by R. D. Tarver
“Hey.” Jesse pulled her back to the bed. “Eventually you’re gonna have to tell me what’s going on.”
Mal looked to the floor. “It will all be over soon.” She forced a smile and pulled at him to get up. “Can we just talk about something else until then?”
“Message received.” Jesse stood and rested his arms on her shoulders. “Next chance we get we should go back to the mine. Just you and me, okay?”
She nodded.
“And your camera.”
6
Jesse ran into the house to grab a quick bite to eat before setting up the trailer for practice. Skipping the majority of the school day, and therefore lunch, had stirred a formidable hunger. He threw together the contents of a sandwich, more utilitarian than visually appealing, and downed it with a frothing glass of ice-cold milk.
Randy and his mother passed through the kitchen on their way out the front door. His mother was arguing with Rick, who wheeled into the kitchen behind them.
“These pillars of the community you are so desperate to fit in with are the same people that are driving these kids to the edge,” said Rick. “I mean, just take a look at this one.” He nodded to Jesse, who flipped him the bird, and then proceeded to spin around in circles to deflect the impending rebuttal from his mother.
“These are nice, churchgoing people,” she said. “They’re just trying to do their best to understand what’s going on with their children. You can’t blame them for wanting to come together during their time of need. There was another missing persons case reported this morning, Rick. This isn’t a joke.”
Randy tucked in his shirt and grabbed a set of keys from the counter. “Come on, man. Don’t get your mother all riled up before we leave the house.”
“I’m sorry that it’s not as easy for those of us with actual functioning brains to avoid falling into the trappings of the holy church and its eons of inquisition and genocide.”
“Where are you guys going?” asked Jesse.
“They’re going to be indoctrinated into the world’s most well marketed death cult.”
“If they’re so well marketed, how come I’ve never heard about any death cults around here?” said Jesse.
“Thank you, Jesse,” his mother said.
“Very funny.” Rick shook his head. “You might have heard of it. It’s the one that still worships a magical baby whose working-class father was cuckolded by a narcissistic creator deity?”
“We’re going to a community vigil at the church for the missing boy, Kenny Summers,” his mother said.
The name sat heavy in Jesse’s ears as he tried to finish the glass of milk. “Oh yeah?” he mustered. Kenny’s annoying face had been making the rounds inside Jesse’s carousel of guilty thoughts of late.
“We moved to this quiet little developing community outside of the city to try to provide a better life for you boys.” She pointed to both Jesse and Rick as she spoke. “And God forbid we show some support for our new neighbors.”
“No thanks,” said Rick. “This place is a fucking joke.”
A dark silence filled the room as the words left Rick’s mouth. Jesse braced against the encroaching tension. Five more minutes, he thought to himself. Five more goddamn minutes and I would have been out the door and on my way to practice.
His mother locked eyes with Rick.
Beneath her furrowed brow was a contorted mask of anger and hurt that Jesse found hard to behold, despite not being the intended target.
Rick returned the gaze without expression. Jesse recognized the blank stare. The oversized metal frames that rested atop his nose obscured any hint of emotion in his brother’s dead eyes. After what felt like an eternity, Rick let out a burst of comically loud flatulence, seamlessly incorporated into his exodus as he propelled his wheelchair down the hall towards his room.
Jesse’s mother had already stomped out through the front door before the screen door slammed shut behind her.
Randy held up his hands in defeat as he looked to Jesse, who could only shrug in response.
“There’s a frozen pizza in the freezer for you guys to share,” said Randy. He stepped out and held the screen door open as he called to Jesse. “Try to teach your brother some goddamned manners before we get back.”
Jesse barged into Rick’s room. “What the hell was that about?”
“Just trying to educate the masses.” Rick glanced down at the large tactical watch he wore on his wrist. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?”
“You know, our lives would be a lot easier if you guys could get along.”
“Keep your mind on the show and let me worry about the little things. I’ve put a lot on the line for this gig. At this point my credibility is all we have.”
Jesse stood his ground; Rick raised his eyebrows as if to ask, Anything else? The expression tapped a wellspring of anger that Jesse didn’t realize he had harbored towards his brother.
“You don’t have to be such a dick to mom. She’s been through a lot.” Jesse inadvertently gestured at his brother’s chair as he made the comment. He froze, unable to rewind the moment. Instead it played on, one agony-filled second after another.
Rick responded in the coldest way possible: by turning his back on his brother without another word.
C H A P T E R S I X
PRISONERS OF FLESH
1
Jesse stared up at the stage.
The headliner’s backline of Marshall full stacks loomed above the drum riser like the black monolith in Kubrick’s 2001. The comparison felt true as he stared up at the visual spectacle like a lesser being, unable to fully comprehend its meaning. A team of stagehands handled the heavy stacks of flight cases, each bearing the white spray-painted, stenciled letters “P.O.F.”
