The Vinyl Underground

by Rob Rufus

  Milo tells us he even stole the letterman jacket from Stink’s locker and planted it in the van for good measure. Stink chasing Milo onto the balcony was unplanned, but it actually worked in our favor. With the stolen van in the loading bay, and Stink caught upstairs, Milo confidently calls it an open-and-shut case.

  As he says this, two officers lug Stink Wilson from the building and load him into an ambulance. I see the shimmer of handcuffs on his wrists before the door shuts. All of this seems crazy, and impossible. All of this seems too good to be true.

  But hey, maybe it wasn’t. As I stared down at the Sunday Edition, I allowed myself to accept the possibility that everything might work out.

  “I gotta tell you, boy,” Dad said, “I’m not sure about your new hairdo.”

  I’d brushed my bangs down to cover the gash on my forehead.

  “It’s how college boys wear their hair,” Momma said. “I think it’s cute.”

  “It’s a little too hippie-dippie for me,” Dad groaned.

  I handed the newspaper back to him.

  “I can’t believe what happened last night,” I said, as believably as I could.

  “It’s crazy.” He nodded. “And just when I was bustin’ your chops for skippin’ the dance!”

  Momma made herself a cup of coffee and joined us back at the table. Roy sat in her lap, grumpily fidgeting with his bow tie.

  “We’re goin’ by the hospital after church if you’d like to come,” she offered.

  “Kids are still in the hospital?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dad nodded, “I spoke to Principal Yonker earlier. He said it’s a miracle more weren’t hurt. Doubt it feels like a miracle to the ones laid up, though.”

  “Why are they still there?” I asked softly.

  “Mostly ʼcause of their hearing. Adam Wilson got the worst of it, since he was stuck under one of those speakers. But Pam Olson got cut up pretty bad from the glass, and I heard Sergeant Adams has a gash on his forearm. About half a dozen others were hospitalized for this or that.”

  I couldn’t respond. I went to take a sip of orange juice, but thought the better of it once I realized my hand was shaking.

  “What’s ironic,” Dad continued, “is how farfetched it seemed when your hearing disqualified you from the draft. Now who knows how many of your classmates are unfit for service for the same reason—all ʼcause of loud music.”

  “Maybe it’s a blessing,” I said. “Maybe Stink’s prank ended up saving the others from being forced to go to war without a choice in the matter.”

  “Maybe.” Dad shrugged. “It’s two sides of the same coin, far as I’m concerned.”

  “What do you mean?” Momma asked.

  “Well, like Ronnie said, the kids that are doves will be more than happy if this prank got ʼem outta the draft. But some of those boys want to serve; a handful are already enlisted. So this damn prank took away their choice.”

  The pain pulsing through my head skipped a beat. Some of them already enlisted? Of course they had! Holy shit, how did we not even consider that?!

  “Cole Mooney went through hell to earn his Superior Cadet ribbon in ROTC,” Dad continued. “Now he’ll be discharged before he laces his boots. Same with Wesson—”

  “Doug Wesson?” I asked. He sat a row away from me in French class.

  “Mm-hm. Talk about a military family. They’ve served for generations, back to the War Between the States. He already enlisted with the Delayed Entry Program.”

  “Oh,” I gulped. “Then what, um, what’s gonna happen to him now?

  “Not sure.” Dad shrugged. “I figure they’ll examine his hearing today, then they’ll need to bring in a Med Corps officer to reevaluate his enlistment status. He and some others will likely be discharged.”

  I went through the entire student body in my mind, trying to do the math on which kids had likely signed up with the D. E. P. If it was a lot, then the recruiters might get curious. If the military got curious, who knew what hell could be unleashed.

  Momma leaned back in her chair.

  “Lord almighty,” she sighed, “what a complicated world! I dunno if rock-n-roll really is the devil’s music, but it sure as heck ain’t Uncle Sam’s.”

  ―

  My family was at church, and the dishes were done. But I was still in the kitchen, sitting alone at the table, thinking of what Dad said. I wasn’t just worried about the threat of an inquiry, I was worried that I’d taken away my classmates’ freedom of choice, just like the draft board—did that make us equitable?

  I hadn’t even considered it.

  Did the Man consider me?

  “Shit, Ronnie,” I said aloud, “what the hell did you do?”

  I stood up with a frustrated moan. My head was still killing me. I walked into the dining room and turned to the foyer to go back to bed, but then something in the window caught my eye—a cruiser was turning onto our street.

  It pulled into Milo’s driveway and my heartbeat screeched to a stop.

  I stuck my nose against the windowpane.

  Deputy Wilcox got out. He trotted around to the passenger door, opened it, and helped Milo to his feet. Then Deputy Wilcox wrapped an arm around him and walked him onto the porch. He seemed genuinely concerned for Milo—who was grimacing, flinching, and pulling out every pained expression in the book.

  Milo directed the deputy to the porch swing. Deputy Wilcox lowered him as carefully as an ice sculpture. Once Milo was situated, the deputy extended his hand. Milo shook it, and then Wilcox strolled back to his car.

  I waited until the cruiser was gone before I went outside.

