“Look! It’s Dice!” say a couple of girls, running toward him. A couple other girls run in the opposite direction. Pretty soon Dice is reluctantly agreeing to have a beer, “Just one for me!” and high-fiving with the football guys. He’s got his arm around Katie Corcoran. He’s got his arm around Zeke Rye. He’s laughing and every time someone tells a stupid joke his goatee splits wide, showing all his perfect teachers’ union dental plan teeth, everything so witty and open and hilariously cross-generational.
“What a douche,” someone says.
“Really? I think he’s sorta cool.”
“He makes me taste my omelet twice.”
“No way, Mr. Isley is the best.”
“I hear he got Jen Slater preg.”
“I hear Jen Slater is a massive liar.”
“True, but still.”
I’m only half listening, head on a swivel hoping to spot Ravenna Woods, but she hasn’t showed.
“That’s so unc,” says a freshman in an Izod the exact same color as his skin.
“What’s that?” someone else snaps. “Unc? Is that short for uncle?”
“Um, no, you know. Uncool.”
“Never say that, okay? I mean, just do not ever use that phrase in my presence again.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Follow-up question: Is it still cool to say wack?”
“Not unless you just took a time machine back to 1987.”
“How about chill?”
“Nope.”
“Five-O?”
“Nope.”
“Fo’ shizzle?”
“That’s safe. That’s totally a classic.”
“You guys are morons.”
Another car pulls up. A bunch of girls, none of them Ravenna, jump out squealing, “Look! It’s Dice!” They all run over.
“Let’s play a fucking song already,” El Hella says, all serious all the time now. Rock Scene 2013 is less than a month away. There are no songs that are just about screwing around anymore. Each note is vital practice. Every chord is a knife, a personal message to Flog and Angelo.
It’s like hanging out with Matt Drudge but even less fun.
I put my hand on my chin. “Hey, I know, why don’t we play that little number… what’s it called? Oh, yeah: ‘Dick Isley Should Be Immediately Stuffed into a Mulcher and Spread Over the Arid Soil of Western Africa to be Used as Nitrogen-Rich Fertilizer.’ ”
“Grow up, already,” some girl says, walking by.
“Is that really a song of yours?” the unc kid asks.
“You bet your ass,” Elliot goes, busting into “Tattooed Bank Robber Forgot His Gun.” “And it goes a little bit like this… a-one, a-two, a-one-two-three…”
He plays it way faster than normal. I mess up the intro. I come in too late on the bridge. Two times I play the wrong chord entirely. My solo blows soup chunks. It’s so off-key it travels around the circle of fifths and lands in the right key but is still objectively terrible.
When it mercifully ends, a couple of people clap. Someone croaks a “woo-hoo” out of pure sympathy. Elliot refuses to even look at me, furiously packing up his gear.
I’m putting my guitar in the Renault when I feel a hand slip into my back pocket.
Ravenna.
The hand gives my ass a squeeze.
No way.
Ravenna Woods is squeezing my ass. Her arms go around my waist. She feels good against me. I smell beer on her breath, on the back of my neck. It’s cute and ladylike, mixed with jasmine and gum.
I close my eyes, count to three, turn around.
No way.
Her lips are on my lips.
Our tongues touch.
I am seriously about to freak out.
But mostly because when I open my eyes, it’s not Ravenna Woods I’m kissing.
It’s Lacy Duplais.
Prison Fun Fact #17
Everyone abides by the courtesy flush. Sitting on the pot? You keep that water moving for your cellie’s sake. There can be no stink that lingers. Had a bad mac and cheese? Flush a dozen times before you get up. The toilet water is the only thing an inmate truly controls in prison, so you got to control it right.
Prison Fun Fact #29
Pruno is cell-booze. It’s made from apples, oranges, raw sugar, fruit cocktail, or ketchup. Bread usually provides the yeast for the Pruno to ferment. It can be made using a plastic bag, hot running water, and a towel or sock to isolate the pulp during fermentation. A batch that has been heavily steeped in a warm, dark place can deliver a deceptively high proof. Which means it’s usually hidden in a Ziploc in the toilet bowl. Not for connoisseurs.
