Wise Young Fool

by Sean Beaudoin

  “I’m in.”

  “Yup.”

  “Me, too.”

  An hour later we roll over the dusty gravel outside Spider Webb’s Tat Emporium. There’s a big sign in the window with a fist giving the world the middle finger. Underneath it says, MANAGEMENT RESERVES THE RIGHT TO TELL YOU TO GO SCREW.

  The place is empty, art over all the walls, real fifties stuff like hula girls and screaming eagles and Betty Boops. In back there’s a desk with a dude standing behind it. He’s beyond grizzled, a bearded old crank with an Aunt Jemima bandanna, gray ponytail, and not an uninked inch on his arms, legs, or neck. In other words, exactly what you’d expect Spider Webb to look like.

  “You the Spider?” Chaos asks.

  He doesn’t bother to answer, inspecting his ink guns. After a while he looks up, sizes us up, frowns.

  “I can’t do you if you’re drunk.”

  “We’re not drunk.”

  “I can’t do you if you’re under eighteen.”

  “We’re all eighteen.”

  “I can’t do you if you have hepatitis.”

  “No hepatitis here.”

  “Crabs, maybe,” I say, “but no hep.”

  Elliot laughs. Lacy elbows me in the spine. Spider rubs his eyes in a way that makes it clear that the weight of both life’s experience and the immutability of youth’s colossal dumbassedness is presently crushing his very soul. “Yeah, fine, whatever. One of you delinquents get in the chair before I change my mind.”

  Elliot goes first. He gets WISE between his shoulder blades, the letters all filled with these cool Escher-like geometric patterns.

  Chaos goes next. He gets YOUNG between his shoulder blades, each letter bursting into a different-colored flame.

  I go next. And get FOOL between my shoulder blades, the F and L shaped like bent metal, bolts and rust and spot-welds at the joints.

  Lacy, her dyed red hair slicked up into a mean and pointy Mohawk, gets a pretty cool Godzilla plucking a stand-up bass on her calf. Underneath, surrounded by musical notes, it says NEVER THE WISER. When she cries out, Elliot holds her hand, kisses her forehead.

  The concerned boyfriend.

  It’s astonishing.

  And sorta cool.

  Maybe he’s human after all.

  When the Spider has finished his last spiky flourish, we pool our cash to pay and amazingly come up with fifty extra. So Chaos goes back for seconds and gets a mug of coffee on his biceps. In the steam, rising off the swirling java, are the words ALL IS CHAOS in cursive. Spider does it in such a way that you don’t even realize they’re words unless you look really close.

  It’s true art. The work of a master.

  “It should say All Is Chowus,” Elliot says. Lacy laughs too hard. Spider Webb doesn’t laugh at all.

  We’re checking out our new ink in the full-length mirror when two biker-moms come in and push past us like they’re regulars. One gets a shamrock on her ankle, the other a pink unicorn. We’re standing there watching, until the Spider tells us to fuck the fuck off already.

  So we do.

  Ring. Gring. Gring.

  It’s Saturday morning. I mute the phone in the middle of Stiff Little Fingers going, “Inflammable material is planted in my head, it’s a suspect device that’s left 2,000 dead!” Three times. I don’t know about my head but there’s a serious pain between my shoulder blades, the skin sore beyond belief. It’s either from my new ink, or the fact that Ravenna spent most of the night using me like a cheap pair of skis she was grinding through moguls on.

  Afterward, we spooned up on the tiny dorm bed.

  “Hey, did you know you have Fool tattooed on your back?”

  “Um, yes, I was dimly aware.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Wise,” I said. “Young.”

  “You lost a bet and someone had to be the fool?”

  “Nope. I wanted to be the fool. In fact, I almost had to fight for it.”

  She drew me closer, pressing her sweaty stomach against my sweaty back.

  “But why?”

  “Because I’m not afraid of the fool. I embrace him.”

  “Embrace who?”

  “The idea that I know nothing. That I never will. That people who think they do are delusional. That the only thing you can genuinely know is the vast expanse of what you will never understand.”

  She bit my arm. “If I wanted to screw a philosophy major, I would have used a priori in a sentence out on the quad.”

  We took turns laughing and then fell asleep at almost exactly the same time.

  Twenty minutes later the phone goes off again. It doesn’t seem to bother Ravenna, who snores as softly as possible, the noise a milk-sotted kitten might make. Her roommate, on the other hand, sprawled on the other bunk with tissue stuffed in her ears, looks up, pissed.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, god, Ritchie.”

  It’s Lacy Duplais.

  “Who is this?”

  “Not now, asshole. He got Elliot.”

  “Who?”

  “Spence Proffer.”

  “Got him? What do you mean, got him?”

  “It’s bad.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The hospital.”

  “In Sackville?”

  “No, the ER off the highway.”

  I jump up, yank my pants on.

  “Where are you going?” Ravenna yawns. “I thought we were getting breakfast.”

  “I know, but I can’t.”

  “Wait, so you’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, babe. I’m sorry, it’s just…”

  She sits up. The sheet falls to her waist.

  “Just what?”

