Blazed

by Jason Myers

  “Looking good and you’re early,” she says, when I walk in.

  She’s standing behind the counter, working the register, and she’s wearing a pair of super-short, supertight white cutoff jean shorts with black stockings covering the rest of her legs.

  Her hair is the same as it was on Friday except for this wicked fucking pheasant tail feather that’s been braided into it.

  A large gold earring that says Fila dangles from her left ear and a black cross hangs from the right one.

  But the best thing, besides her face, tits, and smile, is the dope sweater she’s wearing. It’s black with the face of a white wolf painted on the front. She also wearing a white collared shirt under the sweater with the collar tucked into it.

  “How’s your day?” I ask her.

  “Pretty good,” she says. Man, her smile is contagious. I can’t help a grin as big as hers spreading across my face. “And yours?”

  “Better now.” I can’t believe I said that.

  “Good,” she goes.

  This older but really flamboyant gay dude with a shaved head, a goatee, and a gut comes up behind Dominique and grabs her shoulders.

  “Is this him?” he says.

  “It is,” she goes. “Jaime, Chuck. Chuck, Jaime.”

  “Oh my,” he gasps, both his hands touching his cheeks. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been listening to this princess going on and on and on about you all dang day. And believe me, sweetie, this girl rarely has anything nice to say about boys. Especially since Ricky.”

  “Chuck,” Dominique snaps. For the first time, I see her smile disappear and turn into anger. “No,” she goes. “No.”

  Chuck turns to her and puts a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he gasps. “I pulled the Band-Aid right off of—”

  “Hey,” she snaps, cutting him off and shaking her head. “Stop, please.”

  Chuck tells her he’s sorry again and then gives her a hug. She glances at me while he does this. There’s hurt in her eyes and anger, too.

  I’m curious, but it’s none of my business. Clearly. And then Chuck tells Dominique she can leave.

  She heads into the kitchen to grab her backpack, and then Chuck turns to me and says, “Don’t be weirded out now, Jaime.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good,” he goes. “She’s an angel and deserves to be treated like one.”

  “Whoa,” I say. “I’m a nice dude, so it’s fine, but we’re just kicking it for a couple of hours and that’s it.”

  Chuck starts laughing hysterically and says, “Oh please, Jaime. Please.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Maybe you are.” He shrugs. “But just look at that girl. That’s perfection. Perfection . . . and what I’ve come to find out in my many years on this great place is that perfection often makes people do things they normally wouldn’t do.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “So many guys come after her, so many, Jaime.”

  Pause.

  “And she’s picky.”

  Another pause.

  “Now you’re here and she’s floating.”

  “So what?”

  “I’m just saying, young man. She can have anyone and you’re the one who’s here.”

  I look away.

  “You,” he goes.

  “And that’s exactly why I’m so skeptical,” I mutter. “I still don’t get it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” I tell him.

  “Okay,” he goes.

  Dominique rolls back out from the kitchen and around the counter and I race to the door and open it for her, and when she walks by me, my nostrils smell perfume, peaches and cream, and maybe even some strawberries.

  So basically, they smell heaven as all those butterflies from the other day converge back in my stomach and start making some noise.

  52.

  I IMMEDIATELY TELL DOMINIQUE ABOUT the devil Feeder show or spectacle or whatever it’s gonna end up being, and she’s super down and we start walking toward the Mission.

  “So tell me about Vicious Lips,” I say, as we stop at a crosswalk and wait for the light to change.

  “We’re vicious,” she says. “So fucking vicious.”

  “I bet.”

  “You tell me about us,” she goes. “Come on now, man. I know you Googled the fuck out of us once you heard the name.”

  The light changes and we cross this wide, foresty street called Dolores.

  “You’re good,” I tell her. “And I did do exactly that.”

  “So indulge me then. And when you’re finished, I’ll tell you a little bit about Tiger Stitches.”

  “You found that?”

  “It wasn’t hard at all, man. And it’s really, really damn good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So Vicious Lips,” she goes.

  “Right. That fucking band.”

  Vicious Lips:

  I smoked an Oxy last night around two in the morning, then started digging.

  They’re a three-piece band with Dominique on keyboards, percussion, and main vocals. This other black chick, Keisha California, plays guitar, and then this skinny white hipster, Mark Hopless, drums.

  The girls are sixteen and Mark is eighteen, and they’re pretty goddamn productive and ambitious. Kristen was right, too, they’ve got some decent cred.

  Their EP, their only release so far, called Songs About Kissing, has three four-star reviews from some pretty dope music blogs that I respect, like the MOJO magazine website, which had this to say about the record.

