The Love Machine

by Nicholas Bruner

  Corn clicked his tongue. “Maybe you should leave the thinking to others, numbskull.”

  Grunt jumped down. “So I’m a numbskull, huh? Why don’t you come see what my fists have to say about that?”

  Jason reached and put a hand on Grunt’s knee. “Listen, we’re all on edge. But the problem’s not in here, it’s out there. Let’s work together, huh? Save our strength.”

  Grunt stuck the side of his thumb in his mouth and mumbled around it. “I’m just worried about Barrow. There’s no telling what they’re doing to him.”

  “We all are,” Alva said.

  “We could yell some more,” Jason said.

  “Won’t do any more good than last time,” Corn said. “You hear how loud they are through the floor? Imagine you’re in that room. Ain’t nobody gonna hear us.”

  Jason stepped over and inspected the door as Alva continued poking around. “You know, maybe if we all rammed this bad boy at once we could break it down.”

  “I don’t know,” Alva said. “It looks pretty thick.”

  “Man, this sucks big old donkey balls,” Corn said. “I sure as hell hope Barrow’s doing better than we are.”

  Saturday, 8:55 p.m.

  Cindy took Barrow’s hand in hers, put her other hand on top. A single candle flickered on the bedside table. He was tall, had blue eyes and shaggy hair that needed a trim, wore a black Primus t-shirt. Kind of cute, in a way. Geeky, but she didn’t mind that, not that she wanted that information to spread around. He did seem nervous, though. Actually, he seemed to be turning a peculiar shade of green.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Do you feel okay?”

  “I feel fine,” Barrow said. “What do we do next?”

  She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. He didn’t respond. “How’s that?”

  “It’s fine,” Barrow said dully. “Maybe we should use the Love Machine now.”

  Man, this guy is uptight. Cindy couldn’t help feeling a little offended. Usually guys wanted to jump her right away, and she didn’t see any reason not to let them. It probably wasn’t the healthiest thing, but she knew she had all the right assets. Like her mom always said, “Enjoy it while you got it sweetie, ’cause it’s gone sooner than you think.” But from this boy she wasn’t getting any energy at all.

  “The Love Machine. Sure. We can do that.” Cindy reached and picked it up with the tips of her fingers from where it rested behind the candle. She dropped it with distaste on the bed between them.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and press the button?” she said. “It seems to work best if you kind of hold it on the left side of your head for a little while.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Barrow said. A bead of sweat formed on his temple and rolled slowly down his cheek.

  “Are you sure you feel all right? You look a little sick.”

  “I think I’ll be okay, once we get started.” Barrow hesitated before putting the Love Machine to his head as though it were a pistol. “Here goes nothing.”

  His face took on such a pained expression that Cindy grew alarmed. “Wait, you don’t have to—”

  Bam! Bam! Somebody banged at the door so hard it sounded like it was about to fall in.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Saturday, 8:57 p.m.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Tina asked from the doorway, hands on her hips.

  Barrow spun around and placed his feet on the floor as if she wouldn’t notice he’d been lying on the bed next to Cindy. “Nothing. Really nothing.”

  “Is that the Love Machine?”

  “Um. Yes.” Barrow’s face reddened.

  “And where are the others? Aren’t we supposed to be on stage in like three minutes?”

  “Are you really?” Cindy asked. “Are you in a band?”

  “Yeah,” Barrow said. “The others are…locked in a closet downstairs.”

  “What?” Confusion spread across Tina’s face. “Then what are you doing up here making out with this road whore?”

  “Hey!” Cindy said.

  “And aren’t you supposed to be gay, anyway?”

  “Ooh!” Cindy said with realization. No wonder. She ran her hand through her blonde hair and smiled.

  “You make an excellent point,” Barrow said, slipping on his shoes. “Let’s go get them.”

  He and Tina made it halfway down the stairs. “Oh, shit, the Love Machine! I have to go back.”

  “Forget it,” Tina said. “We have literally two minutes now.”

