Blazed (21 page)

“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.”

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.

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.

“Why?”

“Cos of those street d-bags rolling thirty deep and taking over the sidewalk right in front of their apartment for hours and hours, harassing people as they walked by, breaking bottles, and playing those stupid bongo drums and singing Sublime songs and Goo Goo Dolls songs.”

“Really?”

“Shit yeah,” he went. “The fucking Goo Goo Dolls. Nobody wants to hear that bullshit anymore. No one I know wanted to hear it the first time around, so they especially don't want it being played by smelly fucking kids getting hammered on malt liquor and begging for money. And the weed, too. They'd smoke the worst-smelling weed and just get wasted and act like a bunch of dicks to everyone.”

My father was really emotional as he was saying all of this.

“Or if it's not the trustafarian mobs, you got these other kind of retarded people who actually drive to Haight and Ashbury and post up on the corners and play whatever shitty original music they write after work or on the weekends. They've got this grand idea in their head and think those corners are so relevant and magical. They still think
it's some kind of mecca, even though they won't move there. Man, those people are assholes. At least the street goblins aren't delusional.”

“Then why do they come to Haight and Ashbury?”

“The park, son. Golden Gate Park is just a few blocks away. One of the biggest urban parks in the world. Sleep for free at night under the stars and ruin the neighborhood for everyone who pays taxes to live there during the day.”

“Shitty.”

“Yup. So my friend moved because they couldn't lay their little boy, a child, down for a damn nap without the noise on the street waking him up two or three times. It's so stupid.”

“People who cover Sublime should get jail time,” I said.

My father smiled. “Absolutely. And the ones who cover the Goo Goo Dolls should get life.”

Both of us started laughing until we realized we were laughing together. It hadn't happened before. And I hated myself for letting it happen.

My mother is in a fucking mental hospital and I'm cracking jokes with the man who ran her over.

I stomped out of the room immediately after noticing this and made sure I was all alone for a few minutes and punched myself as hard as I could in the chest.

Punching until I felt way worse than I felt good during the conversation with my father.

Anyway, point is, I get it. I understand the police squashing this shit. But four fucking officers showing up.
Like, come on. It ain't that big of a deal. Plus, Brandon and Eddie are supercool about it.

Eddie tells the cops exactly what they were doing and how many songs they thought they'd get away with, and the cops think it's funny.

And one of them, he even asks Eddie if he can get a CD, and Eddie grabs one off the table and hands it to him.

Fifteen minutes later, the cops are gone.

Eddie rolls right over to us, a huge grin smeared on his mug, and he goes, “You're Dominique from Vicious Lips, right?”

“I am,” she goes. “You know my band?”

“I love your band,” he says. “
Songs About Kissing
is one of my favorite records right now.”

“Damn,” I say. “Fucking famous and shit.”

Dominique blushes. “Stop that,” she says.

“I saw you guys open for the Saint James Society at Bottom of the Hill a few months ago.”