Fight Song (23 page)
Tilda isn’t buying the story Coffen stammers through. He’d hoped that she’d kind of accept the fact that the quarterbackclad mouse he now swings slowly by its tail before her eyes is Schumann. Unfortunately, she’s proving impervious to the spell of his spiel.
This is transpiring at Taco Shed in the late afternoon—after fro-yo, after Bob had dropped his children off at home. Tilda mans the register. As this is the chain’s pre-dinner lull, no other customers or employees are there. Her muscles seem especially plump on this fine day, in that fine uniform.
Her eyes stay trained on the dangling mouse. “I didn’t know there were any other ways men could break up with me; I thought I’d seen it all before, but now you’re trying to tell me an evil magician turned him into a mouse.”
“He’s not an evil magician per se,” Coffen says. “Honestly, his motives remain pretty obtuse to me. But I wouldn’t say outright evil.”
“I knew Schumann was married and that our affair, no matter how torrid, had a short shelf life, but now you’re waving a mouse in my face saying that’s him? Jesus, I didn’t think it would get any worse than when that welder gave me gonorrhea on Valentine’s Day.”
Coffen continues to swing Schumann back and forth by the tail like he’s trying to hypnotize her. “Tilda, I wouldn’t make this up. Frankly, my imagination isn’t capable of making something like this up.”
“I thought me and you were friends.”
“We are.”
“Then why are you lying to me?”
Bob Coffen is not the man for the job of mouse-sitting right now. Normally, sure, he’d be happy to place Schumann in a shoebox with some handfuls of newly shorn grass, a wedge of fine Danish cheese for him to nibble the day away, an exercise wheel to burn off those heavy dairy calories. But not tonight. Tonight has to be all about Jane and the show with no distractions.
“I was hoping you’d baby-sit him,” Coffen says to Tilda.
“What now?”
“Will you watch him for a few hours?”
“Baby-sit the mouse?”
“Please.”
“You make that welder who gave me the drip seem like the most romantic man in the universe.”
“Between you and me, I’m about to go try and win my wife back. I can’t be responsible for Schumann tonight.”
“Maybe that welder’s number is still listed. Gonorrhea really isn’t that big of a deal when you think about it in context with all the other atrocities going on in the world today—a little gonorrhea, big whoop … ”
There are certain sentences that human beings are never prepared to utter until they leave the lips, and here goes a doozy from Bob: “I would never say this mouse was Schumann unless this mouse was indeed the notorious Schumann.”
“No wonder my daughter lives in a car with a bun in the oven. No wonder she loves that loser. Look at the example I set. Jesus, will you stop swinging him by his tail?”
Bob stops swinging him by his tail, stows him on his shoulder once more.
“On the off chance I did screw that mouse last night, treat him with a little respect, will ya?”
Now Schumann pipes up a bit on his own behalf, squeaking and peeping. Both humans look at the wee quarterback. Tilda even nods a couple times as though she understands his rodent dialect.
“Maybe that is Reasons with His Fists,” she says, “but either way, this is a restaurant, and I can’t harbor a rodent here. If the health department found out, I’d lose my job. You’re on your own.”
“I understand,” Coffen says, not understanding at all—wait a hot damn sec: She runs an intercom-sex operation out of this joint but is worried about boarding a mouse for a few hours?
“Did he say anything nice about me?” Tilda asks.
“What?”
“I’m not saying he is a mouse. But for the sake of argument, before he got turned into that thing, did he say any nice stuff?”
“Tilda, he raved about you.”
She smiled. “Thanks. I don’t even care if you’re lying. Would you like a Mexican lasagna for the road?”
“I’d love one.”
She disappears into the back for a couple minutes, comes back out with it. “Will you eat it here?”
“I have to run.”
“Stay a couple more minutes and eat. It’s the least you
can do after waving that mouse around and telling me I took it to bed.”
They make small talk, bicker some, stay away from any more direct discussions about wee Schumann shelved on Bob’s shoulder. It only takes about six bites to choke down the Mexican lasagna. Coffen should chew more when he eats. If he doesn’t want to do it for his digestive tract, then he should do it for anybody forced to watch the splattering pageantry in person.
Then he and Schumann walk out front to depart Da Taco Shed.
Coffen barely has time to unlock his car when Tilda throws the restaurant’s door open and comes tearing into the parking lot after him, screaming, “I need to ask you a couple questions, Bob.”
“Of course.”
“Is that mouse on your shoulder my lover, Reasons with His Fists, a.k.a. your neighbor, Schumann?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Please answer the question.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Tell me.”
Coffen nods. “Yes, I think this mouse is maybe Schumann.”
Tilda stares at Coffen’s face. She’s staring at his face in such a way it’s making him really uncomfortable.
“What are you doing?” he asks, growing more alarmed with every second of her measured appraisal.
“Watching your nose.”
“Why?”
“For blood.”
“Why would I have a bloody nose?”
“I chopped up a Scout’sHonor!
®
and laced your Mexican lasagna.”
“What’s Scout’sHonor!
®
?” Coffen asks.
“It’s a pill. An over-the-counter truth serum.”
“That’s a real thing?”
“Tell a lie while you’re on it,” Tilda says, “and a pond of blood will rip-roar from your nose.”
“How long has that been on the market?”
“Let’s stay focused on the questions about Schumann.”
“Is it FDA-approved?”