  “But, but—”

  “Look, buddy boy. I’m here for one reason only, and that’s to be on stage with y’all, so you’d better get your ass in gear and worry about that stupid machine later.”

  Saturday, 8:58 p.m.

  “Where is it?” Taffy yelled into Andre’s ear to be heard above the triple-digit decibel music.

  “Where’s what?” Eric yelled back, stepping back to avoid being sucked into the sweaty, frothing mosh pit.

  “The Love Machine!”

  “I guess Cindy still has it!”

  Taffy tapped his watch. “Well, it’s almost time! Go get it, dumbass!”

  Saturday, 8:59 p.m.

  “Did it!” Alva said, as the lock clicked. He threw the door open and checked his watch. “And exactly sixty seconds to spare.”

  “No time to be sneaky,” Corn said. “We’d better get up there and just head for the stage.”

  “But what about Barrow?” Grunt said.

  “Right, Barrow,” Corn said. “Alva, you take the stage. That way we’ll have somebody up there, at least. Me and Grunt and Jason’ll spread through the house.”

  “Whoever finds him can call out and everybody else’ll come running,” Grunt said.

  “If you can hear it,” Alva said. “And don’t forget to be on the lookout for the Love Machine.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that too,” Corn said. “Let’s go do this.”

  Saturday, 9:00 p.m.

  Upstairs, Eric was surprised to find the bedroom unoccupied where he and Taffy had left Cindy and Barrow. That homo probably lasted about ten seconds once Cindy got ahold of him. He hunted around the room for the Love Machine but didn’t find it.

  In the hallway he ran into Cindy as she came out of the bathroom. “Hey, where’s the Love Machine?”

  “I left it in the bedroom, I guess.”

  “You didn’t take it with you?” Eric asked.

  “What, to the bathroom? No.”

  “Well, it’s not in the bedroom.”

  “I don’t know then,” Cindy said, disinterested. “It’s not like we used it anyway. Didn’t you know he’s gay?”

  “Who cares about that faggot?” Eric said. “I need the goddamn Love Machine!”

  “Can’t help you with your stupid machine. Guess you should keep a better eye on it.”

  Saturday, 9:00 p.m.

  Scorp checked his watch. Time for those other dudes to show up. Weird request they had, to come up and play on his band’s equipment. Whatever, forty-five minutes of guttural screaming was about all his voice could take anyway. He banged his head a few times before ripping the microphone from its stand and bringing it to his lips for the final verse, head lowered to keep his long hair in his face.

  Our leaders have ambition

  To destroy the Earth’s condition

  So now it’s time to hasten

  Nuclear annihilation!

  Now the outro guitar solo, the final drum fill, and the last song of their set would be over. Where are they?

  Saturday, 9:00 p.m.

  Alva ran up the stairs to the back deck and straight into Andre as he opened the door in a blast of guitar noise.

  “Uhhh,” Alva said as he bounced back, gaping up at the basketball player, who had several inches on him.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be out of the closet,” Andre said. He grabbed Alva’s shirt with both hands. “So let’s go put you back in.”

  “Please don’t. It’s dangerous. I’ve
got to find it before somebody uses it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Andre tightened his grip.

  “The Love Machine,” Alva said. “I don’t think you realize what could happen.”

  “Yeah, I know what you plan to do with it. Get yourself a chick, for once.”

  “No, I plan to destroy it.”

  “Oh.” Andre blinked. “Destroy it. I see.” He loosened his grip on Alva’s shirt. “In that case, go do it. Just one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Alva asked.

  “Don’t tell Taffy I let you go.”

  Saturday, 9:01 p.m.

  Corn charged into the great room. He hadn’t found Barrow upstairs, but maybe Grunt or Jason had. He’d just check and see what has happening on stage and head back into the house if Barrow wasn’t there yet. He smashed straight into the back of Taffy, sloshing the brown liquid out of his red Solo party cup.

  “What the freakin’ hell?” Taffy screamed, whirling around with his fist already forming. “You?”

