Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

  “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.

  The Coffen front lawn

  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 OPERATION WIN BACK JANE.

  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: JANE, MARGOT, BRENT.

  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?”

  “Then your third right into my subdivision.”

  “Got it.”

  Coffen says to Ace, “You aren’t a rock star.”

  “Exactly right I’m not a rock star. But I am one to Kathleen. She comes to every gig I play. She loves me. She cheers like crazy. She believes in me, no matter what. Do you believe in Jane like that?”

  “Of course I … ” Bob trails off. He feels the faucet in his nose open up a bit more, the blood coming at a faster rate. Wow, had he not known this before? Was he aware of the fact he didn’t think Jane could break the record? It makes him feel like complete shit, this idea that he doubted her chances. Because Ace is right: He should be more like Kat; he should believe in Jane’s talent and skill and practiced abilities. He should believe that she can do anything she puts her mind to.

  And it’s occurring to Bob that they’re also right about this evening’s itinerary. He is being uck-fayed. He is being selfish. He should not be asking Jane to go to Björn’s show. He should be encouraging her. He should be doing everything in his power to make sure she succeeds at everything that’s important to her.

  “You guys are right,” Coffen says. “Let’s make a couple changes to what we’re going to do once we get to my house.” He turns the bib over, writes something else on the back of it, and fastens the sign around his neck.

  Ace reads it and smiles.

  Early evening, the sun creeps down the horizon. Coffen’s wife, two children, and Erma all stand on the front steps of the light gray house, summoned by Bob and his cohorts: the dulcet stylings of French Kiss, sans Javier Torres, of course, who’s moved onto greener pastures, ones where all passersby are no doubt awestruck by his sonic chops. The three remaining members—in full French Kiss makeup—serenade Coffen’s entire family.

  Coffen had knocked on the front door once the band was all set up on the lawn. Margot opened the door and asked what was going on. Bob said, “Go get the whole family.” For once she did as she was told without making a big stink about not knowing why—or maybe she did know why and was rooting for Bob. Yes, he likes that idea quite a bit.

  So:

  See the whole Coffen clan congregated on the porch. Ace strums away on an acoustic guitar. The drummer keeps the beat on a snare drum that’s propped up on a stand in front of him. The French singer sings a yarn from the vault of the Kiss catalog, perhaps their most renowned ditty, “Rock and Roll All Nite.” They’ve done some progressive rearranging of the song’s components and currently, even though the rendition is only beginning, they are already playing the chorus, albeit a slower, jazzier, more romantic lilt than the original band ever intended.

  Coffen wears his reconceived dental bib around his neck. On it is the following message: GOOD LUCK TOMORROW, JANE!

  His family claps for French Kiss as the song ends.

  Then Ace starts talking, “Thanks very much; you are too kind. Thank you. Wow. What a fantastic response. We’re really happy to be here playing the Coffen front lawn tonight.”

  “Who are these guys?” Margot asks Coffen.

  “My band.”

  “Your band?” she says.

  “Your band?” Jane says.

  “Your band?” the band echoes.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Chump Change,” Ace says. “We’re not your band exactly.”

  “I thought the gig went well,”
Coffen says. “I want to learn bass and play with you guys. I’ll give my all and promise to practice night and day.”

  “How about some beginner’s lessons and we’ll see how it goes?” Ace says. “We’ll start there.”

  “So I’m in the band?” Coffen asks.

  “No,” says Ace, “but you can consider yourself on a temporary French Kiss scholarship while we figure out the lineup situation. We won’t turn on your amp, but you’ll wear the signature look and work the signature moves. You’ll be our temp until we iron things out and who knows, if you prove to be a savant on your instrument, maybe you will find yourself a permanent addition to our lineup. That good enough for now?”

  Bob nods, looks each member of the band in the eyes, and thanks them. He hadn’t expected to ask to be anything more than a onetime replacement, but it feels good to hear they’d consider him as a permanent member should he learn the bass inside and out. Now the onus is on Coffen. Do the work. Practice. And see what happens.

