by Rob Zombie
He flipped a U-ey, ignoring the double yellow line, something sure to scandalize Heidi’s uptight neighbors. Why she wanted to live in the heart of the historical part of Salem, hell if he knew. Once, when she was drunk, she’d talked a little about her heritage, that she was descended from one of the early Salem witch hunters. But hell, that seemed like it might be a reason not to want to live in Salem rather than a reason to live there. And Heidi stuck out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood—nobody else around here under fifty. Not as much as he would have, being black and being a natty dresser, but still…
The crucifix dangling from the rearview mirror was still swinging from the U-turn. It kept catching flashes of sunlight and sending them into his eyes. He reached out and steadied it.
“It always does that,” Heidi said, watching him. “You should just take it down.”
He shook his head. “I’m not taking it down,” he said. “That’s God looking out for me.”
“You know what they would have said about that in Old Salem?” she asked.
“What?” he said.
“They would have called you an idolater,” she said. “Probably they would have burned you as a witch.”
“Yeah, good times,” he said. “But I’m keeping it where it is.”
They drove in silence a moment, until Heidi, remembering, suddenly gave a little jump.
“Okay, so where the photos at?” she asked.
“Again with the photos.” He waited a minute for her to riposte, and when she didn’t he gestured over his shoulder. “Backseat.”
“And… how do they look?” she asked.
“Wrong,” said Herman.
“What do you mean, wrong?”
Herman didn’t answer, preferring to let her see for herself.
She reached over the seat and shuffled aside a pile of clothes. Underneath were several boxes. The one on top was full of books.
“Christ, you need to clean your fucking car,” said Heidi. “You are a hoarder.”
God, she knew how to push his buttons. “Don’t tell me what I need to do,” said Herman. “And I ain’t no hoarder.”
“I’m going to get you an intervention on that show for hoarders,” she said. “Hoarding Emergency or whatever.”
“I ain’t no hoarder,” he insisted again.
She ignored him. She pushed the box to one side, opened one of the boxes under it. It was the right box, Herman saw with a glance in the rearview mirror as she opened it. She pulled out an 8ʺ by 10ʺ promo photo and then settled back into her seat and examined it.
When they had to stop at a light, Herman snuck a glance, curious to see if it was as bad as he remembered. “Big H Radio Team,” it read along the bottom. And there he was. Yeah, his clothes looked good, as usual, but his head didn’t look like that, did it? No, no way it could. It just wasn’t natural. Heidi looked good, though, in her tattered Ramones shirt and her torn jeans, and totally at ease as well. But he, there was this problem with his head, probably some kind of Photoshopped joke, and plus he just didn’t look relaxed. The third member of the team, Whitey, didn’t look as bad as him, but didn’t look half as good as Heidi either. He was a gangly man with long hair and a huge, bushy beard and he wore mirrored sunglasses that looked straight out of the seventies. Like he’d stolen them off an aviator. Just beaten the fuck out of an aviator and then taken his glasses. Yeah, Herman had to admit Whitey looked okay. A little creepy maybe, but still. Maybe he should have worn sunglasses, too.
“We look pretty cool,” said Heidi. “What’s so wrong?”
“My head!” said Herman, exasperated. Couldn’t she see it? “My head looks too fucking big! It’s got to be the fucking lens that asshole was using. I knew he snuck on a wide-angle lens, some kind of fishbowl thing. I know my head ain’t that big.”
“You look fine,” said Heidi. “God, you are worse than a fucking chick.”
“Fine? Fine is your polite-ass way of saying, ‘Herman, he got a big fucking beach ball head.’ I look like Charlie Brown.”
He examined himself in the mirror. No, his head wasn’t that big. No way it was that big.
Heidi put her hand on his arm, spoke in mock consolation. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re still a stud.”
“Yeah?” he said. He smiled, looked at himself in the mirror again. “Yeah, I do look good, don’t I.” She was all right, Heidi was.
