculous outfit by almost any SoCal standard, but especially on a Sunday afternoon.

  “Whatever the problem is, nothing gets solved by calling your ex-wife names in front of your son.”

  Mikey drew his hands up to his sides and rested them on his hips. His legs were shifting nervously as he unleashed on Greg.

  “You have to be kidding me. I only came here to drop off my alimony check. Next thing I know that lunatic is winging plates at me. Like an animal!”

  He screamed the last few words at Junior over Greg’s shoulder. She was almost foaming at the mouth when she responded.

  “We don’t want your money. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!”

  “Do you see, Greg? She’s like a broken record. She’s always threatening to call the police on me. I just want to see my son.”

  “I can understand that, Mikey. Here’s the problem—she has a restraining order against you. That means that legally you can’t be anywhere near this house right now.”

  Mikey ran his hands through his thick black hair and shook his head.

  “Of course. What was I thinking trying to talk sense to the guy who broke my marriage up in the first place? Greg Salem, mister fucking perfect.”

  “Don’t try to make this about me.”

  “All of you listen to me. My lawyers tell me that this restraining order bullshit is about to come to an end. And when it does my son is going to get a chance to hear both sides of the story. You hear that, Chris? You’re gonna spend time with daddy again really soon.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to let the courts decide that. But right now you to have to go.”

  Greg raised his arm to escort Mikey outside. Mikey slapped his hand away and shot him a threatening look.

  “I don’t need any help leaving.”

  Greg raised his hands in surrender.

  “Fine, but I’m still walking out with you so we can have a word in private.”

  Junior fell to the ground and started sobbing before they even left. Greg watched through the window as Chris tried to comfort his mother. Mikey was already standing next to his car when Greg emerged from behind the garage.

  “Mikey, I’m gonna put it to you straight. If you come around here and terrorize anybody in this family ever again I will personally snap your neck with my bare hands. And if I don’t, Eddie probably will.”

  “Really, Greg? I kind of thought shooting innocent kids was more your thing these days.”

  The words stopped Greg in his tracks. It took every ounce of self-control within him not to smash this weasel’s head into the driveway.

  “What? You thought people at the beach wouldn’t hear about how you screwed up? Looks like you’re finally gonna be famous after all.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide from you or anybody else.”

  “Jesus Christ. Do you know how ridiculous you are? You run around this town like some kind of skateboarding advertisement for the ‘good old days.’ Well the good old days are dead and buried.”

  “Expensive clothes and imported cars don’t change who you are.”

  “You’re just pathetic, you know that? Grow up, you’re not twelve anymore.”

  “The only twelve-year-old you should be worried about is your son.”

  “I would love the chance to do that, but my slutty ex-wife—”

  Greg grabbed him by the collar before he finished. Electric jolts of pain shot through his body as he spun Mikey around, wrenching an arm up his back. Mikey’s forehead hit the hood of the car with a satisfying thud. Greg twisted his fingers into Mikey’s hair and drove his face into the polished paint job.

  “You never knew when to shut up, did you?”

  Mikey tried to talk but the wind was knocked out of him. Greg let him squirm and wheeze a little while longer before finally letting up. Mikey stood and pulled the pocket square from his suit jacket. Greg watched him wipe his brow, checking for blood as he went. Satisfied there was no
serious damage, Mikey straightened his suit out and checked his hair in the window’s reflection.

  “You can throw me around all you want, but this town has changed. Some day very soon there isn’t gonna be room for beach trash like you or Eddie.”

  He opened his car door and climbed in. Greg caught a whiff of the new leather as Mikey rolled down the window to adjust the mirrors. The engine purred to life and he started to back out of the driveway. The car stopped a few feet short of the street. Mikey leaned out to speak.

  “Tell Eddie that I’m ready to buy whenever he wants to sell.”

  Greg took a step toward the car, but it shot backwards into the street. Mikey laid on the horn and yelled something out the window before he shot off for the boulevard. Greg was instantly aware of all the pain he should have been feeling during the altercation. He backed away from the street and inched along to the house.

  Eddie was inside with a broom and dustpan trying to clean up the kitchen. Greg knelt down next to him with an old man’s groan of his own. Eddie nodded to the living room. That’s where Greg’s help was needed most.

  Junior was seated at one end of a tattered L-shaped couch. Chris was lying along the length of the cushions with his head in her lap. She was running her fingers through his sandy blonde hair. Her eyes were focused on the window that looked out across the front yard. Greg wondered if she had seen him throw Mikey onto the hood of the car. He didn’t know where to begin.

  “I guess that means no barbecue?”

  He lowered himself down on the couch near Chris’s feet. The boy’s eyes were closed and his breathing was rhythmic. Her voice was soft, but she might as well have been screaming.

  “Why are we all so damaged?”

  It was a question that neither of them could answer. Forever aimed at the idiot emptiness that surrounded that couch, that neighborhood, their world. He watched waves of regret washing over her as the silence swallowed the words. There was nothing to say in response, but he couldn’t say nothing at all.