by Bethny Ebert
“He’s going to the concert with us,” Nick said for me.
“Aaaaaaaaah!” screeched the guy on the other side of the backseat, as if a giant fire-breathing outer space pig-bear had woken him from a deep slumber. He was chubby, maybe fourteen, Native American, with thick glasses and messy chin-length black hair.
“What?” Nick asked him, letting the pretzel bag fall to the floor. It cluttered against another empty beer can.
His friend sighed. “I forgot to water Fred.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Cactuses retain water, dummy.” He reached a hand to the ground, to grab the pretzel bag.
“I know, doofus. I was just testing you.” He looked at me, shaking the hair out of his eyes. “Hey, new guy,” he said. “I’m Parker. Bassist for Deathskull Bombshell.”
“That name is weird as hell,” I said, then kicked myself for sounding so obtuse. I was really on a roll tonight. “I mean, um, I’m Austin. Austin Dillard.” I didn’t know what to call myself by way of introduction. Music enthusiast? Man with a car? Wandering goth?
“Dillard sounds like the name of a pickle,” Parker said. He grinned. “Are you a pickle?”
“No, I meant the name of your band, not your name,” I said.
Parker cracked up. “Oh, okay.”
“I’m Elizabeth,” the fat girl in the front seat said, saving what was left of my dignity. She extended her hand to me in an exaggeratedly feminine gesture. Her hair was sort of curly and tied back in a sloppy ponytail. Playing along, I kissed her hand, stealing a quick glance at her eyes, which were a dark blue-grey sort of color, framed by blonde eyelashes.
Her vanilla perfume caught my nose by surprise, and I sneezed, spewing a thick spray of boogers onto her hand.
The moment was ruined.
Parker and Nick howled with laughter.
She let go of my hand, wiping the boogers on the car’s interior. Well, at least she wasn’t mean about it. “I play drums,” she said.
Austin Dillard, groupie-in-training.
Bjorn hit the gas, gunning the engine, and we lurched forward. Elizabeth hit him again, and he slowed down. I fastened my seatbelt. “Bjorn,” he said gruffly. “Guitar.”
“Oh my god, dude, come off it,” Elizabeth snapped. “Everyone knows your real name isn’t Bjorn.”
Bjorn-Trevor narrowed his eyes. “I beg to differ, sis. Perception is reality. If I say my name is Bjorn, my name becomes Bjorn. Therefore, Bjorn becomes me. I am no longer Trevor, handsome-but-mild-mannered intellectual, but Bjorn, rock star du jour.”
“Uh-huh,” Elizabeth said.
Parker shook his head at me. “Trevor,” he mouthed, and I nodded.
“Buy me cigarettes?” Elizabeth asked.
Trevor eyed her. “No.”
“Please?”
He glared at the road, gripping the steering wheel. “I don’t buy cigarettes for children.”
The car fell quiet.
I felt Nick’s elbow jab me in the side. That kid had some sharp-ass elbows. It was the first of many bruises I would receive from Nick O’Doole – mostly accidental but sometimes pointed. Actually, usually pointed.
Elizabeth turned around in her seat, hair spilling over her shoulder. “Hey,” she said, addressing me. “You smoke?”
I mumbled something that sort of meant I didn’t.
She sighed and faced the road.
Trevor narrowed his eyes. “You’ll have to ignore my sibling,” he said. “She was dropped on her cranium as a child.”
“Oh,” I said, flustered. “I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth snickered, as did Nick and Parker. Even Trevor sort of half-smirked into the mirror.
“You’re so serious,” she said, and I blushed.
Trevor flipped the Toyota’s CD player on. Ramones. We drove for a while, not saying much of anything, just listening. The music was pretty loud. Nick and Parker asked me a few questions about myself, to be polite I think. Gradually I calmed down. I kind of wanted a cigarette though. I wanted Elizabeth to look at me like that again.
“What songs are we doing tonight?” Parker asked.
Trevor frowned, tapping on the steering wheel.
Elizabeth looked out the window at the sky.
Nick stared at the ceiling.
None of them said anything.