Chapter Twelve
Just goes to show you, you think you’ve seen everything and then they go and pull out some new horror show, thought Cerina Hooten. I got to get myself a new job. She sat at her receptionist’s desk, tapping her pencil against the desk’s edge. How could she be expected to work under these conditions? Okay, musicians were eccentric, but this was too much. And couldn’t they have the decency to sit down somewhere else in the waiting room rather than taking the chairs right across from her, facing her? What happened to common courtesy? She reached up and ruffled her bushy Afro. No, no. She couldn’t be expected to type something up with them staring at her the whole time, no matter how urgent the station manager said it was. He was lucky she was even bothering to answer the phones.
She had their publicity photo on the desk and a Sharpie out. She’d thought the photo would be labeled, but it wasn’t, which meant that she’d have to talk to them and ask them who was who or else Chip, the station manager, would complain. She looked closely at the photo. They looked just as bad in that. Ugh. Hideous. Why would anyone want to dress up like someone dead? She shivered. It was just plain morbid.
“Umm, excuse me,” she said.
Neither of them looked up. Maybe they weren’t aware that they were being addressed, but how could they not be? They were the only two other people in the reception area. They were foreign, right? Norwegian, maybe. Maybe they didn’t even speak English.
But no, she thought a moment later, if they didn’t speak English, why would they be here for a radio interview? They were just being difficult.
“Hey, you,” she said. “The ghoul reading Highlights.” Highlights? she wondered. Wasn’t that a kid’s magazine? The man looked up. He was wearing pale white face makeup, except for his eyes, which were lost in a pool of black. His lips were bloodred and smeared wider than his actual mouth, and blood or something that looked like it seemed to have dripped from his chin to stain his chest. Leather thongs bristling with nails formed a sort of headgear for him. A kind of black leather harness covered with larger spikes, what she saw as a sort of pervert’s idea of lederhosen, was his only clothing. She couldn’t help wondering what the spikes were doing to the vinyl chair he was sitting on. Who was going to pay for that?
“Which one of you is Count Gorgann?” she asked.
The musician reading Highlights lifted one hand in a Satanic salute, pointer finger and pinky lifted, his two middle fingers bent to touch his palm. He waggled his tongue and tipped his wrist to point his salute at his own face.
“All righty then,” said Cerina. She turned to the man next to him. “Which I guess makes you Dr. Butcher,” she said.
This one had apparently painted his face black first and then applied white face paint over it. It made his face look like a broken skull with darkness seeping out from behind it. The more she looked at it the more unsettling it seemed. His mouth had been painted in blood in a drooping frown that reached the side of his jaw. What must their monthly face paint bill be? Cerina asked herself, which made her wonder if she should check her own makeup. His arms were covered from wrist to elbow with leather bracers, with rusty iron spikes on them. High tetanus risk, Cerina couldn’t help but think. He had more clothes on, a black T-shirt with the sleeves torn off and black jeans, but over the jeans he’d affixed a kind of codpiece with dozens of screws jutting tip-first out of it. He lifted his head briefly. He opened his mouth wide to show black-stained teeth, then returned to his magazine.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said.
You gotta be shittin’ me, she thought, carefully writing each
name in Sharpie beneath the correct image. Damn, I really got to get a better job.
“Are you serious?” asked Heidi. “I’m the problem?”
“You know you’re the problem,” said Herman. “Don’t make me explain it to you.”
He pulled into a parking spot behind the studio, turned the car off. He’d opened the door and was starting to step out when she put her hand on his arm and stopped him.
“Excuse me,” said Heidi. “Just how am I the problem?”
He turned back toward her. “Well,” he said. “For one, if you weren’t always all dolled up and striking some glamour pose, me and Whitey wouldn’t end up looking like ebony and ivory mutants.”
“I’ve got news for you,” said Heidi. “You’d look like ebony and ivory mutants whether I was there or not.”
“Thanks a whole lot,” said Herman.
They got out. Herman opened the back door and began unloading the boxes of promo photos, stacking his arms full. Heidi grabbed the last one.
