My Custom Van

by Michael Ian Black

  At the center of this melodious scrum was a wild-eyed, long-haired desperado whose name I later found out was Mitch “the Snitch” Greenburg. Mitch was playing the washboard, that humble, anachronistic laundry implement. He was really going at it, too, smacking and shaking and coaxing beautiful music from that thing. Watching Snitch that night, I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Comedy. But I also knew that I would like to learn the washboard. So I approached him after the show and inquired about lessons.

  Mitch just looked at me and laughed. “You can’t learn the washboard, boy,” he said. I found it strange that he was calling me “boy,” because he was only nine years old. “It’s just sumpin’ you feel.” I wanted to know more, but his mom told me Mitch had to get to bed because it was a school night, and she led him away into the misty Alabama night.

  The band was called the Sweet and Sour Catfish Variety Jug Band, and they were all local Alabamans. Their leader was a man who called himself Jessup Lowe. He alternately described himself as a minstrel, an employee of the city parks and rec department, and a werewolf. Personally, I think he was all three. Not literally, of course. I don’t think he really worked for the parks and rec department.

  Jessup lived in a little house on the edge of town with his wife, a mountainous woman named Lilybeth. She played wash bucket bass with the Fish, and she was the only one who could control Jessup’s temper. Jessup got angry when he drank, and he drank a lot. When he got sauced and said something maybe he shouldn’t have, Lilybeth had no problem cocking back her arm and punching him right in the face. That usually shut him up, but not always, and they used to have some terrible brawls. Nowadays, we call that sort of thing a “dysfunctional relationship,” but back then we just called it love.

  Jessup and Lilybeth were the heart and soul of that happy little jug band. There were others, of course, in the group: Snitch on washboard, “Wee” Willie Gladstone on harmonica, Jake “’n Bake” Stickman on fiddle, and Jo “Damn It” Nabbit on the horn. It was a queer group. They never hung out together except for rehearsals and shows. But when they played, they played. Over time, I got to know them all, and Jessup and Lilybeth even offered to let me stay with them the summer after my junior year when I was working on a road crew to make some money. I took them up on it, but moved out the night of the first full moon after Jessup tried to eat my face.

  One day I was hanging out with the band before a gig when they got a call. Mitch had the chicken pox and wouldn’t be able to make it to the show. A jug band without a washboard? That’s like a discotheque without any transvestites: it can still exist, yes, but what’s the point?

  The Fish held a quick meeting. Did I want to sit in? Jake ’n Bake had a spare washboard with him—it was mine for the taking.

  “But I don’t know how to play,” I almost blurted out. But then I remembered what Mitch had said to me all those months before. “It’s just sumpin’ you feel.”

  “Give me that thing,” I said, grabbing it from Jake’s hand. Later, Jake told me I grabbed it too hard, pulling one of his tendons, but at the time he was taken with my enthusiasm and he didn’t want to make me feel bad.

  I’ll never forget that night. It was a big crowd for the group—fifteen—and at least half of them were specifically there to see the band. The rest came for the foosball. But that was fine with us. Jessup always had a theory about the audience. They might be there for the foosball or the $2 pitchers or the wet T-shirt contest, but by the end of the night, they were staying for the Sweet and Sour Catfish Variety Jug Band. His theory was wrong, of course; if they stayed it was mostly because they were alcoholics. But the theory made Jessup feel better, so nobody ever contradicted him.

  When we lit into our first skiffle, I felt as though I’d been playing the washboard all my life. I stomped and slithered and shook that thing within an inch of its life. Lilybeth told me I was a natural, which made me feel great. Then she told me that I was most likely a Crystal Child from another dimension, which made me feel confused. I decided to take the first statement and disregard the second, leaving me feeling great.

  Mitch Greenburg recovered from the pox a short time later and rejoined the band. Shortly after that, I dropped out of Auburn and rode the boxcars for a while with my bindle and my washboard, making music on the rails and in pickup jug bands wherever the trains stopped.