  Corn raised his own fists into a defensive position at his chin. But now Taffy only laughed. “You’re too late!”

  Corn shook his head in confusion. The guitarist’s final note decayed into feedback as the drummer pounded his set.

  “We’ve got the Love Machine, y’all ain’t going on stage, and your buddy is upstairs getting it on. With a chick.”

  “You forced Barrow into being with a girl?” Corn’s eyes narrowed and he drew a fist back.

  “Simmer down, Comanche,” Taffy shouted as a double bass drum roll and a storm of cymbals finished the song. “Nobody forced anybody. Your friend asked us to do it. Not to mention, he told us all about your dumb little plan.”

  “Barrow told you?” The song ended and Corn’s voice came out unexpectedly loud in the sudden absence of noise.

  “Sure, he told us,” Taffy said. “Traded what he knew for a chance to get laid. The little pansy couldn’t wait to become a real man. I don’t think he even gave you and your other little pals a second thought.”

  Saturday, 9:01 p.m.

  Barrow and Tina got to the storage room in the shed, but the door was open.

  “Alva?” Barrow called. “Corn? Grunt? I don’t think they’re here.”

  “If they’re not here,” Tina said. “They must already be upstairs. And it sounds like the music stopped.”

  They looked at each other and took off.

  Saturday, 9:01 p.m.

  Alva edged his way around the mosh pit and up to the wooden frame of the stage behind the speaker stack. The song was over. He was just in time. He tried to step up onto it when he felt somebody pulling him from behind. He glanced back. A grinning Eric Cartwell spun him around.

  “There you are,” Eric said. “Give it to me, and maybe you’ll leave here tonight with your teeth intact.”

  “The Love Machine?” Alva said. “I don’t have it.”

  “Then so help me, I am going to pound you here in front of everybody.” Eric raised his fist.

  Alva closed his eyes. The second time this week.

  But the punch never came. Alva slowly opened an eyelid. Scorp stood above them, shirtless and sweaty. He held Eric’s fist in one hand and the microphone in the other. He offered the mic to Alva. “Your turn, dude,” he said, giving Eric a heavy metal glare. Eric backed up.

  Alva took the mic and stepped onto the stage. The other guys in Halitosis Demon were grabbing beers from an open cardboard case behind the wall of amps and jumping down. Alva gazed out into the crowd, suddenly aware that at least three hundred people were staring at him expectantly. Doc Martens-shod metalheads. Basketball players and cheerleaders. Cool kids, preppies, even a handful from the Latin Club. Practically half of Hillard High, standing waiting for him to do something.

  “Um, hi everybody.” His amplified voice echoed across the room with a slight squeal of feedback. He scanned the room for one of his bandmates, anybody. And then he saw it.

  In the far corner of the room. Paul Zabonski held up the glowing blue Love Machine. He had a finger on the button.

  “No, Paul, don’t!” Alva cried. He dropped the mic and leaped off the stage.

  Even in the air, he knew it was too late.

  Paul pushed the button.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Saturday, 9:02 p.m.

  Cold.

  Blind.

  Rage.

  Open your eyes, moron! Alva opened them and found himself lying on the floor with some dumb-looking dweeb smirking above him. He decided to slap that look off his face and jumped up, spreading his fingers for maximum impact. Somebody bumped into him from behind and he flipped around, even more enraged at the interruption. “What the hell do you want?”

  “For you to get out of my way, dipshit!”

  Alva was shaking so much he barely noticed it was Tina. Wait. Something about Tina. She bared her teeth at him like an animal. He sucked in the saliva in the bottom of his mouth to spit in her face. Tina. She’s supposed to….

  A sudden flash and a pain in the back of his head. Alva reeled. Some asshole kid he’d never even seen before had plunked him with a glass bottle. Alva tried to collect his wits so he could give him a solid kick in the balls.

  But what about Tina? It came to Alva’s attention that chaos surrounded him. People flailed at each other, bodies flew through the air or fell to the floor. The sound of breaking glass came from somewhere nearby.