Still mesmerized by the volume of the sound check, Jesse watched as the headliners, Prisoners of Flesh, strolled towards the bar as they left the stage. They seemed calm and collected, almost bored by the tedium.
A disembodied voice called over the loudspeakers. “All right, thanks guys, sounded great. Gimme about twenty minutes to setup for the support and opener line checks.”
“This is intense,” Alex said.
“That sounded fuckin’ awesome,” said Rust. “P.O.F. rules.”
One of the members of P.O.F. smirked at the audible mention of their band in passing, causing Jesse to feel a twinge of embarrassment.
“I heard they just got signed to Metal Midnight,” Alex added.
Jesse felt a heavy hand on his shoulder as Mazes’ wide-eyed grin loomed from above. “It would seem that our banner rides in good company.”
Rick wheeled up behind a tall, wiry middle-aged man adorned with a clean-shaven scalp. He called to the assembled members of Hell Patrol as he approached the band.
“Guys, fall in. This is Blasto, he’s the tour manager for Prisoners of Flesh.”
Blasto sized up the group with a scowl as he stood, arms crossed. “Jesus Christ, are you girls even old enough to bleed?”
Rick wheeled in between Blasto and his band. “Like I told the booking agent, all of our papers are in order. We are a professional outfit, and this isn’t our first rodeo, so please—”
Blasto shot Rick a look fierce enough to cause his chair to wheel backwards, seemingly of its own volition.
“Please continue,” Rick finished.
Blasto stepped forward and cleared his throat while tugging on his genitals in one fluid motion.
“All right ladies, this ain’t no talent show. You got five minutes on either side of the set—which is exactly twenty-five minutes long—to get your shit on and off our stage. You go one minute over, and I will personally cut the power to the stage.”
“Yes, sir,” Alex said, licking his lips nervously.
Jesse gave Alex a slight elbow to the ribs to steady his bandmate. It felt like everywhere they went someone was trying to get them off their stage.
Blasto gestured towards the stage. “One more thing. See those p
yro pots along the riser?”
The group nodded collectively.
“Don’t even go near those,” said Blasto. “They cost more than you are likely to make during the rest of your professional career.”
Before the insult could set in, Blasto left to join the members of Prisoners of Flesh, who were sitting at the bar ordering their first of many drinks.
“What’s up his ass?” asked Jesse.
“Don’t let him get into your head,” Rick said. “Baldness is upsetting. He’s on the losing end of the hair-to-happiness ratio.”
“Hair-to-happiness ratio?” Jesse asked.
“Name one bald, middle-aged dude who seems happy, as opposed to those with a luxurious head of hair?”
“Dude, you’re almost as bald as that dude, and you’re like half his age,” said Rust.
“And do I seem happy to you? Why do you think they call me Rick the Prick?”
Rust shook his head.
“That’s what I thought. But thanks anyway for the observation, Seinfeld.”
2
The doors to the Beggar’s Banquet Hall opened promptly at eight p.m., allowing a slow trickle of early arrivals to mill about the nearly three hundred-capacity venue.
Jesse was pacing in front of the Hell Patrol merch booth when he heard a familiar voice call out near the stage. He turned to see Mal, dragging Kara in tow, as they crossed the sparsely filled room. Her camera dangled by the strap that hung over her shoulder as she threw her arms around his neck. She held him as she took in the view of the stage.
“Well this is quite a step up. Did I miss the sound check?”
“Five steps up.” Jesse pointed to the staircase on the side of the stage. “And yes, you missed all thirty seconds of it, but it’s totally cool.”
“Uh-oh. You’re nervous aren’t you?”
“Why?”
“You always make those kind of jokes when you’re nervous.”
“Okay, fine. I’m about to shit my pants if you must know.” There was no use denying the obvious. She could see right through him.
Jesse wasn’t very experienced with relationships; Mal was his first serious girlfriend. If you didn’t count getting a handjob from Tracy Stephens in her tent last summer during a weekend campout at Lake Keystone, Mal was his only girlfriend.
He knew enough to know that she could read even the faintest residue of his inner dialogue just by looking into his eyes. One glance from those witchy orbs and she had him dead to rights. Despite her being one of the few humans he treasured on this planet, he made a practice of never lying to someone who could read auras and seemed to know what he was thinking before he did.
“Just remember not to suck when you get up there, and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.”
Rick regaled the new arrivals with the tale of the tour manger’s dressing-down of the band while doing his best Blasto impression. The imitation was nearly discovered as the tour manager passed by Hell Patrol’s merch booth.
“Five minutes,” Blasto said. He tapped on his wristwatch.