  And then something happened, something called life. Somewhere along the way, I put down my washboard. Got married. Had a couple kids. Bought a house and a couple of Maseratis, helped deliver a baby calf. And one day the skiffle just went out of me. Until, that is, I found myself alone sipping a margarita at a local Mexican joint a couple of years ago. The strolling mariachi trio had just finished their umpteenth rendition of “La Cucaracha” and were packing away their things when I heard a familiar scrittle-scratch coming from behind me. I looked and there was a wild-eyed, long-haired guy, probably twenty-five years old with a kazoo in his mouth and a washboard on his lap. Even under all that clown makeup, I knew I was looking at Mitch Greenburg. He was a washboard-strumming birthday clown and the kids at the party were rapt. I watched Mitch tie some balloon animals, play “Knick Knack Paddy Whack” on the spoons, trip over his big clown shoes, and, of course, strum that beat-up old washboard. Same old Snitch. The kids loved him. So did I.

  I thought about going up to him after the party but decided against it. Instead, I watched him pack his washboard into his polka-dot pickup truck and drive off into the misty Connecticut night. He left that Mexican joint alone, but nobody who plays the washboard so sweet could ever truly be alone.

  As I watched him go, I resolved right then and there that I was going to have my own jug band. The next day I took an ad out in the Pennysaver. “Wanted,” I wrote, “Scalawags and Broom Jumpers for an Old-Fashioned Good Time Jug Band.”

  Soon the Salt Cracker Crazies were born. If you ever want to hear some down-home jug band tunes, give us a call. We’re not the greatest musicians in the world, but we’ve got a lot of heart and a lot of nicknames. Besides, jug band music isn’t something you hear—it’s something you feel. With your ears. You ear-feel it. Which, I guess technically, is the same thing as hearing.

  Chapter 19 of My Science Fiction Epic, The Pirates of Dagganon 6, Which I Am Only Able to Write Because of a Generous Grant from the Makers of Barq’s Root Beer

  CHAPTER 19

  Sassalak!

  Tridor slammed the qibec crystals into overdrive, but they had no effect. The propulsion force was simply too strong. Ahead, the dark planet pulled them toward it, and there was nothing they could do.

  “Divert all power to main thrusters,” Tridor yelled.

  “She won’t hold together!” barked Aga, her skin changing from a mottled green to a fiery crimson. She was even more beautiful red.

  Tridor pushed the chameleoform’s beauty from his mind and responded, “Either we punch this baby out of here now or we end up in the clutches of Starforce Security. And I don’t think any of us wants that.”

  Aga nodded and sprinted from the command deck. He spoke into the com. “Twi-Twi, where are you?”

  The naraboo’s familiar chirp came back at him almost instantly. The little guy was probably trying to figure out how to wring more power from the pneumatic crystal drive. One good thing about naraboos: they were tiny, but they sure were feisty.

  Tridor opened up a cold Barq’s root beer and contemplated his options. None of them were good. Maybe they could escape the planet’s gravitational field, but then what? The qibec crystals would be depleted, leaving the pirate ship drifting hopelessly through the quadrant. Or they could allow themselves to descend to the Sassalak surface. But then what? Starforce Security would be tracking them. The moment the ship touched land, they’d throw him and his crew into a laser cell. Once in, it was unlikely any of them would ever get out. There had to be another way. But what was it? Tridor took another sip from his Barq’s. The drink’s sharp effervescence gave him an idea.

 
“Aga, Twi-Twi—get your pirate butts up here now!”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before the chameleoform and naraboo were at his side. Twi-Twi whistled and chirruped in his peculiar patois: What were they going to do? Aga looked on with interest. Her red skin had faded to a grayish pink. He understood the mood underneath the hue—like the rest of the crew, she was tense and anxious.

  “I was drinking this Barq’s root beer when I had a thought—”

  “Those are delicious,” whistled Twi-Twi.

