Fives and Twenty-Fives (14 page)

“My father and brother hated my rock music, and my friends,” he told me, “they always threatened to inform the state morality police of our performances.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“Because this would have been an embarrassment for them, you see. Important in government, my father and my brother. So to have the second son of Abu Muhammad singing American songs, dancing with girls at secret shows . . . this would not simply not do. So for my friends and I, this was some protection.”

“What about your friends? How’re they making out these days?”

“We were running,” he said, more to himself than to me. “But I left them when I came here to work.” Then he got quiet for a second. “I left them by the lake. They were okay. Yes. Safe.”

“What about your dad and brother? They safe?”

But Dodge was already done talking, his face behind that book of his. I took the hint.

The doorman shivers in his thin coat, asks for five dollars, doesn’t bother to card me. Just looks me up and down. Kind of suspicious. I still got my work clothes on. Boots and jeans. The blue,
speedee oil change
shirt under my camouflage, duck-hunting jacket has my name on it. And I’m all smudged with dirt and engine grease. It’s probably all over my face and hair, too. There wasn’t time to shower or change before I drove up.

The doorman waves me inside, and as soon as I step through the clear plastic sheet that acts for a door, I see why I might have confused him. I’m not the usual type for this place.

In the dim lights and the cigarette smoke I see people who’re dingy and dirty, not like me, in my work clothes, but dingy and dirty because they’re working at it. The guys all got denim jackets with sewn-on patches, the dirtier, the more stained and trampled, the better. Each denim jacket tells a story. Every patch and every stain a battle. Like dress-blue uniforms with campaign ribbons. The stains are a measure of dedication. They tell everyone in the bar, without stooping to say it out loud, how they once saw Cannibal Corpse. How they stuck with it through the nineties and the sad grunge years and how they never cut their hair or stopped slam dancing and smashing barstools. Never gave in and took up what you might call productive behavior.

The girls, the few of them mixed in here and there—they’re a different sort. All of them much younger than the guys, for one thing. I see a few serious metalheads, but mostly they’re just hangers-on. Girls in that dangerous phase, you know? Attached to some terrible boyfriend in a band or hoping to be at night’s end.

I see Landry and Paul onstage. But I stop myself from waving or calling out to them. They’re the opening act and need all the metal cred they can muster for this. Some high school buddy waving like it’s the goddamn battle of the bands won’t help.

It’s eleven thirty already and they’re only just setting up. Still pretty early for these metal types, I guess. I find an empty corner in the back of the bar and wedge myself into it, almost without thinking. I can see the whole club from this spot. No one can sneak up behind me.

I cross my arms so anyone looking will know I ain’t interested. Not my first time at one of these. Landry and Paul dragged me to plenty of metal shows back in high school, and I remember how the best way to muddy up those patches on your denim jacket was to start a fight, pull some guy down into the beer and grime of the club floor, then get yourself dragged through the gravel outside when the bouncer tosses the both of you.

Landry goes to the microphone. He shades his eyes and searches the crowd. Maybe he’s looking for me, or maybe there’s a girl he hasn’t told me about. He’s starting to grow a beer belly, stretching out the GWAR T-shirt he’s had since puberty. Coming in a little early, that gut. He never was much for exercise. He slings his guitar and says, “Check, check,” with that thick Cajun accent. Then, just in case anyone thinks he gives too much of a shit, he tosses out, “Check. Motherfucker, check,” and shakes out his hair. It’s an old-school mullet, but real close-cropped on the sides.

Paul gets behind the drums and rubs his shaved head. He’s had it shaved like that since I’ve known him, only now it looks less like a choice and more like he’s halfway to bald, for real. Getting thinner, too, as Landry puts on weight. Must burn off a bit of that beer weight behind the drums.

Paul counts it off and they launch into their first number.

