Who cares. It’s only pain. Who cares.
I toke and pass the joint to Rosie, open a third beer. I chug the entire can, my miracle physical therapy. Mark stops at the light at the end of the off ramp.
“Montclair sucks, man,” Rosie says, peering around at the low flat buildings and smoggy horizon.
“The world sucks, babe, get used to it,” Mark tells her.
“Let’s go to Irvine instead, okay? Social Distortion’s playing free.”
“Hell no. I’m getting that hundred dollars.” Mark’s beady eyes cut one way, then the other.
“Only if Doug wins the fight,” Rosie argues.
“He’ll win.” Mark jabs my arm. “My boy can do anything.”
He says it; I believe it. I never actually hit anyone, but shit. Like Mark says, I’m sure as hell big enough. If he thinks I can? You just watch.
Two Hells Angels rev their choppers in the lane to our right, all decked out in leather jackets with the sleeves cut off. One guy has a helmet that looks like a German soldier. What’s that supposed to mean, asshole? You think you’re cool? I like their death-head logo. I don’t like their long stringy hair. I really don’t like the fat-ass ugly redhead on the backseat of the first bike.
“Jeeeeezus H., what y’all sposed to be?” she asks with a twangy southern voice, smirking at us. “Is it Halloween already?”
“Fuck you,” Rosie says back.
“Yes ma’am, she’ll be glad to, come on out the car.” The guy waggles his tongue between the V of two fingers. His girl laughs.
Like a shot, Mark’s out of the driver’s side. He stands on the floorboard and sends an empty whiskey bottle whirling over the Chevy. Roy chucks a second. They miss the bikers but glass shatters all over the street. Jack wraps his chain around his hand, I take hold of my blade, and we climb out too. Four Punks, three with buzz cuts and me with my four-inch purple Mohawk. All of us in boots, none of us smiling. One biker reaches for a club, the other for what looks like a short axe. The club guy faces us. The light turns green.
“Who the f—”
He doesn’t get to finish that thought. A screech of brakes, car doors slamming—six more Punks closing in. Moving fast. We don’t even know them; we don’t even have to. Two women in the car behind Mark’s slide down in their seats, mouths open, as the Punks from behind glide on past. We surround the Angels, two deep. Their eyes shift one way then the other, trying for a way out. Stupid assholes. They started the shit and now don’t know what to do.
“Come on, Eddie,” the redhead says, reaching for his arm. “It’s not worth it, baby. Let’s go.”
Eddie tries to act cool getting on his bike. Like he’s not scared shitless. Mark grabs his own crotch and pumps a couple times. We laugh. The guy flips us off but we just laugh harder. They have to drive through the broken whiskey bottles to get away. The light turns red. Sun glints off the rings Mark has through his lip. We high-five the cavalry and they pound the top of the car behind us walking back. The people in the line of cars just stare.
“Montclair sucks,” Rosie mutters as we climb back in the car.
{2}
Way too many people crowd in the basement of the Police Athletics League, all different kinds—Punks, hippies, jocks, assholes. The noise of them starts my head pounding. My hip still throbs but a healthy dose of Jack Daniels is taking care of that. The big problem now is, where’s the music? Even a fight contest at a police hall ought to have music. I tip my flask. Jack snatches it away.
“You wanna get us arrested?”
“I don’t fucking care.” I grab it back, but pocket it. He’s right—cops frame the room, each with a lame-ass grin on his face, the kind that never shows in the eyes. Like somebody told them this is how you look to make people like you. Like having a fight competition will make us get along and all that old hippie shit. I take a breath, wish I hadn’t. The room stinks of B.O., pot, and bad breath. The ceiling’s way too low. If there’s an earthquake, we’ll be squished, no chance of escape. Ceiling fans whir away but all they do is move the stink around. I have the urge to duck, run, get the hell out of here.
“Check it out,” Mark says. He elbows his way forward. Rosie holds onto the back of his coat and takes me by the hand.
The boxing ring’s dead ahead, set high, thick double ropes and everything. I half expect Rocky to come dancing down the aisle any second. The two guys in there now are big, one even taller than me. Both are older, like my brother’s age, punching away. One’s long-haired and greasy. The other wears a skintight P.A.L. T-shirt and sports a huge blond pompadour, plastered into place. He obviously wants us to know he’s full-on rockabilly.
Suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a good idea, a hundred dollars or not. If I knock the pin loose in my hip—or worse, snap off the top of it, I could be looking at a wheelchair for life. Whatever happens, it’s going to hurt. I pull Rosie back toward me. She loses Mark’s coat.
“What if I changed my mind?” I shout. They really should be playing music. “What if I want to go to Irvine right now?” Why am I talking to her? Why can’t I just tell Mark no?
“Can’t hear you!” she shouts back.
Mark’s already at the ring, standing on an upside-down bucket to talk to the cop in the corner. He points and they glance my way at the very second Rockabilly’s fist connects with Longhair’s face. Longhair twirls, a snake of blood flying out of his nose as he plummets to the mat. Shit. He grunts as he hits, bounces, then stays still. The crowd goes crazy. Rockabilly holds both his arms up in victory, then turns to help Longhair stand. They grab gloves, smile like they’re old buddies. The cop hands Longhair a black T-shirt, the same as the one Rockabilly has. When Longhair holds it up to show the crowd, he gets a round of applause. He grins like he’s won a year’s pass to Disneyland.
“Scared?” Mark asks, suddenly behind me, thumping my shoulder. His beady eyes dart around, never really landing on me. I don’t answer. The noise of the room steadily creeps inside my skull. Rockabilly reminds me of somebody but I can’t think who. A trickle of sweat runs down my side. Why don’t I speak up?
“I’m counting on you, Doug. I know you can do this. Three minutes. That’s it. You just gotta stay up for three minutes.” He throws an arm around me, gives me a quick man-hug. “Okay?” I feel his hand in my pocket, slipping out the flask. My hip gives a warning twinge but I still don’t speak up.
“You can do it, Dougie,” Rosie adds, pulling me down to kiss my cheek. I step on the bucket and slip under the rope. The Punks in the room jump up and hoot and clap. I raise my hand in salute.
“Nice haircut,” a fat cop says, nodding at my Mohawk. He’s a moron and I try to think of something to say back, but I’m having trouble concentrating. Hot air blasts down from the fan whirling overhead.
“How old are you, son?” The cop’s face gets way too close. Beads of sweat in the whiskers on his upper lip gross me out.
“Nineteen,” I lie, like Mark said. “And I’m not your fucking son.” The cop offers me a clipboard.
“Thank God for that. Sign here. Know the rules?”
I don’t know shit about rules, but I scribble on the release form and nod. I can’t take my eyes off Rockabilly; he’s swelling up. One cop holds out boxing gloves. I shove my right hand in, then my left, feel my thumbs slide into pouches. Another cop talks; I see his lips moving but don’t quite catch the words. I need to throw up. The beer?
Rockabilly holds his gloves out. I don’t know what he wants me to do. He taps the tops of mine. I glance at Mark and Rosie, see them cheering. The noise is completely inside my head now, like a 747 taking off. I can’t think. Cement seems to be filling my body, pressing against my lungs, squeezing my heart. For a quick sec, I go outside myself, see how I must look up here—six-four and 140 pounds, Black Flag T-shirt, ripped jeans, and engineer boots. Then Rockabilly winks and too late, I recognize who he reminds me of.
A bell sounds; Rockabilly circles to the left. I manage to turn to keep h
im in my sights, but he still clips me a good one. I stumble back a few steps, then swing. Miss. Turn around and swing again. Miss. The plane accelerates. I put up my arms. His fist jabs at my shoulder. His eyes crinkle, his lips stretch to a smile. He hits me harder, I trip over my own boot. I somehow connect with his jaw. He looks as surprised as I feel, then dances up and wraps his arms around me.
“Stupid. Asshole.” He speaks slowly, over-pronouncing every word, hissing them into my ear. “Punk.” His tongue flicks at my ear lobe. He pounds my kidneys, thrusts me off of him. I go to swing, but he’s quicker. His fist lands so hard in my gut, the air rockets out and I collapse forward, folded over but still standing. I hear Rosie yell my name. Did I make it? Was that three minutes?
I try to straighten up; Rockabilly sends his other fist into my face. Impossibly sharp pain, like crystal shattering, I see/hear/feel my nose crunch. The room blurs. I fall in slow motion. Land with a jolt on hands and knees. My hip explodes. I imagine the metal pin giving way, the entire hipbone falling off, my leg connected to my body only by skin. Blood drips in steady rhythm from my nose to the mat. My face throbs. I can’t breathe. Darkness rims my vision; stars appear.