  She…

  Something tried to coalesce in the seething lava field that was his brain.

  She’s supposed to—

  A cool raindrop of thought hoping not to vaporize into steam.

  She’s supposed to sing.

  Alva blinked and the raindrop multiplied into a gentle shower. It’s the effect of the Love Machine. Get ahold of yourself. Alva struggled mightily to take in a deep breath. Better, a little. Okay, there was Tina again, right behind him. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tina, you’ve got to get on stage and sing!”

  “No, I’ve got to smash some punk’s teeth down his throat!” Each word sent specks of spittle spinning from her mouth.

  Good God, is everybody this irrational? Probably. The whole room had been brought to the edge of fury by Halitosis Demon’s performance, but at least that had been controlled, even cathartic. Then, at the precise moment the band had finished and people were still at their most keyed up, Paul had triggered the Love Machine, releasing all that cresting angry emotion over everybody’s brains like a bursting volcano. If anything, Alva should have been one of the least affected, since he’d been on the far end of the room from the Love Machine. And he himself, aware of what was happening and why, could even now hardly keep himself from smacking Tina across her repulsive cheek for her impertinence.

  He pulled himself together and tried again. “Tina. Up on stage. NOW!”

  She must have heard something dangerous in his tone because this time she did what he said. He picked up the microphone and handed it to her. She glared at him. “What am I supposed to do with this thing, moron?”

  “Sing into it. Whipped cream.”

  “Or what?” she snarled.

  “Or nothing. This is what you want to do. You just don’t know it.” Tina looked confused. Alva pointed at the mic and she hesitantly held it up.

  Alva was feeling more in control now. He could use logic to overcome the frazzle in his head. Others might not have his advantage of knowledge of the situation, but he could still help them rechannel that emotion. Or rather, Tina could. He smiled at her to let her know it was okay. It seemed to help.

  She brought the microphone to her lips and he slipped behind the keyboards. Good, they were already turned on and ready to go. He picked a belltone and played it at a low pitch. “Sing!” he commanded Tina.

  “Whipped cream,” she started. A few heads in the audience turned. Alva added a soothing wash of synth strings.

  “So sweet, so creamy. When you rub it in it’s so nice and dreamy.”


  Barrow showed up from somewhere with blood running from his lip, but he had the presence of mind to pick up a guitar, stomp the distortion pedal off, and toss in some high funky chords. Sweaty, seething people in the crowd released each other from strangleholds and headlocks, calming and getting into the groove.

  “Spread it on your body, mmm. Whipped cream, got some thoughts, ooh kind of naughty.”

  Grunt popped up on stage, munching on a bagel. He calmly took his seat behind the drum kit and joined in, continuing to eat with one hand while working a drumstick with the other. Now that the funk had a beat, people were really dancing, almost everybody on the floor and moving their bodies.

  It’s working, Alva thought. We’ve successfully averted a riot. Now we just have to keep it going ’til everybody’s in their right minds again.

  Finally Corn pulled himself up on the stage. He pointed at Barrow, who held a hand up to his chest. Me?

  Corn nodded. Later, he mouthed. He picked up his bass and started popping and slapping, locking down the low end.

  “Mmm, use those fingers, mmhmm, let your touch linger…”

  The music had everybody boogying now. It had pushed out the negative vibes and replaced them with positive energy, flowing through the room in a unifying force. Heads bopped, booties shook, lovers danced with bodies close and singles got up the courage to tap romantic interests on the shoulders and take them by the hand to the dancefloor.

  When the song was over, Tina tossed her hair and held her arms out to the audience, as if to embrace everyone. “For our next song, we’d like to slow it down a bit.” She turned and smiled at her bass player. “Corn, could I get you to come over and sing with me? There’s a song I’ve always wanted to do as a duet.”

  Corn, eyebrows raised, gathered his cord up and approached the microphone.

  “Barrow, could you start us off?” Tina said. “I need you to play Every Rose Has Its Thorn.”