Hairstyles of the Damned

by Joe Meno

  “We have to stop doing this,” she said, standing up, groaning, covering her face.

  I said, “Yeah,” then, “No,” and she shook her head, folding into the couch, kicking her legs.

  “I’m going to leave,” I said, hoping she’d say, No, please stay, but she just nodded and I knew if I didn’t go through with it—you know, leaving—then it would seem like I was totally in love with her, which I might have been. I looked at her once more, said, “Later,” and bounded up the stairs, happy and totally, completely confused, which was almost worse than if nothing had ever happened maybe.

  seventeen

  Bad things happened at school. In between third and fourth periods, Mr. Alba, the tall, kind of funny senior Religion teacher shouted at this kid, Keith Parsons, for spitting in the hallway. When Mr. Alba demanded that the kid, who was a senior—squat, thick-necked, a football player and sometime burnout—clean it up, the kid said, “I’m not touching it. That’s what we have janitors for,” and started to walk away. Mr. Alba grabbed Keith by the back of the neck, maybe grabbing him too hard, I dunno, I wasn’t there, but the kid, Keith Parsons, just snapped, punching Mr. Alba in the mouth. Mr. Alba tripped back into some lockers, and since it was between classes, tons of kids saw it, which was kind of weird and funny and a little sad, I guess. The whole school was very uptight. After Bobby B. got expelled, the whole separate senior prom thing was in the newspapers and it looked like it was really going to happen, the black seniors booking their own hotel and their parents helping them put it together, which I thought was cool, but the entire school seemed like it was ready to fucking blow, I guess, fights in the hallways and threats and shouting and this black kid, Ray Love, being suspended for calling Bro. Mooney a “cracker.” It was a very strange fucking feeling.

  Later the same day I saw Rod in the hallway and he was looking sad and glum, his dark face kind of greenish.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I hate this fucking school,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Look,” he said, and pointed to the back of his white dress shirt, which said FAG in big black letters.

  “How’d that happen?”

  “Mick Stephens wrote it on my back during Physics class.”

  “That’s what you get for taking honors classes with seniors,” I said. He nodded and walked off, frowning at the ground.

  Since I had study hall fourth period, I was in no rush. I ambled over to my locker and started putting my other books away when I saw fucking John McDunnah walk past, grinning at me, with his two sport-o friends. I even fucking think he winked at me. And I don’t know what the fuck came over me. I don’t know if it was one thing or everything—all the Misfits songs in my head, being pals with Nick, already having my nose busted once, my dad leaving, my mom an unmistakably unhappy and deafening silence in my life, wanting Gretchen so bad but never able to really be with her, Bobby B. getting expelled, seeing Rod as beaten as he was, or all, maybe all of those things, I dunno—but I just shoved my locker closed, slammed the lock into place, and started following the three of these meatheads down the busy hallway. I saw where they turned down senior hall, where they stopped so John McDunnah could sneak some cigarettes out of his locker, and where they went after that, the second floor bathroom. I had been fucking dreaming of kicking that guy’s ass for so long—I didn’t know how, really, maybe by, like, magically learning karate or somehow punching him in the nose and, like, mortally wounding him that way—that I almost ran up to him and started swinging, but then I stopped and figured something out: John McDunnah was always going to be bigger than me. He was always going to be stronger, broken nose or not; what the fuck could I do to him, to tear him apart, to hurt him?

  That’s when I really started thinking. He’d always be able to kick my ass—in like a hundred years, even. I would never be able to get to him. I’d never feel the satisfaction of letting him know I wasn’t just some pussy, some fucking target; that I was a fucking person, you know, that I counted for something. But then I thought maybe that was OK. Maybe it was a fucking waste of time to even try to get him, I mean he was who he was, you know. He was like this certain kind of person and what was I going to do to change that? Now I was thinking. I was really thinking.

  I got this idea to start putting big pictures of kittens in his locker. That day I ditched study hall and went down to the library and scoured the fucking card catalog and I was in luck, because there was a book called Kittens, honest to God—Why? Why would there be a book called Kittens in an all-boys’ Catholic school? I did not know or care. But I hurried down the stacks, found it, drifted off to one of the library’s remote corners, and started tearing pages from it. I took a pen and a magic marker and started writing these little messages in those cartoon bubbles, like the different kittens were saying them, like, “John is my friend,” and, “John always remembers to feed me,” and, “John scratches my belly,” and I was practically fucking peeing my pants from laughing to myself so hard. Then I tore out a few more pages and made some more messages, the baby kittens becoming a little more philosophical, like, “Be nice, John, like me, a nice kitten,” and, “If you hurt people, it makes me cry,” and I drew a tear under this gray kitten’s eye, and then my best one of all time, this photo of like fifteen white furry kittens all lying on top of each other, to which I added, “Every time you hurt someone, John, one of us dies,” and I drew a small pair of X’s over one of the cats’ eyes.

  Then, still laughing to myself, I strode out of library and stuck one of the pictures in the vent of his locker, just one, the one of a small tabby sleeping beside a red ball of yarn, saying, “John is my friend.” I wanted to wait to see him check it out and be totally confused and weirded out, but I thought that might give it away if he happened to see me.