Prison Fun Fact #37
A shiv (from the Romani word chivomengro, or “knife”) is a slang term for any sharp or pointed implement used as a weapon. Inmates in prisons around the world make shivs. Inmates in prisons around the world frequently puncture each other with them. A shiv can be anything from a glass shard with a rag wrapped around one end to form a handle, to a straightened mattress wire. Toothbrushes can be softened with a lighter and then sharpened against a wall. A “Christmas Tree” is a piece of metal with angular cuts that ensures maximum damage when pulled from a wound.
Prison Fun Fact #44
There are more people in prison in California than there are in college in the entire United States.
Prison Fun Fact #89
Oddly, some people think warehousing delinquent youths has a negative impact on behavior and actually serves to make them exponentially more deviant and a threat to themselves and others. Sociologists call the phenomenon “peer delinquency training.” Penologists have found significantly higher levels of substance abuse, school difficulties, criminal enterprise, and a thirst for random violence in adulthood for offenders detained in group settings versus those who were offered treatment on an outpatient basis.
Huh.
Prison Fun Fact #129
Who needs a tattoo gun to do a tattoo? Improvise, homes! Turns out you can do a tattoo with a sewing needle, or a ballpoint pen with thread wrapped around the end, and India ink. No one in the history of the world has ever regretted getting either Fred Zeppelin or their cellie’s name in huge block letters down their calf. I recommend a nice 18-point Helvetica Bold.
I get the cutie barista laughing the whole time she’s steaming my Americano. I never get the cutie barista laughing the whole time she’s steaming my Americano. Something vital has changed. A door has opened.
It’s almost like she can smell Lacy Duplais on me.
Which means I am now a man. And apparently I am dangerous.
Actually, all we did was kiss.
But I do feel different.
Even as I slide into the booth where Elliot is doing the crossword next to a coffee mug the size of Cameroon.
“Wassup, Thunderdome?”
“Hey,” he says, chewing his pen and rubbing his bald-ass head at the same time. His muttonchops are now in full flourish. His stubble is like wire carpeting. His expression is pure take-no-shit, shut-your-mouth, on a mission, shit-metal-cans-for-breakfast.
I no longer feel very dangerous.
“What’s a twelve-letter word for penchant?” he asks.
El Hella. King of the crosswords.
“How do I know? Fondness?”
“That, my mathematically challenged friend, is only eight letters.”
“Partiality?”
“Ten.”
“Whim?”
“Four.”
“Inclination?”
“Close. Eleven.”
“Soft spot?”
“Two words. Cheating, plus not long enough.”
“Ah, for fuck’s sake. Predilection?”
He looks up and smiles. Actually smiles. And then pencils it in.
“Listen,” I say. “I got good news and slightly less good news.”
“You and Lacy?”
That throws me a bit.
“You saw, huh?”
He stares. “Everyone sa
w. You were practically massaging her tonsils. I thought you weren’t interested.”
“Yeah, I dunno. Anyway, that’s not the news.”
“What is?”
“I found a drummer.”
He tosses the crossword. Finished, except for one long vertical.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. He’s from Balltown. Dropped out of Ball High last year to play online poker.”
“Our drummer’s a dropout?”
“I think it’s more he dropped into some money. He’s, like, a math genius or some shit. He’s probably inventing solar energy this weekend.”
“What’s the not-so-good news?”
I sip my Americano. I clear my throat. I tear my napkin.
“He doesn’t really play drums as much as he plays bongos.”
Elliot’s face drops, like Dad Sudden’s sucked-in gut after the babysitter goes home.
“Bongos in a hardcore band? You’re aware that we are not The Grateful Fred, correct?”
“I know, I know. But listen—”
“We are not REO Fredwagon, am I right?”
“Just listen. I really think—”
“Am I dreaming? Did I just wake up as the guitar player in Bruce Fredsteen and the Fred Street Band?”
