I considered calling Good Charlotte, but I could never confess to her all the ways I’d gone wrong. She thought she was bad, ha! While she may be more open than most folks in this town, she’d never understand or accept my behavior. I couldn’t handle another beatdown, not from her.
Cyrus texted me: CC the end tonight come yes come. How could I say no? The drive would do me good. I hadn’t seen Cyrus for so long. And live music made me feel alive. I was sure this was exactly what I needed.
TWENTY-FIVE
One of the front speakers in the F150 blew on the highway to The End. All fuzz and crunch on the low frequencies, a major problem as I was gangsta-leaning. NWA may have done the deed. “Fuck da Police” and this charity rig, monster truck sounding like a turned-out eight-track. I’d always had little tolerance for bad music, but I’d grown more sensitive in the past few months, and bad sound now bugged me the same. It hurt my ears. What to do? In these glory days of the personal soundtrack, I’d been programmed to believe I could control my environment at all times. So when the tech failed, I felt exposed, vulnerable, at risk. Enemies were everywhere. I needed the shield of surroundsound.
The club was not what I remembered. Its dive-bar defiance, which once seemed like home, now appeared disingenuous. The place was a lie: a wannabe venue for wannabe rockstars. No different from the church or the mall or any of the rest of this southern country with its comfort of conformity. I had to restrain myself from hocking on the mirror behind the bar.
The room was three-quarters full. All strangers with wires in ears, cans of piss in hand, arms strapped across chests. No one talked to each other, most staring at their cells. It was still hot as hell. Indian summer, the locals said, might last through Thanksgiving. Everyone sweat-nasty in tanktops, T-shirts, cut-offs. Big-hair country heaving from the jukebox.
Shortly before the Children’s Crusade set, Cyrus showed with Bebe and some other girl and a guy I didn’t know. Despite the distance between us, it was good to see them. He ordered drinks for all, Jim Beam double-shot with ginger back specially for me.
“What the fuck happened here?”
“Everything changes,” he said. He told me how the place had been sold and the new owners, refusing to pony up for a cabaret license, were replacing the bands with karaoke. This would be CC’s final performance at The End and his booking gig would terminate in a couple weeks. “I won’t be too busy to vote!” He cracked himself up. Management had already replaced the discs in the jukebox, “as ya can tell,” he said.
We slugged down straight shots of Fernet. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“She’s out,” he said. “Not enough like you.” He pulled me close, told me how he’d met the girl he was with on fallenangels. The guy was her husband. He wanted to document his wife and Cyrus, night on the town, start to finish.
I hailed the barkeep for another round.
Bebe led us to the stage front where we elbowed for space among the zombies. I watched Cyrus with his adulterous date, mouth up to her ear, open palm on the small of her back. She wore a bare mid-riff denim top, black cowgirl boots with long pointy toes. Her ass in the jean skirt was white-girl flat, disproportionate to her breasts, softball round, hard like granite. A little blond guy with a thin moustache, greasy sideburns and a trucker’s cap was videotaping with his cell. The husband. “Don’t point that thing at me,” I told him.
“No worries, amigo,” he said. I clutched my glass with both hands.
When the band came on, the audience barely noticed. No applause like in the past. No shout-outs or boot stomps. I tuned in to Shea to take me.
Dressed dark in an altar boy’s cassock, she snatched the mike from its stand, glared at the crowd. Her face black like tar. Red-white-and-blue halo on her head, circles round her eyes. Static graywashed the wall behind her. A laptop-synth brought white noise to the visuals. We palmed our ears, tightened our breath for a good five minutes until, exhaling for us all, the singer whispered, “Fuck all y’all.”
Her bandmates blitzed us with sirens, artillery fire, thunderous detonations as the static morphed into mushroom clouds, carpet bombs. Arrhythmic pulse on the bass drum. Marching-beat snare. Our star-spangled anthem splattered into epic nuclear sunsets.