  That became my thing then—for like the rest of the school year. In between second, third, fifth, and sixth periods, I began sticking tornout photos of kittens, puppies, ponies, and baby seals in John McDunnah’s locker, hoping it would somehow, somehow make him think about how he fucking acted, you know? But really, I guess, really, I just did it for me.

  eighteen

  After school I was sitting on the hood of the Escort and Kim and Gretchen were smoking. Gretchen was acting like everything was cool and nothing had ever happened and so was I then. I had my arms folded over my chest and was acting like I was in a great mood, even smoking a cigarette to show how cool I was with everything.

  “So, Brian, what’s the deal with prom and shit?” Kim asked me, blowing her fucking smoke in my face. I could see my own reflection in her big, black, bug-eye sunglasses. “Are you still going?”

  “I dunno. I guess. I still got to find a date.”

  “So you’re really going?” Kim asked.

  “To the junior prom? Yeah, I mean the junior prom is OK. It’s the senior one that’s kinda fucked up,” I said.

  “So what’s the fucking deal with that?” Kim asked.

  “I dunno. I guess the black kids, the seniors, are pissed, so they’re having their own prom,” I said.

  “That’s fucking stupid,” Kim said.

  “Yeah it is, but not for the reason you think it is,” I said.

  Kim took off her sunglasses and turned around, staring at me. “And what would that be?”

  “I think it’s fucking bullshit that just because you’re white, you get everything you fucking want,” I said. “That, I think, is fucking stupid.”

  “What?” Kim asked, staring at me like my head was on fucking fire.

  “I think it’s fucking shit,” I said. “They just wanted to be, like, fucking accepted or whatever. It was like their song. Fuck, think about how important your fucking music is to you, you know? Fuck. They just wanted to feel like they were part of it, you know?”

  “They seem like a bunch of babies,” Gretchen said. “They didn’t get their way, so now they’re ruining it for everybody.”

  “No, that’s not it,” I said. “Yo
u don’t get it. You feel like you don’t belong and you get fucking sick of it, so you do your own fucking thing.”

  We pulled into the mall parking lot a little later, right by the big blue canopy for the food court, and Kim started getting out. “I got to go, chumps. Until we meet again, lover,” Kim said, winking at me.

  “Get fucked,” I said, turning away. I climbed into the front seat and slid the seat belt into place. “She always acts like such a fucking jerk.”

  “You fucking love it,” Gretchen said.

  “I dunno. I used to, maybe. Maybe I wish she didn’t have to act so rude all the fucking time.”

  “Rude? She doesn’t act rude.”

  “Sure she does,” I said. “She thinks it makes her adorable. She’s been doing it since junior high. She thinks no boys will like her if she is nice. She’s got to put on this act all the time: punk rock Kim. Yeah. She’s not ever like a real person anymore hardly.”

  “Well, you’re in a fucking mood, aren’t you?” Gretchen asked.

  “I guess,” I said. “I just kind of realized this shit, you know?”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “I think a lot of these punk kids we know are fucking poseurs,” I said. “I think most of them, they just do whatever, you know, to fit in. It’s like a totally mindless act. Like Kim—it’s all about fucking fashion.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Gretchen asked, raising her eyebrows at me.

  “I’m talking about how you two guys are like the most closeminded people I know,” I said. “You don’t even know what punk is about, you know? You just dress like it, because you were like a loser and it, like, gave you someone to be after junior high, something to belong to, you know?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “You and all those other kids we knew from junior high. I mean, fuck—do you think I forgot Dave Lattel had a Grease lunchbox?”

  “What?”

  “The movie Grease with John Travolta? He had a Grease lunchbox all through grade school because he said he liked John Travolta’s hair. And he was way into GI Joe and Transformers. He used to tell people to call him “Dave-o-Tron” and he’d make that Transformer sound and pretend he had become a jet and fly around. And that was like in seventh grade. And now, now, now he’s punk? It’s like you and Kim. Kim used to be a cheerleader for god sakes. She used to date Barry Nolan who was on the basketball team. And suddenly all you guys were all hard-core.”

  “Whatever, dweeb.”

  “You’re just like the jocks. Just because you have blue hair doesn’t make you fucking better than everyone else.”

  “What?”

  “Just because you have blue hair and fucked-up clothes doesn’t mean you’re better than everyone else. Because you know what? You’re just conforming to someone else’s code. Even though you don’t wear khakis or sweaters or whatever, but to me all you guys look the same. You think you’re so individualistic, but you’re not. You guys—you and Kim and all the rest—you’re like anti-snob snobs. But you’re just as mean as the preppy kids. You’re all just as fucking lame.”

  “Oh really?”

  “No, I dunno. I didn’t mean to call you a poseur. I just … I just wish you guys knew that people like you for who you are. You could, like, be yourself. But someone, well a guy, some dick like Tony Degan, well, he doesn’t even care about who you really are. I know, I’m a guy.”

  “You are? I thought you were a hermaphrodite.”