“Will you shut up?” I say, way too loud.
People look over at us. He slams some coffee, spilling it down his chin.
“No way. I quit.”
“You are not quitting.”
“You’re right. You’re fired.”
“I am not fired.”
“You’re right. But you’re not in the band anymore. You’re R&D. I just hired you on a no-benefits, minimum-wage temp basis to find a real drummer. And then to find your replacement.”
“A bongo player could be our secret weapon,” I whisper. “Just the sort of unexpected twist a smart band might employ to really stand out at Rock Scene 2013.”
That at least gets him listening.
I lean over. “So we mic each bongo, right? Put on a bunch of distortion. The dude says he can play fast as hell. Says he’s all over the things like a trip-hop octopus. We work it so it’s all reverb and double-timed, so it sounds like he’s playing a whole kit.”
“Ridiculous. Totally hopeless. Zero chance it’ll work.”
I drop my neutron bomb. “No one’s ever done it before.”
El Hella wipes his mouth. He almost starts to smile.
“It’s actually new,” I say. “Sorta, kinda, a little bit new. When’s the last time you heard something new?”
He does some quick calculating on his palm. “There hasn’t been anything new in music since—”
“John Coltrane died.”
“Nineteen sixty-nine.”
“Forty-four years of stasis.”
“Inertia.”
“Status quo.”
“Rote derivation.”
“Boredom.”
“Okay, okay, fine. We try him out. We see.”
“There’s just one other thing,” I say.
“There’s always just one other thing.”
“Dude’s name is Adam.”
“So?”
“Actually, it was Adam. He legally changed it to Chaos.”
“Chaos? Our drummer’s name is Chaos?”
“Yeah. And it’s like, okay, that’s bad enough. But apparently you also gotta pronounce it his way.”
“He’s got a way? Rock star’s got his own special pronunciation?”
“It’s not Chaos. It’s Chowus.”
“Chow this!”
“I know. Believe me. But if you can get by that, he’s actually pretty cool.”
“You met him?”
“We Skyped.”
“You Skyped?”
“Twice.”
“Forget it.”
“And he’s right over there.”
I wave my hand. Chaos walks over, smiling. He looks like James Dean except he’s got that sort of prep-school dirty blond hair that curls behind his ears. He’s wearing shorts, boots, a white T-shirt that says BLANK on it, a vintage button-up sweater that’s supposed to look like Bing Crosby wore it in 1922 and probably cost three hundred bucks, the tiniest little wisp of blond mustache, and a corduroy suit coat. He should be on a sailboat with a golden retriever and a glass of sparkling wine instead of standing next to us.
“Hey, man,” I say as he waits to be invited to sit.
“Hello, Richard.”
“Ritchie.”
“Of course. Wassup, rocker?”
“This is Elliot Hella. Dude I was telling you about.”
Instead of shaking hands, Elliot puts his boots on the empty seat and leans back. His breath smells like a mixture of coffee and kerosene. “Who’re your ten favorite bands, Chowus?”
Chaos grins. He rubs his chin like a mad scientist. “Um, okay, a test? That’s cool. I dig it. The question is, do I name ten acceptably obscure bands so I come across as superhip? Or do I name ten bands that actually made some money, proving my commercial potential? Or do I name ten bands that are lovably semiuncool, thus proving that I am comfortable with my iconoclastic tastes and don’t care enough to try to impress you, thereby impressing you?”
“You’re impressing me, dude,” I say.
El Hella just stares.
Chaos clears his throat. “The Stones, of course. Beggars Banquet to Some Girls with an emphasis on Exile, and in particular anything with Mick Taylor playing lead. Then Roxy Music, just follow the nude album covers. Johnny Thunders. The first three White Stripes, even if, as a commodity, Jack has gotten way tired. Mastodon while driving, fucking, or fighting. Elliott Smith for the alone times. Pavement. My Bloody Valentine. Anything and everything Iggy Pop, especially and eternally the Stooges, but even the embarrassing eighties crap. Is that eight? No, that’s nine. Let me toss the first Fred Zeppelin in there just for Bonham’s cerebellum-abusing drumming.”