  “You ʼbout gave me a heart attack!” I yelled as I ran across the yard.

  Milo chuckled as I jogged up onto his porch.

  “What were ya doing with that asshole?”

  “Who,” he asked coyly, “Wilcox? Hell, he’s as gentle as a kitten in cotton.”

  I scoffed as I sat down next to him. The springs creaked above the old wooden swing as we bounced, then steadied.

  “Don’t worry,” Milo said, “everything’s cool. Mom drove me to the station while she was on break this morning, is all. I had to make a statement about the van. Wilcox gave me a lift home . . . and man, Mom told off Sheriff Milton big time!”

  “I bet she did,” I said. “But what did you tell him?”

  “Same thing I said I would. Adam Wilson cornered me in the parking lot and roughed me up again, then took the van while I was laid out. I said I had no idea he took it for any reason but to mess with me. I figured he’d joyride and then drop it somewhere, which is what I told him when I first reported it stolen. As far as the sheriff’s concerned, I didn’t know about the prom ʼtil I read the paper this morning.”

  “And he bought it?”

  “Hook, line, and stinker,” he grinned. “I mean, what’s the alternate theory? That a maimed shrimp like me broke into the school, lugged in all that equipment, and then framed someone to take the fall for the whole thing?”

  “Don’t ya think that’s exactly what Stink’s gonna tell ʼem?”

  “Sure, but it won’t matter. Sheriff Milton’s floundering, man. He knows I have the film, and he knows his career’s toast if any other parents see it. You’re gonna have to accept it, Ronnie. We pulled this thing off clean.”

  I ran my hand through my mop-top, wincing as my palm grazed the wound.

  “I dunno about clean,” I said. “Some of those kids are already enlisted. Some of them wanted to enlist. What if the military looks into it?”

  “It won’t matter,” he scoffed. “Once a doctor declares you 4-F, you’re unfit for good. They don’t do retests; they have plenty of kids to take those boys’ place.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you hear what happened to Stink afterward?” he asked, shifting gears.

 
“Just that he’s in the hospital.” I shrugged.

  “Wilcox said he tried to attack Sheriff Milton last night when they questioned him. He flipped out so bad, they’re thinkin’ of transferring him to the loony bin in St. Augustine for evaluation.”

  “Jesus,” I sighed, “that’s . . . goddamn, man.”

  “Don’t you dare feel sorry for him,” Milo snapped. “He’s crazy, and he needs to be put in the nut house before he kills somebody! He’s already hurt so many, it’s fucked that this had to happen for adults to take his mental state seriously.”

  “I know he’s dangerous, I know—”

  “Then what’s with the long face?”

  “I just, I dunno. Stink isn’t the only one that we put in the hospital last night.”

  “Minor injuries,” Milo said, “everyone’s gonna be fine—”

  “But what if they’re not?” I asked. “Our big anti-draft statement didn’t account for the kids that wanted to enlist, man. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Didn’t account for who? Psychos like Marty and Stink?”

  “Not just them,” I muttered, “good kids, too. Dad said Wesson’s from a military family, and Cole, ya know, he’s really high up in the ROTC. Both of ʼem are still in the hospital, so you know as well as I do that they’ll be stamped 4-F. I just hadn’t thought about anyone wanting to enlist besides those bullies.”

  “If you had thought of it, would you’ve called it off?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I know the war is wrong, and the draft is wrong, and you know I know what happened to you and Hana is wrong. What happened to my brother is wrong. But does all that make what we did last night right?”

  Milo turned to face me. I’d never seen him look so exasperated.

  “There’s no equalizer in this world,” he said, “no matter how ya square it. So we took away their freedom to get their asses shot off? So what?”

  “So,” I said, “what if it wasn’t ours to take away?”

  We sat in silence for a while—it was still the only way to let the subject of Vietnam drop. We rocked on the swing, and the rusty springs above us squeaked and coiled in bullfrog rhythms.

  “Hana’s leaving soon,” Milo said.

  “How soon?”

  “Tomorrow soon. I’m goin’ over later to say goodbye. You wanna come?”

  “That’s OK,” I said flatly.

  “Come on, man. What’s your problem? She said she’s not goin’ to Vietnam.”

  “My problem is I don’t believe her,” I said. “Bruce told Ramrod the same shit until everything got real. She’s just as crazy as he was, and you know it. If she gets the option to go write about the war, she’ll go. She’ll feel like she has to go.”

  “Ease up.” He sighed. “We never know what she’s gonna do. That’s why she’s the baddest. So suck it up and come with me. You never know which goodbye will be your last goodbye.”

  “No shit, man. That’s why I ain’t saying it at all.”

  ―

  My term paper was going nowhere. I sat with my throbbing head in my hands, glaring at my desk. Scraps of paper surrounded the typewriter, buried under useless books—Profiles In Courage, U. S. History, Webster’s Dictionary—plus an unfolded pamphlet of the Constitution and Declaration of Independence.

  The more research I did, the less I seemed to get done. Where were all these so-called courageous politicians, anyway? The ones I researched didn’t think about anything but themselves; there were a few who actually seemed to have their hearts in the right place, but . . .

  “Since when is it courageous to do your fucking job?” I sneered.