“If you don’t wanna tell me the truth from your mouth, your nose will tell me what I need to know,” says Tilda.
“Why’d you lace my lasagna?”
“I have to know the truth. So please say it once more: Is that mouse really my lover, Reasons with His Fists, a.k.a. your neighbor, Schumann?”
Bob doesn’t know how to answer that. His head says no, of course not. His heart says, I doubt it but it is the tiniest bit conceivable, after Bob saw Björn morph the ballroom floor into ice baths. In a sense it doesn’t matter what he thinks about the likelihood of Schumann’s mouse status. It’s up to Scout’sHonor!
®
.
Bob decides to go with his heart: “Yeah, I’m pretty sure the mouse is Schumann.”
“I need a definitive answer.”
“It’s him.”
She ogles Bob’s nose, which stays bone dry. Tilda looks surprised. So does Coffen. Then once she’s convinced that there’s nary a deception on the premises, Tilda says, “Now that I know for certain you’re not lying, I’m happy to baby-sit.”
“Maybe the truth serum doesn’t work,” says Bob.
“I don’t know if I can believe your story, and I certainly don’t believe that hustling magician. But I’ve used Scout’sHonor!
®
many times on many men and I know that it works like a charm.
“Life is getting weirder,” she says, taking the mouse from Bob, holding her palms flat so Schumann can nose around, walk in little circles, tickle with his whiskers. She brings him up close to her face and makes smooching noises. He responds with squeaks that seem jubilant.
Then she holds him right up to her left eye: “My god, it might really be him.”
“It’s a lot to stomach, I know.”
“Sorry for dosing you.”
“I understand why.”
“You’re a good friend,” says Tilda.
“So are you.”
“And our list keeps getting longer.”
“Our list?”
“Cops, monsters, prudes, and mice,” she says, still eyeballing Schumann.
Bob, his new dental bib, and French Kiss are all in the band’s van, driving to Coffen’s house. It’s time to launch O
PERATION
W
IN
B
ACK
J
ANE
.
The band members are all in full French Kiss makeup.
Bob is wearing a new black suit. He’s going all-in to get Jane to come along to Björn’s show tonight.
His secret weapon, at least from Coffen’s own perspective, is the dental bib. He’s been lamenting what to write on it, deciding only a matter of minutes ago to write their names on it: J
ANE
, M
ARGOT
, B
RENT
.
If Jane needs a reason to keep trying, won’t this bib be the perfect answer for her? Obscenely bigheaded over his bib idea, he shows it to Ace. They are in the back of the van with all the gear. The French singer drives. The drummer rides shotgun.
“What do you think?” Bob says, fluttering the bib with pride.
“Meh,” Ace says.
“What do you mean ‘meh’?”
“It’s pretty sentimental.”
“This is the exact time to be sentimental. This is the life and death of my family.”
“Listen, I’m only one man,” says Ace. “I’m only one
mortal man named Ace commenting on this dental bib, but I don’t think it’s the way to go.”
“If there’s ever a time to go sentimental, it’s tonight.”
“I’m only one mortal balding man named Ace, but I think you can do better.”
“Turn right up here?” the singer says.
“Yeah, right, then second left,” Bob says.
“Check.”
“I’m with Ace,” the drummer says, “don’t be so sappy.”
“You guys, I have to convince her to come along to the show. She’s not going to want to come and I have to make her.”
“Why won’t she want to come?” Ace says.
“She’s trying to break the world record for treading water starting tomorrow morning. Her coach says she shouldn’t go anywhere tonight, needs her rest.”
“The coach is right, dude,” the drummer says. “She needs to be well rested and hydrated.”
“Of course,” Coffen says, “but she’ll still get plenty of rest. The show is only from 7:30 to 9:00. We’ll have her in bed by 10:00
PM
.”
“Chump Change, I’m on your side,” Ace says. “No doubt, you’re my dog in this race. We’re on our way to try and help you, remember that. But I have to ask: Are you doing the right thing? Shouldn’t you be in favor of her doing everything she can to prepare for the race, even if that means skipping this magic thingie?”
“She’s probably not even going to break the record,” Bob says.
“Whoa, that’s fucked,” the French singer says.
“That’s disgustingly fucked,” the drummer says.
“I gave up cussing,” says Ace, “but allow me to weigh in with Pig Latin: That’s
uck-fayed
.”
“It’s not
uck-fayed
,” Bob says.
“Dude, it’s totally
uck-fayed
,” the drummer says.
“I’m not being mean,” Coffen says. “I’m only saying she’s tried and failed at breaking this record four times already. We have to be realistic.”
“Dude, do you think she can break the record or not?” the drummer says.
“That’s not important,” Bob says.
“It’s pretty important,” says Ace. “Do you?”
“Of course I think she can break it.” The Scout’sHonor!
®
racing through Coffen’s bloodstream goes to work, its formula producing the promised results. Bob has lied. Now his nose starts bleeding.
“Did you do some blow or something?” Ace asks.
Coffen wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “No, it’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.” Ace asks the drummer to see if there are any leftover fast food napkins in the glove compartment. Luckily, there are. Bob holds a bundle up to his face.
“Am I a rock star, Chump Change?” says Ace.
“I don’t understand the question,” Coffen says.
“Am I a millionaire rock star playing concerts at sold-out arenas around the globe?”
“Is this the left I take?” the singer says.
“Yes,” Bob says.
“Then what after that?”