  “I’m not totally sure what’s going on out here,” Jane says.

  “Gotthorm wouldn’t like this,” Erma says.

  “What’s going on,” Bob says, “is that I’m here to apologize to you, Jane. I’m here to say that I should never have suggested we go to Björn’s show tonight. I’m here because I love you and I love our children and I know you’re going to break the world record on this attempt.”

  “You think I’m going to do it this time?” she asks.

  “I really do. Get all the rest you need. Break that record. And we’ll talk after you’re the world champion.” Coffen grips the crumpled and bloodied napkins in his pocket, in case he needs to retrieve them to swipe at a bleeding nose, but not one drip falls from his nose. “Now can we get back to enjoying the music?” Bob asks.

  Jane smiles, nods, stares at him.

  “Yeah!” says Brent.

  Even Margot, who’s got her iPad out to record all this, says, “Let’s hear another one.”

  Ace laughs and says, “We love the enthusiasm we’re seeing from the crowd on the Coffen front lawn! Music is about the fans, and we love each and every one of you. You never know what to expect at a new venue, but the Coffen front lawn is winning a huge place in our hearts!”

  The four Coffens all clap.

  Erma stands with her hands on her hips.

  Hopefully, no soulless spies from the HOA observe this unauthorized performance or they’ll no doubt pop off a belligerent email to Bob, a threat cluttered with propaganda and rhetorical questions—shouldn’t the music being broadcast within our subdivision’s collective earshot represent the tastes of all the residents rather than a mere few? Isn’t every one of our ears entitled to tones that tickle its tastes?

  “Excuse me,” Jane says. “Will you play ‘Rock and Roll All Nite’ again? That’s one of my favorites.”

  “Your taste in rock and roll is rock solid,” Ace says.

  French Kiss strikes up the song again.

  Bob pats his bib and says to Jane, “Good luck.”

  Shame-cave

  If one thing is utterly obvious to Coffen once he leaves his family for the night and goes back to DG, it is he has to stop lying to himself. What an oddly timed revelation earlier in French Kiss’s van, realizing consciously for the first time that he didn’t really support his wife. And that makes him wonder what else he doesn’t know. He’s still dosed on Scout’sHonor!® so he walks toward the bathroom to ogle his face in the mirror while he finds out about himself, one nosebleed at a time.

  On his way there, however, he hears more Johnny Cash coming from LapLand. He opens the door and walks in. There the lifeguard sits, perched high in his chair, guarding an empty pool.

  “Oh, fantastic, it’s the guy who thinks this is all a dream.”

  “I now know this is real,” Coffen says.

  “I’m pretty busy, so do you mind?”

  “Will you play a game with me?”

  “No thanks,” the lifeguard says.

  “Is my nose bleeding?”

  “Is that part of the game? Because I’m pretty sure I said that I didn’t want to play.”

  “Is my nose bleeding?”

  “You’re going to keep badgering me until I answer you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your nose is not bleeding.”

  “I love my wife and I believe in her,” Bob says.

  “Okay.”

  “Is my nose bleeding?”

  “Nope.”

  “I love my kids and I believe in them, too.”

  Bob pauses, shrugs.

  “Still no blood,” the lifeguard says.

  “I love my job,” Bob says, not even needing to ask about his nose this time because he feels it rupture. The blood gushes and Coffen doesn’t even wipe it, lets it soak the front of his new suit. “I have to quit this job.”

  “You and me both,” the lifeguard says. “You give me the creeps.”

  “I’ve worked here for ten years.”

  “You poor son of a bitch.”

  “How do you make any big changes to your life once you have all these responsibilities?” Bob asks, although he’s turning to walk out without giving the lifeguard any time to answer.

  Bob hadn’t expected any additional hours to work on Scroo Dat Pooch, but with an empty Sunday night, why not polish this turd to an incredible sheen? The code he writes makes the game look better, graphics getting downright good, and the better it looks—he reasons—the greater the opportunity for tomorrow morning’s status meeting to be an incredible unveiling, a self-sabotage of extraordinary measures.