  I picked up JFK’s stupid book and threw it across my room.

  I leaned back in the chair, cracked my knuckles, and stretched my neck.

  The watch I didn’t deserve said 11:46 p.m.

  I groaned and rubbed my tired eyes. It was so late, and I was so far behind.

  I got up, I grabbed the bottle of aspirin from my bedside table, and dropped four of the white pills onto my tongue. I chewed and swallowed the bitterness.

  I sat down on my bed. I lay down. I sat back up.

  Physically, I was exhausted. Mentally, I was restless. There was no chance of sleep, so I knew that I should keep working on my stupid paper—without the distraction, I’d be unable to avoid thinking of Hana, and I was determined to avoid the urge to run across the street and shout a sappy Romeo and Juliet goodbye.

  I had to keep working. I had to keep writing.

  I had to take a break.

  Stuffy senators and crooked congressmen no longer held my attention.

  So I marched up on my mattress and got the stashbox from the ceiling.

  I opened it up—all I had left was a roach, two or three tokes, max—but maybe that was enough to downshift my brain and get some productive juices flowing. There was even the improbable possibility it could ease my headache.

  I slid the little hope-filled roach into my pocket.

  Then I crept downstairs and through the kitchen, like so many nights before. I went into the garage and locked the door behind me. My hand caressed the Bel Air’s smooth body, and I let it guide me forward, keeping the other hand outstretched until my fingertips hit the garage door. I took hold of the handle, and lifted it up, hoping for stars.

  For once, heaven did not disappoint.

  More stars were shining than ever, a billion tiny beacons calling out from all the black like cosmic candles in the window of the world.

  That sparkling sky stoned me before I’d even had a chance to light up.

  I was too captivated to notice Hana walking up my driveway.

  Once I heard feet on the pavement, I turned back to earth. I took an instinctual step back, thinking she was a stranger. Her short hair made her silhouette look like it belonged to a different person.

  “Didn’t recognize me, did you?”

  “Of course I did,” I mumbled. “Shit, you just scared me.”

  “Milo came by earlier. We went across town to check on Lewis.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s OK.” She shrugged. “No one suspects him of anything, at least. He’s more laid up than you were, but go figure. The music was way louder this time. But he’s a badass, so he’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “You shoulda come with us. But I guess you’re still mad over the Hana Hitchens Vietnam Adventure fantasy you’ve written in your head, huh?”

  “Nah,” I lied, “I was never mad at you, Hana.”

  “Perfect,” she smiled, “because I need a ride to the airport.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No, tonight. I’ve gotta be at the Tribune tomorrow morning. I booked a flight out of Jacksonville at five. That gives us, like, four hours to kill. I figured we could go cruise, and just hang out beforehand . . . plus, I already told my parents you’d take me, so you don’t have a choice.”

  “Even if I wanted to chauffer you, I can’t take my dad’s car without permission.”

  She nodded into the garage. I turned.

  She meant the 409.

  “No way,” I scoffed. “You know I can’t take that.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot y’all want it to sit here like an unopened Christmas present for all fuckin’ eternity.”

  “Hana!” I laughed. “You just said y’all!”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Yeah you did! Y’all sure did say y’all! Ya hear?”

  “Whatever,” she snapped. “Ugh, I’ve gotta get the hell outta the South.”

  She took a step closer. My laughter dried up.

  “Come on, take me for a spin. Last chance to dance.”

  She waited. She took another step closer. She smiled.

  The smile twinkled in the starligh
t. The smile was for me. And suddenly, any consequences I might face for taking my brother’s car seemed insignificant.

  “Goddammit. Go get your bags.”

  “Ronnie,” she said, “you’re real deal rock-n-roll.”

  She went home to collect her things, and I put the roach between my lips.

  My hands shook a little as I lit it. The smoke was harsh, but I kept it in.

  I exhaled, turning away from the garage. The next toke was deep enough to suck the remaining life from the roach. When I exhaled, Hana’s silhouette formed in the smoke. I recognized it this time around. She had a suitcase in each hand. I coughed as she lugged them up the drive.

  “That’s all you’re taking?” I asked.

  “It’s all I brought down here”—she shrugged—“besides my stereo and my records. I told my parents you’d take care of those until they move back, too.”

  “Woah,” I said, “I’ll give you a ride, but I’m not takin’ your records.”

  I opened the passenger door of the car, and she handed me her bags.

  I slid them into the back seat, and then stepped aside for her to get in.

  “Of course you are,” she said, climbing into the seat.

  “No,” I whispered angrily as I eased the door shut.

  I walked around the other side of the car and got in.

  “Ronnie, it’s not up for debate.”

  “Damn right, it isn’t.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You better know,” I hissed.

  “Are we gonna get outta here, or what?”

  “Sure,” I said. But I didn’t move an inch.

  “Well?”

  “Roll down your window,” I muttered, and began cranking down mine.

  “Why?”

  “If I start the car in here, it’ll wake my parents. If you wanna go joyride, we gotta joy-push first.”

  I shifted into neutral. She rolled her window down.

  The two of us got out.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  She nodded and gripped the window frame.