“Shit,” Parker said. “You guys have no idea either, huh.”
“Well, I think the exact thing is—“Trevor started to say.
At the same time, Elizabeth began laughing uncontrollably. She laughed so hard, her body shook, and everybody stared at her, confused.
“What?” Trevor asked her. He looked annoyed at being interrupted.
“That was Brooke’s job, to do the set-list,” she said, laughing harder. “Fuck. She’s been working like a nut on that fucking Sylvia Plath essay for Advanced Lit. I bet she never even thought about the concert all week.”
“Did anyone bring any paper?” Trevor asked the group.
“I’ve got a napkin,” I said, holding it up with a sense of relief. Finally, something to contribute. “Maybe you guys could, like… make up a set-list and write it down.”
Trevor nodded, and put his hand out. I gave him the napkin, and he eyed it suspiciously before handing it off to his sister. “Alright, guys, any ideas? I think we should start off with “Poison City Toxic Neon”, it’s our loudest one. And then “Demeter the Martyr”.” He paused. “Thoughts?”
“It works,” Parker said, and Trevor scribbled it down.
““Heart Toaster” should be next,” Elizabeth said.
Hitting the power window switch, spring breeze in my new punk rock hair, I felt like I was in a Behind the Scenes special. Not bad.
Chapter fourteen
May 2002
Somehow they got to the concert in one piece. Austin noticed the Toyota Camry made a slight humming noise while it drove, which reminded him of the dead Buick, rotting away in the gas station parking lot, alone in the dead of night. He hoped nobody would steal it from the parking lot before he had a chance to get back to it.
Right now, though, it was time to rock out.
The venue was a two-story house nicknamed Rawkhaus, stuffed full of scenesters and party kids and punk rockers of all hair colors and styles. Trucker hats and mohawks everywhere. The upstairs and first floor was pretty much a glorified drinking party.
The concert took place in the basement. The band before Deathskull Bombshell was a metal band called Ȼørpseflowerź; Austin could hear their industrial goth-punk sound even though they hadn’t yet entered the house. Judging from a poster someone left crumpled on the ground, there’d been two other bands before Ȼørpseflowerź. One was called Zombie Bratwurst, and the other, Aborted Dreams of a Better Catharsis.
There were probably weirder places than a house in the sticks to hold a punk concert, Austin thought, but he wasn’t sure where. He hoped Deathskull Bombshell sounded as good as the Rob Zombie tribute band he’d planned for. At least they were nice enough people. Even if their band sucked, maybe he’d end up being friends with them or something.
Elizabeth got out of the car, frowning. She opened the trunk and grabbed a dark pink zip-up hoodie, shrugging into it. She wore a light pink Invader Zim t-shirt under it. She kind of reminded him of Princess Peach, or Link’s girlfriend from Zelda. “You got any cigarettes?” she asked Parker, who gave her his best blank stare and batted his eyelashes.
“Parker?” she tried again.
He made no response, just froze his face, bulging his eyes out.
“Oh, boo,” she said, and he grinned.
Elizabeth stalked off, long strides in her old-school Adidas sneakers.
“Where’s she going?” Austin said.
“Inside,” Nick said. “She does this every time, don’t worry about it.”
Austin nodded, marble-mouthed, staring after her. She had a nice butt, curvy and fat in beat-up flares. It was even more noticeable in cheap hand-me-downs. Nice clothing would have just been a d
istraction.
Trevor cleared his throat.
Austin snapped to. “You guys need help?”
“If you want.”
Parker and Nick were already walking to another vehicle, a dark red Chrysler van covered in Alkaline Trio and Sugarcult stickers.
“By the way,” Trevor said. “Don’t touch my sister. She’s got a learning disability and she’s very emotionally sensitive. If you fuck with her, I’ll kill you.” He leaned in close, making a fist. Austin could smell the cigarettes on his breath, could count each individual pore. “Twice.”
Austin nodded, then ran to catch up with Parker and Nick. He could feel his heart, rattling around like a penny in a tin can. Gradually it slowed to a normal pace, and he was able to contemplate his surroundings.