  “What time is it, Robert?” he says to himself.

  “The plock strikes twelve, Robert.”

  “Does it, Robert my boy?”

  “Indeed, it does, Robert.”

  Coffen codes away and his phone rings about an hour later. “Bob is me,” he says.

  “Somebody gives you a gift of free tickets and you spit in his fucking face of generosity?” a voice says, slurring his words dramatically.

  “Björn?”

  “I turned your colleague into a rodent, Bob. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were antagonizing me by flaking on my show. I’m a big deal, man. I’m famous. I have over three thousand fans on Facebook. I’m a true miracle worker and you spit in the face of me and my show’s free tickets? Nobody treats me like I’m some walking colostomy bag and gets away with it. I mean, I have a statue of myself in my backyard.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Oh, sure, oh, yeah, my wife sought the solace she needed in the arms of another man and also two women she met in hotel bars because I failed to satisfy her sexually. But also she failed me in the realm of communication, right? I never knew that she wasn’t sexually satisfied or I would have done something about it. I am a sorcerer. I could have made her clit grow to the size of a pie tin. I could have pleased her in ways she’s never even pondered, but again, I didn’t know there was a problem. The point is that the communication broke down. And now, me and you, our communication is faltering. I give you free tickets. I excuse your kidnapping. I wipe the slate clean. And you can’t even live up to your end of the agreement and come to the show?”

  “So you’re wasted,” Coffen says.

  “I’m so drunk that it should be called something else. I’m ‘floff-mongered.’ Float that new bit of slang around and see if it catches on.”

  “Where are you anyway?”

  “I’m in my shame-cave.”

  “Your what?”

  “This place I go when I need to be alone with my self-sympathy,” he says. “When my floff-mongering is front and center.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Tonight’s show was a disaster. I had to flee the scene as a fugitive. I could have used a friendly face in the audience, Bob. Shit went terribly wrong. It was a new illusion. I made everybody’s chair fly about fifteen feet in the air. I told them to hold on tight. I told them there was no real danger. As long as t
hey stayed steadied, they’d only be floating there, say, thirty seconds or so before I let them back down. But then one woman puked. Then another did. And that made them all wobbly and woozy and soon one fell off and then another and pretty soon everyone was falling from the sky and landing on the carpet in screaming heaps. I kept saying to them, ‘You are safe, but you are vulnerable. That’s the balancing act. That’s what the flying-chair metaphor represents.’ But it was too late. They were already starting to fall.”

  “Did anyone get hurt?”

  “Lots of them got hurt,” Björn says.

  “And you left?”

  “Hell yeah, I left. It was a bloodbath. I split out the fire exit once they all started plummeting.”

  “I’m glad we weren’t there, or Jane and I would have fallen, too.”

  “Or maybe it would have gone as expected had you been there to cheer me on, man. Even magicians need friends.”

  “Are you blaming me?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “How does that make any sense?”

  Bob hears a noise on Björn’s end of the phone that sounds like a can opening, then a desperate sip being taken: “In my mind’s eye,” Björn says, “the floating-chair illusion made perfect sense. Everyone would sit, perched high and mighty, and I’d give an inspiring speech about the travails of monogamy, learning to balance all the chaos and unpredictability of life. But once the first lady fell, it was a total shit show.”

  “What did you think was going to happen?”

  “I thought maybe two or three people would fall, total. Gotta crack a couple eggs to make an omelet, as the kids say. Now I need to get out of this town ASAP.”

  “Not too ASAP,” Coffen says. “You have to turn Schumann back.”

  “Oh, do I have to turn back your mousy associate?” he yells. “Is that what Björn has to do?”

  “Can we meet first thing tomorrow—me, you, and Schumann? Please? Let’s talk about our options.”

  “I haven’t totally decided whether I even want to turn him back. He kidnapped me. Let’s not forget that piece of the puzzle.”

  “Well, that’s what we should talk about. Let me plead his case to you.”