“I’m the one all dolled up?” she said. “You dress like that pimp on TV Land, Teddy Bear.”
Herman pretended to be offended. “I believe you mean Huggy Bear,” he said. Then shouted, “My man Antonio Fargas!”
Laughing and shaking his head, he headed toward the station door, Heidi close behind him.
Cerina had turned away from the two black-metal ghouls, ducking a little underneath the desk as she spoke in a low voice into the phone.
“I swear to Jesus I got Satan times two sitting right across from me.” She curled the phone cord around her finger, listened. “I don’t know…,” she said. “Some kind of heavy metal bullshit.” She snuck a glance at the two band members. They were both still reading their magazines, waiting calmly. “Norwegian, I think. Norwegian Satanists.” She listened again. “I think it’s near Russia or something. Let me Google it.”
She was tapping into her laptop, phone now held in a shrug between her shoulder and ear, when the stained-glass front doors rattled. Through them she saw Herman, arms stacked with boxes, trying to get in. She watched him, making no move to get up. A moment later, Heidi scooted around from behind him and held the door open.
Herman nodded in a way that could be interpreted as a thank-you. That was Herman all over, Cerina thought, her lips tight. Always prickly, never going out of his way to make anybody feel good about herself unless he wanted something from her.
He was talking to Heidi, speaking over his shoulder. “I should just walk these straight to the toilet and give a good flush,” he said.
Just what does he have in those boxes? Cerina wondered, curious. “Hold on,” she said into the phone, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand. When she spoke she was careful to look straight at Heidi, pretending that Herman wasn’t even there.
“Sweetie,” she asked, “you need any help?”
“No, we got it,” said Heidi.
Fine, they don’t need me. I’ve got better things to do anyway. Cerina nodded and uncovered the phone. “Oh, speaking of bullshit,” she said, a little louder now, “I caught that bitch Jessica in a straight-up lie… Yes, sir, right to my face.”
She took the photo of the band with the names marked on it and held it out across the desk, shaking it at Heidi as she passed. For a moment, Heidi simply ignored it and then she regarded Cerina with an inquiring look. When the latter nodded vigorously, she took the photo.
“Uh-huh,” she said into the phone, beginning to rant now. “Then the nervy bitch tells me she’s too sick to babysit my Reggie. No, she wasn’t sick… Bitch posted pictures on Facebook of herself doing Jell-O shots at Charley T’s… Of course I said something. What am I? I’m not her mother…”
She let her voice trail off. Heidi had stopped at the inner doors, had held them open for Herman but still hadn’t gone through herself. She was staring at the black-metal musicians. Both of them had put their magazines down and were staring back, still and unblinking. Their gaze was emotionless, but very attentive. Then Heidi put her hand against her forehead and lowered her eyes and a moment later was through the doors.
For a long moment, the musicians continued to stare at the doors, almost as if they were willing her to come back out again. Then they both made a weird gesture, kind of like they were crossing themselves, but with the motions all wrong. Weirdos, thought Cerina.
Chapter Thirteen
Whitey was on the far side of the break room, filing CDs on one of the racks. He nodded once at Herman as he entered and then kept on with it. Chip MacDonald was there as well, but standing at a little distance, clearly watching Whitey. Chip’s hair, the little of it that was left, was a mess, sticking straight up on the top of his head. He should just go on home, thought Herman. He don’t need to be here to watch us; we’re old pros. Man’s never gonna learn. He’s just gonna make Whitey anxious and get himself all worked up in the process.
He’d just lowered the boxes onto the table when Chip made his move.
“No, no,” he said, moving to the rack and plucking out a CD Whitey had just filed. “Rod Stewart goes under S, not R. Can’t you understand the concept of filing under last name first?”
Whitey shrugged. “Eh, we hardly ever play that CD. Doesn’t really matter.”
“That’s not the point!” said Chip. “The point is that there’s a proper way for things to be done.”
Whitey shrugged again, seemingly confused. “But I don’t need to find it.”
“But what if you did?”