  “Quiet, damn it!” Twi-Twi’s furry face fell. Ordinarily, Tridor hated to yell at his little friend, but they were running out of time.

  “Sorry, boss,” he chirped.

  Tridor grunted, and pointed to the frothy glass of root beer. “Look at how these bubbles float to the surface.” Aga and Twi-Twi crowded around the glass. It was true. Hundreds of bubbles floated up from the bottom. The carbonation produced air bubbles that were lighter than the surrounding liquid. The bubbles not only helped give Barq’s its bite but also provided a possible way out of the trio’s predicament. Tridor explained his idea, watching as Aga’s shade turned from pink to a confused gray to an excited canary yellow. She understood!

  The pirates ran (and in Twi-Twi’s case, flew) toward the airlock. They would only have one chance at this. Already, the ship was beginning to jostle as it hit Sassalak’s thick atmosphere. Only minutes ago, Tridor was cursing his luck at emerging from hyperspace into the Sassalak system, but now he thought maybe it had been a blessing in disguise. The three space pirates fastened themselves into their oxygen exchange suits and waited for Tridor’s signal.

  Outside, methane swirled around the ship in roiling clouds. If Starforce Security didn’t know they were there yet, they would soon.

  “Unidentified cruiser, identify yourself!” There they were. Right on cue. The transmission was partially garbled. Tridor tried to buy some time.

  “Repeat. Repeat, please.” Tridor signaled to his compatriots to stand by. Aga began turning an impatient purple. A couple more seconds was all they needed. Just enough time to break through the thickest part of the atmosphere.

  “Unidentified cruiser, this is Starforce Security. If you do not identify yourself immediately, you will be intercepted and boarded.”

  How would he explain a ship filled to bursting with powdered carjamin seeds, the most valuable plant in the galaxy? Answer—he couldn’t.

  “Uh, yes, Starforce Security. We are the Gamma Pole agriship from the United States of Earth,” Tridor improvised as his finger hovered over the dump button. “We’re carrying a load of hydropods. Our paperwork should be in order.”

  Twi-Twi whistled as the sky began to lighten. Any second now.

  “We don’t have any records of a Gamma Pole. Please hover and prepare to be boarded.”

  “Board THIS!” screamed Tridor, flipping off the transmitter and swigging down the rest of his icy cold Barq’s; the last swig was as good as the first. “NOW!” he yelled to his fellow pirates.

  Four hands and twelve naraboo fingers began feverishly dumping the ship’s nitrogen and hydrogen. The dense air outside began lifting the ship. They had become like one of those carbonated bubbles; the ship rose, accelerating as it went.

  “It’s working!” yelled Aga.

  “Not yet it’s not,” muttered Tridor. Soon they were in the methane exosphere. This was the crucial part of the plan. If he’d calculated correctly, the thick methane would react with the nitrogen blowing from their ship, causing the ship to rocket from the planet as if it were a carbonation bubble in a shaken bottle of scintillating Barq’s root beer.

  “Hang on!” Tridor screamed, although the warning was unnecessary. Aga was strapped to her chair, her skin blending in with the fabric. Twi-Twi was strapped to Tridor, his tiny fingers grasping Tridor’s pant leg. The ship began rumbling, quaking. Either they were going to be ejected from the planet’s atmosphere or the superstructure would crumble from the stress.

  A red warning light blinked on the control board. The qibec crystals were overheating! If it didn’t happen soon, it never would. Tridor could see the ship’s hull contracting and buckling around him.

  Suddenly, they heard a loud BANG! The ship was speeding up, accelerating past its tolerance threshold. Aga screamed. Tridor caught Twi-Twi’s eyes. They were round but unexpressive. Brave little naraboo, he thought as he felt his body pushed to the floor. We’re not going to make it, he thought. The ship wouldn’t hold, and it was all his fault.

  And then, just like that, they were free. Far behind was Sassalak. They were back in the Ungoverned Territories.

  Slowly the three space pirates picked themselves up from the floor, inspecting themselves and one another for injuries. There were none.