Checking out the other concert attendees, he felt boring. Everyone else was so fashionable. Parker wore a Nirvana hoodie, the kind with the old Xs for eyes smiley-face logo, and Nick with his bracelets, that took balls. There were a lot of punk kids with crazy hair, pink and red and blue and green, some goths too, a lot of fishnet and eyeliner. Some people just defied classification, wearing whatever. Austin wasn’t sure about his trench coat, he couldn’t find anyone else wearing one, but Trevor remained relatively undecorated in a black shirt and jeans, and Elizabeth with her flares and earrings and light pink t-shirt just looked like a girl.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
Austin and Nick and Parker unpacked the amps and instruments from the van. Austin was too lost in his brain to hear the guys talking. Just voices. The heavy amp strained the muscles of his gangly arms, and he had to take a break a couple times to stretch his legs out. Nick huffed and puffed with the other amp. Parker hoisted his bass guitar on his back, military-style.
“Hey, it’s the Deathskulls!” A guy with a mohawk and more piercings than a pincushion greeted them at the front door, holding up a beer bottle in a loopy toast.
“Oh, I’m not in the band,” Austin said.
“Hey, it’s the Deathskulls and a poser!” he said, in the same tone of voice, toasting them again. He drank, Adam’s apple bulging.
Everybody laughed.
Austin tried his best to smile amicably. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. Well, he was here for the music anyway. It didn’t matter if these guys thought he was a poser. Whatever. Maybe they were posers.
He pretended like he didn’t hear anything and brought the amp down to the basement, leaving Parker and Nick upstairs with mohawk guy and his friends so they could all BS about things.
In the basement, Elizabeth sat behind her drum set, grinning ear-to-ear under a cloud of cigarette smoke. She took another drag of her cigarette as four tired-looking old punks stood by her, big shoulders like leather jacket walls. She looked like Marilyn Monroe, surrounded by all those men. Evidently they were on drum-lugging duty.
Under his trench coat, Austin felt small and useless, nothing to give her, nothing that she didn’t already have.
There was a second girl.
She leaned over her guitar, tuning the strings with fast hands, squinting in deep concentration. Her penny-colored hair spilled in her face like a veil. She wore baggy jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt and she was very skinny. Her face had a pointed expression, stern, almost vulpine.
Watching her, Austin felt his breath catch in his throat. Suddenly he wanted to sit next to her, ask her about her favorite musicians, what books did she read, where did she want to go to college, what did she do for fun, anything.
He wondered what her name was, wanted to write it on his hand and press the still-wet ink to his cheek, tattooing her name on his face.
Trevor strolled into the basement just then, guitar case on his shoulder. With him it was an effortless gesture; he made the guitar case look light as a feather. He was a fit sort of guy, muscled arms, probably worked out every day. He pulled up a screechy metal chair next to the redhead and reached a hand over to brush her guitar strings. They made an ugly jarring noise.
She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes.
“Hey,” Trevor said.
She nodded at him without a word of acknowledgement, then went back to her guitar.
“Hey, poser!” The mohawked guy again, calling from upstairs. “Come up here and get wasted with us!”
Austin stumbled upstairs, feeling dizzy. He’d had enough spying for today.
Beer was better.
Chapter fifteen
May 2002
It was Austin’s second drink, but it felt like his seventh. The floor looked like churned butter. Warm and inviting. A feathered bed.
He could sleep forever.
Beer was beautiful. Only grains, but with a sweet taste, like honey. Funny. Fuzzy. Good sweetness, like bread. Manna from heaven.
Transubstantiation.
He’d found it.
He sat on the floor, and a few other punks joined him. Somebody had a joint and they passed it around. He smiled lazily as everybody talked about George Harrison and dead musicians and politics. They were good people.
Elizabeth, back from the basement, stood over him. “God, you’re easy.”
He looked up at her. It was kind of hot how she scolded him. Kind of like a teacher. If he could only stand up and kiss her. But his legs wouldn’t move. He was too drunk.
Wordlessly, he curled up at her feet and yawned. He felt like a cat.