“Had enough, Shithead?” He squats beside me. He’s got that cop smile on his face.
The bastard knows I can’t answer. I can’t catch a breath.
“You didn’t last two minutes, you stupid little shit.”
My father’s voice. My father’s words.
I’m seven again, locked in the body cast. Ten, driving home from Henry’s. Twelve, Carl on the floor because he tried to hit back. Helpless. Trapped. Like now. With no one to blame but myself.
My own stupid self.
I don’t know how I come up off the mat or how Rockabilly stands up at the same time so my fist can meet his jaw with such force that he tumbles backwards into the rope. I clearly recall his face, the surprise as he bites hard on his tongue, leaks blood from his lower lip. How he raises his fists and tucks his head, curls his upper lip, stares back without blinking. How he dances back and forth, sneers and cusses and mouths ugly warnings.
He isn’t smiling.
He’ll show no mercy.
I don’t care. At all.
Time is suddenly mine. Rockabilly continues to punch, but now I don’t actually feel it. Brain function intensifies with each blow he lands—the moments separate and stretch so when he attacks, I see it coming like slow motion. I knock him down. Kick him in the butt.
“Mind the rules!” the referee shouts.
“Boot Party!” the Punks yell. I slam the heel of my boot into the small of his back.
One of the Punks that helped with the bikers tries to climb in the ring. Two cops snatch him down. Two more grab my arms and drag me back. The Punks are the ones smiling now. Rockabilly’s on his knees, panting. I don’t bother to call him names. He’s small now, I don’t need to. I hold up my arms and the crowd goes wild, even the jocks.
There is absolutely no noise in my brain except their applause.
I get a T-shirt and five grungy twenty dollar bills. I take the piss of a lifetime on the wall outside. Back in Mark’s car, Rosie sits in the back with me and tells my story over and over again. At a liquor store, we pick up ice for my nose and Mark treats me to a six-pack of mixed drinks in a can. Manhattans. I guzzle one, then another. I like the bittersweet taste of the Coke and bourbon, how it backs off the pain and reminds me of Carl. Jack’s girl sits on my other side. I let her hold the ice up to my nose.
“Social Distortion?” Rosie asks. “I think Dougie deserves it.” She snuggles close, takes a sip of my Manhattan.
“Shit, yeah,” Jack says. He’s riding in front. He puts on Fear.
“Let’s have a war—Give guns to the queers!”
I lean back and give over control to the music. Mark speeds across three lanes to take the exit for the 57. I rest on Jack’s girl and she lets me reach up under her shirt. I am sixteen years old and this is the best day of my life.
{3}
Slowly, I open one eye, close it again, and pull the covers up over my head. Way too much light—Mom’s drawn back the drapes and opened one of the sliding windows. I hate mornings. I hate waking up. From outside, Frank Sinatra blasts on somebody’s stereo, birds chirp and twitter, a lawnmower roars away, the Little League baseball brats sing “Hey, batter batter!” endlessly in the field behind our house, and some fool is pounding on a huge bass drum.
Except it’s not a drum; it’s my brain. Last night returns in a mass of jumbled images—Social Distortion, the Hells Angels, feeling boobs, Rockabilly. I smile at that part, remembering the glory of standing over him. How completely powerful it was. I touch my nose and gasp. Shit. Feels like a hundred slivers of glass sticking out of the side. I step over last night’s clothes to peer into the mirror on my dresser. Both eyes look bruised. They’ll be black before tomorrow. My nose takes up practically my whole face.
Was it worth it? The hundred vanished into Mark’s pocket. He claimed he spent it all on pot, liquor, and Oki Dogs, mostly for me. Right. By the time we got to Irvine, Rosie copped an attitude and wouldn’t talk to anybody. Jack’s girl acted like I hadn’t been feeling her tits the whole ride down. My face looked like meatloaf and felt like shit and I couldn’t risk downing the rest of the Manhattans—too much campus security. Worst of all, Social Distortion sucked. Mike Ness was too wasted to sing or even stand up. He fell into Casey’s drum set.
Wow. How Punk Rock.