  “We did it,” said Tridor.

  “You did it,” said Aga, turning an expressive green. He’d never seen that color on her before, but he knew exactly what it meant. “Excuse us, Twi-Twi,” said Aga, moving toward the man who only days before had been her sworn enemy.

  Twi-Twi fluttered from the room.

  Tridor, the confident ship’s captain, suddenly found himself at a loss for words. His throat felt dry as the chameleoform approached. “Barq’s?” he asked, holding up a can of the refreshing soft drink that had saved their lives that day, as it had so many times before.

  “Maybe later,” she said, kissing him. “You’re going to need it.”

  My Top 50 New Year’s Resolutions

  1. Quit smoking. This one is easy because I don’t smoke.

  2. Lose weight. Also easy because I am anorexic.

  3. Kill at least one large animal. Kind of a weird resolution, I know, but I figure killing a large animal (like an elk or a moose) is something every man should do at least once. I’m going to do it this year. The twist? I’m going to use anthrax.

  4. Get the tires rotated on my car. Self-explanatory and, again, easy.

  5. Make interstellar travel a reality. This one is a little more ambitious considering my limited skills set (“When I Finally Get Around to Building My Robot, This Is What It Will Be Like”), but somebody’s got to do it, and it might as well be me. It seems like the key is figuring out how to get around the fact that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. Once I do that, the rest should be a piece of cake.

  6. Stop referring to my wife as “my little homunculus.”

  7. Fewer rampages.

  8. Give Katie Couric a shot on the CBS Evening News. She’s been struggling in the ratings, and I certainly haven’t been doing my part to help. Besides, it’s very hard to jerk off to Charles Gibson.

  9. Use more Axe body spray.

  10. Go deep undercover. Even if it’s not for any particular purpose. Just infiltrate some organization. Any organization at all.

  11. Learn typesetting and harmonica.

  12. Take more photographs of morbidly obese people at water parks.

  13. Witness a murder.

  14. Start collecting ivory. So beautiful and increasingly hard to collect; prices will undoubtedly skyrocket if elephants become extinct. Kill elephants, which would also take care of resolution #3.

  15. Write a highly successful, fictionalized memoir of my drug abuse and subsequent jail time.

  16. Do everything in my power to destroy Tom Hanks.

  17. Finally invent “ice cream burrito.” I’ve been talking about this for years and haven’t done anything about it. One day somebody’s going to get there first and I’m going to be kicking myself.

  18. Either develop scoliosis or quit talking about developing scoliosis. As far as scoliosis goes, this year is definitely “shit or get off the pot” time.

  19. Give panhandling a real chance.

  20. Commit grand larceny. What am I going to steal? That’s easy. A backhoe.

  21. Apply for every credit card that comes in the mail. Ideally, I will end up with a different credit card for every day of the year. Once I have them all, I will withdraw the maximum c
ash advance I can on every single one and then fake my own death.

  22. Ferret out J. D. Salinger in order to tell him that I think The Catcher in the Rye is a really good book.

  23. More cornholing.

  24. Compile definitive list of “Best American Fudge Shops.” Sell list for a hundred dollars a pop. Sit back and watch the money roll in.

  25. Learn the lesson that playing grabby ass isn’t fun for waitresses.

  26. Get trademark on word “crantastic,” used to describe a particularly delicious cranberry.

  27. Figure out a way to get legit handicap plates without becoming legitimately handicapped.

  28. Give strangers more advice about how to raise their children. While I do not claim to be an expert in raising children, I do have some pretty strong opinions on the subject, developed over years of doing things exactly right.

  29. Stop relying on my salt lick to get my daily allowance of salt. It grosses people out and there are definitely better ways to get my iodine.

  30. Quit showboating. It only pisses people off, especially when it’s over stupid stuff (like being the tallest person in the library, etc.).

  31. Don’t call in bomb threats to get out of dental appointments. This is, without a doubt, one of my worst habits.