  “Elliot. He—”

  “Whatever,” she says, showing me her palm like a traffic cop. “Run back to your boyfriend. Run back to Sackville.”

  “Where I belong?”

  “Where you obviously want to be more than here.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Zo go, already!” the roommate yells in her French accent.

  Ravenna and the roommate start going at it. I duck out and run down to the Saab, which for once, starts on the first kick.

  Lacy meets me by the nurses’ station. She’s all teary and shaky and freaked out. Her Mohawk has lost its stiff and is listing badly to one side. Her skull is unbearably cute.

  “Elliot’s sleeping.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She kicks at an insurance form someone dropped.

  “So we were running through vocals and then took a break, just sitting out on the lawn having a smoke. This car screeches up. A Mustang. Proffer’s drunk, yelling shit about his mom. What is this about his mom, Ritchie?”

  “I, uh… I got no clue.”

  “I mean, that’s crazy, right?”

  “Totally.”

  “Then Spence takes off his shirt and starts throwing punches.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “Yeah. I was screaming. I couldn’t pull him off. He wouldn’t stop until two neighbors came over with shovels. There was blood everywhere.”

  “I should have been there,” I say, my throat catching. “I should have…”

  Lacy Duplais puts her arms around me, and I hug her tight.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Hey, is that Fuckhead I hear out there?” Elliot yells.

  I let go of her and run into the room. Elliot’s on a metal bed, under a blanket, some cuts and bruises, smiling. There’s a big scab in his hairline. One of his eyes is swollen pretty good. That’s it.

  “What the hell, man? I thought you were all messed up?”

  He waves my comment away. “Nah, I’m fine.”

  Lacy’s right behind me, grabbing my arm. “No, that’s what I was trying to tell you. I meant—”

  “Meant what?”

  “I meant I was trying to pull
Elliot off Spence. Before the cops came.”

  I look at grinning El Hella. Bruised El Hella.

  “Wait, you kicked Spence Proffer’s ass?”

  “Yup.”

  “No way.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “But… how?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno. Side of beef ran at me. I swung the bass.”

  “You clocked him with your bass?”

  “Yeah. Caught him good. He went down. But then he got up.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah. He punched me a lot. But I guess I punched him more. To be honest I don’t really remember.” He makes a grrr sound. “I went animal.”

  “He went animal,” Lacy confirmed, rubbing Elliot’s arm. “Like, seriously Rottweiler.”

  “So…”

  “So you should see Spence. He’s three doors down.”

  “Get out.”

  “Get in. He’s there.” Elliot makes a weird face. “Maybe not alone.”

  “Huh,” I say.

  “Yeah. Huh.”

  I head down the hallway. It’s true.

  Spence is in the same kind of bed Elliot’s in, except he’s out cold. Or just asleep. He’s got a drip in his arm, the other one in a cast, bandages wrapped from his torso to his neck.

  On a chair next to him is Angie Proffer, a little teary-eyed. She looks up. “Are you a friend of Spence’s?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “I’m Todd. We go to Sackville together.”

  “Thanks for coming, Todd.”

  “Of course. How is he?”

  She rummages around in her pocketbook and pulls out a pack of smokes. Her hair is blond, dirty, pulled back in a ponytail. She has dark eyes, Spence’s angry nostrils, a weary face, nice legs. She looks like she knows exactly how fucked up every single thing in the world is, and then some. She lights the cigarette. There’s a NO SMOKING! sign right behind her head.

  “You’re not going to turn me in, are you, Todd?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She nods. “Spence will be okay. Broken arm. A few ribs. Possible concussion. Some bruises. He’ll be here over the weekend, at least. The doctors say nothing permanent.”

  “Great news. But what happened?”

  She stares, haloed by light coming in the window. “Spence seems to have picked one fight too many.”

  It’s my turn to nod.

  “Ever since his father left? He’s been so angry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “His father was no saint, you know?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Anyway, it finally caught up to him.”

  “So, no pressing charges?”

  She frowns. “I don’t imagine so. The police used the phrase mutual combat. Besides, believe it or not, they’ve got a great insurance plan at the restaurant. So at least this is covered.”

  “Terrific. Okay, well, I gotta—”

  “You’re Elliot’s friend, aren’t you? The one in the band?”

  I consider lying, don’t.

  “Yeah.”

  She stubs out her smoke. “You can go now, friend.”

  I run back to Elliot’s room, hug him and Lacy until they both tell me to lay off.

  “Oh my god, dude, you are so my hero.”

  “Nah,” Elliot says, turning pink. “Just protecting my own, you know?”

  Lacy kisses his cheek.

  “You mean the band’s equipment?”

  Lacy gives me the finger.

  “To be honest, I actually feel a little bad for ol’ Spence.”

  It pops out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying. I immediately recognize it as empathy, unfamiliar but potent.

  To my surprise, Elliot says, “I know what you mean.”

  “You do?”

  “The only thing that guy had going was invincibility. And now all he’s got left are bruises.”

  We all sort of muse on that for a minute, chewing the profounda-cud, and then the nurse comes in and says it’s time to sign Elliot out.

  Our Band Needs Five Things Nothing:

  1. We got a bass player who kicked Spence Proffer’s ass. What does your lame band got?

  Four kids rush me.