Herman just shook his head. “But I don’t.”
Chip raised his voice. “What you need to find is none of my concern!”
“Then why are we talking about it?” asked Whitey, genuinely confused.
“Calm it down, Chip my man,” said Herman. “No need to start World War Three over a Rod Stewart CD.”
Chip turned to him, his finger raised and pointed. “And you,” he said. “You’re worse than this guy. At least this knuckle dragger attempts to file the catalog.”
That’s what I get for trying to help, thought Herman. Remind me never to do that again. He sniffed, raised his nose in the air. “That, my dear fellow, is intern work,” he said.
But Chip didn’t get the joke. “Need I remind you?” said Chip. “This is a rock station. We don’t have interns. You want interns? Go work for a Latino station. They’ve got all the pesos.”
If the boss wanted a fight, Herman would give it to him. “Exactly,” he said. “So you can sympathize with my quandary. No interns to do interns’ work. It is quite perplexing.”
“Ladies, please,” said Heidi, rolling her eyes.
Chip turned on her. “And that’s another piece of business I want to discuss. Please stop referring to everyone as girls or ladies. People are starting to get the wrong idea.”
Heidi plastered a look of mock concern and innocence on her face. “Wait, what people? What idea?”
“That we are all…” Chip stopped, perplexed at how to continue. “Fancy…,” he said, and then shook his head. “No, just drop it.”
“Fancy?” said Heidi, her eyes wide. Herman couldn’t help but grin. Chip should have seen it coming, he thought. But even when Chip saw it right there on the sidewalk, he couldn’t help but step right smack in it. Had to almost feel sorry for the guy. Heidi looked left and right and then came a step closer to Chip, her hand cupped to her mouth. She said in a stage whisper, “You mean homosexual?”
“I…,” said Chip. “Look,” he said. “Let’s just drop it. It’s just confusing, is all.”
“You feel a little confused, do you?” said Heidi. “Having thoughts and feelings that you’re not quite sure your pastor would approve of?”
“I, no,” said Chip, beginning to blush. “I’m not…”
“It’s okay, Chip,” she said, patting his cheek. “We’ll still love you whether you’re in the closet or out of it.”
Okay, thought Herman, good enough. She’d started out teasing and fun, but it was turning a little mean. If she k
ept it up, Chip wouldn’t know if he was coming or going. And then he wouldn’t be much help with the show. “Hey,” he said, breaking in. “What’s with the Groovy Ghoulies in the lobby?”
Chip turned toward him, relieved to have something else to discuss. He smiled, tried his best to be hip. “Those strapping young vampires are your first guests,” he said.
Herman smiled. He began to dance, a bumbling off-kilter soft-shoe, and then to sing in a deep, off-key voice: “The freaks come out at night, the freaks, the freaks, here they come.”
“Be nice,” said Heidi.
Be nice? he thought. Girl, you probably should take your own advice. But Chip seemed already to have forgotten about his ribbing and was going back to business as usual, watching Whitey out of one corner of his eye, waiting for him to misfile another CD.
Chapter Fourteen
At first something seemed to be wrong with the video. When they started it, the monitor stayed black and there was no music to be heard.
“There seems to be a problem,” Heidi said, and reached out to restart the DVD. “Technical difficulties,” she said into the mike. “Nothing we can’t handle. Banter, guys.”
“Um, did you guys give us some sort of foreign-coded DVD? PAL or whatever?” asked Whitey.
“There is no problem,” said Count Gorgann, in a falsely deep voice and with a heavy Norwegian accent.
“But I’m not seeing anything but darkness,” said Heidi. “And there’s no music.”
“Yes,” said Count Gorgann. “This is it exactly. Darkness. And silence.”
“So let me get this straight, man,” said Herman. “You recorded darkness and silence. Kind of like John Cage.”
“Who is this caged man named John?” asked Count Gorgann.
“Yes,” said Dr. Butcher. He had a similar accent, slightly less thick. “Exactly like John Cage, if John Cage was a worshipper of Satan.”