The whole drive up, I was wondering how Landry and Paul could have a legit metal band with just a guitar, drums, and Landry on vocals. But even on the first riff, I hear their strategy. To make up for not having a buddy who plays bass, Landry has his old guitar plugged into a bass amp and Paul has an extra kick-drum going. They’re not the first to think of it, obviously, but it’s a good sound. Landry steps away from the microphone and smiles at Paul. They rock out for a few bars. Having fun, looks like. Paul grits his teeth and closes his eyes. It may not be the usual thing, what they’re doing up there, but the metalheads start moving around a little bit. Like bubbles stuck to the bottom of a pot just before the water boils.

Then Landry goes to the microphone and ruins it.

Much as I love the guy, and he is a good friend, you can’t ignore that Cajun accent. It just ain’t metal. The crowd, with the denim jackets and long hair, stops vibrating almost as soon as he opens his mouth and moves away from the stage like someone took the heat off the pot. They go back to the bar for more beer, back to the walls to lean and wait for the headliners.

I’m
liking it, though. Okay—maybe Landry doesn’t know what he’s doing, maybe it’s accidental, but there’s something to this.

Paul hits both kick drums hard. Landry pulls a dirty riff down the strings and keeps at those lyrics, whispering just to stay on pitch: “I’ll show you where I’m from, I’ll show you where we bleed.”

In some crazy-ass way, that Cajun accent of his might even
help
, you know. Almost like he’s doing one of those old, French fais-do-do songs. It’s thick and mean and ugly, but there’s a truth at the bottom of it, like he’s up there onstage standing knee deep in swamp mud. I rock my head up and down a little, trying to get the rhythm of it. Trying to like it for the right reasons, if there are some. I blink and try to bring the stage back into focus. But the smoke and the bright lights sting my eyes so I squint and watch the dance floor instead.

It’s empty out there save for one hazy figure. I squint harder and a little blonde thing comes into view. A regular Tinker Bell, wearing a ponytail and what looks like a yellow . . . She actually came into this joint in a fucking sundress? I blink again, thinking I’m imagining this. The cigarette haze parts a second later and I make her out properly.

She’s staring at me. Has been this whole time. Her lips are bright red, smiling like she thinks I’m funny. Like she thinks I’m checking her out and it makes her want to laugh.

My cheeks burn. I look away. Embarrassed as hell.

Landry hits the last note of his second song, and realizing the crowd ain’t going to applaud, he goes right on, “Next song, it’s called ‘My Maw Maw’ll Kick Your Ass.’”

I look back at Tinker Bell, mostly making sure I didn’t just imagine her. This sundressed Tinker Bell of a girl. Sure enough, there she is. Still looking at me, too. Only now, she’s seen me look her over twice. Makes me want to jump out of my skin.

Just watch Landry, I tell myself. Show some damn discipline. Just keep your eyes on him until it’s time to leave, then get some sleep on his couch, nice and soft.

I get Landry fixed solid in my line of sight, and everything else fades from view. Tinker Bell, the metalheads, the walls, and the smoke. All of it. Then I feel the elbow in my ribs. I jump back into the corner with a thud.

“Whoa. Hey, sorry . . . ,” I hear her screaming above the music. Loud, but still clear and girlie. “Didn’t mean to spook you there, guy!”

I look her up and down. She’s got bangs like Bettie Page, only dyed crazy blonde. On her forearm, she has a tattoo that looks like a rubbing of cypress bark—BURY ME UNDER A TREE IN LOUISIANA, it reads. She’s got dark eyes. Freckles. And she’s still smiling at me.

“No. You didn’t spook me. I’m just, you know, watching.” I look away again. For all I know the conversation’s over.

She elbows me again, harder. “You like this?”

“What? The music?”

“No, the shitty metal bar.” She cocks her head to the side, like she’s annoyed with me or something.

“Well, see, it’s my buddies up there,” I yell into her ear. I take a breath between each sentence so I can fight against the speakers. “So that’s why I came. But, yeah, I
kinda
like it.”

“Why? What’s good about it?”