All the while the singer stood tall, stiff as a Gitmo corpse, right hand raised in grim salute. The wall behind her filled with bodies sprawled on the sides of roads, crunched into hospital corners, face down in school yards, kicked under market stalls, twisted in prayer . . . piled up naked Barbies in an American girl’s closet.
The stage blacked out. Death mask for a beat. Then blood everywhere as Shea screamed bloody sickness: “Hate makes the fucking world go round!!!”
I hadn’t heard this SoCal punk hymn since freshman year in high school. Olivelawn didn’t last more than a couple indie albums, a handful of seven-inches. Yet the band’s rallying cry was being resurrected more than a decade and three thousand miles from its birth place. I love how timeless songs survive the artists who make them.
The tune stirred up a pit. I bulled into the thick of it, blinded, horns down, hooves kicking anyone who dared cross my path.
The blistering set swung from Armageddon soundtracks to hardcore punk with cracked churchsong choruses. I recognized “Daddy Let’s Play While Mommy’s Away” and “Homeland Security: My Body My Mind,” but most of the tunes were new to me.
Cyrus felt the same, surprised by what he called “the überheavy politics,” samples of recent broadcasts by the Commander-in-Chief reworked into a numbing loop: “Coalition Forces . . . stand united . . . our country should take pride in . . . killing . . . peace and justice . . . watch what you say . . . watch neighbors . . . family and friends . . . the American way . . . God willing . . . we will rise together . . . and kill . . . and kill . . . killkill . . . killkillkill . . . killkill . . . k-k-kill . . . killbill . . .” More than half the audience escaped before the music was over.
The band closed with an unusual hybrid, more mash than medley—“Folsom Prison Blues” and Prince’s “Kiss”—dedicated to “all the victims of sexual assault perpetrated by military personnel, government contractors and citizens turned savage in this endless war, ‘Initiative for Peace,’ bah.” As the black-and-white names scrolled in the video, Shea testified from her soapbox: “These ain’t just words on a wall but real men, women and children whose tragedies are on record thanks to Human Rights R Us, an NGO on the frontlines of war crimes around the world. Donations accepted at the merch booth.”
The song caused a riot.
When the singer called out everyone’s favorite line—“Shot a man in Reno…”—what was left of the crowd blew up. First there was hollering and shoving, then bottles flew like grenades.
I spotted Cyrus leading the girls to an emergency exit, while his date’s husband hung back to score the violence. Swept up in the fury, I elbowed him in the front teeth, spun around, grabbed the back of his head, yanked him forward and thrust my knee into his diaphragm. As he crumpled, I smashed the side of his head until he hit the ground. Then I kicked him in the face. He never saw mine.
I salvaged his cell from the mess on the floor, ran after Cyrus and the girls as the white noise played on, names of the casualties crawling the wall, wandering souls in a world without God.
The parking lot was electric. Everyone blurred, wailing or weeping, gawking at each other’s wounds, fleeing to the shelter of vehicles, mowing down dorks who wouldn’t clear a path to the street.
“Where’s Ronnie? Where’s Ronnie?!?” Cyrus’ date. A bawling broken record.
“I don’t know,” he would say. “I don’t know.”
Finally, Bebe slapped her. “Get a fuckin grip, girl.” This started a brawl. A smacking, punching, biting, spitting, hair-pulling catfight right there in front of us, free of charge. Cyrus and I exchanged looks that sanctioned Bebe kicking her ass. Which she did. Until shots rang out from inside the club. Everyone froze for a heartbeat. Then a dash for the road before the law ca
me down.
We ditched the fallenangel on the asphalt where she cradled her head and rocked. “Ronnie . . .”
When we were on the freeway, they called me on my cell. First thought on hearing the ringtone was how cool my upgrade would be once I switched over my number. I didn’t have video, or rather, I didn’t used to have it. Thank you, Cyrus, you immoral bastard. We agreed to meet up at the Denny’s in town.
I cued the gangsta-gangsta mix, pumped it through the pickup’s blown surroundsound. Hey rockstar, who are you when you don’t give a fuck?