  Pulling inspiration from nearly every genre imaginable, Vicious Lips paints a gorgeous, dreamlike world on the surface, all the while creating an incredibly dark, edgy, and dare I say dangerous landscape just beneath the soft gleam. The combination is as sexy as it is unnerving, which almost feels like the same thing when you’re listening to this wonderful debut. Obviously, the name of the EP pays homage to the great and seminal Big Black, which I personally found to be endearing and provoking, since I came up in Chicago during the rise of Touch and Go Records. Plain and simple, this music is stunning, original, and profound. Vicious Lips does an incredible job of controlling the chaos it openly invites into every song. These fucking kids—yes, kids—are creating complex, thoughtful music most decent bands don’t achieve until their fourth or fifth record, if they ever achieve it at all. That’s fucking crazy to me. And it’s so damn endearing. There is hope for this generation after all. Songs About Kissing is one of the best debuts in recent years, and easily one of the best records of the year. Like, all I want is some goddamn more right now. No pressure at all, kiddos.

  The tracks are listed on their Bandcamp page like this:

  1. Furry Forests

  2. The Chocolate Balloon

  3. Crushes

  4. Wet Kisses

  5. The Fury & the Night

  Besides the awesome reviews, they’ve also got some great write-ups in the SF Bay Guardian and the SF Weekly. They’ve played over forty shows in the less than a year they’ve existed as a band, and they even went on a mini West Coast tour with this band from San Francisco that I fucking love called Social Studies.

  “So pretty much,” I tell Dominique while we stand in front of this huge brick building on Fourteenth and Mission known as the Armory. “Pretty much you guys fucking rule. I personally loved all the songs, with ‘Crushes’ probably being my favorite, I guess.”

  Dominique is glowing, which she should be. She deserves the praise. The music is that good.

  “And lastly, ya know, Vicious Lips is kinda who I wanna be when I grow up.”

  Dominique bursts into laughter. “Yes,” she says, while catching her breath. “Just yes!”

  “So there ya go.”

  “That was really nice, Jaime,” she tells me after a deep breath.

  “Good. I’m glad you liked it.”

  She leans into me, nudging me with her arm and saying, “I liked it a lot. You’re really
thoughtful and sweet.”

  My jaw clenches tight. “Good,” I say. “I’m glad you think that.”

  “Really?” she goes. “It doesn’t look like you do.”

  I look away and say, “It’s just that you don’t know me.”

  “So what?”

  “That means everything.”

  “No,” she says. “It doesn’t.” She grabs my hand. “This right here, right now, this is what matters. I know you right now and it’s wonderful.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “And that’s what’s important. This here, right now.”

  53.

  MOTHERFUCKING DEVIL FEEDER. YES! ALMOST two blocks away from the Twenty-Fourth Street BART station, I can see the Live 105 banner hanging high over a plastic table. It’s sorta busy too, although I have no idea how many people are around to see these two dudes shred.

  “Awesome,” I say.

  “They’re crazy,” says Dominique. “They’ve got a generator and everything.”

  “Yeah. They sounded so serious about it last night. Like this is a show for them right now. A real show.”

  “How long have they been around?”

  “Eddie said something like six or seven months.”

  “What’s it sound like?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “They wanted me to hear it for the first time today. I think Brandon said they’ve put out four EPs online.”

  “Damn. And I thought my band was ambitious.”

  “They do it differently than you guys,” I say.

  “Obviously,” she says. “Look at them. And this . . . it’s impressive and a great fucking idea about stealing that banner. Like, look at all the people who have stopped just to watch. Not only does the banner give them some extra time, these people probably think that Devil Feeder is some sorta new, big deal. One of the next big things.”

  “Maybe they are,” I say.

  “Could be,” she goes. “I love it.”

  We cross the street at Twenty-Third and turn right on the sidewalk toward them.

  “Eddie says that every week or two weeks tops, they record five new songs on some shitty mic and just load the tracks right up.”

  “Interesting,” she says. “I dig that concept if it’s right for your band. Like us kids right now, this generation, the amazing tools we have to push our art onto other people, it’s so incredible and immense. You have to be really lazy not to have a presence for your art right now. Everything’s at your fingertips, you just gotta push yourself. The kids who don’t, they’re just not serious, or they’re entitled, or again, pure fucking lazy.”

  “I was saying the same sorta thing to my father when we were on the plane flying here. He was shocked at how good my music collection was for my age and my knowledge about all these amazing bands and their history. And I told him pretty much exactly what you just said. All the fucking information about these bands and records can be pulled up in a second online. All that great music is there after typing in a couple of keywords. It’s so easy if you really fucking love this stuff. I mean, I knew more about Black Flag’s first four years when I was nine than I’ve known about Britney Spears, even though I like a couple of her tracks.”

  “So do I,” says Dominique.

  “ ‘Everytime,’ ” I say. “That one especially just because of that—”

  “Scene in Spring Breakers,” the two of us say together.

  “That’s one of the best scenes I’ve ever seen in my life,” Dominique shouts. “It was so good.”

  “Totally,” I go. “That movie is definitely in my top ten of all time.”

  “Easily,” she says back. “Without a doubt.”

  While we wait at the last intersection before Twenty-Fourth for the light to turn red, Dominique, she swings her arm gently into me and then slides her fingers down my skin and wraps them around mine.

  I swing my eyes over to her and she’s looking at me already.