Landry breaks into a fast, almost-rockabilly verse. “Maw Maw benches two-fifty . . . ,” he wails. “And
you
can go
fuck
yourself . . .” I wonder if this girl’s quizzing me or something. Like it’s some kind of magic trick, finding a way to enjoy this stuff.

“Look, it’s not good or anything. I know that. I just like it. Bad in all the right places, I guess.” I chuckle to myself, sure she’s already done listening to me. “It’s like they’re growing up. You know? Not lying about nothing. Grown-up enough to admit they love their maw maw. That they’re Cajuns from Houma who never seen Brooklyn.”

I look down at her. She’s still here. Still listening. Still smiling, too. She bites her lip and punches me in the chest. “Come buy me a drink.”

“Yeah? Okay.”

She turns and walks toward the bar. I stumble after her.

“I’m Lizzy,” she calls out over her shoulder.

“Lester,” I shout after her.

“Yeah, it’s on your shirt.”

At the bar, she orders a PBR. “I’ll let you pay for this because they’re only a dollar and I won’t feel like a whore.”

I fumble with my wallet and scramble like mad for something to say. “So . . . you like this music?”

“Sure.” She smiles. “It’s better than the shit coming up next. At least it’s different.”

“Why are you here, then? If what’s coming up next is shit?”

She shrugs. “My classmates, I guess. You can’t be an art student without a side venture in punk or metal. It’s like . . . a requirement?” She takes a swig, then gleefully belches.

I get that it’s my turn to say something, so I blurt out, “I like art.”

“Oh!” She laughs. “How very civilized of you!”

Just then, as Landry and Paul go offstage, the crowd starts to sway in our direction. They’ve been waiting for the house stereo to come back on so they can slam dance to some proper shit. A barstool falls over. A mosh pit starts to form, and someone groans. It’s all so forced and annoying. Mostly, though, I’m thinking of this girl, Lizzy, this little Tinker Bell, exposed and getting pushed against the bar by this mass of fat, sweaty men.

I look down. Sure enough, she’s grimacing, trying to keep from getting pinned to the rail by this fat guy behind her. Quick, without thinking, I step in between her and the crowd and try to shield her a little. But the crowd’s begun to swell and get serious about this mosh pit. I reach out and lock both arms against the bar with Lizzy inside up against my chest.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” But I can tell she’s nervous. No more flip, college-girl edge to her voice, like before.

Another barstool crashes over, and I can tell by the way Lizzy crumples to one side that it must’ve landed on her foot. She’s about to go on the floor, in her nice sundress. Down there with all that broken glass and all those angry boots.

I throw another elbow and then a knee to clear the area around me enough so I can bend over and pick this Lizzy chick up. She’s on my shoulder and I’m headed toward the door, shoving fat guys out the way. I burst through the plastic sheet and onto the cold street, jogging down the sidewalk with this girl on my shoulder, one-handed. I reach into my pocket for the keys to my truck, open the door, and toss her gently up on the bench seat.

I reach for my medical bag, but realize all of a sudden that this is crazy behavior.

A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Is this girl gonna think I’m some crazy serial killer trying to kidnap her?

Then I hear her laughing. Goddamnit, I’m already in love.

“You’re pretty forward, Lester.”

I smile and put my fingers through my hair, embarrassed—but at the same time . . . not. “Sorry. Just seemed like you might’ve broke your foot.” Then I laugh, too. “That was a little crazy, I know.”

“Absolutely not. Most fun I’ve had all week. I can’t even
remember
the last time a man spirited me away from danger.”

“I got some tape in the bag. Lemme see if I can wrap that foot for you.”

“Are you a paramedic or something?”

“Nope. Just a guy with a backpack full of gauze.”

“A good man to know then.”

I stare up at her. Can’t take my eyes away. Wrap her foot entirely by feel.

Huck is taught by the Widow Douglas to ignore the past
, and that not all deceased people have wisdom to share, even in the sacred texts: “After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn’t care no more about him, because I don’t take no stock in dead people.”