TWENTY-SIX
At the restaurant we found a girl in the bed of the truck. She said her name was Kaddisha Lemonade. She’d taken refuge there during the drama, too scared to do anything but lie flat and, as she put it, “pray for dear life” once I’d cranked up the eight-cylinder. I was pushing a hundred ten, a hundred twenty on the open highway. I apologized for the speed.
We all climbed into the back there with her, telling tales on how we each handled the madness. I didn’t disclose the details of my role. It’s not that I felt guilty. That so-called husband got what he deserved. But I wasn’t proud of my behavior. I know the glory of battle is a lie.
Cyrus and I ragged on Bebe’s cameo as the million dollar baby. “Hey,” Bebe said, “it was self defense.” This busted us up. “Ya know I don’t believe in violence.”
“Self defense,” Cyrus said. “Girl’s gotta do—”
“Preemptive strike,” I cut in.
“What’s good for America,” Cyrus said.
“I get it,” Kaddisha said. “Dog eat dog.” Bebe high-fived her while Cyrus and I arf-arfed. “Girl’s gotta do.”
“And where’s the good Lawd when ya need him most?” Cyrus got preacher on us.
“Caretaking Kaddie,” Bebe said, “in the back uh JAG’s truck!” We busted up again.
After scarfing down a late-night breakfast, we decided I would drive Kaddisha home since she couldn’t get the friends she went to the show with on her cell. She lived near the Hampton campus, at most a half-hour from my place. I declined her offer to pay for gas in exchange for her phone number.
I kept to the speed limit, encouraged her to manage the playlist. She shuffled the sounds, pretty much grooved to all of it. “I try not to discriminate,” she said. I liked the idea of getting to know someone face-to-face for a change. I thought with her everything might be different.
Kaddisha talked about the master’s program she’d nearly completed. She was a scholarship student, poli-sci, pre-law.
“I’m not much into politics,” I said. “Hope that’s alright.”
“As long as you know right from left, wrong from right, backward from forward, etcetera.”
“I know the Initiative for Peace means War Without End.” I tried to sound earnest.
“That’s a start,” she said.
“VA health care comes with a razor and a noose.”
She smiled. “Go on.”
“DU weapons pose no environmental risks, cluster bombs are efficient and humane, ‘Coalition Forces’ respect the rights of the accused, the Commander-in-Chief honors the letter of the law.”
She socked me in the shoulder. “Hypocrite!”
I laid on the gas. “Healthy Forests.”
“Blue Skies.”
“Sane cows.”
“Top 40 fish.”
“Top 40 fish?” I screwed up my eyebrows.
“You know,” she said, “absent heavy metals?” We snorted like honorable corporate citizens.
“You’re trouble,” I said, glancing back and forth at her and the road.
“I’m trouble.” She nearly leapt up on the dash, trained her deep brown eyes on mine.
“Just don’t get me arrested,” I said, sweeping her back into her seat. “I’m not too keen on the law enforcers.”
“Police brutality is the fun part of law enforcement.”
“Those tasers kill.” I zapped her knee. She yelped.
“Start a task force then, a watchdog group, crush the system from within!” She shot up in her seat again. “It’s doable, JAG. And it needs doing.”
“I trust you’ll do fine for us both.” I glanced at her again, my lips curling into a wide grin.
“Not in my backyard?” She waved me off.
“I live in an apartment building.”
“Too much.”
“Not nearly enough.”
I maxed out the volume, front speakers on mute. Nirvana’s “Come As You Are.” We both licked our fingers, raised them up in a Buddha-Christ mudra and swore, “I don’t have a gun.”
At the curb outside her place, I shifted to park, turned to ask her: “What’s your name, little girl?”
“I believe you know, Mr. NIMBY,” she said.
“Kaddisha Lemonade.”
“In the flesh.”
“That I can see,” I said, walking my fingers across the seat. “But I don’t buy it.” I drew figure-eights on her wrist. “Sounds like porn.”