“What the hell happened to you?” my father asks, snorting and shaking his head as I come downstairs. He’s in his Saturday morning gardening outfit. Obviously taking a break. He probably worked a whole half hour, and now he’s parked his fat ass in his easy chair, feet up, reading the Tribune and sipping a Heineken. The cat’s curled against his leg. I cross through the living room to the kitchen.
“Hey! Asshole. I’m talking to you.”
I stop at the kitchen door and pivot so he can fully take in the face. What’s on the list today? We’ve covered how he hates the Mohawk and the way I dress, right down to the boots he doesn’t even recognize as his. We know he doesn’t work his ass off every day so I can piss away his hard-earned money. (No, Dad, I steal it, along with your cigarettes and booze. Use it in first period to buy Black Beauties from the hippie that sits in front of me.)
What now? I’m all ears, can’t wait.
He stares, whistles, and rolls his eyes, doesn’t even stand up. He shakes his head, snorts again, and goes back to his paper and beer. Smirking. More evidence that he’s been right all along. I’m stupid, like all his kids; we can’t do anything right. But I don’t talk back like Chels or fight like Carl. I’m no fun to pick on. Maybe he knows I’ve gone as far as I will with him. Or maybe he’s just tired out.
“Oh my dear God,” Mom says when I go into the kitchen, her smile fading as she turns to greet me. She wipes floury hands on her apron and reaches up for my face. “What happened, Dougie?” She gently turns my face one way, then the other, and sighs.
“You should see the other guy.”
“You got in a fight?” Her tone changes. She bustles over to the fridge and takes out the ice tray. “I’ve told you no fighting. I will not put up with—”
“No, Mom. No fight. I got smacked with the car door. Leaning down to pick up my wallet.”
She stares like she can tell if I’m being honest. Nods. “Okay. Sit down. Let’s get some ice on it.” She hands me a couple of cubes wrapped in a dishtowel. She goes to touch it and I jerk away.
“Stop wiggling.” She peers closer. “You need an X-ray.” She sighs, glances toward the living room. “Your father will not be happy.”
“So what else is new?” I ask.
She ignores me and chatters on. “Are you hungry? I have casserole, or I could fix you some eggs. What time did you get in?”
Blah blah blah. Dad belches and his chair creaks. The back screen door slams and the lawn edger starts up. I wonder where Rosie is. Why Social Dist
ortion sucked so bad last night. What life means. If I have any pot left in my backpack. I try a bite of the cheesy chicken thing my mom puts in front of me, but the best I can manage is to let it melt down in my mouth. Chewing hurts. I need a cigarette, glance at the carton of Pall Malls shoved into the corner on the dish counter. Does Mom have any Darvon? The room gets still and I look up. Mom’s glaring, eyebrows raised.
“Sorry. What did you say?” I ask.
She speaks like I can’t understand English. “Home-work. Did-you-do-your-home-work?”
“Oh. Yeah. All done.” Right.
“Chores?”
“When I get back, okay? I got rehearsal.”
* * *
“Well, bust a bitch, what the hell happened to you?” Anne says when she opens the door, sees my face. She loves our music and lets us practice in the backyard. I smile; I love to hear her talk. With her leftover Texas accent, hell sounds like two syllables.
“Got in a fight,” I say, coming through the door.
“You should see the other guy,” Rosie pipes up, coming in from the living room. Craig’s outside on the drum set, practicing. Anne takes out a cigarette, offers me the pack and some matches. I light hers, then mine.
“Well, sing it for me,” she says. “That new one you been working on.” Rosie smiles. I get the beat going and we find a pitch. The lyrics are still messy, but the point is clear—hippies got to go, the day belongs to Punks. Anne claps when we’re done. Roy and Glenn show up a few minutes later, do the whole “what the hell happened to you” thing, then we sit down to plan the next weekend. Craig knows a guy that’s having a yard party and wants us to play.
“It’s out in Montclair,” he says. Rosie and I look at each other and bust out laughing. The guys look at us strange. We laugh more, out of control. It’s so weird how I have one life with school and the band, and a whole other one with Mark and Jack and the older Punks I know. Rosie crosses through both. Skinny little Rosie, with her big brown eyes. Sweet kitten girl except when you piss her off. She’ll pee on the side of the road with the guys. Cry in my arms like a baby.
Freaks and Revelations Page 10