He closed his eyes.
She nudged him with her shoe, but not in a mean way. “All good?”
“Sleeping,” he murmured into her shell-toes.
“HEY, DEATHSKULL BOMBSHELL!” someone yelled, and he opened his eyes.
“I gotta go,” Elizabeth said. She crouched down next to him, then tousled his hair. “You have fun, kiddo.”
“If you want,” he said, but she was already descending the staircase.
Fuck. She still smelled like vanilla perfume. He wondered how a girly-girl like that ever got into drumming.
He closed his eyes. So much beer.
When he woke up, the music was already started. Alone in the kitchen, he listened for a while, feeling the cool kitchen tile beneath his warm face. The music was muffled, but he could feel the drums and bass beat through the floor. He closed his eyes, letting the booze slosh in his stomach a bit. After a while he stood up and headed downstairs.
Deathskull Bombshell had a harsh sound, fast and discordant, unsettling. It was an old-school garage band sound fused with emo-screamo-hardcore. Short songs, fast tempo, simple lyrics, politics, cusses, screaming. Trevor sang lead.
Elizabeth was a drumming maniac. She thrashed her hair around crazy like she belonged to an eighties hair band. She could do a lot of in-depth stuff like military taps and drum rolls and weird things with cymbals. Long ago, Austin took up a drumming class, but he gave up after only a few weeks. He wondered how long it took her to learn to drum like that.
Parker played bass with his eyes closed, clutching the instrument for support. Probably had stage fright. Austin worried he’d fall over, but he managed. Being the youngest, he had a high-pitched singing voice. You could tell he hated it. Eventually he just gave up and started yelling the words, avoided singing altogether.
The female guitarist, the red-head from the basement, did backing vocals. When Parker started with the yelling, she rolled with it, sometimes shouting along, other times singing in a more melodic way. Her voice was low for a girl, maybe a contralto. She wasn’t as good with the guitar as she was with her voice. Austin noticed she watched Trevor a lot, probably looking for cues.
Trevor, predictably enough, introduced himself to the audience as Bjorn. His guitar was an electric, covered in stickers. He screamed obscenities between songs just for the hell of it, insulting the audience, pretending like he was going to spit on them and sucking the loogie back into his mouth last-minute. At one point he even threw his sweaty black t-shirt into the audience, revealing stomach muscles and the beginnings of a tattoo.
“Put some clothe
s on, Trevor.” One of the guys in the audience threw his shirt back onstage.
Trevor wiped his armpits with his shirt, then whipped it in the guy’s face. “No.”
Some greasy guy with stringy pink hair in a The Exploited t-shirt and torn pants shoved Austin. He ignored it, not wanting to fight.
The guy shoved him a second time. Austin didn’t do anything then either.
A petite girl in a mohawk shoved him, then.
He turned to face her, irritated. “What?”
“Moshpit’s starting,” she said.
He nodded, looking up at the stage.
She scratched the side of her head. Beneath the mohawk she had a sweet smile. Her lip was pierced and she wore a military jacket. “You’re supposed to shove me back.”
“Do I have to?”
She shook her head no. “No, of course not. Everything’s optional. But the front’s for moshers. We get pretty crazy, so you might wanna head to the back if you want to get home in one piece.” She pointed with her thumb to the back of the basement. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Austin thought about it. He had such a nice view here, and the beer felt good.
The girl glanced at him, then at the stage. She took a sip of her beer, then crushed the plastic cup in her hand and set it on the ground.
Austin shoved her.
Some random guy hit him with his shoulder, banging into him like a spiky leather-studded truck, a gesture Austin returned with great enthusiasm.
Thus began the first moshpit, but not the last.
Chapter sixteen
May 2002
Nick stood in the back of the basement, beer bottle in hand, watching the show. He didn’t actually drink, but he needed something to do with his hands. They seemed like birds these days, about to fly away and leave his brain behind. Emotion bubbled in his heart like witch-brew. Watching Parker up there on stage was like – well, there was no accurate comparison really, having nothing to compare it to.