“My second career choice.” She tongued her lips.
“Not that I would know,” I said. “Too phony for my tastes.”
“You, my dear,” she kissed my hand, “are in the minority. Even I like sex tapes, some.”
“How so?”
“Oh, you know . . .”
“Give it up, girl.” We were facing each other now. “Finish what you started.”
“Fine,” she said, placing my hand on her chest between her throat and breasts. I held my breath. “I like the idea of being manhandled.” She directed my hand past her petite (perfect) breasts to her petite (perfect) belly, shifting her weight, dropping me open-palmed in her lap. My knuckles were raw and I grimaced. “Handled by a man.” She was teasing. “Giving everything, letting it all go, no tomorrow, no holding back, no regrets, just . . .” As she scootched around, my hand fell between her thighs, my fingers a scoop at her sugar bowl. “Giving all of me until there’s no more me to give.” She slouched in her seat, pushing up against my hand. She wasn’t teasing now. “Then giving some more.” She leaned onto me hard. My fingers came alive. I felt the wetness through her jeans. “Letting myself be taken.” I stroked where she was hottest. “Letting a man, ahh . . .” she said, her breath coming quick. “Take me . . .” The windshield fogged though the windows were down. “Take my breath . . .”
She straightened up in her seat. “Not so easy to do,” she said. “Not usually.” She swooshed her hair out of her face. “Not on the first date.”
“The second?” I had to ask.
She wrote her number on my hand, bid me sweet dreams. She wouldn’t let me walk her to the door or kiss her goodnight. But we’d see each other again, and soon.
Even though it was late, I was wide awake. I followed the speed limit back to the city, savoring the soundtrack of empty highway and speaker fuzz. At home I stayed up till dawn. By afternoon, when I’d finally roused myself from restless sleep, my head was pounding once again, and my ultimate-fighting hand, now swelled like a pork roast, pulsed to the cadence of my heart.
Trying to recollect the hours before sunrise, I remembered writing love notes to Remedios but drew a blank on what I vaguely felt was a messaging marathon to God knows who. This hunch proved correct as I searched the archives. Scanning last night’s exchanges, less conversations than absurd monologues, I realized I’d been reaching out to ghosts, talking to myself under the ad hoc additional identifier cookie_monstah. Here’s one such transcript aimed at takemehigher:
cookie_monstah: tell me about higher power
cookie_monstah: por favor
cookie_monstah: and baking? you bake . . .
cookie_monstah: coooookies!!!????
cookie_monstah: have you ever designed children’s books?
cookie_monstah: weird but in a good way
cookie_monstah: open but not?
cookie_monstah: does that make you a fabrication?
cookie_monstah: a fig?
cookie_monstah: an impos
tor???
cookie_monstah: someone somewhere else . . .
cookie_monstah: the eternal question mark
cookie_monstah: like a garden snake or a plastic fork in hot roast beef
cookie_monstah: you’ll never be straight again
cookie_monstah: no matter how you try to comb out those curls
cookie_monstah: straightening is good though, fashionable, even in the effort
cookie_monstah: onward christian soldiers
cookie_monstah: keep to the straight path
cookie_monstah: keep on pushin
cookie_monstah: straight ahead
cookie_monstah: walls are not walls
cookie_monstah: until you bang your head against one
cookie_monstah: I did some headbanging tonight
cookie_monstah: it’s all part
cookie_monstah: of my rock ‘n’ roll
cookie_monstah: fantaseeeeeeee
My inbox contained a brief note from Remedios, thanking me for my “sweetnesses,” asking me to call her if I was so inclined. An encouraging sign. At last she’d given me her number, and I hadn’t even asked, or maybe I had and didn’t remember. Details. All that mattered now was I would hear her voice, and she would hear mine, and we would grow closer: love would be ours. I left a message on her voicemail.
When she hadn’t returned my call by early evening, I phoned Kaddisha. “Teaser,” I said.
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