  This is the fucking dream, right? This is what boys are supposed to live for. This is how we’re supposed to gain our entry into manhood. By satisfying those curious, painful needs. By taking something sweet like this and claiming it and making it ours. By waiting for the night her parents finally go out, then ordering her to take off all her clothes and lie on her bed. By pushing her legs wider and putting your mouth on her wet, tight pussy. By making sure her eyes never leave yours after you’ve stuck yourself inside of her. And by placing your hands around her gentle neck and squeezing it a tiny bit when you come as you try to fend off the shame and guilt that immediately arrive because you weren’t supposed to do that, even if you were. Even if it’s the only way to not be called a “pussy” and a “faggot” and a “loser.”

  I turn my head the other way quickly and pull my hand away from hers.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  Shaking my head, I say, “Nothing.”

  “Hey,” she says, putting an arm over my shoulders. “It’s okay, ya know.”

  “What is?”

  “Letting yourself be happy,” she says.

  “That’s not what this is.”

  “What is it then?”

  I start to say something but stop.

  What am I doing right now?

  Why am I so fucked up in the head?

  Dominique hugs me, then slides her face into the side of my neck. It’s so warm and calm. Every hair on my body stands straight up.

  “Jaime Miles,” she says, after lifting her head back up.

  “That’s me.”

  “You fucking rock, dude. And so do I. Like that’s that, plain and simple.”

  “Plain and simple, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  I shrug and then grab her hand.

  I say, “The next time something is plain and simple will be the first time for me.”

  “Perfect,” she says. “I’m hoping this trip is all about some fantastic first times for you, ya know.”

  My dick gets hard as we cross the street.

  54.

  I’D SAY DEVIL FEEDER GOT maybe six minutes of shredding in before two cop cars and four pigs shut the shitshow down. They sounded tough, though. Eddie played a fucking Rickenbacker bass through a Rivera guitar amp. He’s left-handed too, which is cool to watch.

  It was so huge, the sound I’m talking about. Big and massive. It was fierce too, and I really mean that.

  Just so fierce and aggressive.

  Like if I had to build a family of bands that could take them in and adopt them, it’d be like 400 Blows, Daughters, Federation X, and Coachwhips, cos of all the dirty reverb Eddie has feeding back to him from the microphone.

  Anyway, they mowed down their first song, “Narc Dies Hard,” to a crowd of at least forty people, who prolly had no idea why two kids dressed in all white denim with huge sunglasses covering their faces were center stage at a BART station in front of a radio station banner singing about snitches getting killed.

  The first cop car rolled up right before they smashed into the second song, “Blubber Waves.” Right before that, Brandon spotted me and yelled, “Booger Pussy!”

  “Those pussies are always the best,” said Eddie into the microphone. “Especially if they got hairy backs.”

  He looked up at me and flipped me off.

  Then he said some shit to this girl in a red dress and cowgirl boots with long blond hair. She was carrying two bags of Taco Bell in her hand and Eddie was like, “What’s up, you pretty thang? You got an extra Triple Steak Stack for me and my son.”

  The girl’s face turned bright red, and she looked down at the ground.

  “Oh come on, baby red. Red dream. Red teeth. How about a chalupa?”

  The girl started walking really fast.

  “Half a chalupa?”

  She turned her head the other way.

  “Gordita,” he said.

  I started laughing.

  “No,” he went. “Nothing.”

  Dominique laughed too.

 
; “How about a packet of hot sauce?” Eddie said. “How about two packets of hot sauce and a quarter for looking at us for a split second while we were playing?”

  The girl finally faded away.

  “There’s prolly seven taquerías within two blocks from here and that whore gets Taco Bell.”

  “Jesus,” said Dominique.

  “Bet she eats it all by herself, too. Bet she locks her bedroom door and gobbles it down and uses every packet of hot sauce she took, and you know she took three handfuls, too. Everyone does that shit. They take way more packets than they need, and you usually lose a couple of them in your car or on your floor and then one day someone sits on one of them or something and it squirts all over their clothes and it really ruins that person for a couple of hours. How do you apologize for that? It’s impossible. No one wants to hear that shit after they sit on a packet of hot sauce you thought you lost somewhere else six weeks ago.” Eddie shook his head. “Disgusting.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he continued. “That miss red, red moon, red nipples, red tongue perhaps, well she’s also gonna eat ice cream in her sweatpants tonight and watch Friends and go to bed at ten.”

  “What the fuck,” I whispered.

  “Eddie!” Brandon shouted, pointing at the first cop car that had just arrived.

  Eddie smiled, then went, “Thanks, guys, for coming out today! This next song is called ‘Blubber Waves.’ And don’t forget to listen to us live on the air tonight. Live 105. Call them and tell them to keep playing Devil Feeder!”

  He said the band’s name in a super-high-pitched voice, and then Brandon counted off and they ripped for at least a minute, minute and a half before the second cop car rolled in.

  Four fucking police officers converging quickly onto two fucking kids playing instruments to curious onlookers. I get it, I guess. Like, I get the point of stopping live bands just posting up and plugging in and playing outside people’s homes. My father told me last night that a good friend of his from Findlay, Ohio, where he grew up, moved into a place right on the corner of Haight and Ashbury three years ago with his wife and newborn baby.

  “They moved out two months later,” he said.