  Instead of facing them, I run over and grab Conner by the pant legs. He’s so surprised he just sits there watching. I rear back and yank him off his throne. He comes crashing down onto the floor with a yelp.

  No one moves, stunned.

  Conner lies there, holding his head.

  He actually looks scared.

  Or maybe just insanely pissed.

  Both, definitely.

  I scramble up the stack of chairs, to the top of his throne, almost losing my balance. When I turn around, it feels like I’m towering six miles above the crowd.

  They’re looking at me, looking at each other, not sure what to do except slowly move in.

  I spread my arms and raise my chin.

  “Get him!” Conner yells.

  Peanut has something at his side, metal.

  It flashes in the thin light.

  The throne is surrounded.

  I am surrounded.

  But then I do something really,

  totally,

  and completely crazy.

  I open my mouth.

  And start to sing.

  It stops them all cold.

  “Okay, so we’re meeting at my place at six, right?” Elliot says in the hospital parking lot. “Then we’ll pack up the cars and all drive to the Question Mark to load in?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t need the cars. I got that covered.”

  “What do you mean, you got that covered?”

  “Trust me.”

  Elliot looks at Lacy. She shrugs. “You want to come back with us? Run through a few last vocals?”

  “No, I got something to do.”

  El Hella frowns. “Today of all days, what else you got to do?”

  “Pick up Ravenna. She’s coming to the show.”

  Lacy’s eyes go dark. “I’ll get the car.” Elliot hands her the keys and she walks off.

  “So that’s where you been all week, huh? I thought you were becoming Jim Morrison’s ghost.”

  I tell him about Sigourney. The sets. The apartment. The sex.

  “I should have known. Jesus. I should have known by that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “Um, Ritchie Sudden no longer furious at the world and all its faults? Ritchie Sudden being understanding and kind? Ritchie Sudden, suddenly neck deep in amor. Ha!”

  I can feel my cheeks burn. “She’s not what you think. What I thought. Ravenna’s actually pretty amazing. For one thing—”

  He holds his hand up. “Don’t bother, dude. If it’ll make you play better, go get your chick. I’m all for it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So does Lacy make you play better?”

  Elliot doesn’t even blink. “Without question.”

  Lacy Duplais, improver of men, pulls up in the Black Widow’s Renault. “Can we go, already?”

  Elliot grins. “What’s she pissed about, you figure?”

  I can’t tell if that means he knows Lacy and I slept together or that he has no clue Lacy and I slept together. That he’s cool with it or not cool with it. That he’s going to tell me or not tell me. That at some point I’ll have to ’fess up or deny. That it will forever be a problem or something we’ll just bury.

  Actually, Lacy probably told him first thing, before they even kissed, because she’s smart and cool and honest.

  Unlike me.

  “Girls, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  Elliot lowers himself gingerly into the passenger seat. “But whatever you do, don’t be late.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

  “I am not even remotely fucking around.”

  “Spence-slayer? I promise I will never, ever do anything to make you mad again.” />
  He nods, satisfied.

  “Don’t. Be. Late,” Lacy says, giving me the hook-horn metal fingers, and then squeals away.

  The guy at the security gate, a big blustery dude in a red uniform, is not feeling my act. He sees steam coming from under the hood of the Saab and shakes his head no.

  I don’t have time for blustery. I don’t have time for red uniforms.

  “I’m going in,” I say.

  He pretends to consult his clipboard. He does not raise the gate.

  “There is no way I am not going in.”

  “That’s a double negative, son.”

  “Listen, man, I have a huge gig tonight. This is important.”

  He shakes his head no again, but I can see his resolve beginning to crumble.

  “What kind of gig?”

  “Rock and roll, dude,” I lie.

  “Really?”

  “How can I bust out my best chops if my old lady’s not backstage?”

  He laughs, sighs, wipes his neck, and then waves me through with two fingers.

  I’ve got four hours, tops, to get Ravenna dressed and ready before roaring back to Sackville. I picture all the dudes at the show seeing her with me. On my arm. The crowd parting. The insane jealousy. Every single guy there wondering why they never learned to play guitar. Why some guys get the hottest girls and others are left to learn science and shit.

  Me and Ravenna: the first couple of punk.

  I park and hotfoot it across the quad just as her roommate bangs out the dorm’s front door. She gives me an evil smile, says something under her breath that sounds a whole lot like blind leading the blind, without a trace of a French accent, and keeps going.

  “Real good to see you, too,” I say. “Have a great weekend.”

  My hand’s on the knob when Ravenna herself floats out. Behind her is this guy I half recognize. It takes a second to place him, but then I realize he played the teen mechanic in Return of the Starfighter Squad.

  Sigourney’s brother. Jensen Partman’s son.

  Has to be.

  He’s small and finely featured, almost prettier than he is ridiculously handsome.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, like a cow up on a hook, hit between the eyes with a beef hammer. In the span of one afternoon Ravenna has managed to seriously trade up. Or maybe she’s been doing it since the party. Bait and switch. Lever and fulcrum. Donkey and carrot. With every breath, things make a little more sense. Or maybe a little less.