As was his custom before any performance, Rick ushered the group to fall in for a brief pep talk. “Okay, so we’re in a rough spot on the lineup, no bones about it. Nobody gives a shit about your set—it’s the first of three on the bill—and no one has ever heard of you.”
The group looked at each other uneasily, save for Mazes, who nodded in affirmation after every few words.
“The good news…because of the many factors that I’ve just laid out, the pressure is off.” He pushed up his large wire frames as he looked each band member in the eye. “You’ve already been written off, so relax and have fun. This is just another stop along the highway to hell. Now put your fists in and tear it up.”
Jesse found that he was actually breathing easier after the initial sting of his brother’s words had faded. He could see that the others were getting a little looser as well.
“Wish me luck up there,” Jesse said.
Mal pulled him in for a kiss and whispered in his ear. “Knock ’em fucking dead.”
Jesse followed the others to their dead space—a stockpile of empty guitar cases and drum covers stashed at the rear of the stage. He picked up his bass and threw it over his shoulder, warming up his fingers on the fretboard as he surveyed the sparse crowd.
The house music went down and so did the lights.
Mazes took the stage first and got behind the drum set. He stepped on his hi-hat pedal a few times as he pulled his sticks from the leather quiver on his back and adjusted the drum throne to his satisfaction.
Jesse hoped this throne would last through the set. Mazes had already burned through four of them since the band’s inception. A fair portion of the band’s backline funds had been put towards backup gear for the unwieldy giant. It was worth every penny. Jesse had never seen anyone play with such power and stamina.
“A band is as only as good as their drummer,” Rick had said.
Jesse followed suit, taking his usual spot at stage right. He plugged in his bass and took his amp off standby. Across the floor, the sound man was giving the thumbs up from his booth.
Jesse returned the gesture and took a deep breath. You can do this. Highway to hell and whatnot.
“Hello, Beggar’s Banquet Hall,” Rust began. He threw off his shirt into the front row and shook his mane in both hands as he yelled into the mic. “We are Hell Patrol, and we’d like to thank Prisoners of Flesh for havin’ us on the bill tonight.” Rust pointed to the side of the stage as he continued. “And we’d also like to thank their tour manager, Blasto, for the warm reception.” He carried the mic stand around the stage as he spoke to the crowd, narrowly missing one of the pyro pots that lined the drum riser.
Blasto extended his middle finger high over the audience. Jesse could see the sheen of the stage lights bouncing off the top of his shiny bald head.
Rust planted his foot on one of the wedge monitors à la Bruce Dickinson, and the band began to play.
Unlike their previous shows, Hell Patrol was now able to play mostly original songs with only a couple of choice covers peppered in throughout their set. The sonic alchemy of the set’s composition had seemed to work. A small but enthusiastic crowd had lined the front of the stage by the time Hell Patrol was halfway into their set.
The rest of the set flashed by in a haze of lights and sound.
The instant the last song ended Jesse had already started to dismantle his gear. The stagehands were already hovering like vultures to wipe them clear of the stage. It had been drilled into him by his brother that only posers fuck off on stage after their set (unless you’re the headliner).
He looked back at Mazes, who carried his entire drum set under one arm and Alex’s guitar amp in the other. As the stage cleared, Jesse felt like the entire ordeal lasted mere seconds (after subtracting the weeks of preparation and anxiety).
To the side of the stage, Rick and Kara were busily fulfilling merch orders while Mal took shots of the action.
“Great job, rock star,” Mal said. “I think I got some really great shots.” She brandished her camera like it was a pistol, blowing away the imaginary smoke from its lens.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and feigned a smile. “How terrible was that?”
“Honestly, that was probably the best you guys have ever sounded.”
“That’s not saying a whole lot.”
“I should know. I’ve been to all of your shows.” She nudged Jesse on the arm with her fist. “Seriously, you guys killed it.”
“Okay, cool,” Jesse sighed. “I just felt kinda off tonight.”
Mal pointed to the merch booth. “I think you actually managed to make some fans, too.”
Jesse followed the line at the merch booth with his eyes.
“Hey man, good set. Where are you guys from?” The question came from one of the guitarists from Prisoners of Flesh who appeared in his field of view. The guitar player’s face was partly obscured by a shock of wai
st-length black hair that he fanned aside as he spoke.
“Macomb Springs.” The words were almost lost in Jesse’s throat as he tried to recall the fundamentals of human speech.
“Hell Patrol from Macomb Springs, right on,” he said, reaching for Jesse’s hand. “I’m Travis.”
Jesse fought for breath as he clasped the studded-leather gauntlet on Travis’s forearm. “Thanks for having us, great stage.”
“This place is a shithole,” Travis sneered. “You should come out with us on the road sometime, then you might see a decent stage.”