  “I’m a guy and I know what guys think. All they care about is having sex with you.”

  “So all you care about is having sex with me?” she asked, and my face got very red very instantly.

  “No, no, I just meant you’re my friend and I really care about you.”

  “Oh, shut up before you make me puke.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. But, well … well, kids grow up so fast today,” I said, smiling.

  “Get out! Get out of my car!” Gretchen shouted, pulling up in front of my house. I turned and watched her pull away, thinking, I said too much, I open my fucking mouth too much, and that I’d be lucky if I ever saw her again because it felt like something had just ended for me.

  nineteen

  So I wish I could say I didn’t go to junior prom at all. I wish I could say I was like, “Fuck you, you racist American institution.” Heck, I wish I could say I took Gretchen, even. But I didn’t. Because I was a dumb teenager and all I wanted was to feel like I fit in, or at least look like I fit in—which when I look back now is the stupidest thing and the most basic thing anybody ever needs, maybe. So I let my hair grow out for the next two weeks—for the stupid fucking pictures, you know—and I asked this girl, Kelly Connors, who Mike Madden helped set me up with, who was the little sister of one of Erin McDougal’s friends, you know. Well, this girl Kelly Connors was very short with curly orange hair and she had asthma and was like allergic to everything, like even grass, and when I went to pin the white corsage on her pink dress she said, “I’m sorry. Roses give me a rash,” and me and two other marching band dudes I hardly knew rented a limo, and me and Kelly danced to all the stupid dances and all I remember was the last one, which was, of course, “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton, because, like usual, I had this massive erection, and poor Kelly Connors kind of noticed it and I just shrugged and kept on dancing. Mike Madden was there with Erin McDougal and we talked for a while and I told him about my dad splitting, and then Mike and Erin got in a fight and ended up leaving, and like that, in a matter of the briefest of awkward moments, the junior prom was pretty much over for me.

  twenty

  After prom in the limousine, the limousine we had rented, me and the two other loners I knew from band class, well, I did something very bad. I fingered Kelly Connors right in front of everybody, just switching off the interior light and pinning her to the backseat and I thought I might have had sex with her that night, but I wasn’t sure; all the while the other kids and their dates kind of whispered and one girl said, “This is disgusting. I want to go home,” and I didn’t even care, because I felt like I had something to prove, because I did. I had to prove what a desperate asshole I was, really. I wanted to show everyone how cool I was, I guess, and what better way than mauling your date in front of a bunch of strangers? Perfect.

  After Kelly had been dropped off in front of her house, with her pink dress halfway up her thighs and her makeup all over her face and a rash spreading all over her chest, and the other two band dorks had taken their dates home and said goodnight, I was riding alone in the back of the limousine, feeling alone and lonely, and laughing to myself about the terrible night I’d had, thinking about the stupidity of it, of trying so hard to impress somebody, anybody, of just trying so hard to seem like I fit in, and I thought about that girl Kelly’s rash even and was feeling lousy about that too now. Then I thought, You know who would get a kick out of all this? Gretchen.

  The limousine driver, who was black—because it was just like the Dead Kennedys said, there really was an international conspiracy, and you never saw white people doing shit jobs anymore—turned to me, his face long and shiny, him taking off his chauffeur cap as he said, “Did you have a nice night, kid?”

  “No, it was kind of shitty,” I said.

  “Yeah, I went to my prom and it was shitty too,” he said.

  “Yeah. How come?” I asked.

  “I didn’t understand it then, but I wish I had spent more time hanging with my boys, you know? Instead, I was all up on some girl I never even talked to again.”

  “Yeah, I hear that,” I said, and then I asked, “How much longer do I got left, before you got to drop me off.”

  “You guys rented it until seven a.m. It’s only six now.”

  “Can you go by and pick up a buddy of mine?” I asked.

  “Sure, pal, whatever you want. Where to?”

  I thought if Gretchen was home and if she’d listen, I’d tell her I was so
rry and ask her to please, please, please come out with me.

  And so that’s what happened. We drove around together in the back of the rented limo for an hour and maybe it was because I was tired and it was so late—or so early—but Gretchen was in her pajamas and leaning back in the big leather seats and we were cruising along Lake Shore Drive and eating breakfast from McDonald’s and it was like nothing bad in the world had ever happened to me.

  halloween night

  october 1991

  “This day anything goes, I remember Halloween”

  —“Halloween”

  Glenn Danzig, The Misfits

  We went to Laura’s Halloween party because we figured we were seniors now and it would be the last Halloween we’d all be together for. Gretchen went as a kind of zombie cheerleader and she looked very hot to me, all done-up in this red and white uniform, her hair in pigtails, but with black circles around her eyes, and I went as a mummy, which was kind of half-assed because all I did was at the last minute wrap myself up in toilet paper. I kind of wrapped my face up a little, but I couldn’t see really, and by then I had grown my hair out and was not combing it and it was kind of this poofy, random mess, and I couldn’t get the toilet paper to stay tight against it because it kept breaking, so I just did my body, arms, legs, neck, and forehead, mostly.