There’s a long silence. Elliot looks at me. I look at him.
“Did you just say Fred Zeppelin?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.”
We take a second to recover from the kismet.
“That’s a good list, Chowus,” Elliot finally says. “It’s not my list, not even close, but, you know, I have to say it doesn’t totally suck.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” I say. “But you forgot My Chemical Romance.”
Chaos laughs. “Whatever.”
Elliot doesn’t laugh. He stands up, all gorilla-agitated. His chair clangs to the side.
“What, you think Ritchie was joking?”
“Um, for real, or…?”
Elliot presses closer, hands clenched into fists. “I like My Chemical Romance, Chowus. In fact, they rule. And now I want to know what you think about them.”
The other tables are all watching us. The whole café has quieted.
Chaos turns toward them and holds up one hand. He puts the other hand over his heart. “If you’ll indulge me,” he says in a deep, oratorical voice, “I’d like to deliver a few words on My Chemical Romance.”
“Tell us!” say some girls at another booth, a couple even cute.
“Yeah, tell us,” say some soccer kids, suddenly a congregation. “Testify, hippie!”
“You gotta give it to him—he knows how to work a crowd,” I whisper.
Elliot waves me off while Chaos clears his throat.
“I think, when I think about them at all, I think please with the My Chemical Romance. I think enough with the My Chemical Romance. Um, what’s the one word I can conjure that perfectly describes the My Chemical Romance experience? Oh, wait, I know: total dickless horseshit. Well, that’s three words, but what I mean to say is, I hate them. That’s what I think. In, you know, my opinion. Humbly stated.”
The other booths laugh and cheer. Some people clap. A few people toss rolled-up napkins and Frisbee drink lids. The manager looks over the counter nervously, trying t
o gauge his next move.
“Fuck you. Chem Rome rules,” some big soccer dude says.
Chaos laughs. “Did that guy really just say Chem Rome?”
Other tables laugh, too. Chem is shouted down, hard.
Elliot moves in, inches away from Chaos’s face, all gorilla grill and granite chin.
And then smiles.
The smile.
“That right there is an A-plus answer.”
“Righteous,” Chaos says.
“Thank god,” I say.
“Is the interview over?” Chaos asks. “We haven’t talked salary yet.”
Elliot walks away, calling over his shoulder.
“Ritchie’s mom’s garage. Saturday. Four o’clock. And don’t forget your hippie-ass bongos.”
He slams the door.
Chaos whistles. “That dude is, like, contents under pressure.”
“You did good,” I say. “Real good.”
Chaos shrugs and picks up the crossword, then reaches over and pencils in the final answer, which is Requiem for a Heavyweight.
Yeah, there’s a fight in the dayroom, and yeah, I go. Why? I’m not sure. The degree to which Undercard repels me is overridden by boredom. And fascination. Physical collision. Mindlessness. It makes me nauseated. It ramps me up. It’s dog-level, pack-mind, barking because barking feels good. Lessens the hunger. Eases the fear. Lifts the tail. Unpuckers the arsehole.
Peanut is taking bets in cigarettes. Conner is on his stack-of-chairs throne. The bout is between a tall white kid, who stands like a pro boxer but is trembling, and a short black kid who doesn’t even raise his fists. “Fight, already,” Peanut says in his raspy voice. There’re kids at the doors watching for counselors. Not much time to get the blood on. Peanut kicks the white kid in the back, who moves forward and starts punching the black kid, who doesn’t even try to defend himself. There’s hooting and cheering. The black kid goes down and curls up. The white kid punches and kicks him a few extra times, then raises his fists like vintage Ali.
Peanut collects cigarettes.
I want to puke.
Conner winks.
Peanut looks up, sees me standing there.
He winks, too.
A long pause. And then the pause ends.
Wise Young Fool Page 10